Bob Roland writes speculative noir exploring the quiet friction between choice and consequence. He is currently publishing The Equilibrium Strain as an evolving serial novel.
10 — Responsibility
The radio had found an old station somewhere between static and relevance. A cheerful song from thirty years ago filled the car. It was designed for summer roads, open windows, and mistakes that still had time to become anecdotes.
10 — Responsibility
The radio had found an old station somewhere between static and relevance. A cheerful song from thirty years ago filled the car. It was designed for summer roads, open windows, and mistakes that still had time to become anecdotes.
IX — The Shape of What Remains
Silence isn’t clean when you fall into it. It’s thick. Disjointed. A cold that didn't snap, but settled into bones like a wet coat. The floor was the first thing to greet me in a hard and unapologetic manner.
IX — The Shape of What Remains
Silence isn’t clean when you fall into it. It’s thick. Disjointed. A cold that didn't snap, but settled into bones like a wet coat. The floor was the first thing to greet me in a hard and unapologetic manner.
09 — Comfort
The bakery survived by staying open later than regret. Around one in the morning, the place filled with the sort of people cities quietly inherit after ambition goes home.
09 — Comfort
The bakery survived by staying open later than regret. Around one in the morning, the place filled with the sort of people cities quietly inherit after ambition goes home.
VIII — Debt Wears a Face
By the third daybreak without movement, the silence had started feeling deliberate. The rain wasn’t quite finished with the city when I stepped outside before Celina woke. Mornings like these belonged to no one. They were too early for intent and downpours make people predictable. They shorten routes, cut conversations and turn intention into efficiency.
VIII — Debt Wears a Face
By the third daybreak without movement, the silence had started feeling deliberate. The rain wasn’t quite finished with the city when I stepped outside before Celina woke. Mornings like these belonged to no one. They were too early for intent and downpours make people predictable. They shorten routes, cut conversations and turn intention into efficiency.
08 — Management
The pharmacy had the kind of lighting designed to make illness feel administrative. Bright enough to flatten faces. Clean enough to imply judgment. I waited near the entrance while Celina disappeared between aisles labeled with symptoms instead of causes.
08 — Management
The pharmacy had the kind of lighting designed to make illness feel administrative. Bright enough to flatten faces. Clean enough to imply judgment. I waited near the entrance while Celina disappeared between aisles labeled with symptoms instead of causes.
