Lex Chase's Blog, page 4

[Flash Fiction Friday] Dev Bentham Is Back!

Hello, Internet! Welcome back Dev Bentham for this week’s edition of Flash Fiction Friday! Today’s tale is a comedy of errors when a frustrated call to tech support leads to a lifetime fix.

 Who’s on First? by Dev Bentham

“My god, this is like the old Abbott and Costello routine, ‘Who’s on First?'” I muted my phone, took a deep breath, and tried to restrain my temper. Ever since management decided to have interns take over the IT Help Desk, even the smallest computer glitch had turned into a marathon stint of acrobatic miscommunication. It was past five and I’d already spent an hour in pitched battle with a young woman probably half my age who might know computers but sure as hell didn’t know how to talk. What was it with IT people and communication?

I stared at my frozen screen. Somewhere behind that infuriating blankness sat a day’s worth of work. Untouchable.

“Are you still there?” The kid’s voice squawked from the speaker phone.

Maybe the problem was the middle man in the transaction between the IT intern and my machine. And that would be me. I took a deep breath and let it out slowly. It wasn’t like she was in another country. The IT department was just down the hall.

“I don’t suppose you could come down to my office and fix this yourself?”

She hesitated.

And in that pause I heard decades of office sexual politics—a young woman intern and a thirty something guy working into the night all alone. Sexual harassment wasn’t my style, but how would she know that? Not to mention the fact that no matter what she’d be safe here after hours with gay old me, but that wasn’t something I could easily slip into a conversation about crippled megabits.

I rubbed my forehead. “It’s okay. Let’s start again at the top.”

Who’s on first? What’s on second? I Don’t Know was king of the whole goddamned park.

***  ***  ***

The clock read six-fifteen when she finally gave up with a cheerful, “Let me see if I can find my supervisor. I’ll call you back.”

What the hell. It wasn’t like there was anyone waiting for me at home. At least I could catch up on my filing while I waited. And straighten my desk. And read that article I’d been meaning to get to. By the time I was thumbing my grocery list into my phone, it was after seven and my stomach was in full revolt. Still no call.

I grabbed a package of instant noodles from the cache in my desk drawer. It would be just my luck that she’d call back during the three minutes in the break room that it would take me to nuke my pathetic substitute for dinner, but so be it. If I didn’t eat soon I’d start gnawing on the desk.

The office was an eerie place after hours. This wasn’t the sort of high-powered firm where everyone worked late. Most people went home at a reasonable time. Hell, IT Woman had probably hung up the phone on me and gone home to dinner herself. The building echoed with emptiness. If I had any sense I’d go home too. Except the emptiness echoed even more loudly there.

The ding of the microwave startled me. Weird how everyday noises turned spooky in a huge empty office building with no one else around. No matter how often I was the only one left in the office, the eeriness always got to me. I rounded the corner coming back to my cubicle, my mouth full of tasteless noodles. Out of the corner of my eye I saw something move. My heart pounded. I spun toward the shadow. I don’t know what I expected—a monster, zombies, ghosts? What I didn’t expect was a tall, dark man a few years younger than me with chiseled features and just enough of a beard to rough up a man’s inner thighs.

I dropped the cup and noodles spilled all over the floor.

The guy grimaced. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you. Your computer is acting up?”

“Um, yeah.” Acting up. Acting out. He was so handsome he could have been an actor. And I was acting pretty fucking weird just standing there staring at him with wet noodles on my shoes. “You don’t look like an intern.”

“No. Not an intern.” He grinned. “You might say I’m their cleanup guy.”

I tried to think of a witty comeback. And failed. “That’s cool.”

Now who was communications challenged?

Mr. Gorgeous looked amused. When I just stood there trying to remember how to be charming, he gestured to the floor. “It’s not my usual cleanup stint, but do you want some help with that?”

I tore my gaze off him and glanced down at the soggy mess of food on the floor.

“No. No.” I knelt and scooped the noodles back into the cup. So much for dinner. I tossed the whole mess in the garbage and gestured to my cubicle. “I’m over here.”

He seemed to find the situation funny. At least that made one of us. I just felt ridiculous. Too many nights spent working alone. I’d forgotten how to flirt.

I leaned against the cubicle wall while Liam, what a great name—the guy was perfect—sat in my chair, typing and clicking and doing magic. I couldn’t take my eyes off the way his shirt was tight across his back and the glimpses I kept getting of the muscles along the back of his neck. I’m not usually a shallow guy, but something about Liam was bringing me to my knees. Not literally, but oh my god, a man could hope.

It took Liam about fifteen minutes to unfreeze my screen and release all that half-finished work. By which point, work was the last thing on my mind. And maybe not on his, either, because he sat there for a few extra seconds without moving.

I cleared my throat. Nothing ventured, nothing gained. “Can I, um, can I buy you dinner? I mean as a thank you?”

He spun around in my chair and looked up at me with big, dark eyes that crinkled at the corners. “Can I trust you around food? Look what happened last time.”

I bit my lower lip. Of course he didn’t want to hang out with a noodle spilling slob. Smooth—that was me.

“I mean,” he continued with a smile, “you haven’t cleaned up the wet spot.”

Wet spot? I stared at him, trying to be sure he was sending the signal I thought he was. He held my gaze for a moment, then did a slow scan of my entire body. Now there was an IT guy who knew how to communicate. I shifted my hips and smiled.

“Aren’t you the forward one.” That whole flirting thing was coming back to me.

“Not really. I’ve seen you around but you’ve always looked too busy to talk.” He patted my computer console. “It took this to get your attention.”

“You’ve got it now.” I cocked my head and looked down at him. “You didn’t do something to make that happen, did you?”

He shook his head. “These things are so buggy I didn’t have to. But would it have been terrible if I did?”

Maybe not. I gestured to the door. “Let’s eat.” And after that…

Who’s on first? Who cared? Liam and I were on our way to a home run.

