Baltimore Stories: Volume Two

By Nik Korpon

A mini-collection of short stories by Nik Korpon, author of Stay God, Old Ghosts and By the Nails of the Warpriest. Some are noir, some are literary, all take place in Baltimore.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Nik Korpon
• Release date: Sep 2, 2011
• ISBN: 9781466130777

Book preview

Baltimore Stories: Volume Two

Nik Korpon

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2011 Nik Korpon

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

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Author’s Note

Some of these stories were published long ago (relatively speaking) and some in publications that evaporated into smoke. Some are from very early in my writing, and though I’d approach them differently now, I think it’s important to see progression. I like them all and wanted to give them a chance to be seen, to be read. None have explicit connections to Old Ghosts, but feel like they should. There’s also an excerpt of the upcoming novella that spawned all of these giveaways.

Thank you to all of the editors for believing in them (or letting me dupe them into believing.) Thank you to you, for reading this collection.

‘Cobwebs and Dead Skin’ is an excerpt of the novella By the Nails of the Warpriest (OW Press, September 2011) and was originally published in Dirty Noir.

‘The Reindeer Incident’ originally published on Do Some Damage.

‘List #2’ originally published in Everyday Genius.

‘The Mourning is the Dawn of our Love’ originally published in Gold Dust, Issue #14.

‘Pugs’ originally published in Colored Chalk, Issue #5.

Stories

Cobwebs and Dead Skin

The Reindeer Incident

List #2

Currents

Pugs

Cobwebs and Dead Skin

When the act of remembering becomes illegal, the artifacts that remain tell the stories our unconscious wants to submerge.

Motes of dust float in the manufactured light. Muted explosions from outside, bombs maybe. I creep along the edge of his tenement hallway. Most people walk down the center and, over time, work some of the nails loose. The easiest way to avoid being caught while stealing someone’s past is to pretend like you don’t have one. Imagine you’re not human and eventually you won’t need to imagine anymore.

Inside his apartment, I take small, soft steps. Clothing scattered around the room, cut to rags and stained with soot water. A mattress and sheet pocked with holes in the corner. Turned sideways in the middle, is a spool that used to house industrial wire, a plate with a few pieces of silverware on top. The wilting dandelion perched in a can is so sad I