Tag: fiction

And More Sci-Fi Adventures

Koni (2022). Acrylic on wood. From my book, Holograms and Long Tweeds, available at Amazon Books. Artwork and text copyright Danny Grosso.

Excerpt: Blink. That’s what the light did, blink, the one that was supposed to remain steady. Also, it was red, not green, which meant that this alternate powered vehicle was not starting up again any time soon.

They called this the neon district, because a century and a half ago it had gas-illuminated tubes announcing the identities of shopkeepers. Now the lights were new energy, and blanketed the night streets with color. As he exited the vehicle, the pallor changed from violet to orange. The chip in his hand had signaled is favorite color. The mist in the air from the passing showers gave the district some extra humidity, and the cafeteria to his left seeped its cold moisture onto the window panes. It had been doing so for a while, it seemed – some of the sludge had greened.

He crept out slowly. Modern vehicles didn’t give out meekly, and this could be a trap. His reinforced collar was up to protect against a neck attack. and he had some jacket plates, but he knew how many vulnerable targets he presented on his person, especially to some of the new micro weaponry. At least he wouldn’t feel it – they say the jab was so small, the victims are unaware of the wounding.

Around him swam the iridescent babyflies and vapor gauzes, products of climate-driven rapid evolution. His grandfather, negotiating these same streets, would never have known these beings. He’d turned and scanned enough now, and stepping forward, he heard a crash. From his quick-held crouch, he saw that the noise was one the old man might have recognized. And old metal can crashing onto the pavement. Most of those receptacles had been long ago confiscated for upselling. He rose and stepped out, into the wet, into the steam, into the colored lights that went tangerine as he passed.

So much had changed since the old man’s days here, yet, like the geezer, he still carried a hand-held weapon. He grabbed it from its holster at the small of his back, and ducked into a dark alley. At the end of it was a door the color of a verdant meadow, like the natural spaces that once thrived outside of the city. It was lit by a single light cell, so that the base of the door was obscured, but he could make out a figure laying low on the landing. Now his weapon pulled him along. Making his way forward against a black painted wall, stepping and re-setting, one foot forward and then the other pulled even, he made a slow approach. Perhaps a bit too slow.

When he reached the doorway, the figure had disappeared, as often happened in this time of disappearances, holographic, and otherwise. He only hoped that the men that now appeared in the darkness behind him would have the same unsatisfactory visual experience.

–Danny Grosso

Excerpted from my story, Blink, from my book, Holograms and Long Tweeds.

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Do Sci-Fi Characters Need to Dream?

From the Dream (2014). Oil on canvas. Artwork and text copyright Danny Grosso. From my book, Holograms and Long Tweeds, available at Amazon Books.

Excerpt: We passed through some thing, or just were dragged into this low altitude somehow. Either way, everything changed, perspective-wise, meaning the way we saw things, or what we saw. I still can’t tell. We went in low across a flat beach, where three identical beings, humanoid, I think, were running beneath us. Coats, hair, trot, everything matched. I made me wonder whether I had seen only one of them, and that the atmosphere had done the rest, faceting and kaleidoscoping the one into three, or more, really, I couldn’t see what was coming up behind them. The light was Vegas bright, and it was really quite beautiful for a moment, but then…

I couldn’t tell if they were running from or to something. Also, they were running close to the speed of our craft, which was impossible for any being we’ve ever encountered. Beneath our craft, where our shadow should have enveloped the turquoise shimmer in darkness, the shadow instead, almost transparent, portrayed a huge humanoid being, long and skinny, winged and gliding along behind the runners. There was a curved bank up ahead crowned by some greenery, and we determined to head out for that but the target never got any nearer, while the same scene below played out as if in a loop. “Punch it Freddy, ” I said to my crewmate, and he said he did, but nothing changed, though suddenly he sang out the lyrics to an ancient song about all reality emanating from some guy’s dreams. I was looking around for another reference point in the distance, and finding none, I let my gaze sink to the winged shadow beneath us. Its pinions were moving now, but instead of proceeding ahead of us the shadow seemed to be moving higher, growing as it got closer to us. I hit the synthporter and was placed for a few safe seconds in the app, down among the runners. They were really moving, the wind in my face was g-force. I looked up to see that there was nothing between our triangular vessel and the beach. And then I was back up there again. In my seat the vista ahead was tranquil, even as a golden light enveloped the scene. It turned white after a moment, and erased everything before us. We were suspended for a few seconds, like an old time bomber among the clouds.