Buyout—A Love Story

[image error]Blurb:

Everyone deserves a second chance. Or do they? Sean and Martim fell in love at Harvard. Things broke apart when Martim fell into a downward spiral of addiction after his father died. Sean kicked him out but has regretted it ever since. He’s never gotten over losing Martim. But then, not many aspects of his life have lived up to his collegiate dreams.

When he’s sent to evaluate Martim’s family hotel for foreclosure, Sean is once again in the position to put Martim out on the street. In the time since they parted, Martim has pulled himself together, although both health and financial problems linger as a result of his years as an addict. Can the two men bridge the gap of distance and time to rekindle their relationship, or will they fall apart again under the burdens of guilt and disease?

Set in Lisbon, Portugal, this is the story of lovers reunited after more than a decade apart, and their second chance at romance.

Cover Artist: Catt Ford

Buy Links

Dreamspinner Press
Amazon
Barnes and Noble
Kobo

Author Bio

Dev Bentham has lived in way too many places and had far too many jobs. She’s finally settled in frozen northern Wisconsin where she teaches online and draws on her former lives to write love stories about mature men searching for true love. Her restless feet take her globetrotting whenever she gets the chance, but most of the time she’s tucked up in her office in the woods dreaming about romance and adventure.

She’s the author of many gay romances, including a DABWAHA finalist, a Rainbow Award Honorable Mention and a Rainbow Awards Finalist.

Official Site
Twitter
Facebook

E-mail DevBentham@yahoo.com

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[Flash Fiction Friday] Kelly Jensen Returns!

Hello, Internet! Kelly Jensen drops by today for Flash Fiction Friday with a real doozy of a piece. If you’ve read Kelly’s pieces before (which if you haven’t you should seriously get on that) this is no exception!

Pro Choice by Kelly Jensen

I am moving too fast. I’m going to land hard. I don’t hear the sound of my fingers breaking over the gasp of breath inside my helmet, but the pain screams along my nerve endings, heedless of the pressure seals of my suit. I imagine the snap of bone, the crack of tendons. I wonder, briefly, if I’ve simply dislocated the fingers—put them somewhere else, somewhere they can’t help me.

I do feel a rush of air across my cheeks as the train lurches beneath me, but it’s just my breath—again. Gasping and moaning. I could be a coupling between smooth, alloy cars, whining as I flex. Scrabbling proves the futility of using my left hand. I catch a handhold with the right, hooking my gloved fingers through the square loop. The train jerks again and the motion travels through my body, pausing at my gut to play with the problem there, turning it upside down. Playing with it.

Toying with the meaning of my life.

My stomach pitches. Puking in a helmet is not recommended. It happens. My suit will eat what I eject and feed it back to me if I have to stay inside long enough. I’m a self-sustaining unit in this thing. Doubly so with the problem swirling around my middle, sending a hot splash of regret up the back of my throat.

Swallowing rapidly, I haul myself close to the car and look for the next handhold. There, half a meter vertical. I thrust my broken hand toward it, screaming even as I push the glove through the loop far enough for my wrist cuff to lock into place.

If I fall off this train, I will die.

I have approximately ninety seconds to get inside one of the cars, or I might die. Probably will die.

If none of the cars are pressurized, I could still die. I have a projected itinerary on my PD—based on how often the train docks at the loading bay below BXT23. My asteroid. My home.

My entire world, as it turns out.

The train is collecting speed. There is virtually no atmosphere inside the loading bay. The mining robots don’t need it, and operate more efficiently without it. The train will continue to gather speed until it reaches the apex of its arc between stations. My training doesn’t include such things as the theory of whether I can cling to a vehicle speeding through near vacuum. My suit might continue to nourish me, and I know I have enough oxygen reserves to reach BXT24. But what about radiation? Inertia?

I need to get inside.

A hiss of static pokes at my ears. It’s the AI trying to reestablish communications with me. She thinks I’m repairing a broken door seal to Section A… unless she’s managed to unfudge the code to my locator beacon? The bitch managed to impregnate me, so I wouldn’t put it past her. Though fiddling with code and jamming a tool between my legs—under the guise of checking to see if my reproductive organs were functioning—are two very distinct actions.

I’m distracted, but why shouldn’t I be? This isn’t how I was supposed to retire. To the home I’ve never actually seen. Was never actually born to. I’m not from Earth at all. I wasn’t transported here, cocooned in sleep training over the course of eighteen months.

I’ve reached the next handhold. Thank the stars. Whimpering, I tug my broken hand out of the loop and flail at the door seal above me. Below me? Beside me? It’s hard to tell horizontal from vertical out here. And I do mean out here. The train has left the station. I am exposed; I am in space, out in the real universe. I resist the urge to glance over my shoulder, to watch my home dwindle to a spec among the stars.

Elation may not beat within my breast, yet. I have to get inside the car. Inside the train. Even then…

Not going to think about then. Now is all that matters.

Flailing at the door won’t open it. Drawing a deep and bitter breath, I eschew counting in favor of simply doing. I activate my PD, I deliver the code. The door remains sealed. My next breath is a sob and I’m starting to feel dizzy. My stomach hurts and the problem, my baby, is upset. She’s a collection of cells, but I know she feels what I am feeling. That my anger is hers, my outrage her poison.

Of course by baby is female. Men do not have wombs, yet. And why use a tank to grow a baby when you have a natural, biological alternative? I am more efficient. More cost effective. When her time comes, she will be too.

I trigger the emergency override and the door whispers open. I don’t hear it of course. The whisper is my breath—again. I’m so tired. My hand hurts. My whole arm hurts. I haul myself inside the car and smack the panel to reclose the door. Then I simply allow myself to fall and the lack of gravity catches me, floats me gently.

I made it. My journey is just beginning, but my escape is…done.

What will the AI do now that I’m gone? Use the maturation chamber to grow another me? The mining robots can take care of themselves for a limited time, but their programming degrades so quickly. Even a maintenance bot requires maintenance, and the AI design is limited. We’re close, as a species, to replacing ourselves—with minds rather than clones. But we’re not quite there yet. We still need us.

