Sons of the Silent Age Part 3

“Gutentag, y Bienvenue a BuffaGrill! E-iner Ein XXXXX!” She’d pronouced the ErrorGarble, “EeeX.”

“Schr–pecken Zi- R’aLAnglaissS?”

“Yes, yes, we speak English, thanks,” said Pam.

“It’s an opening line mom!” said Rachael, chagrinned.

It was a very small blonde Japanese girl on a levitating Segway. She had on the shortest little orange miniskirt, fake NeauTats, bubble GumLips, retro airbrushed mascara, and candy blue eyes. “Oh, ok, um, what’s the Offset today?”

“Um–”

Rachael chimed in. “She means the like, what is it, Projection Costs for the end of the meal.

Her Grandfather went off to the restrooms after making the long journey out of his booth.

“Ah–I think…Let me come back to you.”

“Fine,” said Pam, dismissively.

The waitress came back with news on her face.

“We are protected under First Privacy Rights or whatev, um, well, you guys have nothing to worry about.”

“Oh okay fine then,” said Pam, instantly reposing to her  colorful Static cardboard menu.

“Wait, what do you mean?”

“Ah–”

After a while the manager arrived.

“Hey you guys, is there a difficulty ordering, I ah–my Server Angela here told me there were some questions that you had…”

Both of them at once.  “Yes,” “No.”

“Rachael forg–”

“–What’s the meal gonna be at the end of the stay here?”

“You mean…the price?”

“It’s fixed on the menu.”

“Fixed, meaning, it changes.”

“Well, it can change, but it doesn’t usually.”

“Why is that? What is this?”

“Well, we’re immune to Price Projections cause of Bitzeri.”

“Cause of Bitzeri, how?”

“She is still four years old good sir, don’t worry about it, go about your business,” dismissed her mom.

Rachael didn’t care quite enough to press on.

“Ok Rach and Nana, while we’re waiting… why don’t wait  a little bit longer until your Grampy comes back and then we’ll ah, well, we’ll start opening presents…?” It was also her Nana’s birthday, or at least, they were celebrating it today.

When Grampy came back he still had nothing to say and looked sick. “You okay Grampy?” inquired her mom, formalistically. “He’s all right,” reassured Nana.

Unwrapping of presents had been going on in the meantime. Pam had actually given Rachael a set of NeauDice, and she was beaming out of it. “Thanks mom,” she was utterly surprised. How’d she remember, she never remembers anything important…?

In another, slightly larger box, Rachael again bolded her eyes and then squinted a out of what might have been shock. There it was, the holy grail: “NeauMaquillage!”

“Oh my God oh my God, thank you so much Mom!” The inside was nothing but a tini-black box that could barely be seen inside a clear white box. It had a large CAMBIAN insignia that burned its way to the top seemingly rising from inside some kind of invisible liquid. She touched it and it came to life, first turning a dark steel black, like some kind of molten liquid, after which it opened and gave a little Halo  presentation of the assortment of different ways to make use of the little blue stick set in the center of the black steel.

Rachael picked it up and examined it as it were a little wounded bird, cupping it in her palm and raising it to try and make out details on the muted material. There were none.

“Remember Rach, when you go back to the presentation, touch instructions and it’ll tell you all about it. You gotta put it in its box every night now…”

“Oh, really why”

“Yeah, I don’t know, but that’s what it says…”

Rachael replayed the last part of the presentation.

“It says it needs to soak…” Rachael then turned to her mom and looked at her glassy eyes. She was trying to look in. Was it in her head or was her mom just impenetrable. At least she hadn’t stopped smiling, and that seemed genuine.

Pam even gave her a big hug after that when she said thank you. She held her tight and seemed to tremble slightly. No one else would have noticed, it was faint and subtle, but Rachael did.

“Okay folks, let’s start picking up this wrapping paper eh?” said Pam, Nana and Grampy had opened their presents halfway. Nana had indeed opened the first of three little boxes and beheld a set of incense candles and a Rap Music gift receipt.

“Nana you sure do like you’re ghettie rap huh?” Rachael was feeling generous. “Yeaahup,” said she, from another world, blank eyes.

