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Geoph Essex 🤨💭 11742d/4h/3m; 16940d/18h/34m 🕟

@semperbufo.bsky.social

#WIPsnips "pipe"

When Detective Charlie Gelman arrives at the murder scene In Chapter 2 of "Confessions from the Scene of the Crime," the answers he gets from his "witnesses" don't seem to add up quite right.

#ConfessionsFromTheSceneOfTheCrime🎳💀

#WritingCommunity #Writers #Authors #Writesky #WIP

[Excerpt from Chapter 2 of "Confessions from the Scene of the Crime" (by me):]

“Okay,” Charlie muttered. “So.” He crouched next to the corpse. Its face was completely unidentifiable—crushed by something heavy and hard. His eyes drifted to the cane and the glasses. Charlie Gelman appreciated victims who carried props. He glanced around anxiously, then focused on the cane and kept his voice low. “Hey, uh...cane. Question.”

“Shoot,” said the cane. The bottom segment had been knocked apart from the rest, folded in against the old man’s knee.

“What hit him? A tank?” Charlie asked, speaking through clenched teeth and hoping the crowd past the curb couldn’t hear him.

“A bowling ball,” replied the white cane.

A bowling ball? Not the usual weapon of choice for a mugger. Threatening to pick up a spare if someone didn’t fork over their cash would be hard to take seriously. This sounded more like a heat of the moment deal to Charlie. “What’d the guy look like?” he asked the cane.

“What guy?” The cane sounded confused.

Charlie snorted. “The guy with the—” He realized he’d raised his voice, and he took a quick look at the spectators. Collecting himself, he stared hard at the cane. “The guy with the bowling ball,” he finished. “What did he look like?”

[Continued excerpt from Chapter 2 of "Confessions from the Scene of the Crime" (by me):]

“*What* guy with the bowling ball?” the cane persisted.

“Oh, for...!” Charlie abandoned the cane and looked at the dark glasses. It occurred to him that the old man hadn’t been wearing them when he died—they were unbroken. “Did *you* see him?” he asked the glasses.

“See who?” the glasses inquired.

“The guy who smashed his face in,” Charlie clarified.

“The bowling ball smashed his face in,” the glasses corrected him.

“Did you see the guy *with* the bowling ball?”

“*What* guy with the bowling ball?”

It was beginning to feel like an old Vaudeville routine.

Charlie’s hat murmured, “Take a step back, chief. Start from the top.”

“Start from the top,” Charlie muttered. He took a deep breath. “You,” he grilled the cane, “you saw the bowling ball?”

“Sure did,” said the cane.

“Who was *holding* the bowling ball?” Charlie asked.

“Nobody was holding the bowling ball,” the cane replied.

[Continued excerpt from Chapter 2 of "Confessions from the Scene of the Crime" (by me):]

Charlie thought for a second. “Who *threw* the bowling ball?” he tried.

“Nobody threw it,” the cane said.

“Where did it come from?”

The cane paused, inaudibly but tangibly. Charlie’s eyes flicked toward the dark glasses, which piped up: “The sky?”

Charlie took a moment. He knew that objects didn’t lie when he spoke to them. They didn’t know everything, of course, and sometimes their memories were a little fuzzy. He wasn’t even sure how they held memories in the first place, or what sort of senses absorbed the events around them to supply those memories. All he knew was that he could speak to them, and they would speak back—he always could, and they always did. And if he asked the right questions, he could get the right answers.

And if he asked too much, they would never shut up.

“The bowling ball,” he said slowly, backtracking, “fell on Takach. And crushed his face.”

“Yes,” said the cane.

“That’s right,” said the glasses.

[Continued excerpt from Chapter 2 of "Confessions from the Scene of the Crime" (by me):]

“Then where’s the bowling ball?” asked Charlie.

“It rolled away,” said the glasses.

Charlie looked down the street. “Into the river,” he lamented, wondering if a team would be able to dredge it up.

“No, the other way,” said the glasses.

“Toward the park,” said the cane.

Charlie shook his head. “No, that’s uphill,” he chided them. He hated arguing with inanimate objects.

“That’s where it went,” the cane insisted.

“It couldn’t roll uphill. That doesn’t make sense,” said Charlie.

“You’re talking to a pair of glasses and a cane,” the glasses pointed out.

“He’s got you there, chief,” said Charlie’s hat. Inside his pocket, the cell phone giggled softly.

Charlie stifled an incredulous chuckle and stared at the dented crater in the sidewalk. “Bowling ball?” he asked the cracked pavement.

“Ouch,” agreed the pavement.

December 10, 2025 at 10:11 PM

Geoph Essex 🤨💭 11742d/4h/3m; 16940d/18h/34m 🕟

@semperbufo.bsky.social

#WIPsnips "pipe"

Chapter 1 of "My Electromagnetic Romance," sees sparks and Lucasfilm effects flying as the Rocker Chick takes drastic measures. Warning: strong language. 'Cause the Rocker Chick is one FOUL-mouthed—🤬

#MyElectromagneticRomance🧲💕

#WritingCommunity #Writers #Authors #Writesky #WIP

[Excerpt from Chapter 1 of "My Electromagnetic Romance" (by me):]

The blur in the middle of the room was getting bigger and more clear, like a bubble of interdimensional gum absently blown by a careless cosmic Valley Girl, bending light around it and generating its own faint white glow in the distant depths of its center. Weird shapes and movement flailed in the white glow. The other people in the room shouted and pointed.

The Fucking Zombie spun from bubble to girl, his face very close to hers. His breath smelled like Peppermint Schnapps on a pile of dog crap. “If we move the equipment!” he blustered desperately. “If we take it with us, and you have time to study it...!”

“You got a fucking *facility*, man?” the Rocker Chick shot back. “With a grid like this one?”

The world around them whistled and shrieked. One of the gang in black suddenly bolted and fled out the door. “I can make the arrangements!” the Fucking Zombie said urgently. His face scrunched up, sketching weird spidery creases outward from his round black glasses. “*Double* your payment!” He paused, unseen eyes scanning hers for a reaction. “*Triple!*” he sputtered.

[Continued excerpt from Chapter 1 of "My Electromagnetic Romance" (by me):]

“Jesus *cock!*” the Rocker Chick blurted. “How’re we even gonna take this stuff *with* us?”

“I’ll take care of it!” he promised. “Can you shut it down? Is there still time?”

“Get the Katzenjammer kids over here!” she shouted, pulling away from his sickly sweet breath and back to the machines. “I’ll need some help!”

The Fucking Zombie yelled and gestured wildly to the others. As they closed in, the Rocker Chick stabbed the two larger ones with her finger. “*You* and *you*! Ever play with electric trains?” She pointed one way and the other. “Go there and there, the biggest fucking knife switches you ever saw—when I say *throw ’em*, throw ’em down!”

“Hurry!” the Fucking Zombie added unnecessarily, throwing a glance at the glowing quantum stew boiling in the middle of the bubble. It was starting to get chunky and form recognizable shapes.

[Continued excerpt from Chapter 1 of "My Electromagnetic Romance" (by me):]

The two bruisers headed off to find their switches. “You!” The Rocker Chick jabbed another thug. “Put your hand there!” she pointed. “You’re gonna fucking feel the juice, man, no lie, but *don’t* fucking let go or we’re *all* toast!” In the bizarre clarity of emergency situations, it occurred to her that she hadn’t eaten breakfast today. The thug looked like he was about to lose his all over the floor, but he did as he was told and grabbed hold of a buzzing metal collar. His face twitched rhythmically.