A niggle of worry pokes at my brain. By stealing myself and my child—my clone, myself—have I jeopardized that future? Have I denied us, us? Have I broken a chain?

Surely I cannot be the only outpost operator to object to being the incubator of her own replacement?

I close my eyes. By my calculation, I have thirty-seven hours until this train reaches its final destination. Or should I say intermediary, as once these crates of ore are unloaded, the train will circle the belt again. In two months, it will dock once more at BXT23.

But not me. Not my child. Even if we expire before we make the end of the line, we’ll have broken this cycle. Made our protest.

We might even find a way to truly be free.

Dear Media: I Am Not A Murderer

We’ve seen it all. The villain with dissociative identity disorder, the sex-crazed bipolar femme fatale, the depressed bomber, the paranoid lone gunman, the schizophrenic baby snatcher…the list goes on. And on. And on. And on.

Oh. We have seen it all.

Over time there has been a massive outcry for diversity and visibility in today’s media and fiction. And definite inroads are being made. From better portrayals of race, recognition of other sexualities and gender, to the hard-fought movement of how we see beauty.

But…But…

Where’s the bipolar princess? Or the clinically depressed action hero? Or the sexy heroine coping with anxiety?

No? None of those?

Where are they?

Here?

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Here?

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Oh… How about a little closer to home. Here.

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Yeah. People like me have seen it all. And we’re scared. Because when we announce our diagnosis. You see this:

[image error]James Holmes – Aurora Shooter

Or this:

[image error]Andreas Lubbitz – Germanwings Pilot

I say you, it’s deliberate. Because you, or someone you know has a diagnosable mental illness or has been touched by mental illness in your or their lives. You deny it. You think mental illness happens to “other people.”

I’m telling you mental illness gives zero fucks about your gender, race, creed, flag, sexuality, religion, or even social or financial status.

And the media and entertainment industry keeps us firmly entrenched in too scared to come forward.

I have bipolar disorder. (And if you missed the first post, surprise!) It’s no secret. I can’t hide it any more than I can hide my hair being three colors.

“But wait,” you say, “Full stop! You can absolutely hide your illness!”

Wrong.

It comes out in everything. From my rapid speech, unprompted emotional outbursts, spontaneous crying, scattered thoughts, everywhere. I didn’t just suddenly develop this condition. I was born with it. I can’t help it. I’ve just learned how to get by with it.

And I’ve learned very quickly as a child through film, TV, and the evening news, the world doesn’t want people like me.

Fun fact: We’re everywhere.

I was once told to my face to think about finding a new job because I was “worrying customers.” When I had to miss an important event at GRL Atlanta due to a disability hearing, I was told, “Don’t you dare tell the organizers you’re disabled.”

I was taken aback then, I’m still pissed when I think about it.

I’m not someone who crashes a plane, shoots up a movie theater, molests children, or is cruel to animals.

But those people? They’re just like me. But they either didn’t get help, were denied help, or didn’t even know that was an option.

Do I look like a monster to you?

[image error]Lex Chase – Age 3

If you said “No! Of course not!” Actually, that’s where you’re wrong. I am a monster. I’m just a very stable monster who takes her medication every day without fail. But if I’m just a slightest bit off with the timing for an extended period? Things get dodgy. Too little sleep? That’s disastrous. Too much stimulation renders me nearly catatonic. (Fun times at conventions!)

I want you to know me and people like me we are beasts. And we are capable of anything.

Like being a rebel princess.

[image error]Carrie Fisher as Princess Leia – By Dave Daring

Making people laugh.

[image error]Robin Williams – Actor and Commedian

Even landing on the moon.

[image error]Buzz Aldrin – Apollo 11 Astronaut

But all the media shows is the schizophrenic pervert, the suicidal psychopath…and you know…I bet you can name at least 20 villain types off the top of your head.

But you say, “There are heroes! There are! Claire Danes in Homeland!”

Yeeeeeaaaahhhh…let’s talk.

When the show runners Howard Gordon and Alex Gansa describes her character, Carrie Mathison, as “a driven CIA officer battling her own psychological demons.”

Nope. I’m out. Do not pass go. Do not collect 200 dollars.

Let’s talk about the very short-lived ABC show Black Box. I was hype for this one. Finally! A bipolar heroine on mainstream TV!

Who flushed her meds and turns into a hyper-sexual fiend. Because it made “good television” and it’s “interesting.”

It’s not interesting. That is not cool, fun, or anything of the sort. Exploitation of mental illness for titillation is pretty fucking disgusting.

There’s very, very few television programs that get it right. Ironically, one you would never expect is NBC’s Hannibal. I’m a Fannibal, I confess, but the pro-mental health/self-acceptance message is one of the many reasons I love the show. (Beyond people looking tasty, and Mads Mikkelsen being hot af.)

A new one that I’m on the fence about is FX’s Legion. It shows promise. But admittedly the pilot did the show no favors. Told completely non-linear from the perspective of a schizophrenic lead, it’s humorous in that it hits close to home, and some points are even sad that—I repeat—it hits close to home. When watching with my mother, I’ve turned to her and said “That’s me when I feel like this.”

I’m going to keep watching to see where it goes. Reviewers seem to dig it for the front and center mental illness portrayal on television. If it sticks around, I could likely find myself babbling about it a lot.

But, despite mainstream Hollywood finally dipping its toe in the water and doing so with integrity, there it is on the 11 o’clock news on how some “mentally disturbed” individual shot up a school, crashed a car, bombed a federal building, tortured children…

And this, my Dandelions, this is the very reason we need to hold our heads high and not be afraid. Not be scared back into our mental prisons. Not be scared that we will only ever amount to being incarcerated and left to rot. Not be afraid of losing our jobs, our homes, our families. (News Flash: That’s illegal, by the way. Americans with Disabilities Act is a thing.)

