Short story

0 comments on "Short Fic?: That Dune Thing [dark fic, excerpt?, deathfic?]"

Title: That Dune Thing
Author: Harper Kingsley
Summary: A prisoner held in a Dune-like setup with a cat. Thought-centric.

Tend the cat, suckle at its teats… fucking Dune-obsessed moron needed to be put down. But what could he do? They’d broken both his legs, his right arm, and three fingers on his left hand before casting them in heavily weighted plaster. All he had was his thumb and middle finger, which made it hard enough to care for the cat–how was he supposed to escape?

And the cat…

There was resentment, of course. Trapped as he was–wrong as it was–he felt the need to lash out at the nearest living thing. But it wasn’t her fault he was here.

Nothing was her fault. She was just as much a prisoner as he, moreso as she would never understand why this was happening to her. Why some horrible man had stuck her in a glass box with her limbs held immobile and only her head poking out the top.

He’d begun to pity the beast, even as he forced his heart to stay hard. They were going to die here in this cold stone room that leeched the warmth from his feet. They were going to die here and there was nothing he could do about it. So he held the tattered remains of his dignity around himself and refused to break.

Even as he tended the cat–slowly and painfully dragging himself across the floor each day–and felt his soul slipping and cracking at the madness, he refused to break.

Because somewhere in him, he still held an ember of hope: Someone would come for him. His brothers-in-arms would not leave him here.

And even if all he left behind was an empty shell, he had to hope that they would see his body home.

“Here kitty kitty.”

=THE END?=

This popped in my head as I was washing my hands. No explanation, no reason why, just the idea of someone held in a Dune-like cat trap.

I have ideas for more, but this could turn out super dark or full-on redemption and I don’t know. Plus I’m also tempted to turn it into a story-game where you can choose your genre (spy, superhero, killer, military pow) and darkness level.

I just don’t know if people would want to read something like this. The opening alone seems like a deathfic, and it’s pretty obvious that some messed up stuff is going to happen before it’s over, no matter the genre.

Like, the superhero group comes back with help, and they find the stone room where a dead cat is cradled in the arms of their dead comrade, “Here kitty kitty” painted on the walls in bodily fluid. Which would make that opening scene a prologue for the superheroes to find the Dune-obsessed villain that killed their friend.

Or a Bond-type spy is held captive by a monologuing madman that’s obsessed with sci-fi movies and “Cleansing the population of the Impure”, which could mean anything from a racial cleansing to a belief in a future god-emperor.

I don’t know. People might be too grossed out by a man forced to drink cat milk. I mean, just that right there could kill a story dead.

0 comments on "SHORT FIC: Post-Apocalyptic"

POST-APOCALYPTIC

The end of the world–or at least the parts of it she recognized–had come in the middle of the week. Which explained why she had spent the end of days in the gingham dress and white apron that came with her work uniform. Her knees were a skinned mess of still healing flesh, the dead skin along the edges of the wounds gray and pebbled together in parts. She’d been terrified of getting an infection, since she doubted there were any hospitals left intact and un-looted.

Now, while she wasn’t exactly thriving, she at least had a pair of pants that fit and her dress had been torn for rags. She’d been glad to see it gone. Even before the end of the world she’d thought it was hideous. But her boss had been going for a theme, and it wasn’t her fault he had no sense of taste; she’d simply worn the dress and tried to save enough tips to move on to another job.

That’s all she’d ever had: jobs. She’d never found the career that ignited her passions or the person that warmed her heart. She’d always been striving and straining, with success as some far-distant goal. It should have hurt more to have everything torn away, but instead it seemed almost expected. The end had happened, and she hadn’t even missed a beat in the endless shuffle-dance she used to pass through life’s disasters.

Homeless? She’d find a place. It wasn’t like everything was completely destroyed. There were hidey holes and hidden caches of supplies that their previous owners hadn’t even known they’d left behind. She’d spent the first days curled up in a cement pipe, burying her face in her arms as fire fell from the heavens and thunderous destruction had been the only sound. Housing didn’t seem such a problem after that.

Hungry? She’d endure until she found food. Then she’d save every extra bite she got, fighting off starvation as she’d always done. She knew how much she needed to eat to keep her body working and stave off the black eye spots and trembling fat-feeling hands. And for everything else, she crunched down children’s chewable vitamins every day and hoped she didn’t get scurvy. It seemed like a bad way to die.

And loneliness? She’d survive it. She knew better than to seek out strangers during a disaster situation. Some people had a hard time recognizing priorities, and she really didn’t want to end up stabbed or raped by someone she wouldn’t have given a second look in her old life. It didn’t seem worth the risk, not when she knew she could make it on her own.

There’d never been a time when she hadn’t had confidence in herself. It seemed as natural as a blue sky. Out of all the people she’d ever met, she was the person she depended on the most. How could she turn to others with trust when all she’d ever known was betrayal?

She’d slog her way through the end of the world. Striving, straining, and surviving the way she’d always done.

And wasn’t that a kick in the head: the realization that life before and after the apocalypse weren’t that different. Not for her. And probably not for a lot of poor people.

Sure, the destruction and subsequent mayhem had been eye-opening, but at the end of the day things were still somewhat the same. She still needed to eat, sleep, shit, and avoid all the assholes that would stop her from doing any of those things.