Pam took up the baton. “So, we’re…we’ll this is what your  Grampy picked out for us to see tonight…

The waitress decided to leave and come back. “It’s okay, he left abruptly, so…” Rachael said to the waitress, apologetically. Pam didn’t even think of it.

Pam distributed the brochure like pamphlets to everyone and left one sitting there for the ol’ Colonel on his place setting.

Rachael then faintly pantomimed all the actions involved, had she vomited all over the table when she thought everyone’s attention was securely sucked into their spectacles, reading… Her Nana, her Grandmother, caught it, sitting right in front of her, amongst the four of them at the round loud yellow table. She then gave her a brief smile, but then a half-joking look of warning.

“At Last, Something Wicked,” it read, a Playbill for some cheese-ass, as Rachael would put it– ‘old-people play.’ All the actors and actresses were featured as glossy crystal clear and colorful images and indeed, were all seniors of the Bitseri-Maryland Resort itself. The peppier ones. Or at least, Senior actors of the München District.

“So…” It was the ‘I have news tone,’ Pam always used.

But Rachael stopped thinking of that and settled into a weary feeling creeping down her spine…

“We have someone waiting actually!” said Pam, now beaming of some virginal light.

Standing there, right there, coming into her vision, was  a tall attractive boy with dirty blonde hair. Beside him was Helen, directly in tow.

Rachael turned to Pam instantly. She’d already processed what she thought her mom’s root motive was in this.

“Mom, that is fucking not fair, you did not tell him there would be this kind of company.

She thought she was using her mom’s own sense of etiquette against her, but it was no use.

“I do not fucking care, you will take him and her away, as soon as we get a break!” She was whispering. Violently.

Her mom merely smiled, gloating. Then reached over to take Rachael aside.

“Give us a moment.” She had not ceased to beam light.

“Rachael, I know I just brought it up, but Helen contacted me because there’s a new event, soon, for engineers, and girls have a leg up being a minority…”

There was a dagger of betrayal engulfing Rachael’s throat, making it thicker and thicker, breathing harder and somehow clearer, profound gasps, though she was trying to hide the physicality of her indignation. Tears were welling up. Arms were cold and jittery.

Yet she could not in that moment muster the feelings of hatred for her mom at the likes of clear and rational Helen. Lone Helen, as of Troy? Maybe not, Rachael considered. But of somewhere better, and got plopped into this shit, this culture…then ended up believing half of it…

Such was Rachael’s theory anyway.

The betrayal in that moment, was mixing in, not like oil and water, but homogenizing into a distinct affection for Helen.

Girls don’t fucking have periods anymore, Camille! What the hell is causing these emotions!?

Rachael thought this, reproachfully, yet eagerly and in some way, unidentifiably greedy for it. Whatever ‘it’ was.

Andrew was an Adonis.

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Vesper Heliotropic Excerpt Sons of the Silent Age

Vesper Heliotropic Excerpt Sons of the Silent Age

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Sons of the Silent Age Part 2

Her attention only let out the largest sigh.

“All right mom, whatever it is, I’ll just see after we visit okay?”

“It’s about Kim.” Her mom was never very tactful with her, alone.

“What about him?

“Well, are you serious with him? -I mean, you’re fifteen, don’t sell yourself short.”

She did have somewhat of a point there. Somewhere pressed deep in her mind.

“You know Rach, or Cam, should I say?” She hated that–trying to kiss her ass when it’s so obvious that that’s exactly what she’s doing…
Rachael said nothing and just stared at her.

“Well, to be perfectly honest, I got to talking to Helen at the little get together, you know, well at Helen’s…(?)”
“Yeah…”
“Well she knows a good way for young girls who want to go to school and become engineers, to get involved…”
“Oh yeah, how’s that?” Rachael implored, suspiciously. Her mom was acting like a salesman. Like she always did upon discovering something she wants that requires bending the will of other people.

“There’s a group that meets on Saturdays every other week and discusses issues and, it’s a club really…”

“Huh, okay I’ll have to know more about it, you know I don’t like the word ‘Club’…”

“I mean, do you really see yourself staying with him?”

Pam just couldn’t resist…It hadn’t even been on-subject. She let it pass.

