Dystopian Seuss for the Youngest of Use

My two-year-old's favorite book at the moment is a Dr. Seuss story titled I Wish that I Had Duck Feet.

Maybe I've been writing waaaaaaay too much dystopian fiction. Or, maybe this is the 1984 of children's literature.

The story starts off well enough, like all dystopias do, with a boy experimenting with extreme body modifications. He weighs the pros and cons of ~~ear lobe stretching, facial tattoos, scarification, and branding~~ duck feet, an elephant trunk, a whale spout, and a tiger tail, among other things, and finally decides that everything at once is reasonable decision.

And that's when things go bad.

Really bad.

Because, you know, being different is a crime.

That's just dark for a children's book.

Possibly the worst part of this book is that our protagonist doesn't continue the fight. Just like 1984, he emerges, his will broken to Big Brother's.

The yellow on this page creeps me out.

But I might just be reading too much into this.

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This week's poem is Foggy. And yeah, I still feel foggy.

I have just posted the final chapter of The Culling! Of course this means we actually get to talk about the fact that almost the entire book occurs in virtual reality.

VR Wear helmets arrive covered in a plethora of warning labels. Reading between the lines, you will quickly realize this game has nothing to do with fun. The history is buried in the archived internet pages of its inventor; Stillman, who has fled the country to avoid prosecution.

Initially marketing his invention as a cure for Drug Dependency and Depression, Stillman was sued following the suicides of several players. In spite of its shady history, desperate individuals continue to buy the game in hopes that it will live up to its original claims. Rumor has it that Stillman still plays the game, seeking to save as many players as he finds.

Possibly the Last Short Story for Awhile

Something strange happened this month: I missed my 12 Short Stories deadline. There have been many things changing in my life, and I’ve realized that there are a few things I will need to put less energy into. That doesn’t mean I won’t write anymore, but that I may write less, or may just focus on longer pieces. That being said, I did write something, it just didn’t meet the word count. So here is one more story. It’s not a story about politics, it’s a story about human nature and human feelings. ——— The war is over, or at least that is what they say. But how do you stop such a thing once it is started? Charles sighed when I asked him, “You act as if you don’t understand politics.” “I don’t,” I scratched a sliver of paint off the window with a razor, “I’m not even sure we should be doing this.” “They said we could remove the blackout paint,” Charles swiped an even curl of latex to the ground. It fell among the budding roses, an artificial petal. “But there are still soldiers ove

Decay, Swine, and Beauty

We are staying at an estate that is like a beautiful woman with tangled hair. Neglect is slowly wearing away at her, and you know that in ten years she will no longer be beautiful. But right now, her unkemptness makes her eyes seem wild, and she is ablaze with a vibrancy no clipped hedge ever had. And there is a pig. I'm hoping to have a little more time to write while we're here. The kids have attended one day of school this month thanks to the snow, and they had some fierce cabin fever. I've been inching along with my mystery, but I really want to get sidetracked and write a little office romance for kicks.

Short Story: Distraction

It was an office, not unlike any of the other offices around the city. There were windows, visible to the lucky few cubes on the ends of the rows. Then there was Vera's cube, situated next to the row of manager's offices. Today she was lucky, someone had left their door open and precious slant of sunlight escaped, warming her back and washing out half of her computer screen. "I never realized your hair was red," Tracy dumped a large stack of paper on her desk, "The florescent lights make everything look so soupy." "What is that?" she pointed at the stack of paper. Tracy only offered compliments when he wanted a favor. "I need this entered," he smiled, a dimple appearing in his cheek. "You have a secretary," Vera waved a freckled hand to her left, "Ask him." "He's sick," Tracy gave her puppy-dog eyes, batting his long dark eyelashes. Vera sighed and fought back a smile. Tracy was such a s

Refracted Neurons

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