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1. Skydiving Into Oblivion -- 2. Limestone Statuary -- 3. Village of the Fifth Lion
4. The Roaches in my Kitchen -- 5. Poseidon and the Tritons
new short story -- 6. Desert Crossroads -- new short story
Fragments.ws is devoted to adult-themed transformation stories.
Welcome to my slush pile
FUTURES YET UNKNOWN
Ten Stories by Dave Fragments
A hunting expedition on an alien world.
An Alien serial murderer and a furry detective with fleas.
Murder on a world with altered humans.
Disturbing apocalyptic visions Monstrous dystopian societies.
A man on trial for betraying the human race to robots.
Devils, demons and ghosts.
Survivors of a plague war.
Cyborgs trying to be human.
Six friends in a strange sinkhole.
The truth about a world drowning in rain, without sun, without hope.
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STORY: The Tao of Diplomats
ANTHOLOGY: Idle Hands
At a First Contact dinner on an alien world populated by male wolves, a soldier catches the eye of the alien ambassador. Do fights or Romance follow? First Contact was never like this! What the soldier doesn't know is that a fist fight on this world is a marriage proposal.
Published on Lulu: click here
STORY: With Dragons Sprites and Other Delights
ANTHOLOGY: X Anthology
Aye Mateys. There be pirate treasure out there on a tiny island west of the Florida Keys. More doubloons than a dozen men can carry and all but one of them guard the secret of that treasure with their bones. Beware, the twelfth man is name Robin and he definitely isn't a good fellow. He wants revenge.
Published on Lulu: click here
STORY: Stock Cars With Aliens
ANTHOLOGY: KILLER TRACKS
The Mayan New Year brings magic and with magic comes new crime and new punishment. An undercover cop discovers a magician at a racetrack turning men into rubber and selling them to the highest bidder. He must expose the magus before he falls victim to the foul magic. Horror frolics before Justice prevails.
Published on Lulu: click here
STORY: Come Hell or High Water Corporate Wants a Monster Movie
ANTHOLOGY: The Fall of Cthulhu
From the stinking desert to the boardroom, a filmmaker wants to make the ultimate Sci-Fi movie but the script is "Craptacular." When the Son of Cthulhu falls from the sky and becomes the Producer, he becomes an unstoppable and creates a horror movies based on quality management principles.
From the Sunken City it came, seeking popcorn and goobers.
Published on Lulu: click here
February 8, 2016
"I've never seen cactus flowers, never even knew they flowered, hardly ever ventured into the desert," Elias said. He gazed at the varieties of cacti and succulents that lined the gravel road. Carter, his host, power slid the sleek red convertible through a turn. It wasn't yet eight AM and the temperature was near one hundred degrees.
In the middle of nowhere, he turned on a dirt road and drove into a playa. In the middle was an old wagon wheel with an emaciated and naked man strapped to it spread-eagled. Elias smiled. The wheel reminded him of a rotisserie in the desert's solar oven. The man's skin was brown, desiccated, weatherbeaten. his bones protruded under the skin. The bleached white skull of a cow rested at the base of the device. Carter replaced a bottle of tanning oil that dripped from the man's body.
"Elias meet Scott. He's becoming a talking rawboned frieze for a haunted trail this Halloween." Carter felt Scott's chest. His skin flexed like leather. "You're progressing well. How was last night?" Carter asked. The man looked directly at Elias through milky white corneas. Elias was amazed that he could still see.
"Nothing unusual. A coyote sniffed around and ate the pocket mice that were running over me. I don't fear varmints and other critters. Hell, a few nibbles might add veracity to me, right?"
"I never imagined this," Elias said, surprised that the man could still talk as fluently as he did.
"You're asking yourself, how did that man come to the desert?" Scott's leathery jowls flexed, making an effort to smile. Elias stayed silent, puzzled. Scott wanted him to guess but Elias had no way of knowing. Finally, Scott explained. "War and back-biting in Antartica. I spent three years stationed in a Jamesway Hut in the Antarctic. Three years it never rose above cold as ice, downright hyperborean. I haven't been warm since."
"The Antarctic is colder than the northlands. The weather bureau says the temperature is going to reach one-thirty-five today. You think that's hot enough?"
"I never feel warm. That's my gig. What's your gig?" Scott's voice sounded dry and brittle, but he did wink, his stretched skin more animated than Elias considered possible.
"Me?" Elias stuttered. The question felt surreal. It took Elias a few seconds to compose his answer. "I'm a contortionist. I squeeze into tight spaces and jump out to scare people. Carter wants me to be a talking table."
"No kidding, a talking table. Nothing like a talking table to be the center of attraction at a dinner party, eh Carter?" He lay back against the stone, jaw agape and laughed; a suitable figure to scare anyone at Halloween.
"I like to call my art a conversation starter," Elias smiled and winked at the man.
"You can talk after getting into your table," Carter said, putting a hand on Elias's shoulder, massaging it. Elias pushed the hand away. It felt creepy. He wasn't here for Carter to touch. No touching was a rule.
They drove another mile in silence. An expansive desert house with a broad flat roof, large open rooms, glass walls appeared over the top of a hill. On one side, it had a patio filled with limestone sculptures and the other side a swimming pool flanked with agave.
"This is your house?" Elias asked, looking at the red sandstone buttes and brown sands surrounding them.
"I only keep the city apartment for business. I grow agave and create statues for the rich and famous. The market is begging for statues. In a few years, agave plants will be the big new thing. This party is advertising for my business."
"I never thought of a cactus as art."
"Succulents, young man, succulents." Carter slipped behind Elias and closed a metal shackle on one of Elias's wrists. Elias jumped, surprised, not realizing that this was the start of his confinement. He sighed, held out his other hand and let Carter close the manacles.
"You don't waste time." Elias tugged at the manacles.
"I like to be in control."
"My father said beware of men with bonny eyes and yours sparkled more than most. I didn't expect bondage."
"Don't overthink this. You get in a box and talk Proust or Shakespeare or Quantum Mechanics, whatever my guests wish and that's all there is to it."
"I thought I could get out and walk around for little while."
"Not in front of the guests. The night will pass fast enough without you worrying about some conspiracy theory. I've heard that song before: I'm a country boy, lost my dog, lost my rent, lost my truck, lost my mind. Don't be such a downer. You either let circumstances control your life or seize the reins and own it. YOLO, isn't it? Make a decision this moment," Carter said.
"Sorry, only my nerves. I'll relax in a moment."
"Let's get this show on the road," Carter said, pointing Elias to the patio doors. Outside, he cut Elias' t-shirt and jeans from his body. Elias stayed silent but resented the manhandling. Naked and feeling self-conscious, Elias sat on the teakwood base. Four metal all-thread posts rose from the corners.
"Scrunch up, please," Carter said. Elias obeyed as the man bolted his ankles to the two front posts and bent his feet inside the square. He then bolted Carter's elbows to the back posts. It was small but not too small. Elias could make his body fit in smaller boxes. This table was roomy once Carter fastened the teak sides into place and bolted them together. The thick wood barely touched his body. He shivered, visibly.
"How does that feel?" Carter asked.
"Boxy," Elias said, embarrassed. He swallowed his pride. He'd been sealed inside boxes for longer times than this and he'd not been apprehensive.
"This is the top of the planter," Carter said. He took two halves of a teakwood top and placed them on either side of Carter's neck. The pieces bolted to the sides of the box. Only Elias's head poked remained visible.
It had an industrial, a metal and wood look--silver hardware on dark teak. Elias tried to look around, but the wood box prevented it. Carter tightened the bolts and the pedestal shrank, pushing Elias's shoulders down and his arms and legs tight against his body. Elias tried moving a second time but couldn't do more than talk, head straight forward.
"I've been told that this table was a good buy, like a Chatty Cathy doll or a new talking Elmo," Carter said, messing with Elias' mind. Elias' eyes darted around the room.
"All this metal makes me feel like a pot-bound African Violet in some the little old ladies house, waiting for a kitty cat to knock me off the shelf. I'm not comfortable," he said.
Carter laughed and patted Elias' cheek to calm him.
"More overthinking turning into the perversity of man; You're going to be the center of attraction for a night."
Elias remembered his failsafe. His buddy would come out with the police and get him released tomorrow. He took a deep breath and regained control of his panicky thoughts.
"Sorry, I lost it for a moment. Don't know why. It was silly of me," he said.
"I'm not going to harm you." Carter looked to his right. It was Noon. "I need to check on Scott. He's due for another bottle. Want to tag along?"
"Like this?" Elias swiveled his head as much as he could.
"A change of scene will relax you."
"Don't have much choice, do I?" Elias said, half-heartedly.
Carter added wheels to Elias's box and rolled him out of the house and onto the lift-gate of a small truck. He secured him on the truck bed.
The ride mellowed Elias' feelings. He felt foolish for his panic attack. Seeing another person was a wise move and would relax him, even if that person was a skeleton. Carter parked the truck tailgate towards Scott, rolled Elias off the lift gate, and over the sand to where Scott lay. The man was baking in the sun like a slab of meat being roasted in a solar oven. He looked skeletal.
Carter brushed tanning oil on Scott's leathery skin like he was basting a turkey. When he finished, he opened a beach umbrella and sat under it.
Scott's burned out eyes rotated and directed his strange gaze on Elias's head.
"Hot enough for you?" Elias asked.
"You did it. You look adorable."
"You remind me of those cow skeletons on the roadside, dark brown leathery skin over bleached white bones."
"Fair enough. I want my bones white as chalk, my body wizened, my skin like parchment. For that, I need to be hot, hot, hot in the desert sun. No more snow or ice," Scott said.
"Isn't that reckless and immoderate?"
"No way! Look kid, I'm going to be scaring people come Halloween. They'll only see a cadaverous skeleton, withered and haggard, scaring the patrons of Carter's Halloween Fun House. I bake so tomorrow I be glorious. It is more like a pilgrimage to the temples of fear and not an entertainment."
"I'm play-acting a table, no acting involved."
"No acting? How can you say that? Acting is always a mission. Even heretics have purpose. Put your heart into it, man. Be not afraid of what you can be. One of us will be ashen and deathlike, the other talkative and witty. Own what you are. Become what you are." He paused, waiting for a reply, receiving none, he changed the subject. "Enough about me, tell me about yourself. Are you truly interested in taking the road less traveled or interesting in merely Money? Consider this our private truth or dare?"
