Like many people trying to write, my laptop is full of parts of stories that haven’t made it all the way there yet.
Most of us keep these hidden until we can launch them on the world as “Finished and Worth Reading”.
I’ve decided to experiment with making my stories visible as I construct them.
My main intent is to motivate myself to spend more time on my Work In Progress.
I’d also like to invite anyone who’s interested to comment on the partially completed stories and let me know what they think.
This is a future crime story that I’ve been thinking about for a while. All comments are welcome. I’ll post more chapters as they are completed
The whore strips with the confidence of long practice. She’s on automatic pilot, not really thinking about him at all. A flat-chested eighteen year old who trades on pretending to be daddy’s wicked little preteen for sad old fucks who can only get it up when they are breaking taboos. She thinks she’s seen it all.
She had shown some caution when he led her down into the room, but her caution evaporated when he paid an additional fee for using this rather unusual venue.
Wearing the iJak didn’t faze her. The tiny scars at the corner of her eyes showed that she’d worn them often
“Play costs more than record” was her only comment. She didn’t know that play would cost her everything she had
As the iJak wormed its way behind her left eye and tapped into her optic nerve, she writhed with fake pleasure and said, “Oooh, Daddy, that tickles, but it tickles nice.”
She thought Daddy was just another iJakker, looking to amp up his come by feeding her hers
She’s naked now, walking towards him, twisting one pigtail, trying to put a girlish spring in her step – little red riding hood setting out to visit granny. But today she will meet the big bad wolf
The younger of the two beings standing beside the man’s bed leans closer and watches the sleeper with great attention. He notes the small flickers of emotion that pass like shadows across the man’s face as each whimper escapes. He places his hand on the man’s forehead, extends his awareness and follows the route of one of the emotions back and back until he reaches the null point in which the man’s soul resides.
“Can you see it?” The older being asks.
“Yes. A small injury, inflicted a long time ago. I don’t understand. If this is the injury, why does he still have pain?”
The older being is pleased by the compassion in his pupil’s voice. It is the proper response to pain. “Look closely,” he says, “What do you see?”
“A fracture. No, wait, several tiny fractures each in the same place, healing over one another.”
“Good. Now draw back. What do you notice?”
“Ah, I see. The regrowth is not straight.”