Jessica McHugh's Blog, page 4

#SFFSAT - The Sky: The World

Today's Sci-Fi/Fantasy Saturday snippet is from my neo-Victorian adventure, "The Sky: The World," published by Reliquary Press in 2010. I hope you enjoy learning a little bit about Doctor Azaz and Picoepistemology, and make sure to visit the rest of the sites on this lovely little blog bounce!!

The more people were taught the mechanics of picoepistemology, the more they pushed for Azaz's next big reveal. In 1612, their prayers were finally answered: Doctor Azaz released instructions on how to create human offspring that, with each generation, would survive to greater ages. Through the injection of a programmed crystalline matter, impregnation could occur within all wombs; even those that had been unable to sustain life before. Two years after the procedure was released, the first human woman was impregnated through the injection of picocrystals, and her baby girl, born an abrupt six months later, was born happy and healthy and, visually, no different than any other infant. The child, Ava Marie Mulberry, became known throughout the world as "the first daughter of Azaz," and though she had not literally been born of the Doctor's own flesh, it was his ingenuity, endurance, and his mechanical dream that had given her life.

The fortress of the human god Doctor Azaz was opened and prospective mothers were let inside. In the base of the tower, a gargantuan pool was constructed for the purposes of fertilization, but despite all classes having access to the Fertilization Pool’s potential, not everyone was permitted to partake of its gifts. Due to the surge of people using the Pool to have children rashly, qualification had become necessary. A discriminating series of tests to analyze intelligence, common sense, and emotional maturity were performed on a hopeful mother to determine if the child would be properly cared for and completely loved. If she proved herself worthy in all categories, she was allowed to bathe in the pool of Doctor Azaz’s genius.

Hank, the Last

This week, Chuck Wendig tasked his inky cohorts with writing flash pieces that includes 3 elements of our choosing from lists he provided. This was a timely challenge considering the weird picture I'd found while searching for a cute dinosaur picture for my husband's facebook wall. It really served me right for googling "Dinosaur love." So, disgustingly inspired, I chose "Erotica," "Dinosaurs," and "Addiction" for my 3 elements. "Hank, the Last," is the fruit of that strange choice. Enjoy, if you can. :)

Hank, the Last
He's the biggest I've ever seen: a tall drink of water with a long drink of love. At least, I hope so. He hasn't shown any interest in me yet, still hiding his monstrous member, but he will. They always do. Some would say I'm abusing my power, messing with history, but I say history was messing with me. The books, the museums, even Barney with that big purple pussy: they were all temptations, but I had the know-how to satisfy myself. I built the machine, I perfected time travel, I have the right to do whatever (and whoever) I want. Of course, I’m not so deluded to realize this is a fetish unlike any other. Some might call it an addiction, a perversion, my colleagues even call me mad, but isn't all love madness?
I believe so. I also believe I’m about to make hard madness to the sexiest Tyrannosaurus in the world.
Gender isn’t important to me. Species, either. All that matters is the closeness, the warmth of what was long though to be cold-blooded against my belly, and sweet songs of release. I’ve had my eye on this one for a while. I call him “Hank,” for no reason except I’m tired of calling every lover “Dino.” He deserves better than that. The first time I saw him, I’d just dismounted a Stegosaurus. As her cloacae closed, my eyes were opened to the beautiful Hank, feasting only a few yards away. Mid-swallow, he turned to me, gnashing his teeth and shaking the blood from his claws. It was love at first sight.
***
My colleagues have threatened to destroy the machine when I come back, but they can’t destroy shit if I never return to my own time. If they did, they’d be destroying something far more precious than a hunk of magic metal. They’d destroy true love like none of them has ever known.
I try to explain this to Hank, but he doesn’t understand my words yet. My touch, however, lifts his head and starts him purring. I love him already, so much that I don’t mind when he growls at me, when he scratches, when he swings around for an embrace and his monstrous desire nearly impales me.
I imagine our future. Now, it’s all sweetness and sweat, but once we know each other better, I imagine how playful we’ll become: biting, spanking, lashing each other to the surrounding trees and teasing our bodies without touching. The others don’t seem to understand. Even my ex-lovers look at us like we’re crazy. That crazy scientist man and his Hank. Perhaps no one understands true love except those in the thick of it, those who savor the duality of rough and soft skin meshing into one swath of salty salvation.