Tapping her toe to the beat of the guy’s muscle spasms, the Rocker Chick put a hand out to another thug and snapped her fingers. “Cutters!” she ordered. The skinny guy pulled a giant pair of shears from a big canvas duffel. Gripping the big handles firmly, the Rocker Chick put a foot down securely on a wide metal pipe to brace herself. She looked at the guy with the duffel. “You grab *his* hand!” she jerked her chin at the guy still twitching next to the machines. “When I say, put your hand on my shoulder—you touch anywhere else, you're a fuckin’ dead man!” She looked for the big guys at the far ends of the room. “Hey! Frick and Frack! You ready?”

[Continued excerpt from Chapter 1 of "My Electromagnetic Romance" (by me):]

The two big bruisers gave her correspondingly big thumbs up. The Fucking Zombie froze in anticipation, staring up at the creepy pasta writhing and rolling in the bubble. Like the guy with his hand on the machine, and the next guy holding *his* hand, the bubble itself quivered to the beat of the electric rock anthem. It looked like it was going to burst.

“Rock out with your cock out—*now!*” the Rocker Chick screamed, lunging on the downbeat.

The bruisers threw their switches. The skinny guy grabbed the Rocker Chick’s shoulder just as she dove in with the cutters to bite through a thick insulated cable. The Fucking Zombie tensed. The bubble exploded in a phosphorescent gelatin of fireworks and slime.

The room blacked out.

December 10, 2025 at 10:06 PM

Geoph Essex 🤨💭 11742d/4h/3m; 16940d/18h/34m 🕟

@semperbufo.bsky.social

#WIPsnips "pipe"

Chapter 1 of "Tale of the Zombie Detective" is titled "The Last Night of My Life." And P.I. Henry Ingersoll (our faithful narrator) isn't exaggerating.

#TaleOfTheZombieDetective💀🔍

#WritingCommunity #Writers #Authors #Writesky #WIP

[Excerpt from Chapter 1 of "Tale of the Zombie Detective" (by me):]

“End of the line, Ingersoll,” the goon said. A grin a mile wide split his square jaw in half. The son of a bitch loved his work, you had to give him that.

“Mind if I go through the depot?” I said. That was much more flippant than I felt, but the longer I could keep up the patter, the longer my life was likely to be. As it was, I was pretty sure my remaining time could be counted in minutes.

“Shut up,” said Braun. “Get out from under there.”

“I’d love to,” I replied, “but the bullets in my leg beg to differ. You want ’em back?”

“I said shut up.” He waved the gun for emphasis.

[Continued excerpt from Chapter 1 of "Tale of the Zombie Detective" (by me):]

I played the leg wound for all it was worth, taking my time getting to my feet, and simultaneously scanning the joint for a lifeline—anything that might distract, disturb, or better yet disintegrate Braun before he could pull the trigger one last time. In a processing plant this size, there had to be something. My pants were soaked with blood, still seeping from what felt like a fist-sized hole in my thigh. My brain was sloshed in a peculiar mix of vertigo and adrenaline, what my old partner back in my Magistrate days used to call “fight-or-flight lite.” If I was going to do anything, it would have to be fast, before the vertigo overtook the adrenaline and I fell over the edge into a comforting but final black hole. I could feel myself starting to hyperventilate, and forced my breathing into a steady, slow, regular pattern. Out of the corner of my eye, my brain had already started making plans without me. I smiled as I mapped out my escape plan.

[Continued excerpt from Chapter 1 of "Tale of the Zombie Detective" (by me):]

“Hey, Braun,” I said as casually as I could while wincing from my gimp leg. “You ever wonder what all these damn pipes and vats are for?” I tested my leg to see if there was any hope that I could run; no go. I’d have to actually take him out, at least temporarily, if I wanted to get out of here. I reached up to a swinging control box to pull myself upright.

“No funny stuff,” Braun warned me.

“Don’t worry,” I said, thumbing the biggest, brightest red button on the control box. “It’s not that funny.”

December 10, 2025 at 10:06 PM

Geoph Essex 🤨💭 11742d/4h/3m; 16940d/18h/34m 🕟

@semperbufo.bsky.social

#WIPsnips "design"

As Chapter 3 of "Storm of the Century of the Week" opens, Sharon exercises a little caution before agreeing to take on a ruggedly handsome hitchhiker with a sign reading "Will Do Taxes for a Ride."

#StormOfTheCenturyOfTheWeek⛈️

#WritingCommunity #Writers #Authors #Writesky #WIP

[Excerpt from Chapter 3 of "Storm of the Century of the Week" (by me):]

As it turned out, Timothy Kevin O’Boyle (who was clean-shaven and wearing a tie in his New York driver’s license photo) seemed pretty clean. Gary Brinks, another cop in the Silhouette Police Department—and a good friend of Mike Loomis’s—showed up just after Loomis’s mom and girlfriend. Mrs. Loomis was a tall woman with frizzy gray hair; the girlfriend was a cute, short redhead with some overly generous curves and a dazzling smile flanked by adorable dimples. Her name was Daria; her youth brought home to Sharon just how young Mike Loomis was himself, and she mentally laughed at herself as she let that half-hearted Harlequin Romance daydream go.

[Continued excerpt from Chapter 3 of "Storm of the Century of the Week" (by me):]

At Loomis’s urging, Officer Brinks made a few calls for Sharon and pulled a few strings. There were no outstanding warrants on Tim, no crimes or misdemeanors logged at a local, state, or federal level. At least, nothing that twenty minutes of questions could dig up. The twenty minutes themselves, watching Tim O’Boyle smile disarmingly and politely charm the cops, Mrs. Loomis, adorable Daria, and even Doctor Egorov and the hospital staff, went a long way toward convincing Sharon that the guy wouldn’t be any trouble. He was soft-spoken and wise and clever and confident in a way that she thought only old knights who lived alone in caves in epic movies were supposed to be.

The weird part was that he never took off his backpack or his cardboard sign (which was a hell of a conversation starter), and he never dropped his duffel bag. Like he was ready to bolt at the drop of a hat. Sharon was tempted to grab Gary Brinks’s hat and test that theory.

[Continued excerpt from Chapter 3 of "Storm of the Century of the Week" (by me):]

With a general consensus reached that Tim was unlikely to rape and rob and kill her (in any given order) or generally behave in an ungentlemanly fashion, Sharon thanked officers Loomis and Brinks, said goodbye to Marina Egorov (again) and Daria and Mrs. Loomis (for the first time), and walked with Tim back outside, where the clouds had eased up somewhat and a little bit of last ditch sunlight glinted gray on the puddles pooled along the asphalt like mirrored craters in an alien landscape designed by H.R. Giger. She’d parked the Camry in the first row of spots; she pressed the clicker on her keychain—*doop!* said the car, flashing its lights—and got in the driver’s seat as Tim O’Boyle dropped his stuff on the floor in front of the passenger’s seat.

“You can put those in back,” Sharon suggested as he sat down with his legs on either side of his bags.

Tim shook his head. “It’s okay,” he said. “Plenty of room here.”

December 9, 2025 at 3:38 PM

Geoph Essex 🤨💭 11742d/4h/3m; 16940d/18h/34m 🕟

@semperbufo.bsky.social

#WIPsnips "design"

Chapter 2 of "My Electromagnetic Romance" opens with a news report that sheds at least a *little* light on what the hell actually happened in that first crazy chapter.

#MyElectromagneticRomance🧲💕

#WritingCommunity #Writers #Authors #Writesky #WIP

[Excerpt from Chapter 2 of "My Electromagnetic Romance" (by me):]

“That’s right, Peter,” said the reporter, her face coming alive like somebody had flipped the switch on an animatronic doll in a pinup-themed amusement park. “I’m here on Long Island, just outside the gates of the Green Briar Institute, suspected by authorities to be the source of the incredible surge that blacked out half the Eastern seaboard early this morning...leaving millions without light, power, or even *heat* in this late March cold snap.”

