Fiction

Bill Bisbee looked up from his coffee and smiled at the waitress. She looked at him questioningly, glanced down to his change and then back up to him. He shook his head and she edged away uncertainly, before turning round and walking back to the till. She probably thought he was a creep and she was probably right, but not on this occasion. He went on sipping his coffee and looking out of the window, not expecting a free refill anytime soon.

When Leticia came too she saw Harley Davidson’s head in her lap, crying droid tears, directly over Aphrodite’s Rainbow, yet nothing was happening down there in her lusty-love-land. She was emotionally and sexually excited to see him and placed her hands on his head, caressing his styroelastic hair, wanting her powerful Rainbow to appear and make Harley into a wanton mantoy . . . so horny, horny as an android can be . . . however, it was love-horny, hornyness bubbling her honey now.

"You are most fair!" I called out to the girl in the stream.

The girl turned to me, tossing back her dark hair. She seemed not to be surprised, or in fear. The stream ran through a fine grove of tall trees, providing shade to the fast moving water.

No-one believed it at first. You see something on the TV and all you think is how it looks just like the movies. The effects, the explosions, even the people screaming. I stood outside the local electric store and watched as every screen slowly started to show the same image and thought about a book I read once. The guy in it said, ‘if every front page is the same, the world is in trouble.’

From the single-sized bed of his small, sparse room at Charlotte’s Community Care Center, an old, run-down assistant-living facility on the north side of downtown St. Louis, Wilford Hines could see and feel that night was coming on.

Smelly old women with ladders dribbling down their tights, fought for first place in the bus queue. I was entering my second phase of teenage rebellion, which strikes when one reaches the pubescent peak of 18, so I snarled quite contently to myself and remained leaning against the stone-clad house in the shitty, mad and depressing village in which I had the misfortune to grow up in. It was a single main street job, with more pubs than shops, surrounded by industrial grade housing estates, the type that look grey no matter the Technicolor.

To most eyes in the kingdom he was merely a red speck racing against the pale blue ceiling of the world. But many who saw the bright spot moving in the sky knew exactly who it was, for many had the privilege of beholding him up close at some point in their lives; some even had the honor of speaking with the friendly, courageous creature.

Annals of the Lady I

The muse stood at the side of the blind bard.  She whispered in his ear, telling him the history of the demigod, of the Conqueror.  

Myth of the Lady of the Myst,  II, vii.  
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The mirage appeared very close. I could see the white towers of the city as they shimmered on the horizon. I wiped the sweat from my brow with my sleeve, and took a sip of water from my canteen. I looked over my shoulder. I could no longer see the enemy chase cars. They had been in pursuit since last night when my plane went down. I had parachuted from my wounded craft and landed in the desert. After I landed, I fled into the empty waste, hoping that my beacon would be heard by our rescue.

“It’s great, Daddy!” six-year-old Amanda cried joyously, jumping up and down in place in the small front yard of the small red-brick house that they rented. “It’s real spooky,” she continued, clapping her small gloved-hands together and staring breathlessly up at the scarecrow impaled upon a broomstick to the left side of the one-step cement front porch.