Intro to Part 2
Link to Part 1
On the formatting: I hope the screenplay sections are readable. I realize that they’re formatted a little strangely – I did what I could with the limited tools available. I still can’t figure out how to indent the first line of a paragraph, so it’s a bit miraculous if I managed to cobble together some legible script writing.
On the epithets: There are some racial slurs in the text. I don’t use them flippantly or gratuitously. I’m confident that the character who makes use of them is absolved in the end.
On the story itself: This is either the dumbest or the smartest story I ever wrote. Part of me wants to write twenty more Xenomatra stories, follow her into adolescence as she grapples with her identity, into adulthood as she thrashes in the moral quicksand of social justice. The other part of me wants to burn the little bit that I’ve already written. What I know for sure is that nobody will publish any of it.
Anyway, here’s the second part of Xenomatra – Social Justice Warrior Continue reading “Xenomatra – Part 2 [short story]”
A Brief Intro:
Here’s another story that will never have a home. This one had its genesis in the very simple, completely juvenile observation that the Greek goddess of ‘social justice’ is a dyke. Never mind that her name is spelled D-I-K-E and is pronounced differently (it rhymes with Nike) – it was close enough to the mark that I had myself a chuckle at the expense of wokeness.
It ought to have ended there, with the ‘heh’ I probably muttered under my breath. But for some reason a mythic origin story for the Social Justice Warrior began to appeal to me. I wondered what would happen if I set aside my antipathies and chased a certain kind of narrative logic to its unbiased conclusion. Xenomatra is the unexpected result. I’m posting it in two parts because a) it’s rather long, and b) formatting this particular story for the blog has been a nightmare. Part 2 is still under the knife.
So here is Part One of Xenomatra — the original SJW. Continue reading “Xenomatra – Part 1 [short story]”
The gates of Psycho Pasture opened after Jim ate the banana, and the whole host of pedophiles was unleashed upon the grand plane of paradise. There were some like Jim and the King, who had suffered innocently in the unlucky crossfire between the devil’s conceit and humanity’s prejudice – but most were pale and greasy and thoroughly guilty. Tens of thousands of child-raping men and women stepped out into the light and were bewildered by it. Continue reading “Escape from Psycho Pasture – Part 3 [Jim #19, Short Fiction]”
For two years Jim occupied a dungeon cell at Psycho Pasture. His leg was chained to a radiator, he used a stamping machine to make customized license plates for the non-rapist free peoples of paradise, and his cell mate was a pale and greasy man with thin hair and skin disease. Garvey was remorseless about his pedophilia, and Jim often tried to convince Garvey that he ought to feel bad about raping children.
“I mean, at the very least you know that you’re an asshole, right?” Jim said on several occasions. “All other considerations aside, all arguments out the window, in the absence of God and absolute moral authority – you still know in your heart that you’re asshole.” Continue reading “Escape from Psycho Pasture – Part 2 [Jim #18, Short Fiction] #18”
The Psycho Rapist Pasture wasn’t really a pasture. It was more like a circular prison that never came around all the way, and in the middle there was an off-limits garden. Jim figured calling it a pasture was some kind of euphemism.
“And if you’ll look over here,” said the chipper tour guide, “you’ll see the Masochist Chambers, where psychotics can torture, bind, mutilate, and rape a few lucky visitors. The facility is equipped with every known torture machine devised by man, dating all the way back to the bronze age – and a few that the angels cooked up themselves.” Continue reading “Escape from Psycho Pasture – Part 1 [Jim #17, Short Fiction]”
Abdulaziz al-Omari stood on the corner of a busy intersection in Downtown Paradise. He rang a bell and wore a cardboard sign that said, 911 was an inside job. He looked weathered.
Jim watched him from the veranda of the ice cream shop, spooning sundae into his mouth. The terrorist didn’t wear much for an expression – maybe it was sober and kind of defeated – and he just rang his bell with long steady swings of his arm. Every now and again a passerby dropped a nickel in his tin can. Continue reading “A Mile High in Paradise [Jim #16, Short Fiction]”
The Downtown Apocalypse Exchange was on the corner of Smoke Street and Mirror Avenue. Steel and glass rose out of the thoroughfare and knifed into the Paradise sky. Jim followed Rockefeller in through the revolving doors. Continue reading “Metadirt – Part 2 [Jim #15, Short Fiction]”
The Book of Jim: Agnostic Parables and Dick Jokes from Lucifer’s Paradise – finally published. Took me a few more months than I thought it would, but it was worth it. The paperback is slick as hell, the kindle works great, the illustrations are fantastic. Really happy with it. If you’re a nook-head, the nook version will be available as soon as I can get it to work. Epub is a nightmare when it comes to images. Anyway, here are the amazon links to the paperback and kindle editions:
The stories are still floating around on the blog, free as ever. Metadirt Part 2 coming soon.
There was a knock on the door. Jim opened it, expecting cake or tits or something else that was nice. Instead he got a face full of Billy Mays.
“Hey Jim! Remember me? We met at Lucy’s party. Well we didn’t really meet, you wore my head around for a while before you bashed everybody’s limbs off with a baseball bat. Of course you remember me. It’s the beard, everyone remembers the beard. You mind if I come in? I think I should come in. This is a lovely house! Wow! I love the couch! Is that Chenille?”
“Um, I don’t know. What are you doing here?” Jim wasn’t wearing pants.
Billy sniffed the coffee table. “Pine was a good choice,” he said. “Have you ever considered purchasing insurance against the eternal, Jim?” Continue reading “Metadirt – Part 1 [Jim #14, Short Fiction]”
Small Town, Paradise. Green yards and clean air and split-level houses. A post office, a police station, a grocery store, five bars and a set of stoplights. Autumn in the afternoon and summer in the evening, and every evening a new episode of Financially Stable and Moderately Happy Family.
Jim watched from up the road as a man mowed his lawn. The lawn was lush and smooth, already clipped to quarter-inch perfection, and still the man mowed over it. He marched back and forth over his square of grass for half an hour before cutting the engine, putting the mower in his garage, and entering his house.
Jim waited five minutes then knocked on the door. The man answered with a beer in his hand.
“I was wondering when you’d come around,” the man said. Continue reading “Cool Cogito, Bro [Jim #13, Short Fiction]”