Besteningeningening

Big Spoilers Ahead.  If you thought you were going to read the Best Story in the World without spoilin’, read this not.

By the time this post escapes my queue it will be just a few days before I get started on writing the Best Story in the World (for my husband).  As I’m composing this like ten days ago, I’m just going through my thoughts on the story in a public way, to get blog content out of the deal as well.  I hope by the time you read this I’ll be a lot closer to having this sorted out than I do as I’m writing it.

The latest scoop is that I should be able to take a fairy tale and heavily rewrite / modernize it.  Downside, one I know he likes a lot is The Seven Ravens, and I feel like if I use the most obvious one it’ll be less thrillening.  So lemme check on some other ones…

A lot of them don’t really have the pathos to turn into a really compelling story for adults.  They’re just “here’s some wacky shit that happened.”  The ones with real stakes are probably all taken…  Well, I’m going to change this a lot anyway.  What could I do to Puss in Boots to make it feel more like compelling narrative, where the ending is earned, instead of being doled out by a magic cat upon some lucky bum?

The boy who inherited the cat should have to suffer a lot more, so his fortune at the end feels like a magical transformation, reward for a bad time.  Taken abstractly, this then becomes a story where there are two characters – one a sad mess, one with cool skills who is always trying to help the other, and is rewarded at the end with that help becoming more permanent.

It starts with the boy saying he’ll kill the cat, and the cat says naw, let me help you out.  Which is weird.  But in terms of a modern scenario, I could see that playing out in a context of war, or organized crime.  Crime is less bitter for me to contemplate, so yeah, some kind of mafia thing?

Puss opens with a business dude bequeathing his possessions to three sons, maybe I have three partners in crime kill a rival and split his possessions.  One gets the business, one gets the money, and the last gets a henchman.  He’s like, what good is a henchman?  I should kill him before he has a chance to stab me in the back.  But Hench says I didn’t like my old boss anyway.  Gimme a chance and I’ll make you phat loot.  Hench asks for some cool boots and uses a zany scheme to make money off that, idk.

Henchpuss’s first scheme was to get catch elusive partridges for a king that loved partridges, and then to lie that his boss was an earl who had bagged them as a gift.  The king gave Henchpuss gold.  This reminds me of the Count of Monte Cristo, where somebody is going to use treasure to pretend to nobility they don’t have.  I think I can come up with modern mafia equivalents.

Henchpuss keeps partridging for the Godfather until he’s ensconced in his inner sanctum.  He overhears that the Godfather and his Princess are going to the lake, and tells his Boss to go bathe in the lake.  He steals his clothes and then cries to the Godfather that Boss’s finery got jacked by banditos and he’ll catch cold in the lake.  Godfather gives Boss finery he never previously possessed, and Boss gets cozy with Princess.  This scheme is a little more outlandish, but I think I can do it.

Literally the same day Henchpuss runs ahead to a fiefdom ruled by a magician, convinces the people in the fields to front like it belongs to Boss, and tricks the magician into making himself into a conveniently edible mouse.  Godfather Princess and Boss are still spazieren gehen and roll up on the fields where the people pretend it all belongs to the boss.  By the time they get to the magician’s castle, it’s no longer the magician’s, an Henchpuss says welcome home, Boss.

Boss and Princess get Godfather’s blessing to marry, Boss inherits the Godfather’s kingdom as well, and he makes Henchpuss into his Underboss.  The end.  This is the problem, as I said earlier.  The Boss’s only moment of suffering was getting Henchpuss instead of grander prizes, and his only virtuous deed, for which he was rewarded with a kingdom, was sparing Henchpuss’s life.  Doesn’t feel earned, not to a modern audience.

I think a natural sideplot, in turning this into a mob story, would be for the Boss’s other brothers from the beginning to recur as characters who mess him up, cause big trouble…  Y’know, Henchpuss is kinda reminding me of Yojimbo, in that he farms out his magical service rather than being a boss himself.  Altho unlike Yojimbo, he has loyalty.  Maybe I could lean slightly more Yojimbo in having him fake service to the other brothers, and betray them in the end to his chosen Boss.

For some reason as I’m running through this all, I find myself thinking of the two lessons of Haitian Creole I took in DuoLingo.  Imma mange some mango ak fwomaj…  Brains are the worst.

Problem is my dude specified he isn’t interested in crime stories, back in the previous post, and that’s where I’ve gone with all this thought.  Can this be tweaked?  I think the key thing is that my husband does not relate to greed as a motivation.  He wants things to make him happy, but does not want an amount of things that would require mobster loot, so mobsterism is unrelatable.  Could I replace the greed motivator?

What does my dude even want, aside from surcease of his various pains?  What’s a relatable goal?  It’s why he likes horror – the only goal is to survive, and this is relatable, I think, to living with chronic illness.  Hm…  Survival as the goal?  Is being gangster that dangerous here?  Is there any other motive he could find relatable?  Lemme think of his fave stories again…

Cure has a cop battling a guy that kills with hypnotism.  Gotta stop bad guy, because it is your responsibility.  Mulholland Drive has wannabe starlet falling in love with amnesiac girl, trying to have a career and love, while a very fucked up secret threatens to flip it all.  Hm… not very usable.  Perfect Blue has a wannabe starlet being stalked by murderous obsessive(s) that make her question herself and reality.  um…  Silent Hill 2 has a guy get a letter from his dead wife, and he goes to meet her in their special place, only to be confronted with his dark secret in surreal survival horror circumstances.  Motive: Investigate an impossible thing of great emotional significance…

My Mafia Puss in Boots is lacking supernatural mystery.  Maybe that can suggest a better motive for the action.  Contemporary setting, mobsters doing dirt, what magic can be happening?  Maybe the gangsterism is imaginary, like PvP in a video game, and there’s some question of what’s real vs. video gameness…  Been done a lot.  Kinda tired.

But a number of stories he likes involve that “through the looking glass” other world aspect.  The one where it’s most metaphorical is Blue Velvet, but that’s also one where it works very well.  Jeffrey’s innocence at the beginning of that story is not compatible with the mobster idea.  Or is it?  Maybe the Boss is just trying to fake it til he makes it, coerced by circumstances and sheisty other brothers into criminal world.

I’m kinda liking that, but I’m still in mobland.  The whole thing is taking shape in my head – kinda baroque, but ultimately can be boiled down to a simple story – just like he prefers.  But it’s in mobland, which is not his preferred milieu.

When I do gangster content in my stories, I prefer to keep it lo-fi, janky and skanky.  Like the furry scene in Centennial Hills.  That opens the door to eccentric freaks like you’d find in Blue Velvet, which feels magical even if the supernatural isn’t invoked.  You know, I may be pondering the mafioso because of my recent experience with JoJo’s Bizarre Adventure.  I’m thinking, I like the idea of a mob princess in the vein of Trish Una.  Hm hm hm…

I can’t make this self-indulgent!  This MUST indulge my husband, above all!  Argghgghhgghhhghhg!

Well, it goes without saying then, that Henchpuss and Boss are going to be gay, and get together at the end of the story.  That’ll be big big husband points.  I might as well ride this Grimm Bros rocket to its natural conclusion, and switch gears at the last minute to something easier if I have no choice.

To that end, plot notions:

Henchpuss is a cool gay hustler in the criminal kingdom of Godfather.  Boss is a guy whose best friends are no-good scum that try to do a hot score by jacking Henchpuss’s boss.  What if they’re corrupt cops and Boss is just on a bad ride, like Training Day?  No, that makes Boss a cop, and I’d rather not have a protagonist cop again.

What if his best friends are undercover cops and he isn’t?  Lol.  Um… No…  OK.  No… Maybe… I can fold in the Wizard.  They should be in the Wizard’s crime family, which turns Henchpuss’s mousification of the Wizard into a betrayal of Boss’s original boss.  And maybe that crime family could be tha cops?  I feel like a crime story without cops is lacking…

But it isn’t supposed to be a crime story, not really.  Alright, so.  So let’s see.

The Wizard is a drug dealer who has done real well for himself in some limited market, like… a college campus?  Wait, I already did that in Mitosis.  Could this connect to the Mitosis Cinematic Universe?  Don’t be silly.  The Wizard is a Faginesque mystery man who has monkeyboys do crimes for him.  The brothers are monkeyboys turned onto a hot score – jack Henchpuss’s boss.  Boss didn’t know the only way to do that was to kill him.  Why wouldn’t they also kill Henchpuss?  They ask Boss to do it and he cheeses.

Henchpuss says buy me some boots and I’ll make you a bank full of money.  Boss says I’ll settle for not getting killed by rival gangs, but sure, have some boots.  Henchpuss scores some fat loot for Godfather and says it was Boss’s doing.  But mob bosses don’t usually love somebody doing crime without permission in their territory.  Let’s say.. Hm.. what can the partridges be?  What is Godfather like?

The obvious thing would be if the partridges are a vice.  Drugs, drink, weird porn, um… Guns?  Expensive watches?  Cars?  Is he on some Gone in 60 Seconds nonsense?  No, that’s cars, which my dude also finds boring.  What can Henchpuss get with nothing but boots, and impress a mob boss?  Lab-grown diamonds with fake pedigree as coming from more valuable blood mines?  Cool designer drugs?  Man…

Samurai swords?  Comic books?  Funko pops?  Used underwear?  Candy?  Expensive coffee?  Tobacco?  Fine art?  Maybe Henchcat’s starting boss was the guy who usually supplies the stuff to Godfather – but no, if he said Boss was supplying around the same time the usual supplier went dead or missing, Boss would be number one suspect.

Maybe it could be a switchback where instead of saying it was Boss, he says it was another brother.  Then when…  No, this doesn’t work either.  Unless… He says Boss stole it from other brother, and this is actually Henchcat getting revenge, while boosting his new Boss.

Mob Boss goes after other brother One.  This isn’t in Puss narrative originally.  What did come next?  Puss ensconced himself in King’s household while continuing to enrich his boss by selling this supply.  But that don’t work because Godfather would feel entitled to this supply.  Maybe Henchpuss just gives entire supply to Godfather and gets big brownie points.  He just asks permission to operate in town, promising not to hit any of Godfather’s enterprises, and it’s granted.

