Tag: fiction

Suddenly, Mermaid.

G. Derek Adams3 Comments

The white porcelain shone in the yellow-bulb light. Mark looked down at his hands, they hung over the edge of the tub – the tips of his fingers were white and bloodless. He slapped his hands against the sides, trying to awaken his flesh.

Mark didn’t know where he was. The tub was an older style, all white and round — but the room appeared to be a middle-range motel of some sort. The tub was full of ice, a brittle square line right below his nipples.

He felt his stomach turn. He’d heard the stories. Mark forced his hands down below the ice, feeling glacially for the fresh stitch marks, the gaping bloody hole.

There was no hole. Also, there were no legs.

Unbroken blue scales, starting from below his ribs running down into a  trim point — three massive flapping fins at the end.

Mark screamed, hurling grocery-store ice all over the floor. His new tail spasmed, making even more of the cubes fly through the air.

He rocked back and forth in the tub, and finally managed to flip himself out onto the cold terra cotta floor. He could just spy his laptop bag through the cracked doorway, and he wriggled toward it. His new tail was difficult to control — he finally realized that the tail bent the opposite way of his old human knees, and then he was able to scooch more ably.

Mark clawed at the bag, blood and pain returning to his fingertips – and he fished out his cell. With the screen an inch from his face, he updated his status.

Mark Cotton – Best birthday ever!

Mark sighed happily, and pulled the tin of sardines he’d prepared from the side pocket.

[Story on Demand for Jason.  As old comedian’s say — ‘It can’t be Christmas every day.’ Sorry that this was the best by beleaguered brain could manage.]

Whiskers and Chrome

G. Derek Adams2 Comments

Black screen, thunderous fanfare — followed by agonizing squeal of electronic fuzz.

In a world where every dog has his day….

Jump shots of a vast metropolis. Cars honking, police brutalizing a lemonade stand, a nun jumping off a 23 story building, a kid crosses the street and spontaneously explodes.

…and there’s a lot of fish in the sea….

Scientists and researchers mill around a cluttered laboratory. A stereotypically blonde and buxom researcher rips off her glasses and wails with concern.

“Professor, do you think this is wise? Do you think this is morally ethical? Is it right, Professor?”

Camera spins to the Professor, he is wearing a black leather jacket and has finishing a bowl of banana pudding. He throws the bowl to the floor,and rips off his dark glasses — revealing that his eyes glow a bright green.

“Dammit, Charlene — don’t question me. Not now — not you–not ever!”

The Professor’s voice continues over the next few shots.

“We needed something stronger, faster — more cunning. A machine that can bring order and peace back to our world gone mad.  This mad world, full to the brim with madness.”

Shots of a machine being constructed. Metal being forged, wires being connected. The shadowy outline of some robotic killing machine.

“Synthesizing the instinctual algorithms of 75 alpha predators was easy — now we get to the hard part.”

The robot is active — quadra-pedal, pacing around a narrow enclosure. A slot opens and a small shoebox is pushed in by a long broom handle. Cut back to the Professor, putting back on his sunglasses.

“Now we need to teach it to be….a cat!”

Cut back to the shoebox. The robot leans over the box, red eyes burning. A quiet “Mew.” comes from within, and an orange kitten pokes its nose out.

Shot of the kitten and the robot touching noses.

When you let the cat out of the bag — you’ll need a little more than curiosity to kill it.

Quick shots of the robot pouncing on a schoolbus, running up a skyscraper, playing with the Statue of Liberty like it’s a ball of yarn. The orange kitten sits on its shoulder and purrs.

FALL 2012.

[Story on Demand for iwaurokoinko – wander over and deface his blog.]

Nice picture.

G. Derek Adams2 Comments

My brain feels like a cotton ball that’s been left floating in a cup of luke-warm tea- soggy, and poorly caffeinated.

I’m pushing the three story prompts around my plate like broccoli, but I am working on them and will finish them this week.

But today …today I don’t wanna do nothin’.

Blech.

This picture is nice, though.

The breaking sound.

G. Derek Adams3 Comments

The Lodestar

The Vagabonder looked up from his work. It was rare something could distract him, pull him from the pure world of his research — but the sound Izus was making was unsettling.

The villain was crying. A quiet murmur that wound its way around the regular sounds and rhythms of the engine room.

Silo and Jump looked up from the corner of the bay, where they were studiously scrubbing a patch of fungus that had sprung up from a long forgotten crate of mushrooms.

