Frontier Road - short stories.

ContemplateBooks.com
  • 5.0 (1)
  • BOOKS
  • UPDATED WEEKLY

Frontier Road podcast includes short stories, poems, and excerpts and or abridgments of classical literature, often deriving themes of questioning God, liberation of unbelief, ambiguity and the absurdity of life. We often introduce themes of mid-life crisis, sometimes from a male perspective. Issues of marriage, raising children, mental struggle and melancholy are all major themes within the selected literature. *Frontier Road can often times be satirical and/or irreverent and/or sincere. Viewer discretion advised.

  1. Part 3: Professor Einstein’s Light Machine (The Ending)

    5D AGO

    Part 3: Professor Einstein’s Light Machine (The Ending)

    Part 3 is the conclusion of this short story series. Excerpts from this podcast: "The Professor returned to New Jersey under federal escort. When he was still at the monastery, two FBI agents met with him and explained he needed to return to the United States immediately for questioning and for his own protection. They told him handcuffs wouldn’t be necessary if he cooperated. Of course he cooperated. He was a professor, and an anxious one at that. He didn’t have it in him to resist." "“Yes,” Einstein said. “My whole life I’ve been anxious about consequences, about being wrong. It crippled me. I was always afraid of failure, of being exposed as less capable than people assumed. Academia can do that to you. Religion can as well. One mistake, one bad result, and suddenly your students see it, your peers see it. You always see it within yourself. I lived with a kind of quiet perfectionism that kept me cautious. And when you two arrived, moving quickly, not worrying about how it would be received, it unsettled me. I didn’t measure up to that kind of certainty. I mistook your confidence for recklessness, but really it just showed me how careful I had always been.” "Princeton had one more chance to make something of the machine. One last production for the world. Molly and Jason were offered millions to participate, to start it again and show, live, what history might look like if light could be folded back on itself. They had no real confidence it would work. The machine had always keyed to Einstein. Every calibration, every successful projection, had resolved to him. There was no clear way to reset that. When the system locked in, it locked to his timing, his parameters. Even gone, he still seemed to dictate the terms. They agreed to try anyway, but only on fixed terms: ten million each, paid up front, not contingent on results. Contracts were drafted and signed. Princeton accepted. Netflix cleared its schedule and built weeks of programming around the event—documentary segments, interviews with physicists, theologians, historians, commentators. By the night of the broadcast, viewership projections had climbed into the billions. The expectation was that nearly half the world would tune in live, the rest catching fragments, replays, and commentary in the hours that followed."

    23 min
  2. Part 2: Professor Einstein’s Light Machine (a short story)

    FEB 6

    Part 2: Professor Einstein’s Light Machine (a short story)

    This is part 2 of Professor Einstein’s Light Machine (a short story). There was enough interest in part 1, in fact it was the second most listened to short story of ours (the first being The Beardless Jesus Series) to release part 2. Not to gloat or brag. We are a small book club, a niche of readers, and we like it that way. We don't have to conform to anyone telling us how or what to write. We have our own standards, but freedom. Intro Time and Space, however actual they may appear to us in the affairs of daily life, are, from the meta physical point of view, merely modes and conditions under which our intelligence functions. They are part and parcel of our limitations as finite beings; but in attempting to postulate the existence of the Infinite we must assume a state where neither Time nor Space have place or meaning. In such a condition we cannot admit the reality of past, present, and future but only the truth of one all embracing eternal NOW. Chapter 1 The Device Existed. The Light Machine. It sat in a secured lab on the north side of campus, wrapped in plastic and bureaucracy. Without Professor Einstein, it was motionless and cold. Dead in every way that could be measured. No matter how many technicians, mechanics or physicists that rotated through the room, no matter how many senior faculty members were “consulted,” it refused to do anything at all. Not a glow or a projection. Not even a hum. It did not even pretend to cooperate. Princeton brought in a private forensic engineering firm out of Chicago. Along with them came a small militia of lawyers from one of those big law firms that specialized in corporate intellectual property disputes and crisis containment. The official explanation was “non-destructive testing.” They disassembled what they could without cutting into the core structure. Scanned the lattice. Mapped the circuitry. Logged every material. Ceramic composites. Rare-earth alloys. Optical channels so precise they bordered on absurd. Everything was cataloged and photographed. They wanted to know what it had done and if they could replicate it. But they couldn't. And they were frustrated. What they learned was inconvenient. The hardware made sense in pieces. The optical compression frameworks were a decade's old technology. The interferometric chambers sold on ebay. The AI-assisted signal processors were state of the art, but accessible. The whole thing seemed experimental maybe, and far fetched certainly, but not impossible. Clunky though. It was a patchwork job, obviously built by a professor, not an engineer. But what they could not reproduce was activation. There wasn't a trigger sequence or noticeable boot protocol. It didn't come with a manual or intuitive ignition switch. The machine sat there like a locked door with no handle. Three weeks later, Princeton released a statement. It came out just after noon, carefully worded and aggressively calm.

