The Other Side

One of eleven surviving short stories/novellas I wrote in a roughly five-year period (2004-2008).

This was written c. 2010 — a rewrite of a story I wrote in the fall of 2004. The original was typewritten, the last story I ever wrote on a typewriter, and is now lost. I was proud of that original. But if this version's anything to go by, there's nothing there to be proud of. Just pages upon pages of hackneyed hackwork.

* * *

I should had never gone to check out that decrepit building. But I had never suspected the existance of what had lain there within its walls. Never suspected the existance of an evil which had inhabited the place since the nineteen-fourties.

It all began when my father got a new job located in Maine. Unable to coap with the idea of the family being seperated, my mother wanted to pack up the family and relocate to a location close to his anticipated job site. Over a period of a number of weeks, my parents struck a deal with a Raymond Bradley to buy his on sale home on Forman Road, Maine for an even five thousand dollars. After all the paperwork went through, all was final; with some mela-ncholy, we journeyed from Pittsburg to a quiet suburbia in a completely unfamilar part of the country.

"So," my sister, Audrey, asked my father as we made the long approach to our new house in my mother's Olds-mobile Delta Royale, "what's this place like? It isn't a dump, is it?"

My father uttered a short laugh as she said that. "No, it isn't a dump. It was built in 1984, so its relatively new. The house is in good condition."

"Was anybody killed there?" I asked, a slight smirk upon my face.

"Nobody was killed in thisat house," he answered, amused not at all by the macabre question. "The house has no history whatsoever."

We soon arrived at the house. There was nothing spectacular about the building. It was a small, two-story home with blue-and-white paint smeared over its walls; this horrid paint job had been done apparently to convey an aura of cheerfulness, but those who had performed it had failed in their vision.

"We're here!" father exclaimed. He maneuvered the Oldsmobile up the driveway, stopping at the house and shifting the gear into PARK.

We all unfastened our seatbelts, opened the doors and climbed out. As my feet first touched this foreign soil, I immediatly noticed the house across from us, on the other side of the street. As soon as my eyes took in the details of the building, I was left in awe. It was over a century old, a large mansion, six stories tall with an abundance in windows. The dwelling had browned with age, and obviously in bad disrepair; the wood walls were worm-eaten and crumbling, with weathered boards nailed over the front door and window panes.

"We should have moved in there," I said, half-joking, pointing over at the foreboding house. "At least that place looks interesting."

My father looked over across the street at the house, then back at me. "That house was abandoned back in the fourties. Its condemned, and we couldn't buy it even if we wanted to."

At that, we went to place our first steps within our new, badly-painted little home.

Later that night, I sat at our large oak dinner table with my parents and sister as we had our supper, a dish consisting of mashed potatoes and spinach.

"How's dinner, Edward?" mother asked me, looking up from her plate.

"Fine," I replied. Unlike typical children, I found spinach not all that bad.

"Good," she replied, resuming her consumption of her potatoes and spinach.

"Hey Dad," I then proclaimed, looking to him.

"Yes, Ed?"

"Do you know the story behind the house across the street?" I inquired. "What's up with it?"

My father went silent. "Are you sure you want to know?" he asked after a moment passed.

"Why wouldn't I?" I asked. "I would like to know why the house is abandoned."

Father was forlorn for a moment, but then agreed to tell the story about the house.

"Well, back in 1896 a man named Efimovich Velikovsky immigrated here to the States from Russia. He had been a very rich man back in his homeland, and had used his money to build a mansion here on Forman Road. From what Mr. Bradley told me, the house supposedly looked very beautiful after it was finished.

"Nothing eventful happened over the next eight years. Velikovsky seemed to be any ordinary man, friendly to those around him, though he spent most of his time locked up in his house. But then one day he disappeared. He, and all the servants who had been living there. The police eventually launched an investigation, but nothing was found. "They never found evidence of any foul play."

"What happened," I asked. "If they were'nt kidnapped or killed or anything, what happened to him and his servants?"

"No one really knows," my father explained. "He might have moved to another town or state, or even back to Russia. But no trace of him could be found anywhere. Since he had no known relatives and never left a will, the city took possession of the mansion. They put it up for sale, [?]but no one had ever expressed intrest in buying the place. After a long number of years had passed they gave up the place and had it boarded up. No one has entered that place since."

"So you're saying nobody's been in there since they boarded it up?" I exclaimed. "What about all his stuff? Did they take it?"

"No," he responded. "They had left the furniture alone, on sale with the rest of the house. When they decided to abandon it, they found the bed[?] and chairs soiled with mouse waste, so never bothered removing anything when it was closed up."

"Cool!" I declared. "So, if I were to go over there and check it out, I would find all this old rich-guy stuff?"

"I don't want you going over there, Edward!" my father suddenly retorted, looking me straight in the eye. "The floors in there are probably all rotted through by now, with all this town's constant rainfall. I do not want you breaking your leg or arm or anything else. Do you understand me, Ed?"

"Yes," I groaned. "I understand."

"Good." The discussion was over. My father resumed eating.

"Besides," my mother said, entering the conversation, "there are probably rats and mould in there. I don't want you getting bit or infected with some disease."

I was not listening to my mother. The mansion held my attention. One way or another, I was going to step foot inside that building and search to see if anything interesting lay within.

That night, as I lay upon my bed within my new bedroom, I dwelt upon the decaying house and the mysterious dissappearance of Efimovich Velikovsky and his servants. I could not comp[?]rehend as to how several people could disappear suddenly without a trace as to where they went. If they had left intention-ally, why had they not told a soul as to where they were headed? And if they had met sinister fates at the hands of human malefactors, why did their bodies or physical evidence not turn up?

I continued to ponder these questions, when something caught my eye. A light. A bright one. Coming through the window beside me. I turned, looked out, and witnessed a sight which filled me with awe and fear.

Outside, across the street at Velikovsky's derelict mansion, green light escaped sections of window that escaped concealment from the wooden boards which were nailed in place, illuminating the front yard and interior of my bedroom. It was not a fire. It certainly was not a flash of lightning. It was very eerie.

I had to know what was causing that light.

I got out of bed, quickly changing into my discarded clothing. As I had my shoes tied in place, I pulled up the window, slipped through out onto the cool autumn grass, and made a sprint toward the decrepit house. As I touched upon the front lawn of Velikovsky's old place of habitatione, the eldritch green glow dissipated, fading away to nothing. I entered the threshold of the front door, and stopped. Surely the light had been cut off because whomever, or whatever, had been generating it had sensed my approach. I briefly considered heading back; yet I would then never learn the secret of the light, and my curiousity would remain unsatisfied.

I moved away from the door to the side of the house facing west, searching for a means to enter the decaying structure. From one look I knew that, despite their age, the boards across the windows would refuse to yield to attempts at prying them off, so I sought to find a window with few obscuring boards; to allow me a chance to squeeze through a large enough possible gap. I soon found such a window. After a number of strenous tries, I finally wrenched the pane open, and crawled through to the inside. I dropped inside, and found myself within a servant's old bedroom.

I could tell that the little room had once been a comely little dwelling in the past. Yet the years had not been kind to it. The once-white wallpaper had peeled and become stained a hideous yellow from moisture. The ceiling, which had once been coated with a layer of rich blue paint, had turned pitch black from build up of mould caused by water leakage. The dresser at the left of the bed had rotted, and the legs had collapsed sometime ago. The bed had decayed and becoming a breeding and spawning ground for vermin, with the carpeting beneath me dirty a covered with stains.

Disregarding the decaying bedroom, I walked out the open door, into a large, long hallway; it was as run-down as the room I had just departed. Yet there were large, dust-covered, mirrors placed upon most sections of the walls.

"Come on, Ed," I said to myself, "what are you looking for? There's nothing here but cobwebs and a lot of dirty mirrors." Yet I decided to act against my inner unease, and continue to search the depths of this dismal house that at once had been a home.

I walked through this corridor, past the doors beside me which had curiously been left open, til I came to the end. Here also was a door; a closed glass door. I slowly and cautiously wrapped the fingers of my right hand around the greasy doorknob, twisted it to the right, then pushed it open and stepped through the dark doorway.

I found myself in a cavernous room, completely unlike either the bedroom or the other rooms I had viewed through their open doors. The room was massive, the size of a theatre's interior, the floor, walls, and ceiling made of massive stone blocks mortared into place. A titanic wooden staircase led from the open doorway to the depths of the distant floor. There were no windows.

"What was this place for?" I proclaimed, speaking to no one.

I decided to explore this unusual room further, in hopes of finding something of possible interest. I put my right hand down along the old wood stair rail, and began to make my way carefully down. The stairs creaked loudly as I made my way down, swaying slightly to and fro. In fear that the wood was unstable, and possibly close to collapsing, I eased my pace downward. After an eternity, my feet finally touched down on upon cold grey stone; I had survived the descent.

