Rain

He peered down. Elderwood High’s blacktop expanded before him. Jay decided this was the perfect place to do it. With careful thought, with great consideration, and with much reluctance, he’d chosen this to be the place where he would be remembered - as a spattered corpse, maybe, but remembered nonetheless. A real legacy, something that would stick . . .

Stick like his opened skull would in a few minutes. Jay smirked at that. No one understood his sense of humor. All of his peers found him morbid. Perhaps he was. On that same token, he found their mediocrity horrifying. Like pubescent geese they squawked about nothing of importance with stapled smiles that never waned. If he had to endure a world like that for the next three years - a pointless game of minced words - he would rather sit it out.

The ledge of the school’s gymnasium - the home of the Elderwood Satyrs - provided the highest point that the three-story school had to offer. Such an end would have a sense of poetry to it, a person who viewed life as a game plummeting from a place where games were played. Yes, that would be his legacy amidst the popculture herd of high school. At least he would finally have one. Years of anonymity would end - not with a bang, but with a splat!

What caught his eye from the left corner tore him away from that thought. A girl maybe no older than sixteen in faded blue overalls stood on the ledge as well, surveying the blacktop as he had, eyes blanketed by an oily mat of brown hair - an overdone bowl cut. She was singing:

If the rain comes
they run and hide their heads
They might as well be dead
If the rain comes
If the rain comes

“Hey you,” he called out. “Beat it!”

The girl stopped in mid-tune but didn’t respond.

“Look, I dunno what you’re doing here, but I would rather not have company,” Jay said.

She turned her matted head to him, and a dimpled grin appeared on her face - a Cheshire glow amidst a curtain of brown. “I’m waiting for my cue.”

He titled his head. “Cue?”

“Yes, cue. It’s supposed to rain today.”

Jay scoffed. “No, it isn’t. It’s sun-” a crack of thunder interrupted him “-ny.”

In his pondering, he hadn’t noticed the thick patches of gray gathering above him in the mid-day sky. Droplets followed - the very “cue” she had spoken of. Her smile widened and she giggled. Jay swore he found melody to the sound of it.

“It’s here!” she shouted, outstretching her arms, embracing nothing. “It’s here for me.”

“What the hell’re you talking about?” Jay asked. “What’s here? Why for you?”

“The rain is here for me,” she said. Streams of water cascaded down her cheeks, creating the illusion of tears. “The rain is me. I am the rain.”

Turning away from him, she returned her gaze to the puddle-dotted blackness below. Her arms fell slowly to her side. Drenched as she was, her pale undershirt didn’t cling at all. If anything, it appeared feathery. Jay squinted then gasped. Her clothing wasn’t wet at all, only her skin.

“Time for me to return,” she said through the beating shower, standing off her heels, bearing weight on the tips of her toes.

A moment passed. The downpour continued, clanking and splashing against stone slabs and metal rungs of the roof. Her chin raised, mouth closed, and hair parted away from her face due to sheer water-weight. Her chest didn’t heave. No chilled spasms racked her body. Why Jay noticed this, he didn’t know. Something about her seemed . . .

Before he could find the right words, she was no longer there. A muddled imprint of her shoes remained in her place. Jay dashed to where she had stood and gazed downward. The blacktop was empty. No blood, no body, just puddles.

“What the . . . What the . . .” he repeated looked up at the gray-smeared sky above him. “FUCK?!?”

* * *

He walked among the puke-green-lacquered lockers inside the school. Darkness shrouded the hall except for a few flickering florescent bulbs. They reflected off the trails of wetness Jay left in his wake as he trudged for the nearest exit. His lips contorted into a grimace, thinking about the last few minutes, still breathing heavily. Obsidian hair bungeed the water that remained - dangling, mocking.

With his right hand he swiped the follicle mop away from his vision. And he noticed the locker rows had ended. Several plaques lined the free wall. Framed black and white pictures, arrayed in segments. He read through the years of each. Some dated back as early as six decades ago. He hadn’t noticed this area before. Then again, he rarely set foot in Senior Hall. After screening the photos for a few minutes, he stopped at one in particular.

Jay’s face paled.

The photo of a brunette girl with a dimpled smile stared back at him. The etched letters below it read:

IN MEMORY

OF

RAIN MORGAN

1951-1967

Tags: Elderwood, Fiction, Ghost, story

Closet Space

His house came into view - the tall spires of green and blue, the crimson-tinged window spirals haunted his vision. Uebler already felt haggard. The gate he opened was transparent with a strange violet fluid flowing within the bars. Tiny sponge-like life forms lined the inside of the clear surface. Those organisms had a lot in common with him - trapped in an invisible prison.

Having been away from home for so long, he didn’t know what to say to them. Could he still relate to them? Was it even possible to? Earth had a way of changing people, or so he had been told time and again. Here he was, back among the colonies again, out along the Rim - the wilds of the Terran frontier. Free to do as he pleased, yet confined at the same time.

Uebler passed the twin porcelain gargoyles by the crystal-grass lawn, and the lamps in the shape of nuclear missiles. All ghastly sights, which were a testament to his parents’ awkward personal tastes, phased him only a little. The chrome door opened.

He felt like an anomaly within his own home. The sensations that invaded him -the smell of incense mixed with potpourri, the sounds of chattering Juba birds - further alienated him from the place he once resided. Entering his parents’ abode felt like transcending several alien worlds at once. The miasma caused uneasiness within his stomach.

He stepped in.

His father sat in an egg-shaped easy chair, reading the late addition of the Chronos Herald. The older man looked like a sophisticated mime. His skin was unusually pale, contrasting the lip rouge he wore. Brunette locks ended in a strange topknot fashioned after a bonsai tree. His clothing matched that distinction - bright, colorful, and well-pressed.

His mother - seated on a nearby twentieth-century couch - was quite the opposite. She was a throwback to the Animal Fur Renaissance, wearing a blouse made from genuine terrier hide. Her long skirt flowed around the couch, and divided into feathery segments. Ostrich, Uebler thought. Very hard to come by.

His father looked up from his newspaper. “Ueby! Damn boy, you’re home early.”

“Honey!” His mother instantly jumped up, and rushed him into an embrace - one he paused at, but returned with equal tightness. “How are you? How was Earth?”

“We weren’t expecting you for another four hours,” his father cut in. “You should’ve told us you arrived at port, we would’ve had the car fetch ya.”

“I-I didn’t wanna bother you,” Uebler replied.

He waved a hand. “Nonsense, that’s what the car’s for. Got a brand new autodrive for it and everything. All suped up. So, now, tell us about your trip?”

“Yes, do tell!” His mother agreed, still clasping his shoulders.

“Um…well…it’s still blue.” Uebler started. “The oceans, I mean. They’re still blue.”

“We already know that,” his father said. “You know what we want to hear.”

Uebler’s mother nodded. “Yes, yes, tell us about . . . him.”

“Oh.” Uebler felt the beads of sweat roll down his temples, listened as his quickened heartbeat raced to his brain, gulped as the moisture retreated from his throat. “You mean Parousia.”

“Yeah, that bastard,” his father said through a sneer. “Mr. Messiah himself.”

“I never got to the sky cities,” Uebler said. “I didn’t really hear much about him.”

“How could you not?” asked his mother. “He’s been alive for a thousand years!”

Uebler shrugged. “You don’t hear much about him on the low planes. People just go about their regular business.”

“Even on the campus you were at? No word?” his father grilled. “Nothing about that Arma-whatever war that nearly destroyed Earth?”