So, stand up and be counted. You are living proof that mental illness does not happen to “other people.” You are one in a society of millions that are looking for people like you. Looking on our TV screens, in our media, in our daily lives. We are looking for heroes like us.

Over millions of years, atoms have smashed and stars have collided to come together to make the miracle that is you.

Miracle, Monster, or Beast, this is your chance to rewrite the narrative.

So, my Dandelions, how will you tell your story?

Art of Lex Chase Is Live At The Novel Approach!

Hello, Internet!

In a partnership with the lovely Lisa over at The Novel Approach, I have a regular monthly column “The Art of Lex Chase.” Over there I’ll be posting a new piece per month and the occasional doodle or work in progress. Because how else am I going to justify constantly drawing Hannigram? Amirite?

You can check it out the second post over here! And this month’s piece? How about a little Penny Dreadful and a bit of babbling why you should watch it.

Did you miss last month? Not to worry! Here you go. This one goes out to my fellow History Makers in the Yuri on Ice fandom! I was moved at the beginning of the year to make my mark in the world of YOI fanart. And omg there’s so much good stuff! So intimidating! So here’s a Work in Progress of our favorite sexy pork cutlet bowl, Yuri Katsuki! After a few revisions, I’ll have Yuri, Victor, and Yurio prints for Animazement 2017!

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[Flash Fiction Friday] Jana Denardo Joins The Party!

Hello, Internet! Welcome today’s Flash Fiction Friday guest, Jana Denardo! She brings us a sweeping steampunk adventure of clockwork love!

Strange Bronze by Jana Denardo

Vernon fisted his hands in Strange’s shirt, lifting him off his feet. Strange flinched away from Vernon’s sweaty face, patterned with gin blossoms. The cheap alcohol sourness of Vernon’s breath rolled over Strange. Vernon growled, “We’re running late because of you. You have to set up the merchandise. Wait! Did you say you ate the master key?”

Strange squirmed free, stumbling as he touched ground. He nearly fell onto the automatons lined up along the auction house wall. “It was an accident,” he mumbled, keeping a wary eye on Vernon.

Vernon raised his hand but halted when the auctioneer called his name and told him to ready his first lot. Vernon glared at Strange. “I should cut the key out of you. The Bronze was supposed to be the centerpiece. How could you swallow a key?”

“I had it in my mouth so I could finish dressing Bronze.” Strange waved a hand at the bronze-skinned automaton sitting frozen on a chair. “Then I tripped. It hurt.”

“It’ll hurt worse coming out.” Vernon leaned close, grabbing Strange by the hair. “And I’m going to take the loss out of your hide. I should never have rescued you from that damn circus. You’re worthless.”

Rescued? He had won Strange from the ringleader in a faro game. Vernon called himself an inventor and caretaker of automatons. Truth was, he stole most of them, managing a few simple repairs. He had nothing to teach Strange but fear. Strange learned repair on his own and now, at sixteen, he needed out from under Vernon’s iron fist.

Vernon slapped Strange down, ravaging his pockets as if not believing the key’d been swallowed. Finally, he shoved Strange away. “Wheel the bronze out in a chair. Someone might still want him.”

Once Vernon had gone out to the auction floor, Strange put his hands on Bronze’s shoulders, resting his cheek against the raven silk strands of his hair. “Soon,” he whispered, and then started moving their automatons out toward the auctioneer’s stagehands.

Strange slipped out into the room, hunkering down in the back. Bronze’s fate was no longer in his hands. He prayed Captain Abbandonato could do her part. She was impossible to miss at the front of the room, over six feet tall and proudly wearing the Airship Sterling’s insignia. His hopes were riding on her.

With a jaded eye, Strange watched the bidding begin. His pulse didn’t quicken until Bronze was wheeled front and center, and Vernon conferred quickly with the auctioneer.

“This magnificently crafted automaton sadly has no master key so it must be sold as a mere art piece,” the auctioneer said, and he started the bidding.

Vernon glared Strange’s way, letting him know he hadn’t been as unobserved as he’d hoped. Strange knew that look, knew if he went home tonight the beating would be as bad as the time Vernon’s belt had hided him straight down to his hip bone and an unlicensed surgeon had been necessary to fix him up. He would always bear the thick pink worm of scar tissue there.

Strange forced himself to look away, pretending he wasn’t listening to anything, watching anything. His heart caught when the bidding started, low so very low for something as fine as Bronze. Vernon might beat him senseless before they even left the auction house. Abbandonato hadn’t entered the bidding yet. What if she betrayed him like so many had? His gut roiled, threatening to empty. Finally, she put up her paddle, announcing her bid in a voice as sharp and loud as thunder.

The bidding wasn’t fierce but before the auctioneer brought it to a close he asked, “You do understand, Captain, this automaton has no key?”

“I think he’s pretty. He’ll make for a good talking piece even if he never moves,” Abbandonato replied.

The auctioneer inclined his head and banged the gavel. “Sold to Captain Abbandonato. The next lot is a fine automaton….”

Strange stopped listening. He didn’t look at the airship captain as he slunk back toward the storeroom. Vernon caught him.

“Where do you think you’re going?” he hissed.

Strange showed the appropriate amount of fear all the while dying to scream the truth. Instead, he lied. “I’m going to get the last few automatons ready.”

Vernon shoved him in the general direction of the storeroom then went back to watching the auction. Strange calmly walked into the room then raced out the back door. He paused at Vernon’s truck to grab the meager possessions he’d rammed into a tattered rucksack he’d hidden in a tool chest, then fled toward the airship docks. Winded, side stitching by the time he got there, Strange fished out the pass Abbandonato had given him and handed it to the Sterling’s guard, his fingers so sweaty he dropped it. Rolling his eyes, Abbandonato’s guard waited for Strange to pick it up then showed him to the ladder so he could board.

Strange sat on the deck in an out of the way place. Waiting nearly killed him. Finally he heard Abbandonato’s clear tones giving instructions. He flew to the side of the gondola and watched as Bronze was hoisted aboard and taken to a room. Abbandonato placed a hand in the small of his back steering him below to a small room where Bronze waited.