    36 min
  3. Professor Einstein’s Light Machine (a Short Story)

    JAN 16

    Professor Einstein’s Light Machine (a Short Story)

    “This isn’t a camera,” Professor Einstein said. “It doesn’t capture images. It reconstructs phase histories.” He turned a dial. The overhead lights dimmed automatically as the device pulled power. A soft vibration passed through the base. Not noise. Pressure. Like standing near heavy machinery that hasn’t started moving yet. Then the lens activated. At first, nothing happened. Then the space inside the frame thickened. Light entering the lens bent slightly out of alignment. The center darkened, not into black, but into layered translucence. Shapes appeared, dissolved, reassembled. What emerged was not a picture. It was depth without edges. A sloping surface formed first. Grainy. Unstable. Brown and gray tones bleeding into each other. The outline of a hill became visible, then blurred again as the system recalibrated. Jason leaned forward. Molly crossed her arms. The image sharpened incrementally. Shadows stabilized. Motion appeared in fragments. Small shapes moving uphill. Flickers of fabric. Dust suspended in air that no one in the room could feel. Professor Einstein adjusted the phase alignment. “This reconstruction is anchored to a timestamp,” he said. “Based on stellar background reference and cosmic radiation noise profiles.” He paused. “Thirty-two AD.” No one spoke. “The location resolves to a hillside outside Jerusalem,” he continued. “Golgotha. Calvary.” The room shifted. Some students saw figures. Others saw noise. Some insisted it was nothing more than statistical artifact. One student claimed the shapes resembled erosion patterns. Another said it looked like a poorly rendered simulation. Jason said it was confirmation bias. Molly said it was irresponsible. A few students said nothing at all. They stared. The image did not show faces. It did not show miracles. It showed movement. Slow, unstable motion. People ascending a slope. A central vertical shape forming briefly, then dissolving as the reconstruction drifted. Professor Einstein did not claim certainty. “This is not video,” he said. “It is reconstruction under heavy interference. You are not seeing an event. You are seeing probability density resolved into spatial form.” Still, no one left their seat. The lens continued to hum. The hill remained.

    31 min
  4. The Death of Brooks Porter - A Middle Aged Attorney (a Short Story)

    JAN 6

    The Death of Brooks Porter - A Middle Aged Attorney (a Short Story)