I began to pace about the room, searching for anything that would have provided to me an answer as to the purpose of this pseudo-basement; yet the thick dusty air made progress difficult, and the miserable lack of light prevented me from truly spying anything of value to my cause. After I met with futility, I decided to leave this cold room and make my way back to my warm bed, and turned toward the flight of stairs. As my back was turned about, the room was suddenly bathed in a brillant green light, emitting from a source behind me, opposite the wooden steps.

I spun around, to the distant wall. Only it was not a wall, but a glowing doorway into another world.

I could see clouds within this green dimension, swirling corpse-green cumulus clouds, these clouds obscured to me any ground their may have been beneath them, yet above them, in the far distance, I could see the apex of a tall mountain, a foreboding castle built upon it. To my horror, ghostly figures swirled out of the clouds, heading to-ward me.

"Oh man!" I exclaimed, terrified. I froze.

I watched as the ghosts flew up to this bizarre window into their dimension. I made out their horrible evil appearances, with their sunken eyes and their hollow cheeks. Their arms were emaciated, their clothes rags. They came to crowd at the entranceway, but I could see that they were unable to exit their universe. I saw soon another spirit come rising up out of the writhing clouds, wailing as a banshee. This spectre joined its brethren, pressing up against the doorway, as if it were but the glass of a window.

This ghost was as cadaverous as were its kin. Yet he did not possess his aura of malevolence; indeed, he appeared traumatised, as if trapped within a waking nightmare.

"Please, have mercy on me!" the ghost wailed. His voice was heavily accented, foreign, unfamiliar to me. "I am Efimovich Grigory Velikovsky. I have been trapped here,for too long, terrorized and tortured!"

I knew then that this was the former owner of this sinking dwelling, the Velikovsky which had disappeared so many decades before my birth.

"I was a magician, a sorceror from Russia, before I moved here to the United States," he continued. "I tried to hold a seance, to contact the spirit of my grandfather. By accident I opened a tunnel to the Other Side, and dragged here along with my servants into this abysmal place by the evil dead.

"My magic is useless here. You must save us and bring us back to Earth, child!"

I was dumbfounded. "How?" I asked once I found the words. "Do I have to go in and get you out?"

"You cannot!" the spirit of Efimovich Velikovsky proclaimed. "Only blood can free us from this Other Side."

"Blood?" I

"Only blood can free me!" Velikovsky declared. "Return to me with blood, child! Free me. Save my soul!"

At that, the entranceway sealed shut, and the wall returned to being a wall. At that point I blacked out, and remembered nothing more.

The next mornin I awakened the next morning within my own room, within my own bed. Though it seemed as a dream, I knew the events of last night had truly occured. I had seen through into another world. I had spoken with the ancient Efim-ovich Velikovsky of Russia who had vanished without a trace several decades ago.

Outside my room, a knock sounded upon my door. "It's time to wake up, Eddie," a voice cooed. "School starts today."

"Yes, Mom," I replied. I got then up out of bed, and prepared myself for school.

The day at school went by in a blur. My new teacher, Ms. Campbell-Smith, had me introduced to my new class-mates before I was seated at a desk. I payed little attention to the lectures of Ms. Campbell-Smith, and did little work; I concentrated on Efimovich Velikovsky and on my plan to free him. In little time the school hours were over. I left the building, breaking into a run.

He said only blood could free him, I thought as I ran. I hope the doesn't need to be fresh blood, or human blood. Maybe it can be any type of blood. From anything.

I came to the local supermarket. There, with the money I had, I purchased a large piece of lamb meat soaked with blood. In an following half hour, I arrived at the old home of Velikovsky. Taking precautions to ensure not a soul witnessed my prescence, I stole into the house via the bedroom window. Making my way [?]through the bedroom, down the hallway to the open glass door, I entered the stone room, clutching the paper-wrapped hunk of meat as I made my way down those unstable wood steps.

"Hello?" I called out as I came to the floor, beginning to shiver from the intense cold of the rock walls. "I came back. I have some blood."

As soon as the word "blood" was uttered, the doorway to the Other Side blossomed open. I saw the swirling dark-green clouds; the green sky, and the writhing spirits of the evil dead. I saw also the form of Efimovich Grigory Velikovsky, floating before the gateway's threshold. He looked different somehow; his eyes, once troubled and weary, now shone with a menacing gleam.

"What is that?" Efimovich Velikovsky hissed out from the Other Side at me, his watery eyes falling upon the meat in my hands, voice dripping with malice. "I asked for blood, boy!"

"T-the meat is covered in blood, sir," I stuttered, intimidated by the commanding spirit before me. "I didn't know where to get blood all by myself."

"Fine, fine," the Russian growled, growing frustrated with the conversation. "Bring what you have over here, and place it before the gate."

I quickly did as he commanded. I unwrapped the package of blood-soaked lamb, and placed it upon the floor centimetres inches from the blriliantly glowing doorway.

"Excellent work, child," Velikovsky bellowed, a sinister smile crossing his withered lips. "Now, boy, recite words." The ghastly ghost uttered a long stream of Russian words, all of which were just so much gibberish to me. "And get the words exactly right!"

I decided to do as he wished. I began speaking aloud thore unfamiliar words.

"Yessss..." Efimovich Velikovsky hissed, rubbing his skeletal hands together.

I continued to proclaim the incantation, struggling to pronounce the foreign words.

"Go on!" the ghost shrieked, appearing more-and-more ghastly.

I recited the final words.

At that, there was a terrific explosion; and a shock wave of powerful force lanced out and collided with me. With a cry I was yanked up off my feet, pushed back, crashing into the bottom of the wood steps, shattering them into fragments. In intense [?]agony, I forced myself up into a sitting position, my eyes falling back upon the doorway into the Other Side,. The doorway was shimmering, pulsing and heaving like some grotesque lung. The ghosts in the other dimension, including Efimovich Velikovsky, howled with demonic laughter.

"You pathetic fool!" Velikovsky laughed, throwing a gnarled finger out at my direction. "You have doomed yourself!"

"W-what?" I questioned. "What do you mean?"

"I lied to you, brat!" Velikovsky roared. "I was not forced into this world! I came here of my own free will, dragging my servants along with me. I allied myself with the gods of this place, searching for immortality. They gave me my desire. But at a price."

I sat froze.

"To remain, sacrifices must be made. Human sacrifices!"

With those words, Efimovich Grigory Velikovsky began to push his way through the barrier of the doorway. As he emerged into this world, his body began to rapidly age. His hair turned white and fell out as his eyeballs shrivelled into raisins and vanished into his eye sockets. His skin turned green, brown, then peeled off to expose muscles that dried into black tissue that broke off with his movements. His innards and clothes disintegrated to dust as his gleaming white bones grew grey and ancient. What had once been Efimovich Grigory Velikovsky stood before me, a towering living skeleton with eyes sockets burning with an inner fire; the ghoul opened its skeletal mouth, and issued an inhuman roar.

Horrified, I began to plot my escape; the ghoul was free, and it would only be a matter of time before the other ghosts from the Other Side came through following it. Should I leap for the stairs, the ghoul would quickly overtake me in a few short seconds. I had little hope of fleeing this nightmare.

My eyes then fell upon the wet meat laying on the floor to the left of the ghoul.

"Prepare yourself, rat!" the skeletal ghoul spat, pointing a twisted claw of a finger toward me. "Rejoice in the knowledge that you will be the first in many sacrifices to come!"

Without a moment's hesitation, I got to my feet, and sparang forward; I dodged past the ghoul, and threw forward my right foot. With a wet plop, my toe connected with the slimy lamb, and the chunk was thrown forward; the meat passed through the turbulence that was the gate, soon dissappearing from sight as it fell into the wispy green clouds.

"NOOOOOOOOO!" the ghoul cried, shrieking in absolute horror. "The blood! The blood maintains the connection to this world! Without it, the dead cannot come and I cannot remain!"

With that, a hidieous wail escaped the ghoul's lipless mouth. It was a scream of the dead dying. I looked glanced toward the doorway into the Other Side, watching as it collapsed, shrank.

The hellfire went out in the ghoul's sockets, growing black as the tomb. Life escaped those unholy bones, and they seperated, falling apart and tumbling into the vanishing doorway. The door leading into the Other Side slammed closed, and the bone fragments exploded, shattering into a million infintisimal particles.

To this day I cannot forget the events of that day. I still remember the face of Efimovich Velikovsky; before and after he transformed into the hideous skeleton ghoul spirit. I still remember the demonic ghosts which resided on the Other Side. I still remember the swirling green cloud formations, and that evil castle on top of that distant mountain top. I think about the Other Side, and I wonder:

What if something on the Other Side comes through?

The End

Lazarus Tower

One of eleven surviving short stories/novellas I wrote in a roughly five-year period (2004-2008).

In comparison to the last three stories, "Lazarus Tower" is a downright competent story. It's still bogged down in purple prose, but at least it isn't overwhelmed by sexism/antisexuality. It's essentially Poe-Lite (or Poe-Lite-Lite), making it ... digestable.

"Lazarus Tower" was written at the tail-end of my prose writing period, making it one of my final prose works. Paradoxically, it's the only one existing in fragmentary form; the ending is missing.