There was a long pause between them as one black screen after another went by like the broken lines of a highway.

“Only to the death,” she answered her, finally, coming down yet another long silent corridor.

She’d really meant it, about Kim, but her mom had no frame of reference to take words like that seriously, pretty much, ever. As far as she was concerned, people stay with each other out of the bottom line. Everything else, just proceeds from there on out. She wasn’t aware of this in so many words, if at all though.

“Now, honey, no need to be extreme about it, I–”

“I don’t need your cultural nonsense either…’Extreme,’ what does that mean exactly?”

“Whatever Rachael, I just really think you could benefit from knowing or even being friends with this guy that Helen knows, that’s all…”

The fake wooden door opened.

Like the hallway there was no sound. Her Nana could be seen lying on her side of the small room as if there were to be a viewing soon. Her Grandfather, or ‘The Colonel,’ was on the other side, on his own Twin bed, sleeping as well.

“Ok, well, we will…we won’t wake them up until they start making sounds.”

Rachael rolled her eyes and said to her mom, whispering– “Where are we going to sit?”

“We’ll we’re just gonna have to stand for a bit Rach.”

Pam could hear the futility in her daughter’s faint sigh erupt and dissipate. She could get used to feeling that way, she really could…

“Ugh, mom, okay, fine…”

After a while, when her mom got up to use the restroom, Rachael went over and poked at her Nana’s bed, finally after long deliberation. It jostled far more radically than she’d anticipated.

“HelllooooooO…?”

It was the high pitched voice of her Nana. Rachael came over to her side and Nana merely pivoted slightly in her direction, but as if to be merely in ‘motion-detector’ mode. Her eyes and limbs still seemed to be recoiling from having been set back in motion.

“Who’s there?” she inquired, peeling the lids of her eyes open with her small brittle fingers. She continued rubbing her eye cavities with tiny crumpled fists that in the small soft yellow light behind her head, could appear as sepia x-rays of her Thyn little finger bones.

“It’s your granddaughter, Rachael, Nana.” She was speaking a little bit loud, just so she’d be sure to be perhaps loud enough while not upsetting her skull-driven hearing system.

“Ooooooohhhhhhhhh okkkaaayyyyy. How are you?”

Her speech was loud, pithy, and slow. And had a way of revving itself up, she could remember…She also remembered coming there twice and sometimes a third time throughout each year after she stopped living with Nana for the last time. She knew Nana could be pretty senile, but almost exclusively upon waking up or going to bed. It was strange.

“Nana, are you okay?”

“Oh, well hellooooh there!”

“Nana, I’m right here…”

I know, I’ll ask her a specific question, like the Loquanda girl from the Mall…

“Nana, are you at Durago Pines?”

“Yep.” It was as if she’d said nothing, Nana was even falling back asleep, a tad.

She’s not identifying it, cause it’s not outside her context, that’s it!

“Nana, do you remember going with me and mom at La Chateau de Nombres? Rachael spoke and understood a great deal of French, and had from a very young age, just like German and Spanish. She used to talk to her Grandfather, who spoke it fluently, in near fluent French all the time. She also had had a few Frankish school friends there a while back. One of them was black, and kinda ghettie, so that didn’t last. The only one left was Linda, and she spoke French, but only when it impressed people or got her way somehow.

After a while, Nana spoke.

“Yes, of course, I remember that very well…” She sounded to be bounding with triumph.

Her days…what can they be? They must be alllll the same…

She saw her Nana wake. She picked up the plastic little cup of water, tilted it toward her mouth after slowly sitting up. There was no joy in it, only doing it.

A revelation then came to her.

If life can only be life with a purpose, then every moment we are doing the exact same thing, and not combining it with things that are different and purposeful, are moments or days spent without life, and therefore, wasted. 

After everyone awoke, a brew of good feeling conversation turned the room into family again.

Shortly thereafter, they decide they’re hungry, and the Colonel needed to take certain pills with Nana that required food. After paying her Grampy the proper lip service, they all headed off in Grampa’s commodious silver Tray Car. The Buffalow Grill, was a Franco-German popular restaurant at the Camp, and also the closest by car, on-compound.