So life was pretty much the way it had always been. Just with a lot less people around.

=THE END=

0 comments on "Heroes & Villains: “Dinner For Two” by Harper Kingsley"

Title: Dinner For Two
Author: Harper Kingsley
Series: Heroes & Villains
Setting: post-The Wedding, pre-Allies & Enemies
Characters: Vereint Georges, Warrick Reidenger Tobias

Inspiration:

Walking into the penthouse, Warrick was greeted by bags of groceries on the counter and Vereint wearing an apron and nothing else. The sight of that devilish smile and those bare arms and legs made Warrick hitch his step on the way to the hall closet to hang up his jacket.

“What’s going on?” he asked slowly. He couldn’t help tracing his gaze over Vereint, seeing where the brightly colored fabric curved, bent, cupped, and what it did and didn’t cover. It took him an extra few seconds to get his jacket on the hanger and the closet door closed.

“I thought we’d cook dinner together,” Vereint said. “I saw this recipe for garlic butter steak.”

“Steak?” Warrick’s mouth salivated at the thought. “Butter… That’s going to be a calorie bomb though.”

“Tonight’s special,” Vereint said.

“Oh?” Warrick crossed the intervening space and wrapped his arms around Vereint. He peeked over Vereint’s shoulder and couldn’t help grinning at the sight of a bare back and buttocks. He let the fingers of his right hand drift off the apron and lightly brush against Vereint’s skin. He was always so warm.

Vereint obligingly pressed closer to him, one hand going into Warrick’s hair. “Mm.”

“Why’s tonight special?” Warrick asked. He tried to walk Vereint toward their bedroom, but Vereint didn’t move. Warrick stopped pulling at him, resting his whole weight against him instead. If Vereint didn’t want to be moved, there would be no moving him.

“It’s our anniversary,” Vereint said. He must have felt Warrick’s body stiffen with sudden panic because he laughed. “Don’t worry; it’s not our wedding anniversary. It’s the anniversary of the first time I took you hostage.”

“What?”

“You know, when we were in that bank–”

“And you were wearing that horrible shirt!” Warrick laughed and squeezed Vereint.

“That’s when you fell in love with me,” Vereint said.

“No way,” Warrick said. “You terrorized a bank full of people and took me hostage. I thought you were a brat.”

“A brat that you immediately fell in love with because that’s the kind of person you are. You thrive on adversity.”

“And you being a brat is what you consider adversity?”

“No. I call that ‘charm.’ The adversity part comes in when you try to resist jumping my bones as we sear the rib-eye I’ve got on the counter.” Vereint tugged himself out of Warrick’s arms and headed toward the kitchen. The flirty wink he tossed over his shoulder and the way he flexed the globes of his ass were a dare.

Watching him go, Warrick shook his head with a rueful grin. He could definitely feel the adversity now.

0 comments on "Sneak peek: Complicit"

I was working on a drawing project and this idea popped in my head. It’s called “Complicit” and it’s a short story that will be on KDP Select. As such, expect a download link that will allow you to grab a free copy before it’s released to the public.

“When Hannah was young, she knew her father was a good man. He’d always told her so, and all she’d ever seen were the golden moments.”

ink drawing featuring the word 'Complicit'

* * *

Sent the original post via email from my phone. Several corrections were made and it was kind of a mess. So apologies for that.

Excerpt —

When Hannah was young, she knew that her father was good man. He’d always told her so, and all she ever witnessed were the golden moments: The hotel openings. The resplendent parties. The employees all perfectly pressed to corporate code.

It took years for her to notice that the smiles were forced. Her father couldn’t see it—his smile was always real, a fierce baring of self-satisfaction in a job well done—but she could.

By then, her own smiles were forced too.

People didn’t like her family.

Even though he told her “Don’t read that trash”—she couldn’t resist taking a peek. She worked for the company now. If there was a PR problem happening, then it was her job to fix it. All neat and legal to keep any backlash from happening.

Still, she helped change the narrative. That’s how she explained it to her father later. She was adjusting the media focus with a few philanthropic gestures.

And honestly, it felt good to help mothers and children. It made her think of her own mother—(beautiful face a mess of bruises. The split of her lower lip raw in a way Hannah had never seen before)—who she hadn’t seen in years.

Sometimes she missed the court-mandated visits of her childhood. At least then she’d had an excuse to give in the face of her father’s jealousy. Now if she visited her mother, he would view it as a personal betrayal and she didn’t want him to know that she’d been lying to him for years.

She missed her mother. Helping women and children in need eased the ache.

Even if she never stepped foot at any site, she was the one that authorized the release of funds. She was the one her father smiled at so proudly when she pointed out she’d cleaned up their PR problem and given them a good tax write-off at the same time.

He loved sticking it to the IRS. And sure, they’d caught him a few times before, but he’d always bounced back. “It’s all part of the game, honey,” he’d said after the third bankruptcy. And his laugh had been so loud it made her ears ache.

Sometimes she had to explain things to him carefully. Pointing out the pros and cons of every given situation with her chosen path clearly highlighted. And maybe it helped to dress in rich colors and low-cuts, but that was just business. She knew how the world worked.

Hannah enjoyed the philanthropic side of things. And after her father caused that little mess, she was finally able to start the charity she’d always dreamed of.

She wanted her family name to be remembered for both great and good things.

/EXCERPT