Short Stories
Full Text of Take Your Time - The commodification of reality itself, as experienced by a black hole miner. Maybe it's end-stage capitalism, maybe its a transcendental apocalypse.
Excerpt from: Lunar Tombs - A Saturday morning space heist with a hilariously morbid twist.
Excerpt from: Winter's Cravings - A gender bendy reimagining of Persephone, aka "Seph," having a lover's spat with Hades that results in an endless Summer.
Excerpt from: Inside You - A totally not-evil lich just wants to left alone in his tower to read books about necromancy but heroes continue to irritate.
Full text: Take Your Time
The commodification of reality itself, as experienced by a black hole miner. Maybe it's end-stage capitalism, maybe its a transcendental apocalypse.
Read the whole story here: Take Your Time
Excerpt from: Lunar Tombs
You really have to appreciate the rituals that people conduct for the loss of a loved one. Some are brilliantly simple, a candle and an oath. Others are stunningly complex, all choreography and ancient embroidered vestments.
Crack.
Death is a sacred event, universal in that it awaits us all, but wholly individual in that each person must face their Death alone.
Crack.
It gives you a sort of serene sense of solipsism about life if you think about it. We pretend we find connections among the living, fall in love, have a family…
Crack.
…but in the end, we all fester in solitude, buried with the useless baubles and trinkets that our vain, materialistic living selves were convinced we couldn’t do without, not even as a rotting corpse.
Crrrrrack!
And there we go. The sealing stone of the coffin finally gives way to my Vendetta brand crowblade and, OOF that stench is sharp enough to pierce even my N9500 gamma-mask. The crowblade clatters on the marble floor as I stumble back, suppressing a gag. It’s not pleasant to release your lunch into one of these masks. They are for the most part particle-tight. All that pre-enjoyed food material, with nowhere else to go, circulates up the nostrils and right into your brain. Plenty of good grave robbers died of vomit-brain. Probably.
Or Procurement Specialists, as we are officially called at Open Casket Inc. I work for the galaxy’s premiere afterlife reclamation corporation, and I, Bugatti Bennington, or Bugger as my frienemies call me, am the best Procurement Specialist on this side of the Maxon-Dickerty Belt. Or the worst, depending on your perspective. It’s a decent gig with good benefits, paid leave, free snacks in the company break rooms, and they’re connected enough to yank you out of most legitimate detention centers.
But you still gotta be careful. The cops may roll their eyes at our tomb raiding antics—it is technically a victimless crime after all—but some higher-caliber cadaver storage agencies hire private security or contract with local militias. Mildos we call ’em, because those dumb fucks ain’t good for nothing but gaping holes in ya.
The N9500 whirs into overdrive and I take a slow, cautious breath. Mmm, air so clean you could eat its ass. I jam my crowblade in and pry the sealing stone free. It’s a fine make, a custom swirl of jet and pyrite with a security mesh reinforcement. Security mesh, hah, like the shit they put in bank windows, as if the corpse would be worried about a hold-up. Good for fuck-all if you can just pry the thing right off. Mostly an excuse for funeraries to make an upsell. Enjoy the peace of mind knowing that your super-dead loved one gets to keep all their tarnished jewelry safe in their rot box for all of eternity. But who am I to criticize the profiteering nature of the Death industry? I’m just the other side of that exact same coin.
The mesh-bound stone crunches and folds along predesignated creases like a petrified cum rag. With one last heave it topples to the floor, revealing the resident of this particular no-expenses-spared tomb.
“Well hello, Mx. Jessaphin Bikram Tortellini III, and my what a stunning visage you are with those chonky blingos and leathery, sucked-in cheeks.”
I lean down with my jeweler’s loop to inspect the oversized emerald ring but freeze as the sound of scraping stone rumbles the crypt.
“Shits.”
I look around frantically for a space to hide. In the coffin? Gross. Between the Grecian columns? Cliché. A pair of flashlights swing about in the dark, drawing closer. I pull out my Fash-tek personal wardrobe projector and scroll through options. Goth kid, zombie, circus elephant, and… ah, yes.
Beep boop
“Ay, who be in there making a ruckus about mi clients’ grampas and grammas?”
I click an old-fashioned pocket watch and mark down some figures on my clipboard, suppressing a wince as the flashlight beams make their way directly into my eyesockets. “Mm hm. Very disappointing, I must say.”
The darkened forms wobble to a confused stop. The lights are lowered, revealing two brutish mildos in ratty, unmatched uniforms. “Maybe you missed wut I dun been sayin’, chump.”