"No secret, I started in middle school. I used to twist myself into impossible positions, hide in a locker, and scare the teachers. In high school, I ran away to clown school, worked the circuses, took acting parts in a couple monster movies, and was laid off in the recession. I'm back at college to get the education I neglected."
Sweat covered his face and ran into his eyes.
"Hey Carter, you want roasted agave-boy in that box? Water your plant or you going to fry him like an egg."
"I only have one bottle of water but lots of agave extract mixed with sand, destined to become face and hand creams," Carter said.
"Hand Creme? Unless you want a table with babbling from sunstroke at your party, cool me down." Elias smacked dry lips.
"I'll get it."
Carter fished a tube behind his neck, and the wet sand dribbled inside the box. He put a straw in the bottle of water, and Elias drank.
"You acted more, as I recall, porn, wasn't it? I recognized you. My buddies and I stayed warm in the Antarctic with your movies. We all knew what side our the bread was buttered, and we buttered each other to keep warm. You opened a few right-proper orifices and took it deep, as I recall," Scott said. Elias couldn't hide with only his head sticking out of a box.
"I won't deny it. I had to eat," Elias grumbled. His anger made him relax, and his body felt soft, squishy, less cramped. The gooey liquid crept up his body.
"Talking tables aren't as lucrative as making porn, right?" the question directed right at Elias' conceits. Both men knew the answer. Porn stole the soul first and the body second. He changed the subject now that he had the upper hand in the conversation. "How's that goop Carter pouring over you feel?"
"It's prickly like a cactus," Elias giggled, "and it's sticky like molasses." He wiggled to distribute it. There wasn't much else he could do. When the liquid filled the box, it would drip out the bottom, and when it did, Carter would take him back to the house.
"You still hot?" Scott asked.
"Don't feel the heat like I did. Let's me focus on staying in control," Elias said. He didn't want the discussion to return to his past choice of careers. He shivered as the level of sand and crushed agave frond goop rose past his armpits.
"All of this reminds me of that infernal nonsense Pinafore," Scott said out of the clear blue.
"You can be Dick Deadeye." He leaned his head back to see the sun.
Carter moved behind him. He knew the man had something else that he couldn't see it.
"My psychic abilities predict another surprise for you," Elias said. The three men laughed.
"No surprise, I'm creating a headrest," Carter said, placing green, spiky fronds from the heart of an agave around the back of Elias's neck. The sticky end of the agave fronds gripped his neck and formed a headrest.
As the sun moved across the sky, the rays eventually hit Elias's face. Carter didn't wait a reply. Instead, he made Elias comfortable.
"Sun still bothering you?"
"No, it feels good," Elias said.
Carter picked a dozen smaller agave fronds from the truck and set them front of Elias's neck and face. Elias didn't mind the stickiness and the needles poking around his face, but they blocked his vision, and he could only see slivers of the sun.
"Aw, you're blocking the sun," he said, craning his head back as far as possible to see the sun. The fronds stuck tight to his face and neck.
"Only takes an hour or two in this sunlight," Carter said to Scott as he rotated Elias to see the sun.
Elias moved his head to see more, but the agave fronds moved as if they were part of him. He felt the hot, desert breeze blow across the fronds.
"I feel more like an African Violet than a side table, funky and gritty," he said.
Scott and Carter burst into laughter.
"That's not a box you're in; it's a planter. You're my new prize-winning agave."
"You can't be serious," Elias said.
"You've become one with the sun and sand. A new seeker in the unconscious life of plants, of trees, a life more different, as Proust said.Tomorrow, you won't think about anything but the sun shining down on you all day," Scott said.
"Stop. Release me."
"I don't think that would be wise. Those newly formed roots growing out of your body can't live outside sand and soil." Carter said.
"I don't have roots," Elias said.
"Of course you do. They are thin, wispy, white roots that will grip the sand and suck in nourishment from the ground. That tingling feeling you feel is your flesh and bone turning to roots. By tomorrow, the changes will consume your body." Carter said.
"But I didn't agree to that," Elias stammered.
"You signed a contract and didn't read the fine print. Once inside the box, I can do what I want with you for twenty-four hours. As I said before, by tomorrow, no one will recognize you as an agave not even your buddy," he paused to take a drink. "Oh yes, I know all about your best buddy."
Scott snorted. "Agave-boy will be a beautiful, prize-winning succulent, the crown jewel of our new garden." He turned to Elias. "You did well. Tomorrow he will transplant you and tend you until you bloom."
"My customers wanted a different and unique variety of agave. This new world walks upside-down, the blind lead and their followers fall into the abyss, their bird-like chattering children leave before they are ready, jackasses play harps and steers dance. The world is my oyster, and I will sup until gorged on living flesh. I have three more succulents waiting, a yucca, a crimson hedgehog, and a velvet mesquite," Carter said.
The next morning Elias's friend and two policemen did visit Carter's house. They found no trace of Elias. They saw the hybrid succulents in the main garden, and they laughed at the Halloween display -- a sun-bleached skeleton of an old cowboy dead of dehydration surrounded by rocks and artificial pumpkins. The police and Elias' friend left. They never noticed that the skeleton saluted their backs with its bony middle finger.
Two years later, Elias bloomed and produced seeds. Carter sold the seeds as Millennial Agaves. His hybridization experiments were a success.
November 22, 2015
Saturday morning dawned bright, crisp, and autumnal. College students walked to the library, gym, and sports fields past the corner of Pearl and Main streets where Jesse waited with his friends at the front door of Shamokin House. A radio blared through an open window.
"Hey guys," Jesse hollered. "I got a jet plane, a pilot, and six tickets for skydiving. Anyone interested in a huge and truly epic skydive?"
"How high?" Kent hollered through the intercom. Jesse pulled a clear oxygen mask from behind his back and held it up to the security camera.
"Extreme. Thirty-five thou'."
"You accuse me of being high?" Kent giggled. The security door buzzed open. Kent stood next to Sally, his girlfriend, wearing her silky thong. She wore his jockstrap, and one arm covered her breasts. Festus lay with her on the couch, both in a compromising state.
"Thirty-five thousand, I'm in," Festus said, standing, waving. Emily shoved Festus' boxers at him and pouted. She didn't even try to get decent.
"One day you guys are going to open the door to a cop," Kent said. No one paid attention because they had to mollify their girlfriends' hurt feelings.
"Darling, we ain't ever going to get a chance to skydive thirty-five ever again. We'll all come back and celebrate with dinner at Ruth's Chris and then dancin'. Why don't you get a fancy new dress, shoes, hairdo, the works? You know, turn heads like a supermodel." Festus pulled a pair of basketball shorts over his hips, fished several hundred dollars and a credit card out of his wallet. He handed it to Emily. Kent gave his girlfriend Sally his wallet.
Mike, Jesse' almost husband to be, sat in his flight suit while Kent and Festus performed a second round of southern-boy soft-talk to placate their leaving. Ten miles later, the four men stepped out of the Jeep dressed in flight suits and helmets with built-in radios.
The pilot, a dumpy man in dirty sweatpants and sweat-stained skivvies with an alcoholic face, thought it cool to decal "Rich Boi's Blue Sky Adventures" on the side of the private jet. He was a peculiar counterpoint to four fit men in flight suits, preparing for a leap into danger.
They waited in the pressurized cabin where a bartender kept offering expensive booze. No one drank. When the pilot reached 35,000 feet, he gave them a weather update and the bartender joined him in the cockpit. The plane nosed up. They sealed their helmets and rolled out of the cabin with the rush of air. They glided under the tail without fear of striking it.
The quest for height. The quest to defy gravity. Four humans sliced through the air suspended on cloud-stuff, flying like birds on gossamer wings of cloth, cord, and stitches. Men flying like the immortals, like gods of the sky, like angels to and from Heaven. It lasted nearly three minutes. Eventually, the apple meets the earth and Newton's Law remains inviolate.
Four parachutes opened and they floated to earth under the cloth canopies. As they fell, they screamed and yelled their joy at the length of the freefall. Jesse warned that they would fly over Lake Ashe. Kent and Festus had a conspiracy theory that Lake Ashe hid a secret landing pad for aliens from the planet Altair. Nobody knew the name of the island in the middle of Lake Ashe but from this height, they could see a cluster of six buildings hidden in the trees. Now that would be a second adventure, finding out what secrets the island held.
"Hey guys, buildings, let's have a look-see," Festus said. Kent angled his parachute toward the island. Mike did the same. Jesse always intended to turn away but at the last minute, followed his friends.
They landed on a gravel road between a large steel yard and a warehouse, congratulating each other as they collapsed their parachutes and removed the harnesses. For a few seconds a few people in the buildings eyeballed them. Bells rang and vans with flashing lights brought soldiers in black camouflage outfits, masks, and assault rifles to surround them. The soldiers herded Jesse, Mike, Kent, and Festus into a building on the edge of the tiny town. Once the door was shut, the floor sank like an elevator and gas spewed from jets in the walls.
Jesse woke in an oversized cell at one corner of a white, sterile room. Mike, Kent and Festus lay in separate cells at opposite corners. His cell had a wall-mounted cot with foil blankets, a sink, a water closet, a wall-mounted table with food and water. He wore only a pair of simple cotton jersey pants like the other men and his body smelled of chemical agents. His friends would soon wake and realize that this was not the island to explore. He knew that when they landed.
Dr Fisette waited in the open archway that divided the cells from the lab tables. The short man could hide in the middle of the scientific equipment.
"We didn't expect you to join your friends. I woke you first to verify your choice and create a cover story," Fisette said.
"Don't worry. I won't go all confessional and weepy. I made my decision in the air. I didn't want to live with all the creepy accusing looks," Jesse said.
"We just wanted to hear you confirm your landing was deliberate. When a contract is breech with such abandon, we worry that you revealed our presence. We must wipe out your memory. You'll be one of our permanent creatures, you understand."
"Time flows like an ocean. It's time for me to take the current. Time serves me well today. Back there, I would wallow in the shallows and miseries of what could have been."
Fisette gave him a sarcastic eye roll and shake of the head.