She strolled casually sideways without turning her face from the camera; the cameraman followed like an obedient dog, panning with her to get a nice long shot of the facility. She stayed well aware of the other correspondents chattering away at their own cameramen, trying to avoid getting any of them in her shot. If she was in theirs, that was their problem.

[Continued excerpt from Chapter 2 of "My Electromagnetic Romance" (by me):]

“This isn’t the first time Green Briar has been in the news,” she continued. “As recently as four years ago, the institute made international headlines when they announced they were near completion on the construction of a new type of particle accelerator—a *supercollider* nicknamed the ‘Ball and Chain,’ describing its unique design and mechanical features. At the time, scientists warned that the *untested* design could have *disastrous* results if the accelerator were ever activated, some even predicting that the machine might create an actual *black hole*...with catastrophic consequences. The research team at Green Briar was quick to counter these claims, and the maiden voyage of the Ball and Chain went off without a hitch...two years ago this July.”

Another police car pulled up to the gates, honking and flashing its blue and red lights to prod the gaggle of reporters out of the way. The beautiful reporter didn’t let it rattle her, and smoothly sidestepped the cops while providing the camera with a deeply concerned expression she’d faithfully practiced through four years of undergrad.

[Continued excerpt from Chapter 2 of "My Electromagnetic Romance" (by me):]

“Now, however, this morning’s blackout has been tentatively traced right back here, to Green Briar, where officials say an *unprecedented* power surge overloaded the grid. The damage so far seems to have been minimal, largely due to the early morning hour. Most people were fast asleep in their homes...and woke up to blinking clocks after power had already been restored. We’ll keep you updated as this story develops, but as the events of this morning suggest, perhaps the scientists who predicted doomsday on Long Island weren’t wrong at all—just a couple of years...ahead of their time.” She replaced her deeply concerned expression with a flash of green eyes and dazzling lip gloss. “From the Green Briar Institute on Long Island, for Channel Twelve...I’m Sherri Sellick.” Her father had complained about the name the first time he saw her on the air, but she just didn’t feel she could make it in this business with a name like Cecilia Kirschenbaum. The sharper syllabic quartet, with its alliterative monogram, just sounded hotter.

December 9, 2025 at 3:38 PM

Geoph Essex 🤨💭 11742d/4h/3m; 16940d/18h/34m 🕟

@semperbufo.bsky.social

#WIPsnips "design"

Chapter 3 of "Grand Theft Galaxy" introduces Billy Fish, whose very small world is about to get a whole lot bigger as he embarks on an entirely unexpected interstellar adventure.

#GrandTheftGalaxy🕳️🌌

#WritingCommunity #Writers #Authors #Writesky #WIP

[Excerpt from Chapter 3 of "Grand Theft Galaxy" (by me):]

Jingle bells jangled cheerfully as the door of the Pig Stop opened. Ernie Maloney, the original owner, had initially intended to name his gas station and convenience store the “Pit Stop,” but thanks to a typo on the paperwork for the neon sign, a major back log of work at the signage company, and Ernie’s short temper, that wasn’t to be. The guys at the sign company tried to make it up to him by creating a glowing mascot, which unfortunately looked less like a pig and more like a pink bowling ball with ears, and it was about then that Ernie’s short temper caught up to him and a lifetime of fast food and red meat caught up to his heart, and he dropped dead in an apoplectic fit. The new owners were more than satisfied with the unique name and neon signs, and the place had been a fixture in an otherwise bland and boring Oklahoma town ever since.

[Continued excerpt from Chapter 3 of "Grand Theft Galaxy" (by me):]

Working the counter at the Pig Stop for the past four years, Billy Fish had only the vaguest knowledge of the convenience store’s illustrious history, and wouldn’t have cared much if he knew more. The Pig was just another in a long series of over a decade of jobs chosen specifically to get him a mediocre paycheck for as little actual work as possible. “Billy’s still finding himself,” his mother used to say. Unfortunately, Billy apparently had no idea where he might be. He’d checked the library, the supermarket, his dad’s plumbing supply company, the bakery, the bowling alley, the pizzeria, the Chinese restaurant, the other pizzeria, the drug store, and even the elementary school, in the custodian’s office. He hadn’t seen any signs of himself at any of these places. It seemed Billy was very good at hiding from himself.

[Continued excerpt from Chapter 3 of "Grand Theft Galaxy" (by me):]

The reality, of course, was that each of these and dozens of others were employment situations carefully designed to bob and weave around the mystical figure of minimum wage so that Billy could continue to ignore adulthood, live in his sister’s basement, play some video games, and afford enough pot and booze to numb his soul to the fact that he couldn’t afford any more pot and booze.

It wasn’t that Billy was stupid or lazy. He was the unfortunate survivor of a generation that had been raised by a prior generation that embodied the result of hard work and determination but which had tragically forgotten to teach its offspring the ingredients of their little slice of the American Dream. They’d made it look easy, and having been raised in a booming post-war economy, it *was*, for them. As luck would have it, though, the lessons of the middle of the Twentieth Century applied about as well to life in the early Twenty-First Century as a lungfish’s evolutionary advantage applied to getting a job in advertising, and that twist of fate left half a generation gasping on dry land and wondering why their parents made swimming look so simple.

December 9, 2025 at 3:38 PM

Geoph Essex 🤨💭 11742d/4h/3m; 16940d/18h/34m 🕟

@semperbufo.bsky.social

#WIPsnips "design"

In Chapter 6 of "The Demon's Pawn," psycho killer Andy Trout receives a gift from his new employer: a very unusual knife capable of killing *places*.

Andy LOVES knives. Whatever they can kill.

#TheDemonsPawn🔪🩸

#WritingCommunity #Writers #Authors #Writesky #WIP

[Excerpt from Chapter 6 of "The Demon's Pawn" (by me):]

It was like no knife Andy had ever seen. The blade was a foot long, almost four inches wide from spine to edge, slightly curved, and violently jagged. The metal gleamed with an inner red light, broken only by the archaic designs etched into both sides of the blade. As part of the design, three irregularly shaped holes punched through the blade. The handle was simple and inelegant, jet black wood with four silver rivets and a temptingly crooked finger guard. The knife hummed with an otherworldly song, a tune that was overplayed before humans even evolved.

Macheath dropped to the floor from Andy’s loose fingers; the chef’s knife *thunked* as it bit its blade a half inch into the linoleum and shivered.

[Continued excerpt from Chapter 6 of "The Demon's Pawn" (by me):]

Andy reached out for the humming, glowing knife. Anytime did a quick flick (she was almost as good as he was) and held it to him handle first. As Andy grasped the black wood, a jolt of fire and brimstone thrashed his nervous system—he didn’t want to let go. He slashed through the air, and the knife’s ancient hum Dopplered a zap of buzzing thunder, like electric clippers coming too close to your ear for just a second—a glint of blood-hued light flashed in time with the rushing hum.

“This is your knife, kid,” said Anytime. “Meet Azrael.”

“Azrael,” said Andy, his voice barely above a whisper. His eyes glowed in the dull gleam of Azrael’s blade. “Nice to meet you.”

Azrael’s horrifically sharp edge nodded as Andy turned the blade over reverently.

December 9, 2025 at 3:38 PM

Geoph Essex 🤨💭 11742d/4h/3m; 16940d/18h/34m 🕟

@semperbufo.bsky.social

#WIPsnips "design"

Chapter 3 of "David Earth" opens after a brief time skip, where we get to see what became of professional galactic scavenger Gamingo Blux and the little creature he picked up along the way.

#DavidEarth🌎🚀

#WritingCommunity #Writers #Authors #Writesky #WIP

[Excerpt from Chapter 3 of "David Earth" (by me):]

David the Snarkling opened his eyes with a start—the ship intercom was buzzing in the ceiling overhead. The ceiling wasn’t very high—the little room that served as David’s quarters began life as a supply cabinet—so David stretched up and opened the link. “Morning already?” he asked groggily.