“I’ve done my part. It’s time to do yours,” she said.

Strange nodded, bracing himself. This wouldn’t be pleasant. It took several uncomfortable moments but he managed to bring the key back up slicked in mucous and bile. He cleaned it on his handkerchief.

“How did you do that?” Her hazel eyes opened wide.

“Spent the first half of my life in a circus. I learned tricks.” Strange studied her, his eyes going wet, feeling swollen. “I still don’t understand why you agreed to help me.”

Abbandonato ruffled his pale hair. “My name means forsaken or abandoned. I was an orphan clawing my way to the top once. I knew we shared that. I saw the sad state you were in the last time we needed scrounged parts. You’re quick witted and clever. I could use that in my crew, and an automaton as fine as this one won’t go amiss.”

“I can’t pay you back.”

“No but you can work it off.” Abbandonato ran a finger just under the bruise on his cheek. “And I’m a good bit better a master than your last.”

“You’d have to be a cannibal to be worse.” Strange shuddered, and she laughed.

“This can be your quarters. My second in command will be by later to get you acquainted with the rules. In the meantime, rest a bit. You look like you can use it. You’re no good to me if you stagger overboard in your sleepy state and we’d better cast off before Vernon realizes you’re gone.”

“Thank you. It means so much.”

“You’re welcome.” She patted his shoulder and left him alone with Bronze.

Strange gently lifted Bronze’s shirt and inserted the key where his belly button should be. With a twist, he turned Bronze on then slipped the key out. He’d need a safe place to keep it. Bronze came to life slowly, his hands jerking. His eyes, the color of deep honey, opened, blinking slowly at Strange. His soft leather lips smiled with the subtle click of gears.

“Cadoc.”

There was nothing particularly mechanical about Bronze’s voice. The surprising thing was hearing Strange’s given name. Bronze was the only one who used it. “I saved us. The captain is taking us away,” he said in a rush, slumping down next to Bronze on the rush mat that would pass as their bed.

Bronze embraced him. “I never doubted you, my love.”

Strange kissed Bronze’s lips which were dry as always. Bronze might be a machine but Strange would argue he’d been so well and lovingly made he had a soul. He loved and Strange loved him fiercely in return.  He’d risked being beaten to death to save them both, and he’d do it again if he had to. “Thank you. I think we’ll like it here.”

“I like it wherever you are.”

Strange hugged Bronze tighter, weeping now, a mix of fear and joy. Bronze rubbed Strange’s back, weathering the emotions. They faced a new life, different from anything Strange had ever known but he wasn’t afraid. With Bronze, Strange knew all obstacles could be hurtled. He couldn’t wait for their new life to begin.

[Flash Fiction Friday] New Challenger Roe Horvat Appears!

Hello, Internet! We have a first time guest here for Flash Fiction Friday! Please welcome Roe Horvat. Today’s short is a tale of rekindled love from the one you wish you could forget.

Love by the Slice by Roe Horvat

I stripped off the hoodie I was wearing over my apron. It smelled like old cheese. This place was home, but tonight, I felt stretched thin. It was closing time on a Tuesday, the slowest night of the week. I’d sent Mia away half an hour ago. There were only three tables left to be wiped clean, I’d already taken care of the ovens, and I was craving fresh air, a lazy walk home, and the longest, steamiest of showers. My back hurt and my feet burned after running around in the heat of the kitchen all day. Not the best day. Not the best week. Hell, I was having a shitty summer.

Then the phone rang.

“Manny’s. How can I help you?” I asked into the receiver, trying to unknot the apron with my left hand. No dice. I switched hands, holding the phone to my left ear. The voice in the phone crackled.

“…and I need sixteen large pizzas. Eight with pepperoni, eight with extra cheese.”

Fucking jokers. The knot gave away, and I chucked the apron into the hamper behind the counter.

“Dude, it’s ten minutes to closing time. I’m not making sixteen pizzas. Unless you are feeding a busload of refugee kids, I can’t help you.”

My forehead was itchy. It always is when I work the ovens. I get sweaty and wipe my face until I rub it raw. I turned on the water in the bar sink and splashed some on my face.

“How about a cupcake?” the voice asked, suddenly sounding close and clear.

A cupcake?

I swiveled on my heels sending water in a spiral around me. The door to my pizzeria was open.

“Corbin?” I stammered.

Corbin pocketed his phone and grinned unapologetically.

My mouth opened and closed a couple of times. He took three steps inside, and the glass door clicked shut behind him. He looked around leisurely.

“Hi, Manny,” he said, still smiling. All confident, cocky even, he stood in the middle of the room. Like he owned the place. The thought smacked me back to life. I owned this place. He was an intruder.

“It wasn’t funny the first time you did it,” I said and turned to switch off the water. I took a towel and started wiping the fresh droplets on the counter.

I heard more steps behind me, a rustle of his jacket. I felt his eyes on my neck. I could see him in my mind, leaning on the tall table, one eyebrow raised, nimble fingers tapping on the wooden surface. Corbin was always moving. He didn’t walk. He danced. I’ve never met a person who moved like he did. Like a cartoon character coming to live.

“Are you free tonight?” he asked. I knew him. Nobody else would hear the nervous tremor in his voice. I did.

“I’m fully booked. I’m having a private meeting with my shower and my couch.” The glasses needed straightening, apparently. Corbin sighed behind my back.

“Manny.”

“It’s Manuel.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Two months too late.”

“I tried to call you the first week.”

“It was you who said we needed a clean break.” I gave up pretending to work. So many sleepless nights. My drunken almost-dialing. I’d had to delete his number. Not before I’d asked Mia to save it on her phone so that maybe one day I could…I didn’t know what. I hated myself for my longing. It was just a vacation fling for fuck’s sakes!

“I left the city. I moved,” Corbin said.

I shook my head.

“Did you get a good offer?” I knew I sounded bitter. I didn’t care anymore. He hurt me. Let him know that.