"Whatever, Dude. We already liquidated your assets. Time for your shots." Fisette grinned. He picked a tray from a lab refrigerator and filled two hypodermic syringes. Jesse offered one shoulders and one hip. He stiffened as the chemicals coursed through his body, they he grabbed the sides of his head as his memories started to fade.
"It hurts to forget," Jesse's voice fell away into mumbles. He sat down on the cot and struggled to retain the memories of his life. Eventually, he lost the battle and fell into a deep sleep. Fisette watched, feeling some pangs of regret but this was necessary. He envied Jesse's new start and the two lifetimes it offered him. The other young men in this experimental lot didn't matter to him. They were merely play-toys for rich men.
"You'll be happier for having slumbered here, dear boy. Happier by far than your friends who will remember and regret," Fisette mused. He was the primum mobile, the driving force, the genius, behind this island country. He was, people paused speechless when they heard, nearly twice ninety years old but chemically enhanced to look thirty.
When Jesse woke, he saw a dimly lit room with men he knew were his friends but no memories of their past exploits. He shook the drugs from his head and tried to call out. His mouth was all cotton. He turned on the water and drank directly from the stream. Kent, Fergus, and Mike watched him from their cells.
"What the hell happened?" Kent asked, rubbing more than stubble on his chin.
"We got gassed. I guess they don't like skydiving," blustered Festus before Jesse could answer. The other men added epithets and complaints, brave sounding jokes, and bragging threats of beating the guards next time. Jesse sighed in silent relief. He remembered their names but recalled nothing of how and why he knew them. He barely remembered the skydiving adventure.
Mike rubbed his shoulders and discovered a scabbed over hypodermic mark. He pushed his shoulder against the space between the bars for the others to see.
"Anyone else got one of these?" The four men examined their bodies. Each discovered puncture marks. Before they could speculate on the marks, Lights flickered on in the rest of the room. A small man in a white coat with a stethoscope around his neck entered flanked by two, awkward and paranoid guards with rifles. The guards stood behind the man, emphasizing his authority.
"Welcome to our little community, gentlemen." His voice was soft, nerdy, and smarmy. "I'm Doctor Milo Fisette and over the next few days, I'll be explaining your sequestration and participation in Arcadian society."
"What are you talking about?" Festus said.
"Why have you to detained us?" Mike asked. Fisette lifted his glasses and scratched his nose.
"Arcadia Island is a sovereign country and under international law, you trespassed, you crossed the border without permission." Fisette shrugged his shoulders as if they knew the answer and he was lecturing children.
"We're entitled to a lawyer," Festus pushed against the bars. One of the soldiers stepped to the front of his cell, rifle pointed.
"You had a lawyer but you bore no papers of transit nor did any resident of Arcadia claim you as a guest. The evidence showed that you arrived here uninvited and in a deliberate manner guaranteed to create disorder. That's a major crime in Arcadia and thus, you were found guilty and sentenced by the court." Fisette went to the sink and washed his hands. The significance was not wasted on the four men.
"How long?" A question as much as an exclamation.
"This is the jail?" Mike asked.
"It sometimes serves as such when prisoners require medical attention."
"We didn't require medical attention when we landed. You gassed us," Jesse spoke up for the first time. He remembered the answer before Fisette spoke.
"Regardless of who gassed you, Arcadia requires restitution for medical and legal expenses. That's our law. We liquidated your assets to pay your legal bills and the cost of your legal representation and your incarceration are beyond each of your resources."
"You did more than that." Kent grumbled.
"Nothing harmful to you or illegal under Arcadian Law. That's all the time I have. You'll figure it out in a day, two at most," Fisette said, turned to the guard, and ordered food for them. The food arrived and looking at it, and Jesse felt hunger. He ate twice what he normally would eat, unable to satisfy his hunger. He noted Kent was devouring a double portion. Festus and Mike never stopped feeding. They ate into the night, noisily slurping and chewing their food. Jesse suspected that he used hidden cameras and the sleep periods to monitor them.
When they woke the next morning, each noticed changes in their bodies. Profuse hair grew on Jesse's legs. Festus and Mike ate prodigious amounts of food but while Festus gained girth, Mike gained height and muscularity. Lastly, Kent's arms and legs grew longer, and he developed a severe case of black fur sprouting everywhere.
When the lights in the laboratory dimmed, the four slept. When the lights brightened again, they ate, paced, or did exercise to release the energy building in their bodies. Each awakening brought new feelings and changed physiques. They didn't talk about changes in their bodies because admitting the change in their bodies or acknowledging the change in the other's body would make denial impossible.
On the third day, Jesse's ankles twisted, his legs bulked up, and his skin grew leathery. He stepped carefully, learning how to walk on his toes. Festus turned pinkish and round, his fingers became stumps and his feet forming hooves. He didn't seem to notice or care as long as food appeared in front of him. Mike's body grew thicker, broad across the shoulders, muscular, hard, and ripped. His skin tone shifted to that of heavily tanned, leathery. He too ate more and gained weight. Kent's chest barreled out, and his waist narrowed. His hips spread, and he took to leaning forward on elongated arms. His legs shortened to match. He ate mostly fruit and vegetables, turning up his flattening nose at meat.
Dr Fisette returned that evening. Guards, dressed in black hoods, gloves, and uniforms stood in front of each cell. Jesse sensed that the guards were feline like lions or tigers. It was illogical but he recognized their scent and moves.
"Gentlemen, in a week we will release you so you can earn some money to pay for your keep. The peoples of Arcadia will celebrate your successful rehabilitation," Fisette said. Jesse ignored him and locked his eyes on the nearest guard, leaning forward, growling, chest rumbling, and fists at the ready.
"In what distant deeps or skies, burnt the fire of thine eyes?" Jesse said before lashing through the bars. The guard reared and snarled back, revealing fangs, claws pierced its gloves. Fisette yelled at the guard for losing his composure.
"Stand down. Resist those animal impulses or I'll have you neutered and declawed. Didn't I warn you about this man's powers in particular?" The guard pulled back his balaclava to reveal a leonine head and mane underneath. He moved away but never took his gaze from Jesse's eyes. Fisette turned to Jesse. "Very clever. You are perceptive but the knowledge will do you no good."
"How much do we owe for your make-believe, trumped up, kangaroo-court Arcadian justice?" Festus interrupted before Jesse could speak. Fisette punched some numbers into a calculator.
"None of you had assets of more than twenty thousand. The least expensive punishment belongs to Kent and is slightly more than six hundred million dollars. You're what they call a cheap date. Festus owes the most because of your appetite. Your food, medical, lodging, comes to slightly less than seven hundred million and change."
"You're charging for food?" Festus scowled and growled.
"It's part of the contract. All of our food is imported and we only buy from the best sources and finest purveyors."
"But he's a fucking pig. He'll eat any slop you put in front of him," Kent blurted out. Festus' entire body turned even pinker than it already was.
"Not just any pig. He's Zhu Bajie to your Sun Wukong. A most admirable and fortunate pairing, wouldn't you say?"
"I wouldn't say. Who am I?" Festus snorted, his deep voice had an edge of sexiness to it despite his increasingly comical porcine appearance.
"I don't care who he is, I didn't sign a contract," Mike said.
"Same here. I don't remember signing any contract," Kent said. Jesse said nothing but felt guilt. He didn't remember why.
"While you were unconscious, you placed your fingerprints and made your marks on contracts without disagreement. None of you could possibly pay your fines or reimburse your expenses. Each of you had several lucrative offers from benefactors and each of you in your wisdom accepted an offer. Those contracts contain clauses that oblige you to behave like particular mythology characters and spend time with your sponsor." Fisette smiled, pleased with himself. He looked at his four charges and sighed. "You signed your contracts in bloody hand prints. It was a simple blood draw Arcadia requires to record your DNA and we here at the hospital used it to seal your contracts, in blood," Fisette said.
"And your name is Moreau," Mike said.
"No, Fisette. Any other questions?"
"You didn't answer my question, twerp, what are we?" Mike's voice sounded deeper, authoritative, commanding. Jesse could see reasons, the broader shoulders, the broad chest, and thickening neck. The middle of his face just started pulling outward into a snout. Jesse was never attracted to hyper-masculine men, bullish men. He couldn't figure out his attraction to Mike. He turned his eyes to Fisette and the contracts.
"Yeah, who is this Zho person I'm supposed to be to Kent's whatever it was you said, Sun?" Festus said. Fisette folded his arms.
"You are Zhu Bajie or Pigsy as he is called in English-speaking countries. The fighting companion of Kent who will be Sun Wukong, the Monkey King, exalted immortal, brilliant warrior, super intellect memorialized Chinese literature, specifically 'To the West.' A very rich man in China is paying for both of you to grace his private estate. He wants to journey with the heroes of the Buddhist Path." Both Festus and Kent stared at each other in silence.
Jesse laughed under his breath. They were becoming what they deserved in Fissette's mind. He didn't know why he thought that.
"You find this humorous? Your benefactor lives on an island with beautiful grotto dedicated to the Greek god Pan. You have Pan's power of persuasion. Finally, Mike's benefactor is a gentleman of impeccable means. He wishes to reenact, gloriously and heroically, the legend of Theseus in the maze of the Minotaur on the birthdays of his sons, grandsons, and cousins. So that's who you all are. You have the Minotaur's strength." He paused. "But I came here because your adjustments are taking longer than anticipated. Apparently your transformations require booster shots," Fisette nodded to the guards who donned gas masks. The four men started yelling and screaming, but the gas put them to sleep.
When they woke, the bars forming the front of each cell were gone. A pair of very nervous guards stood at the far end of the laboratory nearest the door. When the four men approached the laboratory benches, they received electronic signals from bands screwed tight into their mastoid processes. This was the latest in human confinement. The four stayed in their cells and that night, their bodies ached with changes.
As the days passed, Rams horns grew out of Jesse's head and curled around his ears. His face drew long and gaunt, scruffy fur covering his chin. His manhood enlarged, beast-like and slipped into a sheath. It hid under curly brown fur. The rush of hormones pushed his mind to all things sexual. The proper look of his eyes would make any creature surrender to his carnal desires. He was the demigod of sex on two legs.
