Steve Lance
Bio
My long search continues.
Stories (89)
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Why I Hate Chipmunks
So get a load of this, the rest of us are dressed as polar bears, and Tommy, that numskull, shows up as a panda bear. A panda bear, for Christ’s sake. He tells me he couldn’t find a polar bear suit, but hey, lucky him, he’s still got this one from his daughter’s tenth birthday party. Yeah, that’s great. We’re about to pull off the biggest score the northern territories have ever seen, and this mug strolls up like he is about to pass out balloons.
By Steve Lance11 days ago in Fiction
Green
It was less a monastery than a squat stone refuge, half-swallowed by the mountain. Inside, the monks’ bones lay scattered across the floor. Skulls cracked open. One skeleton had its bony fingers wrapped around another’s throat. They hadn’t died of old age. Something drove them to madness. Maybe it was the curse tied to the treasure we came for.
By Steve Lance2 months ago in Fiction
Thirty Dolls
The storm raged through the night, but morning brought a fragile stillness. The fields lay cloaked in a blanket of heavy snow, stretching over the hills, past the creek, and into the woods. I stood knee-deep, straining to hear the faint tap of hammers from a workshop a few miles away. It was their busy season, but nothing was stirring, not even a mouse.
By Steve Lance2 months ago in Fiction
Specimen Pair 37
Audio Version Oz peered through the one-way mirror, studying the latest specimens. This will be his thirty-seventh and final attempt to get them to mate in captivity. If unsuccessful, the species will be classified as unfit for survival and left to face extinction on its dying planet.
By Steve Lance3 months ago in Fiction
House Odds
Dressed in white, surrounded by bulletproof glass, Hank sits with a 2 by 4 white canvas strategically placed next to his left temple. He scans the audience, each member paying $2500 to watch the evening’s event. The loudspeaker announces that the betting window is closed.
By Steve Lance3 months ago in Fiction
You’re So Vain: Yeah, It Is About Him
Look, you can’t write a song about someone and then claim he is vain because he realizes the song is about him. That’s not vanity. That’s being aware. You drop a three-minute lyrical hit job with enough personal details that a first-year detective could figure out. Then you get mad when he connects the dots? Please. What is he supposed to think?
By Steve Lance3 months ago in Beat
Three Villains
I peered through the keyhole and saw three villains standing on my front porch. Each one looked meaner than the next. The third villain was perhaps the meanest villain I had ever seen. So mean, his mother probably didn’t even like him. Although she claimed she did.
By Steve Lance3 months ago in Fiction
