A collection of short stories involving some puppies, a couple
squirrels, a kitty, a cyborg, some aliens, and some Black people. All of
them revolve around some moral theme and all of them involve something
or someone getting raped, killed, or tortured; but in a creative and
meaningful way. There are other people in the stories, too. Together
they’ll be exploring moral relativism. What is moral relativism? It’s a
bunch of good fun! That’s what it is!
Targeted Age Group:: 13+
What Inspired You to Write Your Book?
Poverty and boredom.
How is writing SciFi different from other genres?
It isn’t. Your mind just goes to a different place. Two people walk into a room. In a romance novel, they fall in love. In erotica, they have sex. In an action novel, they fight. In sci-fi, one of them’s an alien. But it’s all still two people walking into a room.
How Did You Come up With Your Characters?
They’re all shades of me.
Book Sample
The Painter
“What a nutjob.”
“Shh…she might hear you,” scolds Officer Sconds. His comrade, Officer Blake, needs some lessons in tact.
“I don’t care if she hears me,” says Blake, “You’ve gotta be a real nutjob to do this for a living.”
The painter doesn’t heed the conversation persisting less than ten feet behind her. She is lost in her art. Her canvas is a sedated death row inmate, a burly man of about forty-three years of age. She can feel the story of his troubled life with each stroke of her brush. The minute variations in his skin tone and texture instruct her in their proper palate. His chest cries out for crimson with curvaceous yellow lines. She covers his shoulders in small ornate circles, each one as unique and individual as the days of his life.
The prisoner lays sleeping on his slanted, iron deathbed as the painter listens to his untold woes and dictates his unconscious passions on his cool, dry skin. She does not paint the prisoner. Like Michelangelo, she merely brings out the picture beneath the skin. The inmate’s entire body is her easel. Her brush is bounded only by the neckline and the immediately inaccessible parts. She would not want to risk his escape by loosening his restraints and his face serves another purpose in this medium.
“She sure is takin’ a long time. Are we gonna have to sedate this guy again?”
“It’s okay, Blake,” says Sconds, “We’ll do what we have to.
Don’t worry. It’s Orca Simone. She knows what she’s doing.”
Cretins, she thinks. This is important, to her at least. No gauche, quick-drying spray paint will sully this work. She uses oil-base only. The colors are richer with deeper skin absorption. Every person has the right to be beautiful as they pass from this world, even the condemned.
Finally, it is done. She pulls out a cloth from one of her many coat pockets. She covers the inmate’s face with the cloth and ties it in the back. The solid black and white of an orca whale speak her name from the cloth’s background of neutral gray. Blake sees the sign and starts to move toward the switch.
“Wait,” says Sconds, “Don’t flip the switch until she gives the word.”
“But she just put the cloth on his head,” Blake whines.
Orca turns around. “The paint isn’t dry yet,” she proclaims, “You should show more respect. I know you wouldn’t want someone rushing through your funeral.”
“Yeah, but I’m not a criminal,” Blake retorts.
Simone corrects him. “You are not a convicted criminal. No one older than three years of age is truly innocent.”
Blake jabs Sconds in the arm, “What did I say?” he snorts and nods towards Simone, “A real nut-job.”
Simone just sighs at the officer’s ignorance. A couple more minutes and the paint should be dry enough. She would use this time to enlighten the officers, but experience has taught her better. A nut-job. She could be called that. Six years as a sniper gives one a different perspective on life. You see death on television and movies all the time. She thought she had seen enough in battle, but nothing could replace the shock and thrill of it all.
“Is that paint dry yet?” Blake sasses.
Simone slowly turns her head towards Blake and narrows her eyes.
“Ay, I’m just askin’.”
She turns her view back to her drying artwork. The paint runs have slowed down. He’s not completely dry, but he’s ready for the execution.
“He’s done. Give him another small dosage of sedative and check his restraints,” she orders.
“Yes, ma’am,” Sconds complies.
Simone walks towards the entrance and takes a position next to Blake to observe. Blake nervously scoots over for fear of cooties. Simone takes notice that the stigma never seems to go away. The soldiers didn’t like to be close to snipers either. It was a lonely existence. Sconds has completed his final check of the prisoner.