“There’s no offer.”

I turned around.

Corbin never looks vulnerable. The gauges in his ears, the tentacles of tattoos climbing up his neck, his brutally chopped ginger hair, his dark red eyebrows above the ominously crooked nose, searching eyes and ever-present sarcastic grin – he couldn’t pull vulnerable if you shot him in his stomach.

“I want to try freelancing,” he mumbled, assessing me like a stranger’s dog.

My exhaustion landed on my shoulders, a mass of cold mud. My whole body slumped. I had to deal with this.

I stepped around the counter. There was nothing but three feet of air between us.

“What are you doing here, Corbin?”

He took a deep breath. I saw his jaw tick. I waited.

“Like you said. It’s been two months. I’ve had time to…fix stuff. I gave my notice at the agency, started my own company, set up a home page and everything, I found an apartment and moved my shit.” He paused, scratching the dark stubble on his chin. “Here.”

“Wh-“ I cleared my throat. “Where?”

“Three bus stops away. By the Hill Park.”

“When did you move?”

The questions just fell from my mouth; my brain was disconnected.

He laughed. An abrupt, harsh sound.

“This morning.”

I blinked. It didn’t help. The burning in my eyes was insistent. I folded into myself, holding myself together. I didn’t want him to see.

“I moved two thousand miles for you, Manny. Please.” Corbin’s voice faded into a whisper.

I felt his cool hand on my forearm.

“Manny.”

Vist Roe at http://roehorvat.blogspot.se

I Am Not Ashamed

Hello, Internet! I’m Lex Chase!

I always start my blog posts like that, don’t I? Perky. Happy. Usually do a few catchy sentences about whatever topic. If it’s Flash Fiction Friday here on my blog or if I’m on a blog tour.

But today, I’m not here to sell you anything.

Let’s start again.

My name is Lex Chase and I live with mental illness. And I am not ashamed.

Here’s my story.

I was diagnosed with bipolar disorder at age 13. Back then it was known as manic depression and still to this day no one really knows wtf it was. But suddenly, my life leading to that fateful moment came into pinpoint focus albeit though a troubling lens.

I was the “weird kid” growing up. I prided myself on being different, unique, marching to the beat of a different drum. Was I bullied? Oh yes. Mercilessly.

I fought to fit in, to hide how “weird” I was, but it never worked. I was the class clown, the go-getter, the kid that had to always be right. And I was the kid who would huddle on the school restroom floor and cry for hours. I was the kid who would skip school for weeks at a time because the voices were too loud.

Yes. Voices.

I missed 95 days of the sixth grade because of said voices. And other things.

Like missing time.

I would wake up in the morning with no recollection of who I was or where I was. But I was surrounded by people who knew me, so I faked it, hoping it would come back to me.

The voices were a constant whisper. Every so often one voice would be louder than others and command me to do horrific things to myself or others.

I carried a butcher knife to school for a month.

I was 12.

I never knew when I would need to use it. But that I knew I had to.

I knew I was a danger to others, and I wanted to protect those I loved. So, I destroyed myself instead. I cut. I carved away the parts of me that made me “bad” and cut “glyphs” into my skin to keep “the evil” within me. Everyone saw the cuts on the backs of my hands.

The final straw came when I was outside of my middle school band class, arguing with my boyfriend out in the open. We screamed at each other, I was sobbing, and he was leaving me.

Here’s the catch.

He wasn’t real.

I was screaming and crying at a wall.

Oh, but I saw him. Every day. For years since my childhood.

Some parents call them “invisible friends.” Mine never went away.

On that cathartic day, two girls same age as me, knew to take me straight to the guidance counselor. I explained very rationally what the fight was about because by golly my boyfriend was 100% real.

She nodded along. I felt better. I left.

She called my mother.

When I found out, I cannot possibly describe my feeling of betrayal. Discovering my much prided weirdness, the voices, the hallucinations, the urges, carving fucking glyphs on my skin, learning that wasn’t “normal.”

I remember vividly the first thing I said to my new social worker.

I sat on her couch, sobbing, and held out my wrists and said “Lock me up, and throw away the key.”

I meant every word.

I was 13. I was completely psychotic, and a newly minted manic depressive baby.

You think that would destroy me? You think I’d feel like a freak? A monster?

I already believed I was a monster.

This?

This was relief.

A rebirth.

I won’t lie and say everything was automatically perfect. Far from it. And still isn’t.

I was diagnosed in the early 90s where mental illness was still something of a boogeyman. Like cancer, when obituaries read a person died of “a prolonged illness.” No one ever said the c-word. Mental illness was—and I suppose still is—something that you didn’t talk about. You had that “crazy uncle” but oh no, he really has anxiety and suddenly you feel awkward for laughing at him but don’t know what to say.

My mother was on board with my diagnosis from the start. She read everything she could get her hands on at the time. From Patty Duke’s memoir “A Brilliant Madness” to anything at all. There was very little. Take in mind, the Internet wasn’t even a thing yet.

We didn’t even own a PC!

We were very isolated in our knowledge.

My dad didn’t want to accept it at first. He didn’t want to believe something was wrong with the little girl he brought home from the hospital. The bouncy, giggly girl with the Shirley Temple blond ringlets who loved Strawberry Shortcake, My Little Pony, and Rainbow Brite. The little girl who wore frilly dresses and hair pinned in Princess Leia buns. What happened to that little girl?

He did come around, and Mom tirelessly tried to educate herself, and the family. I had my own work to do. Therapy every week, often more, medications, medication adjustments, side effects, medications to counter the side effects.

I’m not going to lie. Some soldiers fight and die serving our country, but others, like me are a different breed of soldier. We are on the front lines of the war within our minds.

And it never ends. People like me learn how to get better at fighting. Arm ourselves with better equipment. Strategize. Outwit. Outlast.