Original spelling mistakes, grammatical errors, omissions, and alterations have been preserved for your reading pleasure. Where the original text is missing, a descriptive summary has been substituted.

* * *

"I AM THE RESURRECTION AND THE LIFE; HE WHO BELIEVES IN ME, THOUGH HE DIE, YET SHALL HE LIVE, AND WHOEVER LIVES AND BELIEVES IN ME SHALL NEVER DIE."

It was those words, from the eleventh chapter of the Gospel of John, that I had had engraved into the surface of the silver plaque, which I had placed above the door frame which led to the staircase that climbed stretched the length of the tower to the sole chamber above; I had thought that whenever we climbed those steps to the apex of the tower, we departed the living death that was existance on Earth, brought to true life when we reached the top, and could step out onto the balcony, brought closer to heaven. Despite the rich colour and the resistance to the actions of time's progressions, I had declined to fashion the plaque from gold; Gold had always seemed to me a boastful metal and colour, full of pride for self, lacking in soul what it did not lack in its power to allure the eye. Silver, however, was far more a mute substance, a humble metal; while its colour attracted, it held not the gaudy intense awfulness terror of its rival, and its sheen clouded in time, obscured by tarnish, while the pride of gold keep it from accepting the slightest morsel of humility and submitting itself to the forces of change. I made the plaque in honour of her, to commemorate the complesion of the building's construction; she was like silver to me, beautiful, yet humble, willinging to trade her outer beauty for the lines and wrinkles of age when the time eventually came without a fuss, avoiding the lusts of vanity and pride, refusing to consider any attempts to obscure her changing features as she came steadily closer to old age. Those words inscribed upon the plaque were in honour of my Lord, who had blessed me with the love and company of my darling Suzanne.

For the first eight years following the complesion of our home and the wedding that followed I kept that plaque shined, keeping the sheen like that of newly molded metal, in remembrance of my gift. After the event in the tower, however, I contined the upkeep no longer; as the years passed, the silver lost its brillance, and grew the dismal flat grey of ashes.

I shun the tower and its uppermost solitary chamber, as do I the entrance that comes before. At the best of my ability, I avoid areas that take me to close proximity to the door and that accursed plaque. I sleep no longer in our original marriage bed, which now remains many decades cold from emtiness, and have taken residence within a former guest room at the far end of the mansion, opposite the door that stays locked, that leads up a sole flight of stairs to a sole room which in turn only opens out onto a balcony, from which the tops of the buildings nearest to us can be seen. I spend many a night awake; when I do rest, it is in unease, with many an unpleasant dream attached.

As of this moment, after a period of several lengthy years, the door to the tower stands unlocked, and open to me. I sit now within the comfort of a large leather-upholstered chair, trembling in fear, my eyes fixed upon the doorway which opens out into the cooridor [?]t which's end stands the open door. Before it is too late for me, I will tell you the whole story, from the beginning. Everything is clear to me, every memory vivid in my mind's eye. I will recall all with complete accuracy. This is not the insane ram-blings of a man driven to madness by guilt and shame; this is the truth.

I was born Steven Edward Queene to Edward Sameul Queene and Melissa Johanna Queene, a rich English couple which owned a series of textile factories, in the city of London, April fourth, 1861. Cursed with ill health at a young age due to the fiflthy air of the city, I was sent away to live with my uncle Richard Milton Queene, in the United States of America, Maine. Unlike my parents, who forever remained frigid toward me, Uncle Richard was a kind, loving soul, who lavished me with gifts and affection through-out my younger years, spoiling me rotten in the process. I remained in America for the remaining majority of my life; I communicated scantily with either my mother or father through letters, and I made only two return visits to London, both in the wake of their deaths.

I met the young poor Suzanne MacAdams in the summer of 1884, at the age of twenty-three. Around my home had been a large section of forest, a thick nigh-on impenetrable growth of trees, the only traverable ground a featureless path worn into the earth. As a pastime, I fregquently enjoyed walks in the woods, making my way steadily on the path, observing the unspoiled nature about me. It was on one such walk that I came upon a still form, lying tangled in the foliage. At first, I had not a clue as to what I was seeing; I krept close to it, making soft steps as I neared, until I was close enough to know what I was looking gazin upon.

It was a young woman, at an age in no way significantly different from my own, beaten and bloodied, her clothes torn and much of her body exposed to me; she had been abused violently, visciously raped, then [?]left for dead by the animals which had committed the horrid crime. She was still alive, a fact I knew from looking upon the rising and falling motion of her chest.

With great care, I took her up in my arms, and make the journey back to my home. As I forced my way inside, the weight of the girl in my arms, I called out to the servants for assistance. They came, and ushered her to a warm bed, retrieving at my request towers and water to clean her wounds; I sent away immediatly for a doctor. In time the medical man arrived, and examined her; he found fractured ribs; internal bleeding, and a concussion amongst her injuries, and informed my that though the damage done was severe, it needed not the attention services of a hospital; after that all she truly needed the most was considerible rest; after setting her broken damaged bones, he departed.

Needless to say, I was present at her bedside when she first regained consciousness. We explained to each other the circumstances which led her to this bed, before she returned to the land of the unconscious She grew stronger as the days, weeks, and months passed by. We became fast friends; holding conversations together between us. When the time came arrived when she had recovered fully from her ordeal, she proceeded to leave, to return to homeless-ness, to prostitution. I refused her exit; I had fallen in deep love with her.

As she had with me.

She stayed there. She kept her room. I bought her clothes, suitable for her and her generous nature; as well as aquisitions which suited her fancy. Uncle Richard oppossed her prolonged stay, however, as she had been a prostitute and my uncle had been slow to forgiveness. He came to accept her prescence in time, however, and learned to love her as an additional member to the family.

We stayed together, Under Uncle Richard's roof, for four years; we had not come to know each other intimately yet, as I was saving myself for marriage, and she had come to reproach the caresses of others.

In May of 1888, I made a proposal of marriage to her. She accepted. the May of the following year, we got married. Our daughter, Lauren Emily Queene, was born to us nine months later. The years On her first birth-day, construction began on our new dream home; the foundation was layed in the city.

I personally designed the house. Using knowledge I had obtained about engineerin construction, I drew the sche-matics for the building. The tower was meant for my wife, for Suzanne. Her own small paradise, a place where she could look out, and gaze upon the whole wide world stretching beyond. It was for her. Only for her.

It all went wrong few short years later, when she began having an affair with Chester Arnold Keaton.

I do not understand how, why, it occurred. I cannot explain it. She became withdrawn, no longer confiding with in me. She began to send time away from home for hours at a time. She claimed to only be going on walks, to escape the atmosphere of the mansion. A resonable explanation, if not for the unrealistic amount of time yet I could sense something amiss.

I began to suspect the existence of the affair when in contact with the Keatons, as I witnessed the looks of un-easiness that they exchanged. The existence of this affair was confirmed when I spied them together, on the bed within a guest room, her atop her under the sheets, grasping and squeezing her body. They failed to spot me. I stole away to another area of the mansion, well away from their act of adultery. I wept then, shfting cries of anguish and morose melancholy, able only to thank God that Lauren was away at school, unable to ever witness the abom-ination that was proceeding under the roof of his very own home.

I never revealed my knowledge to her, though I began to suspect that, within her, she had come to know that I knew of the affair. I grew morose, and no longer spoke to her. I was angered, yes, but more than anything truly saddened. Our marriage was over, figuratively if not literally. Yet I continued to love her. To the last second together, I continued to love her.

It came to a climax on October seventeenth, 18[?]3 1900.

Ever since the complesion of the house, I had never took a step into the tower without her permission, as the tower had been for her, only her. Yet with my happiness gone, I disregarded wthis unofficial rule, seeking comfort in nostalgia. I came to that door, and, taking one, sorrowful [?]glance up at the tarnishing silver plaque above, I turned the knob counter-clockwise, and pulled the door open. I stepped past the threshold, clos-ing the door behind me, proceeding up the staircase at a leisurely pace, my left hand upon the varnished ebony banister. I soon came to the door which would lead into the tower's single chamber. I twisted the knob, swung open the door, taking a step within.

There, standing in the centre of the opulent room, were they! Keaton and Suzanne!

I had passively detested their horrid affair, and had avoided violent confrontation up to that point. Yet here they were together in this room, in the tower, the physical manifestation of all the love I had ever and would ever have for Suzanne. It was a travesty. It was a blasphemy! It was a desecration, a violation, of this shrine I had designed in the name of my love for her, to have them, him, together here to fornicate! This freakshow would end, now!

I dived forward, taking a heavy oak chair into my hands, bringing it up over my shoulders. As Keaton started, turning to me, I brought the solid wood down upon his cranium.

Suzanne had begun to regain her consciousness as I completed tying the bonding of Keaton's bloodied corpse to the same chair I had slain him with. Her eyes fluttered open, and muffled cries attempted to escape her gagged mouth as she became aware of her own bonds keeping her secured to her own solid oak chair.

I turned my gaze to her, sorrow clearly etched upon my features. "I've known, Suzanne. I've known for some time now. You shouldn't have come up here. Not with him."

