Sandor Szabo
Bio
I’m looking to find a home for wayward words. I write a little bit of everything from the strange, to the moody, to a little bit haunted. If my work speaks to you, drop me a comment or visit my Linktree
https://linktr.ee/thevirtualquill
Stories (32)
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How Much Space Does a Man Need?
I find it interesting that the richer you are the more goddamn space you take up. Palaces swallow acres, while the rest of us rot in the broom closets and cupboards of America. Yachts drag their fat bellies across the water while men claw for a door or a table— rats fighting for a plank in the shipwreck.
By Sandor Szabo4 months ago in Poets
The Haint of Blue Heron Creek. Winner in Leave the Light On Challenge. Top Story - August 2025.
Nate stirred the soup even though it didn’t need stirring. The can said “hearty beef,” but it was thin as brown ditchwater. The floating bits of gristle reminded Nate of drowning insects, bobbing in the creek. Behind him, Ty sat on the kitchen floor, coloring. The waxy scrape of crayon on paper grated on Nate’s nerves.
By Sandor Szabo6 months ago in Fiction
The Dead Man’s Switch - The Last Command
0530 UTC, T -30 minutes to Go/No-Go Check Every morning, Commander Kellan Scott woke up knowing he could end the world. Fingers shaking, he unzipped his sleeping bag, kicked off the wall, and glided to the viewport in his ISS quarters.
By Sandor Szabo10 months ago in Fiction
The Weight of Forever. Runner-Up in The Life-Extending Conundrum Challenge.
The first time Isla rode the elevator up through the clouds she forgot to breathe. Below her, the city flickered, old neon signs, expansive holographic ads begging for attention as they fought the ever-present rain and hazy smog that covered the city in perpetual dusk. The higher the elevator rose, the less Isla could smell the rust, the carbon.
By Sandor Szabo10 months ago in Longevity
The Bitter Winter of 1944. Top Story - March 2025.
The cold in 1944 was unnatural—it was a cold that breathed. It moved beneath your skin, coiled in your lungs. Private Ben Mercer had stopped feeling his fingers days ago, but each morning he counted them like rosary beads. Ten. Always ten.
By Sandor Szabo10 months ago in Fiction
Exit Interviews
The waiting room reeked of stale coffee and cheap creamer. The peculiar bouquet familiar to places that process hope in numbered slips. Death shifted uncomfortably in a too small chair ill suited for his bony frame. Beside him his scythe leaned against the wall like an old violin in a world that had long forgotten music.
By Sandor Szabo10 months ago in Longevity