“Yeah, there’s books and stuff.” Uebler scratched his head. “And there’s this really cool arcade called Megiddo Max’s, but nothing outta the ordinary. People just act like people. No cowering, no praying in the streets, nothing. I mean, it’s been a thousand years. They’ve had time to get over it.”

The older man put a hand to his chin. “Hmmm, odd. Those closest to him react less to his presence than those who fled his grasp. Interesting.” He paused a moment before speaking again. “Glad to hear it. I tell ya, your mother and I were worried that you’d fall into that crowd when we heard you’d been accepted for the Pilgrim Exchange.”

Uebler gave a slight chuckle. “Nah, you had nothing to worry about. There were no recruiters in the streets or brainwashing devices. All colonial media propaganda.”

“Good!” His father patted him on the back, a hard slap that sent him reeling. “Well, get unpacked. I’m sure the jump was a long one. You’re room’s exactly as you left it.”

Uebler smiled. “Okay.” He put his feet on the stairs, his luggage floated to him, and the stairs scrolled him up to the second story.

The steps lurched to a stop at the door to his room, which opened at his presence. His dad was right. The room was exactly as he had left it. Posters of his favorite Vendetta Ball team lined the ceiling, giving the play-by-plays of his favorite moments. His stuffed dog yelped at him in, jumping on his leg. Blankets retracted and polymer words appeared on his pillow.

WELCOME HOME, UEBLER SANZA

He smiled at that then turned to the closet and nodded. The mirror irised open as the suitcases made their way to the geode of neatly folded clothing. Before the mirror could close, he placed a palm in front of it. It whirred with a pause. He put a hand to his throat, caressed the jeweled chain around his neck, and pulled the source of the necklace to his face. A crucifix reflected back at him.

They couldn’t know, he thought. They weren’t ready to know. Colony-folk were like that, and his parents were no different.

Tossing the necklace into the closet, Uebler winced as the iris closed.

Tags: Armageddon, Christian, Parousia, Second Coming

“Crossing the Stars” - A Novel Synopsis

INTRO:

The Age of Decay had ended. Denizens of the Tarolis galaxy crossed the stars once more. Warlords became nobles, pirates became kings, and wanderers became heroes. Empires rose and fell, but one kingdom shined above all the others; Algarath.

Five hundred years later, an ancient power awoke and cast its vengeful eyes upon the cosmos.

In one day, it came out of hiding.

In one day, the kingdom fell.

VINTS: (aka. Vintrosu Ridrant) – Ten years ago, Vints – a man of noble lineage - witnessed firsthand the fall of the Algarath Kingdom. When mysterious white ships descended upon Algarath, he was there. Like many that day, he tried desperately to find cover from the strafing runs for himself and one other. A woman.

However, as the onslaught raged on, they were separated. An energy discharge left him horribly scarred, his left leg burnt to ash. His last visible memory of that day was watching her departure, her unconscious form cradled in the arms of a figure in black.

Vints awakens each morning to that last memory fading to black. To him, the dream is his waking world and reality his purgatorial nightmare. The life of a spacer replaced the life of a nobleman. He sullies it away with alcohol, minor crime and brawls. If it weren’t for the empathy of a local bartender, no place would be home.

A person from his past jolts him from his masochistic reverie…

Another woman; one he had saved so long ago.

VEK’SIRAHL – An orphan of a massacre, Sirahl wandered the halls of a battered space station for most of her childhood eking out an existence on littered food and the kindness of other displaced spacefarers. This had been the pattern since the death of her mother at the hands of mercenaries.

This changed with the chance meeting with a scarred spacer – a teenager with a talon-like burn mark across half his visage, and a left leg gleaming of metal. There eyes met, and unlike the countless times when her pleading expression surfaced, this time it did not. She did not beg. Sirahl studied him. He regarded her the same way.

Since that day, she called him Vints, and he called her sister. For over ten years, they formed a lucrative smuggling partnership. Sirahl thrived on the thrill of the chase, while Vints viewed it as a passable distraction from inner pain.

They parted ways when she chose to delve into another profession – piracy. He wandered the free territories of the Spiral Run, while she eased her way into the ranks of the infamous The Aquarian Queen. A ship captained by…

THAKRIEN THE DRAY (a.k.a. Thakrien DiSarra) – Five years ago a man proud of his pirate lineage learned of an excavation in the heart of the Noble territories. A mysterious vessel dating back over ten thousand years had been discovered. The Nobles themselves were in an uproar. No technology from prior to the Age of Decay had ever been discovered intact!

Thakrien decided then and there that he had to relieve them of their quarry. With a ragtag group of other Spiral Run misfits, he infiltrated Noble space and commandeered the vessel. What he learned upon entering shocked him. The ship was alive yet not organic. An empath among his crewmates informed him that although the ship itself was not made of anything biological, it did possess a soul.

He had heard of such ships before, legends passed down his family line for generations – starships that ran on the rarest of renewable energy sources, a lifeforce of its own. Another surprise was in store.

The vessel knew him.

Now, he and his newfound spaceworthy companion – the soulship The Aquarian Queen - wreak havoc upon the fringe of Noble territories, exclusively worlds with ties to his ancestry. For somewhere along the Spiral Run lies his legacy, one that has eluded him for decades. Help arrives from an unlikely source. All he has to do is go back into the heart of Noble space, snatch up a noblewoman, and deliver her to the Borderguard – the self-appointed militia of the Spiral Run.

To accomplish this, he needs someone who looks like a noble to go in and find her. Sirahl, a newer member of his crew knows of such a man. A drunken spacer by the name of Vints.

DATHEDRA PREVANE (a.k.a. Dathedra Senai) – Ten years ago, the world she called home was laid to waste. The invaders didn’t even destroy the planet, occupy it, or remove anything. Their goal was single-minded, cold and efficient: eliminate all sentient life on Algarath. Thankfully, their attempt had left pockets of civilization intact. Somehow she survived but at a very high price. The youth she was betrothed to – Vintrosu Ridrant – was nowhere to be found.

Her rescuer, clad in black, announced herself as High Defender Ro Taal – the military head for her family, the Royal House of Senai. The darkly-dressed woman informed her that she was the last royal alive.

They made it off Algarath with the help of the few remaining members of the Algarathi military. The ragtag convoy escaped undetected, much to the surprise of the High Defender. Dathedra – barely fifteen – was left in the care of the Noble House of Prevane. Ro Taal gave her two warnings: “Never reveal who you are”…and… “In ten years time, I will come for you.”

Ten years came and went, and the former High Defender never contacted her. At the time of her betrothal age, she took matters into her own hands by hiring spacers to track Ro Taal down. She discovered that the few remaining members of the royal military had defected to the free territories of the Spiral Run and were now defending it in the guise of the Borderguard militia.

Contact was made.

Ro Taal informed Dathedra that she had not forgotten her promise, and that as they spoke plans were being made to bring her to the Spiral Run. The only hitch was finding a pirate or spacer crazy enough to do it.

Enter Thakrien the Dray.

RO TAAL: The world, the family, and the kingdom she had sworn to protect crumbled before her eyes in a matter of hours. Majestic vessels of unknown origin descended upon Algarath like sentient clouds and rained fire upon the once pristine world. High Defender Ro Taal’s first thought upon watching the destruction was the haphazard nature of the attack – thousands of ships surrounding the globe uprooting pockets of citizenry. It seemed more like an act of fear rather than precision.