A second later we were back in orbit outside of the rock’s atmosphere. I couldn’t tell if I had been asleep, Fred didn’t know either, regarding either of us. I was left bewildered, but with the inexplicable desire to head for darkness, in one of the inner chambers, to ruminate. I remembered Fred’s singing, “From the dream… comes the vision…”. Perhaps something must come from this moment.

–Danny Grosso

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Book News

Now available at Amazon Books. Holograms and Long Tweeds. Sci-fi, alternate histories, and thrillers derived from and including my paintings. This collection is a departure from my previous releases, and the stories and pictures may transport the reader to places on earth and elsewhere that lie beyond quotidian concerns. Among the plot lines of these eleven stories: a Halloween tradition evolves from a troubling mystery; a 22nd century cop encounters his father’s legacy in a rain-drenched city; a nascent technology allows two lovers to float above Paris; acts of treachery delay the reckonings of the American Civil War. Filled with poignant painted images, this book holds strong appeal for both the reader and the art lover.

Order a copy!

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Mud People, No. 25

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Mud People, No. 25 (2019). House paint on paper.  From my book, Chicago Gothic, available at Amazon Books.  Artwork and text copyright Danny Grosso.

His leather looked liquid, like the Pennzoil he put in his motor. He had the faintest scent of gasoline about him, just enough to make it alluring. He worked out in the cold so he was always scarved, with an uncle joe cap on top that fell over his eyes with exercise.  He was soft spoken, but his voice was deep, gravel but not loose, fused like it is after a rain. When he drank he drank good whiskey, and he held the shot delicately, like an egg between his insanely beat-up fingers. If you caught him there he’d buy, and not say much, like he was glad for the company but understanding of its limits. In those days the taverns kept a window or door cracked to provide an exit for the stogie smoke, and he always sat near a window or a door. I guess it makes sense then, that I never saw him without a jacket, without that jacket I’m sure, the liquid black Pennzoil wrap that took him with it as it disappeared into the darkest part of the night.

 

-Danny Grosso

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Wet

Wet Streets, Night (2020). Acrylic on sketchbook paper. From my book, Out in the Street, available at Amazon Books. Artwork and text copyright Danny Grosso.

When the lights come up in the grid and the evening sky seems lighter than the day sky, the colors, and the eyes of streetwalkers bleed on wet nights. The neon sign up high is also down low, in the puddle, in reflected gritty beauty. Her eyeliner runs down both sides of her face, though she’s not crying, or maybe she is, or will be when she gets to a mirror. It’s 1984 and the bulky yellow cabs are blocking the traffic, red brake lights dripping into the wet wake of asphalt. I was supposed to wait for her on the corner, but instead I’m under the marquee, drying off, with a blue light above me that makes me look like a ghost. Shiiiiish go the tires in the rain, above the low applause of the drizzle. She will sound frazzled, even breathless from her gallop her through the elements. She will feel that she’s not at her best. She will be inside herself, receding from the damp, receding from me. I will wait here anyway. I light a cigarette, because it’s 1984 and we all smoke, and then I light another, to warm her, to welcome her, because I see her splashing up the sidewalk toward me.

–Danny Grosso

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Moda IX

Donegal Blanket (2022). cut paper and acrylic paint. From the book Barefoot and Other Stories, available at Amazon Books. Artwork and text copyright Danny Grosso.

The thing was so big he thought he could wrap it around himself twice. Indeed, he was glad the belt had extra length to accommodate the bulk of crumpled fabric when he tied it at his waist. Like a giant robe, or a great donegal tweed blanket, the thing enveloped him, and carved out a new shape to be set against the silver clouds of winter. “If we get lost on the Great Plains, we could make that thing into a teepee,” she said, upon seeing him drape himself in the thing for this first time. It was true that it was oversized, and maybe even ostentatious, with its wide lapels and near-duster length, but it fit well over the layers he wore in winter as he slogged through his day in the city. A dressed up warming device, was how he thought of it, and he wore it often, even while he was looking for a salt and pepper cap to pair with it. When, after disrobing, he threw it onto a sofa, it made a substantial sound that he quite liked, as if the noise attested to his accomplishment of undergirding that woolen mantle all day. He often had to wear it over a suit but he secretly liked it best when he could wear it over thick, dark sweaters and jeans that were tucked into his black, 18 eye Dr. Martens. On those nights you could see him running through the alleys, sloshing through the snow, those long coat tails aloft behind him like some great speckled bird.

