Friday, January 14, 2011

(Recommended Reads) "JL" by Julio Ricardo Varela

I saw him at El Güero Canelo, a taco stand near school, that we all called “The Foolish Blonde” in English. He was filling his cup with Coke near the outdoor picnic benches while I was reaching for some Tapatío salsa to splash on my burrito...

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Thursday, January 13, 2011

The Nick Of Time (and other abrasions): Come Together

The Nick Of Time (and other abrasions)

Come Together


Al Bruno III

Night had fallen in Olathoe, the city of bones. Olathoe was a teeming metropolis of nightmares and impossibilities, a place where magic and monsters hid away from the ordinary world. In Olathoe every fable is a prophesy and every legend is a promise...


The Sentries’ heads were shaven and their faces were intricately tattooed. The dull metal armor they wore contrasted with the automatic weapons slung over their shoulders. Constable Rhoden Lunt watched them work at breaking down the door of 209 Route d'Abbaye, his thoughts growing ever more sour.

He didn’t like being here. This particular barrio had an unpleasant reputation and in a city where cannibalism was legal, so long as you had the proper permits, that was no small feat.

The Constables wore uniforms of a a fabric so dark blue that is was nearly black. Medals and awards were prominently displayed. Their hats were conical and elaborate. Rhoden’s gloved hands were clasped behind his back and he stood perfectly still. He wanted to move around, to pace and perhaps grumble under his breath but that wasn’t something Constables did. They were supposed to be men and women whose perfect poise and posture was an outward sign of their perfect minds. He’d seen entire careers derailed by a thoughtless scratching of the nose.

After what seemed like an eternity the door to the slouching Victorian house splintered and the Sentries charged inside, with weapons at the ready. Rhoden waited for the all clear. There was graffiti on the wall to his right, a snarled yellow sigil.

He’d seen many streets purged during his career, entire neighborhoods cleared out. Why not this one? Why did the Regent suffer it to exist?

Still he supposed it might happen soon, especially if their tip was correct and they captured Jason Magwier. Constable Rhoden Lunt smiled at the thought of bringing him in, that certainly would be a feather in his already feathery cap.

And wouldn’t his dear cousin Jack be jealous?

A shriek startled him from his thoughts. One of the Sentries stumbled back out of the building. Blood was drizzling out of the gaps in his armor. The Sentries' face was a mass of gleaming red sinew. Somehow he had been skinned while in his clothes but Rhoden saw it was more than this, even the Sentries’ muscles were falling away from the bone, fraying like worn strings to reveal ugly glimpses of what lay beneath.

Training overrode Constable Lunt’s instinct to run. He drew his sidearm, a well-maintained hundred year old revolver, and spat an incantation.

A wave of mystical force slammed against and through the doorway of the old house. The boards across the first floor windows snapped. Constable Lunt heard things crashing and shattering inside. He waited a moment more and then steped inside.

“Prostrate yourself!” Rhoden cried, “In the name of the Regent I order you!”

Something moved to his left, something low to the ground. The Constable whirled and fired two shots before he realized it was the second Sentry.

The second Sentry had been just as horribly mutilated as the first, The Sentry quivered and crawled, the shape of his body was all wrong.

How could Jason Magwier have done this? It didn’t fit his modus operandi at all. He was a subversive and an anarchist but not a sadist.

“Just as well,” a voice said from the far side of the room, “he would have died soon and he’s not why I’m here.”

Constable Rhoden Lunt spun back around again. He stared down the sights of his revolver to see a tall man wearing an inverness coat. He had a thick mane of white blond hair and octagon rimmed glasses. In his right hand he held the skin of one Sentry, in the his left he held the spine of the other; both where perfectly preserved and bloodless.

And then Rhoden knew who this man was. “Dr. Flesh?” the name was ridiculous but his voice trembled when he said it.

“Indeed,” the man with the white blonde hair dropped his grisly trophies and took a step forward, “I think you know what this means.”

“Whoever’s paying you... whatever they’re paying you... my family...”

“I’m sure they could but we both know better,” Dr. Flesh’s moved slowly, like a man trying to charm an animal.

“Stay away!” Rhoden shook his revolver for emphasis, “I’ll shoot.”

“This can be painless,” Dr. Flesh said, “it can be like drifting off to sleep.”

“I said stay back!”

