PROXIMA BOUND by Davi Mai.

Humanity’s last hope rests with the colonists aboard the generational starship Attenborough. Bound for Proxima Centauri, a thousand years away. Catastrophe strikes when a reactor meltdown cuts off those in the ship’s front from the rear. Two factions must now struggle to survive.

With four hundred years still to travel, we join a plucky teenager, named “Thief”. She’s found a way through the ventilation system, around the radioactive core of the ship and into the front sections. Thief brings back vital components that might help the rear-dwellers connect the ship’s computer. …


(written when drunk)

According to the dreaded Wikipedia, experts are divided as to the meaning of the Aboriginal name “Woolloongabba” preferring either ‘whirling waters’ (woolloon and capemm) or ‘fight talk place’ (woolloon and gabba).

I find this strange. Someone could ask a local Aboriginal elder where the word came from? Nevertheless, I like the second meaning “Fight talk place”. Because that describes the place well.

I arrived in 2013. The suburb’s centerpiece was, and still is, the Gabba football stadium. A second landmark of note is Princess Alexandra Hospital. The former injects Woolloongabba with an occasional intensity of people, traffic…


(warning for graphic sex and violence likely to offend)

— —

When you have less than a day to live, moments become precious.

The idiot blocking my way into Grub’s Bar and Bistro had already wasted one of my precious moments. I would not let him waste any more. Suffering from some poison or another. He collapsed when I smashed him in the face.

Dead.

Yep, must have been poison. I climbed over him.

Just a few more obstacles between me and the bar. Some idiot had left their kids crawling around. Impossible to avoid, I stood on at least…


The infamous Ward 9, where the most deranged stories are kept away from sensitive eyes. Here you’ll find content that might offend. Imagine any trigger warning you can — it’s likely to apply. Even our janitor doesn’t venture onto ward 9, and he’s a nutter! You’ve been warned!

Click here to enter Ward 9 if you dare!

Click here to return to the main Asylum.


I emerge from the vortex, swirling into physical and mental being as I find a host. A female.

No vision yet. I can only feel.

My emergence has pushed this host’s mind into a subconscious state, giving me partial control of her body. The surroundings shimmer into view as I receive input from her optic nerves. We’re in what appears to be a changing room. From the look of her clothes, she’s a nurse.

I don’t want to interrogate her memories, to reveal her backstory. Messing with them will give us both a headache. And I don’t care about backstory…


What happens when the afterlife’s mailbox is full?

PART ONE: By Davi Mai.

In the last moment of his life, before his car smashed into the oncoming truck, two thoughts occurred to a very drunk Ricky Chambers. The first, “Well, I’m glad I didn’t pay the car off”, seemed nonsensical given he was about to die. He would not be around to enjoy the money he hadn’t spent.

The second thought flashed through his mind when he glanced in the rear-view mirror.

“Who’s that hot chick in the back seat?”

The woman that appeared in the backseat mere seconds ago…


Submit your story to Tales from The Asylum. We prefer those stories that live on the edge. Transgressive, Quirky, Scary, Erotic, Funny. And any combination thereof. But all genres accepted! No minimum or maximum length. Please ensure story is proofed and free of basic grammar problems. Other than that — there are no rules. In the Asylum, the patients run amok!

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Any earnings you make from your story being read on Medium, are yours. Please join Medium’s partner program to qualify for those. That’s between you…


“Watch out for Annabel, she’s really anal about everything.” I remembered the advice clearly, as Team Leader Annabel strode through the kitchen towards me.

She could have been in one of the company’s commercials. Her uniform fit perfectly. Immaculate in every way, the golden arches on her black shirt pocket glowed. Her matching pants had creases you could cut yourself on. How did she make polyester do that? She passed the fry station, lifting a basket out of the oil and silencing the alarm with a slap of her hand. She didn’t even break her stride.

I noticed, with some…

Davi Mai

Short story writer. Fantasy, sci-fi, transgressive. I lack a filter but try to make stuff fun.

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