That was how her mind worked. Amidst the savage landscape, the screams of agony, and the macabre array, she questioned the motivation. Their timing seemed far too convenient; mere days before a peace accord with key Spiral Run systems, one week to the day after she had made the greatest discovery in centuries.

The cause of the Age of Decay.

Ten thousand years of darkness were suddenly brought to light, and the family she guarded with her life held a connection to it. However, with the connection to the reason came with it the knowledge of an ancient enemy – one that roamed the stars long before humankind ever conceived of spaceflight. Ever since unearthing lost knowledge, she pondered the best way to reveal it to the masses. The invasion of her world forced her hand.

Her duty was clear now: protect whatever remained of the Senai family, and if none remained, find a way to fight against to the coming tide. By sheer luck or fate, she found one member of the royal family alive – the youngest daughter, Dathedra. Another factor in her favor was the knowledge that underground bunkers with contingents of her troops were also still intact.

Contact with the others were made, ships were found, a route of safety was plotted. Summoning all of her combat training, and pushing her loyal followers to the brink of exhaustion, they made it off Algarath. Heavy casualties resulted from the suicide run out of the system, but the core ships in her makeshift convoy still flew.

The Noble House of Prevane, ever-loyal and indebted, agreed to shelter the young princess until the time was right for her summons. The former High Defender then took to the stars again leaving Noble space behind her. She and her troops relocated to the Spiral Run and swore to guard the free territories from the inevitable arrival of a powerful nemesis.

Ten years have passed, and the time is upon them. Ro Taal – once the most respected High Defender in the Algarath Kingdom, now a scarred Borderguard general – again has a duty to fulfill. To defeat an ancient evil, one must awaken an ancient good.

For a poem about the discovery of The Aquarian Queen, go HERE!

Tags: Aquarian Queen, Crossing the Stars, Eldyr'Hai, novel, sci-fi

“Brunch with Phantoms” - A Novel Synopsis

Flashback to around the same time last year, I was bit of a jaded prick to be around. The year prior had left me a bit of a bitter husk of a geek. The culprits were a series of people I’d associated with online that turned out to be less than they seemed. Much less. They didn’t even exist.

People had gone through the trouble of not only creating fake personae online, but creating complicated backstories to them. It was like an RPG, but some fuckhead forgot to tell me I was a player or provide me with the necessary d20s. What’s worse is that it isn’t the first time I ran across forgeries. Over the course of ten years, the tally was well with in the double-digits. 06-07 simply took the cake for Most Amount of Fake Fucks. At the end of those exhausting episodes, I came up with the perfect name for them.

Either I was just stupid or gullible, I couldn’t decide which. Worse off, I wasn’t entirely sure how I could justify the time spent courting these mythical maidens. A buddy of mine was equally as jaded, having encountered a couple himself. What could posses someone to do that? And how can one redeem themselves for getting involved with them. Then I had it.

I’d write about them!

In October of ‘07, Brunch with Phantoms was concocted. The first time I came up with the idea, I test-drove the pitch with another female friend over whiskey-infused tea. (I don’t recommend it.) She seemed to like it. Then I spoke of it to others. It was different than my other ideas. It didn’t involve zombies, kung fu strippers, spaceships, or space fungi named Fred.

What did I do after that? I sat on it for a year. It gathered dust in the back of my mind as everyday life distracted me. Blogs gained a foothold over my writing output. Stories came a distant second. The ideas kept coming, but none really bit hard enough to get me moving. When I concocted an idea called Life to a Tea, the “phantom women” also demanded to be heard once more.

I listened to them.

Premise

Raymond Elkins plans a gathering with six women he has known for the past year. Most don’t know of each other. None know the reason for the meet-and-greet. He gathers all of them at his favorite Victorian-style tea place for brunch. A couple of them are the brunch-ish sort. The rest, not so much. Over the course of the noon hour - as the six trickle in - they relate stories of how they know the host and/or how they relate to each other. As they do, their stories unfold.

Main Characters

Raymond Elkins:

Age: 24

He is the protagonist, and basically like the author. A few differences, though, are prevalent. He’s not a sci-fi fan, for one. Truth be told, he’s more “average” than “geek”. He is 24 and a recent college graduate. Some have told him he’s a gifted poet, but he chooses to ignore this as a viable road of discovery. Personality wise, he’s reserved, overly cautious, cynical, and analytical. However, he has been praised for having a penchant for self-sacrifice, loyalty, and a dry sense of wit. Against his wishes, he’s also the proverbial “glue” to his offbeat circle of friends. He has two roommates, Clara Parks and Samir Ali Khan.

Samuel Mallory:

Age: 24

An old high school friend of Ray’s – a closet tech nerd who hides behind a “pretty boy” veneer. He comes across as smug, self-centered, and smarmy. In reality, once the douche-y facade subsides, he can be quite charismatic. He is currently in school, earning an Masters in Business. On the side, he runs a homespun travel agency website. Due to his longstanding friendship with the protagonist, both exhibit a sibling-like rivalry. Raymond, though, appears to be unaware of the competition. Oftentimes, it involves women.

Clara Parks:

Age: 23

Clara can best be described as a recovering wild child, but a very skeptical one. Where most of her ilk have their heads in the clouds, here nimbus is particularly dark. She is shrewd, calculating, but surprisingly aloof. She also has more walls up than a barge bulkhead. Once someone reaches her mushy interior persona, though, they’ll never leave. Her devotion to her friends is without equal. That especially goes for her best friend, a dopey pet St. Bernard named Egan. (Yes, after the Ghost Buster.) By night, she is a goth club cage dancer; by day, a nursing student. She has known Ray and Sam since high school, but didn’t consider them friends until after.

(AUTHOR’S NOTE: Sam and Clara are not based on anyone in particular. The characters were created roughly ten years ago for another set of stories, along with Ray. However, the roles they fill in this book are in substitution of actual people.)

The Phantom Women

Oasis Rousseau:

Age: 22

Oasis is an enigma. At 22, a college graduate, a teacher, a multiple homeowner, an accomplished cook, and an Internet radio phenom. If ever the title of “Renaissance Woman” applied to a single person, it would be her. She is the very embodiment of selflessness and self-sacrifice. Her sense of humor could best be described as slapstick and esoteric. While she may come across as innocent and naive, in reality she is more worldly than the average twentysomething-er. Within her tiny traditional frame, beats the heart of a liberal forward thinker. Oasis abhors her affluent upbringing and her strict father, yet adores all those close to her. If someone has a story to tell, she’ll shake off everyone else to hear how it ends. She’s also a bit of a clean-freak. She owns two beagles: Virgina and Woolf.

Origin: The girl that Oasis is based on I encountered on Myspace in January of ‘06. For one outlandish reason or another, meetings got postponed by her. In April of that year, I suspected she was a fake. After some pleading and angry retorts from a “friend” of hers, I recanted and re-added her. It was on-and-off ever since. I finally stopped writing in April of ‘08. However, recently, I received a birthday e-mail from her. I’m almost 75% certain she doesn’t exist. Even though her supposed hippie fiance is spread all over Google. Maybe that’s fake too. I’m not certain.

Madison “Maddie” Ayres:

Age: 25

The direct opposite of Oasis, Maddie is uncouth, ill-tempered, unsophisticated, and crass. Some might even say she’s simplistic. Despite her obvious chainsmoking outward presence, she can show a surprising amount of sharpness. How she and Oasis became best friends is a mystery. She has difficulty holding jobs, goes through men like toilet paper (she uses them), and has an odd obsession with sandwiches. She is also fiercely protective of Oasis, sometimes even taking on the role of bodyguard. Well, when she’s not passed out drunk.