Mike's head took bovine shape. His horns spread over a yard from end to end. Every inch of his skin was leathery, tough, and tanned. His feet were hooves and his hands rough, thick and brutal. His torso had grown thick and fleshy with starkly defined muscle, arms as thick as most men's waists, husky, supporting dropped shoulders and a thickened neck. A mane of hair grew down his neck and back to his buttocks. He bellowed, snorted, and stamped the floor. He was a beast of contradictions, alternately ferocious and fearsome one minute and lovingly tender the next minute. His Taurean manhood strained against a makeshift pouch he'd take to wearing for modesty's sake.
Kent became a small, well-appointed chimpanzee, sporting distinguished grayish-black fur over most of his body. His feet resembled hands, and his hands were larger, stronger. His calves and forearms significantly stronger. His waist tucked under his bulk, as he stood on all fours, arms and legs straight. When he stood, he walked with a rolling motion that brought both shoulders up and down alternately with his hips; his body was the epitome of agility and clever moves. He pointed at Pigsy, his companion, and chattered in happy ooks and whoops, before settling into clear, elegant English.
Festus belched too loud and farted too much; his body stout and rotund, pinkish, hairless, and blubbery. His nose had flattened into a piggy snout, and his ears enlarged and pointy. He wore an oriental robe because of his new bulk and a curly tail grew from the base of his spine. He was a quintessential Pigsy, learned of ancient literature, guardian of the Princess of the Moon and the Heavenly Tumbleweed. He squealed joyously at his leader and partner, the Monkey King. Their minds craved the approval of their human benefactors. Demigods come to life.
"Do we have anyone to blame but ourselves?" Festus spoke in a piggly-giggly-silly and warmly southern, risque' voice.
"This might be the beginning of a wonderful journey and it all began with a quest for extreme skydiving and exploration of the unknown." Kent the Monkey King spoke, subtly oriental, wise, and powerful.
Mike as Minotaur sat like Rodin's Thinker, chin on fist and elbow on knee, a figure of might, great power, wise enough to devise an impenetrable maze that could snare all but the most heroic of men.
"This knowledge was forbidden, hidden from mankind. This is the secret that no man can see and relate to his fellows. A medical maze of astounding proportions." The deepness of his voice shook the glassware in the room.
Jesse didn't answer his friends. He thought about making the guards undress with his newfound powers of seduction but decided not to do such a thing. They were after all, tiger-men and worthy of privacy when they did submit.
"We'll never go skydiving again," Jesse said. He repeated the words to extend his authority. "No, not a chance we'll ever dream of skydiving ever again." His former companions nodded their agreement. They waited to get packed into shipping cages and sent to their benefactors or, in reality, owners. Jesse being superior both sexually and mentally might find a way to reunite them, at least for their anniversary of being made into dreams and desires.
January 22, 2015
"There's a parachute over there," Sam yelled. Anti-artillery bullets shattered the cockpit, ricocheted inside the old flier. This first contact didn't go well.
"They'll shoot you down. We have to reach the escarpment and the caves." Engine #4 burst into flame. Glenn throttled it down. Airspeed dropped. The plane shook. Tried to rise. Nosedived.
"Grab the stick and pull. We need to gain altitude." I jumped into the copilot's seat and yanked the stick. Ground rose faster than the plane climbed. Glen bent the throttle levers back. The engines screamed death agonies. Wings held. It climbed once more as an updraft lifted the plane. And yet, it clipped trees. Killed birds. The escarpment came into view. Engine #1 seized, blew apart. Its bearings shrieked as metal scored metal.
"Jump." Sam yelled, bracing the stick. We jumped. The plane spiraled downward. A final descent. A fiery descent.
* * *
"The Cave of Winds," Sam said, pointing to the inscriptions.
"Nothing more than limestone worn by wind. Mark the rounded slopes, the herbal fragrance blowing from the jungle side. There's probably a secret system of caves and conduits beneath. I can hear the springs. We should find water spurting," I answered.
"What did you say?" Sam asked.
"I was paraphrasing."
"Paraphrase some food and tell us if there's any geologic danger in here," Glenn ordered. "Translate this stuff. There's more to these inscriptions than just Wind Cave." We moved into the system of caves. Each chamber repeated the symbols, arranging them in different configurations. Sam struggled with the translation.
"I think these cave drawings are astronomical. The repeated symbols are the stars as they appear in the sky on certain days of the year. They line up with the sight holes in the ceilings. All this was excavated by primitives," he said.
"Did they bore the sight holes just to tell the seasons?" Glenn asked. Glenn should have been named Thomas Full of Doubt.
"Probably not," Sam said. We passed through a narrow tunnel. It opened into a chamber with a pool of warm water fed by a spring and a stone platform with a flame about six inches high burning from an iron vent in the floor.
"Is this for real?" Glen sat on the ledge and tested the water. I examined the gas jet and its source in the floor. Sam studied the carvings. We worked silently, wanting to disprove our eyes.
"The flame heats the chamber and vents through the holes in the ceiling," I explained.
"The water is potable." We waited for Sam.
"You know, this writing is different. It is subtler, more sophisticated. The current natives didn't build this and I doubt they understand a its functions. We're in a monastery. That's the closest concept in English. This is the ritual chamber." He walked to another chamber. Six sinopia-colored, statues of naked men stood like antimythological heroes carved in limestone, waiting for us, naked, bowed in adoration. Innocent athletes.
"I thought so." Sam read more inscriptions.
"What?" Glenn asked.
"Here," Sam pointed to the symbols as he translated. "And every time, when the length of I can't tell how years has passed, the supplicants. No, that's not right. It's not petitioner. It's not sacrifice, more like volunteer. Acolyte maybe."
"We get the point," Glenn grouched. Sam studied several lines of script, silent.
"What next?" I asked.
"The chosen ones would stay here waiting for the moon to cross over the sun. An eclipse, that's what they mean. Preparing both mind and body for the eclipse when the fire would grow cold, engulf the chosen and make them glorious." Sam paused. "My translation is too literal," he studied the writing. "It's more like: the priests had a choice. If they found the chosen ones acceptable, they made them priests. They sculpted statues are representations of the chosen ones, immoderate ones."
"The sinopia coloration is form of heme-valent iron. Perhaps oxidized blood. Definitely odd. A civilization flourished here and worshiped this flame for six hundred years. I don't know why it ended. I wish I had my computer so I could record the inscriptions from each cave. Every language has an elusive multiplicity of meaning, shades, hidden implications. I'm sure I'm missing something."
"The rescue mission will take six months. Are we safe?" Glenn asked.
"Sure. The water's potable. There're edible mushrooms and rats for protein. There might be ghosts but the natives are afraid of this place. The writings aren't threatening."
"Then we'll set up camp here. It's as good a place as any." We had nothing to unpack.
Sam translated by memory. I mapped the caves. Glenn bossed.
This limestone ripped cotton clothing. In one month, we wore rags. We substituted parachute nylon but it didn't last. After four months we sported long hair, beards, smiles and nothing else.
"The way I read the star maps, noon today is the eclipse, a centennial occurrence. At zenith, the holes will create a ring of light around the flame. The secret of immortality will be revealed. At least that's what the inscriptions say. I wonder if fear of a lunar eclipse might be what pushed the natives away. Fear of the dark?" Sam mused. He motioned for us to stand inside the ring of light.
The moon disc touched the sun. Words lit up around the chamber. A clever trick. A ring of light coalesced around the flame. The flame grew brighter as the chamber darkened. When the moon disc covered the sun. The fire became alchemical. A cold flame the color of sinopia burst from the ground and burned the blood in our veins. I felt my blood congeal, my body solidify. My flesh transform into rock. I was limestone from weathered outcrop to hill-top temple.
I understood the solitude that asks and promises nothing. I understand faultless love. The rescue squad carried our bodies back home, placed us near murmuring waters and gesticulating fountains. We are immortality personified in a limestone landscape.
Village of the Fifth Lionby Dave Fragments
June 20, 2014
"They say Methuselah lived 1000 years," yelled Gunny, as Brendan pulled himself across the ravine, clinging to the vine with his hands and feet.
"No one lives forever," Brendan huffed to catch his breath.
"But we want to," Gunny answered. When Brendan got close, Gunny grabbed his bare shoulders and steadied him until he balanced on the rocks. Gunny could feel Brendan's heart thumping in his chest as he brushed the dirt and mist from Brendan's back. Both wore native kit, only a leather string holding their tender bits up against their stomachs, keeping it safe and vines around their forearms and calves to grip the ropes. Otherwise, they were naked.
"Where do we go from here?" Brendan asked Capac their native guide, a physically small man. He stood tall at four foot eight and was twenty-five years older than either Brendan or Gunny. Twice as fit, too, surprising them by traversing the ravine without a safety harness in one-third the time. The three men stood atop the waterfall and watched the water roar over the edge. It was twice the height of the cataract at Niagara. Capac motioned to a series of vines hanging in the falling water a dozen feet away from them.
"You mean we have to rappel down through the waterfall," Brendan said. Gunny pointed a finger at Capac, accusing.
"You told us to leave our climbing harnesses back at camp," he said. Capac laughed at his accusations.
"You want young. You want to life forever? You must walk through the river as it falls down the mountain. Capac's done it many times before. Capac wait for you in cave of life." He picked up the vines, positioned them in the cataract and stepped into the rushing waters. They watched as the water surrounded Capac and he slipped over the precipice. The vines shook with his weight for a few minutes and then got still.
"If one of us don't survive, it's been a good life brother," Gunny said, embracing Brendan. They shared the same father and different mothers. As kids and adults the brothers Brendan and GunWoo, Gunny for short, were inseparable. They insisted on breaking the barriers of racial prejudice. In the excitement of the 1920's, they thrived but in the poverty of the 1930's only the military's secret services required their skills. Soldiers of fortune from a time already gone and never to be restored.
Brendan steadied the vines so that Gunny could follow the guide over the edge of the waterfall. He watched as Gunny's feet slid on the slick rocks and he tumbled. The vines jerked for a few minutes and then went slack. Brendan's heart beat hard in his chest, hoping for the best. Gunny always accused him of expecting the worst. This time he hoped his thoughts of doom were wrong. He steadied his nerves and gathered his strength.