“No, I caught every slurred syllable of it, and I’ll answer your question with another question: do you realize how long it took you to show up? And I’ll answer my question, and then your question in turn: eighteen minutes and twenty-seven seconds, and I represent the United Estates of E-merica Quality Assurance Department.” I flip a business card into the talkative mildo’s front pocket, then extend my hand for a shake before he can pull it out and notice it’s a tenth-sandwich-free coupon from Softcore Subs. “Fanny Benoit, Senior Quality Assurance Coordinator.” I croon out through my nose in my best rich-born bureaucrat’s voice.
The mildo stutters as he shakes my hand, looking over his shoulder at his partner, whose heavy-browed sneer remains unchanged. “Well, sir, I—”
“That’s right, I’m a sort of secret shopper for necro-security, if you will. I got all the way to the dead body before you showed up. Not. A. Good. Look.” I scratch furiously onto my clipboard. “And your name is?”
“Barry Harrison, sir. We, uh, we came runnin’ soon as the alarm thingy ding-donged, me an’ Big Edna,” Barry jabs a thumb over his shoulder at his sneerin’ brow companion.
“Barry, we at the United Estates take the sanctity of our ancestors’ dead bodies very seriously. What if I was a necrophiliac? How would you feel telling poor Mariana Tortellini that her spouse's desiccated anus was violated by a rabid corpse fucker?” I throw my arm over his bulging neck and begin walking him towards the entrance. “So, we’ll consider this time a warning, and I’ll provide some feedback on your performance. But first do you smoke, Mr. Harrison?” I pull a cigar out of my jacket and waggle it in his face.
That poor dumb chode of a man just parts his lips and lets me place my thick brown tube right in.
“There ya go, big guy. Here, have a light. Sit here on this coffin.” I flick open my pocket plasma torch and brush it gently across the end of his fat stogie, which Barry dutifully sucks. I pat him twice on the back and then dash out the crypt door.
Ka-Booooooooooom!
The security-marble roof of the crypt flies straight up towards the stars, and then tiny chunks of rock and metal come raining down around me, including one giant shiny green rock and a bunch of shimmering metal rings and necklaces. I dash about with my satchel open trying to catch as much as I can.
“Oi, ’e ain’t an insphecter,” Barry attempts to say through a blown-up cybernetic face as he heaves a wall off of him and drops onto the astroturf walkway. Sneerin’ Edna drops out behind him carrying her head like an E-merican football.
Doubleshits! They’re metal mildos!
This new generation of illicit law enforcers is more machine than human. I sprint in between the rows of McMausoleums, weaving towards my ship. I feel the pounding of pneumatic bootsteps closing in behind me, then separate as they move to flank me on either side. I zig, I zag, then I skid to a stop in the middle of a Spanish style crypt-ranch courtyard.
Gods dammit, it’s a dead end. I’m going to demand hazard pay for this job, if I even make it out alive. The sound of metal pounding on synthetic garden beds grows louder until Barry Holeface and Rear Edna enter the courtyard from either side.
...
Excerpt from: Winter's Cravings
...And with that, Seph turned around and stomped back up to Earth’s green surface, extending the summer beyond its usual months.
At first, Earth was delighted to have her son at home. She lavished her affections onto him in the form of long, warm days and sprawling, bountiful orchards. But after some time passed without the hunger of Death to prune back her growth, the Earth’s rampant foliage began to choke out the soil and crack the pavement of the cities, while the prolific fauna spread and infested the mortal homes and storehouses. Helios faltered with exhaustion without reprieve from the long Summer drive from horizon to horizon. The Pantheon grew concerned about the state of the mortal realm and sent silver-tongued Hermes to encourage Seph to make amends and let the cycle of seasons progress.
Seph was flirting with the barista in a cafe in San Francisco, the city that most flagrantly flirted with the new concept of gender expression and sometimes even heterosexuality. Seph leaned forward on the counter when suddenly Hermes leaned in and obstructed his view of the fascination du jour.
The handsome, manbunned hipster cleared his throat and said to the back of Hermes’ head, “Um, excuse me, can I hel-”
“Quad shot dirty chai latte with oat milk thanks,” Hermes ordered with a flick of their painted fingers. They were abrupt, but their gilded charm was so disarming that Manbun’s fluster washed over him like a flush of flattery.
Hermes grabbed Seph’s chin and dragged his gaze to meet their own. “Look babe, I know Hades can be more oblivious than oblivion itself, but they’re just old-fashioned. It will take some time for them to understand. They love you. I mean, for Olympus’ sake they sit around in that cold ass chamber waiting for you to return each year. If that’s not true love then I don’t know what is.”