Henchcat overhears Princess lamenting Godfather expects her to marry so she can make male heir for family line, realizes she’s gay, and hatches scheme to have Boss do a lavender marriage to her, but doesn’t spring the deal yet.  Back at Brother Two’s place, B2’s manipulating Boss into helping him avoid mob wrath, but plans on making him take the fall for the score getting jacked, when the Wizard inquires.

Boss gets messed up and almost killed by the Wizard, Henchpuss gets Godfather to save him, and while in their graces he gets fresh finery.  Wizard disappears, killing brother Two to cover tracks.  Henchpuss discovers a clue, pretends to be Boss to get into the Wizard’s inner sanctum, and defeats him somehow.

Then he tells Boss to take credit for whacking the Wizard when Godfather asks, and Boss gets Made.  Henchpuss ends up having to do some difficult jail time but keeps advising Boss on lavender marriage scheme.  When he gets out, he gets with Boss romantically.

Godfather is biggest remaining threat to everybody’s happiness.  In Puss the King dies, bequeathing kingdom to cat owner.  How will he get taken out here?

It occurs to me that Boss is still a bozo letting Henchpuss do all the work.  What does he do to deserve it?  In this version, I think what he’s doing is being beautiful and romantically available to Henchpuss, who is the actual main character – if not the PoV character at the beginning of the story.

Godfather should pay for his misogyny and patriarchy.  Actually, let’s have this be the moment when Boss and Henchpuss get together.  Godfather finds out Princess is gay and is about to beat her or something, when Boss does his first brave thing and distracts Godfather – by kissing Henchpuss in front of him.  Godfather freaks out and goes to shoot them, leaving him open to Princess stabbing him in the back.

Boss is now Godfather and Henchpuss a consigliere.  Or are they?  I don’t get the impression they wanted to be criminals in the first place.  Maybe the gays all just take the money and run.

So there’s Puss in Boots as an LGBT crime story.  That’s pretty cool, but hardly what I was expecting.  But I suppose that means it would be unexpected to him as well, and therefore surprising or compelling.  Now to see if I can inject things from his “fave stuff” lists, reduce influence of “most hated stuff” list.

Aha!  Looking at older posts gave me some hot notions.  Commenter Ian King suggested a crumbling old gothic estate as a location, which doesn’t fit too well, but what about… a council estate?  What if the whole story including rival gangs is much more small potatoes / low rent, and the whole thing takes place in one housing project?  That fits me and my husband’s interest, as poor people, in more familiar environs – in avoiding glamorous depiction of wealth and power, of writing the world as we know it.

Then the name can just be the name of the project.

Besteningening

I’ve made lists of my husband’s favorite things before, for various purposes.  These were in sketchbooks, so I’m gonna try to distill and elaborate on them here, for use with my upcoming zany writing schemes

LIKES

Movies:  Mulholland Drive, Eraserhead, The Thing, Cure, The Shining, Jacob’s Ladder, Gothic, Texas Chainsaw Massacre, Tetsuo: Iron Man, Akira, Perfect Blue, The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari, Session Nine, Vampyre, Tale of a Vampire, The Cat, Kairo, Night of the Living Dead, Twin Peaks: Fire Walk With Me, Little Otik, Crimson Peak, Videodrome, Event Horizon

Some take-aways from that:  character-centric horror, indelible imagery, iconic qualities, if it ain’t literally the end of the world it feels like the end of the world.  dreams.  monsters.  beautiful people.  beautiful people who are monsters.  small central casts.

Stories, Books, and Comic Books:  The Metamorphosis, Fall of the House of Usher, Lost Souls, The Strange Tale of Panorama Island (both versions), My Sweet Audrina, The Necrophiliac, Hellstar Remina, The Laughing Vampire

Some take-aways from that:  gothic drama, cold-hearted beauties, violence, style, ultimate corruption.

Visual Art:  Edward Hopper, Francis Bacon, Hieronymus Bosch, Malcolm Liepke, JC Leyendecker, Stephen Gammell, Suehiro Maruo

Some take-aways from that:  That stuff is pretty varied, but a lot of it ranges from spooky to horrific, from stylish and elegant to exploding with lurid detail.

Games:  Silent Hill (best to worst 3 2 1 4), Sanitarium, The Dark Eye, The Secret World, Rule of Rose, Fallen London, Kult

Some take-aways from that:  good storytelling, it’s all horror games, an emphasis on parallel / hidden worlds.

Music: The Cure, Bauhaus, Tr/st, Drab Majesty, Qual, Joy Division, The Pixies, Fad Gadget, Grauzone, Depeche Mode

Some take-aways from that:  dark romance, frenetic agony, convulsive energy, awkward alienation, depression, laughing at one’s own depression, literary references, intellectualism.

Keep it Short:  Short stories, even so short as to be simple vignettes, like Fuan no Tane.  He always likes this better than long form fiction, which is funny, because he wants more of what he likes, right?  The best compromise if I’m shooting for longer length, I think, is to make sure each part holds up well on its own – has internal interest and its own arc.

Fashion:  Description of what characters are wearing, or other things related to their milieu or subculture – the food they eat, the things they drink, the music they listen to.  I don’t think he always needs this – many of his favorite short stories don’t get much into those details – but he likes it when it shows up.  Describing what characters are wearing, or what they look like at all, can throw a brick on your story’s pace.  I think the writers most concerned about that would be people like myself who are heavily influenced by cinema, but it’s a mistake to forget what medium you’re working in.  Sometimes people wanna know what stuff looks like, sometimes they don’t.  Gotta find your audience and play to it.  In this case, easy, it’s just one guy who I know well.

Looking back at the original notes, he specifically said he likes to see “makeovers.”  That’s tremendously gay.  I’m into it.  Not sure how well suited it will be to gothic genre fiction, if that’s what I make.  What the hell am I going to make?

Colorful Color:  My dude may be goth, but at heart he retains some element of that childhood attraction to green pterodactyls and purple dragons.  New Wave fashion, the makeup on New Romantics, the colors of Lisa Frank art.  Black paired with rainbow.  This is more a thing he is drawn to in visual art, but a reference to nifty colors in a book might go over well.

Simple Language:  I don’t think my dude is as much into this as he was when he made the older of the lists I was reading.  Since then, he has read and enjoyed The Turn of the Screw and Blood Meridian.  Though he did not read the latter in a linear fashion; he hopped around in it, reading parts at random until he was done.  He said it was what he imagined xtians get out of reading the bible – open to a random page for inspiration.  That book was a lot less about the overarching plot than the vignette and the character, I think.

Just the same, I think I know what he was getting at when he added “simple language” to the list.  We’ve both read amateur writing that tried to impress by using strange sentence structure or confusing metaphors.  Best to avoid that kind of shit, I’m sure.

Descriptions:  My husband has mixed opinions on how much description to include or not include in a story.  He has a piece of Stephen King advice memorized that he finds useful – that what’s left to a reader’s imagination is something they can make their own, actually immerse them in the story more effectively than telling them what to see.  His example was having a character step into a bar for a short scene, and only mentioning two details – like the bar being sticky or the bartender having hairy arms.  Something like that, I don’t recall specifics and didn’t feel like looking it up.

That is sound advice, but by contrast, sometimes an author wants to cast a spell, pull us more fully into their own world, and my dude has enjoyed that kind of writing a lot as well.  Since he has this flexibility, I think it might behoove me to use another metric for deciding how much and how little description to include.  Here’s a good one:  The more description you include, the more time slows down; the less, the faster it goes by.  I’ll just use description to control pace, or cover important details…

I say that, but I’ll probably just fall back on my evil ways and describe stuff however I please.  It’s a real hard habit to change – maybe those kind of changes are best left to subsequent drafts.  Looking back at the original notes, one says, “vivid description but not too dry.”  I think I tend to hit this mark with no effort.

Writing Actions:  A caution against excessive blocking.  Most of us are thinking visually, or acting out what a character does in our heads, so we feel the need to say “he put his hand on his chin” forty-seven times in a book, when one would probably suffice.  How often does it really matter if something happened on the right or left side?

Environmental Activism:  Not actual environmentalist themes, which would be an intrusion of depressing realities best left to other authors.  When my husband is looking at the work of amateur writers, the number one thing he harps on is that they do not establish what the hell is happening – the first element being where it’s happening.  They’re too eager to get into dialogue between their fun funboys, but are they in a rundown apartment or the Gobi Desert?  That shit kinda matters.

Establishing shots are a thing in cinema; descriptions of where your story opens have been de rigueur for hundreds of years for a reason.  In fair Verona where we lay our scene…  I don’t think I’m going to have a problem with this.  I don’t think like those kids.  RIP to them, but I’m different.

Identifiable, Well-Conceived Characters:  Stephen King does well enough at this most of the time, but his failures are notable.  As a boomer, he can maybe detect the subtle differences between white people with strained marriages and kids they don’t pay adequate attention to, better than we can.

Lovable Characters:  I don’t think he’s as much about this now as he used to be, but he’s still 100% not into unlikable characters, which is something a surprising amount of writers and readers are fond of.  I know he hates anything that feels twee or like it’s for babies, so even the beloved Dale Cooper is pushing it a little, sometimes.  People having likable flaws is good.

Romance Beginning or Being Renewed:  A lot of drama is wrung out of relationships going bad; he is not interested in that.  I’ll avoid it.  He does like to see a romance begin, or be reaffirmed in the course of a story.  Less depressing.

Humor:  My husband doesn’t like a lot of humor writing, but the humor in the writing he likes?  He likes it a lot.  He also tends to include elements of humor in most of his stories, at least a tiny dash here or there.  The kind of humor I’d be reaching for: Kiyoshi Kurosawa (wry, dark, feminist, humanist), David Lynch (people acting like wacky monsters, other people having gentle quirkiness, awkward situations as long as they aren’t too humiliating, parody like Invitation to Love or What did Jack Do?), parody of the banal things of life such as brand names and TV shows, breaks in tension at dramatically appropriate moments, etc.