“What’s that guy’s deal?” Silo asked, Jump only shrugged.

“It’s the sound of a man giving up.” Martin said, from the stairs. “When there’s no chance of coming back, and it doesn’t matter what anyone thinks anymore – you’re alone in the dark. That’s the sound you make. I know, I’ve made it myself more than a few times.”

Joao Ruas

“It’s the breaking sound before you die.” the ranger struck a match, and set fire to the bowl of his pipe.

Kythera – The Circle of Silver

Haskeer fought off the waves of exhaustion and revulsion emanating from the medallion, and led the others northward. They heard sounds of Seafoam patrols, but for now they seemed to be mostly to the south. As unerring as a compass he walked through the streets — his need, and the need of the dark Precursor spirit the same. To find the light, to find direction — to find their lodestar.

Haskeer led them to a strange open area on the northern edge of the city — a few structures dotted the green lawn, but the greatest oddity lay in the center. A massive ring, as tall as a man, and as thick as an aurochs – gleaming, unmarked silver, suspended three feet off the ground. As stable as a rock in a stream.

And then, there she was.

She darted from one of the small buildings, still wearing the gray smock that she had been abducted in. Talitha ran directly into Haskeer’s open arms, crowing with delight. The others gathered around, and for a moment all was well.

Talitha looked at the others, and wrinkled her nose slightly.

“Where’s Gloompa?”

“Who’s Gloompa?” a gravel-voice called from the shadows of the building. The orange-skinned tiefling Sideways leaned out, and gave a half-wave.

Kythera – The President’s Garden

The President’s right hand twisted and pulled out the rogue’s heart. Corben watched with fascination as it continued to beat frantically, square crystals of ice forming around it, in Jaiden’s candle-white hands.

It was kind of beautiful.

Corben blinked, and his heart was still in his chest.

Jaiden’s black eyes. Black on white on black on white.

“Because you’re still useful as bait.”

452 Words About Grief

G. Derek Adams18 Comments

Other people’s grief has always made me deeply uncomfortable. Averting my eyes, and scurrying out of the area as quickly as possible.

Grief was this grey-jacket loomer, an insurance salesman with faded hat — pushing his pamphlets, with a concrete-block hand flopped on his customer’s shoulder.

Artist - Robot Pencil

Seeing their eyes, their tears, the megaton-emotion radiating — I accelerate and ghost out of the room. Relieved and glad as the sun and wind found me on the outside, and away.

But then, one day for all of us — the knock at the door.

Grief slides in through the keyhole, looking for a place to hang its hat and dripping rain on the linoleum. It smiles a greasy smile and guides you to a chair, water and paper spattering on the kitchen table.

Now it’s your grief.

Now it’s my grief.

He visits each of us in turn. Sometimes rarely, sometime with pop tart regularity — sometimes he moves right in, propping his big rubber shoes on the ottoman, ruining the fabric with rain, and stays and stays. A few find a way to love their Grief, holding him close in the fish-clammy darkness of their beds.

Grief is a devoted husband.

Grief will break you, if you let him. Gum you slowly into oblivion, catfish jaws working and dripping dripping dripping.

My Grief is mine. If I try to explain what brought him to my door, you will nod and seem to understand — but you won’t. Just like I won’t understand if you tell me about your grey-fish insurance man. We all lose souls, and only the client knows what brings the pamphlet-pusher.

All I want to say, as I get heavier with rain and concrete — is that I’m sorry.

I’m sorry I ran out of the room when your Grief came to call.

And some advice, that a very wise friend once gave me. The Three Rules of Grief.

Every day you must:

1. Take a shower.

2. Eat.

3. Go to work.

That’s it. That’s all you should ask of yourself. If you do those three things you can feel as bad as you want, for as long as you want. If you don’t do those three things, you will follow them down into the grave.

If you need to break the rules, you will. That’s okay – it’s the Fourth Rule.

Handle it as you can, when you can – and recognize that you’ll sometimes snicker, or sing a song, or smile in the sun –  and your Grief will sigh, and look very importantly at you over his glasses. And you’ll feel like you should cry a little harder to make up for forgetting that he was in the room.

Don’t.

Divine Retribution

G. Derek Adams5 Comments
Oh, hello neurosis -- I didn't see you there.

I think yesterday’s post was the first time I’ve ever directly referred to That Thing as a “book”.

And I’m freaking out slightly — like the heavens are going to open and rain down lightning bolts and ninja cats on me.

Anybody else have this psychosis?