Origin: Maddie is based directly on Oasis’s real right-hand woman. Believe it or not, I talked with this one more than I did Oasis, which is why I put the Oasis story from her point of view most of the time. I finally proved her lack of existence when I typed in her old e-mail address into Facebook, it came up with a “Lauren Chayne” from Salt Lake City or something. Not the person I was talking to.

Mireille Bristow:

Age: 24

Transplanted from Quebec, Canada, this half-Irish ex-pat stems from a rich upbringing. Shirking her duties as heir to a resort chain, she moved to the U.S. to pursue a career as a classical pianist. She eventually shrugged it off to study Law. When not immersed in legal theory, she updates a blog about unique beverages. To the untrained eye, she appears docile, polite, and amiable. Only the last two are true. Behind the primped smile lies a feisty female, a patient one at that. Her temper may be a slow burn, but when it shows, it leaves a mark.

Origin: Mireille is actually a fusion of four different phantom women - an 18-year-old French woman I encountered back in ‘96 (but was probably, in reality, much younger), a 20-year-old hypochondriac I e-met in ‘98, a Canadian I “iCourted” in ‘07, and a beer fan I chatted with in ‘07 as well. I never knew the four of them well enough to make them separate characters, so I stuck ‘em in a blender set on puree. And, thus, Mireille was conceived.

Pamela Laird:

Age: 23

Pam came from a close-knit family, one that chose to remain distinctly urban and uptown. When she was old enough, she rebelled from this; choosing a life of solitude in the country. Okay, not exactly country. She still remained within spitting distance of the city, but just shy of the urban growth boundary. She took her trust fund and purchased a small cottage on an acre plot of land, content to remain a hermit. Part of this maneuver was to stave off the hustle and hassle of a fast-paced lifestyle, the other was her health. Her lungs were weak; pulmonary fibrosis. Stress, anxiety, pollution, cigarette smoke; all prevented her from maintaining a normal social life. She puts on a strong front – that of a solitary figure – but she yearns for more. Her relationships are often one-sided, investing herself more than her partner. She is a freelance web designer and telecommutes.

Origin: This one pissed me off the most. She actually surfaced the year after I met the Oasis-basis (hey, that rhymed!). Over the course of a few months, she cozeyed up to my real friends in an attempt to gain favor. Reasons she used for not meeting up ranged from sick family members to incurable diseases. Finally, after a brief hiatus, I said I would go down to visit her…in Klamath Falls. The address she gave me was to a trailer park/golf course, and she left a voicemail (voice disguised to act like a friend) saying she wouldn’t be making it. $200 trip!

Oh well, I got to see Crater Lake out of the deal.

Friday Spencer:

Age: 23

Born Freya Spencer, this stubborn redhead decided to change her name as an April Fools Day prank on her parents. Unfortunately for her, the name stuck. As a young girl, she was a bit of a tomboy; unrefined and underdeveloped. She didn’t come into her own physically until late in high school, by then, though, she was too far gone. Like “one of the boys”, she dated women. It wasn’t until college that she decided that men weren’t half-bad either. She also couldn’t decide which she preferred. As a result, her relationships were often shallow and open. She partied hard, but kept to herself. Wine flowed freely, but she never freed herself completely. Her true love was culinary pursuits, and she sharpened her skills (and knives) to become a highly-honed poissonier. She found her soulmate in an exact opposite, a woman with her “free love” attitude…but without the braggart. Friday is unorganized, boyish, prone to carousal (of either genders), but capable of unparalleled focus and determination.

Candice Fane:

Age: 26

Friday’s live-in “girlfriend”, a wedding planner by trade. While she wears the moniker of a practicing bisexual, her preference lies with women. She identifies herself as a “lipstick”. Where Friday is loud and rambunctious, Candice is calm and collected. She is also the one who cleans up after Friday’s messes, both within and without the household. Overnight prison fees, notwithstanding. She tolerates their open relationship, but hopes that Friday will come around to a more exclusive longterm arrangement. Occasionally, out of spite, she will find her way into the arms of another woman, but with strict guidelines and timetables – dating by dayplanner. Only Friday is exempt from her Rolodex relationship approach.

Origin: Both Friday and Candice have the same origin story. I encountered Friday in August of ‘07. It was a random Myspace add. She seemed fun, cute, and quirky. My favorite! She was also really named after a day of the week, hence the moniker. I was introduced to her “girlfriend” around the same time, as well as friends of friends. One of them was a Canadian (1/4th the basis for Mireille). About three months in, I got an e-mail from the real Canadian stating the one I had on my friends list was a fake. It turns out she was a popular blogger in Vancouver. The day the Canadian’s profile vanished, so did Friday, Candice, and the rest of their friends.

A couple of weeks ago, I ran across the Candice and Friday templates again. Their stories were slightly different, their star signs were changed, and so were their ages. Now they’re from Washington, DC.

Yeesh.

Tacey Jetters:

Age: 22

A recent graduate from nursing school, Tacey quickly landed a lucrative RN placement at a skilled neonatal facility. She is bright, often cheerful, and demonstrates a remarkable work ethic. Behind the staunch professionalism lies a dark vulnerability, however. A history of abuse looms in the shadows of her psyche. Also present is a family history of paranoid schizophrenia. She gravitates towards domineering and abusive men since that’s all she’s known. If she enters a relationship where none of these traits are present, she subconsciously invents a reason. The delusion of an abusive ex hunting her sometimes manifests. She is in denial of her fragile mental state.

Origin: I never dealt with this one personally. That “honor” goes to a friend of mine, which is why she’s a Sam story. The excuse she used for skirting a meet-up with said friend was an abusive ex. That and later pics she forwarded to him were shady at best. Horrible photoshopping. Using a bit of tracking software, my friend was able to determine that said woman was actually a 35-year-old mother of two in Estecada, OR.

Basic Outline

Prelude: “The Dual-ing Ms”

Setting: Victorian-style Tearoom

- featuring Maddie and Mireille

First Shade: “Human Soup”

Subject: A dinner party thrown by Friday and Candice

- featuring Ray, Sam, Mireille, Tacey, Clara, Friday and Candice.

Interlude: “The String-Along Quartet”

Setting: Tearoom

- featuring Mireille, Maddie…and the arrival of Candice and Friday

Second Shade: “A Woman Scorned”

Subject: Sam and Tacey’s relationship

- featuring Sam, Tacey, Clara and Ray

Interlude: “Five Cards, No Stud”

Setting: Tearoom

- featuring Mireille, Maddie, Friday, Candice…and now Pamela

Third Shade: “Turn a Cheek, Kiss the Other”

Subject: Pamela and Ray’s relationship

- featuring Ray, Pamela, Sam and Clara

Interlude: “Six Degrees of Celebration”

Setting: Tearoom

- featuring Mireille, Maddie, Friday, Candice, Pamela…and finally Oasis

Last Shade: “The Delivered One”

Subject: Ray and Oasis’s relationship

- featuring Ray, Oasis, and Maddie

Postlude: “As You Will It”

Tags: Fake, Fiction, Myspace, Outline, phantom, Profiles, Women

Kung Fu Kabaret

“Can I take the blindfold off now?” Killian asked.

“Not yet,” Duane replied. “Almost there.”

Floods of voices surrounded Killian Thorpe as he was led to someplace his frat friend swore he’d never been. The hippie hip-hop stylings of MC Coos Coos Criminal blared from many angles around him, cleansing him of an irritating pop song stuck in his head. However, he viewed this change as a lesser of two evils. New age gangsta rap or boy bands, which was worse? He could not decide.