"Now it's my turn to be the superhuman and survive the raging waters at the end of the world," Brendan said to bolster his courage. He crossed himself, tested the vines and stepped into the water flowing toward the edge. In the world there is no force as powerful as water driven by gravity when it cascades over a rocky ledge down into the abyss. Sight, sound and air disappeared in a wall of white water that wanted to smash him on the rocks below. He rappelled through the maelstrom, the muscles of his arms and legs burning with the exertions. Unexpectedly, hands grabbed his feet and legs and pulled him out of the main stream. The force of the falling water lessened and he found his footing on ledge mere inches away from the rushing water. Capac and Gunny braced him against the rock wall.
Success. They lived. What seemed impossible was not. They were at the entrance to the waters of longevity. We call it the Fountain of Youth. Almost.
They stood on a ledge behind the waterfall wide enough for their bodies and not much else. A wall of water rushed past them less than a hand's length away. Brendan coughed up half the river as they edged towards a cave hidden under the lip of rock that formed the waterfall. They were, once again, three on the path to a new life. That was the native concept of immortality, renewed life or restored life. The end of their quest.
It all started because the National Socialists of Germany were up to something. Naval Intelligence discovered them traveling in inordinate numbers between Europe and Argentina with stopovers in French Guyana. They flew long-haul trimotors, Iron Aunties as Navy Intelligence nicknamed them from Guyana in the north overland to southern Argentina. One of our spies tagged along on one trip and photographed the route ostensibly for tourist shots. Brendan found this obscure village in the middle of the Amazonian rainforest while examining the photographs. In a non-descript clearing with a few huts were stone relief sculptures of rampant lions made from flagstones. He counted five lions, the five lions of Juan Ponce De Leon. Objects hidden in the Amazonian jungle for all to see. An invitation to the cognoscenti of the world from Juan the Lion, himself.
That day, Brendan collected Gunny and both flew to Georgetown. They trekked upriver, first south on the Essequibo River, then west on the Potaro River and then south again through the Amazonian rainforest another fifty or sixty miles on foot. When they reached the longitude and latitude of the photograph, they set up camp and searched for over a month before finding the clearing. By that time, they had nothing left but the clothes on their backs, a sextant now useless, their climbing harnesses that let them reach the tops of the forest canopy and some sweat. They had no bargaining chips or weapons other than their minds and bodies.
The natives had blowguns with curare tipped darts. They were a short people, knotted, rough faces who still lived a Stone Age existence, sans clothes, sans electronics, sans moving vehicles. Brendan and Gunny knelt facing the flagstones that formed De Leon's crest and waited two days for the natives to accept them.
An elder of the village, Capac took them into his hut and taught them the native language. The natives actively eschewed the modern ways of doing things. The interlopers tried not to teach the natives modern ways and they made a keen effort not to use methods that didn't fit into the native way. The natives had no math or concept of numbers greater than one, two and many. Only tomorrow existed -- a week hence meant nothing to these people. They counted the years not by the movement of the sun on the horizon, which didn't exist in the jungle; rather the natives used the rising of the river with the melting of snow on the mountains because it created new rapids and waterfalls.
Brendan and Gunny adapted to the villager's ways and customs, hunting, eating bugs and roots and animals, dressing in the native thongs. The natives carefully avoided adopting anything modern. What the village needed, it took and made its own. Vines replaced the climbing harnesses. Plant dyes and stains turned Gunny's yellow body and Brendan's pink body deep brown and indistinct from any other adult. They pierced their ears and lips and tattooed their calves and arms. Brendan and Gunny became men with the wings of heaven painted on their backs. The women even took them to their beds. In time, they became tribesmen in acts and deeds.
And they did so eagerly and earnestly. Brendan and Gunny wanted the secret that Juan Ponce De Leon so coveted. They wished to be young again. They wished to return to society and become the next captains of industry. John Jacob, J. D., Stanford and Vanderbilt would bow and scrape to them. With their knowledge of the past and the upcoming war, nothing could stop them from being the new robber barons. To be young again was the unsaid motto of the elites that denied the '29 Crash and the changing of the world. To that end the brothers committed their lives. They had no fortune left. Their Father was bankrupt thanks to the crash of '29. He was arrested jailed and convicted. With food kitchens, hunger and poverty, all honor left the family behind. In the last desperate few years, they only had each other.
When the snows of the mountains melted and the rivers rose a second time, Capac announced it was his time to go to the waters of new life, the baby-making waters. It took him two months to visit his family and friends. Only Gunny and Brendan who still counted the days and weeks and full moons in secret, cared about the passage of days. One morning with no fanfare, Capac told them to prepare to go to the mountain. Now, illuminated by the afternoon sun through the falling water, the three men stood on a rock ledge hidden looking at the cave of life.
Brendan could see the opening with a light shining through. They edged their way into a chamber. The cave wasn't much more than two layers of granite held apart by large stones, an anticline forming the roof and floor of the chamber. At the entrance, a single stream of water poured into a stone basin.
"Is this it?" Brendan asked. Capac smiled, cupped his hands and drank from the stream of water. Brendan and Gunny gave each other sideways looks, at first trembling with anticipation and then riddled with doubts. They drank from the stream.
Brendan wanted to say something like -- The water tasted clean and pure, a touch of effervescence, a hint of dissolved minerals. It delighted his mouth and throat as he drank. -- But he would have been lying. It tasted of water. A sparkling water to be sure but nothing more than effervescent water from the waterfall outside the cave. After the exertions of climbing down through the waterfall, the two men drank a second time to replenish the water lost in the day's exertions.
"It is done. We will be young once again," Capac said in refined Spanish. Brendan stopped and stared, mouth open. He never heard Capac speak in anything but the guttural native language.
"Who are you?" Gunny asked. A nagging voice in his and Brendan's mind raised fears and doubts over their search for everlasting life. Capac unwrapped the vines from his forearms and calves, removed the ear piercings and undid the leather string holding his privates. Then he stepped into the spray near the edge and washed his body.
"Please, wash your previous life away and come into the new life all clean and sparkling."
Respectfully, the two men stripped the vines and leather thongs from their bodies. They washed each other more out of physical habit than anything else but this time, it wasn't brotherly or sexual or anything else they ever felt in their life. Immortality was here in this cave and that fact changed everything.
Capac led them through a narrow opening into a larger cave deep in the mountain. A wood fire burned heartily on one side for warmth. Torches lit the chamber and a passage beyond. Three sets of animal skins and soft bedding lay arranged around the fire. Brendan immediately realized that the campfire and bedding meant that someone prepared this cave and whoever did, did not enter through the falling water. Capac spoke first.
"We have a few hours to talk. It's been two lifetimes since new blood came to the tribe and I have questions about the outside world," he said.
"There's another entrance to this cave, isn't there?" Brendan asked. Capac laughed heartily.
"Of course, the Mommy entrance," Capac answered.
"Then that climb up the cliffs, the rope crossing of the ravine and the waterfall were what?" Gunny asked.
"A test young man, a test. Just as the time you spent with the tribe showed your determination and spirit to learn the way of the tribe and not impose your own, so the ravine and cliff and waterfall test your courage. You proved that you are physically fit and mindfully worthy of living more than one life." Capac sat down on the animal skins and relaxed. Brendan stared at him, puzzled, unsure and at this point, filled with doubts and questions. He sat on the animal skins, feeling his hands and feet tingle. He hid his nervousness and waited for Capac to speak.
"The last I knew of the outside world, a civil war had divided the United States in half. Has that war been settled? What are the politics of Europe? Are my beloved Spain and despised Britain still monarchies? Or has your new American revolution spread across the world?" Capac asked. Brendan's mind raced at the implications of the questions.
"Who are you?" he asked, feeling tired and sleepy but not muscle-sore. Usually after this much climbing and jumping around he felt aches and pains but not today. He felt invigorated.
"I am the one you seek. I am Juan, the fifth Lion of all explorers, originally of Spain, once governor of Puerto Rico and now resident of the village." He used the native name for the village and the region of the Amazonian jungle they occupied. "We have just drunk of the fountain of youth. This is what you wanted, isn't it? The Fabled Fountain of Youth. That was your endeavor in coming to the village and living with us?"
"Yes, of course. Have you known all along?" Gunny asked. He kept opening and closing his hands and flexing his arms. His muscles wanted to move and not stay still. Brendan shook my head in agreement.
"How do I know? You are not the first. There were more in the past and fewer in the present. Some died of old age, unworthy. Most, like you, are still in the surrounding villages." Capac yawned and rubbed his face. Brendan also felt the urge to sleep. He blamed it on the fire and the warmth of the cave. They talked of all matters important and unimportant.
They spoke of the history of the world for the past hundred years, the industrial revolution, the invention of telephone, telegraph and radio. Daylight left the waterfall and the fire provided the only light. The cave swirled in surreal images like those avant-garde artists of the civilized world. Surrealism gone cave dweller, making Gunny look shorter to Brendan while he felt thinner, lighter. Capac's face lost his wrinkles and when he laughed, his voice sounded oddly high pitched.
"It is time for the three of us to sleep, Captain Brendan Hargreaves, GunWoo Yoon. It is easier when you sleep. In the morning your new Mother will wake you, give you a new name and carry you from the cave. Your new life will begin. You will remember the old life you left but the new life before you will fill your mind and be most important. That is fitting and proper and as it should be. You will live full lives in one of the villages. You will grow, marry and beget strong children. Tomorrow, your great adventure of life begins anew." With those words, Capac put his head in his arms and fell asleep.
Brendan looked at Gunny and realized that he was smaller, younger, almost childlike. Gunny put words to their thoughts.
"Do I look like a child to you? You look like a child to me," he asked. That was when Brendan realized what was happening in the dim firelight and he understood Capac's words. They had drunk of the fountain of youth and under its power, their bodies reverted to childhood. It all made sense. In the morning the mothers would find new babes and raise them as their own.
"We wanted to live forever but to live forever, we must be reborn and grow up. This village is as good a life as any other and decidedly better than many of the cities we left behind," Brendan said, wondering if the sentiments were his or the effect of the Fountain of Youth.
"But this is barely above Stone Age. We're living like Neanderthals," Gunny said.
"We shouldn't have played it so coy. What's so bad about growing to manhood in the Stone Age? I suspect we won't care about the life outside the village. We won't care about being Captains of Industry. I'll bet the Fountain blocks past memory or makes us forget. We'll have our place in the village and only village life will matter."