A series of muffled outcries were uttered as she began to rock forward in the seat of her chair. I stepped away from the limp form of my dead rival, a crossed the room to the twin glass doors that opened up on the exterior balcony beyond. I twisted the knobs and pulled the doors toward me, opening them, causing a brisk gust of wind to be drawn inward; I quickly pulled both occupied chairs to the open doors, positioning them at the [?] threshold, affording my Suzanne a sight of the beautiful, brillant sunset.

"I love you Suzanne," I uttered, placing a final kiss upon her forehead. "And I always will."

Her groans and writhings ceased. Within her eyes I saw a grim understanding. As well as an form of pleading in her eyes, not for her life expression I could not read.

I departed, taking not one look back, and closed the door behind me. I locked it, shambled down the echoing steps, then stepped out once again. I closed the door, pushed the key into the keyhole, and turned it, a resonating click hit my ears. I would never see that door open again until a number of decades later. decades passed.

I had told Lauren that her mother had left, and that I did not know where to.

For reasons I cannot define, the buzzards never gathered at the top of the tower to devour the rotting flesh which they surely should have had easy access to inside.

Six Decades have passed, and I am now an old many of ninety-five. Lauren is sixty-six years old, married to a Joseph Andrew Arquette, and has had two children: Edward Solomon Arquette — twenty-six, David Emil Arquette — twenty-four. Edward in turn has a daughter: Maria Lauren Arquette, who is twelve, and possesses an unfortunate taste for that ungainly "Rock & Roll" pseudo-music. I have one daughter, two grandsons, and one great-grandaughter.

I continue to live in this decaying mansion, despite Lauren's misgivings, cared for by servants as if I were but an infant. I am a feeble ancient creature, mere dry parchment on a brittle frame, slowly decaying. Only my mind is still alert, still alive. I am aware that the lock unlatched itself, without a human hand's touch.

She comes forward now. She is not how I imagined her. As a putrid, bloated corpse with green skin, blisters, and writhing maggots spilling from empty sockets. As an animate skeleton, clad only in decayed rags. She looks much as I do. An emaciated frame, brittle bone covered over with mummified flesh, relatively intact dress discoloured and fragile from age and rot, her hair dry as straw and devoid of its former sheen.

Her eyes, round glassy orbs, which I expected to be filled with loathing and rage, possess instead sadness, regret ... and love.

A grasp the left armchair with my arthritic talons, uttering a large gulp of panic. "I-is your lover with you, Suzanne?"

[Suzanne informs Steven that she has come back alone. She then explains to him that on the day he confronted her and Keaton in the tower, she hadn't brought Keaton there for a tryst, rather to break off their affair and rekindle her romance with Steven. She then tells him she harbours no resentment towards him for killing her. Steven then dies. Later, Steven & Suzanne's bodies are discovered later by family members, curled up together on the floor. The end.]

George Lowell's Last Stand

One of eleven surviving short stories/novellas I wrote in a roughly five-year period (2004-2008).

The sequel to "The Crone-Maiden", it's just as pretentious and antisexual. To add injury to insult, there's a heaping shovelful of sexism on top of it. I never identified as an incel, and didn't even know the term at the time, but this story has all the tell-tale signs of underlying resentment towards beautiful women.

Original spelling mistakes, grammatical errors, omissions, and alterations have been preserved for your reading pleasure.

* * *

This is it. Tonight will be the seventh night. She will come, she will knock, she will ultimately force her way within to get at me. Tho-ugh I am severely weak, I will resist her power; I will make my last stand.

Her name is, or, perhaps I should say, was, Maria Cortez-Rodrieqez, a woman who is, and was, a woman of low moral fibre, a flirtatious brat of a female with vile thirsts and vile partners. Men desired her body, and she willingly gaze her body to them, allowing them perimission to perform any obscene sexual act upon her which they wished to utilise. Her darkness, her amorality, or perhaps immorality, her utter disdain for the male sex and chastity both, attracted the unearthly entity which came and took her soul as its own.

At some point in the recent past, something crossed over from a location unreachable to us to our world, from beyond our very universe,. At some point it found Ms. Cortez-Rodrigez, returning from her night shift at Escher Pysychiatric Haspital, and entered her physical form itself, possessing it, and obtaining complete control. It found, more or less, a willing host in this physically attractive Latino woman, whose dark thoughts were apparently not at odds with its own. Whatever its initial goal upon reachingEarth was, I believe that agenda concern has possibly been already taken care of.

For unknown reasons, she began to attempts to seduce me.

Ever since I had lived within this apartment complex I have known her, since she is my neighbour; however, I am of physical traits substandard, below her taste rin regards to masculine physical charms, and she had never before expressed an interest in me. Yet now she had begun to flirt with me, to speak in of risque subjects in seductive tones, put light touches upon me, and flaunt her body suggestively to me in revealing items of clothing. Regardless of her advances, I denied her. She had had no power over me. She would not have any power over me.

If I had not gratified myself, alone within the privacy of my ch-ambers with her in my thoughts.

I am but a mortal, sinful man, imperfect and always short of true glory. I had vainly resisted physical fornication with her, but I had not seen mental sexual congress and immoral or detestable. Yet as I climaxed that first time, in my mind's eye I saw her elegant features twist into a grotesque [?]alistic sneer of triumph, and I knew she had won; I was hers, I had lost, and I collapsed in sudden weakness. The next night commenced with the first of the physical seintercoarse; she forced her way into my room, undressed, and I willingly caressed her smooth, shiny curves as she drained more of my life from me.

The sessions of sex continued with each night. And know it is the seventh. I will die if she is penetrated once more. So, with my last vestiages of strength, I have retrieved the shotgun and shells from my bedroom closet, and now wait here at the end of the hall, opposite the main door, the barrel levelled. I now hear a loud rap upon the wood, a husky address, then more raps upon the door.

Suddenly, the door is forced in, and a sexy Latino woman bounds in, pulling open her nuse's uniform to exposed round, voluptous breasts.

I pull back the trigger, and her head disappears in a red mist.

The End

The Crone-Maiden

One of eleven surviving short stories/novellas I wrote in a roughly five-year period (2004-2008).

This is a prime example of the junk I was producing at the time. I had recently discovered Lovecraft and immediately took to emulating his style. Or trying to emulate; I was a sixth-rate hack, plain and simple, using my small vocabulary of big words to prop up subpar writing. The sex-negativity is also strong with this one; another distasteful quality of my writing which I've thankfully overcome. Plus a bonus demerit for "hauntingly sensual pseudo-Teutonic"; this prose is so purple it's bruised. 😬

Original spelling mistakes, grammatical errors, omissions, and alterations have been preserved for your reading pleasure.

* * *

There are many universes parallel to our own. Each of these universes is very much like ours, but each one differs in ways either subtle or profound. In a myriad of realities exists worlds counterpart to our Earth, orbiting a sun or suns, often populated with humans (or human subspecies). On a number of planes, including that of our world, sci-ence holds sway; and the forces of magic are oppressed, kept in states of ineptitude and relative impotence. On others, though, the reverse is true.

The quantum universe the Crone-Maiden calls home is one such world.

Born originally from the same progenitor universe ours ultimately ties its origins to, this alternate Earth possesses the exact principals which govern our continuum; yet history there is widely divergent from our own, and the languages and cultures known to us have no counter-parts there. It is a technologically degraded society, dominated by feudalism, and the rise in atheism and rationalism has turned many of the spiritually hungry toward nature worship and self-denial.

You may now ask how I know of the existance of this universe, and the details of. Let it be said that there are many special projects sanctioned by the United States Government, the existance of which remains intentionally undisclosed to the general public. The project I was assigned to dealt with experiments involving wormholes and the manipulation of the fabric of spacetime. In on particular experiment, there was a horrific accident, killing many scientists, and depositing me into a rip in spacetime.

In the blink of an eye, travelling faster than the speed of light without truly travelling faster than the speed of light, I took an extradimensional trip sideways through time.

I landed in a fiflthy bog pond located with a dark bower on the far side of the world. The journey had left me disoriented and nauseous, and the birth into this world had been turbulent; thus, I slipped into semi consciousness. I pitifully flailed my arms about as liquid slip over my fingertips, and water entered my lungs. Just as my vision was obscured, I glimpsed a hazey white mirage located within the treeline beyond the pool's shore. I sank forever, and the murrky brown-green around me went red, then black, as I felt a nearly indiscernible touch on my hand.

Somehow

Somehow,  I had not died. When I awoke, I found myself dry before a popping and snapping camp fire, laying amongst the trees, yards from the pond I had landed in. And I was not alone. Before me, on the opposite side of the orange blaze, stood a woman. I started, and scrambled back-ward a number of inches.

She stood there unmoving, her gaze upon me. She was a tall, young woman with an appearance of twenty-six years of age. She possessed striking Scandainavian features: long, straight blonde hair encircling a face with high cheekbones and flowing down over slender shoulders, while piercing eyes of ice stood under near invisible eyebrows and over a straight Nordic nose, which in turn was stationed above a pair of full pink lips; her skin, which possessed a glow originating not from the flames, was pale, a soft peach which gave brillance to the white volumous robe she wore over her body.