Horror:  Typically of the surreal, science-fiction, or fantastical origin – a menace you would not encounter in real life.  Feeling disempowered in real life, he cannot relate to the power fantasies of being able to action hero your way out of danger.  He likes the Raid movies some, but not as much as me.  Horror as a genre is incredibly diverse.  On one end, there are action horror stories, where the characters survive and / or defeat the evil because they are so cool.  Not his jam.  Another expression is lurid interest in physical and psychological trauma, as one sees in “torture porn,” or edgelord films like Last House on the Left.  Also not his main interest, though occasionally there’d be some appeal in some amount of that.  Lastly, you have the disempowered character being confronted with a source of mortal fear, and doing their best to escape or survive.  That’s the stuff.  Another use of horror as a theme rather than a genre is to express a powerful feeling, as the surreal elements of a David Lynch film.

Survival Horror:  Of his favorite things, not a lot in this category.  Significantly Kiyoshi Kurosawa’s Kairo and the Silent Hill games.  What does he like about it?  I’m guessing it isn’t the “chance to return to zero, and make your way by wits and steel” like the main run of zombie genre fans, or the desire for a faceless mob you can mow down without compunction either.  Maybe there’s some allure in not having as many people around, since he has the shyness.  There’s another way that could interact with social anxiety – the circumstance gives an obvious way to bond with strangers, to overcome shyness.  If you’re a survivor, you have something in common.  But I think, broadly, this is just an extension of what he likes about horror.  It is believable and relatable to be in a circumstance you must react to, exciting when it’s a scary circumstance that is not one you would actually experience in real life.

Ambiguous or Inhuman Enemies:  This can be true in both survival horrors like Kairo and Silent Hill, and in works that include surreal horror like Twin Peaks and Lost Highway.  I haven’t seen all of the new / final season of Twin Peaks yet, but I somehow doubt that within it Lynch and Frost spelled out exactly wtf Bob and the doppelgangers were.  One has to wonder to what extent even the writers themselves left things intentionally undefined.  Spirits?  Aliens?  Alien spirits?  What does it mean to be a “magician” in that world?

While as a writer I tend to spell this shit out pretty specifically, I think I can manage the restraint to make an ambiguity work.  On the other hand, people did express some confusion about Josefina and Blasfemia, so I should tread carefully.

Suspense:  I don’t tend to instinctually think like this, as a writer – gotta force it.  Remember when I said I was going to aim to write a Dan Brown-style thriller?  I very thoroughly planned and outlined it, but didn’t get very far into writing.  Nonetheless, I can’t wait to get back to that project, because the preparation did help a lot.  The writing was very fun.  But making it suspenseful?  For this I had to make a conscious effort in my outline to include all the tips and tricks famous people like Brown and (much more importantly) Hitchcock have given on the subject.  It’s a cool way to make a story compelling.  Even cheap tricks can work well; they exist for a reason.  But I may have to take a very different approach if I want to land on David Lynch instead of John Grisham, you know what I mean?

Mystery:  Silent Hill, Mulholland Drive, Cure, these works all had a significant sense of mystery to them.  Not a whodunit among them, but still, you are led to wonder a lot, which is compelling to a guy like him.  I’m a basic bitch for stories spoonfeeding me.  Perhaps I’m a touch incurious – too assured that I understand everything I need to understand in life, and that anything outside of that domain can stay mysterious if it so desires.  But I think this’ll be a lot easier than suspense to work into any given story idea.  All I gotta do is come up with a bunch of stuff that is never shown on the page – only alluded to – and thereby invite speculation.

Should be important stuff, something you might actually care to know.  I’ve seen amateurs put a mysterious but uninteresting character in front of you, and in asking for feedback say “what do you want to know about this guy?”  Gotta make sure the answer, in my case, isn’t “not much.”

DISLIKES

Story Too Long:  He much prefers short stories to novels.  Contradiction:  He writes novels.  What’s up with that, man?  He also wants to see a lot more of the things he likes – like Silent Hill games, which turned to shit before their time.  You can’t get more of what you love without said thing going long, one way or another.  For my part, I’ll probably keep what I write on the short side for a novel, with room for a sequel.

Description Too Dry:  Too much description, or description that creates a dull, uninteresting tone.  I’m a lazy writer.  Won’t catch me penning anything like the first chapter of Mysteries of Udolfo, so I think this is not a problem.

Unnecessary Information / Overlong Exposition:  When we develop a sci-fi or fantasy setting, or an elaborate web of conspiracy or intergenerational intrigue, we tend to want to lay out all of our work on the page.  Big mistake, for any audience except the ultragork, and my dude has a low tolerance for it.  I don’t expect this’ll be a problem for me.  On the other hand, maybe J & B would’ve made more sense if I spent more than the odd short paragraph on explanation…  Contradiction:  None; he’s pretty consistent about this.

Too Much Relationship Drama:  He probably has Post-raised-by-women-who-watch-Dynasty Stress Disorder.  A lot of stories get their mileage out of ups and downs in a relationship.  Oh no, is he cheating?  Is she jealous?  Is he planning to leave her?  Will absence make these hearts grow cold?  Contradiction:  He’s OK with including one of these things, but generally is true to this principle.  It just doesn’t interest him – or me.

Too Much Conversation:  When word count is tilted toward dialogue, this is a pet peeve for him.  Especially if the dialogue is redundant or adds nothing but mild character development to the story.  Contradiction:  None; even in real life he’s pretty stoic.  Maybe he doesn’t like chatty characters because he doesn’t relate.

Graphic Sex:  A lot of people agree with this, just find it tasteless to see a lot of dirty words in print, feels better when something is left to the imagination.  Contradiction:  How much sexual content is in David Lynch films?  In books he loves?  I suppose that can hinge on how one defines “graphic.”

Judgments / Shaming:  Too easy to relate to a character who is on the spot, beloathed.  As a child he used to identify with the villains in superhero stories, like Wesley Willis assuming Batman would kick his ass.  Contradictions:  If he hates an antagonist enough, they might get some amount of this.  But even then, not for long.  He once wrote a rush limbaugh -inspired character that was mocked by a demon for like two seconds before being sent to hell.  Don’t dwell on it.

Embarrassment Comedy:  You ever notice how much comedy – especially sitcoms and Farrelly brothers movies – revolves around humiliation?  You ever been humiliated?  How you responded to that experience may be the deciding factor in whether or not this humor works for you.  Personally, I fucken despise it.  Nuke it from orbit.  My dude has expressed as much to me, and I can’t see myself writing a scenario like this, even by accident.  Incidentally, the fetish some people have for humiliation is also beyond my comprehension, except insofar as I understand any intense experience could be sexualized.  Not my cup o’ tea.  More broadly, my husband doesn’t like reading about people being embarrassed, on the spot, upset, but… Contradiction:  The sad ending of Mulholland Drive hinges in part on the social horror of humiliation.  At least we’re not expected to laugh at it.

Realistic Characters as Impediment to Story:  It might be realistic for characters to have a slow time adjusting to a fantastic circumstance, but if they’re still getting used to the idea of zombies existing when the credits are about to roll, that shit is annoying.  Real life people tend to not have bold personality traits that line up with tropes, just being a muddle of contradictions and mild feelings about things.  Archetypes and tropes exist because they help storytelling, and shouldn’t be shunned to make your guys more boring.  Contradiction:  My husband, as a writer, does tend toward understated characters that don’t hew closely to existing archetypes, and can have complex motivation.  A sort of realism can work, if it doesn’t impede the story.  I don’t think I’ll have a hard time writing characters for him, in this way at least.

Inscrutable Characters:  Not everybody has to wear their heart on their sleeve or be obvious from go, but if you haven’t made at least a false sense of the character within a few chapters of their introduction, they’re kind of a non-entity, not interesting.  The Man of Mystery can’t be too mysterious.  Contradiction:  He’s down with the antagonist from Kiyoshi Kurosawa’s Cure, who seems to have amnesia throughout the picture, and has indecipherable motives.  What’s up with that, man?

References to Attractiveness:  Nobody is universally attractive.  Even if they look remarkable, different people will be struck by that differently.  I’ve only seen people with noteworthy eye color less than ten times out of thousands of people I’ve seen, and I wasn’t “arrested by their limpid pools,” hollering after them or trying to get those digits.  Some readers want a fantasy of everybody being horny for the character they identify with, but it reads like the insecurity of the author to me.  Not compelling, unrealistic in a bad way – a way that limits the narrative.  Contradictions:  My man likes the early works of Billy Martin, which have the sexy-to-everyone specialest boys in them.  I do think we’re mostly simpatico on this one and I’m not likely to transgress, but could I dip into it just a bit, for cheesy charm?

Self-Important and Self-Pitying Characters:  When the author identifies too much with the character, there’s a tendency to treat them even more preciously than we treat ourselves in real life.  At least, I’m hoping that’s the reason characters are sometimes written like this, because if they are reflecting their authors accurately, those authors are not appealing people.  It comes off like more insecurities.  Sometimes it will be a character clinging too tenaciously to the comforts of their cute little status quo.  Sometimes they’ll overreact to perceived slights and disrespect.  Sometimes they will just seem absolutely uninterested in other characters in the story.  Sometimes they’ll react to any suffering imposed by the narrative with too much sniveling and whining.  Not every character has to be stoic manjobs, but this stuff sucks.  Especially when the Universe of the story agrees with their point of view – everybody around them is unreasonable, every inconvenience they experience truly is a cosmic injustice, etc.  Contradictions:  My dude likes gothic writing, which does have a lot of self-pity on display.  But, y’know, when you’re being poisoned by your grandma and your uncle is driving you insane with snakes in the parlor so he can steal your inheritance, self-pity might be in order.  He’s clarified this for me more recently – impotent rage is the least appealing expression to him, reminiscent of incels.

Characters too Edgy:  Stories that expect you to identify with a rapist – why are there so damn many of these?  Ditto other stripes of creep.  This is easy enough to avoid.  Contradiction:  My husband likes some stories with grody MCs, altho the out for that is when the author is not asking the reader to agree with them, like EA Poe with his various murderer-narrators.

Gross-outs:  We personally know a talented new writer who loves to write about sloppy piles of guts and excrement.  My dude has a reasonable amount of respect for her, but is decidedly not on the same page for that stuff.  Contradiction:  The part in Ranpo’s Panorama Island which luridly describes the double’s sorta-fresh corpse gets a thumbs up, as does the writing of Gabrielle Wittkop, such as The Necrophiliac.  Hm.  I suppose, for horror, a good metric would be how it compares to Peter Jackson’s Dead Alive (originally Brain Dead).  That is clearly grody as hell for the sake of being grody, which is a no-go.  One of our writer friend’s short stories was very much like Dead Alive, or Reanimator.