***

A tall black stallion with a pair of outstretched hooves snarled down at them. A sign above, read – The Crrraaazzzzy 8’ (Foot) Horse of Ol’ Teller McJoe. It was a big ol’ plastic horse, right there in front of the restaurante.

“So where’s Teller McJoe?” said her mom, trying to lighten the mood.

No one responded.

Not even the air.

Firey eyes and a wicked smile loomed above them still. The parking lot was empty, and everyone heard the wind whistle a little louder. The silver hover car was parked in the back row of the lot, for some reason Rachael was trying to comprehend. She made a bet with herself if she could  figure it out before picking a winning glob of earwax.

She simply smeared it on her shoe.

The Eurasian or ‘Euroden’ design team must have overlooked American people when they considered their target audience. A firey demon horse as not only their mascot, but the greeter and the Maitre D rolled into one, was not exactly what mainstream Americans could find quaint in those days…especially old people.

I guess they figure that beggars can’t be choosers in a way, even though they’re paying for it–they RELY on the very people who choose to feed them, or not…

They hadn’t considered that American fairy tales, after all, didn’t feature major ‘good guy’ characters as anywhere near hanging themselves from a tree or stabbing their sister in the gut to suck out her blood, etc.–like the good old medieval European myths had for centuries.

“Vous pourrais mangent dans Le-BG!” The oversized looming monster horse said with what Camille could detect might be somehow faintly familiar… It was a Country-Western accent with a little cajun in it, it seemed…

Of course, it’s a Euro-Country style… 

Though even Rachael only knew this idea through Networks and magazines.

The plasticky rattling horse voice then repeated the boiler plate line, in Spanish, Ethiopian, English and German.

“You can come and eat at the BG!

Rachael looked at her shoes. The line still struck her as kind of odd, even for a restaurante like this.

The family then entered the dark lit establishment of off-period 19th century lanterns, (Pirates!) red pleathery booths looking to be somewhere circa 1950, with stick-on brass trim. Oaky polished tables featured interactive maps of the ‘Bad Lands,‘ while an array of picture framed photos surrounded the table of each booth with random celebrities. At least they were all American as far as Rachael and them could see.

Right in front of where her granddad sat down, was a picture of Ronald Reagan in a cowboy hat. Rachael was eying the faintly present Limo in the way back, waiting there with what could be a camera Crew.

Incessant ‘Hoo-tee-Hooing’ or ‘Cowboy Music’ to the Germans, could not be stopped from all pores of what was looking more like an eating hall than a restaurante. Not one of the songs was really American. This was a different kind of German that designed a chain like this, not native USC German, but from the mainland of Europe, German.

“Awwwweeeeeehooooo!” The battle cry from the animatronic of Gen. R. E. Lee, sounded more like “Aloha,” to them.

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Vesper Heliotropic Graphic Novel Excerpt

Vesper Heliotropic Graphic Novel Excerpt

Reveille

 RD AUTO Message 178: Fri 18, Octobre 2086 — Fairview, VA Main-Line USC – CAMBIAN – SUBURBAN ‘Inner Crust’ Territory: ‘MM-PS 255 Munich District 5’

Role call.

As it were.

“Linder?”

“Here.”

“Sazumiat?”

“Here.”

The room was fairly quiet, no one dared to try and make a sound.

Other than their Role Call Voices.

The colossal Gym Room seemed only to crane from above. As if witnessing the long gradual motion of a distant shooting star.

They kept on in a droning, murmuring…faintness. Squeaky voices slipped into the Gym stratosphere, as if sucked up by the lines they thought were probably the roof’s intricate paths of crisscrossing Metal rafters.

Every five minutes or so, you could hear the tiny threads of students running by, flitting past the long slit windows of the four rows of pale blue double doors; repeating off into the Gym, lining nearly the entire course of every wall receding into the big white beige of the Room. Five hundred and seventy doors total. The lines of Gurls were near the first doors of their Section, off to one corner: Exital Orb-Group Section B114, Sqaure Resendo 8.

Somewhere in the distance were the faint suggestions of other Sluts doing acrobatics.

