Excerpts
Psychic Storm
The Overlord
Jonathan Bartram was of slender build and the kind of guy no one ever would pick to be on their team; he would never catch the eye of the pretty girl in the office, and never be the go-to guy for anyone. He would always be the guy most suspected of being a womanizer or worse. His dirty blond, un-combed hair hung limp around his somewhat odd facial features.
His childhood had been filled with misery as most of the other children in school avoided him, sensing something wrong about his demeanor. The other parents would often complain to the school principal about Jonathan’s behavior around their children. Some parents, including his own, feared him, though no one could explain why.
He was twenty-four years old and a graduate of the Drexel University School of Engineering. Even at school, where he excelled in all his classes, Jonathan had no friends to include him in the more enjoyable aspects of college life. Even among the nerds, he became an outcast.
Being unattractive and shunned by most, no one would be surprised he remained a virgin until his twenty-third birthday when he paid a prostitute to service him in his apartment. Even she hurried to leave after they finished their transaction, sleazy even to her standards. It may have been because Jonathan wanted more than he desired to pay for and expected her to perform things she felt uncomfortable undertaking, even for more money. Jonathan was sick by most standards, too sick for even the lowest of hookers.
Adult Content
A Journey Toward Tomorrow
The Beginning
He followed her out to the patio to discover her unconscious body lying on the multicolored flagstones. His body drenched with sweat, his head pounding, he could do nothing to help her as another round of sharp pain overtook his mind and body. He clutched his head as the pain moved through his neck and back. He screamed from a final burst of agony as he fell onto the patio and into darkness. The house was quiet as blood flowed over the colorful stones.
***
His unconscious mind drifted from one suppressed memory to another.
They stood looking at the Eiffel Tower, multicolored lights, traffic noise, and shadows swirled around them, with the spray from the fountains blowing behind as he took her hand. They came for a vacation, but he had planned so much more. He turned to the woman beside him as distant music played. He got down on one knee . . .
Walking through the woods in darkness, lit only by their flashlights. The crunching of leaves and twigs as they walked became the only sound. The light they followed disappeared beyond the next rise. They crested the hill, saw below them a body in the clearing; Bart, their friend . . .
The memories swirled and blended, glimpses of an unremembered past.
Her blond hair flowed over her shoulders. She was beautiful; soon, they would become husband and wife. He walked along Jewelers’ Row to pick up the rings. A man he had met before, but didn’t recognize, stopped him. He asked the man to find his fiancée. The man explained she was not there; the woman he met was not . . .
Images of past and present appeared and departed. Confusion permeated his mind. Seen and unseen by his mind’s eye, as more non-distinct images followed, of new places, unfamiliar, familiar, disjointed, unclear.
The creature exhaled on them; all he could feel was the anger. Anger, they took its land, anger it could not reach its prey. He experienced no fear as the creature lunged with mouth wide open and teeth ready to . . .
Calmness arrives, his heart rate slows, he hears the song and sees one last image or memory of her as things become clear.
He sat at the piano, playing the song for her. He remembered who she was and why he had such an attraction. He swept her off her feet, carried her into his bedroom, and began to make love to . . .
The music played on in his mind as his unconscious, having completed its mission, returned him to reality.
***
Warren awoke and reflected upon the strangest dream of his life as it slowly faded away, but this time not forgotten. His mind cleared, the memories returned, and reality hit him hard; his home was now an empty, lifeless piece of rock.
A single tear fell from his eye.
He was not surprised to find himself lying on a bed in a hospital.
Surviving Zeptulgar
The Personal Journal of Johlnz Dezlond Zavix I
One hundred cycles ago, our planet ended.
If my statement above were true, you wouldn’t be holding in your hand or reading on your vid, a firsthand account of what our ancestors endured to survive and build a new civilization from almost literally the ashes of the old.
I hadn’t yet joined this planet when my Gryn-JarPypzie passed away fifty-five cycles ago.
My Pypzie, Robarz and JarPypzie, Jacol told me many stories about Johlnz Dezlond Zavix I, and his life. He lived when comet X/3012 ZI IXON, later called comet Zeptulgar, hit Tanacun, and he had a significant role in rebuilding our civilization. He is todaz, not well known in the history taught to our liltanz, but my hope is for Tanans to know his name in the future, thanks to this, his personal journal.
You will read here the manuscript of his journal, which he started soon after he arrived at Reswoll Camo. My JarPypzie Jacol mentioned it many times and always insisted it existed somewhere hidden. He did not know where it could be and eventually stopped trying to find it; still, I never gave up hope that one daz I would find the journal.
Over the cycles, I looked through old records and found Johlnz I was involved with the new cybez center they were building almost fifty cycles ago. It is in this center, much expanded now, where I work. I looked carefully over the old project plans and noticed some discrepancies. After some exploring, I found a hidden compartment behind an old, no longer used cybez monitor station on the schematics of the project.