Scary Animals:  It amuses me that this was on one of the lists because he has done extensive work on at least three novels with prominent use of animals for scares.  He has complex feelings on beasties.  I do hope he gets them ready for self-publishing; they are compelling.

Children and Babies:  Something about stories involving children or babies is extremely uninteresting to my dude, which makes sense for a non-breeder, but there’s more to it than that.  He also doesn’t like most literature written for children, no matter how much it works for the masses.  That’s part of why he never had to feel the disappointment of queen terf’s heel turn the way many people close to his age do.  Even if the characters are over eighteen, if they’re “coming of age” or “figuring themselves out,” it feels like kid stuff to him.  Contradiction:  I think he’s cool with scary kids, like Damian Omen and Sadako The Ring.

Boring Settings:  He just finds certain milieus uninteresting and boring – deserts, prisons, courtrooms, corporate / professional settings, extravagance and wealth.  Contradiction:  He has a line from The Trial tattooed on his body, the joaker.  Plus gothic stories are usually set in an environment of extravagance and wealth, if a decaying one.

Overly Detailed Settings:  Can’t have so much detail that it’s hard to remember or understand.  Contemporary setting is by far the best, if sci-fi or fantasy keep jargon constrained, minimize learning required.  For my part on this project, I’m definitely using a contemporary setting.

Crime Stories:  Again, a setting or milieu he finds uninteresting.  For me, it depends on the execution and the focus.  If the characters are all competent and cool criminals executing a hojillion dollar heist, less interesting than grotty fuckups getting into trouble.  But the grotty fuckups can easily become too unlikable.  For me Pulp Fiction really pushed the limit.  I generally can’t get behind those assholes, but the actors helped a lot.  Professional charisma havers.  You do not get this benefit in print!  Of topic.  Lessee… Contradictions:  He liked The Raid movies.  Twin Peaks is a murder mystery -esqe thing.  More than one Kiyoshi Kurosawa movie has police procedural elements.

Cars / Vehicles:  Like a boring setting to him, but also connects to a general lack of interest in action.  No Fast No Furious.

Action:  He doesn’t like action adventures – he does not like scenarios that show a character’s power, because it is unrelatable to somebody with chronic feelings of disempowerment, even as wish fulfillment.  Contradiction:  He is OK with action scenarios that are more about just barely surviving, horror content or scenarios that feel like horror content.  The Raid movies are relentless action, but horrifying.  He especially liked a scene of the dude from Matheson’s I Am Legend arriving late at his fortified home, which was swarming with vampires.

Too Many Enemies:  Not sure what he meant by this one.  May have just been an extension of how he doesn’t like longer form or overly complicated stories.

Heavy Topics:  Environmentalism, war, global strife, politics, homophobia, transphobia, racism, ignorance – even in antagonists.  It’s too real; my husband goes to literature to see problems that are not affecting him IRL.  Contradiction:  I think he can tolerate traces of this, but he’s pretty consistent about it.  The villain should be scheming to steal your kidneys for Satan, not hurting you because you are gay.

From Recent Discussion With Him:  Best stories are simple at their core, which is why he favors short form.  If I do something long, the length must not come from complexity within the story, or too many side plots and characters.  Asked which David Lynch movie involved the least time-wasting foolery, he said Blue Velvet.  I bet he’d say that of Eraserhead as well, if he had thought of it.  Asked for an example of something more like novel length that didn’t waste too much time, The Haunting of Hill House was mentioned, and Frankenstein.  He emphasized that fairy tales are a good model for elemental storytelling.

This is more notes to myself and I have no special idea on what people should comment, if anybody feels like commenting, but as you please…

Centennial Hills – It’s Over!

Centennial Hills, the first draft, is done!  Who knows if it will get additional work and see some more mainstream form of self-publication?  This might be the final version of it.  Neighborhood of 75K words – light for a sci-fi, low end for a thriller.  You can click the Centennial Hills tag to see ’em all, tho I don’t have a convenient way to arrange reverse chronological / oldest first.  Maybe someday I’ll add previous and next buttons to them.  Or just sell an e-book!  Can you imagine?

Content Warnings:  Drug Use, Mental Illness, Big Feels, Inequitable Class Systems.

 

CENTENNIAL HILLS: THE END

by Bébé Mélange

Snar propped theirself up with enough drugs to survive the night without killing Tmai, and after some sleep, was able to do much more competent work at finishing the repairs.  The humans stayed with the Vinudians and the bgrudjh let them, at last releasing all of them, on the condition nothing of their fight got back to the authorities.

Snar had to confess their trauma to the big man, to excuse their own behavior, and get on a course of treatment for it.  But they were staying.  One could not go against the way of the worlds, try as one may.  It was for a doctor of Vinudian medicine to serve Vinudians.  It was for Vinudians to be unjust to each other, unequal in distribution of that healing hand.

And it was for the uncontacted to remain on their worlds, and for space escorts to ferry bodies where they were meant to be.  Once again, there was little time for a proper goodbye; High Jdibitong wanted Tmai and the Earthlings gone.

The Earthlings waited in the clinic while the Ainavians said their farewells in Snar’s quarters.  The room still had the feel of an alien hand in design, and nothing of the personal from Snar’s life or interests.  Someday that would change.

For the moment, the doctor was focused on getting well enough to function, using a more sensible drug and dosage to curb the worst spikes from their trauma disorder.  It didn’t have a noticeable effect on their personality, from Tmai’s point of view.  They saw them hunched, tired, distracted – lounging nervously on a long chair.

The captain had been ready to jet, under pressure from the bgrudjh, but suddenly let their pack hang low, and sat down on a stool near the doctor’s more luxurious seat.  “I don’t think we’ve settled this.  I don’t want to leave you, feeling like we don’t understand each other, like…”

“That I haven’t forgiven you,” Snar signed.  “Tmai, I have.  Though I don’t want to talk about it.  Please spare me.”

Tmai considered it for a moment, looking at their hands.  Then they signed, “That is your right, and it’s reasonable.  But can I just say how I feel?”

Snar shrugged.  “We all have to do that sometimes.  Keep it as plain as you can, and please don’t contact me again.  Maybe … if you must, in a few years.”

“Thank you very much.  I need this much; you are right.  I recognize that I messed up in my duties, unforgivably so.  Terribly so.  And you may feel you have to forgive me just to help yourself forget.  I don’t mind that; I don’t need to be punished forever.”

“This sounds like the beginning of a therapy session.”

“I can keep it brief, I swear.  I just… hm… Let’s say, we just go through this Universe, through our lives, without really understanding each other fully.  And true, full understanding is genuinely impossible.  Abstractly, we get that everybody is a thinking and feeling individual with their own experience of life, but it isn’t always real for us, and that can feel isolating.  We’re all alone, as they say.”

“Preface for something maudlin?”

Tmai pulled an expression of wan amusement and continued.  “Maybe.  I just want to say, I feel you.  Of course not in a way that’s of any use to you, but it is of use to me.  You saved my life.  I care about your life.  We’ve been close to the limits of our lives together – of course, always apart – but also together.  It isn’t meaningless.  I’ll never forget you, Snar.”

Snar sunk more fully into their seat, close to feeling overwhelmed, but steadied just enough by the drugs to avoid a completely embarrassing display.  They couldn’t quite raise a hand to sign back.

Tmai said, “This was for me.  You don’t have to say anything.  I love you.”  They stood, walked to the door, and looked back one time.  “Goodbye.”

Then they were gone.

Snar covered their head and allowed theirself a long moment of physiological sadness response.  They knew, all the while, that their connection with Tmai was over, and that this was a good thing.  But it was a heavier thing than they had expected, and the weight would pull them down for a while.

Out in the clinic, Tmai said their names, “Scudz, Shammy, Elidza.  We go.”  The terse basic language was hard to speak without feeling rude, so they were learning to punctuate these things with the practiced expression of a human smile.

They were all eager to leave the Vinudian enclave, not at all hesitant.  Though at the door, Eliza cast one look back toward the door of Snar’s quarters.  She had a sense that of everyone who had been on the misadventure together, Snar might be the closest to a kindred spirit with her, but that they could never come close to sharing that with each other.

It was only a moment, and then she was gone.

Back in the big city, the humans figured out how to keep their heads low, and Tmai arranged for all of them to stay together in a miserable vermin-infested hostel.  It took an unbelievably long week for Tmai’s spaceship to be properly repaired, during which they all busied themselves with learning or with computer games.

As a charitable offering, the humans had received mobile computers of their own, and learned to call each other on them.  Unfortunately, no human language – or even numbering system – was accounted for anywhere in the user interfaces of the devices.  Eliza, and to a lesser extent Shammy, could muddle through in Ainavian mode.

They took turns cleaning their clothes in a sonic washing machine, washing their bodies in a luke-warm saltwater shower, and hoped nothing too vile would come of the grotty circumstances.  Scuzz stared out the tiny window, wondering similar things to Eliza, but in different ways…  How was Pep gone forever?  How did it come to that?

At last Tmai announced it was time to take them home.  No one protested.

The ship was a flying saucer again.  Or had it been replaced?  The humans would never know the difference, just that Pep’s Millennium Falcon was no more.  The interior was barely furnished with a handful of large ottomans and ugly hospital curtains.  No windows.  At least it was a lot more spacious, without the cramped cosplay interior design.

“Scudz, Shammy, Elidza, go Eardh widh Chnai now.”  They smiled at their passengers, looked at them for any kind of response.

Shammy said, “Thank you kindly,” and nodded in polite dismissal.  You have permission to do your thing, Captain.

The humans were alone, insofar as they could be, with nothing but curtains between them and wherever Tmai had gone to push buttons.  The ladies caught Shammy looking some kind of way, and asked him about it.

“Shamar, what is this look about?”

Scuzz looked expectant as well, but said nothing.

“I know we hafta go back.  We don’t belong out here.  But … this is it?  This is all that comes of it?  I just don’t know how ta feel, I guess.”