    By: Jeffrey Armstead, a Gen Z author Publisher’s Note: This short story, The Death of Brooks Porter, was selected for our short story library on ContemplateBooks.com for a few simple reasons. First, it’s a modern adaptation of The Death of Ivan Ilyich by Leo Tolstoy, a short novel about illness, ambition, and what happens when a life built on approval starts to fall apart. Tolstoy wrote it late in his life, after becoming deeply skeptical of status, institutions, and the stories people tell themselves to feel secure. Second, this version is easier to get through. It’s just more readable. We like Tolstoy, but this one moves faster, sounds more familiar, and feels closer to the world we live in. Third, it’s written by a young Gen Z writer, Jeffrey Armstead. We liked the ambition, the nerve, and the willingness to take on something big and make it small. This is a story about a man who is a husband, a father, a lawyer, and a human being, and about what happens when those roles stop working the way he thought they would. These stories aren’t perfect. We like them anyway. And sometimes we find ourselves listening to them more than once. Chapter 1 The atmosphere in the room hardly changed as Peter announced: “Brooks Porter died.” Trial had just been released on a brief recess and the team of prosecutors darted out of court and rushed to a small, adjacent conference room. Scarcely had the door been shut when Kyle Fluman, the assistant deputy prosecutor, angrily declared how unethical the criminal defense lawyer was and how he wanted to beat him up for being a conniving sneak. Camila Roberts nodded in support of the sentiment while Peter was paying little attention, instead mindlessly scrolling through his Instagram feed. It was then that Peter made the announcement about the death of Brooks Porter, and a mild and subtle hush descended in the room. “What? No way!” Camilla responded, not startled or upset, but more in a matter of fact tone. She didn’t have her phone with her to verify, because phones are not allowed in the courthouse. Peter brought his in anyways, on silence mode and tucked it into his front suit coat pocket. “See for yourself,” Peter said, demanding Camilla take his iPhone 10. Its red protective case had a concealed pocket for his debit cards and the spider web-like fractures on the LCD display rendered it almost unreadable. Camilla peered through the cracks in the screen, finding a single line of text with haunting reality. The Proxima Nova font jumped off the page and stood out clearly. It was from Brooks’ mother’s instagram account, and the words felt depressing to Camilla as she read them. Not that she was sad, but just acutely melancholy about the news. The instagram post, from Brooks’ mother seemed more formal to Camilla than what the occasion called for: “It is with heavy hearts we inform you of the unexpected passing of Brooks Porter, beloved husband and father, respected Federal Judge and friend to all. Brooks passed away on February 4th 2024. The funeral service will be held on Friday at 1:00p.m.”

    1h 32m
  5. Dorothy Bradford: A Mayflower Mystery

    11/03/2025

    Dorothy Bradford: A Mayflower Mystery

    "This day, Mistress Dorothy Bradford, wife to Mr. William Bradford, fell overboard and was drowned.”

    22 min
  6. We’re Not Little Russia (a short story)

    10/30/2025

    We’re Not Little Russia (a short story)