“There’s no ‘morning’ in space!” Uncle Blux replied gruffly, his voice crackling through the intercom.

David yawned and stretched, scratching his grumbling belly. “Then why does it always feel like you’re waking me up early?”

“There’s no ‘early’ in space, either,” said Blux. “And I wake you up because you sleep too much. It freaks me out. Why can’t you just go into a short annual hibernation state like respectable folks?”

David giggled. “I’ll work on that,” he said.

“Get up!” said Blux. “We’ve got incoming!”

[Continued excerpt from Chapter 3 of "David Earth" (by me):]

David jumped up at that, and quickly wriggled into a pair of bright blue coveralls Blux had picked up second-hand. The coveralls were made to fit a small bipedal species similar to David, though, unlike David, they had tails—a garishly patterned square of cloth patched the hole through which David had no tail to put. He zipped up the front of his outfit and hopped down from his bunk. He never bothered with shoes—a habit he picked up from Uncle Blux, which had the additional benefit of letting him use his feet as a second pair of hands, though not quite as adroitly as his first pair of hands, which were, after all, actual hands. He did, however, snatch his earbud transceiver off a shelf and slip it into his ear. The earbud was specially designed by Gamingo Blux to imitate real radio petals—it transformed electromagnetic input into audible output, which David was rapidly learning to interpret. Blux was teaching him a lot—and David was gobbling up knowledge and skills like a Deep Ocean Gigapus hunting down hapless fish with a billion poisonous tentacles.

December 9, 2025 at 3:38 PM

Geoph Essex 🤨💭 11742d/4h/3m; 16940d/18h/34m 🕟

@semperbufo.bsky.social

Years ago, Bazooka Girl grinched that most Xmas songs are repetitive and monotonous. As much as I love my Xmas playlist, she had a point, so I mixed this up special just for her. 😁

Feliz Navidad, everybody…! 🎄

(Listen to at least 30 seconds to get the idea…yeah, it's the whole song length.)

December 8, 2025 at 3:31 PM

Geoph Essex 🤨💭 11742d/4h/3m; 16940d/18h/34m 🕟

@semperbufo.bsky.social

#WIPsnips "fourth"

In Chapter 7 of "The Demon's Pawn," twisted serial killer Andy Trout is haunted by his latest murder victim. No, literally. Her ghost won't leave him alone. Or shut up. It's driving him crazy.

Well…craziER.

#TheDemonsPawn🔪🩸

#WritingCommunity #Writers #Authors #Writesky #WIP

[Excerpt from Chapter 7 of "The Demon's Pawn" (by me):]

“You know it, right?” Ramona asked, feeling triumph and pity simultaneously. “You know you’re totally psychotic, right?” She looked almost sad for him. “I mean, seriously, Andy. You fucking kill people. You cut them up with knives. I’m not even insulting you, right? All I’m doing is saying it. It’s like: you’re white. Or: you’re a guy.” She used precisely the same simple, factual inflection, concluding: “You’re psycho.”

His eyes flicked briefly in her direction. “Shut up,” said Andy through clenched teeth.

“What are you going to do?” asked Ramona. “Kill me?” She wasn’t smiling; her eyebrows were raised in an insurmountable challenge.

“Maybe I can do worse,” said Andy. “I bet Anytime could get me a flight to Peoria, whenever I want it. I’ve got your wallet. Think I can track down your parents from the address on your license? And your sister? Not too fucking hard, Ramona. So maybe you should just shut the fuck up.”

[Continued excerpt from Chapter 7 of "The Demon's Pawn" (by me):]

She stopped short and stared at him as he kept walking ahead. She recovered quickly and caught up again, shaking her head, staring at him with a mixture of awe and disgust. “The first time you use *my* name,” she said. “And it’s to threaten me.” She set her gaze straight ahead as they walked. “You really are a fucking psycho.”

Andy kept his face coldly neutral, but his mind was burning with Missed Comeback Fever. There was nothing he could say, he knew, that would somehow establish his sanity or humanity; nothing that Ramona couldn’t simply twist around and hurl back at him like she was some kind of verbal ninja. The problem with arguing your non-psychotic status lies in the simple fact that any protest, from the nonchalant to the violent, simply presses the point home a little more. Like a maddening game of “Nuh uh!” with a towheaded fourth grader who actually has a point, there’s nothing you can say that can’t be neatly parried. Apologies just punch up the inconsistency of the psychopath; threats just punch up the violence; reasoning just punches up the penchant for self-justification.

December 8, 2025 at 2:55 PM

Geoph Essex 🤨💭 11742d/4h/3m; 16940d/18h/34m 🕟

@semperbufo.bsky.social

Man, those Bard's Tale guides were full-on fantasy novellas. (And compared to a lot of fantasy in the 80s? On par!) 😁

And I'd still love to see a film/TV adaptation of the Wasteland "Paragraphs" that you were never supposed to read. That story seemed even cooler than the actual game to 13yo me.

The cover of the package for "Wasteland" (1988), a post-apocalyptic RPG adventure computer game (Apple version).

It's a dingy, reddish birds-eye view of a decimated city street stretching top to bottom between wrecked skyscrapers. At one end of the scene (bottom) is some kind of bulky metallic humanoid figure with a big shadow stretching down the street. At the other end, facing off against it, are five people, their shadows stretching towards the metal dude. The title is cut into the black frame around the illustration itself at the top, exposing more of the scene through the letters.

December 8, 2025 at 2:36 PM

Geoph Essex 🤨💭 11742d/4h/3m; 16940d/18h/34m 🕟

@semperbufo.bsky.social

#WIPsnips "empty"

When a blackout hits in Chapter 5 of "Confessions from the Scene of the Crime"—right in the middle of some startling revelations—Detectives Charlie Gelman and Mae Tran can't help but wonder…

#ConfessionsFromTheSceneOfTheCrime🎳💀

#WritingCommunity #Writers #Authors #Writesky #WIP

[Excerpt from Chapter 5 of "Confessions from the Scene of the Crime" (by me):]

Pulling Detective Tran along behind him, Charlie stumbled through the diner. He smacked his knee hard against a table, got momentarily tangled in a chair, but finally bumped into the door and fondled it as awkwardly as a sophomore at the senior prom until he found the handle.

“Charlie,” Tran said quickly, following him out the door. “Where are all the emergency lights?”

She had a point. The typical red halos he would expect to see here and there during a blackout were missing. The diner was completely opaque, and nothing glowed outside. He could feel the sharp wind on his face, and his eyes had adjusted enough that he could see Mae Tran next to him, her black outfit standing out against the slightly less black brick walls of the diner. Far above, the sky shifted with silvery gray hieroglyphs outlining moonlit clouds. It was an odd sight—usually, the clouds over New York picked up the grotesque pink and yellow glow of the city below them, basking in the reflected glory as if even the heavens themselves knew who had the upper hand. Dark skies over a darker Manhattan felt too much like a fully sensible reason to panic.

[Continued excerpt from Chapter 5 of "Confessions from the Scene of the Crime" (by me):]

“Jesus Christ, Charlie,” said Mae Tran, scanning for a light source and coming up empty. He could barely make out her features in the heavy gray ambience trickling down from the clouds.

He swallowed hard, but kept his bravado up. “Didn’t know you were religious.”

“You put in a good word with Hashem, I’ll return the favor.”

“I haven’t been to temple since my wedding,” Charlie replied. “Mae, seriously...you think this has anything to do with...?” He frowned at their topic of conversation without naming it.

