Nathan McAllister
Bio
I create content in the written form and musically as well. I like topics ranging from philosophy, music, cooking and travel. I hope to incorporate some of my music compositions into my writing compositions in this venue.
Cheers,
Nathan
Stories (8)
Filter by community
The Keeper of Secrets
I didn’t like the West End. It was a district of biological whimsy—old brick buildings covered in ivy, streets that curved without mathematical necessity, and a pervasive smell of roasting coffee and damp earth. It was a place where people lived in the margins, and Nora Sterling was the queen of the margin-dwellers.
By Nathan McAllisterabout 15 hours ago in Horror
The Tithe and the Toll
Miller pulled out a chair—a spindly, mismatched thing I’d salvaged from a dumpster and sat across from me with the grace of a king inhabiting a ruined throne. He leaned into my personal space, and for the first time in the flickering, jaundiced light of the basement, I saw the Tithe he wore. It wasn't a police badge or a municipal seal. It was a small, lapel pin made of blackened gold, shaped like a shattered vinyl record, jagged edges catching light like teeth.
By Nathan McAllister3 days ago in Horror
The Lungs of the Leviathan
The ventilation shaft of the Aegis Building was a masterclass in sterile, high-pressure engineering. To the world outside, it was a marvel of the "New Century" architecture—a structure that breathed with the rhythmic precision of an athlete. I should know. I had spent three years of my life obsessing over the fluid dynamics of these very ducts. I had patented the "Thorne-Baffles," the series of angled, galvanized steel plates designed to catch the whistle of the wind at eighty stories up and silence it before it could disturb a single CEO’s phone call.
By Nathan McAllister4 days ago in Horror
The First Harvest
Chapter 4: The First Harvest The District of Rust smelled of wet iron and dying dreams, a sharp contrast to the sterile, pressurized air of the Vane Tower. I sat in the corner of a grease-slicked diner, my hands shaking—not from the cold, but from the low-frequency hum of the Static that had begun to chew at the edges of my vision. I needed a fix. Not the chemical stimulants of the Obsidian Room, but a different kind of grounding. I needed to see Elena Vane.
By Nathan McAllister5 days ago in Futurism
The Frequency of the Doomed
The loss of my career, my name, and my penthouse was a sequence of external tragedies, a series of demolitions I could at least understand through the lens of cause and effect. But they were nothing compared to the loss of my silence.
By Nathan McAllister6 days ago in Futurism
The Social Execution. Content Warning.
I woke up six months later in a sterile room that smelled of bleach and lost hope. Consciousness didn't return all at once; it arrived in agonizing increments, a slow-motion reconstruction of a man who had been shattered into a million jagged pieces. For weeks, the world was nothing but the rhythmic hiss of a ventilator and the fluorescent hum of a ceiling I hadn't designed. When I finally found the strength to open my eyes, I didn't recognize the landscape of my own body.
By Nathan McAllister6 days ago in Futurism