"Strange gift this eternal life. Not what I expected," Gunny said.
"Not at all," Brendan agreed. He watched Gunny fall asleep and then curled up on his animal skin and slept like a baby.
April 1, 2014
I have a problem with housework. I don't do it, anymore. Screw it. Who cares? They do.
I learned bad housekeeping in my first place after the big one. My sink is so filled with grease from pizza, chicken wings, French fries and deep-fried take out that even the roaches can't approach it without safety lines and harnesses. Tiny ropes. You know, ropes like the one's that mountain climbers and spelunkers use. They even made tiny signs with tiny roach warnings: "beware the black hole of grease."
Now don't tell them this but roaches are really are clumsy bugs. One slip and they would slide down the drain and into the gaping black maw of the garbage disposal to be ground and torn to bits with the remains of rotting takeout and potato peels. I eat lots of potatoes.
"Belay those lines," I would hear from their tiny black mouths as they mine the sink for errant bits of food stuck in the layers of grease. Every so often one of those roaches is brave enough to venture out on the grease without a safety line and slides into the drain. On occasion, I simply flick a designated roach into to the black hole. The other roaches scatter of course and giggle about it afterward. It's in their nature to be silly. However, they always cheer their dear, demised , dead roach hero. After that a party starts.
Roaches give great wakes. They raise tiny headstones out of roach poo with tiny roach lettering saying things like "To Dad from his 37,425 children. Thanks for leaving us the rotting garbage" and chant strange roach hymns in tiny voices begging some demented Almighty roach in a heaven with fourteen rotting fruits and a new life for the fallen one. Then they party hearty. Party all night until the sun rises and they scurry away.
Oh! My manners have escaped me. We haven't been properly introduced. Radiation and nuclear winter nearly made mankind extinct but the roaches survived. After the bombs fell, our roach masters in their newly evolved wisdom rebuilt the cities in their image and kept a few of us alive. In time, they created amusement parks and thrill rides to entertain. The rich roaches, the ones that live "La Dolce Vita," kept a few almost-extinct humans alive. I'm called Denali after the old human tourist attraction in Alaska and because I live in Exhibit D. I'm the deadliest of all deaths--the greasy sink slob with a garbage disposal.
"Damn it. Poseidon's gone," Santiago stamped his feet and yelled at his cellphone. His display brought a shush from Miss Leslie the librarian. Trying to be quiet, he dragged Ethan and Higashi behind a book stack. Tagge a pledge at La Fraternidad de los Pescadores stood nearby and listened.
"I just saw him at dinner," Ethan said. Tagge put a goofy grin on his face and leaned forward.
"You ate dinner with Poseidon?"
"No, Khalid and his family. He's leaving with his Father. He was just made ambassador to Mars Prime."
"Khalid's the new ambassador?" Tagge gasped like he didn't understand. Santiago shook a fist at Tagge.
"Open your ears. His father not him."
Miss Leslie headed their way.
"His father was Ares, lover of Venus, lost his balls to a moray eel." Tagge said. Ethan and Higashi giggled. Santiago turned with a growl.
"What are you talking about?"
"Khalid, the ball-less." Santiago flipped the bird at Tagge.
"Incapable of saying no to his father," Ethan said. Santiago gestured dramatically not realizing that Miss Leslie stood behind him, arms folded, face stern, a head and shoulders taller than his diminutive form.
"Smart ass. Who's going to be our Poseidon for the Carnaval," he asked.
"Silence!" Miss Leslie commanded too loud. She surprised Santiago. He jumped a foot in the air and turned, startled and stared up at her face. Ethan and Higashi smirked and giggled, embarrassing their friend even more.
"One day you're going to give me a heart attack then you'll be forced to give me mouth-to-mouth," Santiago's voice echoed across the library, raising heads. Miss Leslie brandished a rolled newspaper and swatted Santiago twice. The smacks brought approving nods and encouragement from some of the library patrons.
"Why is it always the shrimps that have such nasty, dirty mouths?"
"You liked it last night when I stuck my tongue up your hoo-hah." The Library was filled with audible gasps, a guffaw, swiveling heads, choked laughter and frantic movements to hide. Miss Leslie sucked air like a gaping chest wound.
"Get out!" Swat. "Get out!" Swat "Get out!" Swat. "I've told you before the library is not your personal meeting room." Swat, swat, swat. "Hold your meetings in your frat house. This--" she raised the rolled up newspaper again but stopped, straightened her jacket, and pointed the rolled newspaper at the door. "--is a place for study."
Santiago broke for the door.
Tagge checked out his art books at the computer scanner and held them in front of him like a shield. At six-foot, ten-inches, he stood taller than nearly every citizen of New Atlantis. Undaunted, Miss Leslie herded the four young men to the exit with the rolled up newspaper and chased them from the steps, harrumphing and sputtering and stamping her feet. Only the edge of the college green stopped the rampage.
"Dean Dickhout will hear about this," Miss Emily stamped her feet and marched back into the library.
Above the four boys, the mid-winter constellations twinkled on the reinforced transparent aluminum ceiling. The artificial breeze filled the night air of Northern Atlantis College's Main Dome. Fake crickets chirped in the real grass. Nine fathoms above, a hurricane raged. It's tidal swell and waves washed over the barren sand-wash that once was the east coast of North America.
Santiago cornered Higashi and Ethan against a stanchion at the entrance to the aquaculture bridge. Bemused and grinning with impish intent, Tagge stood behind Santiago and leaned over the small man. Santiago didn't realize he was there as he unleashed a diatribe describing Miss Emily as the upcoming apocalypse, a creature of woe, and a sign of the moral decline and the fall of civilization. When he ended, he chicken-necked his head around and stared up at Tagge's grinning face.
"Damn you pledge."
"You're such a funny little man." He patted Santiago on the top of his head like a puppy dog. Santiago turned a vivid red.
"Back-off," growled Santiago.
"As long as I can keep my grades up, I'll be your Poseidon," Tagge offered. Santiago stared at his too tall tormenter. There was nothing much god-like or inspiring to see. Tagge's stringy blond hair, mangy beard, and old clothing marked him as from the lower classes.
"You're just a pledge." Santiago stuttered out a response. In three days their Valentine Festival -- Carnaval de Azul Del Mar y Cielo Dorado -- would begin. La Fraternidad de los Pescadores had to present the new Poseidon and the position carried symbolic power.
"Then make me a full brother of Pescadores."
Santiago faced a dilemma. To fail would mean disgrace. Panicky times call for desperate measures. This was a possible solution.
A century earlier the coastal cities of the World faced inundation as the polar icecaps melted to nothing. Civilization moved to high ground but the cyclones and hurricanes ravaged the land with salt water. Tidal walls failed. The discovery of nickel and molybdenum nodules from the ocean floor provided the high strength alloys for underwater habitats. The first wave of humans to take refuge became the elite. The second wave became fish farmers, go-betweens, and middlemen. When the last of the landholds failed, the survivors became servants, laborers, and lowest of all miners.
This moment, history didn't enter into Santiago's thoughts. He needed a Poseidon and was desperate for a volunteer. Santiago, Ethan and Higashi held a wordless discussion of pokes, nudges, head-nods, shuffles, and shrugs. They made the most important decision of their young lives without words. Santiago mumbled the decision still facing away from Tagge.
"Go collect whatever's important to you," He should have asked about Tagge's past. Most men in Tagge's family died young from decompression sickness, their bones riddled with holes or their minds addled from Heliox while mining metal nodules. He was the first of his family to attend college and the reason for his intelligence was his unique parentage and altered genetics. He hesitated, unsure he heard Santiago's words. Santiago turned and hollered.
"Are you deaf? I said go get your stuff."
Tagge went to his dorm and collected a few changes of clothing, a second-hand drawing tablet, and his art portfolio.
In an hour, he stood on the deck of the lowest chamber in the Fraternity Dome was cold. Most of these old chambers began as airlocks and were converted to storage. Santiago stood next to a cloth-covered statue and a life-sized 3D printer.
"I always thought Poseidon was temporary tattoos, a pair of speedos, flippers, and a trident," Tagge said.
"We're not like other Fraternities. Pescadores' Poseidon isn't a stage trick. That's why the choice is so prestigious." Santiago pulled the cloth. A life-sized bronze-tone Poseidon stood in naked glory, trident in hand, heroic musculature, gills, webbed feet and hands. It had curly hair, thick beard, and Tagge's face. Tagge walked around the statue, examining it.
"Did you just create this?"
"I printed it while you were collecting your belongings. That's what you'll look like in a few hours."
"Awesome, but I don't have gills and I'm not that muscular."
"You will be for the opening of the Valentine Carnaval."
Santiago made it sound like a simple paint job. A man disappears before the Carnaval and at the opening ceremony a demigod reappears from the ocean depths with hearts and flowers, stupid but entertaining.
Santiago once lived it.
Tagge always thought Santiago looked familiar -- a shift of shoulders, a head movement, a turn of phrase. He finally found proof in the archival book stacks--a yearbook. Unfortunately, Miss Leslie got her hands on it and she was determined to ruin Santiago.
"When I revert will I lose half my age like you did?" Tagge asked. The question stopped Santiago.
"What are you trying to say? I was never Poseidon." He shook his head and tried to shrug away the accusation.
"You can't hide cheekbones or that funky skull of yours. Anatomy 101."
"That was my cousin. Every male in my family has my face. I'm a legacy student. Besides, it was years ago when you were what, an impressionable ten year old boy?" He walked over to the statue for comparison. It was nearly two foot taller and fifty-plus pounds beefier. He put a hand on its shoulder to illustrate the differences.
"I don't believe you. I have an eidetic memory," Tagge proceeded to mimic Santiago's speech as Poseidon from twelve years before word for word, gesture for gesture and when Santiago tried to deny it a second time, he recited the rest of the speeches from the Mayors of the various domes. Santiago's shoulders slumped.
"Damn your memory. How long have you known?" Santiago asked.
"Since yesterday when I found your yearbook on Miss Emily's desk. I borrowed it when she chased us out of the library. Do you remember what she wrote in it?"
Santiago raised his hands defensively and laughed.
"I remember her being a wallflower."
