I’ve been trying to choose one of my stories to put on the blog, and I can’t. So I’m leaving it up to you, Reader. Below are some “story seeds” and excerpts from stories I’ve been working or wanting to work on. Choose your favorite, tell me why, and I’ll develop one (or more) to put on the blog.
Sara looked into the bright light for several seconds, then closed her eyes. Immediately the commercials began to play. They glitched between a new meal replacement pill flavor, a smiling woman advertising gum you didn’t have to chew, Gryce Industries’ latest air-cycle model, and a few others before the doctor told her to open her eyes.
“Well, I can make adjustments,” he said, “but your lenses will need to be reprogrammed by a specialist.” He consulted her chart downloading to his Class 8 lenses, flipping pages with a few flicks of his right eye.
“Fortunately, this is all covered on your plan, so the procedure shouldn’t cost more than four credits.” He smiled at her reassuringly. “It won’t hurt a bit.”
Sara sank into the hard plastic chair. She’d heard that lie before.
It is regarded as more of a curiosity rather than a fact that Jedidiah Elias Thurgoode was born on a Friday the thirteenth, just before midnight in the frosty darkness of March. He was a strange child from the beginning, uttering only a perfunctory wail before falling into a solemn silence that would last for the next five and a half years.
His mother died before the midwife could place him in her arms.
His father hung himself in grief.
And so the little lad was sent to live with his next of kin, the ancient Mr. and Mrs. Dowling, who had a quiet little house in a quiet little corner of a quiet little town called Solitude.
Everyone knows that the Goberarians of Gamruth are stupid, self-important creatures. What they don’t know, is that Goberarians are also terrible cooks, which is why the end of civilization as we know, sorry, knew it, was caused by a cheese sandwich.
Thomas woke, bleary-eyed, with a head full of fog and cobwebs. The fire had gone down. He rose, stiff, from underneath his bearskin and fed an armful of sticks from his woodpile to the sputtering flames. As the fire crackled back to life, the sparks illuminated the half finished paintings on the cave wall. Thomas had a vague memory of painting them. They were important. Somehow.
The paintings were pushed out of his thoughts by the loud rumbling in his stomach. Now all he could think about was food. Time to hunt.
The First Ones watched him with satisfaction. Another job well done. No one would ever interpret Thomas’s crude cave paintings, and even if they did, the First Ones would see to it their discovery died with them.
Please leave a comment here or on my FaceBook page as to which story you want to read more of and why. Thanks for reading!