As they say #alwayskeepfighting

I had to find my humanity again. I had to learn that I’m never going to see the world through a “normal” lens. I had to learn, yes, I can do anything, but work within my limitations. Though there are times those limitations are frustrating and unfair.

I had to learn I wasn’t a freak, a monster, an outcast, or criminal.

I had to learn to not be ashamed. I had to learn to hold my head high as bipolar disorder is the butt of every Internet joke. I had to learn I am not my illness. I’m me. I’ve always been me. Me and my menagerie of voices and faces in the crowd that aren’t there.

I embrace my mental scars. And I welcome the daily struggle. Because I will fight, and I will win.

Why am I talking about this? Why is this important?

In 2016, I lost two of my bipolar heroes. Patty Duke, who broke ground with bipolar visibility, and Carrie Fisher, an icon who gave zero fucks.

It was Fisher who broke me. On a scale of 1 to 10, I was a 9.5 on social media. In my daily life, I was a 400. I had it.

I had to do something. Say something. Keep the conversation going.

For all the people like me, kids and adults alike, getting diagnosed at any point in their lives, and realizing the world finally makes sense but in a troubling way.

Know this, it’s not troubling. It’s not weakness. It’s not dangerous.

We are gifted.

We are bright.

Creative.

Passionate.

Full of fury and fire, fantastically mad in the best way.

We have spent years trying and failing to play by the rules of the world that will not cater to us. But we play by our own set of rules.

We are soldiers. Decorated heroes each and every one. All fighting our own wars every day.

Over the next six months, I’ll be sharing more of my story, helpful tips, and where I am now. I hope you, or someone you know find peace and solace that you are not alone. I’m here. I’m looking for you.

“Like a dandelion through a crack in the pavement, I persist.”— Wentworth Miller

Persist, my Dandelions. Persist.

[Flash Fiction Friday] West Thornhill Joins The Fray!

Hello, Internet! West Thornhill drops by to play in this latest round of Flash Fiction Friday. With the nasty weather, today’s tale is relatable with the life altering decisions you make while snowed in.

Inconvenient Snow by West Thornhill

“I can’t believe our douche of a boss wouldn’t let us close early when this switched from just a snow event to a full-blown blizzard.” I stared out into the white-out. The last customer had been hours ago. “Now, we’re stuck here.”

Regular snow didn’t stop people in this town from getting out. But this was different. Geez, I think the last true blizzard happened like a hundred years ago or something.

“Yeah and all we have is crappy convenience store food and coffee. Here.” Jake, my co-worker, handed me a cup.

At least it was warm. My hands had gotten cold as stood there with them pressed against the door. We’d locked up about an hour after seeing the last state truck disappear into the eeriness.

I sighed. “Well, I know the boss had the generator checked a few days ago. So, we should be okay if the power goes out.”

Jake grimaced. “Don’t even think that.” He turned and walked back to the counter and hopped up on it. “Man, if I didn’t have to finish out this semester, I’d quit this stinking job and move.”

I nodded. I had finished up in December and already graduated, but I had to wait for my partner to finish up and save up some money. I couldn’t wait to get out of this town. It wouldn’t be so bad if it weren’t for that other school holding back any progress that didn’t benefit them.

“Why are you still here? You’ve graduated. I would have thought you’d be gone.” Jake took a sip from his cup and shivered. Yes, the coffee was that bad no matter how you doctored it.

I shrugged. “Have to wait for my partner to graduate.”

“You don’t seem the type to wait around for some guy.” Jake’s brow furrowed when he looked at me.

“Who said it was some guy?”

He held up a hand. Confusion marred his features. “Wait, Alys, you have a girlfriend? How did I not know this?”

I snickered. “Well, other than this dump, we don’t exactly run in the same circles. And yes, I have a girlfriend. You might have heard of her. Pen Archer.”

His eyes widened and I couldn’t contain the laugh that bubbled out.

“She’s like an Amazon.”

“I know. Part of the allure.” I had a thing for tall people. Male or female, didn’t matter. If they were six five or taller, I was a sucker. “Are you still with Merry?”

He blushed and ducked his chin down. “Uh-huh. We went to Boston to visit her family over break and looked into jobs and housing while we were there. So, that’s where we’re heading once school is done in May. Merry also applied to BC’s nursing program to become a nurse practitioner.”

“Awesome. Merry is going to be a great nurse.”

“What about you and Pen? Where are you guys heading?”

“Greece.”

“Greece?”

“I’m going to meet Pen’s family. And then we’ll decide from there. We’re taking a year before even thinking about grad school or anything.” It’s not like I could actually tell Jake the truth. I mean who would believe that Pen’s father was Ares or that she really was an Amazon princess.

Jake yawned. “Sorry.”

“No, we should probably get some sleep. Who knows how long this is going to last? Maybe if we’re lucky, it will be over before morning and they’ll have started cleaning the streets.”

We huddled together behind the counter. I pulled out my phone and sent a text to Pen. She’d wanted to come get me earlier but I talked her out of it. Didn’t want anyone to think she was Wonder Woman or something. I knew Jake had called Merry and his roommate to let them know we were bunkered down in the store.

He fell asleep quickly, but I was too keyed up. Worried about the power or some idiot thinking it was a good time to break-in. Once I was sure he was out, I got up and moved to the tiny office that barely held a computer on a shelf.

A slow smile moved across my lips as I pulled up the program for the outside sign. I typed in ‘Free coffee for all police, EMTs, fire, and snow plow drivers’ and scheduled it to go at four in the morning. Then I typed up my resignation letter.

[Flash Fiction Friday] Kim Fielding Returns!

Hello, Internet! Flash Fiction Friday frequent flyer Kim Fielding is back with a comedic tale of a superhero meeting his brand new sidekick. But things don’t go exactly as planned…

Let’s Go Save The Universe by Kim Fielding

“Why, hello there, Billy! Let’s go save the universe, shall we?”

Todd looked up from his laptop at the man in the chair across from him. The Starbucks was busy but not so crowded that strangers had to share tables. But this guy had plopped himself right down, and now he beamed at Todd with teeth as straight and white as a toothpaste commercial.