“If we’re in a club, I’m gonna kill you,” Killian said.

“Dude, this ain’t no club,” Duane laughed. His voice edged nearer as he applied fingers to Killian’s clothed temples. “Tada!”

The blindfold fell away to a dimly-lit, neon-laden speakeasy of a joint lined with tables and booth couches. Four semicircle stages jutted out of the four corners of the establishment. A geodesic cove in the wall adjacent to the main stage housed an Asian DJ at the controls of many turntables. Several metal bars lined the ceiling like an upside-down jungle gym. All of this was secondary to the main draw of the place. Women. Topless women. Lots of them. All of which were arrayed in themed costumes of one sort or another. The ones currently on the four stages were dressed in Scottish tartans.

“Happy Twenty-First!” Duane shouted.

Killian gulped. “Oooooh no.”

“Oooooh yes!” Duane said, patting his back. “Women, my man!”

“I can’t be here,” Killian replied as his lips thinned.

“Why not? It’s your birthday.” Duane plopped himself down in a chair. “Time to take a break; bask in some T & A.”

“That’s got nothing to do with it.”

“Then what it is?” Duane asked

“I-I c-can’t be around…women,” Killian said.

“You’re twenty-one, man!” Duane shouted. “Grow up!”

“I told you I’m gynophobic!”

“Er…no you’re not,” Duane propped his feet on the table, withdrew a cigarette, and lit the tip with a phallus-shaped Zippo.

“Then what do you call these?” Thorpe screamed, pointing at his neck. Red mounds dotted the base of it.

“Zits?”

“No! They’re hives!” Thorpe explained. “I get hives when I’m around large amounts of estrogen.”

“Is that even possible?” Duane squinted as he looked closer.

“Yes!”

A thick voice broke in from behind them. “Gentlemen, welcome to Club Canaan, the only burlesque house in town.”

The source of the Slavic baritone came from a barrel-chested man dressed in what Thorpe assumed was Renaissance attire – pantaloons, odd platform shoes, a velveteen vest, and a curled wig dyed magenta. If Shakespeare had been on mushrooms while writing King Lear, the Fool would’ve looked like this.

“Hey, nice place ya got here,” Duane grinned. “What’re your lapdance specials?”

“Lapdance?”

“Yeah, lapdance,” Duane repeated.

“C-cant be here…so c-cold…t-too many.” Killian curled up into a fetal ball in one of the seats.

“I know nothing of this ‘lapdance’ you speak of. What is it?” the fluorescent fool asked Duane.

“You don’t know what a lapdance is? What kinda tit bar is this?”

“This is no ‘teat bar’. This is a burlesque house!” the large man intoned again with a goateed smile.

“Tell me you at least have booths.” Duane scratched at his forehead.

“Booths?” the man looked at him strangely again.

Killian rasped. Trickles of blood dribbled from his nostrils.

He couldn’t get Duane’s attention while he was fixated on educating the host. “Yeah, private booths y’know?”

“Ooooh, private rooms!” the Fool’s smile beamed larger. “We have those.”

Duane nodded at Killian who was rocking back and forth with his knees up to his face. “Now we’re getting somewhere. How much?”

“Depends on what play you want performed,” was the response.

“Play?”

“Yes, play. Marlowe, Stoppard, Wylde, or good ol’ reliable Moliere, our girls do it all.”

Duane sighed. “Nevermind, just bring the waitress over so we can get some beers.”

“Certainly! And if you need anything else, just ask for me, Piz Miyov,” the large man bowed. “I am the proprietor of Club Canaan. Your satisfaction is my only concern.”

“Yeah, sure.”

Piz skipped off and shouted, “Wench! Table thirteen!”

“Damn, what a bummer,” Duane said.

Killian wiped the crimson from his nose. “Can we go now?”

“No, I already paid our cover. We might as well enjoy what there is.”

“I told you already, I can’t be here. Look,” Killian put his blood-caked fingers in front of Duane. “I’m bleeding already.”
“You’re not bleeding because of that,” Duane said. “You’re stressing yourself out over nothing. Now sit back and try to enjoy yourself.”

Killian groaned. Of all the days his friend tried to get him out of the dorms, it had to be during a Seventies kung fu marathon on the Action channel. When he wasn’t doing homework, he was watching old chop-socky films. All the masters were being represented – Tsui Hark, Yuen Woo-Ping, the Shaw Brothers. Performers such as Jackie Chan, Bruce Lee, Sonny Chiba, all were in their fighting glory. Yet here he was, surrounded by modified mammaries in various stages of buoyancy.

The heavily accented voice of DJ Tofu boomed over the fading hip-hop score as the saline-induced dancers exited the various stages. “Put your hands together for the McGregor Girls, and their interpretive performance of the Battle of Falkirk! You can only find them here at the only burlesque house that guarantees you great feasts for the eyes, mind and body. Coming up are four lovely young ladies we’re proud to have. They don’t do private performances, but they’ll swing their way into your hearts nonetheless. Don’t be shy with your dollars, gents, for here they are . . . put your hands together for the Acrobabes!”

Killian looked over at Duane. “The what?”

“Acrobabes,” he said through a down-syndrome smile.

“What kind of name is that?”

“Don’t know, don’t care,” was the simple reply.

DJ Tofu belted again, “On the main stage we have the young and delectable Joy!” On cue, a shorthaired brunette, with a bobbing ponytail skipped her way to the brass pole, lips puckered around a lollipop. Attired in a plaid schoolgirl skirt and a button-up shirt tied high at the waste, she twirled her black-stocking legs around the bar once, ending the rotation with a coy giggle.

“Heatin’ up stage two to your right, caught in the shower, is fiery Infinity!” A redhead, wrapped in a towel gave a look of feigned astonishment as the shower curtains parted, her auburn locks spilling over her shoulders.

“Bow down to stage three for your mistress of pain, Chastity!” A half-Asian clad in thigh-high leather boots, black lace, garters, and a midnight corset dominated the paneled tiles as she marched onstage. She unfurled a whip, cracked it once, and let out a snarl.

“And finally, for those of you still stuck in grade school, you’ve never seen a teacher like this. Stay after class with Ms. Faith!” This one caught Killian’s attention the most – a statuesque blonde, hair balled in a knot, blue eyes framed with librarian glasses. She was dressed straight out of a Van Halen video, professional yet provocative. What really caught his eye were her earrings – silver knives dangling from her lobes.

“Found a girl you like, eh?” Duane said.

Killian ignored the question and continued watching.

Before he could fully enjoy the show, gunfire erupted from the entrance. Bottles burst from the bar. Neon tubes shattered into white sparks. Girls screamed, men whimpered. Some ducked under tables. Others complained about the interruption. Killian knelt down as well, cowering, but as he did so he noticed something odd. The four onstage didn’t retreat at all. They remained standing, eyes fixated on the entrance.

The source of the bullet blaze revealed itself. Five men entered the room in multicolored tights, flower petal tutus lining their waists, donning masks with the same floral patterns. Individual types of flora protruded from the tips of their heads – monikers to their identities, Killian guessed. At the center was the man who had strafed the interior – tall, imposing, and brandishing a green semiautomatic with a modified barrel shaped like a tulip corolla.

“Silence!” the one Killian thought was the leader boomed. “We are here to claim what is rightfully ours, and to end the depravity this place now represents.”

The tall man tromped his way to the main stage, and brought the gun to bear on the dancer called Joy. She didn’t react but continued nursing the lollipop in her mouth.