***
In the beginning, I was nervous about this. Even under the spell of love at first sight, I worried that my colleagues could be right, that every judgmental glare was warranted. But now I know how real this is.  I’m done feeling bad about love. I’m done worrying about my colleagues too. The last shred of concern fell away when Hank’s tail tore a hole in the machine’s hull. I could have patched it, but I found it much more fun to destroy it with him. We tore it apart, piece by piece, and then, made love in the sunset.

At least, I thought it was sunset. The sky turned rosy like usual, but now, it’s red. Deep red, like stagnant blood.
***
It’s black now. It’s like nothing I’ve ever seen. But somehow, the world is still visible under the ink, like we ourselves are glowing. Hank is particularly brilliant. He stares at the sky like we all do, but he doesn’t seem afraid. It’s as if he knows what’s about to happen to us.
I know what will happen, too. Since we destroyed the time machine, I wondered when the end would come for us. I just didn’t think it would happen so soon.  
Many species flee, but Hank and I stay, staring up at the empty night. It expands and bends down to meet us, nearly whispering, “This is the end. Enjoy it.” I lean against Hank and he purrs. No, we’re not afraid. How can you be afraid of emptiness when your life is so complete?
“It was like this in the machine,” I whisper to him. “Every time I came to find you, it was like this: darkness—and hope.”

SciFiFantasy Saturday: The Green Kangaroos #sffsat

Welcome to those visiting for Science Fiction/Fantasy Saturday. I hope you enjoy the following snippet from the prologue of my scifi/bizarro novel, "The Green Kangaroos."



Her eyes rolled across the tundra until they settled on a metallic dome peeking through the snowy gales. She didn't recognize the doorless structure, but there was something about the way the exterior shimmered that she found strangely familiar. She tried walking toward it, but her legs icily refused. She tried calling for help, but her voice couldn't climb her frozen throat. Her brain screamed, bashing against her skull as if trying to escape while her veins froze so suddenly, she felt their casings splinter beneath her skin. As her other organs joined the violent dance, Mia's thoughts became garbled in her gazpacho brain--except for one:

GET WARM NOW.
Her hands tunneled through the snow, tossing it aside as she dug the hole she believed would save her life. Looking for warmth in the cold without a scrap of lucidity remaining, she dug like a zombie who believed human brains comprised the Earth's core. But when she hit something and combed back the snow to see it, her brain had a moment of perfect lucidity.

Mama's face was blue-gray, and scales of frozen skin chipped away when Mia wiped back the frost. There was no helping Mama. There was no helping Mia.

Blue Moon over Gigi

This story is my first (possibly only) submission to this week's Flash Challenge over at Chuck Wendig's blog, and it's inspired by the blue moon that will occur tonight!
You know, for someone who prides themselves on being able to write entire stories in just a few sentences (um, that's ME), Chuck's challenges are giving me some trouble. "Blue Moon over Gigi" is 1000 words, which is the limit. I guess it's because of Chuck's wickedly detailed prompts. This week, for example. "science fiction/fantasy. So, that’s what you’ll write. But that’s your only parameter this week." What an asshole, right?! So many limitations! Anyway, here's this thing:


Blue Moon Over Gigi
“They say the moon will be blue tonight. And we're all doomed.”
Gracie never believed much of what Skyler told her, not since she was six years old and gullible. But the sky did look darker than usual, and the moon's color was a little off. She told herself it was just her imagination worked up by one of his lies, like when he said her doll was eaten by a dog and she had nightmares about dogs for days.
“This is nothing like that,” Skyler said. “I'm telling the truth. When the moon turns blue, we're done for.”
“Yeah, I'm sure a dog will show up, too. A sharp-toothed scruffy dog all the way from Earth,” Gracie snorted.
“Fine, don't believe me. But don't come crying when you look up tonight and see a blue moon,” Skyler replied. “Actually, you probably won't have time. It'll be the last thing you see.”
He left her on the edge of the pond to wonder whether he was just trying to scare her for his own amusement. She'd heard stories about brothers and sisters on Earth: the bickering, the lying, the confusing battle to deny the other happiness. Gracie thought that if there were such things as brothers and sisters on Kdani, she and Skyler would fit the bill. Then again, Earth was a little backwards. Their moon didn't even create its own light. But by Earth's definition, Skyler was rather “brotherly.”
He was no longer her Keeper, but he still hung around her: something she often threw in his face when he claimed she was annoying him. If she annoyed him, why did he meet her at the pond everyday? Why did he tell her stories from the Star Fields, secret tales to which only the Keepers were privy?
She started to wonder if she was even supposed to know that the moon would turn blue that night. Was that knowledge a gift he'd given to only her? After all, he'd been the one to hold her hand when they witnessed Gyrta's moon melt into cobalt hues five years before—and the one to hold on when the neighboring planet was destroyed. He'd been the one to build her shelter in the days following. He'd stood between her and the gales laced with shards of Gyrta's pulverized moon. He'd held her hand and told her everything would be all right...as long as the same thing never happened to Kdani. As long as their moon never turned blue.
Gracie swam in the pond to avoid looking at the sky. After feeling how cool and comforting the mud was against her bare skin, she dreaded getting out; her armor was too tight and itchy of late, and she hated putting it back on. She imagined living naked, the way she felt most comfortable, but Skyler had told her many times the risks of living without a suit. That, she had to believe. Kdani's atmosphere was always dry and oppressive, and armor was always encouraged, but since the explosion of Gyrta's moon, it had become necessary. An hour of exposure would cause the skin to flake away. At two hours, the extremities would start to crack, and most toes and fingers would fall off completely. No one had reached three hours yet.
Those thoughts made Gracie look at the sky again as she pulled herself out of the pond. The cobalt tinge on the moon was as faint as before, but this time, she did not think it was her imagination.
“Put your suit on.” Skyler's voice caused Gracie to shriek in shock. “Sorry...but put your suit on.”
“Is there really going to be a blue moon tonight?” she asked him, wiping the mud from her pink skin.
“I already told you—”
“But is it true?” Gracie asked.
“I think so,” he replied. He lowered his eyes and exhaled. “Yes, Gigi, it's true.”
Gracie lost herself in a sob. Skyler only called her “Gigi” when he really wanted her to listen. So she hadto listen. There would be a blue moon over Kdani that night, just like there'd been over Gyrta. Then, the wind would come, and the moon's color would intensify. The light would eventually blind them, but they wouldn't die until the explosion—and from hearing Gyrta's broadcast during those last days, she knew death would not come quickly.
“No,” Gracie said. Skyler ripped her armor from the ground and marched it to her. “No,” she barked. “I'm not putting it on. What's the point? Let's be free, Skyler.”
He stepped back and dropped the suit. “You're right, Gigi,” he said. It was the first time he'd said those words to her, and Gracie thought he actually looked happy about it.
Within the hour, what was once faint blue grew to an inferno of cobalt light. The people of Kdani panicked, screaming and crying and tearing themselves apart on the fear of never being together again. But two people sat silent, on the edge of the pond they'd visited every day. Silent—and naked. Their armor wasn't important anymore. By the time the moon was burning blue, the first layer of Gracie and Skyler's skin wasn't important either. It was only flecks of pink amidst the dust of the crumbling moon. But Gracie and Skyler believed that theywere still important, especially in the end when their hands clasped and their disconnected fingers became indistinguishable from one another. They agreed there was little time left for the things they'd waited all their lives to do, and there was little sense in wasting a second of it.
The dust of destruction seared their throats, but their smiles held strong. Naked under a blue moon, they came together before they fell apart, no happiness denied. And in the last kiss of consciousness, Gigi realized that Skyler had never been “brotherly.”
THE END


BY THE WAY, " Play the Way Home ," contribution to the EJ McCain middle grade horror series "The Blue Moon Crew of Sawmill Falls," is now available in ebook and print. If you dig (or your kids dig) Goosebumps, get a Blue Moonin. 

Colorless: 999 Words About Hueman & Womangirl

It's the first time I've taken part in Chuck Wendig's flash fiction competition at his [fuckin' delightful] blog, Terrible Minds.com. I've been dutifully following his blog since reading his book 250 Ways to Be a Better Writer, which you must read. Immediately. Don't make me say it twice.