“I don’t give a fuck how old they are, or how pathetically lonely they get. They don’t get to just dictate my gender to me. They can figure it out now, or they can sit down there in a puddle of their cold, lonely precum forever.”
Hermes placed their fingers on either side of their temples and breathed in through their nose. Their senses were assaulted by the scent of humid sex from the soggy, overbloomed vase of flowers on the counter. Withholding a gag, they continued, “Fair. That’s fair. And I feel you, truly. But it’s a big change, you need to have some patience and compassion for Hades and support them as they learn how to process your gender. You can’t shame someone into respecting you. That’s not what shame does.”
Manbun placed the steaming cup on the counter between the two gorgeous godlings. Hermes took a sip and booped him on the nose, barely a touch but he nearly spun over backward from it.
Seph rolled his eyes. “It’s not a change, I’m still me and I’ve always been this inside, I’m just finding the right words for it now. And the fact is that I’ve been asked to have patience for Hades my whole life and I just fucking can’t anymore. This one’s on them. And tell everyone up on the mountain they can send someone to talk to Hades if they want us to get back together. Why the fuck should I be the one to cave?”
“Okay, babe. I tried.” Hermes turned to blow a kiss at Manbun before dashing out. Seph watched the barista watch the godling’s perfect ass and suddenly lost his appetite.
Ten thousand feet below that cafe, Hades shifted uncomfortably on their throne. The tibias and fibulas that made up the seat seemed so much lumpier and rougher against their taint than they had before. They looked around, expecting to hear Pan’s laughter or see the chiding gaze of Poseidon, but the chamber was empty and silent.
“Hekate,” he called out.
A wisp of silvery smoke uncoiled from the floor, stretched into a long vertical slit, then parted for the triple-faced godling to step through. Their long, moonlight hair cast a cold glow on the already chilly gothic arches of the throne room. “Hekate, can you see about getting a cushion for this throne? Someone’s messed up the seat bones and it’s going to give me hemorrhoids.”
“Hades,” Hekate said, not even attempting to hide their three smirks. “Don’t pretend you called me here for housekeeping, and not to listen to you whine about your little spat with Seph.”
“Seph?” Hades sputtered. “Not you too. I thought if anyone would have respect for tradition it would be the godling of witchcraft.”
“His name is Seph, whether you acknowledge it or not. And not that we were eavesdropping or anything, but you were kind of an asshole about it.”
Hades ran their fingers over their face and into their long, midnight beard. “That’s certainly one opinion. But even if I was wrong, they are overreacting!”
“He is overreacting, your grace,” Hekate corrected.
“He, HE, gods dammit. I respect him, and I can try to accept this change. I just have such a hard time with these ridiculous gender binaries that you young demis have cooked up. What the fuck does it mean anyway, to identify with one specific type of genitals? It just feels so superficial and unnecessary. Non-binary is how it has always been amongst the Pantheon that should be good enough for mortals.”
“But Seph is not mortal, o mortiferous one.”
“Well, they are tantruming like one. Been spending too much time on the surface if you ask me.”
“He is tantruming, your finitude. And even if so, all you have to do is apologize and try, try to use his correct pronouns.”
“ENOUGH!” Hades stamped down their scepter so fiercely that the walls shook and bits of stone and bone rained down upon the two deities. “I am the gods-damned Ruler of the Underworld, I don’t have to change my language for anyone, and I am not going to fucking APOLOGIZE for standing by my traditions!”
And so it went on that the two lovers refused to speak. Seph remained on the surface, and the perpetual summer progressed. Before long, the creatures of the land lived in verdant darkness as the voracious canopy stretched ever higher, towering over even the most Icarian of mortal skyscrapers. Seph saw the strife that his perpetual season was causing mortals, so he coaxed the monstrous orchard to bear divine fruits that would extend their mortal lifespans indefinitely. Freed from the worry of survival, they turned their full attention to frivolity. With a little design and coordination from Dionysus, the perpetual darkness of the canopy became an eternal night on the town. The vines twisting about the buildings were festooned with colorful lights. Endless wine and psychedelics flowed from enchanted taps. Flesh undulated in passionate abandon as the mortals lost themselves in an apocalypse of indulgence.
“Finally,” Seph said, “this is the future liberals want.”
...