Scuzz said, “I think I get it.  I’d probably feel like that too, if it wasn’t so crazy for me there.  Not that it wasn’t crazy for you!  But…”

Eliza scowled.  “You have a reservation about going home?  To the place where we are not treated like dogs?  Where we have rights and jobs and condominiums?”

“Do we have jobs?,” Shammy asked.

She nodded and rolled her eyes in annoyance.  “Still.  You cannot honestly want to play spaceman like Pep did, can you?”

He stared into the middle distance, wondering.

Scuzz said, “That’s interesting.  What would you do, if you could stay out here?  In outer space?”

“Don’t rightly know.  Tmai don’t need a copilot.  Flyin’ this UFO is a one-alien job.  Maybe they could use a mechanic?”

Eliza asked, “Do you want to spend your senescence in an alien housing project, or in a luxury nursing home, with nice clean sheets?  And nurses who know what orifice you shit from?”

Scuzz crinkled her nose.  “You’re nasty.  Heh.”

“You’re right, but I can’t help think I’m missing out on something.  On seein’ things nobody ever seen before.”

Eliza mock-strangled him.  “No.  You.  Don’t!”

Scuzz laughed, and blushed when they kissed.  She left them for another curtained-off wedge of the saucer, and let herself sink into an identical ottoman there.  She did feel it too, on reflection.  The call of the unknown, of the amazing.  But Earth was pretty cool too, in its way, and she never wanted to come within a thousand miles of being a slave, ever again.  She imagined a bed of human design, reflecting that when she was a child, she always wanted something more exotic.  A room full of translucent pillows ten feet deep, a waterbed covered in koosh ball rubber.  Now four posts and a mattress seemed like perfection.

 

The flying saucer moved faster than the speed of light, an expression of the impertinence of thinking beings, when confronted with the physical limitations of their material existence.  From the time a simple cell first develops an organelle or chemical process that decides what to do in response to change, a soul is born – a thing that is of the body but separate, larger.  Never free but always striving for freedom.

This time, the refurbished machine flew straight and true, finding the planet Earth small – easy to reckon with, a tidepool on a beach that could be ignored or examined as one pleased.  It set down, detected by defense systems that would be far too slow to do anything about it.  A seagull with no fear of a slow dog.

Tmai let the ship go to the coordinates it had left from, but at the last moment diverted some distance into the desert hills.  Best to not be landing in somebody’s back yard.  The portal opened onto cold dusty night air, rich with the miasma of life.  There was no symphony of insects and night birds crawling out of their nests, everything within a kilometer spooked silent by the change in air pressure as the unnatural object descended.

Everybody came out, more awkwardly than when the UFO had a proper ramp.  Eliza nearly injured her shoulder.  But once on solid ground, they all began to feel that weight again.  The Earth’s gravity had them.  It was more powerful than the artificial gravity of the ship, or that of the slightly smaller Erbin 2.

Standing in that Nevada desert, looking up at the spacecraft, so much had changed.  It was no Millennium Falcon.  Its Han Solo was rotting scraps of flesh on a city street, unspeakably far away.  And the doctor was not in.  Snar would never have to face that terrible world again.

Tmai shook their hands, each in turn, saying their names, and “Goodbye.”

Shammy held his head in his hands, hearing that wind, smelling that life.  No small amount of cow shit in that aroma.  Space had been full of unwelcoming sensations as well, but still…

He signed to Tmai, “Shammy with Tmai.  I engineer.”

Tmai shook their head, and Eliza protested.  “We talked about this, Shamar.  It’s horrible out there.”

He signed to Tmai, “Please please please,” and said to Eliza, “I got to try.  It’s the only chance I’ll ever have to see what’s out there.  I know Erbin 2 was a hot mess, but what else could there be?  It’s got to be amazin’.”

Scuzz felt the call of her inner child dragging her forward, and forced herself to take a step back, just to keep that thing in check.  “Shammy, it’s too dangerous for us.  We don’t have any rights in space.  I don’t know why they’re so prejudiced against us, but they are.  It’s bad.”

“We got space welfare for a minute.  That ain’t nothin’,” and to Tmai, “Please please please.”

Eliza could see it was true, even though she could barely see his expression in the deepening shadows of dusk.  Shamar was in the thrall of wonder – that childish hedonism for curiosity itself.  Reveling in the unknown, in poking it with a stick, with putting household cleaning products in your mouth.  “It’s horrible.  I can’t stand this.”  Her smoky voice broke apart.

Tmai considered it.  Uncontacted aliens were generally in bad shape under galactic law, but they could apply as individuals for protections and eventual citizenship.  Could Shammy’s skills be of any use to Tmai?  Possibly.  The man had much more practical experience with the tools involved in repairing and modifying machines such as the ship.  They wouldn’t see the same tools he had used before, wherever they went, but the principles would be the same.

“Ogay, Shammy.  But maybe maybe, ogay?”  They meant to say, “think about it for a minute,” but the words eluded them.

Scuzz folded her arms and looked at the old guy in admiration.  “That’s so brave.  Ya know, even aside from all the heavy stuff, the big reasons not to go, I couldn’t do it just because of how uncomfortable everything is.  The water was gross, the food was gross, the temperature was always too hot or too cold, none of the furniture was any good.  It’ll be like camping out forever, but no marshmallows and wieners.  You’re a crazy guy.  I respect that.”

Eliza felt a sinking sensation she couldn’t understand.  She had experienced so many firsts recently – emotionally profound things, life-changing things – that she didn’t know which one this was related to.  All of them?  “Shamar… Please.”

He turned to her and put a hand on her shoulder.  “Eliza hon, I got to do it.  I never knew I needed this, but I need it.  I just couldn’t stay here and always have ta think, what am I missing?”

She nodded weakly and turned away, but he caught her mid-turn for a big hug.

Scuzz looked at Tmai.  “Sorry.  Humans always have to do this kind of stuff.”  She thought about that for a moment.  *I’m a human*.  She leaned in to hug Tmai.  “Thanks for trying to save Pep for me.  Thanks for trying to save me.”  She was certain they couldn’t understand her, but tried to reciprocate the human gesture.

Scuzz pulled back enough to talk directly to Tmai.  Would they understand?  “You are a hero.  I’ll never forget you, Captain Tmai.”  She kinda wanted to smooch them again, but thought better of it.  They had already imposed so much of their human goosh on the awkward alien.  Time to step away.

She said, “C’mon, Eliza.  Time to hitch a ride on a tumbleweed, or rustle some cattle, or whatever.”

The specificity of that plan clarified something in Eliza’s mind.  What was she coming back to?  Interrogation by the DoD, probably a lifetime of surveillance.  Work.  Bills.  She didn’t have a family, just some half-assed internet friends.  But if she went back to space, what would she be doing there?  God knows.  What would she be missing out on, as Shamar put it, if she stayed on Earth?

“Alright,” Eliza said, “Scuzz, you can hitch that ride alone.”

“Eliza?,” Shammy asked.

“Really?  Aww,” Scuzz said.

“Apologize to the Air Force for us.  It was all Pep’s idea.”

“It sure was,” Scuzz said, folding her arms against the gathering chill of the evening.  “You two are the cutest.  I hope you have all the space babies and colonize Mars.”

Shammy mumbled, “Gosh, shoot, dang.”

Eliza said, “You know I don’t have a womb… whatever.  I can’t say it was always a pleasure knowing you, but in the end, I respect you.  Have a good life, Scuzz.”

“I like that you never asked my birth name, Eliza.  You too, Shammy.”

“Ain’t nothin’ to it, ma’am.”  He was still holding Eliza close, feeling her warm hair bunching around his cheek, grateful.

“It was real.  Goodbye everybody!”  Scuzz pivoted on her heels and staggered away over uneven desert terrain, cheerfully flapping her arms as she went.  Maybe she could ride a cow home.  Wouldn’t that be a trip?

Tmai could see that Shammy and Eliza were not intending to stay on Earth.  There would be more bureaucracy to contend with, but why break up a mated couple of beings?  They nodded their agreement, and clambered up the portal, leaving it open for the Earthlings to follow.

 

Years passed.  The Earth moved around the sun again and again.  Olivia graduated from college, accepting her diploma at a lofty, glass, heavily air-conditioned convention center in Los Angeles.  After the ceremony, she exchanged hugs and phone numbers and business cards with dozens of people.  Randomly, in the middle of it all, she encountered a dark-skinned middle-aged couple she’d never seen before, who seemed intent on speaking with her.

They were wearing grey robes over white jumpsuits and were very well-groomed, like members of a cult.  Not speaking ASL or wanting to rely on any uncertainty in lip reading, the woman held up a cellphone for her to read.  Olivia hesitated.  She didn’t like the look of their smiles, their weird presence.  But alongside the phone, the woman made a hand-sign she recognized.

“Tmai.”

The text on the phone read, “Tmai wanted to know if you would be amenable to an internship in outer space.”

Whatever menace she felt from the strangers blew away in an instant.  She understood that smile – the look of a person who knows we are not alone in the Universe, and knows that you know.  But she couldn’t see them because tears filmed her eyes in a second, turning all lights into spiderwebs, all colors into quivering impressionist splotches.

She nodded and signed, “Yes.  Yes, yes, yes.”

I thought I was going to include more in the last chapter, discussion between the humans about what happened with Snar, etc., but this seemed like a good place to end it.

Paging Alan G Humphrey

Sorry to call you out on the floor like that, haha.  I only knew for sure of one person reading Centennial Hills, and the time has come for the last few installments.  Enjoy!

Content Warnings:  Misogyny, Violence, PTSD, Slavery, Bullying, Injury, Surgery, Dehumanization, Violations of Personal Space, Inequitable Class Systems, Sci-fi Racism, Mortal Danger.

CENTENNIAL HILLS 22

by Bébé Mélange

“Slippery freak was a real dirty fighter, messed up the guys.  Look.”

High Jdibitong watched his computer as the man on the other end moved his camera over the hall, where the defeated were pulling themselves together, getting ready for another round.  “And where are they now?,” he asked, eyestalk rotating in exasperation.

“I don’t know.  A couple of guys were chasing them upstairs.”

Jdibitong hung up, cast his rear eye at Googhi to express his incredulity at the situation, and glared at Snar with the front eye.  “Doctor, why is there an Ainavian tearing up my building?  What do they want?”