“Excuse me?” Todd pulled out his earbuds.

“Saving the universe!” the man boomed. “It’s time, Billy!”

“My name’s not Billy, dude.”

The man shrugged. “I admit, it’s a tame sobriquet for a sidekick. But it will do until we discover your superpowers—then we can come up with something more suitable. I’m GeoMan, for example, because geography holds no limits for me. I can traverse an ocean floor or spring over the tallest mountains.”

“We’re in Des Moines. And I work at Staples. I don’t have any superpowers.” He could kick ass on Fallout 4, but that probably didn’t qualify. Besides, what would his name be—Fallout Boy? That was already taken.

GeoMan shook his head slightly. “You just haven’t discovered them yet. Join me, and together we shall find them and defeat the evil Dr. Clawfoot.”

“Is this some kinda pickup line? No offense, but no dice.” GeoMan was good-looking, with dimpled cheeks, a cleft chin, and a really buff body. But Todd didn’t swing that way, and anyway he sort of had a girlfriend. They weren’t, like, engaged or anything, but all their nights off lately had involved Netflix and chill, so yeah. Todd wouldn’t have hooked up with GeoMan even if he was into dudes.

Looking slightly annoyed, GeoMan sighed. “This is not a sexual advance. I am urging you to join forces with me so we can defeat evil and save the universe.”

“Why me?”

“Because I can tell you possess the desired qualities of a sidekick, Billy. A discerning eye is another of my superpowers.”

Todd leaned back in his chair. “Have you been in the biz for a while?”

“Of course. I’m quite experienced.”

“Then how come you don’t have a sidekick already?”

“I did. Bobby. Er, Magnet Boy.” GeoMan shifted uncomfortably and looked off to the side. In a voice much quieter than a boom, he said, “There was, um, an unfortunate incident in a frying pan factory.”

A moment of awkward silence passed.

Then GeoMan straightened his shoulders and recovered his smile. “So shall we go, Billy? The mapmobile awaits us.” He gestured toward the door.

“Dude, I’ve got twenty minutes to finish my latte and catch a couple of YouTube videos. Then I gotta get to work.”

“Saving the universe is work. The most important work of all!”

“But how does it pay? ’Cause my landlord just jacked up my rent, and my brakes don’t sound too good. Plus my girlfriend’s birthday’s coming up and she’s been hinting that she wants dinner at that steak place. But it’s, like, hella expensive, and—”

“Being a sidekick and saving the universe are their own rewards. There is no monetary compensation.”

Todd nodded. “So it’s like an internship. Yeah, I had one of those when I was in college.”

“Er, yes, I suppose so.”

“Well, I appreciate the offer, but no can do. Too much else going on.”

“I’m giving you the opportunity to be a hero, Billy! This chance comes only once in a lifetime.”

For a few moments, Todd seriously considered the offer. He’d enjoyed his internship, and it would be pretty cool to find out he had superpowers. What if he could be invisible? Or run faster than the speed of light? On the other hand, his superpower might be something totally lame, like turning books into toast. Or finding lost socks. Besides, he had his job and his sort of girlfriend, and he was halfway through binge watching Breaking Bad because he hadn’t followed the series when it originally aired. And man, there was all that Spandex involved. Todd was pretty sure he’d look bad in tights.

“Sorry, dude,” he said. “I’m going to have to say no.”

GeoMan’s shoulders slumped. “The universe, Billy.”

Todd shook his head.

With a heavy sigh, GeoMan heaved himself off the chair. He walked slowly to the door, twisting around once to give Todd a disappointed look. When GeoMan turned back toward the exit, Todd caught just a glimpse of shiny red fabric peeking out from under GeoMan’s coat. It might have been a cape. And then GeoMan was gone.

Todd stuck the earbuds back in and called up a YouTube video to the laptop screen.

#HannibalOdyssey “The Knight and Nakama”

Hello, Internet! It’s that time again! Hannibal Cre-ATE-Ive has been hard at work on this month’s event, #HannibalOdyssey, and it’s been a challenge! I started this piece over a month ago. I had commissions in line before it. So when came the option of “Drawing for Money” or “Drawing for Fun,” money came first.

With #HannibalOdyssey ending today, I put the nose to the grindstone and pushed through. This event’s theme is sci-fi/fantasy, in honor of Mads Mikkelsen’s glorious Galen Erso of Star Wars: Rouge One.

As I mentioned previously, I decided to go full on fantasy with it. Dumping every possible manga nod I could with it and loose inspirations from CLAMP to Record of Lodoss War, this is what I came up with. Going to Animazement 2017? I’ll have prints of this beauty!

I have Chaos Mage Berserker Will, who summons chaos time magic at the expense of his sanity. He does not relate well to other villagers and travelers, and sticks to himself. However, Holy Knight Hannibal knows of the man they call Nakama and knows his magic can be handy to alter the truth of events to his benefit. With the Nakama in his employ (or enslavement), Hannibal seeks the Blood Princess Abigail to convince her his bloody, nightmarish coup was all in her mind. It’ll just cost his new pet the last scrap of humanity he has left.

Would that be such a bad thing?

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[image error]Photo courtesy of Madison Parker Photography.

Pop culture, comics, anime, and…cannibals?

These are a just a few things that go through Lex Chase’s head at any given moment. As an author, she specializes in stories of action, adventure, and broken yet true love. As an artist, she makes no apologies for drawing Hannibal’s Hannigram all the time.

Writing about boys who put the “massively fun” in massively dysfunctional, and drawing characters with questionable morals—or the precious cinnamon roll with questionable morals—gives her great pleasure. Lex knows everyone has a vice, and she’s willing to put stylus to tablet for yours.

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Lex is open to all kinds of commissions from promo art, to swag, to social media graphics, covers, branding, posters, prints, and gifts for fans or yourself!

Contact her at lex.a.chase@gmail.com with “Commission Request” in the subject line!