“Strictly common sense?” Tran paused. “That’s the most self-absorbed, narcissistic thing we could possibly think right now. But...” She squeezed his hand and looked up at the giant black towers silhouetted before the dark gray sky. “I’m freaked out enough to give us a pass if that’s all we can come up with for the moment.”

“I’ll, uh, say the Sh’ma or something,” Charlie offered.

“I’ll do an Our Father.”

“Deal.”

December 7, 2025 at 6:04 PM

Geoph Essex 🤨💭 11742d/4h/3m; 16940d/18h/34m 🕟

@semperbufo.bsky.social

#WIPsnips "empty"

In Chapter 2 of "Tale of the Zombie Detective," P.I. Henry Ingersoll puzzles out some clues with his ex-partner Pete Farrelly. It's just like old times—except Ingersoll's not wearing gray anymore.

#TaleOfTheZombieDetective💀🔍

#WritingCommunity #Writers #Authors #Writesky #WIP

[Excerpt from Chapter 2 of "Tale of the Zombie Detective" (by me):]

Farrelly took a deep breath. “This is the first I’ve heard on Alice, sorry. But Recorp—they’re in the pipeline every day.” He took a gulp of beer, wiped his lips with his sleeve. “They’re in talks with Security, Defense, Foreign Affairs...even the Policy Ministry. They’ve got something going on. Something big.”

“Yeah, I think I read something about that,” I said. “They’re lobbying Policy for some legislative improvements geared toward transference?”

“Not just improvements, Hank,” said Farrelly. “They’re aiming for large-scale changes. Stuff that hasn’t even hit the streets yet. Stuff they’ll have a monopoly on for decades.”

“The Administration wouldn’t accept that,” I said.

Farrelly shook his head. “Wrong. In exchange, Administration gets dibs on some of the latest technologies. Exclusive deals, I’d bet.”

“What technologies?”

“That’s all still locked up,” he said. “We’ve only got guesses, and nobody takes them seriously.”

[Continued excerpt from Chapter 2 of "Tale of the Zombie Detective" (by me):]

“What’s your call?” I asked.

“I couldn’t say for sure,” he said, taking another gulp and swallowing hard. “But I’m thinking copies. For Security, for Defense, Foreign Affairs. Labor, even.”

“If the OLOBs caught that meme—”

“Exactly.”

The One Life, One Body proponents weren’t just a strong political lobby; they were fanatics. Most of them had a religious background and religious motivations, but the faction was much bigger than any one religion.

I mused for a second. “Where would Recorp find empty bodies?”

He shrugged. “The morgue, maybe?”

“Even if they could get permission, cadavers would only last a few days, at most. The rider would have to be transferred again.”

“And again, and again,” Farrelly agreed. “I didn’t say I had a solid lead. I’m just throwing out what I’ve heard.”

December 7, 2025 at 6:04 PM

Geoph Essex 🤨💭 11742d/4h/3m; 16940d/18h/34m 🕟

@semperbufo.bsky.social

#WIPsnips "hook"

In Chapter 4 of "My Electromagnetic Romance," Lu Volasko learns they've got video of the crime, thanks to Judah Berenbaum's obsessive personality, rebellious attitude, and Leet Tech Skillz™.

#MyElectromagneticRomance🧲💕

#WritingCommunity #Writers #Authors #Writesky #WIP

[Excerpt from Chapter 4 of "My Electromagnetic Romance" (by me):]

“Jeez, doc,” Mulray said. “You know you’re not supposed to bring in any unauthorized—”

“Yeah, yeah,” Berenbaum waved him off dismissively. “I’m only the head of the whole damn *project* and all.” He smiled broadly at Lu Volasko. “So I kept it secret. I couldn’t move it, get all Spielberg with it,” he explained, madly spinning another screw free, “but it got pretty good shots of anything in line of sight...”

The casing busted loose, and the two scientists eased it open. Inside, a small digital camera was securely screwed to a mount, surrounded by soft black foam and shiny square plates. Berenbaum flicked his fingers rapidly, unscrewing the camera and pulling it out. Three insulated cords dangled from it, noodling out from the case.

[Continued excerpt from Chapter 4 of "My Electromagnetic Romance" (by me):]

“Cross your fingers,” said Judah Berenbaum. He flipped a switch. The display lit up, and they heard the soft whirr of the autofocus lens adjusting itself. “Yes!”

Greer Bean clapped and laughed, celebrating. She hugged Berenbaum’s shoulder. Mulray sighed, smiling. “Well,” said the security guard, “guess I can’t get too upset about it...”

“Wait,” Lu said, reining in the celebration. “Why would you leave the camera on if you shut down the accelerator for the weekend?”

[Continued excerpt from Chapter 4 of "My Electromagnetic Romance" (by me):]

“I didn’t,” Berenbaum replied simply, pressing buttons on the back of the camera. “But I couldn’t let *their* cameras,” he jerked his head at Mulray, “see me messing around with *my* camera, or they’d know I snuck it in here. So I hooked it up so it would turn itself on and start recording whenever the mains were on.” He tugged on the cords for emphasis; a small box with two tiny lights was clipped to one cord. “I sneak in when we’re not working and dump everything onto a flash drive, like, once a month.”

“Doctor Berenbaum,” Lu said formally, “I think I’ll go ahead and give you the credit you’re due.” She grinned. “You’re a genius.”

He giggled as he held up the camera. “That’s what it says on my business cards.”

Bean frowned adorably. “I told you to take that off...”

“C’mon, let’s watch!”

December 6, 2025 at 3:58 PM

Geoph Essex 🤨💭 11742d/4h/3m; 16940d/18h/34m 🕟

@semperbufo.bsky.social

#WIPsnips "hook"

In Chapter 3 of "Tale of the Zombie Detective," P.I. Henry Ingersoll angles to find out just how much his new client—who's also his ex-wife's second husband—knows.

#TaleOfTheZombieDetective💀🔍

#WritingCommunity #Writers #Authors #Writesky #WIP

[Excerpt from Chapter 3 of "Tale of the Zombie Detective" (by me):]

A pained look crossed Richard’s face. He took a sip of his coffee. “Henry, please,” he said. “You have to find her. She knew about this, she knew about all this. But she kept making accusations...”

“About what?”

“About...she said there were already copies on the market.” He almost sounded like he was about to break down in tears. “She said the technology I was working on was being implemented. Years before legalization. Years before it’s even ready!”

“And is she right?”

“No!” he said, loud enough that some other folks glanced our way. He took his tone back down. If he was trying to convince me he wasn’t responsible for his actions, he was doing a hell of a job. “No, she’s not. We’re not doing it, not yet. But she said it was already being tried on zombies.”

“And you don’t know anything about that?” I took a drag as the waiter dropped another gin-and-tonic on the table and cleared my empty glass. The young Italian kid said nothing about my cig.

[Continued excerpt from Chapter 3 of "Tale of the Zombie Detective" (by me):]

“I don’t,” he said. “I swear.”

“But maybe it’s going on.”

“If it is,” he said, fixing me with an earnest stare, “I don’t know anything about it.”

I nodded, letting him off the hook. “But maybe Alice was onto something. Something you’ve been kept in the dark on.”

He sighed. “It’s possible.”

“Tell me about recombination,” I said. Partly just to demonstrate that I knew what I was talking about.

He smiled ruefully. “You really do sound like Alice.”

“We were a perfect match,” I said with an edge.

[Continued excerpt from Chapter 3 of "Tale of the Zombie Detective" (by me):]

He paused, and made a visible effort to ignore that remark. “Recombination is tricky,” he began. “That’s why the strictly commercial firms like Switcheroo are having so much trouble. A transfer removes material from one brain and then replaces it with new material. Even a copy isn’t such a big deal; you’re just duplicating the material in one brain and putting it into an empty one.” He was falling into Professor Mode; any time he started explaining his work, he fell into that trap. This time, I was counting on it, in case he might let something slip without thinking. “But taking material and actually appending it to a brain that already contains a full persona...well, it’s a problem. You might not have enough room. You might accidentally overwrite some existing data. You could disrupt the normal electrochemical flow in the destination brain, and end up with a damaged subject.”