Excerpt from: Inside You
...I hear a pounding at the doors. The skull pivots on its cervical vertebrae, cocked as if it were to point an absent ear in the direction of the sounds. A dusty rasp forms at the base of the sternum and is propelled through the cracks of the warped, mouldering wood.
“I don’t want any. Go away.”
The rapping stops, then is replaced by a throaty, phlegmy voice of noble upbringing.
“We know you’re in there, heretic! It is I, Ser Gisela Skinpiercer, ordained divine paladin of his holy majesty, King Venerant Macabrille XIV! I have come to purge this realm of your taint. Come out and face your judgment!”
The skeleton’s weathered phalanges curl in rage, then place the tome safely onto the pedestal and close it with a linen bookmark in place, just in case the situation calls for any windstorms or basilisks. I stomp the bony leg ends down the spiral staircase, even though there is nothing imposing about the clack of a calcaneus on stone. On the ground floor, the arms raise, and I fling the heavy wooden doors open with a blast of musty air and a squeal from the rusty hinges.
“Ser Skinpiercer!” I send forth in a screeching echo from beyond the veil. “Your meddlesome efforts to disturb my arcane studies are in vain, as, you see, I am without any skin to pierce!” I clack the mandible against the skull to punctuate the display, maintaining the arms raised skyward and drawing out the flutter of foetid air through the tattered sleeves.
The divine paladin is a beanpole of a woman in gilded armor, flanked by two nearly identical young squires. All three of them stare at me, their own mandibles hanging slack. None of them had the sense to have their swords at the ready, prepare a cantrip, or enter a proper battle rage. In fact, it appears that the paladin’s weapons and shield remain stored in a pack slung over one squire’s shoulder.
Skinpiercer croaks once, clears her throat, then, with a tremor shaking her from her lips to the tips of all her appendages, raises an ornate cross and begins to chant.
“Demon of vile and treacherous intent, defiler of all that is good, under the light of the Divine Moon, I banish you! I condemn you back into the penultimate penumbra! Mater tua egregius bos! Pater tuus est buccellatum claudicationem!”
The sky darkens as I writhe and wriggle the bones about, screeching in my best approximation of mortal terror. “No! Nooooo! Oh, what a world!” The bones collapse in a disorganized pile on the cobblestones.
Sir Skinpiercer slowly lowers her cross and peers down at the inert remains. The second squire extends a scabbard to poke at the bones, inquiring, “Hast thou vanquished it, good ser? Is the wraith slain so easily?”
“No, you fools!” I spring the bones back into posture and slant the cranium forward in a mock scowl. “I am not a wraith or a demon! I’m just a very old bibliophile who wants to be left alone to read! Now, I’ll give you the count of eleven to get off my lawn before I turn you into toads.”
Skinpiercer presents an open palm towards the first squire, who fumbles to produce a gleaming golden mace.
“Horrid beast—”
“ELEVEN!”
Whomp.
A cloud of sulfuric smoke plumes before me, then dissipates to reveal a toad in gilded toad shaped armor flanked by two toads in tiny leather jerkins.
“You have no idea what it means to be a hero, because you have never known true suffering, the kind that forges a soul into greatness. You know in your heart that not only are you innately unheroic, you are nothing more than a common bully. History will abandon your memory, and when you pass, your funeral wailers will be tepid.” I turn the skeleton away and begin to slam the doors, but I am so intensely irritated by the interruption that I feel there’s more humiliation due. Or maybe a little compassion.
“The spell will wear off by the next gibbous moon. You’ll be fine, as long as you avoid hawks and carriage wheels. After that, go back to your petty court. Tell them you vanquished your horrid beast, or whatever raises your social standing. I care little about what you do with the remainder of your unimaginably short existence, as long as it doesn’t interrupt my reading again.”
The doors shut behind me, and I stomp the skeleton back up the stairs to my reading nook. Sadly, fortune has placed one additional inconvenience between me and my tomes.
The crisp crunch of an apple breaks the silence. “You didn’t have to turn them into toads, you know. You could have just not answered the door.”
Robin Wood, a shaggy ferret of a man, lies curled in the curve of my upper window, one leg hanging into my tower and the other propped up on the eaves of the roof. The phantom sense of my olfactory nerves threatens to recoil from the wafting aroma of his greasy, sweaty breeches. Or, at least, a distant memory of such wafting aromas.
“I’ve got more eye of newt where that came from. If you don’t get your filthy boots off my tower I’ll turn you into a sentient goat scrotum.” I turn the skeleton back towards the tome and begin examining the page, hoping he will just cease to exist.
...