Wasn’t a big deal if you did make a little cough or hand gesture fiddling with a shirt or something, but you weren’t really supposed to. Some people disappeared. No one wanted to disappear.

Not really.

The Coach cradled a thin old brick slate with actual pen and paper, facing the square grid of five long, distinct rows.

Out of the blue, Camille randomly placed a disingenuous foot outside her Square. For kicks. No one would care, per se, but it was there, her foot. Placed outside the Square. Retracted it instantly when Ms. Steven’s bobbly head peered up again. What is she reading on that damned sheet of paper that takes up the entirety of her attention for that long?

“Slout?”

“Here.”

“Corroz?”

“Here.”

“Jenny??” Everyone laughed. Ms. Stevens smiled at Jenny.

There was something peculiar about Jenny today, though…

Her neck. There was something curling around it, Rachael observed, wrapping around the base or something… Something dark like a bruise. She couldn’t put a finger on it from her range.

It was first Session. Rotating Session, which meant, Gym class at the beginning of the day. Feet felt clammy and hard meeting unremitting tile. So cold.

They’d all pass time with a gradual muted little dance to keep their feet from freezing. Like they were laughing without smiles or sound. All wore faded red short-shorts with darkening white T’s. None of these dress ‘uniforms’ were ever really washed. Just stuffed into lockers day in and day out. Neither Rachael’s, which one could smell of female essence if it weren’t for the boundless space of the enormous Gym.

It would take a solid forty-five minutes for Role Call to finish, and when it did, every one of the seventy or so females had to herd into the locker room.

First, today though, “Basketball tryouts!” Ms. Stevens added, placing the RC sheet and board under an arm. Steven’s uniform was washed.

Sighs and grunts like chimps let out with this last word.

“Okay, okay, let’s settle down girls!” shouted the dikey buzz cut P.E. Teacher with echoes not caught by any Sound Web to mute them, the sharp grating tones, vacant and unpromising.

“See how long you can hold em up girls.”

It was painful. Part of Role Call was that you had to hold up the girl in front of you, then rotate after half of Role Call was finished. No one rotated anymore though. Most of the time it took place to cradle ‘the dead,’ the girls too drunk or high from the night before to even stand. Instead of being sent to the First Aid room, they could at least show up for attendance first. Other Gurls were just doing it to make the rows uniform in appearance.

The object was to see how long you could hold the other one up. It seemed. Or is it a trust exercise? Rachael couldn’t care less to remember all the reasons for the cradling of your front partner in Gym.

“Hold her up there Lindi.”

“Linderen,” corrected Camille, instantly.

“Whatever sweetie, jus’ keep holdin’ her up by her armpits.”

Sally’s pits were wet and cold, but Cam’s fingers bunched into fists that acted as a push-up bra. Camille could feel her finger tips burrowing into the flesh of breasts and underarms. The tips of the girl’s straggly short sleeves appeared to be slightly crusty, the creases nearly wet from sweat stains. Fleshy bruises would be left there from Rachael’s grip, but at least the girl didn’t have to rest outside her Square.

Ms. Stevens was rather weighty and tended to center over where her monumental gut was hanging, though somewhat hidden inside her T-shirt. Like a big billowy bag to catch her guts. 

Some kids were just too tired. There was always a TwoKiloRun before any Gym class as well, not every kid made it through. Even at the very start of the day. It’d been way too cold out.

Everyone had to be in five perfect rows, no matter what, for morning Role Call.

Camille was holding up Grace, a tall girl like her, who’d just taken too many Injections the night before…or…whatever… Maybe she’s pretending…

Everyone knew what that was like. She wasn’t the only one, there were fourteen or so girls basically keeling over if it weren’t for the ones behind them, barely holding them to their feet.

“Why do we still have role call, coach? I mean, doesn’t Janus take care of attendance?”

“Look, like I’ve said a trillion times, Janus, eh, Err, UNA–doesn’t always catch everything.”

But that was only what they’d told her. In Reality, Una was Perfect. Everyone knew it, but the instructors had to do role call anyway.

When everyone lined up again for Basketball tryouts, Ms. Stevens had them practice shooting first. The girls lined up, single file before each of the four hoops on each wall of the large Gymnasium. No one got to put on their shoes again until matt exercises.

