Evil Editor's Blog, page 451

Writing Exercise Results . . .

. . . are in the posts below. The task was to write a scene during which you twice switch to a new genre.[image error]

Tri-genre Scene 8

Pumping dead cartridges from my FCQ-69, I vault over the oozing carapace heap and scan the shadows for bugs. Sweat drips from my every pore like I was a cross between a faulty Proteenade dispenser and holo-Madonna live on stage. Hell, I love my job — for the killing, the credits and all those slidey doors that open with a whooooooosh.

Outside in the corridor, lights flash and cables dangle, but nothing moves save a lone utility bot playing Doom on its vac-flap. Something about its mechanical grip

Tri-genre Scene 7

Dark Space Croissant

Murder. It's not the killing, it's the paperwork. You have to be soooo careful not to offend suspects. Nowadays, it's alleged suspect. Don't victimize the poor guilty-as-hell criminal by putting thoughts of non-innocence into the tribunal's head. What do I know, though? Only a schmuck would take my job. Has a few bennies, though. I have ways of making things turn out the way they should. I'm a detective, sure, but a fixer, too. I arrange for inevitable crimes to happen so tha

Tri-genre Scene 6

I was admiring my new fedora and trench coat in the glass when the dame walked in. She was built like a plate of Brussels sprouts: round in all the right places. "I need you to find my husband," she said.

I lit a butt and blew smoke at the ceiling. Then I poured myself a stiff one. She hadn't left yet, so I said, "Gimme all your money."

She opened her moneybag and handed me four C-notes. "The rest," I said. She hesitated, then reached into her bra and gave me another three C's. They were warm and

Tri-genre Scene 5

All alone in this world. No friends, no family, no joy. Ever since the day, the fateful day of the freak cow accident.

Trust life to work like that—there you are, minding your own business, and BAM! There are the cows.

It’s all my fault, really, just like my bad childhood was my fault. A locked closet and two jars of honey… well, that wasn’t my fault. I should just kill myself, but life is against me. Everything is against me. No gun.

“Hey, bud.”

Over in the alley, in the shadows, is… someone. I

Tri-genre Scene 4

Shafts of bright gold sunlight turned patches of summer flowers to primary colors creating a passageway of fresh greens and golds for Susanna to chase as she ran to the caravanserei where Travis, her betrothed stood bare-chested, all man, sweating in the summer heat, his tattoos shimmering with lust, his chest and arms rippling with muscle. He dropped his tools and closed the distance in long strides. "I thought I'd never see you again." Susanna's ample breasts heaved against Travis' bare torso.

Tri-genre Scene 3

Vulcan thief, Katrinesca, stood over me.

“Tell me the Magnobombatronic vault combination.”

“Never!”

She pressed a red button, activating the Pleasure Dome.

Suddenly my head was filled with exotic impulses. I cried out in anticipation. “Decloak while I prepare to fire photon torpedoes.”

Brandishing handcuffs, she shook her head, “Oh no, Captain. First comes the Mind Meld.”

I felt the cold steel on my wrists and ankles.

I strained against the cuffs, feeling wonderfully helpless.

With a hiss

Tri-genre Scene 2

Branwen knelt at Pa's bedside and grasped his withered hands. "Don't die," she pleaded. The tears streaking her face dripped onto the coverlet.

"Dear child," he whispered. "Evil must not prevail. Promise me."

"Oh Pa."

He freed one hand to point at a box on the mantel. "Take it to Shadow Mountain." He closed his eyes and was still.

Branwen wiped her tears. The lid of the box bore a griffon spreading its wings. Inside, her mother's ring lay atop pages covered in spidery writing. She slipped the ring o

Tri-genre Scene 1

Rissa watched the water burbling out through the rocks. Her glossy brown hair shimmered in the sunlight as she took a drink from the cold, clear water slipping down the slope. Tomorrow was the wedding: she would become the High Queen of her tribe. This afternoon, though, she was just plain old Rissa, enjoying the sun. It would be good to be a queen but she would miss her quiet times alone in the wilderness. She lay flat on the rock, head resting on a cushion of moss, and let the sun warm her.

She

Saturday Film Series

This week, what you'll find
in Evil Editor's Shorts
should be obvious.









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