“Get off the stage, you pansy!” came a shout from the array of couches.

The floral-patterned leader froze, whipped the flower-gun around, cocked it once, and rained death upon the hapless speaker. “It’s Tulip! Not pansy! Tulip the Terrible!” He surveyed the crowd with the weapon in hand. “Anyone else care to feel the wrath of my manly petals of PAIN!”

“Shit, some people actually talk like that?” Duane said from under the table.

Killian shushed him from his crouched position then went back to observing the blonde teacher-themed dancer.

“Know this!” Tulip shouted again. “This place used to be a cultural refuge - an acting house that provided real entertainment, not this sad excuse for debauchery. And it shall be again. The Ballerina Boys will make it so!”

A tall Amerindian stepped up, clad in blue, bearing bladed petal fans. Geranium petals, no less. “I am the native terror that strikes fearful love of the arts into the hearts of occidentals! Geronimo Geranium!”

Following the poseur display, a stout obese man dressed in red struggled on top of a chair. “I am the round terror, the thorny pride of the operatic world. The Robust Rose!” he chimed in lilting tenor.

“No stunt is too daring, no prop sword to sharp for the likes of me,” said a tall, lanky man in purple. “The Violate Vindicator!”

Lastly, a short, elfin figure in pink stood up, posed, arms akimbo, but said nothing.

The silence would’ve been perfect for a cricket chorus.

Tulip the Terrible took the liberty of speaking on his behalf. “Oh, that’s the Carnation of Carnage. He’s a mime,” he said casually before booming again. “Together we are the Ballerina Boys!”

Even Killian had to snicker. Others in the club got the same idea. A few outright laughs sounded from different places.

Obviously distraught, Tulip fired again at the ceiling. Everything went silent. “Laugh not at the art that is ballet! It is as manly as anything else. A testosterone-driven dance of happiness, like a flower in the wind! But enough of that. Time to set an example.” Tulip slowly turned to face Joy again.

Killian realized his shivers had quelled, yet he couldn’t understand why. Yes, there were women around, and a part of him still detested their presence. However, there was something else. Something about these particular women grabbed his attention. The way they stood there, stoic, unflinching at the threat ahead of them seemed surreal to him. They were calm, collected. Their calmness made him calm. Duane, on the other hand, simpered from beneath the table.

Piz, the owner, lifted his bulk from the area next to the bar. “Tulip, you chose the wrong time to waltz in here. How dare you debase us with your presence?! How dare you interrupt a performance?” He looked over at Faith and the other three who were still onstage, clenching fists and rapping nails against thighs. “Girls,” he grinned again. “The show must go on.”

Joy grinned and her eyes narrowed. She placed her back up against the pole. Sliding down to a crouching stance, she waited until Tulip’s face came into view. As he turned, his left eye reached her line of sight. She sucked in her cheeks and let the lollipop launch from her mouth, stick-end first. The flying candy hit its mark. Tulip reeled back and fell off the lit stage, screaming. Following that, the schoolgirl grabbed hold of the brass bar and ripped it from its hinges.

Yes! Killian cheered silently.

Faith – the schoolteacher - brandished her slide ruler prop, gingerly removed the ruler portion, turned it around, slid it back in, and clicked it in place. Instead of a square end, the other side of the ruler was a well-sharpened katana blade. She took a kenjutsu stance. Killian only knew that after several Sonny Chiba viewings. However, she did it better!

The redhead, Infinity - removing the wet towel from her lithe, pale frame - twisted what she had worn into a whip, stamped one end with a foot, ringing it with both hands. She then brought it over her head like a weapon. A wet towel would hurt. Killian could tell she’d done this sort of thing before. Jet Li style. The impact alone would dizzy an opponent. The subject for the wetted cloth had yet to be decided.

Chastity – the Amerasian – coiled her whip and jumped down from her stage, digging her stiletto heels into the ground. The other four followed her, and they all positioned themselves in a wedge formation. Tulip the Terrible lifted himself from the ground, raised his gun to the air, and roared with all the intensity an actor could muster.

“For theater!” he shouted.

“For theater!” his lackeys replied in unison.

Both groups charged each other.

The brawl that ensued rivaled any movie Killian had ever seen. Bladed petals, showers of pollen, brass bars, and torn clothing flew from the meshing of assailants. Faith dug her ruler blade into Geronimo Geranium’s fan-petal. Robust Rose swatted Joy with his thorny belly-club, tearing away her slinky overshirt, which gave way to a metal-studded bra.

Infinity and Chastity joined hands, cart-wheeling through Violet Vindicator, and placing a stranglehold on him with their mutual thighs. The Carnation of Carnage silently rushed to his fallen comrade, but Joy had regained her composure – removing her metallic bra, folding the cups in upon themselves, modifying them to nun chucks – and embraced the small mime in a slivery choke hold.

The faux-schoolgirl back-flipped, bringing the pink poseur down hard on the corner of a table. The Carnation groaned then slumped. Chastity gave a spin kick to the Violet Vindicator’s temple, toppling him on top of the Carnation. Tulip fired a round at Faith, who in turn parried the projectiles with her blade. The blonde teacher then leapt into the air, twisted her body, and brought the flat end of the sword down on his neck – knocking the wind and bombast out of him.

The only Ballerina Boy left conscious was the opera singer, wielding his rose-thorned mace in a frenzy as the four strippers closed in. He let out a tenor yelp and attempted a retreat. Joy grabbed hold of the brass bar she’d dropped, pole-vaulted to within arms reach, and swiped his stubby legs with a well placed foot. The Robust Rose fell hard on his rotund keg of an abdomen, coughing out a final note before slumbering.

Killian instantly stood up, applauded, and belted a loud “WHOOOOOHOOO!!!”

Other patrons slowly followed his example, and several standing ovations resonated throughout the Canaan establishment. The four women bowed, joined hands, bowed again then exited stage left.

“Gentlemen, I give you, the Acrobabes!” Piz Miyov announced over a microphone.

Killian continued to clap frantically as did many others in the burlesque house, herds of testosterone demanding more ass-kicking estrogen. He soon realized, though, that someone wasn’t. Duane was still huddled underneath the table, squealing like a panicked piglet.

* * *

“Dude, did you see all that!” Killian said to Duane as they exited Club Canaan.

“C-can’t be here…s-so cold…t-too many,” Duane said to no one in particular.

“I mean, strippers who know kung fu, who’d’ve thought?” Killian asked.

“Shot…I-I could’ve been shot,” was the shaken reply.

“Man, we need to go back again!”

“Bed…that sounds nice…bed…” His frat buddy continued to stammer on.

“Uh, Duane, you okay?” Killian asked.

“Oh wait,” Duane paused. “Beer first then bed. Yes…beer won’t shoot at me. Good beer. Friendly beer. Won’t shoot, will you?”

“Relax, it was only a show.”

Duane froze in mid step. “A show? You thought that was a show? We coulda been killed in there?”

“Killed by a bunch of guys dressed as flowers? Don’t think so. It was all an act.” Killian patted his shoulder.

“Damn flowers,” Duane said in a low tone, clutching himself.

This time Killian froze. “Holy shit, you were actually scared.”

“No I wasn’t”

“Yes, you were,” Killian insisted. “You thought you were going to be killed by a guy dressed as a friggin’ daisy.

“I hate daisies,” Duane shrieked. “Roses, daisies, pansies, Solomon’s seals, chrysanthemums, edelweiss and every other fucking flower on the face of the fucking PLANET!”