They all missed, most of the time. About ten balls that never quite seemed to bounce enough, hit the floor as if with one disgruntled thud and bounced maybe halfway to the basket before someone had to help it to the goal. All the balls were a soft white. Some of them kinda deflated. A few girls kicked them, and that seemed to work better. None of them made it to the baskets without being hurled directly by hand from a short distance. To hit the ground most often with nothing more than a…thud.

“Okay Ladies, time to hit the matts! Lie down in five lines here on the five mats!”

***

The locker room stank of designer perfumes. All actual “BO” was monitored, but some still slipped into the stuffy room, overflowing with steam from the showers.

“Pick your soap and get in the showers, girls!”

She always watched them, Ms. Stevens. Watched them shower. They’d zone her out as she ‘stood watch.’

To make sure soap got over all over the bodies.

Jenny was still squirming her way through the showering bodies when she snuck around Camille and grabbed a boob.

“Hey Biatch,

“Woah! Hey, that ain’t free, Slut!”

Giving her that specialty kaleidescope look again, and with a curious little smile Jenny stuck both fingers inside Cam’s vagina. Then in her ass.

Camille jumped.

“WoahhhH!!!”

“Yeah, stop it!”

“Not much of a CAMBIAN girl, then huh?”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s the big push now: everybody’s bodies, are well…everybody else’s.”

Rachael’s face deflated into a precise rest.

“‘Oh, come on, not in the mood girl.” Cam whisked an ever persistent hand away from her pussy. But then Jenny, as usual, put a finger to her lips, slid it in her mouth, and tasted the juices of poor ol’ Rachael…

…Who kept turning to Ms. Stevens with looks of blank contemplation.

Stevens, in her yellow “T” remained stolid as ever there in the background…behind the thick heat. Crossing her arms and parting her legs like a Sergeant.

“Time is slowing,” uttered Cam, softly.

“What, what are you discussing with yourself now?” inquired Jenny.

“She does me favors you know…”

“Yeeeeah, I, –I know Jenny.”

She kept staring while the droplets of shower water fell and slipped over her brow and nose. The sight of Steven’s veiny cottage legs, irregular clumps of flesh and fat, remained the direction of her stare.

“Oh Cam!” Jenny’s intermittent voice seemed to dart around the rushing water, muted from it and chopped up like broken frequencies.

“What now Jenny,” grunted Camille, scrubbing her face with bare hands, accidentally sticking her index digit up her nose. “Ah, shit, what the fuck!”

“Hey, what’s with the weird fuckin’ scar, Jenny?”

“Eh, got some more Knife work done.”

“On your fucking neck? Dude, the thing is like a TummyTuck scar, or well, if you can’t get the more expensive VacuumPress nano shit…”

“I don’t–”

“You don’t what?”

“Jenny?” Jenny stopped talking.

“Come on bitch!”

Jenny was suddenly, seemingly in a very furtive way, staring at one of the other girls. Rachael scanned between the turning and pivoting whitening bodies, the even brighter florescently glaring, misty tile walls…but saw nothing but matted hair, buts, backs, landing strips, elbows, girls, tile and steam. And Ms. Stevens back in her office now, almost directly visible from the showers, if it weren’t for all the mist.

“I’d like you to meet a good New friend of mine.”

“Oh…?”

“Her name’s Gena.”

“Gena? Oh hi!” blathered Camille through the spouting ripples covering her lips as she moved from under the tiny spicket.

Camille felt Fear rise again. The Them again.

Gena was a Tranny. That meant, she had a penis, and a girl’s body. Weren’t many of them at Fairview. Yet.

“How do ya do!” shouted Gena in an overtly feminine voice, a tall tan Gurl, or Tranny, shaking her dick, about to show off the distinction between her and The Rest of the Otherly Gurls. It was a large one, and Camille kinda just rolled her eyes. She wasn’t always into dick out of context, but once in a blue moon could make an exception for a Tranny.

“Gena is um, well New, but I’m Sponsoring her anyway, she’s a great Tranny-Gurl.”

Tranny-Life.

