I have many ideas for stories in my head, but here are a couple that I have full first draft done, now I just need to edit, polish and perfect (as much as humanly possible in this mortal life, lol)
- United Zones of America – Trilogy
- A Boy and his Dog – A Sci-Fi Saga
FREE SAMPLE OF THE PROLOGUE TO ZONES:
<!--PROLOGUE-->In a dim and dusty maintenance room, deep in the bowels of this massive building, Stuart Young reclined at a scarred metal desk, watching a grimy little tv with a hanger for the antenna. The fluorescent lights above him flickered and buzzed like a dying insect. The dirty coveralls he wore bore the name “TODD” on the patch above his heart. He lit another cigarette.
“Tonight, the six Republican front-runners face off in what promises to be a decisive debate,” a severe-looking anchorman announced.
Stuart leaned forward and stabbed the channel button. Static hissed before resolving into the bright, manic energy of a red carpet.
“It’s Hollywood’s biggest night, and the stars are out! The Oscars are about to begin!” a perky presenter squealed, clutching a microphone.
Stuart leaned back and dragged deep on his cigarette. It wasn’t long ago that he had walked that carpet, a respected character actor with a distinguished résumé. That was before the flood of allegations of sexual misconduct came pouring out from every young actress he had ever worked with. Making matters worse, he subsequently spiraled into a haze of pills and alcohol. The media had feasted on his breakdown—his drunken rants about “Hollywood Jews” and “liberal agendas” played on a perpetual loop across the social media landscape until he was a national punchline. His publicist asked the public for mercy and had him checked into Roger Biggerstaff’s new Human Adjustment & Treatment facility (or HAT for short) —many saw this newly formed rehab option as a cross between Alcoholics Anonymous and Scientology.
A heavy chain-link partition gate rattled open and young man in stained coveralls with a name tag that read “CHUCK” shuffled in. He was pushing a dolly loaded with a large wooden crate.
“Put it over there and open it up.” Stuart pointed to a dark corner where two men were bound and gagged, stripped down to their t-shirts and boxers. Stuart had almost forgot about them. And then he began to wonder when the last time he actually slept was?
Chuck moved with the slow, robotic precision of the heavily medicated, prying the crate open with a crowbar. He was one of Roger’s “success stories”—a devoted foot soldier in the new conservative empire they were building. Stuart was to be the face; Roger was the brain.
Stuart turned his attention back to the TV. He couldn’t stomach the self-congratulatory parade of the Oscars any longer. He flipped to the news.
“…President Warren Thomas is holding a campaign rally tonight in his hometown of Chicago,” a reporter shouted over the roar of a crowd. “But first, breaking news from the scientific community. We are joined by Arthur Davis, CEO of REM Prospects, an astro-mining corporation. Arthur, you have an announcement?”
The camera cut to the studio, where a man was practically vibrating with excitement. “Yes. One of our deep-dive probes looking for rare earth minerals on Europa—Jupiter’s icy moon—transmitted footage forty-eight hours ago that defied analysis. Until now.”
Stuart watched, half-interested, as the screen shifted to grainy, high-contrast footage. A probe descended into a pitch-black crevice. Depth markers ticked up rapidly. Then, a faint bio-luminescent violet glow appeared. Suddenly, a shape streaked across the lens.
“We slowed it down,” Davis narrated, his voice cracking. The footage froze on a distinct, multi-limbed silhouette. “It appears to be a some sort of cephalopod. An octopus, or something like it. Definitive proof of complex life beyond Earth!”
“Wow! That’s incredible!” The newsman exclaimed. “Have you found more?”
“No. But we are redirecting every asset we have to the site.” This normally sedate CEO couldn’t contain himself. “This changes everything!”
A loud clang snapped Stuart’s attention back to the room. Chuck had dropped the pry-bar.
“It’s ready,” the young man mumbled, drool pooling at the corner of his mouth.
The object revealed was a cylinder the size of an industrial water heater, innocuous and painted a dull grey, save for a modern touchscreen panel embedded in its side. Stuart walked over, the smoke from his cigarette trailing behind him. He keyed in a PIN. The screen flared to life, displaying a red digital clock: 00:00:00.
He pulled out his phone and typed a single word to Roger: Ready.
It had happened so fast. The meetings with the donors, the late-night strategy sessions, the realization that Stuart Young could be more than a washed-up actor. He could be a martyr. A symbol. He would burn the liberal mob that destroyed him, and out of the ashes, Roger’s empire would rise.
The phone buzzed. Proceed.
Stuart typed 00:10:00 into the console. The countdown began immediately. 00:09:59.
Chuck stood motionless, staring at the countdown of numbers. Stuart looked at him for a moment—a casualty of war—then turned and walked out the partition gate.
He ascended a concrete ramp that seemed to spiral upward forever, the air growing colder and fresher with every step. The subterranean hum of the building was gradually replaced by a rhythmic, thundering roar.
Stuart emerged into the biting wind of the upper stadium decks. The scene was electric. Tens of thousands of people filled the seats, a sea of red, white, and blue under the blinding stadium floodlights. They chanted in unison, a deafening mantra of “FOUR MORE YEARS!” directed at the small figure on the distant stage.
Stuart found an empty seat in the nosebleeds, isolated from the fervor. Above him, security drones buzzed like angry wasps, their cameras scanning the crowd for threats, running facial recognition software a thousand times a second.
He reached into his jacket and withdrew a small, antique Derringer pistol—a theatrical prop, identical to the one Booth used to kill Lincoln.
Almost instantly, a drone broke formation and swooped down, hovering at eye level, its lens fixated on the weapon. Red LEDs blinked rapidly. Threat detected.
Stuart checked his watch. 00:00:42.
He smiled at the machine as he placed a fresh cigarette between his lips, raised the pistol, and pulled the trigger.
There was no bullet. Just a soft click, and a small, steady flame erupted from the barrel.
He lit the cigarette, inhaled deeply, and blew a cloud of grey smoke directly into the drone’s camera lens.
“This,” he whispered to the watching world, “will change everything.”