    Why Ukraine Matters Part 1 — First Day of 9th Grade “Welcome to World History,” Mr. Hershey said as the last bell finally stopped ringing. He capped his marker and turned toward the class. “I’m Mr. Hershey. This semester we’re going to spend a good chunk of time learning about Ukraine. Its origins, its geography, the rise of its independence, and why that independence is being challenged.” A map of Europe glowed on the projector behind him. “You’ve probably heard about the war on the news or online,” he said. “Some of you might feel like you already understand it. Some of you might feel completely lost. Either way is fine. We’re going to start from the beginning, so we actually know what we’re talking about. This first lesson will be an overview and then we will dissect it part by part for the rest of the semester.” He rested a hand on the desk beside him, steadying himself before he entered this caveat, this political warning. “By the way, this class isn’t about American party politics. You can calm your parents down and let them know that we’re not here to argue about Democrats or Republicans or which cable channel tells the truth. We’re going to learn why Ukraine is a nation in its own right and why another country is trying to take that away. We will stick to real history and real human lives. You can talk about why Putin really isn’t a bad guy or why Russia really isn’t wrong at your own house. Here, we will stick to the facts.” “No b.s. in this class”. “Sorry about that. I’m allowed to say that once per week in high school classes, that’s what I’ve been told by my bosses. It’s in my contract with the school district. No, Ukraine is not a Nazi state with communist intentions. That’s such a bizarre distraction from the Putin propaganda machine.” He projected an image of a stamp titled “Russian warship, go f* yourself,”** a phrase made famous when Ukrainian border guard Roman Hrybov radioed it to the Russian cruiser Moskva on the first day of the 2022 invasion. It quickly became a national symbol of defiance—printed on stamps, chanted at protests, and remembered even more after the Moskva sank. The class woke up and gave him their full attention. They kind of liked him so far. They knew of his reputation kind of a rebel with a heart. And his name was obviously disarming. “We also have a new student this year. Her name is Anna. She’s from Donetsk, a city in eastern Ukraine that has been heavily affected by the war.” He nodded toward the center rows. “Hi, Anna.” Some students turned. A couple of them smiled. Most tried not to stare too long. “Kids her age aren’t supposed to know the sound of artillery or what it feels like to leave home without a return ticket”, Mr. Hershey said. “Her father is serving in the Ukrainian military,” Mr. Hershey continued. “He’s still there. I know we all hope for his safe return from war.” The room stayed quiet. Not awkward. Just out of respect. These were ninth graders but they weren’t monsters. “You might have seen a lot of loud opinions about Ukraine online,” he said. “Some supportive. Some hostile. Some that make it sound like people fleeing a war are a threat. Bias doesn’t come from nowhere. It comes from things we pick up before we know how to question them.” He walked over to the projector and tapped the map. “Here’s what we’ll do in this unit. We’ll learn where Ukraine came from. We’ll learn what makes it different from Russia, even though Russia has tried for centuries to claim the opposite. We’ll look at how countries decide who they are. What they fight for. What they refuse to give up.” He clicked to the next slide. The title read: Why Ukraine Matters “This is a story about a place that keeps choosing to exist,” he said. “Even when someone powerful tells them they shouldn’t.” He looked out at the class, a mix of curiosity and caution staring back. “So. Welcome to 9th grade. I look forward to learning with you.”

    25 min
  7. The Tell-Tale Heart - A Halloween Short Story by Edgar Allen Poe

    10/17/2025

    The Tell-Tale Heart - A Halloween Short Story by Edgar Allen Poe

    With insights into the context and story from Contemplatebooks.com. Excerpt: "But even yet I refrained and kept still. I scarcely breathed. I held the lantern motionless. I tried how steadily I could maintain the ray upon the eye. Meantime the hellish tattoo of the heart increased. [He treats stillness as mastery, the sound grows anyway. Control fails.] It grew quicker and quicker, and louder and louder every instant. The old man’s terror must have been extreme! [Projection, he describes his own rising fear.] It grew louder, I say, louder every moment!—do you mark me well? I have told you that I am nervous: so I am. [He admits nervousness while still pressing the sanity case, a contradiction he cannot hear.] And now at the dead hour of the night, amid the dreadful silence of that old house, so strange a noise as this excited me to uncontrollable terror. [Silence becomes an amplifier, his mind fills it.] Yet, for some minutes longer I refrained and stood still. But the beating grew louder, louder! I thought the heart must burst. And now a new anxiety seized me—the sound would be heard by a neighbour! [Social exposure is the true fear, this is why darkness feels therapeutic to him.] The old man’s hour had come! With a loud yell, I threw open the lantern and leaped into the room. He shrieked once—once only. In an instant I dragged him to the floor, and pulled the heavy bed over him. I then smiled gaily, to find the deed so far done. [Elation at control, the high after the act.] But, for many minutes, the heart beat on with a muffled sound. This, however, did not vex me; it would not be heard through the wall. [Denial, he talks himself down.] At length it ceased. The old man was dead. I removed the bed and examined the corpse. Yes, he was stone, stone dead. I placed my hand upon the heart and held it there many minutes. There was no pulsation. He was stone dead. His eye would trouble me no more. [He thinks he killed the gaze that judged him. The story will prove him wrong.]" That last line — “His eye would trouble me no more” — is the narrator silencing judgment. The “eye” represents whatever he feels watching him — a parent, God, society, or even his own conscience. It’s the gaze that sees too much, the part of life that reminds him he’s small, flawed, exposed. By destroying it, he’s quieting the feeling of being seen and judged that has afflicted his soul for too long.

