Hercules S Sputz was one hell of a guy but he'd been dead for some time, which was why it was kind of puzzling to see him staring at me from the other side of the desk.
"What gives, Clay?" he said.
"You're asking me that? You're supposed to be dead, you moron."
"Aw don't give me that." He rose from the chair. The desk parted like vapour. And he gave me a hug that told me he was very much alive. Only thing was the LAPD had given their ex-chief one hell of a funeral, and Sheri had bought the most expensive black dress in the shop. When the casket went through those curtains no one was paying it much attention. They were looking at her.
"So what are you doing here, Herc?"
"I heard you had Gwen Gardner on the Rack and well, you know, it gets lonely up there."
"Jeez, a rampant ghost. A rampant fleshy ghost. He was an old friend, but Gwen was a guest and she didn't like ghosts. Besides, Sheri took a dim view of impropriety unless she was involved. "Sorry, Herc the old days are gone. Have a cigar. Take two. Take one for Raphael and Gabriel.
He sighed. A universe deflating. "They have a no smoking policy. That's for the other place."
I'm sorry, pal. Tough breaks, but Gwen, I'll tell her you called....more
Fantasy is the impossible made probable. Science Fiction is the improbable made possible.
Amid shouting mobs, police shields, and the hurled bricks of the ’80s Brixton riots, Lux is searching for Pearl—the love of his life. Her home has been burned down by a stray petrol bomb, and she’s searching for sanctuary along with her friend Nicky. Nicky is traumatized after having killed her computer—her best friend—and is herself being followed by Happy Science PLC. It is their plan to breed a superior next generation by implanting the sperm of genius men inside beautiful women. She knows too much about the plan. Lux is helped in his quest by Kalia, a castaway of Heaven attempting to get back in God’s good graces by performing one million good deeds over countless lifetimes. There’s also a thrash metal band, a riot-party, past lives, and KY. Lots of KY....more
Next time you are at a writer’s conference, convention, or gathering attended by industry professionals—such as agents, publishers or editors—ask them to rate the quality of submitted manuscripts in terms of fiction technique, grammar, and syntax. A few weeks ago we did just that. Some agents gnashed their teeth, others reached for the salts, and two fainted. Their verdict? Beeleaf it oar knot, out of one-hundred submitted manuscripts fifty are unreadable and forty-nine are trash; the remaining one—a glorious discovery once in a month of Sundays—can be read....more
“You’ve got an ant on your leg.” Tobias placed a dirty finger on her thigh and flicked the offending insect away.
“When do you have to go?”
He grunted in reply. Tobias always grunted when he didn’t like something. He leaned over her legs. Running a hand along her ankle he let out a low whistle. “That’s gonna hurt tomorrow something fierce. You should be more careful, Pat.”
By OFW member Renee Miller
Disclaimer: The views and opinions expressed on this article are solely those of the original authors, and do not necessarily represent those of OFW, its staff, and/or any/all contributors to this site.
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