Her facial features lacked expression, yet her eyes stabbed with a ra-venous hunger. With a swift, effortless move she unfastened her obscuring robe, drawing it open and exposing me completely to me her naked body.

I gasped. Naturally, I would have turned away, pled to her to redress. Yet at that moment I was entranced, frozen, and suddenly aroused.

She was voluptous, all firm curves. Her body was flawless, her taut breasts and buttocks shaped and proportioned perfectly — neither too large nor too small. Her entire body below the neck was lacking altogether in body hair. Her radiant skin had a exotic shine to it, as if having been anointed with oils. Her robe hung loose and hanging from her arms, in a single lithe movement she glided toward me, lowering herself to the grass.

Lay with me, she drawled in a husky, seductive voice. The voice had not issued from her lips to my ears, but from her mind to mine.

She removed my clothes as swiftly as she had her own, and thrust her body against mine; my erect organ penetrated her smooth, shaven, tight, orifice. She uttered a moan of ecstasy, a true moan, not one of tele-pathic origin. I ran my hands over her smooth, hairless body, fondling her firm bosom and posterior. We melted together, and she brought her robe up and over us, hiding our sex from the outside world. I cannot say how long we coupled. When we climaxed, she withdrew from me, a smile on her perfect lips.

We have shared each other. You are mine.

With those words suddenly came an influx of images, thoughts, memories. As I grew aware onf the gravity presented within these uploaded items of data, a horrendous dread seized me.

This is what I quickly learned to be the truth of this hauntingly sensual pseudo-Teutonic. Hundreds of years into the past of this universe separate from mine, this girl had once been human, an innocent daughter to a pair of kindly peasants until she had been seduced by a darkly hand-some man from outside her home village, a reputed sorceror who dabled in the black arts. He awoke in her heart lust, and stole from her her chas-tity and virginity; feuled by evil, she willingly devoted herself to her immortal lover and his diabolical practices, sacrificing her own parents upon a stone altar in his honour. They stayed in the village of her birth; in time, they came to be feared, and reproachable , their house avoided by all.

As the years went by, the townspeoples' hatred for the two demon-worshippers grew in potency. Though they had engaged in the most profane acts of inter-course, they had been unable to spawn any progeny. In order to fulfill their desire to pass  their knowledge on to a younger generation (as well as for the ritual sacrifices they observed on a monthly basis) sthey had begun to steal into the homes of parents, and kidnap their little ones. Finally, after finallu retrieving evidence that directly connected the two magicians with the missing children, a murderous mob organised, and came in a wave to their cottage weilding farming tools and flaming torches.

They forced their way into the dwelling, overturning tables cluttered with obscene objects and shelves stacked with tomes covered in obscure characters and frightful covers. They beat down the two lovers, then dragged them out in the open and into an animal cage. The riot forced open the basement door, where they found children, and the remains of children, huddled together in piles upon the stone floor covered in filth. The two criminals were given not any trial, but were instead led out into the forest depths by wagon, where their cage was ultimately unloaded. The carriage departed, and they were left to die within under the dark canopy of trees.

The sorceror eventually died, from hunger and thirst; what became of the girl, I could not positively identify from the content I had absorbed, but I do know that in the wake of her husband's death, an unquenchable hatred arose with her, as did an undying addiction for vengeance. She embraced completely the powers of the dark side, was transformed, and in doing so lost any humanity that had remained in her after her slaying of her own parents. She became a living corpse, forever immortal and youthful, yet bound to the forest wherein her partner had met his end; if ever she were to cross beyond the trees of the woods, she would immediatly age and die. She was unable to return to the village, unable to exact her revenge.

In time, she escaped the cage that had been her prison, and continued to develop her black magic. She knew she could not go to them, but, how-ever, they could come to her. A plan began to form.

She began a daily pattern in where she would build a large fire at the mouth of a cave she had located and begun to dwell within, the idea to attract any passersby within the forest in search of passible shelter. A year had passed since her lover's demise when she encountered her first wayward traveller, a homely young male amateur cartographer. She beck-oned to him telepathically, inviting him into the foul depths of the cave which smelled of rodecaying flesh and mould, where she seduced and lay with him, enslaving him forever.

This procedure would commence anytime she encountered a man capable of intercourse. For years since her transformation, she would on occassion encounter vagabonds, exiles, disgraced and dejected theives, Sodomites, adulterers, murrderers, etc. Weakening their minds with her abilities and seducing them with promises of pleasure or power, she would have sex with them, and hold them for many dawys, until their essence was spent and they became living corpses as she was; their minds would remain active, but they would have no control over their own bodies, which were commanded only by her to do one thing: bring living men to her, to increase the numbers of her minions and take her revenge against the members of the living.

Tales of the living dead girl and her cadaverous servants, as relayed from escapees who had managed to avoid the fate of those undead forest-dwellers, begun to circulate amongst the villages and towns nearest to the forest. They came to know this undead and undying witch as the Crone-Maiden, as she was as ancient as she was youthful.

I returned to reality as a sigh of satisfaction, a true vocalised one, escaped her lips. She rose to her feet, pulling her robe back into place and tying it shut, hiding her body once again within the sexless robe. I lay there, frozen and naked, breathing heavily from the sex and the terror that came with my newfound information.

"You — you used me!" I stuttered, excstatic. "Took advantage —"

I merely released your inhibitions and gave you what you would have wanted, she thought. Your essence is spent for now, but in time you will be replenished, and we will experience each other once more.

And that is when my mind snapped. In a fraction of a second, I went from sane to frightened to completely and incurably insane. My throat tore as a frightful amnimal howl escaped, and I was up and off before the pleased smile of my tormentor could vanish. All I could think of was my likely fate, and knew death was my only escape. I ran headlong back to the stagnant swamp pool, diving into the water and algae, fighting downward to the bottom, in hopes of drowning myself; as the liguid, I felt the slender but strong arms of the Crone-Maiden encircle me, attempting to haul me up and back to dry land.

Suddenly, I was elsewhere. I was still wet, but layed out upon a plat-form of titanium steel, not floundereing in filthy water. I was semi-conscious and full of nausea, yet I could make out dark shadows, damaged machinery, and smouldering corpses. Above and around me stood the forms of scientists in white loaboratory coats; all wore, as near as I could tell, fearful and concerned expressions upon their faces.

"Sturrmer!" one obscurre visage uttered, his or her voice distorting as I slipped out of the conscious world. "What happened? Where did you..."

The voice faded. Just as darkness overcame me, I turned over on my side; as I did so, a brittle, grey skeleton, clad in a white robe, came apart over me and scattered around the platform in pieces.

It would seem that the rip in spacetime that we had created had remained open after the initial incident, and had not sealded shut after I had passed through into the alternate reality. When I had raced back into the pond in search of death, I had stumbled into the rip which had originally brought me there, and returned to my familar world. It would seem that as the Crone-Maiden had caught me, she as well had gone through to the portal. As she was bound by magic to the forest, when she left her entire universe for mine, she aged rapidly and was nothing more than bones when we arrived. The author-ities never did learn about the nature of the female skeleton, or where I had gone; the rip had never closed, so the goverment cancelled the project, and had the base closed down and put under heavy guard.

As for myself, I never did recover. I am as mad now as I was mad then. For you see, although the Crone-Maiden's physical form had ceased to function, she was not dead! My initial ramblings upon regaining consciousness after my return led me to my comitmittal to an insane asylum. I was put in straight jacket and padded cell to in order to protect me from myself, yet nothing could protect my dreams from her visitations! My first night there, I was visited by the Crone-Maiden within my troubled nightmares, where she slept with me again, and has been doing ever since; she is as beautiful as she was in life, and as pleasurable.

But now she tells me that she tires of incorpereal existence and incorporeal lovemaking! She desires to dwell within the natural world again, to have intercourse with live flesh!

Now, at this moment, I hear the sound of the door of the padded cell unlockeing; and watch as it swings inward. In steps a woman in a white nurse's uniform. She closes the door, locks it, and turns to me. She is visibly dissimiliar from the Crone-Maiden I remember, a Latino with long black hair, brown eyes, and an olive complexion; yet she is tall, and as alluring.

"I just want to say," she uttered, as she began to unbutton her dress. "I never planned to absorb you into the ranks of my living dead slaves. You are not of the stock that killed my husband and dis-graced me, thus you were never subject to my venegence. You were meant to be my new bridegroom, and I was to place within you eternal life. You and I would have ruled the forests together, and took of the flesh of the living together. Now that cannot be. But I can still give you solice, some comfort to make the rest of your life in imprisonment somewhat easier. Do not worry, my love, I will visit you often, and give you vast pleasure until the day you die."

She pulled open her uniform, exposing a smooth, shiny voluptous body of firm curves and hairless features. She left the white clothing drop to the padded floor.

I scream now, as she comes to me, forcing my pants down, my mind shattering further, thankfully, into animal nonsenttience.