    24 min
  8. Dropping him off at College (A Short Story)

    10/08/2025

    Dropping him off at College (A Short Story)

    They found a parking spot at the cafeteria near his dorm because the other spots were full and check-in was here. Inside, the floor was new and the tables were clean. A girl in a campus T-shirt wiped a counter and changed the music to something light. There were balloons tied to a cardboard sign that said Welcome, and under it in smaller letters, Parent HQ. They set their cups down. The father tested the lid. The mother slid a paper napkin under hers as if the cup might leave a mark on a table like this. “You’re sure you don’t want anything to eat before we leave,” she said. “I’m fine,” the boy said. “It’s a long walk to the dorms,” the father said. “I’ll be fine,” the boy said. He smiled, a small thing, and looked out through the glass at the cars. “There are a lot of people here.” “They said the first day would be the busiest,” the mother said. “If you want we can stay overnight and bring you back in the morning.” “No, it's fine,” the boy said. The father took off his cap and set it next to the cup. He rested his hands around the coffee and kept them there. On the far wall a student volunteer taped a paper arrow over an old arrow and made it point in the same direction. “They think it’s easier the second time,” the mother said, not looking at either of them. “Who does,” the boy said. “People,” she said. “Church people. Your aunt. Everyone.” The father sipped his coffee. It was hot and not very strong. He kept his hands around it anyway. “Do you have the towels,” the mother said. “They’re in the bin,” the boy said. “And the phone charger.” “In the side pocket.” “You’ll need quarters for laundry,” she said. “They use an app,” the boy said. “Right,” she said. “Of course.” A family came in with a mini fridge strapped to a handcart. The father watched the cart wheel bump the threshold and not catch. The boy watched the fridge. “You can text when you get your key,” the mother said. “Do you want him to text you when he finds the bathroom,” the father said. He said it like a joke. “I’ll remember,” the boy said. The mother touched the paper napkin and folded one corner over the other. She looked at the folded triangle as if it gave off heat. “You know where you’re going after we unload,” the father said. “No circles.” “They give you a map,” the boy said. “They aren’t good maps,” the father said. “They’re fine,” the boy said. “I walked it on the website.” “Right,” the father said. “That helps.” The girl in the campus shirt came over and asked if they needed anything. The mother said they were fine. The father said they were fine. The boy said he was fine. The girl smiled and walked back to the counter and picked up her phone. The mother lifted the lid on her cup and put it back down. She could see the steam rising off it. “Do you think your pillow is good enough,” she said. “I like it,” the boy said. “You didn’t like it last year.” “I like it now.” The father looked at the boy’s hands. They were steady where they held the cup. He thought of all the mornings those hands had moved through the kitchen without thinking, opening the wrong drawer, then the right drawer, then carrying a bowl to the table with cereal in it. It felt strange to sit across from those same hands and not already know what they were about to do. “Your room looked good when we left,” the mother said. “Sorry I didn't clean it very good,” the boy said. “It’s not that,” she said. “It just looked good. I'll miss you.” He nodded. He turned his cup. He looked like he understood and also like he had a bus to catch that no one else could see.

    16 min
See All (83)

About

Frontier Road podcast includes short stories, poems, and excerpts and or abridgments of classical literature, often deriving themes of questioning God, liberation of unbelief, ambiguity and the absurdity of life. We often introduce themes of mid-life crisis, sometimes from a male perspective. Issues of marriage, raising children, mental struggle and melancholy are all major themes within the selected literature. *Frontier Road can often times be satirical and/or irreverent and/or sincere. Viewer discretion advised.

Information

You Might Also Like