"A wallflower? She remembers it differently. She wrote: 'To my darling stud muffin and special Valentine, I long for your embrace. We will always be together.' In return you called her a brown-bagged, mattress-backed, sperm bank and broke up. That was breathtakingly not nice and she really, really, really hates your guts. Hurricane Leslie is probably screaming through the college dome looking for the yearbook right now."
"That woman could cause a great deal of trouble for me." Santiago pounded one fist into his other hand.
"The College archives contained a single copy in the reserved stacks. That copy is in my backpack. Call it payment, in advance, for services rendered." He leaned against a worktable, waiting for a response. Red-faced, Santiago sputtered. He thumbed through the yearbook to determine its provenance. The love-struck and now vengeful Miss Leslie certainly appeared in it along with the documentation of another dozen acts that Santiago hoped long forgotten. He shelved the yearbook next to a set of manuals and spoke slowly.
"I was young and stupid and I regret my misdeeds."
"That's a good rationalization. Good enough for you to let me be Poseidon." Tagge smiled, sarcastically.
"Yeah," Santiago sneered. He pointed to the chamber. The lights in it revealed a Laser DNA modification chamber. Tagge's eyes popped open and his face lit up in surprise.
"I thought only one Jankowsky Chamber existed." He walked over and touched it.
"Eighty years ago Cyrus Jankowsky was president of Pescadores and he left a legacy to the brotherhood." Santiago walked to the controls. "It turns you into Poseidon. The first cycle bulks your muscles. After a rest, a second cycle grows scales, gills and fins."
"Two cycles? Didn't expect that."
"Single cycle transformations aren't reversible, too much DNA alteration."
Tagge opened the door to the chamber and stepped inside. Santiago waved at him, puzzled and amused.
"Leave your clothes outside."
"Silly of me. How many lives does this thing give? You're on your at least second life, aren't you?" Tagge asked, shucking his clothing and stepping inside the chamber as a sign of trust. Santiago locked it.
"Am I going to regret making you Poseidon?"
"I'm won't summon the Kraken to shake the foundations of the world. I bet my girlfriend I could do it."
Annoyed at Tagge's answer, Santiago shook his head negatively and put his hands on his hips.
Tagge waved him off.
"You're overthinking this."
"If you don't present as a stunning Poseidon, the brotherhood will blame me. I could make life your painful with this thing." The bank of lasers on the side of the chamber glowed blue and hummed to life. Tagge's attitude changed.
"I promise not to disappoint. If you're worried, join me and become Triton. We can both kick off the Carnaval, swimming alongside each other. We would be celebrities for life."
"Been there, done that." Ten laser beams hit Tagge's body. They traced the contours of muscles before penetrating his DNA and changing it. His body pulsed rhythmically like a dance of changes. Each movement relieved the stress and caused his muscles to grow larger, stronger. Instinctively, he flexed and let the Lasers remodel his body but his body started to burn.
"How long," he gasped, hurting.
"Less time than it took for me."
Tagge didn't ask again.
Santiago took his yearbook and reminisced the pain. He found pictures that incriminated him and Miss Leslie as friends with benefits: her profession of love, his messages of lust, both ragging their classmates as ugly inferiors, his words glorying in being a rotten little prick to everyone. He set the yearbook on a shelf and waited for Tagge to finish.
When the first transform cycle ended, Tagge stumbled out of the chamber on webbed feet and collapsed onto Santiago. They wobbled over to an air mattress where Tagge collapsed and slept. Hours later he woke, hungry, aching and stronger than he ever imagined. The hefty growth of curly blond hair and full beard tickled. Santiago handed him a water bottle. Tagge grabbed it and crushed it, squirting water over his face.
"Too strong," Tagge said, gulping another.
"Your body has to get used to being stronger. You can break bones, ride the giant squid and swim with the great whales. To do that takes muscle, scales, and gills." Santiago motioned for him to walk around the chamber. In the Mining Dome, he was always cold. Here, the metal floor didn't feel cold. Neither did the circulating air. The chamber held a variety of devices that only Poseidon could use on Valentine's Day--pink underwater thrones, crowns, masks for pink sharks, dolphin heads, a fish head with sharp teeth far deadlier than any in the textbooks, and an underwater airlock. He ripped a strip of cloth off a pink costume and wrapped it around his crotch like a loincloth. Santiago chuckled.
"At least my junk won't be hanging out," Tagge said. He spied boxes of takeout food on a desk. He sat and opened one.
"I can fix that."
"I don't understand?"
Santiago weighed his answer.
"Years ago, I dangled and didn't care. It wasn't a problem the first day and much of the second day. Then the groupies started and the seekers turned up, seeking attention and turning me into a rabid, humping schnauzer. That got old and stupid real fast. I stayed true to the spirit of Valentine and played cupid." Santiago hung his head in shame.
"I didn't think that anyone would risk modified DNA creating a chimera."
"They didn't know or didn't care." He hesitated, shaking his head again. Tagge put on his most sympathetic face. Santiago continued. "A dozen women got pregnant. The Archon and Advisors of Pescadores gave me the option of supporting all those kids or reverting to childhood and going through puberty again. They buried me deep in the system and I stayed hidden until you and Miss Leslie discovered my secret." Santiago put his head in both hands, seeking sympathy. Tagge shrugged and ate a full container of fried fish, ignoring the pathos. When he finished, he smacked his lips and belched.
"They dangled and you ate the worm hook, line and sinker. Got napkins?" Tagge asked, wiggling his fingers in the air.
"They'll never take the hooks out. They own you. Carnaval is like the gladiator contests of Ancient Rome; red blood and pink sex for the masses." Santiago threw a jar of hand sanitizer to him. Tagge wiped his fingers and dried them on his old and too-small t-shirt.
"I guessed as much. I'm hungry and stiff. It's a shame I can't get to a gym." Tagge stood up and flexed his new and massive musculature. He could touch the ceiling of the chamber and do one-hand pushups. He tried handstands and touched his toes to the ceiling, did splits between benches.
"The machine creates heroic muscles good. You'll look like a true god of the seas and oceans when you get scales. That's what sells the illusion, the scales." Santiago set up the controls of the machine for gills and scales. An image of the colorations appeared on the control screen. The deltoids and back were gold, the biceps, triceps and lower arms emerald green along with the breastplate and torso; dark blue-green shark coloration covered the image's hips, thighs and legs. He tapped a button and added a modesty pouch.
"You want me to add webbed hands and feet? A fin on your back and head, fins on your arms?"
"Hell no. I'd look like that twentieth century movie monster--the Creature from the Black Lagoon. Those gill slits are atrocious." He ran his finger along the thickened neck. His movement caused Santiago to push his chair away from the console and launch into an animated speech about transformations.
"They're show gills, big enough to supply oxygen but look ugly. People might think that but they stay quiet. If you want to stay underwater for more than ten or fifteen minutes without surfacing then you need water flowing over gills. I calculated that to swim deep and fast, the most efficient structure is a blowhole and gills that can act like lungs on the surface. However, creation of the water path around your bone structure and internal organs is impossible to reverse. It's permanent. The Archons don't like a Poseidon they can't revert. It's the same for a Triton. They require skeletal changes to form a tail with a fluke and once you grow a tail, you can't revert. Plus, the functional ones are ugly. A triton like Bernini's statue with tentacle-like legs can't even swim fast."
Tagge pulled a chair over to the computer console and sat.
"You really thought about these changes. How deep can I dive and how long can I stay underwater?"
Santiago typed in a few commands. The specifications for a Poseidon appeared on the screen.
"Twelve minutes and fifteen or sixteen fathoms. Longer than that, you have to carry an Oxy-tube. Deeper will cause brain damage. You might look like the god of the sea but you're still human and still basically live on the land. Like I said, this is like Circus Maximus for Atlantis, nothing but make-believe."
"That's pathetic. I have brothers and friends who train to hold their breath for that long and on saturation dives my brothers can dive ten times as deep."
"Poseidon dives unprotected and lives. Ordinary men use pressure suits to protect their bodies and we both know there's still damage. I've seen what happens when a pressure suit fails. It crushes." Santiago grimaced at the thought.
"We call it the octopus death," Tagge said in a soft voice.
"You know diving from doing it and I know diving because I studied diving physiology for decades. It was my doctoral thesis and a monograph. I reworked most of Jankowsky's designs based on the possible DNA changes from this machine." Santiago pulled a galley print from his backpack and let Tagge read it. In an appendix were illustrations of various body modifications and their suitability for underwater survival. Tagge put the monograph down. His face was grim. Conversion for safe mining was possible but unlikely under the current government.
"Everything in your monograph we knew from experience. The human body wasn't built for underwater mining." He tapped the desk with a finger.
"Those changes are the reason they trapped me into being Poseidon. Professor Geruchsniffer says the monograph is dangerous and won't be read into law for decades. This current government is all politics-for-show like the Carnaval."
Tagge scratched at his new beard. He leaned forward and pointed a finger at Santiago's chest in a challenge.
"You once asked me if you would regret turning me into Poseidon and I replied that I wasn't going to summon the Kraken. Would you be willing to shake the foundations of the world? What if Poseidon and his son Triton rose from the sea and claimed power? What if the god of the sea ordered society to change?" Tagge leaned back and folded his arms, hoping. Instead, Santiago gave him a harsh look.
"Before we go down the path of earthquakes and sea monsters I need to know one thing; is Miss Leslie in on your plan?"
"Hell no. She'd hates your guts and that's all that motivates her."
"Good. It's time for your second treatment but before you do, here's is a real Poseidon, a denizen of the ocean." The parameters of the transform would make this transformed man capable of deep dives with the whales and living on the floor of the ocean.
"The perfect Poseidon for the miners of the deep. I won't call you Sonny if you won't call me Sonny," Tagge said. Santiago shook his head up and down, agreeing.
"This design was Jankowsky's aim in creating the Laser Transformation chamber. I think he wanted to turn Homo Sapiens into fish-men and recreate civilization in the ocean. When I threatened to expose his writings, the Archons screwed me." Santiago's face scrunched up in a frown. Tagge pressed him.
"Let's make his dream come true. Would Poseidon look much different than merely cosmetic?"
"Not by much; thicker skin, stronger scales, sleeker gill slits, and webbed feet. The blowhole cover would resemble a pauldron. Years ago fraternities used blowholes, so you'll look retro. Only you would feel the difference between your current internal organs and the pressure resistant organs." He called the design on the screen, waited a moment and then turned the machine to standby.