Snar twitched in fear and glanced from their boss to his children and back.  “I imagine that’s Captain Tmai, wanting the humans back.  I did not know they were so violent, or I would have let you know of the risk, surely.”

“Jdinghris, Chtonoming, shoo.”  The children complied and he switched the largest screen to the building surveillance system.  “If you want something done right…”

The bgrudjh switched to a multi-camera view surveilling an entire floor, and seeing no movement there, switched to another floor.  The highest, the place where the Earthlings had been left, where few Vinudians would be privileged to reside.  Immediately, problems jumped out at them.

“The Earthlings damaged my cage.  Where do they think they’re going?”  He could see the empty cage, but also see the escapees, trying to sneak through the labyrinth of drapery – to find an unguarded escape route.  He could also see the Ainavian losing their pursuit in the maze, his incompetent men stumbling around.  Not unusual for them to be intoxicated at that late hour, but annoying nonetheless.

He noticed Snar looking at the screen, making some inscrutable, nonverbal hand gestures.  He asked, “And what do you think you’re going to do, Doctor?”

Snar startled to attention.  “Nothing.  No one.  I’m just… I should probably…”

“I’ll need you to translate so we don’t have to play with our computers.  Come.”  He stood and Googhi began to rise, but he gestured for her to remain.  “You know the children may try to sneak out.  Keep this from happening.  We don’t know what the Earthlings are capable of.  They’re uncontacted, and might be savage enough to kill.”

Googhi flexed her thorax pensively and said, “Yes, my bgrudjh.”

Jdibitong dipped his rear eye respectfully at her.  He was glad she responded with appropriate seriousness; she could be quite impertinent at times.  Then he took the doctor by the princess sleeve and stormed out of the room.

In the hall, Snar sorted theirself out.  “I can walk for myself, sir!”

Jdibitong let them go.  “Then keep up.”  He didn’t have to turn around to scowl at them as he kept walking.  It would be a short trip.

Thanks to the cameras, he knew exactly where the Earthlings were, and soon was upon them.  Without a moment’s thought, he grabbed the cords of the drapery, and brought it down on the three.  They hadn’t even seen the big-eyed aliens in the dark, using one of their personal computers to light their steps.  Snar yelped.

Jdibitong kept a deft, powerful grip on the cords, moving them just so, to keep the Earthlings tangled.  They called out in confusion, fear, anger – all muffled by the thick cloth.  “To your bgrudjh!,” he yelled, and more men hustled into the opening.  “Catch them when they get out.”

Scuzz and the others didn’t take long to escape; the drapery hadn’t been designed to serve as a net.  Burly Vinudian men were waiting, and physically restrained them until they could be bullied into standing still.  Jdibitong barked at them, words they’d never know.  “Be still!”

“Shtob!,” Snar tried to translate.

Before the humans had been rather easy to intimidate, but they seemed to be feeling more confident, each standing ready to fight.  Scuzz had a practiced battle stance of some kind, which amused the bgrudjh.

Tmai slipped in under a drape, rising to their full height like a snake, and held a palm up to each side – hopefully communicating to the Vinudians they both did not want to fight, and did not want to be touched.

A Vinudian lunged, but pulled up short as Jdibitong bellowed, “Not now!  You had your chance, Gdeemosh.”  He tugged Snar more fully into the fore.

Lights began to turn on, dimly illuminating the scene from beyond layers of cloth, but at least the humans could finally understand who was present, and – roughly – what was going on.  Eliza flexed her arthritic fists and stared daggers at Jdibitong’s big wet eye.

“Can we go now?,” Shammy asked.

The bgrudjh silenced him with a furious gesture, then began to address Tmai, with Snar frantically translating into Ainavian sign language.  “This is trespass and destruction of property.  You will be arrested, fool.  Was it worthwhile to you?”

“I left these creatures with Dr. Snar, with the understanding I could retrieve them later.  You chose to withhold them from me.”

“Wild animals do not belong to anyone.  Surely you’re familiar with the Codex.”

“Then they don’t belong to you.  What do you gain by keeping them?”

“It’s what I lose by letting you get away with this.  This insult is unforgivable.”

“They are intelligent creatures and it’s my fault they’ve been taken from their home world.  I cannot allow them to become pets to a petty tyrant.”

“This isn’t an impasse, little Ainavian,” Jdibitong said, flexing his fists, “Because I can pass through you anytime I please.”  Snar’s fingers fumbled; their head sagged in dread.  Jdibitong gripped their arm again and said, “Every word!”

Snar signed to Tmai, “You can’t.”

Everyone hung in the dim light, tense but exhausted, angry, fraught with heavy feelings that hadn’t been a problem for them when they woke up that very morning.

Tmai said, “I know a little about your kind.  Would you let them go if I beat you in a physical contest?”

The Vinudian scoffed.  “Going to propose a wiggling competition, little worm?”

“Hand-to-hand combat, of course.  I’ll need a weapon to make up for my lack of bones.”

The bgrudjh’s men looked at each other in amazement at the words Snar translated, and more gathered, parting the drapes, making the room seem larger and larger.

Scuzz asked, “What is even going on?,” quiet enough to not draw the big man’s ire.

Eliza said, “They’re arguing over us.”

Jdibitong said, “Very well.  Gdeemosh!  Message everyone to come for the fight.  We will go to the ring.”

Vinudians bellowed and clicked in excitement, shaking their fists in the air.  They roughly escorted the humans and Ainavians to the sparring mat beneath the milky skylight, more opaque now with no daylight above.  Bright lights were turned on and angled toward the show, again reminding Snar of a terrible time on Earth.  Regarding Tmai, was this what Snar had looked like from the sidelines, to those wretched Earthlings?

Jdibitong conferred with his highest ranked men, staying for the moment in his corner.  Snar and the Earthlings were kept at ringside, one strong man on each, pinning them with only an implied threat.  Tmai looked at them with tired eyes, availing theirself of large water bottles in preparation.  They were recovering their structural integrity well, but would have less energy for this fight than they had in the halls below.  The snakeskin pants were aggravating, but they did not know how severe the Vinudian reaction would be if they removed them.

At last, Jdibitong’s family were allowed to crowd in at ringside, and it was time.  He spoke with a booming voice punctuated by snapping noises.  “This little vandal has come to claim the Earthlings as their property.  We like our little songbird, do we not?”  There were shouts of agreement.  “But, you know, they did have the Earthlings first.  Who can say what’s right or wrong?”

“Fists!  Fists!  Fists!”

“Give the Ainavian some bones.”

Someone at ringside gave Tmai a pair of metal objects.  Fingerholes fit for a Vinudian, joined in a bar – to increase the weight of a punch.  Tmai could fit their own fingers in the wrong holes and make it work.  They tested the weight with air punches.  Difficult.

Scuzz muttered, “it should be me,” then louder, “It should be me!  I know martial arts!  Leave Captain Tmai alone!”  More quietly again, to herself, “Pep…  Where are you?”

Eliza tried to console her, but a brute slapped her hand down.

Shammy watched Snar intently.  He sensed something in the doctor’s pathetic state, something larger than the present circumstance, that was making things worse.  But they had a close connection to the boss, seemed to work for the bgrudjh.  He wished the boneless creature wasn’t so lost, so weak in the face of this stress.

Jdibitong took no weapon for himself, stepping into the ring with bare hands.  “Ainavian.  I would not even take this fight as a joke, if you hadn’t beaten so many of my men.  Nice trick.  Do you think it will work on me?”

Tmai flicked their eyes at Snar, who was no longer bothering to translate.  They just looked up at the boss and shrugged.  Who could guess how the alien would interpret the gesture?  It was time to fight.

Jdunazh leaned in from the side, holding up three digits.  She folded one in and slapped it on the mat, then another for a second slap, and at the third,

Jdibitong shot a straight fast punch directly into Tmai’s center, fist sinking into them, compressing their torso at the site of impact to a few fingers depth.  Tmai’s elastic tissues violently decompressed, shoving their body off of the unmoving fist, down to the mat.

The bgrudjh stood there, arm soaked in ejected fluids, wondering if he’d just invited his whole enclave to witness him committing murder.  Scuzz shrieked, “You killed him!  Nooo!”

The crowd shrank back, buzzing and chattering, not knowing what to do.  Jdibitong collared Snar and dragged them onto the mat.  “Fix them, now!  Fix the Ainavian.”

Snar looked up, head swimming, not remembering a word of Vinudian.

“What is wrong with you?  Don’t you care about your fellows?  Fix them!”  He shoved Snar toward Tmai, and they just collapsed to the mat, bouncing once, laying nearly as immobile as the vanquished pilot.  Their body curled uselessly.

Shammy said, “Snar’s messed up, man!  That’s PTSD.  Got to give them some space!”

Eliza added, “Please!  Let them go!  Let us go!”  By then she was holding Scuzz close, with no rude interruptions.

Jdibitong’s lieutenants tried to keep the rabble in line, but some were already leaving, or taking video with their computers.  The big man knelt over the Ainavians, in an uncharacteristically gentle pose.  “Dr. Snar, please!  Are you on some kind of drugs?  Is there a quick cure?  This one could die!  Wake up, please!”  He offered gentle prods with his brutal hands.

Shammy knelt on the mat close by and whistled for the boss’s attention.  The Vinudian looked up in rage, but saw that the Earthling was offering advice, gesturing for him to step back from the Ainavians – particularly the doctor.

As much as it was maddening to lose even a second that could save the foolish creature’s life, he was at the mercy of circumstances beyond his control, and took the suggestion.  He stepped away, pacing in his corner of the mat, straining to control his rage and fear.

All of the movement, all of the chaos, it was still affecting Snar.  They lolled, mind reeling.

Shammy gently took the Ainavian’s head into his hands, cradling it, looking straight into their eyes.  “Listen to me, doc.  Just nothin’ but me.  Forget about all this hooey, OK?  Nothin’ but me.”  He couldn’t help but have his eyes dart to the captain, as still as dead, but reeled them in, to try and focus the ailing doctor.  “Tmai needs you.”  He let a hand free to sign, “Snar help Tmai?”