“A nutcase,” I suggested.

He rolled his eyes irritably. “Yes, some brain damage can result in severe disability. That’s not the point.”

I chuckled. “It might be to the ‘subject.’”

[Continued excerpt from Chapter 3 of "Tale of the Zombie Detective" (by me):]

“The point is,” he continued without acknowledging my comment, “recombination has never been successful. Memory, motor skills...too many functions are affected, and we just don’t know enough about neurochemical fragmentation and reorganization to make it work.”

“To your knowledge,” I said.

Richard stared blankly. “What?”

“Recombination has never been successful,” I clarified, “to your knowledge.”

“Who do you think you’re talking to, Henry?” I hit him where it hurt—his intellectualism. “I’m the assistant director of research and development at the world’s foremost transference laboratory. If there had been successful test results on recombination anywhere in the world, I’d know about it.”

“Whoa, cowboy,” I said. “I have a question.”

“What is it?” he said curtly.

“Was Alice going after all this for her piece?”

December 6, 2025 at 3:58 PM

Geoph Essex 🤨💭 11742d/4h/3m; 16940d/18h/34m 🕟

@semperbufo.bsky.social

#WIPsnips "hook"

In Chapter 3 of "Storm of the Century of the Week," Sharon's mention of her ruggedly handsome hitchhiking passenger grinds dinner conversation to a halt…but her daughter knows how to start it back up.

#StormOfTheCenturyOfTheWeek⛈️

#WritingCommunity #Writers #Authors #Writesky #WIP

[Excerpt from Chapter 3 of "Storm of the Century of the Week" (by me):]

Joey asked: “Are you going to marry him?”

There was a deep pause as Joey’s sprouts *splopped* back into his stew and splattered his chin. The only movement in the kitchen was his arm wiping across the droplets on his face, and steam rising from the four bowls.

“Joey,” Sharon said reassuringly, “I’m not going to marry him. I’m not marrying anybody.”

“We hope,” added Sophia.

“Quiet,” Sharon whispered to her. She looked back at Joey and included Nikki with her eyes. “Guys, that’s not how this works, okay? You don’t just meet somebody and get married. And I’m not looking around to *find* somebody to marry right now. Or...well, not now, not for a long time, if ever. And,” she hesitated, but figured this might be the concern, “nobody’s going to be...I mean, *if* I do get married, to *anybody*, to whoever, well...he won’t be your father. I mean, your father will still be your father. We’ll just have a bigger family. More people to help take care of us, and who we care about.”

[Continued excerpt from Chapter 3 of "Storm of the Century of the Week" (by me):]

A bare moment passed, and Nikki said, “Well, *duh*, Mom.”

“Yeah,” said Joey, “*duh*.” But he said it quieter.

“This isn’t an After School Special,” said Nikki. “We’re not dumb. Whatever.”

“Uh,” said Sharon, ignoring Sophia’s gleeful grin.

“You wanna hook up with some guys, nothing serious, whatever,” Nikki went on. “I get it. This isn’t the olden days, like the Fifties or whatever. Nobody cares. Knock yourself out.”

“Nikki!”

“I’m just *saying*,” Nikki said with Valley Girl tones, “we all do it—” she caught herself and transitioned so smoothly, David Copperfield might have missed the trick “—women are allowed to do whatever they want, now. It’s not slutty. It’s just modern. You’re allowed to have fun!”

“Can I be done?” said Joey, toying with his stew and not looking up.

December 6, 2025 at 3:58 PM

Geoph Essex 🤨💭 11742d/4h/3m; 16940d/18h/34m 🕟

@semperbufo.bsky.social

#WIPsnips "screen"

In Chapter 7 of "Confessions from the Scene of the Crime," Detective Charlie Gelman takes a call from the medical examiner and gives his trusty hat a chance to catch up on their murder case.

#ConfessionsFromTheSceneOfTheCrime🎳💀

#WritingCommunity #Writers #Authors #Writesky #WIP

[Excerpt from Chapter 7 of "Confessions from the Scene of the Crime" (by me):]

Charlie pulled into a questionably legal spot just up the block from Sunset Gardens, and put the Ford in park. “So that means...what?”

“That Takach had *liquid* iron splashed on his face and clothes,” replied Helen, “and it probably cooled and solidified almost instantly.”

“So how’d that happen?”

“Not a clue. You’re the detective, Charlie. But I’ll run it by Ben Hendricks to see if he has any ideas.”

“Okay,” said Charlie, unbuckling his seatbelt and patting himself down. “Helen—thanks a million. Lemme know if anything adds up.”

“Of course, Charlie. Take care.”

[Continued excerpt from Chapter 7 of "Confessions from the Scene of the Crime" (by me):]

She hung up, and Charlie tapped his phone’s screen and put it back in his pocket. His hat chimed in dryly: “So Takach is an eyeless mole man who works at a foundry.”

Charlie grabbed the dark glasses and got out of the car, shaking his head. “Even if you *did* use the past tense, I don’t think so. If we’re going with Magical Wizard Murders—”

“Is that what we’re going with?” asked the hat, a skeptic slant in its Humphrey Bogart voice. “You really *do* need to fill me in, chief.”

“Sorry, yeah,” Charlie said, slowing his pace up the sidewalk so he could buy a little time before they reached Sunset Gardens. “Tran and I questioned his stuff. The story we got is...well, wizards. He was one. Lots of others, they say. We figure it’s some internal thing—Takach pisses off the wrong wizard, goes into hiding, they track him down and bump him off.”

[Continued excerpt from Chapter 7 of "Confessions from the Scene of the Crime" (by me):]

His hat sounded unambiguously dubious. “Wizards?”

“I’m not gonna debate the existence of wizards with my *hat*,” he said pointedly.

“Fair enough, chief.” There was a distinct pause. “So if that’s your premise...maybe it’s not an isolated incident?”

Charlie shrugged and nodded. “More Magical Wizard Murders? Sure. I thought of that already—could be.” He thought about it. “Huh. But maybe this isn’t the *first* one. Maybe I should look at some cold cases. Anything unsolved and...weird.”

“Good plan.”

December 5, 2025 at 4:54 PM

Geoph Essex 🤨💭 11742d/4h/3m; 16940d/18h/34m 🕟

@semperbufo.bsky.social

#WIPsnips "screen"

In Chapter 4 of "Grand Theft Galaxy," Three checks out their new (stolen) ride as Billy Fish learns just a little bit about the local galactic community around them.

#GrandTheftGalaxy🕳️🌌

#WritingCommunity #Writers #Authors #Writesky #WIP

[Excerpt from Chapter 4 of "Grand Theft Galaxy" (by me):]

Three finally came to a decisive halt after passing through a wide door into a roughly circular room. Consoles and screens lined the walls and hung down from the ceiling on telescoping pistons and cables. There were five distinct stations spaced evenly along the walls, with a sixth dead center. Each had a long, narrow cushioned seat with a high back; every seat faced the back of the room, where Three and Billy had come through the door.

“Refitted for them,” Three remarked. “Custom job. Nice work.”

He straddled the narrow seat in the center of the room and leaned his chest forward against the back cushion. It dawned on Billy that the seats actually did face front—the “backs” were the “fronts,” which would provide a perfectly comfortable seat for Pizza Head to straddle with his four legs and lean his broad chest forward onto the cushions.

[Continued excerpt from Chapter 4 of "Grand Theft Galaxy" (by me):]

“Yeah, basically,” Three nodded, his eyes scanning the round screen. “Except their department probably does it for them. And probably orders in bulk.”

