The Ace Trumps, The Ace Is No Longer Here by Michael Battaglia, October 2009

"And this will be your office." The voice seeped in as the door opened, letting two sets of shadows tumble into the room. "We're still in the process of resetting it after the last guy left, so if you find anything, let us know and we'll forward it to him." There was a jingle as keys were handed over. "But he cleaned it out pretty thoroughly so I doubt there's anything left." One of the shadows pulled into a blunted point, almost shy. "And, ah, welcome aboard, I guess."

Gold Star for Robot Boy by Michael Battaglia, December 2006

"I'll kill her," was all he kept saying. Sweat glimmered on his forehead, the light glinted off the knife in his hand. It contrasted sharply with the throat of the person it was held against. The man was blinking way too much. And he kept saying the same thing over and over. "I'll kill her. I'll do it." His breathing was quick and uneven and his pupils sometimes didn't focus right. His hand barely trembled, but that might have been an act of conscious devotion.

Home is in Your Head, The Falling Castle Sequence by Michael Battaglia, May 2006

INTRODUCTION:

This was a story, about thirty-three chapters or so, that I wrote back in, oh God, 2000 or so, with the intent of explaining why I had no magic in my continuity (i.e. why I never stayed with SF-esque stories). It stars Tristian and the Agents and a bunch of people I made up for the story. It's probably my only stab at pure fantasy and at best probably highlights why I shouldn't write fantasy stories. This bit is from the middle of it, roughly, comprising about three chapters. Continue at your peril.

Glossary of the Damned by Michael Battaglia, February 2006

Note to new readers: I'll try to keep spoilers to a minimum and try to strike a balance between information and too much information, but I maintain that the stories themselves are the best places to discover this stuff. This is just a resource in case you're stuck on something obscure.

Where Do You Go, When You're Not Here (excerpt) by Michael Battaglia - November 2005

I'll remember the taste of this day, the sour residue of something being severed combined with the sweet pretext of promise, that a grand plan was about to be enacted. It lingers still, even in those moments when I think it's gone. There's flavors to your life, to everything and when the senses are attuned you don't need a calendar. You don't even need a watch. There's no stages to my life, but I know each phase. I know what loss can taste like, in a thousand different permutations. But that doesn't make me special. I just know how to put a name to it, even if I can't find the letters to make it real. I want you to know, that I grasped for something that just wasn't there. That doesn't make it wrong, or the failure any less right.

Stretching the Tear by Michael Battaglia, June - August 2004

Before he ever left, he'd made a conscious decision to leave his watch behind. He wanted to keep himself ignorant of Time, to somehow pretend it didn't exist. But it wasn't possible. Even when he stood still, he could feel it moving forward. Even when he threw his whole body against them, the clockhands never stopped twitching. He couldn't make them stop. And if he lingered long enough, they'd catch him in a sharp vice, and cut him in half. There was simply nothing he could do.

So he left his watch behind. What else could he do? It was something. It was a start.

Tristian by Michael Battaglia, December 2003

It starts, as it always does, with an infant's cry.

Every single time.

Who are you to claim otherwise? With your tunnel vision, your cramped, painful sight, restricted to such a small space. It's only a pinprick, this time. Merely a moment: A light that flares and goes out. And if you blink you won't even have time to witness the lingering tendrils of the afterimage.