Snar rolled their head to look at Tmai, to make an effort to understand the situation, when all understanding had fled them.  In that strange moment, they suddenly became convinced that the Ainavian beside theirself was theirself, and was dead or dying.

“Oh me,” they signed.

Shammy scooted back, but kept himself large and in between the ringside crowd and the pathetic creature.  “What can you do, doc?”

Snar rolled onto their hands and knees and pawed at Tmai, feeling them all over the torso, the neck, the arms.  It looked like more flailing from a useless junkie, but resolved into firmer palpations, assaying the damage, and what life might be salvaged from apparent death.

The crowd began to close in again, barely held back by Shammy, now helped by Jdibitong and Jdunazh.

“Give the doctor room,” Jdibitong said, still able to intimidate his lessers.

Eliza and Scuzz were in the part of the rubberneck mob held back by a Shammy cordon, both gripping his outstretched arms with tired hands.  Eliza was much more concerned for Shamar than the aliens, always putting himself in front of trouble.

Snar put a hop in their shoulders to come down on Tmai’s chest with both palms, popping it back into a more proper shape.  Blood and milkier substances bloomed and swelled under skin, all over the chest and sides, and there was a barely perceptible cough from Tmai’s throat.

“I need to get to the clinic,” Snar said.  “I’ll die if I don’t get a proper balance of transfused fluids immediately.”  Even if I do, they thought, I still might die.

The crowd obediently moved this way and that, allowing the bgrudjh and his personal assistant to bear the Ainavians to the medical facility.  They didn’t stop the Earthlings following behind, but Jdibitong’s lieutenants followed closely, to make sure they didn’t try any wild moves.  Googhi held herself, in the drifting wake of their departure, and wondered if that would be the end of her family’s power.

Buttermilk lights hummed to life and Snar let the Vinudians ease Tmai onto a table, while they worked the biosynthesizer.  More sophisticated chemicals would be needed than the drugs they’d mixed up before, and they’d need to be injected or transfused in just the right places, or they could cause more harm than good.  Their medical mind had woken up, but they still, through it all, were imagining that it was their own body on the slab.

Scuzz was starting to come out of her own daze, starting to realize Tmai returning without Pep was a bad sign.  She whimpered her concern to Eliza, who could only offer a shoulder to lean on.  Shammy took advantage of the focus being on Tmai, to relax onto a stool.  His back felt a great sense of relief, but was still a hair’s breadth from collapsing into spasms – just now in a less disc-grinding position.

Snar watched theirself laid out, mostly dead.  Enough tissues would still be alive that circulation might be restarted, but four types of fluids would need to be administered, just so.  They coldly maneuvered the transfusion heads into place, piercing their skin.  They felt no pain – a bad sign.

Jdibitong and Jdunazh watched their work closely.  What did it all mean?  The transfusion heads looked more ready for an embalming than a resurrection, chewing into the Ainavian’s cold flesh with lamprey teeth.

Snar returned to the biosynthesizer, activated the pumps, and carefully worked the knobs.  A little of this, a little of that… They felt their body growing colder, so quickly.  They saw theirself, a corpse.  Pumping the stuff of life into an unreceptive vessel.  Watering a dead plant.

How had the barrage of gunfire done so much less damage than a single punch from their brutal boss?  The piercing injuries provoked an instantaneous clotting response, with openings in the skin allowing a potentially harmful by-product to escape as gas.  The unbroken skin, the internal bleeding now…  Unlike Vinudians, who have one predominant circulated fluid and local reservoirs for small amounts of other humors, Ainavians have parallel major circulatory systems carrying a variety of important fluids that are best kept unmixed.  Snar had to work against some biochemical processes while promoting others, while all of them were interacting with each other chaotically in the same region of the thorax.

What did I do to myself?, they thought.  This is what I get for sticking my neck out, for trying to help people.  I was a fool, and now I am going to die!  They thought about the strange poisons they consumed on Earth, the filthy creatures shoving those in their face, again and again.  They wondered if it was worth the effort to save theirself.

Who am I that I even matter?  I never enjoyed life as fully as others.  So much effort just to keep up an endless season of melancholy.  They touched their head and face, felt their lips rudely, pushed on their eyeballs.

“The hell are they doing?,” asked Shammy.

“Trying to wake Tmai up?,” Eliza offered.

Snar rested their head on their own, moaned with grief.  Just because I didn’t want life doesn’t mean I should have to die.  It’s not fair.  I hate it.  They propped theirself up and got back to work, running multi-spectrum body scans.  Live, you fool.

The scans showed a terrible cloud of trisemic cords forming between the volar and vular atria.  Moturic acid was the obvious solution, but if it got into the pismal process, they could be paralyzed for life, or killed.  The only solution was manually injecting drops of moturic acid into the densest clumps and hoping it had catalyzed into less dangerous compounds by the time it escaped.  Without opening the chest, causing trauma to a body barely alive, the work would have to be performed blind.

Snar had no assistance that would understand the relevant terms, and was clearly feeling the lack, as they crashed around the lab for tools and devices.  They came back to Tmai’s body with a brace of sharp probes, and began stabbing them into their chest at irregular intervals.  Corresponding to areas revealed as problematic on the scan?  It was very hard for a bystander to tell.  Snar worked the buttons on the handles, leaving the probes standing in place, like a vampire hunter fussing over wooden stakes.

Everyone stood as close as they dared, hoping not to be in the doctor’s way if they had sudden need of yet another instrument, and soon were rewarded with a sign of life.  Tmai’s lips seemed to tremble, just for a moment.  Then an eyelid flicked.

Snar couldn’t see that, so focused on metrics and readings, adjustments and implements.  The excitement of the bystanders was an irritation, like the audience at their own boxing debut, and far from a good sign.  Suddenly, both eyes snapped open, and Snar stumbled away in shock.  Those aren’t my eyes!

What was more horrible?  That their identity had been usurped?  That their mind was so broken they’d imagined theirself into another body?  That another person’s life had been in their hands while they had been in such a state?  They fled wildly, flopping and crashing into every tray and table in the way.

Jdibitong grabbed them by the princess-sleeved arms again, and tried to speak with calm gravitas.  “Dr. Snar, please.  We don’t understand this behavior, but your Ainavian friend needs help only you can provide.  Please, please, snap out of it.”  Jdunazh blocked their way, but also made her best Vinudian gestures of supplication and pleading.

Back at the table, the humans leaned close – Scuzz closest of all.  “Tmai..?”

“Scuzz,” Tmai said, barely a whisper.

“Where is Pep?”

Tmai closed their eyes grimly.  “No Beb.  No, no Beb.”

Somehow, the message was conveyed.  Scuzz began to squall in sorrow, reminding Tmai so much of Olivia, and the larger Earthlings comforted her.  At last, Snar returned, seemingly in better wits, while physically more pathetic than ever.

Through it all, Eliza stared at Tmai in amazement.  Not at the captain’s survival or travails, but at the idea Pep was gone forever.  All of her imagining of the ways they could die did not prepare her for the reality of it, and she was completely stuck on the mystery.

How the hell had it happened?  Could they ever know?  Would they want to?

I think there will only be one more after this!  I think!  One of my regrets in the story is that there are no opportunities left for Scuzz to use her krav maga.

MonsterHearts 2025 – Day Fourteen

Don’t Miss Posts.  This MonsterHearts, I’m also having one regular post a day, if you should prefer that kind of thing.  Just look at the posts before or after this one.

MonsterHearts is a 14 day event (named after a pervy RPG) wherein my writing group votes on a monster each day to include in a story concept.  As we march toward Valentine’s Day, the theme is supernatural romance.  This year, I’ve been trying to just use “edit” mode in MidJourney to iron out irregularities, even trying to make a legible title in the AI program.  While it’s cool you can now hammer the hands and text into shape, as opposed to just photoshopping what you need to fix, there are advantages to doing it the older way.  There’s a lot less control of where and how the text is placed, and what it looks like.  This last title was horribly difficult.  I’m not doing this method again.

MONSTER HEARTS DAY FOURTEEN:  LOVER’S CHOICE

That means we can choose between any of the candidates that didn’t win votes.  The big list this year: Artificial, Cursed, Demonic, Experimental, Fiery, Ghoulish, Gigantic, Inanimate, Insectoid, Legendary, Natural, or Seasonal.  As usual, I’m going to try to do them all.  Probably gonna half-ass ’em tho.

TITLE:  ME & MEGAN + UNHOLY BEA

CHARACTERS:  Me: First Person Narrator and Genderqueer Bay Area Hipster, Megan Lum: Their Intended, a College Girl, Unholy Bea: a Fiery Demond.

PREMISE:  I’ve been trying to get close to this girl, right?  She is super hard to get, and that’s cool, gotta respect boundaries, so she’s just a maybe who knows kinda person, and a friend.  But the maybe who knows?  Seems a little more than friend, but awful cagey about what it would take to change the circumstance.

I just about gave up, when I found out she’s into the occult.  That’s great.  Learned some chaos magic from my gender studies prof Spiv Spivey.  Ey hooked me up with a nameless tome, I invited Megan on a trip to Mount Shasta in wildflower season, and it was all good.

THE HOOK:  For certain definitions of good.  This tome (Inanimate) had a sort of experimental vibe to it (Experimental), letting you create your own demon (Artificial), instead of summoning the usual guys.  There were bunnies hopping around the field and I guess it was Easter (Seasonal), but easy to lose track if Jesus hates you.  I get the tome out and Megan is so into it, she kisses me on the spot.  I had to keep going.

Using the natural creatures of the meadow (Natural), we grew our demon from bunny and dragonfly (Insectoid) parts, burning in an unnatural flame (Fiery) until they became a ten foot tall (Gigantic) smoldering demon (Demonic) with exoskeletal paws like they were encrusted in charcoal.

Turns out the demon was a lady, which is cool, because I like ladies.  She was a bit much for me at first, but Megan was a freak for this stuff (Ghoulish), and took us by the hand.  We all got freaky right there in front of God and everyone.  We named her after Bea Arthur (Legendary) because she was a good ally for the community.

Demon vag is cursed tho (Cursed).  Best believe we went to hell after that.  Worth it.

 

MonsterHearts 2025 – Day Thirteen

Don’t Miss Posts.  This MonsterHearts, I’m also having one regular post a day, if you should prefer that kind of thing.  Just look at the posts before or after this one.