Anyway, I forced my friend Sarah to write a flash story with me this week because that's the kind of awesome friend I am. I don't know how she's fairing, but her story did have a great start. I hope mine has a great start, too...and middle...and end, but I've been a little flash-rusty lately. This challenge was an awesome way to get back in the habit before COFFIN HOP 2012!! :) There was a 1000 word cap, and I miraculously squeaked in at 999 words. Next time I'll aim for 9.

Alright ramblers, let's get ramblin'.


Colorlessby Jessica McHugh

“Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today, in the presence of these witnesses, to join together this coffin and this dirt in holy matrimony. If any of you has a reason why these two should not be married, speak now or forever hold your peace.”

The minister surveyed the crowd until a man stood, furrowing his brow.

“Don’t you think this is a bit inappropriate?” he asked. “Your incorrect opening aside, shouldn’t we be at a church instead of a sleazy motel?”

“This is what the deceased wanted,” the minister replied. “This was his home for the past few months, and he wanted to stay right here.”

“But Hueman was a superhero. His ability to create beams of colorful light helped rid the world of darkness,” the man said and then, looked up at the charcoal sky. “Not anymore, I guess.” The other mourners shook their heads sadly.

“Look, do you want to lead this funeral, because I’m perfectly happy stepping aside. The last thing I want to do is speak about some washed-up superhero who probably slept with more than half of my parishioners,” the minister snapped.

“That’s not true,” a bold voice declared. The crowd turned around to see a masked woman standing in the back, her cape fluttering in the breeze. Because of the darkness, it was difficult to see the details on her costume, but as she marched down the aisle, notes of purple and red peeked through.

“It’s her. It’s really her,” several people whispered to each other. “I didn’t think she’d show. But it’s her. It’s Womangirl.”

The minister stepped aside, giving Womangirl the podium. The crowd was rapt as she looked back at the coffin waiting to be lowered into the boggy backyard of Jensen’s Motel. Even though they knew her true identity, they were on the edge of their cheap folding chairs when she started to remove her mask. Because of the recent scandal, everyone already knew Womangirl was really Maxine LaFemme, daughter to Guy LaFemme, President of the Heroic League of Heroes, American Chapter. It was also public knowledge that Hueman, now deceased, had had an affair with her. She’d been Hueman’s sidekick for almost ten years and never revealed her true identity to him, as was protocol in such arrangements. Perhaps that mystery is what pulled their bodies together and pushed their clothes to the floor. At least that’s what TMZ speculated after snapping photographic evidence of the superheroes’ tryst at the Jensen.

After that, the hero who’d brought color to dark cities and overthrown supervillian The Gray Gardender became a joke. Sleeping with one’s sidekick was a big no-no, but sleeping with LaFemme’s daughter was even worse. Hueman was excommunicated by the Heroic League of Heroes, evicted from his home and secret hideout, and forced into seclusion. Why he chose the Jensen Motel as his new home, no one knew for certain, but several sources claimed it was to hold onto that one night with Womangirl. Even though it broke her heart, Womangirl secretly wished it was the truth.

She brushed away her tears and bowed her head. “Hueman was a good man, a man who promised me he’d always be around, that he would never leave me colorless,” she sniffled. “Even to the end. Even if he had to hide out in places as horrible as this one.”

“Hey, easy…” Mort Jensen cried from the crowd, but Womangirl continued over his protest.

“Today, I honor a man who filled my life, all of our lives, with color and light; not a man who died of autoerotic asphyxiation while masturbating to ‘Touch of Evil.’”

“I thought he shot himself in the head,” one of the mourners said, while yet another asked, “Didn’t he choke to death on a ham sandwich?”

Womangirl looked to the minister, who shrugged. “There wasn’t a body,” he replied. “I hear it’s because he threw himself into an industrial-sized grinder. Nothing left but hamburger meat and bits of rainbow cape.”

A stiff breeze made a few empty bottles clink together, sounding like church bells, and caused the gray canopy of clouds to dissipate, if only for a few minutes. Sunlight poured through the rundown motel, turning each shard of broken glass into spotlights that covered the crowd in Heineken green and urine yellow. But to Womangirl, those colors were as innocent as Easter Sunday, and she knew why. She lifted her head and peered beyond the mourners, through the rotted out hole in room four that Jensen dubbed an “air shaft.” There, with arms outstretched and color shining from every pore, stood Hueman, more vibrant than Womangirl had ever seen him. She wanted to abandon her eulogy, push through the crowd, and throw herself into his arms as she had done only once before. But she couldn’t. He had faked his death for a reason, and she refused to ruin his chance for a new beginning. He had brought color into so many lives, and she was sure he would continue that pursuit. But not as Hueman. He would leave, he would change, and in turn, he would live to fight another day—without her. God, with all of the press, all of the secrets spilled, Maxine LaFemme didn’t even know his real name.

