Torren Grinkle is my pen name. I’m a storyteller from the slight future — a place suspiciously similar to our own, except the vending machines are philosophical and the pigeons have better social lives. He writes at the intersection of absurdity, tenderness, and time-bending logic, crafting tales where the bizarre feels strangely familiar and the familiar quietly unravels into the surreal.
He isn’t a prophet, scientist, or wizard, although he has accidentally impersonated all three (twice before breakfast). Instead, Torren serves as an unlicensed field researcher of everyday oddness: the way a queue behaves like a confused organism, how future technology always arrives slightly broken, and how humans remain gloriously inconsistent even when assisted by quantum toasters.
Torren Grinkle writes because he believes humour softens reality’s sharper edges, and that a good story can make the present easier to understand — even when that story is set three years from now on Thursday. His work asks small questions that accidentally become large ones, usually by mistake.
He currently resides somewhere between a plausible postcode and a minor rift in spacetime. From there, he enjoys mispronouncing constellations, collecting outdated predictions about the future, and observing the kind of everyday nonsense that eventually becomes a story — or a warning, or a footnote in a manual that no one reads.
If you hear an odd noise coming from the timeline, it’s probably me.

Leave a comment