“He’s strapped and sedated, ma’am. Good handiwork around the areola and the abs. How did you get…”
“Thank you, officer. Could we please proceed with the execution?”
“Uh, yes. Yes, ma’am.”
Sconds looks at his comrade. “Officer Blake,” he says.
Blake nods and walks to the switch on the wall next to the prisoner. Simone pulls her sunglasses from one of her other coat pockets and puts them on.
“Bye-bye, bastard,” Officer Blake says under his breath. He flips the switch. A lighting unit consisting of nine sunlamps powers on and shines down on the prisoner. Simone watches as the heat from the lighting unit dries the rest of the paint. She looks over at Officer Sconds standing next to her. He’s shielding his eyes with his hands. Simone pulls out an extra pair of shades.
“Here,” she gestures, “You’d think they would have mandated some safer measures by now.”
Sconds laughs, “Yeah, we could really use a separate room to watch from while the lamp’s on. This heat makes me uncomfortable.”
Simone sighs. The bureaucrats never do anything until someone either dies or goes blind. It’s big business, prison is. They are trying to make as much money as possible. Even her current employment is just another way for the system to make a fast buck.
There’s a noise. The prisoner’s awake. He’s starting to struggle against the restraints. Then comes the screaming. He has to scream. The paint on his body has clogged the pores in his skin, locking in his sweat. He feels his skin burning from his body’s own acidic secretions. Minutes pass. Simone surmises that she should have put more reactant in her paint. The screaming should have stopped by now. It is taking too long for the reactant to go toxic from the trapped sweat. Now the prisoner begins twitching and convulsing. The reactant is finally working. Otherwise these executions would be very drawn out.
The prisoner finally dies even though it will be a long time before the spasms end. The only sure sign of death is that the screaming has stopped. The sweat that once helped maintain the body has now destroyed it through toxic shock. Simone smiles gently. She looks to her left. Sconds is aghast.
Simone wonders, “You appreciate my work, but you have never seen its function?”
Sconds shakes his head. Officer Blake shuts off the lamp and looks at them with a smile on his face.
“Call the doctor,” he beams. “This turkey’s done.”
Simone doesn’t bother to comment. Some people just cannot be helped.
“Sconds, call the doctor,” Blake repeats. “Sconds?”
Sconds is still stunned.
“Sconds!”
The correctional officer snaps out of his trance and buzzes for the doctor. A short time later, a small man walks in with a long white coat and a stethoscope. He examines the former inmate and nods his head at the officers. Blake nudges Sconds.
“Uh…oh…make a note that the prisoner died at 1537 hours,” Sconds sputters.
Blake whispers, “Hey man, come back to Earth.”
Sconds peers at Simone from a pale face.
“So what happens now?”
Simone sucks her teeth.
“Now you two will transport the body to an armored truck. From there the body will be taken to my people. The body will then be stuffed, processed, and appraised.”
Simone goes to inspect the body as the two officers follow her.
“Processed?” Sconds queries.
“People don’t buy my work as is. They request it to be a certain way. Some just want the skin. Others want the arms taken off. Fortunately, there are those who will purchase just a leg.”
“How much will ya get for this stiff?” Blake asks.
“That is personal information,” Simone replies. Blake snuffs at her and helps Sconds with the body. She will probably only get about eight thousand for him since he was not that well-known. It’s not much after materials and prison facility usage costs. Prisons are a business, before, now, and always. She only took this assignment to keep her skills fresh. A painter must paint…always.
About the Author:
The author is an Army brat, who was born in Womack Army Hospital, Fort Bragg, North Carolina on October 7th, 1977. He has lived on both coasts of the U.S., but has spent most of his life in the region of the U.S. known as “The South”. Thus if you ask the author where he is from, he will normally respond with either “everywhere” or “the South”.
The author is a Black Christian with socially conservative views, but, overall, has developed a cynical worldview that shows in his work. Through parental prodding the author has also developed pro-Black leanings that were sharpened and strengthened at his alma mater, Fisk University. Much of the author’s initial works were penned there.
Creatively-speaking, the author believes that a writer ultimately pulls from his own experiences and fantasies when writing stories. Thus it is the author’s belief that if one truly wants to understand a person, one should read their work.
This author’s ultimate goal is to inspire thought on the subjects of religion, morality, and race.
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