Stories
Wintersong By Eleanor DeHaai
Heritage By Stynge & Wing
Dreamweave By Nadin Brzezinski
Novels
Fifty Dolls: Chapter 2 By Doris Lane
Little Georgie Bush's Schooldays: Chapter Four: Little Dickie Cheney By Joe Burinskas
Poems
Fragile Flower By Peggy Carter
Darkness By Terrie R Humenny
I'm the stupid moron jerk asshole By a b
T’was over.
Fuck! Jan flew backwards, electric sparks dancing round his body. The Chip inside his head burned, smoke coming out through his eyes. White-yellow mass, with a tinge of reddish blood oozed out his ears, nose and mouth. Them Corpo-Goons were on their way. They were fast, when alarms went off. They knew we were here. If they scanned whatever remained of his brain before making it mush, we were fucked. I turned to Yoram, my other Streamer. His glazed eyes told me all I needed to know. I pulled my jack out, getting dizzy but for a second, the wire hung down the right side of my head. I went into the Dreamscape using a physical.
These young kids never believed me when I said I never streamed using Wireless.
Wireless allowed Nanoweaves to get to you faster. The Ava came at you faster. The Avas they used this time were Giant Red Dragons, breathing flames, at least in the Virtual World of the Dreamscape. In the Dreamscape those flames were deadly. Dragons were a favorite of Genetech Dreamscape security. They had a sick sense of humor. It was truly an inside joke about another age whem we were free. T’was time to stop thinking ‘bout that. We had precious little time to get out, and Yoram didn’t notice.
My soul is a fragile flower……..
And you have it in your safe-keeping…
Touch it gently, my love….
For it is tender and easily harmed.
It wants to grow in the sunlight of your love
And not wither in the cold and dark of loss…
Cover me with your tender glance…..
And my soul will fly into yours……..
“Get outta town! I’m not your Germini.” George was insulted. He pointed to a portrait of a figure clad in hounskull armour with plate sabatons, hourglass gauntlets and mail coif brandishing an authentic Gran Capitán. “Who is that hanging on the wall?” he demanded.
Rummy turned and saluted the painting. “He is my father, sir; and, sooth to say, in countenance somewhat doth resemble you.”
“What!” George stood there astonished. “How dare you presume! Everyone knows that’s my father. I’m the only son he had–”
Chapter 3 is here
“My little Dickie!” Georgie cried. “I’m so glad to see my little Dickie!”
From inside, Mommy Bush called, “I thought we told you that nice people don’t do that sort of thing, Georgie.”
“But it’s little Dickie Cheney,” Georgie explained.
“Oh, that’s fine,” Mommy said. She came out onto the porch and saw her favorite son and his bestest buddy shaking hands heartily. It warmed her cockles, something Poppy Bush hadn’t been able to do for quite some time.
“Dickie dear,” she said, kissing him on his receding forehead. “How nice to see you. How are you feeling?”
Continue reading "Little Georgie Bush's Schooldays: Little Dickie Cheney: Chapter Four" »
Standing in the ankle-deep snow by the fence, Einar winced as another blast of icy Wyoming wind bit his weathered face, yet not even then did he take his eyes off the pasture.
Huddled there near the propane-heated stock tank, among his prized cattle, stood goats - all kinds of goats - hundreds of goats - more goats than he'd seen in the pasture since the whole thing began. This morning, as always of late, the smelly, yellow-eyed creatures were devouring his hay as if they had a right to it. Einar gave a disgusted sigh, and, bracing his lanky body against the wind, tramped back through the snow to his rough-hewn log house.
When he opened the door, he smelled sausage frying, heard it sizzle, saw the grease splatter from the cast iron skillet on the kitchen range. He shed his fleece-lined parka, hung it on a wall hook behind the woodburning stove in the entryway, and pulled off his boots and gloves. After rubbing his hands together over the stove to warm them, he ambled into the kitchen and sat down at the table.
His wife, Gussie, a plump, pigeonlike woman, handed him a mug of steaming coffee. "The goats still there?" she asked.
Where are we?
Are you with me?
Are you trying to flee?
Or hide with thee
Oh darkness what we got!
I don't even know if I have to bat
Or just hang on and be shot
Chapter 1 is here
Doc wasn’t sure what he was doing in this little harbor town that had been eaten up and swallowed whole by the City of New York less than fifty years before. The winter wind off the river was a cold bitch. In summer you had to wring out your shirt and put it on again.
There was a handsome-looking marble bank building, a petite thing, and the second-best building Holland Hook had to offer. A lumberyard had taken over the old village hall, built with three-foot brick walls and a cupola, back when civic pride meant something.
The National Maritime Workers union hall was the only office building and it had three or four tenants in cramped rooms off dark hallways, a trade union schoolroom, and a smut shooter in the loft on the top floor.
The haberdasher downstairs had put a fancy mallechort-trimmed glass door on his store in the ‘Twenties. Except for Dan Sanski’s door, moderne had skipped it for Holland Hook.
Stupid kid can't tell the difference
Man who wants to be my friend
Man who wants to fuck me
I don't care, I don't care, I don't care
I don't molest
I'm not daddy and mommy
NOT GUILTY!
Yet I lose valuable information, fun, other stuff
Why must I pay?
Thanks for being you, online perverts! Thanks for taking the time,
parents who know shit about your own sons and daughters and their
high-risk internet surfing activitives!
I like things just as they are.
So get fucked.