-Danny Grosso

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Out in the Street V

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Untitled (2003). Ink on board. Artwork and text copyright Danny Grosso. From my book, Out in the Street, available at Amazon Books.

The memory is lost in time, like a lot of memories, over time, but also differently, because time is sometimes hard to place in cities. Part of the scene could have been Victorian. Crumbling brick facades, a long-locked, frock-coated man running the snowy midnight street, chasing somebody, maybe a lover, maybe Jack the Ripper. One might expect a horse-driven cart to appear around the next corner. However, looming in the distance is the modern city, all aspiration, skyward and projecting, its lights visible for miles but its menaces hidden. The foreboding captured in the image that does not fade with memory and is not lost in time.

All of us have lived in interesting times. The Roaring 20’s were great, unless you were poor, or black, or a woman trying to work. Try to find a seat on a bus if you are black, living in the south, and it’s the 1950’s. Images and memories can be timeless, but so can kindness which is a form of courage, and integrity, as a form of respect, and all of the things propelling us through the nighttime snow to chase somebody else, or ourselves.

-Danny Grosso

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Out in the Street VI

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Untitled (State Street, 2007). Oil on canvas. Artwork and text copyright Danny Grosso. From my book, Out in the Street, available at Amazon Books.

In the springtime, the afternoon shadows would conspire with the lake breeze to divide State Street in two, with the shady side ten degrees colder. Prematurely optimistic girls in airy white blouses would navigate the hot-cold, hot-cold walk to the train beside guys in leather jackets, bundled up for the shadows and bounding out of the alleys. The boisterousness of the season would get the best of some of them, and they’d jump around on parked cars like children on playground sets. Unwittingly, they were creating diversions for the real shadow people of the city, who were filling white vans with burgled goods in quiet, workmanlike fashion. They’d finish quickly and dissolve into traffic, losing themselves within another hundred white vans, chasing the sunset down the Kennedy.

-Danny Grosso

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Book News

Out in the Street, available now at Amazon Books. Thirteen artworks, along with (very) short stories or verse derived from them, gathered around a theme of being out there, in the street, observing, playing, loving. From a city alley that floods with water and emotion, to a long country road bordered by bending green grasses and stoic red barns, this book takes one on a journey through the inner and outer spaces of a city and its surrounding outlands. There are teenagers visiting street-bound ethnic festivals, office workers gazing out of office windows on stormy days, and joyous dancers careening about the plazas. Full of fun and memory. Lots to see here. Take a look.

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–Danny Grosso

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A Christmas Phantom

Christmas Eve (1980-?). Acrylic on cardboard. Artwork and text copyright Danny Grosso.

Back then, when the tree sellers closed their businesses for the season on Christmas Eve, they would abandon their unsold inventory on the otherwise vacant lots. The hawkers of balsam and fir had no use for their wares after December 24, so the trees stood alone in the dark, like pilgrims queuing up for a shrine. In our neighborhood, late at night on that twinkling holiday, a liberator would appear, dancing through the snowy and quieted lots. The legend has it that he would take the forsaken tannenbaums, throw them into the back of his drop-top sled, and deliver them to shut-ins, leaving the evergreens on front porches for Christmas morning discoveries. The recipients were easily chosen, for in that era, most neighbors commiserated with one another, and one might easily determine which of them were unable, due to illness, poverty, or other misfortune, to venture out and deck the halls.

This was much spoken about for some time, and the mystery surrounding the identity of the benevolent phantom was never convincingly solved. Over time, as often happens, people turned to speculating about other, newly discovered intrigues, and interest in the phantom waned. Yet, even now, we are greeted each winter, in one or two pieces of holiday correspondence from the old neighborhood, with news of Christmas trees being left anonymously on porches.

All legends die hard, especially those grounded in the time of willing hearts and kind intentions.

Welcome Yuletide.

–Danny Grosso

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