It took much effort and endless forms for permission before I could pull the old system out of the wall, but my perseverance rewarded me with success. The journal was dusty from being hidden away for over fifty cycles in the little compartment, carefully wrapped and well preserved. The simple note found enclosed had the words handwritten, ‘This journal is a present from one generation to another.’
A Journey Toward Tomorrow II
Building and Discovery
“Hey, dream boy, wake up!”
“What! Oh, hi Bart. I didn’t hear you come out of the building. How did you know where to find me, or did you come out for the view as I did?”
“Don’t give me that bullshit, buddy; you came out here for more than the view, and as to how I found you, I asked my CA to ask nag.”
“Thanks for nothing, nag,” Warren said, knowing his CA could hear him.
“Warren, you did not instruct me not to divulge your location.”
Warren ignored the voice in his head as Bart continued.
“This could be a rough session for you, so I wanted to make sure you were okay. The Council isn’t happy about what Wilson has been doing and saying. Not that you are responsible for his actions, he is, after all, twenty-three years old, with a wife and expecting a child.”
“I know, Bart, but they will make it sound like it’s my fault, and they will expect me to somehow make him stop. We couldn’t get him to stop years ago, after the incident when he turned twelve, no matter what we did or said, so we can’t stop him now. We just learned to live with it and with people gossiping about the family with the odd kid who thought he talked to some messenger from God.
“Honestly, Bart, I thought Humanity left all that nonsense back on Earth. Only a few of us understand what he is talking about most of the time.”
“The question I would like to have answered, Warren, is where is he getting these ideas? Either he is pulling information out of people’s suppressed or actual memories or . . ..”
Psychic Storm II
The Sisters of Aphrodite
My Journal – Week 17, Day 4
My birth name is Caleb Wilson Jones. My mom was Betty, a white woman, and my father’s name was Matthias, an African American descended from slaves. I must begin my diary entries this way every so often to remind myself of who I am—who I was and what they have done to us all.
Seventeen weeks have passed since I started this account of my Hell. I don’t know for sure how many weeks and months had passed before I began, but this coming winter will be my third full winter with these damn bitches.
They call me Leonidas. The sisters prefer to use ancient Greek names—pet names, or names of privilege, they call them. They do it to make us forget who we are while faking a sense of our importance. Mostly the names are used to humiliate us while they treat us all like pets that they reward and punish as they see fit with pleasure and pain.
Today they forced me to self-administer my punishment for not alerting my . . . mother, as she makes me call her, to the plan of twelve-year-old Linus. He told me of his plan to escape this Hell a few days ago at lunch. I never learned his actual name; I am not sure if he remembered it himself. The jerk-off they call Adonis heard our conversation and reported us to the queen bitch. I haven’t seen Linus since, but I expect he will fight in the arena.
Adult Content
Dreams and Little Nightmares
Subway to Hell
Randolph’s Last Ride
It had been a long evening at work, full of misadventure and havoc, all of Randolph’s making. He hadn’t unleashed his brand of mayhem at work for quite some time, and it had been fun. Now, as he stood on the platform waiting for the train, he looked forward to going home and going to bed. He felt exhausted and not in need of causing any additional mayhem on the ride home. The late-night commuters of New York would be safe this evening.
Being the self-centered jerk Randolph was, he didn’t notice the stunning full supermoon above him that evening. He remained incapable of noticing the beauty above him, just as he could never see the beauty surrounding him every day. The world around him was there for his pleasure—in his mind, a nauseating place deserving of his dirty deeds.
He didn’t notice the number of the railcar he boarded as he pushed his way onto the car before letting those coming out pass. Not that he would care the car number was 1666 or that the one had been worn off or scraped off by someone much like himself. He wasn’t superstitious and didn’t believe in God or the devil. He considered such stories to be for stupid children and fools.
He found a seat in the back of the car, and although he knew better, his weariness got the better of him, and he fell asleep, a sleep from which he would never awake.
An hour later, the train stopped on one of the overnight storage tracks far below the city. The engineer had left the train without doing a walkthrough. It was late; he felt tired and didn’t care if anyone remained on the train. A few hours spent in the tunnel would teach them a valuable lesson.
If anyone had been there watching, they would have seen a strange glow coming from one of the cars, and they would have heard the soft sound of laughter blowing along with the peculiar hot breeze carrying the stench of death.
The following morning, a passenger heading off to work found the body on the train’s first run. The police and paramedics responded, and after being shocked a few times, even though the body was already cold, they declared him dead. After being identified by the I.D. in his wallet, the police sent the body to the coroner for an autopsy to ensure no foul play was involved. The coroner’s report indicated that even though Mr. Randolph L. Hazen was only in his mid-thirties, he had died of a massive heart attack. The authorities could find no relatives or friends to claim the body, so the city paid to bury him in the potter’s field, his life forgotten—on Earth.