The End

Inner Beauty

One of eleven surviving short stories/novellas I wrote in a roughly five-year period (2004-2008).

This is one of my better short stories of the time, to the point, without most of the pseudo-Lovecraftian purple prose which defined my writing at the time. The wording's still cumbersome, the narrative saturated in the antisexuality and misogyny I was harbouring at the time.

Original spelling mistakes, grammatical errors, omissions, and alterations have been preserved for your reading pleasure.

* * *

With the removal of the last of the stubble, he discarded the razor, letting it splash and sink through the scummy, tepid water to the bottom of the porcelain sink. He picked up his guaranteed method of protection, like more than a yammaka fashioned from aluminum foil, and placed it over his freshly shaven scalp; over this he placed a wig of brown hair, maneuvering it into position, making certain it coveringed the silver metal and appeared as nothing other than true human hair. Making certain everything was perfect in the mirror, he reached out a flipped a switch, casting the small bathroom into darkness. He stepped out of the bathroom; pulling from his pocket as he did so a small blue cell phone; he flipped it open, dialled the desired cell phone number, then brought it up to his ear. After three short rings, there was a click as someone picked up.

"Astarte?" he inquired.

"Yeah, speaking," the feminine voice replied.

"A heard from a friend about the services you provide."

"Really?" the voice took on a seductive quality.

"I could use a friend tonight."

"Give me your name and adress, sweet putz," she cooed.

He gave it.

"Be there in a while crocodile," she uttered. The line then went dead.

He smiled, then closed the phone and returned it to his pocket. He entered his living room, and took a seat upon his sofa and waited. Twenty minutes passed, and a ring issued from the doorbell. He pushed himself up and off the sofa, walked to the door, and opened it. There, standing at the threshold, was an alluring Goth woman; her piercing blue eyes contrasted with her eye shadow, pale skin, and dyed-black hair, clad in a black tank top, leather wristbands, black leather miniskirt and thigh-high leather boots. A penagram and inverted crucifix hung from her neck.

She stepped inside, giving a wink and a smile as she chewed blue bubble gum. "Where and how you want it?"

"In the bathroom," he uttered, butterflies crawling about the interior of his stomach. "I like taking girls from behind, but I like to watch their faces in the mirror" as I do it."

"Sure, hon," she winked again. She walked into the bathroom, activating the light as she did so.

She pulled down her miniskirt, revealing a tantalising firm posterior clad in a jet black thong; she positioned herself over the sink and spread her legs.

"Take me hard," she moaned, a sigh escaping her lips. "Hard and slow."

He smiled, teeth revealing themselves. He reached into the waistband of his pants behind him, and pulled out a gleaming chrome .44 Magnum, loaded and ready to fire. As Astarte waited for penetration, black-lidded eyes closed, he took careful aim, and pulled the trigger. The weapon recoiled in his hand, and the loud resonating bang pained his ears. Her torso disintegrated in a fountain of blood and innards, few of the tissues actually human. Along with drops of crimson, fluid the colour of lilacs splashed the walls, light, and mirror. As the slain woman collapsed, inhuman tentacles spilled out, twitching slightly before going still.

He wiped a string of extraterrestrial tissue off from his forehead, smiling at having rid the world of a deadly alien creature world of the alien parasite.

The End

Bartman vs. The Destroyer (Original Version)

This past October, I shared "Bartman vs. The Destroyer", a transcript of a short story I wrote for my fifth grade class back in 1997. I decided I would be remiss if I didn't then share scans of the actual physical copy, as they came complete with crude, partially coloured illustrations.

* * *

Even with illustrations providing context, the story remains nonsensical if you haven't read the Bartman comics I wrote in 1996-1998 or know about Bubblehead, the anthropomorphic bubble character I created in '97. I can only imagine what the teacher made of it after I handed it in to her.

Bartman vs. The Destroyer

What follows is the earliest surviving piece of fanfiction that I still have with me. I wrote it in the 5th Grade for a class assignment.  It originally came with a prologue explaining the origin of the story's antagonist, but the teacher made me discard it for some reason. 😕

The spelling mistakes, grammatical errors, and batshittery are strong with this one. For those reasons, I'm sharing its beauty with the world. 😽

* * *

Bart simpson was at home lisenting to the radio he was lisenting to the rocking rock then a newsflash came.

we interupt this program for a newsflash wow said bart.

I heard on the radio a monster was on the loose then i heard a crunch and a scream and i turned into bartman.

And he flew to the rescuse springfield look more like hell every building was crused there was seven dead people 172 injured and a giant

Who are you?!

i am the destroyer then bartman shoot a tranguilizer dart it broke to 500 pieces

and then he got his turbo laser cannon and shot the destroyer in the head. Then the destroyer shoot acid out of his mouth and burned his costume then bartman flew to the place where he was hit by the comet. And grabbed a peace flew back. And threw it at the destroyer and the street blew up up. And he was back to normal. But then something moved through the trees first no one saw then the edge came out then the spaceship landed an alien came out and said hes wanted in the galaxy

meanwhile in a galaxy far far far away a living bubblee named bubble head was wathing and he said.

What next darth vader giveing you a kiss good night in realty porky pig or garfield but not today so t.thats all folks.

Jedi Dark, Jedi Bright

"Time has come to wake up."

As those six, softly spoken words slid through the air like a ribbon of silk caught in a slight updraft, the young Wroonian girl awoke. Stifling a yawn, she sat up and looked up at the speaker of those words. A tall Wroonian male, clad in a simple homespun robe of colourless fabric, looked down upon her. There was no great urgency in his dark amber eyes, no sternness in his thin, fine-­boned face. The girl frowned slightly, her pale cream­-coloured eyes narrowed with sleepiness.

"It's morning already?"

A slight smile came to his thin, blue lips. "Almost. Get up and get yourself ready to go."

Deciding not to argue with him, the girl tossed her blanket off and rose from her cot, stretching to wake her stiff muscles from their sleep. The girl, her frame as thin as her benefactor's, was clad in a simple white nightshirt.

"Can I have something to eat first?" she asked politely.

"Breakfast can wait," he replied nonchalantly.

Stepping away from the cot, the girl crossed to the other side of the hut's main room where the refresher door stood. Opening it, she quickly stepped inside and closed it behind her.

"You won't be too long now, will you?" he called out.

"No, no," she replied from the other side of the door. "I'll be ready in about ten minutes."

"You can have fifteen," he called back. "But no more than that."

"No problem, Uncle," she said. "No problem at all."

Satisfied, the girl's uncle turned and walked over to a coat rack standing beside the hut's small hearth. On the rack, dangling down, was a belt; hooked to the belt, composed of gleaming chrome and black plasteel, was the hilt of a lightsaber. Reaching out, the Wroonian took the belt down and snapped it into place around his narrow waist, taking care to make certain his lightsaber was aligned properly.

* * *

I was nodding off, half asleep with images of lithe male Twi'lek dancers frolicking around naked inside my mind, when the navicomputer began to beep with annoying fervour, rudely rousing me to full alertness.

Reaching forward, I pulled back on a lever, cutting power to the Vynock's Talon's hyperdrive. Instantly, the blue maelstrom of hyperspace situated beyond the viewport retracted, revealing the star­studded fabric of realspace before me. In the distance, scarcely larger than the stars surrounding it, was the planet Geonosis.

"Ah, Geonosis", I declared with phony enthusiasm, "how happy I am to be seeing you once again. Hope I was able to beat the morning rush hour."

As I drew closer to Geonosis, its features became clearer, more defined. A perfect sphere of mottled brown bearing a system of rings, Geonosis was a complete desert planet; whatever little water could be seen on the world's surface was frozen in the small polar regions. Though I couldn't see any of them yet, I knew there were hundreds of settlements stretched sparsely all along the equator.

Instinctively aware of oncoming planetfall, the muscles in my legs began to protest from the hours spent motionless in the pilot's seat, eagre to flex and bend and move again. Deciding to get the blood flowing, I activated the autopilot then rose from the seat. Placing my hands on my narrow hips, I twisted left then right, loosening the stiffness from my back with a grunt. Sighing as endorphins began pumping, I turned and left the cockpit.

Entering my quarters, I crossed over to the safe beside my bunk. Crouching down beside the safe, I entered the combination ­­-- the foolproof sequence of "12345" --­­ and opened it. Reaching inside, I pulled out my single­most precious possession: my lightsaber. Of course, I have to admit it's a rather ugly thing; my first and only attempt at building such a weapon, the shaft was crafted from a crudely cut length of black durasteel pipe. Nevertheless, I loved it as dearly as the black angel doll I had as a little girl.