Killian backed away from his foaming friend. “Dude, chill. I didn’t mean anything by it. It’s okay to have a fear of flowers. Let’s just get that beer, and then we’ll get you to bed.”

Duane gave a meek smile. “And no more flowers?”

It took all of Killian’s resolve to keep from laughing. “No flowers.”

“Good, I can’t be around flowers,” Duane replied, letting his shoulders slump after a deep breath.

“There there. Those evil flowers won’t hurt you anymore.”

Tags: Awesome, Kung Fu, Martial Arts, Strippers

Stories I’m Glad I Never Wrote

My journey as a writer - or very verbose wannabe - is paved with unfinished projects. Some of which, I can say, I’m proud to have started and hope to someday return to. Others were so mind-wrenching bad, they instilled a permanent wince of pain just by invoking them. Several stories in my arsenal should never come to pass, as idea or inkling.

How they entered my mind, I know not. A few were dreams made manifest in plot form, the rest…ramblings of a village idiot.

How bad?

Well, congratulations, you will now be subjected to them. Below is a generous helping of steaming, putrid plots I discarded for the betterment of society. I present them here as a reminder of why I didn’t write them. Even in tight summary, they make me groan. If you - fair reader - should find inspiration from them, tell me why. Why, God, why???

PsyKit

Origin:

I think I was in the 6th grade when I came up with this little shit-nugget. No other explanation is needed.

Plot:

A young boy receives a blotch-tabby kitten for Christmas. He soon discovers that there’s something different about it. It reacts to things before they happen.

The boy’s father - a military contractor - also takes note of their new pet’s strange behavior and mentions it in passing while at work. His superiors take an interesting in this anomalous feline and whisk (or whisker?) it away from the unsuspecting family. The boy is devastated when he discovers it missing.

The father, feeling guilty, stages a daring rescue with the boy in tow. Together they storm the military base in the hopes of locating their lost family member. For some reason (and I have no clue why) there are a lot of explosions, people die…and the kitten is rescued.

Only to die moments later.

Reason for Discard:

Weren’t you reading? I killed a kitten!

Best Blade in the West

Origin:

I was making the ten-hour drive from Reno to Portland, weather was crappy, and I was going through the winding pass of Hwy 80. That’s all I’ve got.

Plot:

I didn’t really have one. The only notion that came to mind was a typical Wild West scenario, except no one had any guns. In fact, guns had never been developed. Everyone used swords! Broadswords, scimitars, claymores, hatchets, axes, battle-axes, you name it! The hero - a mysterious man named Cale McHale - would’ve been someone returning home from some pilgrimage to Japan where he learned the ways of the Samurai.

As to whom he had to fight, well, I never got that far.

Reason for Discard:

After several initial looks of “Huh?” from people, I finally thought it best to put this to pasture. I mean, the hero’s name was Cale McHale, for God’s sake.

Gashton

Origin:

It came to me in a dream…what?

Plot:

An Asian medical student is saved from some unsavory predicament by a classmate. Before she could thank him, he leaves. Relying on what little information she has on him, she learns he was a new student from a small town by the California-Nevada border, a place called Gashton. She convinces a few friends to join her on a road trip over spring break.

Gashton turns out to be someplace quite different than she imagined. The local sheriff is a retired security guard. The local loony bin is a converted Victorian house with only one patient and one resident. Said patient is also the leader of the town’s local religion, a cult to a mysterious alien called “Zuntan”. The idol is a bottle of suntan lotion…with the letter “S” printed backwords, hence the “Zuntan” origin.

Weredeer populate the periphery of town, man-eating gophers are a regular menace, and the mayor only appears in person every once in awhile. The rest of the time he’s a disembodied voice that everyone in town can hear. The girl also learns that everyone in the town is over a century old, but they don’t know what year it is.

She finally encounters the boy who saved her, who turns out to be the other resident of the town loony bin.
Creeped out by the berg’s inhabitants, her friends decide to leave. She chooses to remain permanently, taking a job as the town’s sole nurse. Not that they really need a nurse, since everyone appears in perfect health.

One of her friends returns to town to see how she is. He has aged considerably. She hasn’t aged at all. Twenty years have passed since she first entered town. To her, it barely seemed a day. A very long day.

Gashton is unstuck in time.

Reason for Discard:

For awhile, I actually liked this idea, but I had no clue how to write it. Nor did I have a sense of what sort of readership I was aiming for. In the end, I just attributed it to being a very bizarre but intriguing dream. Such as it was.

Punishment E

Origin:

I hate rape in stories or movies. Can’t stand it. I remember trying to read The Chronicles of Thomas Covenant and threw the book down when there was a rape scene within the first forty pages. It made me sick. Another example, the movie Showgirls. I walked out of the theater shaking with rage. I paid for a skin flick, damn it! Not that crap.

Which is odd because things like tentacle-demon hentai have never bothered me, probably because those are so far removed from reality to be considered bothersome…or even a turn-on.

I was having a conversation with several women, and one of the topics brought up was the best punishment for rape. Each gal had her theory. I, being the only male of the group, was asked to chime in with my thought. Instead I gave them a scenario…

Plot:

A human traveler visits an alien world called Saeyiris, a perfect pleasure paradise. The inhabitants are a humanoid offshoot, blueish purple in appearance, velvetine to the touch. The women emit strong pheromones, the men lay eggs, and both genders are considered carnal treasures by all beings across the galaxy.

Pilgrimages to this carefree world are commonplace. Saeyirians welcome vagabonds of all types. No other world is this egalitarian. They have one rule, however. Everything that is done must be done so with consent. No one has ever violated this rule.

Until now.

A man knowingly rapes and kills several Saeyirian women, forming a necklace out of their severed privates. The man is caught and put on trial. A Saeyirian woman is made his Defender. While it isn’t customary to make an offworlder subject to Saeyirian law, the ghastliness of the crime is an exception. The human alliance tries to intervene but is cast out of the proceedings.

The man is found guilty of his crimes and sentenced to “Punishment E”.

He is emasculated and castrated, then set free. Over the course of time, however, his privates grow back - painfully - due to an implanted growth enzyme. However, the enzyme also severs his manliness again after full maturation, a process as painful as the initial severing. The punishment repeats itself, cyclically, until the end of his days.

Reason for Discard:

Granted, this would have been a great cautionary tale, as a lot of science fiction is, but I couldn’t sit down to type it without crossing my legs…cringing and squirming in my seat.

As to how the table of women reacted to the idea, I think there was at least one applause.

Untitled Suspense-Thriller Project

Origin:

Another one that came to me in a dream.

I should really watch what I eat before going to bed.

Plot:

A twisted couple captures people - regardless of age - and forces them to engage in every illegal perversion imaginable…and film them doing it. After distributing said material, however, they make a list of those who purchased the items. Then they blackmail the clients for buying it in the first place.

Reason for Discard:

Like I really need a reason. The idea is just sick. Oddly enough, I told this idea to my sister and Dad the following morning, shaking my head in disbelief while doing so. My sister, rightfully, gave me a wicked look.

My Dad’s only reaction was, “Hrm…good business model.”

Untitled Hypothetical Bruce Campbell/Nathan Fillian Project

Origin:

I had this li’l fanboy leaning. I thought the perfect buddy-cop movie would be a pairing up of two geek greats, that being The Chin and Mal. Both actors had similar recognition in sci-fi fandom. One had a younger, sort of rookie-ish appeal, while the other had the air of a cheeseball guru. They also had another factor in common, mainstream fame eluded them both.

