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 (30)
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The Palindrome Becomes the Panopticon
The Hall of Aspirations was a vacuum. The lunar silver lighting had been deactivated, replaced by the flat, shadowless glare of industrial work lamps. The "Inner Circle" had long since departed, carrying the memory of the vanishing of the Magnificent Palindrome into their private boardrooms and gated estates. They believed they had witnessed a miracle of synthesis. Solomon Caravaje knew they witnessed the removal of a systemic error.
By Nathan McAllisterabout 2 hours ago in Futurism
The Servant Becomes the Master
Fifteen years had passed since the velvet curtains of the Muscovite Theatre Guild succumbed to the moths and rot. Fifteen years since Solomon Caravaje walked out of that crumbling D-list circuit purgatory, leaving behind the stale scent of camphor, gin, and desperate nightly guarantees. He traded the dying filament of a solitary stage for the cold fluorescence of the boardroom. He traded the grift for the institution.
By Nathan McAllisterabout 23 hours ago in Horror
Temptation in the Wilderness
The alleyway behind St. Jude’s Mission was a geography of discarded things. It was narrow, brick-lined and swallowed the city’s refuse and exhaled thick, chemical miasma of industrial runoff and neglect. Silas was folded into the shadows, his back pressed against a rusted dumpster that vibrated with the low-frequency hum of a nearby transformer. To the world, he was part of the rubble, a discarded stone in a city of glass. To Silas, the world was a screaming discord of structural failures, a "Static" so loud that only the bitterest gin could lubricate the grinding of his consciousness.
By Nathan McAllister2 days ago in Horror
The Palindrome's Apprentice
The air in the Muscovite Theatre Guild tasted of stale beer, and the metallic tang of human desperation. It was a D-list circuit purgatory, a crumbling vaudeville tomb clinging to the underbelly. Here, the heavy velvet curtains were banquets for moths. The solitary stage spotlight, buzzing with a dying, erratic filament, cut through the dust-choked air like a dull, serrated blade. This was the empire of the forgotten, the graveyard of ambition where cheap illusions died and where the truth was whatever you could afford.
By Nathan McAllister2 days ago in Horror
The Devil's Den
The Greyhound bus is a cold, metallic throat, and I am the bitter pill it refuses to swallow. I press my forehead against the vibrating window, skin crawling against the grease of a thousand failures, watching the California coastline transform. To the dreamers behind me—the ones with stars in their eyes and suitcases full of polyester—the Tinseltown skyline is a soaring monument to ambition. They see a mirage of salt and gold.
By Nathan McAllister7 days ago in Horror
Diminished and Augmented Chords (Practice Tips & Exercises)
In the vast landscape of music theory, major and minor triads are the stable earth beneath our feet—the destinations, the homes, the resting places. But music, much like any gripping narrative, requires conflict to make the resolution meaningful.
By Nathan McAllister7 days ago in Beat
Oh Tetrad, Hearken unto Me!
The triad is stone. It is the foundation, structurally sound and completely static. It stands there, immovable, declaring its major or minor allegiance with absolute, unwavering certainty. But the triad has no narrative. It has no pulse.
By Nathan McAllister8 days ago in Beat
The Legend of Percy Vance
The rain in Alcyone didn’t wash the city; it merely redistributed the soot. It clung to the windshield of Percy Vance’s city-issued sedan, a greasy film that turned the neon signs of the District of Rust into blurred bruises. Inside the car, the heater hummed a discordant note that vibrated against the base of Percy’s skull, a precursor to the "urban tinnitus" he had begun to hear whispers about in the darker corners of the Public Works breakroom.
By Nathan McAllister8 days ago in Horror
Scampi's Great Escape
The neon sign of the Inkwell bled a sickly crimson through the rain-streaked window, casting long, shadows across the scarred mahogany of our booth. The air inside tasted of stale gin, ozone, and the sour desperation that clung to every soul in Alcyone. I leaned across the table, my hands trembling so violently that the ice in my glass rattled like teeth shivering in a skull.
By Nathan McAllister9 days ago in Horror
Remade in their Image. Content Warning.
The warehouse was a cathedral of rot, a windowless box of corrugated steel tucked into the industrial gut of Tinseltown. A place where the city’s discarded ambitions went to be processed into low-grade celluloid. It sat on a dead-end street that smelled of brine and heavy-duty degreaser, a stone’s throw from the banks of the Bay of Laytah. On the heavy steel door, a piece of yellowed masking tape bore the name Velvet Nocturne Productions in fading marker—a shell company that existed to shuffle Cartel revenue through the books of a made-for-cable soft-core fantasy.
By Nathan McAllister10 days ago in Futurism
Shady Vale
The Vane Foundation’s "Resilience Zone" campaign hit the streets of Alcyone at 0800 hours. It was a saturation-level event. Digital billboards across transit hubs flickered to life, displaying high-resolution renderings of a sanitized future. The District of Rust was slated for "structural optimization." The ads featured architectural schematics of new housing blocks—monolithic, white-concrete structures. The copy was written in a precise, drafting-stencil font: Harmonic Alignment for a Stable Future. Order is our Foundation.
By Nathan McAllister10 days ago in Horror