MonsterHearts is a 14 day event (named after a pervy RPG) wherein my writing group votes on a monster each day to include in a story concept.  As we march toward Valentine’s Day, the theme is supernatural romance.  This year, I’ve been trying to just use “edit” mode in MidJourney to iron out irregularities, even trying to make a legible title in the AI program.  While it’s cool you can now hammer the hands and text into shape, as opposed to just photoshopping what you need to fix, there are advantages to doing it the older way.  There’s a lot less control of where and how the text is placed, and what it looks like.  Surprised I’ve kept up the effort this long; looks like I’m gonna go all the way with it.

MONSTER HEARTS DAY THIRTEEN:  SHAPESHIFTER

TITLE:  ROCK TO DEATH

CHARACTERS:  Skizzy Portentous: an Early ’90s Hair Metal Guitarist, Donny Colbert: the Drummer.

PREMISE:  Skizzy only cares about guitar and rocking out.  He doesn’t have time for groupies, doesn’t have time for love.  It’s all about pedals and amps and flying V-neck thirteen-string harmonic something somethings.  Donny loves Skizzy, but it must always be from behind the drum kit.  Probably there’s a rhythm guitarist, a bassist, and/or a singer in the mix too, but never mind them.

Wait, more band members is more chances to come up with funny names.  Bosley “Heroinhands” McGee, Ten Inch Tidwell, and Howlin’ Harry Knuckledusters.  They exist now.  Sorry.

THE HOOK:  Skizzy locks himself away in the tour bus, finally near completion of the world’s most perfect guitar.  The band has to perform with a roadie on lead guitar, just to keep the crowd from rioting.  After the show, they approach the tour bus.

It rips to pieces in a spray of metal guitar strings.  Skizzy has become half-man, half-guitar, and he will destroy the world with rock.  Donny chases Skizzy around the city begging him to stop the rampage, but finally gives up and plays the drums for him.  Harum-pum-pum-pum.

 

MonsterHearts 2025 – Day Twelve

Don’t Miss Posts.  This MonsterHearts, I’m also having one regular post a day, if you should prefer that kind of thing.  Just look at the posts before or after this one.

MonsterHearts is a 14 day event (named after a pervy RPG) wherein my writing group votes on a monster each day to include in a story concept.  As we march toward Valentine’s Day, the theme is supernatural romance.  This year, I’ve been trying to just use “edit” mode in MidJourney to iron out irregularities, even trying to make a legible title in the AI program.  While it’s cool you can now hammer the hands and text into shape, as opposed to just photoshopping what you need to fix, there are advantages to doing it the older way.  There’s a lot less control of where and how the text is placed, and what it looks like.  Surprised I’ve kept up the effort this long; looks like I’m gonna go all the way with it.  Although I did run out patience for getting accent marks into my name properly on this one.  I’m just gonna finish it out like this out of compulsion.

MONSTER HEARTS DAY TWELVE:  PARASITE

TITLE:  DAMNED MINNEAPOLIS

CHARACTERS:  Cleavon White: an Early ’90s Funk Musician, Komla Abasom: a Vampire.

PREMISE:  Parasite is the vampire category and I tend to not do straightforward vamp stories.  Early results in seeking a cover for this one yielded nothing but white people, and per Billy Martin’s most recent word on race in gay vampires, I banged on this one until they were black.  Now, to come up with a story that justifies the image, and is at all interesting.  Let’s see…

In the last days of Minneapolis funk, a drummer and keyboardist named Cleavon was part of the never-ending scene rotation, trying to form his own bands or dropping in on somebody else’s thing, and nothing was sticking.  The crossover with hip-hop was promising, but rappers could find success without the effort of a real instrumentalist behind them, and those projects also fell flat.

Mysterious businessman Komla said, “It’s all who you know,” Cleavon said, “I know,” and Komla said, “Get to know me.”  Soon he was able to get studio gigs for cool rappers, and reel in some dollars.  But music success wasn’t the only thing Komla had to teach.

THE HOOK:  This rap villain is here to make a killin’.  Komla liked repping rappers because their dangerous lifestyle added life insurance payouts to his revenue – and because nobody would question why the blood kept flowing.  But more sophisticated music moved what was left of his ancient soul, so he took Cleavon under his bat wing.  How far are you willing to go, funk man?

MonsterHearts 2025 – Day Eleven

Don’t Miss Posts.  This MonsterHearts, I’m also having one regular post a day, if you should prefer that kind of thing.  Just look at the posts before or after this one.

MonsterHearts is a 14 day event (named after a pervy RPG) wherein my writing group votes on a monster each day to include in a story concept.  As we march toward Valentine’s Day, the theme is supernatural romance.  This year, I’ve been trying to just use “edit” mode in MidJourney to iron out irregularities, even trying to make a legible title in the AI program.  While it’s cool you can now hammer the hands and text into shape, as opposed to just photoshopping what you need to fix, there are advantages to doing it the older way.  There’s a lot less control of where and how the text is placed, and what it looks like.  Surprised I’ve kept up the effort this long; looks like I’m gonna go all the way with it.

MONSTER HEARTS DAY ELEVEN:  INCORPOREAL

TITLE:  MAD MALWAR3 GIRLZ ROOOL

CHARACTERS:  Colleen Crash: a Trans Computer Hacker Type, ANи1KA and M0NiK4: Sisters who also Hack, or Virtual Illusions?

PREMISE:  In some unimaginable dystopian version of our world, the most obvious con man and fascist thug in human history has convinced half of america he’s harmless and the other half that he shits gold, thus acquiring enough power to rewrite anything that was worth a shit in the place.  Within this impossible world of banal evil that is just so soulcrushingly tedious nobody would ever want to write a story about it, god it’s so boring, the only life and liveliness must come from hacktivists and gay weirdos.

THE HOOK:  Colleen’s best friends in the CYb4Rsp8s are the sisters ANи1KA and M0NiK4, altho there is some risk of the friendship blowing up because both sisters wanna get with Colleen.  Or are they even real?  Maybe they’re a cheap sex fantasy that escaped from her mind.  Maybe they’re cointelprobots, sent by the NSA to lure her into federal prison.  Or maybe, they’re a new life form, on some Ghost in the Shell type shit, wanting to bone Colleen into a Brave New World.

MonsterHearts 2025 – Day Ten

Don’t Miss Posts.  This MonsterHearts, I’m also having one regular post a day, if you should prefer that kind of thing.  Just look at the posts before or after this one.

MonsterHearts is a 14 day event (named after a pervy RPG) wherein my writing group votes on a monster each day to include in a story concept.  As we march toward Valentine’s Day, the theme is supernatural romance.  This year, I’ve been trying to just use “edit” mode in MidJourney to iron out irregularities, even trying to make a legible title in the AI program.  While it’s cool you can now hammer the hands and text into shape, as opposed to just photoshopping what you need to fix, there are advantages to doing it the older way.  There’s a lot less control of where and how the text is placed, and what it looks like.  Surprised I’ve kept up the effort this long; looks like I’m gonna go all the way with it.

MONSTER HEARTS DAY TEN:  DREAMER

TITLE:  M-74S

CHARACTERS:  Sra. Seagrave: a Bureaucrat of the Dream World, Sra. Grijalva: a Dreamer.

PREMISE:  Señora Grijalva is asleep.  She fell in love at first sight, as you do in dreams, with an elegant lady working the office of Dream Bureaucracy.  To have excuses to get back in line, get to her window, to see and talk to her again, she takes it upon herself to perform increasingly arcane bureaucratic tasks – getting licenses for her pet licenses, special ordering sub-certified copies of her passport application application, etc.  Heartless monster Señora Seagrave isn’t making it easy for her.

THE HOOK:  The last and worst form is M-74S, which needed so many stamps and signatures, Sra. Grijalva’s sleep is nearly at an end by the time she has it completed.  The form needs an extended private review by Sra. Seagrave, which is everything she’s been fighting for.

But as she wakes up, the world begins to disintegrate.  It feels like she’s dying, like she can’t make sense of anything.  Sra. Seagrave realizes the affection was mutual too late.  Or does she just seem like she does, because dreams forget their own rules as they draw to a close?

MonsterHearts 2025 – Day Nine

Don’t Miss Posts.  This MonsterHearts, I’m also having one regular post a day, if you should prefer that kind of thing.  Just look at the posts before or after this one.

MonsterHearts is a 14 day event (named after a pervy RPG) wherein my writing group votes on a monster each day to include in a story concept.  As we march toward Valentine’s Day, the theme is supernatural romance.  This year, I’ve been trying to just use “edit” mode in MidJourney to iron out irregularities, even trying to make a legible title in the AI program.  While it’s cool you can now hammer the hands and text into shape, as opposed to just photoshopping what you need to fix, there are advantages to doing it the older way.  There’s a lot less control of where and how the text is placed, and what it looks like.  Surprised I’ve kept up the effort this long.

MONSTER HEARTS DAY NINE:  MUTATED

TITLE:  MY LOVER IS A CYBER SLIME

CHARACTERS:  Ethaniel Sangaré: a Solarpunk Power Engineer, Houssain Horowitz: a Slimy Machine Boy.

PREMISE:  Surprise threequel to Laser Boys and Rose Gold, wherein the cybermetropolis destroyed many times over has come to flourish.  From the wake of the Rose Gold System escaping the control of Brycine Cybernetics and destroying the city, it also helped build the city anew.  Rose people formed a utopia, where photosynthesis provides all the nourishment and power needed by the survivors.  They found themselves with less aggression, fewer health problems, and a mild demeanor that lent itself to founding a new world based on peace and brotherhood.

THE HOOK:  There is always a seed of destruction within life.  Ethaniel Sangaré was a good rose boy working in power engineering, along with his lover Houssain Horowitz.  But Houssain fell into the oily black machinery that lurks beneath the sunny pink surface of the facility, and the machinery – originally designed by Brycine to infiltrate and augment human bodies – mutated him into an oily shape-shifting machine boy.

He has the power to separate into smaller copies of himself and re-merge into one, and uses this to make weird love to Ethaniel.  All’s well that ends well.  Oh, and he destroyed the city again, with slime or something.