I wanted to be the guy to write a mainstream cop-caper featuring the two of them. One a tough-as-nails city cop, the other a country boy brought to the city on a case. Maybe the two of them could be related too! Thus adding more tension! Yeah! Those elements worked.

What didn’t work was my…

Plot:

A small-town sheriff visits his father’s farm to find the house on fire, the barn burning, and his Pa brutally beaten by the doorstep.

His last words are, “They took her. They took…Betty.”

The father dies.

The sheriff then makes a trek to the big city and enlists the help of his older brother to uncover who did this, all the while not telling him about “Betty.”

It turns out Betty is a naturally grown…behemoth of a cow, standing tall at thirty feet. Her captors are a fast food conglomerate bent on using her DNA as a template for creating better, larger beefstock.

Uh…yeah…

Reason for Discard:

C’mon, the plot device is a giant cow. What more reason do I need to throw this in the shredder?

Although the image of Bruce Campbell riding a giant cow through a busy urban intersection did induce a giggle.

The Foundling King

Origin:

My brain is a cocktease. The idea for this didn’t come out of one dream, but after a series of dreams. I only got a snippet of the idea during each one. Then I woke up. Argh!

And, in the end, it still made very little sense.

Plot:

In the primordial ooze of the Drealm (the dreamscape), giant capes of land exist. Some right on top of each other. Whole worlds are formed this way - intersecting, crisscrossing, enveloping. One such land is Tyar-Maethi.

The king of Tyar-Maethi has gone missing. In his place, a foundling king is put on the thrown. Unbeknownst to the citizenry, he is actually one of the mountain-folk, a race of proud barbarians borne from the very rock itself; bearers of swords carved from their very own hair. That child-king is called away on a quest, however, and the kingdom is left to fend for itself.

The boy grows into a man, becomes a Sky Knight, and teams up with several other misfit-borns to combat a growing evil. One such companion is a man, the last of his kind; Lemar, a Latetan whose people were killed by the very gods that spawned his race.

Reason for Discard:

I stopped having dreams about this story. It wasn’t that I wanted to. None would come about, so I never got the full story, hence the reason it sounds so scattershot.

Plus, Lemar of Latet…as a name?

Sounds too close to Lamar of La Tete, which - from French - would translate to Lamar of The Head. And that sounds like the name of a basketball player.

Don’t think so.

Fade Out

Origin:

Another damn dream.

And not the good, wet kind.

Plot:

In a dystopian future run by sector-large mega-corporations, a security officer arrives on the scene of a strange crime. A computer hub and warehouse have been obliterated, and two men are witnessed fleeing the scene. The security officer gives chase.

He succeeds in shooting one of them, but the other escapes. As the other saboteur makes his getaway, he turns around to view his fallen comrade. The man has no face. The officer removes the mask of the fallen…

It’s his own brother.

He rigorously investigates a similar chain of events linked to the faceless man. Over the course of his inquiries, he comes in contact with his brother again, but this time he’s alive and well. He questions his brother, but said sibling doesn’t know what he’s talking about.

This leads to a “sharp” interrogation session.

Word arrives of another heist, this time at the central power core for the entire city - funded by the corporate entity that owns the metropolitan area. The officer and his brother travel there and make a shocking discovery. The power core is a pocket wormhole. Another discovery is made.

The faceless man is the security officer himself.

Both he and his brother had gone through the wormhole, but doing so caused them to view time in reverse. For each hour, they would skip backwards in time…in real-time. The man he’d been chasing was himself, halting the reign of a mega-corp in rewind.

In the end, he accepts his destiny, shoots his faceless doppelganger and travels through the power core with his brother in tow.

Reason for Discard:

It made perfect sense when I dreamt the thing, but as the days wore on, the less sense it made. That and portraying someone perceiving time in reverse seemed murderously difficult to hammer out as a story. I wasn’t confident enough in my own ability to do it.

Thorn & Nail

Origin:

I thought of this when I was a sophomore in high school, and - man - do I wish I’d acted on it sooner.

Plot:

A secret society uses the blood on the Crown of Thorns and nails used for Jesus’ crucifixion to create a clone, and pass him off as the Second Coming. However, in doing so, they trigger a chain of events which lead to the actual Biblical Apocalypse. The clone, himself, must also come to terms with his own destiny and determine whether or not he is the Messiah.

Or the Antichrist.

Reason for Discard:

Okay, this one I’m not actually “glad” I discarded, rather, I didn’t have a choice in the matter. I sat on the idea for too long. Two folks beat me do it.

Mindwarp

Origin:

The story came to me in the 7th grade, I think.

Plot:

Someone discovers how to tap into the 90% of the human brain we don’t use. In so doing, he/she taps into a previously unknown ability. Traveling at the speed of thought and opening portals to other worlds. A boy used as a test subject goes on a Wrinkle it Time-ish type journey across the cosmos.

Reason for Discard:

I’m no good at oh-golly-gee-whiz stories. I’d probably end up killing another kitten or something.

Wolfman

Origin:

Yep, you guessed it, another dream.

I really shouldn’t sleep…ever…

Plot:

An amateur con artist returns to the town of his youth. Once known for being a bratty prankster, not everyone is happy to see him, namely the new sheriff; daughter of the old. His last prank almost got him run out of town.

He was in high school and had loaded a toilet with C4, sat on it - dressed in a wolf suit, hence the nickname - and prepped a camera on a tripod to photograph himself mid-explosion. He hadn’t expected to survive the gimmick. At all. Miraculously, he did without a scratch. Having difficulty coping with what transpired, and the sheer impossibility of it, he left town to wander the country.

But now, he’s returned.

The town he grew up in is known for it’s rare and delectable candies. Most are kept stored at City Hall, which also doubles as the police station. He still has a lurking voice in the back of his head, but he’s not sure what. Wolfman figures the only way to shut it up would be to steal the town’s touristy livelihood.

As he commences with the robbery, an odd thing happens. He stares up at one of the security cameras, sees his reflection in the lens. On a whim, he waves. The reflection doesn’t mimic him. Instead, it waves after he does, followed by a wink. With that, he finally understands what the voice in the back of his head was…

It was God.

And he turns himself in as a result.

Reason for Discard:

Read it again, and you tell me?

Wormwood

Origin:

This is my most recent diuretic epiphany. I came up with it over a pint of IPA.

Plot:

A well-off, young billionaire industrialist - who happens to be a devout Christian - comes to a realization. He’s sick of waiting around for the Second Coming to appear. He figures the best way to bring about Christ’s glorious return is to trigger the events that lead up to it - i.e. start the Apocalypse. Assuming the temporary role of Antichrist, he goes about finalizing his plans by turning the course of history in favor of the scenarios outlined in the Book of Revelation.

He forms an empire out of the remnants of the Roman Empire. He rebuilds Babylon. He kills two of his most vocal opponents. He does war with any detracting nations by meeting them on the Plains of Megiddo. Unfortunately, none of the other “Divine” decrees occur. There are no angels, no Horsemen, no plagues, no comets, no demon locusts, no Destroyers, and worst of all…no Lamb.

In the end, he realizes that he just united all nations, rid the world of war, and all without the help of a would-be savior. He is last seen looking up at the stars, wondering why. No one answers.

Reason for Discard:

I don’t even want to think of how many people this would piss off. Nor would I want to have a bunch of cheering alternadopes. I think all sides would miss the point I was trying to make in the name of irony.

On second thought…

I think I will keep the last idea.

What’s life without a stubbed toe or two?

Tags: crappy, Fiction, garbage, stories