“If you shoot me I’ll leave your every nerve ending screaming with pain. Not a pleasant way to go.”

Dr. Flesh reached for the Constable. The Constable fired.

The bullet’s impact knocked the assassin back half a step but the wound was bloodless and began to close. Then Dr. Flesh was on him.

Dr. Flesh’s hands were pale and slender, almost feminine. When they settled on Rhoden’s throat they sank through the skin as though it was nothing but water.

For Rhoden there was a moment of revulsion and then he felt as though he was aflame. The pain sent him crashing to the floor, he began to fill the air with animalistic blubbering. The agony robbed him of his strength and then went to work on his mind.

“Come together,” Dr. Flesh said. With another brush of his hand he fused melded Rhoden’s lips and eyelids closed, melting them like wax. Dr. Flesh left nothing of his face save for the nose. After all he didn’t want the man to suffocate.

That done Dr. Flesh fished a dog-eared paperback copy of Atlas Shrugged from his coat, sat down on the floor beside the first of tonight’s targets and started to read. He wondered idly how long the Constable would last, how long until his heart burst in his chest.

Dr. Flesh guessed he had until chapter eight, chapter nine at the most.

Wednesday, January 12, 2011

5 Second Fiction One Thousand Eight Hundred And Ninety Six

The police had a secret hotline to contact Frogman in times of need, no one knew how those telemarketers got the number.

5 Second Fiction One Thousand Eight Hundred And Ninety Five

Someone warned the government about the Secret Cat Conspiracy and they did so anonymousely.

5 Second Fiction One Thousand Eight Hundred And Ninety Four

Some Americans were upset by arrivals from foreign lands, but most understood that immigration was the sincerest form of flattery.

5 Second Fiction One Thousand Eight Hundred And Ninety Three

“Take me to the Hokey Pokey World Championship!” she said as she got into the taxicab, “And shake a leg!”

5 Second Fiction One Thousand Eight Hundred And Ninety Two

Abner Deggent wouldn't hit a man wearing glasses, so he paid one of the guys on the streetcorner to do it for him.

5 Second Fiction One Thousand Eight Hundred And Ninety One

To celebrate Ryleh's rise from the bottom of the sea Trent visited every bar in shadowed Arkham. It was the Pub Crawl of Cthulhu.


In 1984, Peter Davison left Doctor Who as his version of the Doctor, the gentle, much-loved fifth, regenerated into the sixth. Producer John Nathan-Turner and others on the production staff felt it was time to take the series in another direction and perhaps return to the darkness and ambiguity of the show's early years. The actor chosen to herald this shift in tone was Colin Baker, who had appeared in a smallish part on the show before and had made a good impression on Nathan-Turner and others at a party. The Sixth Doctor was deliberately designed to be a change of pace: brash, verbose, aggressive and manic, his on-screen behavior to become the stuff of infamy among fans. At the time, Baker was enthusiastic and speculated that he might go on to be the longest-running Doctor ever: the following debacle would make that statement seem like some sort of a sick joke, as Colin became not only the shortest-lived Doctor on TV (aside from Paul McGann's Eighth) but the most controversial as well...


Look 100 Years Younger-Colin Baker
Uploaded by TheNextDoctor. - Watch feature films and entire TV shows.


Click here to read the rest and mourn what might have been!

A new posting schedule at ya!

Hi readers!

I seem to keep falling behind on serial novel chapters while I tend to be ahead on everything else so just to try and keep things on an even keel here is the new posting schedule.

MONDAY - Price Breaks And Heartaches

WEDNESDAY - A new chapter of the current serial novel

FRIDAY - #FridayFlash short fiction.

In The Shadow Of His Nemesis chapter ninety eight

In The Shadow Of His Nemesis

Chapter Ninety Eight


Saturday, December 4th 1996

Isobel screamed at the sight of the donnrup. The sound of its wings was like the roar of a chainsaw. She dropped her weapon and turned to run but Hao caught her and spun her around.

The Dread Lord Chayot reached out, the silvery tendrils of smoke boiling from its hands suddenly soild. It pulled the giant insect from the sky and began tearing it to shreds. Limbs and wings fell to the ground. The cries of the donnrup were buzzing and child-like.

“No turning back,” Hao pressed the gun back into Isobel’s hand, “not if you want to survive this.”