Closing the safe, I rose back up and slipped the saber into the sheath strapped to my left thigh. Turning, I then crossed my way back to the door to the cockpit. As I stepped past my full-­length mirror, I stopped and took a step back. Looking myself over, I turned to my right then my left, regarding the shape of my body. Clad in a tight black synth­-leather jumpsuit, I could make out every inch of my body. My hips narrow and my chest flat, I had a boyish figure. My mother, herself a buxom beauty, had often told me that I was just a late bloomer, that I'd fill out before my nineteenth birthday. That was fifteen years ago, and my gaminesque physique hadn't changed in the slightest. I'd thought about saving money up to get implants or gene therapy to attain a more feminine appearance, but my master had chastened me for even thinking the thought; "A Jedi does not dwell on the flesh, Dylia," he had told me over­-and-­over again for the six years I'd spent under his tutelage.

He was dead now, though, skewered through on his own weapon, so what did he know?

Taking my eyes off my body, I refocused my attention on my own face. Chalk-­white save for the dark circles around my eyes, I could tell I wasn't fully Human. I'd never known my father and Mom had never told me who he was, so I didn't have any idea what species of near-­Human he belonged to. I'd sent a sample of my DNA away for analysis, but the results I got back were inconclusive; whatever race my father hailed from, it wasn't a registered one.

Giving myself a final once-­over, I left the mirror and returned to the cockpit.

* * *

Stepping out of the refresher, the Wroonian girl crossed over to her cot. Bending down beside it, she picked up the brown overalls she'd discarded for the night's sleep. Slipping her thin legs into the sleeves, she pulled the overalls up, slinging the straps over her shoulders and securing them in place. Fully dressed, she turned to regard her uncle, who was waiting beside the hut door.

"Should I get my lightsaber?" the girl asked her uncle.

"No," he declared. "You won't need it for this exercise."

Opening the door, the tall man stretched his arm out, gesturing for his niece to step outside first. Without hesitation, she took him up on his offer and walked outside. Following after her, he closed the door behind them.

* * *

I had remembered the cold of Geonosis, but that didn't prepare me for it; not one bit.

Shivering under my red poncho, I silently cursed myself for not having dressed in warmer clothing as I walked through the streets of the non­-Geonosian sector of Rakeen Province. Geonosis, an incredibly arid world, reminded me of another backwater desert planet I had had the misfortune of visiting named Tatooine. Unlike Tatooine, however, Geonosis was cold --­­ very cold. The regions of the planet past the equator were uninhabitable, and on midwinter nights, even the habitable zone proved inhospitable; anyone caught unprotected out in the open desert was sure to freeze to death only an hour after sundown. At the moment, though, it was summer on this side of the planet, so the frigid weather was merely unbearable rather than life threatening.

Stopping in my tracks, I reached to the left side of my belt and pulled out my datapad. Activating it, I called up a map of the non­-Geonosian sector. Zooming in until it focused on the local region of the sector, I refreshed my memory on where I was to go. Deactivating the datapad, I continued on my way.

Within twenty minutes, I arrived at my destination. Sitting before me, twice as ugly as sin, was a low cube­-shaped junk shop. Composed of sandstone brick plastered with crumbling, dirty adobe, it looked older than the sector it belonged to, and the sector predated the New Sith Wars.

"Lovely," I muttered to myself as I unconsciously cocked an eyebrow. Stepping forward, I entered the dark doorway.

If the shop’s exterior was homely, then the interior went beyond such description. Cluttered with disorganized pieces of machinery which had probably been rendered obsolete centuries ago, the walls and floor was a quagmire of congealed grease and thick cobwebs. As I walked through the length of the shop, taking care to avoid the sharper pieces of junk strewn about, I could feel the soles of my boots sticking to the tacky floor.

"What can I do fer ye?"

Hearing the low, gravelly voice, I looked to the far back corner of the shop. Standing there, partially concealed behind an overstuffed shelf, was the shopkeeper: an overweight Bothan dressed in ratty brown pants and a yellowed apron stained with oil. Placing a broken flux capacitor on the shelf, the Bothan waddled on over to where I was standing.

"I'm here on a visit," I said casually. "I have a friend living here in this part of the sector, but I'm not sure where, exactly, he's staying." I gave him a big, bright smile. "I was hoping you'd know where he can be found."

"Visitin' a friend, eh?" he muttered as he scratched his rear vigorously. "Shouldn't this friend o' yer's have given ye some directions ta follow before he called ye out here?"

My smile didn't waver. "He must’ve forgot. It's my fault for not asking him the first time around, though."

"I suppose it t'is," he grumbled. "What's the name o' yer friend, anyway? I can't tell ye where he lives even if I know where he's at if ye don't give me his name."

“Alger," I told him. "His name's Alger Langdon."

"Alger Langdon, eh?" the Bothan intoned, turning his head to the right as he spat a stream of thick, viscous saliva through the gap in his front teeth. "Sorry, don't know no Alger Langdon."

Turning around, the shopkeeper began waddling back to the shelf with the broken flux capacitor in wait. Stepping forward, I grabbed him by the shoulder.

"Wait a second."

Turning around, he regarded me with a deep frown. "Now look, girl, I told ye I don't know yer friend. Now, if yer not plannin' on buyin' somethin', I'd like ye ta get yer ass gone."

"I don't believe you," I said. "I think you do know Alger Langdon."

Reaching behind me, I pulled out a small sack of credits. Hoisting it up, I dangled it before the fat Bothan's eyes.

"You just need to refresh your memory."

The shopkeeper's eyes focused on the bag of credits. "Ye know," he muttered, "I think ye might be right. The name o' yer friend's comin' back ta me."

"Lovely," I said, my smile as broad as ever.

* * *

The tall Wroonian and his young niece ascended a steep hill, each taking care not to slide backward on the gravelly soil underfoot. Though it was only early morning, the pale yellow-­white sun sitting low in the electric blue sky promised to yield a scorching day.

"Uncle Tobais," the Wroonian girl intoned.

"Yes, Talia?" he replied almost absentmindedly.

"Tomak's been gone for five days now. I'm getting worried about him."

Turning to face her, Tobais gave Talia a warm smile. "Why do you think we're out here?"

Talia's eyes widened slightly. "You mean we're out here to look for him?"

"Something like that," he responded, still smiling.

"You think we'll find him?"

"Of course," he said, turning back away from her.

Smiling, Talia continued the trek up the hill, new motivation driving her onward.

* * *

"You'll be staying here for how long?" the desk clerk asked.

"Shouldn't be more than a day," I replied. "Two at most."

"Okay then," he said. "That'll be seventy-­seven credits."

I handed the credits to the clerk. Taking and pocketing them, he turned around and took a mechanical key down from the rack of keys behind him. Turning back to me, he held it out.

"This is for a room on the top floor, facing south, right?" I asked.

"Indeed," he said with a shark­-like grin. "You'll be able to see the top of the apartment building across from us."

"For the money I'm paying you, I'd better," I declared matter­-of-­factly.

Snatching up the key, I turned and left the hotel lobby. Making my way to a flight of stairs, I began to climb the steps up to what was sure to be a glorious penthouse suite.

Reaching my room, I slid my key into the door's lock. Disengaging the lock, I opened the door and stepped inside. Though relatively clean and in order, the room was shabby, its old, discoloured wallpaper peeling in several places. Sighing with dismay at the impure sight, I closed the door and relocked it.

Making my way over to the tall main window of the room, I drew back the curtains, letting some light into the dreary interior. Looking out, I was able to look upon the apartment building standing on the other side of the street, just like the clerk had said. Dark brown and decaying, the apartment building wasn't even half as hideous as the junk shop, though it sure was trying to compete.

"Lovely," I said, deadpan as ever.

Pulling my poncho up over my shoulders, I tossed it onto the sunken mattress of my bed. Grabbing hold of a chair, I pulled it over to the window, turned it around, and straddled it. Unclipping a pair of macrobinoculars I had secured to the right side of my belt, I brought them to my eyes. Bringing them into focus, I looked out upon the apartment building, directly into the window of Alger Langdon's apartment. Though the angle wasn't perfect, I got enough of a view inside to determine that Langdon either wasn't home or was in the 'fresher.

"Oh, Alger, my beautiful Alger," I sang­-sung. "Where in the nine hells are you?"

I sat there, waiting and watching, for over an hour. Finally, right when I was ready to give up, take a long-­awaited shower in what I hoped was a functioning 'fresher, and call it a night, I saw Langdon enter his apartment. Judging by the look on his squat, hairy face, he was uneasy about something --­­ real uneasy.

"Ah, Langdon!" I exclaimed, grinning a grin that put the desk clerk's to shame. "It's about time! I was getting tired of waiting up for your handsome butt".

Lowering the macrobinoculars, I stood up. Walking past the bed, I tossed the macrobinocs onto it on my way to the door.

* * *

Having reached the summit of the hill, the two Wroonians found themselves on flat, wide­-open ground.

"Do you think Tomak's here, Uncle?" Talia asked. "Do you think he came this way?"

"Yes, Talia," Tobais replied. "I think he did." The tall man held his hand out to Talia. "Take my hand. I'll take you to him."

Smiling up at her uncle, Talia took his hand. Smiling back down at her, Tobais began guiding Talia to their final destination.

* * *

I walked up to the door of Langdon's apartment. Making certain my thigh sheath wasn't twisted around so that my lightsaber wouldn't be in easy reach, I rang the doorbell. In under a second the door cracked open, allowing me a slight glimpse of Langdon's heavily bearded face as he peered out at me.