Billy breathed heavily, a smile slowly spreading across his face as he took in the command cabin of the ship. “But that’s...I mean....” He tried again. “You mean there’s a whole entire *civilization* up there? All sorts of aliens? Out there—in outer space?”

“It’s not as civilized as you’d think,” Three quipped. “But that’s the gist of it.”

“And your planet’s at war or something with...with these guys’ planet?”

Three’s shook his head. “I don’t have a planet.”

December 5, 2025 at 4:54 PM

Geoph Essex 🤨💭 11742d/4h/3m; 16940d/18h/34m 🕟

@semperbufo.bsky.social

#WIPsnips "screen"

In Chapter 3 of "Storm of the Century of the Week," Sharon finally gets home after a VERY eventful day to join her kids and her best friend for dinner. And maybe do a little parental scolding.

#StormOfTheCenturyOfTheWeek⛈️

#WritingCommunity #Writers #Authors #Writesky #WIP

[Excerpt from Chapter 3 of "Storm of the Century of the Week" (by me):]

Her key in the door was drowned out by the blaring television; not a show, of course, but one of Joey’s video games. Sharon opened the door and called out: “Home!”

Nikki and Sophia answered from the kitchen. “Hey, Mom!” “Hi, Shar!” Joey was planted on the carpet in front of the couch, for a change, fingers dancing on a plastic controller as he guided something heroic and powerful through someplace dangerous and in flames. All the games looked alike to Sharon.

“Hi, Joey,” she said, stepping just inside the living room. “Homework?”

[Continued excerpt from Chapter 3 of "Storm of the Century of the Week" (by me):]

He looked at her with a pained expression. “Bean sprouts,” he groused. He didn’t even need to pause the game for the time it took him to look up and complain—his fingers kept dancing and the armored robot beast thing on screen never missed a step. If the rest of his body was as athletic as his fingers, she’d be supported in her old age by an Olympic champion or a football star. Sharon knew there were nine-year-old boys who went outside for longer than it took to get in a car or a school bus; they were a different species from her son.

“Auntie Sophia’s just trying to keep you healthy,” she told him. “You can’t have the crap I make *every* night.”

“Make?”

“Order. Whatever.”

He just groused some more, non-verbally, while artfully decapitating some kind of glowing electric wolf demon. Sharon dropped her purse on the side table and went into the kitchen.

December 5, 2025 at 4:53 PM

Geoph Essex 🤨💭 11742d/4h/3m; 16940d/18h/34m 🕟

@semperbufo.bsky.social

#WIPsnips "screen"

In Chapter 1 of "The Demon's Pawn," psycho killer Andy Trout heads down to the pawn shop he runs—at the bottom of the building he manages and lives in—to check in with the only other employee.

#TheDemonsPawn🔪🩸

#WritingCommunity #Writers #Authors #Writesky #WIP

[Excerpt from Chapter 1 of "The Demon's Pawn" (by me):]

“Just checking in,” said Andy. “Anything in or out?”

“Wedding ring,” Josiah said, looking over at the day sheet, “and a weird dog thing statue. Sold the bullshit Les Paul, the Jewish candle thing, and some Colonel Kurtz stuff.” Military outfits came in and out of the pawn shop faster than Kerwin’s website hit counter went up each month. Maybe it was time to quit the pawn business and admit he mostly ran an Army surplus store.

[Continued excerpt from Chapter 1 of "The Demon's Pawn" (by me):]

Andy lifted the countertop gate and tried his best to take a subtle look at the computer screen. The web browser had at least a dozen tabs open, and the visible one was just a poorly designed blog with orange letters on a pale yellow background. He blinked to clear his eyes of the aesthetic horror and looked down at the newest item behind the counter: as Josiah’d promised, it was a weird dog thing statue. It was porcelain, just over two feet high at the forehead, a little smaller than life-sized, and recreated a sad-eyed but lifelike young Golden Retriever with a single inexplicable antler protruding from the top of its skull. The antler angled forward and up several times in simple forking branches, terminating in several nearly-sharp points. The fact that the whole statue was glazed in a muted gray, with mere hints of the golden fur color, wooden antler color, and dark eyes, transformed the whole affair into a spooky fairy-tale creature trapped in a Precious Moments catalogue. Andy felt sorry for the thing.

December 5, 2025 at 4:53 PM

Geoph Essex 🤨💭 11742d/4h/3m; 16940d/18h/34m 🕟

@semperbufo.bsky.social

#WIPsnips "city"

The very end of Chapter 1 in "Confessions from the Scene of the Crime" really, uh, gets the ball rolling on the crime in question…and the plot of the story itself.

#ConfessionsFromTheSceneOfTheCrime🎳💀

#WritingCommunity #Writers #Authors #Writesky #WIP

[Excerpt from Chapter 1 of "Confessions from the Scene of the Crime" (by me):]

The little old man turned slowly, one hand out defensively, the other tapping his cane on the walk as if he was warning off prospective muggers in Morse code. Then he whirled again, yanking off his dark glasses.

His eyes were not blue; they were not green or brown, gold or gray. There was, in fact, no field of white around an iris of any color. His eyes were pure and gleaming mirrors, like two small globs of liquid mercury packed tightly into transparent balloons, quivering slightly as they swiveled in their sockets. Whether these strange orbs were capable of sight or not, the old man continued to pivot slowly in place, still tapping his cane.

“I should warn you,” he proclaimed to the empty air, “I am not defenseless.”

[Continued excerpt from Chapter 1 of "Confessions from the Scene of the Crime" (by me):]

There was a strange, sharp sound, like the inhalation of breath just before a tennis player serves the ball, a sound that signaled anticipation and the delayed promise of action. The round little man cocked his head again, picking up on a gradually building whistle of wind and air. He looked—or at least faced—straight up.

With a terrible thud, an awful crunch, and no wind resistance, a gleaming, lacquered bowling ball dropped from above and smashed the old man’s head like a meteorite finding an ideal parking spot. He collapsed on the sidewalk, his face an unrecognizable mess of bone, flesh and gore that would have once again stumped Humpty Dumpty’s undeservedly optimistic paramedics. Rivulets of shining silver ran like tears from what used to be the corners of his eyes. The white cane and dark glasses fell from nerveless fingers which ceased twitching after only a second or two.

[Continued excerpt from Chapter 1 of "Confessions from the Scene of the Crime" (by me):]

There was a moment of silence, as if the city itself respectfully withheld comment on the old man’s passing.

Then the bowling ball, streetlights playing off the swirling brown and black opalescence beneath its surface, swiveled in the shallow, cracked dent it had made in the sidewalk beside the old man’s crooked arm. It made a grinding sound as its lower curve scraped the sidewalk, the sound of an ancient sepulchre being dragged painfully shut on dusty old secrets. Slowly at first, but building momentum as it went, the bowling ball rolled away from the dead little man.

The ball headed west. It didn’t even have the decency to roll downhill.

December 4, 2025 at 4:25 PM

Geoph Essex 🤨💭 11742d/4h/3m; 16940d/18h/34m 🕟

@semperbufo.bsky.social

#WIPsnips "city"

In Chapter 4 of "My Electromagnetic Romance," a video freeze-frame gives Lu Volasko a new lead *and* a chance to witness the ludicrous processing power of physics wunderkind Judah Berenbaum's brain.

#MyElectromagneticRomance🧲💕

#WritingCommunity #Writers #Authors #Writesky #WIP

[Excerpt from Chapter 4 of "My Electromagnetic Romance" (by me):]

Berenbaum stared, nearly as still as the face on pause. “I *know* her.”

“What?” Lu asked, incredulously.

“What?” Doctor Bean asked, in a decidedly sharper tone.