More donnrup sped towards them, crashing through the forest; some trees bent at their passing, others gave way and collapsed. Chayot dropped the lifeless donnrup and grasped another one with hands as swollen and distended as shadows in firelight. The sound of the donnrup’s carapace cracking was louder than the sound of the trees collapsing, louder than the thick buzz of donnrup wings.

One of the creatures zipped around the Dread Lord with surprising grace and barreled towards Isobel. She fired her weapon but the shot went wild. The automatic bit at her skin as it ejected the spent cartridge. She winced.

Stupid! She thought, Zeth warned you about that.

Zeth and Cheryl.

The donnrup was barreling towards Isobel, there was no time to fire again.

Hao fired, her bullets tearing holes in one of the creature’s wings. It dropped from the sky and skidded to a halt at Isobel’s feet. She fired three times at the back of the donnrup’s head, not caring if the creature might already be dead or that she might be wasting bullets.

How many bullets do I have?

Isobel’s hand was bleeding, it made her palm feel clammy and slick against the grip of the automatic pistol, “Are these Monarchs?”

“No,” Hao’s voice all business, “just slaves. They’re called donnrup. They’re specially bred.”

Two more donnrup circled the strange trio. Chayot plucked them from the sky and began expertly dismembering them.

“How many more are there?” Isobel asked.

Without asking Hao took Isobel’s wounded hand in hers and examined it, “Don’t know. I’m hoping Zeth thinned out their numbers.”

“It doesn’t hurt... not really.”

The Dread Lord had finished with the last two donnrup, it watched the women expectantly.

“I’m trying,” Isobel watched Hao dote over her injury, “but I don’t know if I’m going to much-”

She stopped talking when she realized Chayot had started running towards them. The wounded donnrup was on Hao before the Dread Lord could get hold of it.

There was a tearing sound, something tore through Hao’s midsection. The blood sprayed onto Isobel’s clothes. Hao’s face was a grimace of surprise.

Isobel fired point blank at the donnrup, reducing one of its segmented eyes to a wet ruin. Even with powder burns raking the side of her face Hao’s expression didn’t change. She fell forward into Isobel’s arms.

The Dread Lord’s silvery tendrils caught hold of the insectile creature and pulled it into the air. The donnrup’s stinger came loose from Hao’s back with a terrible plop sound.

The buzzing screams of Chayot’s latest victim barely registered with Isobel. She was trying to hold Hao up but the other woman had become dead weight. “Faking,” she hissed, “didn’t think they could...”

“The sting is poison,” the Dread Lord tossed the remains of the donnrup aside.

“I know.”

“Does my mission remain the same?”

Hao’s voice sharpened, “Yes.”

“Wait,” Isobel said. They were on the ground now, she was cradling the other woman’s head as blood began to filter out into the snow around her in a red halo, “There has to be something I can do. You have magic.”

“Chayot is right,” Hao said, “and the poison is always fatal. I told you they were specially bred.”

The Dread Lord looked away, “We need to continue if I am to complete my duties.”

“Oh God,” Isobel said, “this is all my fault. All my fault.”

“Stop now,” Hao touched the other woman’s cheek, “you brought life to a place of death.”

“I don’t-”

“Finish this,” Hao said, “find Galen, find your future. It won’t be what you expect. Please, for me.”

Isobel gently lowered her friend’s head to the ground, there was so much blood on them both.

“Come,” Chayot said, “walk beside me.”

After retrieving her gun Isobel did so.

Suddenly Hao called out, “Warren!”

The Dread Lord turned, “I am not Warren.”

“Hurry back my love,” Hao said an in her last moment she grinned.

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Monday, January 10, 2011

(Insane News) "Penis enlarger case in small-claims court"

A Quebec man is demanding compensation for a penis enlarger he claims never worked, despite 500 hours of use.

The man has gone before a small-claims court, hoping for an award of $762 to recoup the cost of the device as well as moral and punitive damages...


click here for the hard facts




Sunday, January 9, 2011

(Recommended Read) The eReader by Eric J. Krause

Ralph kicked at loose stones as he walked to his apartment complex's mailboxes. Why did already crappy workdays have to end on such downer notes? After getting yelled at all day by customers and management alike, the last email before quitting time warned of upcoming layoffs. Great. He hated this job, but it paid the bills better than anything else he could get in this economy...

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