"Yes?" he drawled out in a thick, low, suspicious tone.

"Alger Langdon?" I asked.

"Who's asking?" he asked back.

"Mr. Langdon, I'm Dylia Teedz." I answered. "I'm a Jedi Knight of the Alderaanian Order, dispatched here by request of the Republic Senate."

"Are you now?" Langdon declared, looking me up and down, taking in the sight of my black jumpsuit and chalk­-white skin.

"Yes, I am," I said, pointing to my lightsaber. "I know you're in danger from Black Sun."

"Am I now?" he asked nonchalantly.

"Vigo Karpath knows you've been hiding here on Geonosis and he's sent a rogue Jedi assassin after you. I've been sent to take you into protective custody before the assassin tracks you down and finishes the job she was paid to do."

"Well," Langdon drawled, "when you put it like that ….”

Before he finished his final word, the Force stabbed through me like a series of ice-­hot knives, warning me of immediate, impending danger. Responding instinctively, I jumped back as a blaster bolt smashed through the door, burning into my stomach. Crying out in agony, I fell back against the side wall and collapsed to the floor, clutching my blistering wound. Crashing through the door, Langdon took off in a sprint for the stairs leading outside.

Grimacing, I rose back to my feet, looking down at the wound. It was ugly, but I had only been grazed; it wasn't of any immediate concern.

"Langdon, you bastard," I groaned.

Reaching to my side, I unsheathed my lightsaber. Hesitating then no longer, I took off after the wanted man.

* * *

Talia and Tobais finally came across Tomak. There, lying on the ground before them, was the young girl's large pet feline. Talia's eyes grew wide as saucers.

"There's Tomak, Talia," her uncle said pleasantly. "Go on over to him."

* * *

Though Langdon had a head start on me, I had managed to gain enough ground that he was in my sights. In a full panic, he didn't think to turn back and fire upon me with his blaster, even though the decrepit streets were empty and there was little danger of hitting anyone other than myself.

"Langdon!" I cried out, my voice almost angry. "Listen to me, Langdon! You have to come with me now!"

Refusing to reply, Langdon spun on his heel and ducked down into an alley on his right. Calling on the Force to empower me, I put on an extra burst of speed. In seconds, I joined Langdon in the alley. Turning this way and that, he looked around for an exit but failed to find one. Slowly, surely, I approached him.

"Langdon, it's over."

Deciding to give up his fruitless search for escape, the beefy man turned his attention back on me. As he brought his blaster up, opening fire, I engaged my lightsaber. With a sharp snap­-hiss, the vibrant crimson blade spouted into existence, catching the orange blaster bolts and ricocheting them harmlessly away. Throwing out my hand before Langdon could release a second volley, I reached out with the Force and wrenched the blaster from his hand, pulling it into mine. Now completely unarmed, Langdon couldn't hope to do any harm to me.

"Chaos take your black soul, witch!" he declared as he spat in my direction. "Do what it is you came to do and get it over with!”

As I walked towards Langdon, the crimson blade of my weapon blazing with fierce intensity, an audible rustle of cloth moved through the air behind me.

"Oh, thank the Infinite!" Langdon declared to someone behind me. "Help me, please! She's going to kill me!"

Turning around, I found myself face-­to-­face with my ultimate enemy. Standing there, almost regal in her flowing white dress, was an incredibly beautiful Wroonian woman with long, thick, curly blue­black hair, pale blue skin, and intense cream­-coloured eyes. In her right hand, forged from gold and platinum, was an elaborate, jewel­-encrusted basket­-hilted lightsaber.

"You're too late," the Wroonian said, engaging the deep blue blade of her lightsaber. "Far too late."

"Am I?" I said, my lips twisting in a wry grin. "I don't think so."

As the Wroonian attacked, sweeping her blue blade in a wide arc, I brought up my red blade, intercepting her blow with a sharp crackle of highly charged energy.

* * *

Talia stood there, looking upon her pet with her mouth agape, no sounds but those of her harsh breathing moving past her lips.

"Well, Talia?" Tobais intoned. "There's Tomak. Go to him."

Wordlessly, Talia dropped her uncle's hand and walked over to Tomak. Reaching his side, she dropped to her knees beside him. Then, tears welling up within her eyes, she began to cry.

Tomak, Talia's beloved pet feline, was dead. After five days out in the open sun, his body was bloated with decay, flying insects and maggots swarming and crawling all about him.

"Tomak, Tomak …." Talia sobbed, resting a hand on the neck of the carcass that was her pet. Looking across the length of his body, she could see the black wound indicative of a lightsaber strike burned deep into his rotting flesh.

"You did this!" Talia cried out, turning upon Tobais. "You killed him! You killed my cat!"

Cocking an eyebrow, the tall Wroonian merely smiled.

"Now, before we left you said that you were hungry," he said lightheartedly. "Eat him."

"What?!"

"Go on, eat him," Tobais declared. "Reach in, pull out his guts, and take a bite."

"You sick, evil ­­--!" Talia screamed, jumping to her feet. "I'll kill you!"

With a cry of rage, Talia pounced upon her uncle. Without even the slightest effort, he backhanded her, causing her to flip over backward onto the hard ground.

"Stupid little girl," Tobais muttered, the first tinge of anger seeping into his soft voice. "Stupid, bad little girl."

Reaching to his side, he unclipped his lightsaber. Pressing the activation stud, he engaged the indigo blade.

"Now," he said, walking up to Talia, "are you going to eat him?"

"Go to hell!" Talia screamed out, still defiant.

Turning a dial on his lightsaber, Tobais reduced the power level of his blade to its lowest setting.

"Eat Tomak, Talia," he said once again. "Don't make me tell you again."

In one final, angry response, Talia spat up into her uncle's face. Dropping the calm, peaceful facade, Tobais released an insane, bloodcurdling shriek. Rearing back his lightsaber, he struck Talia across the face, marking her forehead with a blistering welt.

"Eat him!" Tobais roared, bringing the indigo blade down across Talia's arm. "Eat him! Eat him! Eat him!"

With his lightsaber, Tobais beat his niece, raining blow upon blow upon her frail young body.

* * *

With an almost animalistic roar, the fallen Jedi assassin swung her blue blade down in an underhand arc, trying to eviscerate me through my left side. Sweeping my red blade downward, I barely managed to intercept the blow in time.

"He's mine, you maggot­-skinned trash!" she screamed into my face as she struck out at me again. "Give him to me!"

Dropping down into a crouch, she swung her lightsaber, trying to cut me down through the ankles. Calling on the Force, I leapt up just in time, somersaulting over her head to land behind her. Pivoting to my right, I threw up my left leg, kicking her hard in the back. Toppling forward onto the pavement, she landed right in front of the transfixed Langdon.

"Get out of here, Langdon!" I shouted out to him. "Get out of here before she kills you!"

Breaking out of his trance, the heavyset Alger Langdon took off, leaving me alone in the alley with the enraged fallen Jedi.

Pushing herself back up, the darkly beautiful woman in the white dress turned to me. Throwing out her hand, she called the hilt of her lightsaber back to her hand, re-­engaging the deep blue blade.

Enough of this," I said, growing faint from breathlessness. "Please, just give up. Surrender".

"Never," she growled, teeth bared. "No surrender. Never surrender!"

Rearing back her lightsaber, the Wroonian rogue Jedi charged, roaring with fury. Blinded by her rage, she didn't think to keep herself closed to attack as she came at me. Sidestepping her as she swung her blade down, I swung my own, cleaving through her right shoulder blade, her right lung, and out through her right breast. With a sharp, hideous gasp she fell forward, dropping her lightsaber as she hit the pavement hard.

Disengaging my crimson blade, I slid my lightsaber back into its sheath and ran over to her side. As I bent over her still form and turned her over, I could see clearly the long, black line running through the right side of her chest. Wheezing horribly as she struggled to draw breath into her ruined lung, her cream eyes locked on mine.

"It's going to be alright," I said, taking her hand in mine and petting it. "I'll call for a medic and ­­--"

"No, no medic," the Wroonian woman wheezed. "Let it end. Let the agony finally end."

Hearing those words, I didn't know what to say. I expected her to beg for help or even curse me, but this? For the first real time in my life, I was at a loss for words.

"Why?" I finally asked.

"No more," she merely stated. "Please ... just no more."

With that, she closed her beautiful eyes. Releasing her final, shuddering breath, she died.

* * *

The young Talia sat cross-­legged upon the ground, her body covered in lightsaber burns and her eyes stained dark with tears. Before her, blazing brightly under the dark, star­-studded night sky, was the funeral pyre of her pet feline Tomak. Her uncle Tobais, having long left the area, was nowhere to be seen.

"Goodbye, Tomak," Talia said, holding herself tightly. "Goodbye."

As Talia sat there, watching the pyre burn, a wind picked up, catching some of the hot ash that was Tomak and sweeping it up, scattering it far across the midnight blue sky.