“I loved him,” she said, looking past every gaze but one. “We dedicated our lives to the law, to protecting this country from evil, and promoting peace. Yes, we broke one of the HLH’s laws, but that defiance was the only way I could know peace for myself—for one night, in his arms.”

Hueman smiled at her and turned away, taking the color with him. But Womangirl knew it wouldn’t be the last time he painted her in blushes of joy. Someday, she would seek out the darkest corner of the world, and again, find a vibrant peace.



THE END

For my Inky Cohorts

There comes a time in first drafts when your mind goes mad, but as mad as gets, it always spews out the right thing. Don't go back into those passages soon after, especially if you're writing something that is new and boundary-pushing for you. If you do, an inner voice will emerge and make you question everything you wrote. Is it okay? Is it proper? Is it something a huge audience will enjoy? This voice doesn't know you and it doesn't know your potential. This voice is a buttfor.

And what is a buttfor? It's for shitting all over stuff.

Trust your instincts on a first draft. During revision, things will change, but always remember the voice of madness. It is passion. And it is true.

http://www.facebook.com/author.JessicaMcHugh

The Green Kangaroos

I shouldn't be working on this novel when I have so many others I'm simultaneously working on, but oh well! Fun is fun. :) Here are the opening paragraphs.

THE GREEN KANGAROOS

The best way to take atlys is to inject it straight into the testicles. Your balls feel like they're made of iron, and they hurt for a few minutes, but after that you wonder how you ever lived without iron balls. It's much the same if a woman shoots atlys into her nethers, except it'll feel like she has one giant iron testicle. My ex-wife used to call it “The Head,” back when I still called her “wife.” The Head had its own voice, its own day job, its own hobbies separate from Serena's. The only thing they had in common was that they both enjoyed being with me, although The Head was slightly more interested in the Iron Men between my legs. Not that I could blame it. The Iron Men were good boys back then. When life got too heavy for me to handle, they were always heavier, swinging around my knees while singing, “It's better down here, you'll see. Just shoot some more atlys and you'll see it all, Perry.” They aren't so good now. They're still iron, still heavy, but they don't swing. They just hang. They sink. They grunt, “What ever happened to The Head? It was such a doll. It used to bake us cookies and massage us when we were sore. Now we just wallow, waiting for the next pinprick as we slam against Perry's little pin-prick. You should really look up The Head and see what its doing these days.”

But I already know. Even though the binoculars I found in the dumpster behind the Kum Den Chinese restaurant leave a slimy film around my eyes, they also leave me more informed about Serena's current activities. I don't have the heart to tell the Iron Men that their old friend The Head is long dead.

Desperation (a story in 6 words)

DESPERATION
Medium wanted. Must specialize in children. 

No More Last Days (#NaPoWriMo 30)

The last day of NaPoWriMo is a Lady Danger poem. If you've followed my poetry, that name will probably look familiar to you. She actually didn't pop up in any of this round of NaPoWriMo (I believe) which is very strange, so I'm glad she decided to grace us with her presence in this one.




No More Last Days




Lady Danger is six years in her death bed.But she never goes cold,Never stiffens.Like preparing for impact, she stays looseAnd revels in the blow.She knows how this will end:Sweetly,But always incompletely.There will be a final battle she won't win,And her mourners will be mine:The same people who hate to see a campfire die.The same people who cling to the embersAnd toast.True, her eyes are closed,But Lady Danger sees every creaking dawn,Every wounded soldier,Every cigarette turned mushy memory,Everything withdrawn.Everything unlike her.Six years isn't long enough to kill a god.It takes many lives to learn the word "NO."

The Pay-Off (#NaPoWriMo 29)

The Pay-Off

I enjoy science,
Which makes perfect sense,
But I prefer fiction,
Which makes no cents. 
If a story about science makes me rich,
Those cents in sense would make perfect recompense.