“Well, I don’t *know* her,” Berenbaum amended. “But I *met* her. I *talked* to her!”

Lu stared at him, then at the face on the display, then back at Berenbaum again. “When?”

“It was...uh...yeah, a few months ago.” He rubbed his forehead slowly but vigorously, as if squeezing the memories out of a ripe pimple. “Just before Thanksgiving. I gave a lecture to a crowd of double *E*s at Empire Tech, in the city. She asked a couple questions during the lecture.”

[Continued excerpt from Chapter 4 of "My Electromagnetic Romance" (by me):]

“Double *E*s?” Lu questioned.

Bean elaborated: “Electrical engineers. Well—at Empire Tech, *student* electrical engineers.”

“I did some courses there when I was a teenager,” said Berenbaum.

Lu raised an eyebrow. “*You* took community college courses,” she said flatly.

[Continued excerpt from Chapter 4 of "My Electromagnetic Romance" (by me):]

“No,” he replied. “I *taught* them. Particle physics is my field—electronics is my hobby. I was doing a favor for a friend.” He waved it off, getting them back on point. “And he asked me there last Thanksgiving, just before break, to give a little talk on alternative power, the future of electronic design...all that stuff. Watered down, really. I didn’t want to go, but I owed Frank.”

“You remember *one* student, out of the *whole* lecture hall, at a talk you didn’t even want to give...*five months ago*?”

“I remember all of them,” Berenbaum replied blankly, as if she’d asked him how he managed the task of getting his shoes on the correct feet every morning.

“He does,” Doctor Bean told Lu. She smiled lightly and shrugged. “It’s just one of his *things*.”

December 4, 2025 at 4:25 PM

Geoph Essex 🤨💭 11742d/4h/3m; 16940d/18h/34m 🕟

@semperbufo.bsky.social

#WIPsnips "city"

In a raging storm in Chapter 1 of "Storm of the Century of the Week," Sharon Seger gets pulled over by Officer Loomis—because when it rains, it pours—and the thunder's not the only thing grumbling.

#StormOfTheCenturyOfTheWeek⛈️

#WritingCommunity #Writers #Authors #Writesky #WIP

[Excerpt from Chapter 1 of "Storm of the Century of the Week" (by me):]

“Sorry, Missuz—uh, Seger,” Loomis said, scribbling away. “It’s policy now, just part of the new quality of life stuff.”

“*Whose* quality of life?” Sharon asked pointedly. “*My* quality of life isn’t helped by getting a fu—a ticket,” she amended hastily.

Loomis shrugged. “It’s about public safety.”

“There was nobody else on the road.”

“It’s a big storm. Gotta drive safe.”

“Nothing happened.”

“It’s a precautionary measure, ma’am.”

“Precautionary?” Sharon could hear him regurgitating the word from a training session back at the station. “What the—what’s ‘precautionary’ about giving me a ticket?”

[Continued excerpt from Chapter 1 of "Storm of the Century of the Week" (by me):]

“It’s, uh,” the officer paused. Mike Loomis wasn’t dull, he was just a thoughtful and deliberate guy. He took his time. The wait was as maddening to Sharon as the prospect of paying the ticket. Lightning flashed ahead of them, a jagged fork slashing down from clouds to open fields, and thunder crackled, pushing Loomis through his thought process. “It’s preventative.”

“What does it prevent?”

“Reckless driving.” Scribble, scribble.

“Did it?” Sharon was getting testy, now.

[Continued excerpt from Chapter 1 of "Storm of the Century of the Week" (by me):]

Loomis’s pen stopped in the middle of crossing a *T*. “Did it what?” His big, dark eyes looked at her curiously.

“Did it prevent reckless driving?” Sharon asked. “I mean, you’ve been handing out these tickets for a year or two, and nobody’s driving any differently.”

Loomis shrugged again. “Well, it’s more of a general thing,” he said. “The statistics....”

“*I* wasn’t driving any differently!”

Loomis grinned weakly. “Yeah, you were driving a little recklessly,” he said with a meaningful look.

[Continued excerpt from Chapter 1 of "Storm of the Century of the Week" (by me):]

Sharon caught an uprush of anger in her throat and squelched it back down into her chest. “I’ve never—” she stopped and corrected herself, cursing Don Mastronelli’s prevaricating influence “—I’ve been in three or four accidents in my entire *life*, and most of them weren’t mostly my fault, even!”

“Listen, Missuz Mastronelli—sorry,” he said quickly, watching her eyes flash in synch with another burst of lightning overhead. “Missuz Seger, you know the drill, it’s just my job. I can argue policy with you all day, but all we’ll get is really wet.” He paused for a second to let some thunder play out, not bothering to compete with nature when it came to volume. “You want change, you know what to do—talk to the city council.”

“Right,” Sharon said, sarcasm flowing freely. “That’ll get things done. Soon as Elaine gets back from a manicure.”

December 4, 2025 at 4:25 PM

Geoph Essex 🤨💭 11742d/4h/3m; 16940d/18h/34m 🕟

@semperbufo.bsky.social

#WIPsnips "city"

Chapter 1 of "The Demon's Pawn" opens with high-functioning sociopath Andy Trout walking his, ah, *less* high-functioning older brother Billy home from the Day Center.

#TheDemonsPawn🔪🩸

#WritingCommunity #Writers #Authors #Writesky #WIP

[Excerpt from Chapter 1 of "The Demon's Pawn" (by me):]

Andy walked slowly alongside his big brother, who jiggled and scuttled forward in fits and starts. Almost nobody called Andy Trout anything other than “Andy,” except for Gramps, Gramma Astrid, and his younger brother Kerwin, who would all sometimes call him by his full name, Androcles. (The boys’ mom used to call him Androcles, too, since she came up with it.) Where Billy was open wide, disjointed, and clumsy, Andy was tightly folded into himself, carefully controlled, gliding over the world like he glided along the surface of the sidewalk, which is to say, like one of those bugs that never slips through the surface of a pond into the world happening beneath it. Hands jammed into the pockets of his beat-up old bomber jacket, gray cargoes barely whispering as his legs shifted in his panthery Don’t Notice Me walk. The only things that might give away Andy’s relation to Billy were their identically messy shocks of dirty hair, their very dark eyes, and their uncharmingly long and crooked Sean Penn noses.

[Continued excerpt from Chapter 1 of "The Demon's Pawn" (by me):]

“Hot dog, Billy,” Andy said, to emphasize the point.

Billy’s head jerked around, and he managed to look Andy in the eye for more than a couple of seconds. Billy’s froggy voice, hindered by an uncooperative tongue that looked like it had had far more than enough of living inside Billy’s mouth and was trying hard to escape, just reinforced the idea that he should be living under a bridge somewhere, demanding payment from talking goats. “Dog is hot!” he said. Years of Billy’s neverending war on the conversational segue had trained Andy to be aware of his surroundings, and he knew his brother was talking about the little Wire-Haired Yap across the street.

“Yeah,” said Andy, “it’s hot out, man.” It was, too—hotter than usual for early March in the city.

“I know!” said Billy, but not in response to Andy. “That’s the way.” Any two sequential sentences (or words) of Billese rarely sounded like they were in any way connected, like he’d taken oratory classes from Christopher Walken.

December 4, 2025 at 4:25 PM

Geoph Essex 🤨💭 11742d/4h/3m; 16940d/18h/34m 🕟

@semperbufo.bsky.social

Poe Dameron (Oscar Isaac) in "Star Wars: The Rise of Skywalker" (2019), in the midst of his "Somehow, Palpatine has returned" bit, with a comic book word balloon added that says: "Somehow..." and then contains the content of the re-posted post (which is a comic book ad that reads, in part: "Darth Vader Lives").

December 4, 2025 at 5:41 AM

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