"What's holding you back?" Tagge asked.
"Me becoming Triton. I might have led a despicable life but it's the only life I have. I'll be ocean bound and not able to walk again. That's lonely. Poseidon at least has family and friends."
"Not if there's a Shoal of Tritons. I'll call my brothers and their friends. They'll jump at the chance to be Tritons."
"That won't work. The Fraternity will go nuts with gossip if a bunch of miners show up at the front door. Then government will shut us down."
"You've got an airlock."
"Air locks require lots of air. Someone would notice."
"Not the airlock in this chamber. It's made for divers to enter with breathing gear. Pressurizing water is easy. The diver gears up, jumps into the pool, swims to the lock, seals the hatch and equalizes the pressure. It only requires a small pump to raise or lower the pressure inside the lock."
Santiago gave him a stupid and doubting look. He went to the controls at the main hatch and pushed a button. The door to a water-filled pressure chamber opened in the chamber's water pool.
"I feel real stupid. Never knew it worked that way. Tell your brothers that I'll be waiting," Santiago said. Tagge sent a message describing the airlock and entered the transformation chamber.
"They're already calling you our hero." He closed the door to the chamber.
"Remember what Ovid says: 'Then gives it breath; the blast with doubling sound, runs the wide circuit of the world around.' And 'it', my friend, is called revolution."
"!Viva la Revolucion!" Tagge answered. Santiago initiated Tagge's total transformation to Poseidon. When the Lasers hit, he could hear Tagge moaning. His transformation would be harsher. He dreaded it but first, he loaded his yearbook into a small submersible and launched it to the deep ocean floor.
"Maybe in this incarnation I'll enjoy humanity. I'll be Nerites to his Poseidon," he said wistfully to no one. He looked at Tagge changing under the influence of the device. "He wouldn't be as cut and buff or handsome as I like but he will unwittingly be Cupid's gift on this Valentine's Day from me to me. This may be the biggest adventure of my several lives."
Beta Ares Prime
Beta Ares Prime, a near paradise for colonists, except that volcanos erupted, ice caps melted, rain began, and the planet turned into a stinking, insect-infested swamp. Complete failure. Saving the mission involves implementing a secret hidden in the quantum drives.
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Demigods of the Pacific
Captain Tyrece Leanard has been betrothed to his high school sweetheart Estralita Delgado. Estralita wants to become supreme commander of the Pacific Archipelago. While they are making love, large green men with gills climb over the gunwales and kidnap Tyrece. Who rules the Pacific?
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Tommy Turner disappeared from Hidden Valley Estates but whispered rumors remained. Rumors of three girls who cast spells, killed a man, freed a demon, and made three boys vanish. Perhaps this was nothing but an errant vision, a bad dream, a night mist. But, it happened, after all, on Halloween.
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The Bad, The Worse, and the Deflowered
Two men meet at a costume party: One wears horns and hooves, the other is dressed as a hoplite and wants to be a farmer. They are thwarted by a third man who seems to pull all the strings. But the best laid plans of mice and men, satyrs and demigods, jerks and lovers, always go wrong. When goats appear, strange things happen, and someone becomes a human sacrifice.
Published in: Get Me Out of Here
An anthology from Horrified Press, April 2015.
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How deep and ugly can sibling rivalry become when it sinks into the depths of hatred and betrayal? Two brothers find out on a camping trip in a quiet forest glade.
Published in: What Lies Beneath
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Lower Than the Worms Beneath Our Feet
First contact with an alien race takes a strange turn for one of the humans involved, his DNA gets exchanged and his flesh and blood become stone and rock.
Published in: What Lies Beneath
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Salvaging the Nishimi Maru
A year after the tsunami hit Japan, the Nishimi Maru appeared of the coast of Canada from a fogbank. Sailors in bars laugh at the descriptions of a rusted and barnacled freighter. They call it silly. They make up drunken stories about its crew. But deep in their heart of hearts, in the place kept for the absolute truth of all of men's affairs on earth, they know that this ship will come and ease their pain when lost at sea.
Published in: Legends and Lore
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There is a man staked out on top of a desert butte with the buzzards flying around. He's been tortured by aliens and mutants but he will survive because he is a demigod and cannot die. Once again, he brings with fire to save the Earth.
Published in: COMING BACK by Thirteen O'Clock Press
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The Zombie Blackmailers of Panocadia 3
A short remembrance of things past, a nostalgia of lost childhood, in a completely and utterly weird Zombified sort of way.
Published in: Voices From a Coma, vol 2
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The latest drug - MetalCrank - fuses flesh to metal and gives a dream-like high better than any other drug. The Newcomers gave it to the earth. Two addicts learn the ultimate purpose of the drug - one to honor and valor, the other to killing and oblivion.
Published in: Voices From a Coma, vol 1
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A Late Dinner
How did magic gain entry to the scientific world? Will our children accept it or reject it?
Published in: Last Night by Thirteen O'Clock Press
Skirmish at the Barbecue Pit
horde of hoary men and their wives and children advanced, their mouths watering, lips slobbering, arms and hands outstretched...
A drug lab unleashes a deadly bacterial slime that turns people to zombies at a family picnic. How do you save yourself with only Santoku knives and spatulas.
Published in: THE UNDEAD WAR
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Dogs at Midnight
No one came to this dark, rundown house, not Trick-or-Treaters or adventure-seeking boys with eggs and soap. No lights beckon through its wavy windows. A cursed man lives here and Death visits on Halloween.
Published in: BEHIND CLOSED DOORS
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Have Some Madeira, M'Dear
Two men responsible for screening artifacts from alien archeological digs discover that certain artifacts will not trigger their alarms and this day, their survival and the survival of the human race depends on Madeira and Cognac. It's an Old Gods and Cthulhu adventure of strange and bizarre proportions.
Published in: IN VINO VERITAS
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We'll Never Do That Again
About three friends who invent dragon costumes out of quantum clay for fun but the end result will be the end of mankind and the beginning of an age of dragons. After all, Darwin teaches that the stronger species wins over the weaker and humans are the weaker species.
Published in: Dragon's Blood
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The Day the Meth Lab Exploded
I'm in a cheap motel in Secaucus with two near-naked, drug-addicted ass-hats. That sounds like a throw away line from a cheap musical. I'm giddy from entering multiple time portals. The ass-hats in the room stare. They are smoking pot on a fire escape next to a room filled with ether. They will soon to be suitable for pauper's graves.
Published in: PORTALS
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His Master's Voice
Quote: "The killer tags them just like they were pets. We think they might be runaways, street people, homeless or failed at life in some way. These are the itinerant workers, waiters in cheap dives, jitney drivers, hustlers. This gig must seem like heaven, playacting in costume, decent food," Arborghast said. A Tech held a veterinary scanner up against the deceased man's shoulder. It registered the number of a dog license. The name "Buddy" and a street address appeared.
Published in: NEON & BLOOD
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Minotaur in the House
A big strong muscle dude wants to wear a Minotaur mask one night. It's spring and he's been drinking. His friend has the perfect mask but perfection has a price.
Published in: Kalkion
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What do you do when the dream dies and life just craps on your ambitions? The kid is a boxing phenomena but he's too short and too light to make it in the real ring. A former boxer gives him a new chance as a robot boxer.
Published by THE WIFILES
Meditations on a Dead World
What if R'lyeh rested at the bottom of the ocean on the duplicate Earth that orbits the sun and hides from our Earth? What will happen when man explores the stars and discovers the Sleeping City on that dead world? Will mankind survive or will the Ancient Ones rule the universe with mankind as its slaves?
Published in TECHNO GOTH CTHULHU
in print at Create Space
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The Night Dickie Ward's Tongue Stuck to the Flagpole
Three teenage brothers confront an alien threat at their family Ice Hockey Rink that wants to turn them into mechanical monsters with living parts.
Published in Dieselpunk, an anthology edited by Sean Monaghan
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All the Days of Our Lives
An abandoned child rises through the crime syndicates to run the brothels and speakeasies in Capital City. when a robbery goes bad, he is sent to prison for murder. There are punishments that crush the spirit, destroy the body, and inspire revolution. A prison story in Steampunk with diesels, war machines, locomotives, cyborgs, and finally fireworks.
Published in Dieselpunk, an anthology edited by Sean Monaghan
Available in print at Create Space
Available in print at Amazon
The Adventures of Billy Shane
Published in Temptations, an anthology from Fantastic Horror
The Sheriff and Deputy of Chadron Nebraska discover a Magus trying to become a living god and it is up to the two men to stop the Magus. But they aren't alone. The sheriff is related to not one but two Greek gods. It's party time.
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Tachyon Level Rising
Published in Kalkion
It's a con game -- replace Michelangelo's David with a marble copy that can walk and talk. Astonish the world and historians everywhere. Think of the fame and fortune involved. Would you be tempted to look that good? Scott was, but he isn't standing in the Louvre but in Hell.
The New Frankenstein
Jonah Carnahan, a detective inspector with the Atlantipolis City Police Force and a bicycling enthusiast, is involved in a car accident that leads to revelations of murder, ghosts, abominations of nature and cyborgs at All Souls Charity Hospital. With his doctors, he has no hope. For in this hospital, the only way for a patient to survive is a fate worse than death.
In the words of Mary Shelley: "I saw the hideous phantasm of a man stretched out, and then, on the working of some powerful engine, show signs of life, and stir with an uneasy, half vital motion."
And this cyborg does not fear Death.
Published in HOSPITAL, an anthology of creepy horror edited by Sean Monaghan.
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Perdition Found in a Railcar
Published in Midnight Train, an anthology of horror on steel wheels
A thief and scoundrel who once rode with Quantrill's raiders in the Civil War wants the secret of eternal life. He confronts a seeming rich man traveling in a private railcar and finds more than he bargained for...
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Thunderstorms and Thaumaturgy
A car wrecks and the driver is dead but the accident is not an accident, it's worse than murder. A portal has been opened and an ancient evil is invading the earth. Is this the end of civilization? Only one man can prevent it. Is it the bright young patrolman? The Luddite detective? Or the strange blog editor with the funny name and the hidden past?
For purchase at: Amazon