Camille knew she’d have to fuck her to break her into The Peer Group, and felt tiresome from chewing on the idea, so went on to do a little small talk while she cleaned her pussy more. She kept a vigilant eye on her own junk and not the dick–NOT the dick!

***

“I pledge allegiance, to the flag, of the United States of America. And to the Republic, for which it stands, One Nation, Under God, Indivisible, with Liberty and Justice for all.”

“Oh come on Cam, it’s not like it’s a big deal, just put your fuckin’ hand over your heart…”

History class.

Camille could hear the bouncy ball of her mind, shooting around the room, dribbling onto the floor, once again, loosing its momentum…

Breathes in all chambers…

She thought about it, sex with a Nigger. That white pussy being penetrated softly yet hard, by another color. 

Why always sex? Always. 

She looked at his thighs. His back.  The way he stood upright and Mr. Shermer, sitting there, hunched, broken over that old wooden desk with nothing but wood and metal bolts to hold it together…his beer gut flopping over his near invisible belt.

“Arthur. I love you.”

She could say.

Under her breath.

“Turn around. Turn around.”

“Is there something you need Cam?” The entire class turned around. Ah fuck, thinking aloud again, damn!

“Arthur?” Mr. Shermer stood up abruptly.  “You are gonna have to exit as well, I’m afraid. An apology is expected.”

Without delay, cordially, Arthur Blina, this tall structure of a Boy in navy and white imperial CAMBIAN uniform, gathered his bag and left the room with hardly a squeek from his sleek, polished jet black combat boots proceeding as if to remain single file, toward the door. It shut gently with the clicking sound of its latch.

NeauBlurbs, transparent video messages from Peer-to-Peer were floating around the room, making sound only to those to whom it was sent…there were a lot of rich kids in History…

She knew she couldn’t exit the class without setting off the UFED alarm and as usual, her mom’s bank account would be chiseled off a hair.

“I think I’m sick, can I have a hall pass?”

Go ahead, Cam, I’ll remove the hallway InSessh Dect. He meant the InSession Detector.

It was a long way to the main office, where she’d assumed Arthur must have gone. This was the second time she’d seen him, and the first time up close. It was a weird to like a black guy, but…not so weird. She couldn’t help thinking how tall he was and what features! The way he spoke…narrow hips, wide shoulders. Egypt. Toothbrushes.

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–End Of Sample–

God’s Good Earthen Soil – Dystopic Sci-Fi – Vesper Heliotropic Excerpt

She also and weirdly, knew that his daughter was no longer ‘present’ on God’s Good Earthen Soil, either. Harietta Damiand had died in a horrible Hover accident involving several or more automobiles. She was nine at the time of her death.

He had loved her, like Daddy’s do. Or like, Daddy’s can. To complicate things, Johanna, his wife was going senile. Her sudden dementia was combatted with restructuring software and everything, but in the end, she just slipped away.

This made things more convenient for him of course, especially. Harietta had been made of God’s Good Flesh when she lived. She was made of God’s Own Good Born Silicate and now, well now, she was made of wood. Dr. Damiand, resurrected her by copying what the Intra-Portable Equiv-MRI Bot, that is, the brain software, had recorded…

…Read More of Vesper Heliotropic Book II. RACHAEL Here!

Vesper Heliotropic Dystopic Sci-Fi Novel

Terror Is a Medium.

Terror Is a Medium.
Confluence.
Play.
Waiting for the idea to make its final approach.
My feet are getting weighty inside dress shoe sneakers.

My dress is black and I can feel appendages gathering light from under me.
Somewhere I know this is being written down at the pace of my ankles on a new bit of curled up receipt.
I am walking now.

I am walking.
I hear the bombast.
The ramparts!
Drums behind the skitter of strollers and somber cloak periodicals.
I am a pilot of which the avenue moves about me.
No longer the diligence of staring, but only to travel that course.
I will send them to the moon.
I will send them to the maelstrom.

They will grow tired of The Whirlpool when they put on their ThinkingCaps.

Coming up 4th street…Read More of Vesper Heliotropic Book I. Crystal Turbines…

www.VesperHelioTropic.com

She’s A Party Member Vesper Heliotropic eBook II. RACHAEL