Category: Satirical Fiction

Mocking critiques in different forms. Targets include society, politics, religion, you.

Satire — Bottled Up Blessings

The doctor’s office was the only place Fizz Ease could kick his feet around like a kid. It was odd sitting without touching the ground. Kind of like how accustomed he’d become to going into the restroom and looking straight in the mirror, not needing to stand on tiptoes and peer above the counter.

Dr. Sudarshan was looking at a chart. He flipped a few pages roughly, making them crinkle.

“Looks like you have eleven tender spots today,” he said finally. “That’s four more since our last check-up. How are your sleeping habits?”

Fizz repeated the usual stories, each anecdote underlying the symptoms of fibromyalgia. Sleep-heavy nights, moody mornings, fatigue at work.

(more…)

Fiction — “Another School Shooting”

Grubbs wasn’t the first to use an EMP, but he was the first to use a plasma cannon. After the EMP left a tickle like dead fingers, Grubbs opened a static resistant bag and unloaded an array of metal bits. These fit together into a cannon in less than twenty seconds, hence their Amazon description as “quick, easy, you won’t need instructions.”

As soon as the cannon was mounted, Grubbs opened fire, the stone face of the high school exploding in hot blue flashes. A symphony of bolts fired from drones hanging above his shoulders; even more terrible were the neuro-frags planted in the gym and cafeteria, their bursts releasing psychic shards that slipped through stone and metal and split apart the thoughts of survivors. Seconds later, the only living soul within a mile was Jain Grubbs.

Yes, Americans still avoided metric in 2068.

This was the sixth school shooting that day; the third highest casualty count that week. The rates had long surpassed fragments of populations. Now death tolls were determined by school size minus absentees. On Monday, Jorge R. R. Tarkin had 4,434 students and 162 professional educators in the building. By the weekend, there were almost that many funerals. Those rituals of safety, like turning off the lights and moving away from the door, were as effective as duck and cover before a mushroom cloud.

Grubbs set up a heat line across the freeway, an invisible beam that turned cars into silver splatter. (Heat lines, because they had a trigger, were protected under the 2nd Amendment.) Grubbs finished his spree by launching mini-nukes into the suburbs while his drones battled an armada of police-pods. When sky personnel failed, the U.S. Military resorted to releasing a three-foot rod from space. The rod fell through Grubbs’s body and fifty feet into the ground. When his exosuit kept dead fingers firing off nukes, they dropped fourteen more until the corpse was pulled pork.

That weekend also saw the Green Ribbon Gun Show, which decided to stay open despite the tragedy (a corporate decision). The news interviewed salesmen about their weapons, making sure to linger holo-cams on tables lacquered with gleaming rifles. One man, wearing a red hat with white text reading The Trumps Will Rise Again, was mightily upset at the suggestion of closing the show.

“This isn’t a gun issue,” the man raged to the cameras. “It’s not a gun-drone issue. It’s not about nuke pistols or heat rays. It’s a mental health issue. It’s a family issue. It’s about how we raise our kids.”

Five feet away, two boys stared at a drone, six barrels glinting in the sun, as it zoomed back and forth, back and forth over the lawn.

Fiction — “Rabbits and Eagles”

Blue sky. Clouds shaped like rabbits and eagles. Faro Claret looked up at a statue of an old war hero, a bowcock adorned with gumdrops—no—buttons, and a gray uniform, and a conglomeration of names. Pierre Gustave Toutant-Beauregard. Faro knew very little about art history, or history, and today was a rare adventure away from his windowless office where he worked for another conglomeration of names—Merklee Shipping Commissions Incorporated. This was one stop of many. Moments before he had admired a tree with similar awe, as if a tree were a sculpted thing too, carrying mysteries in silence. (more…)

Rune Bear Bios (Attempt Two)

runebear1bthinner

I’m still trying to write the perfect bios for Rune Bear’s About page. But these just came off as too… distressing.

Desmond White, Editor-in-Chief

Desmond White is a guy. He’s right here typing this right now in a moment which will be burned up like the rest of the moments. What’s the point of anything if it’s all going to be extinguished with the unerring plod of time and space, that inevitable line, warbled by gravity, distraught by memory, but mobile? Fruit flies we are, playing and working and rubbing our hands together before retiring to the quiet places. Find him on twitter!

Stuart Warren, Speculative Fiction Editor

Stuart Warren is tired. Crusty-eyed. All he thinks about is his bed. Even when he’s in bed. Maybe it’s because sleep is the closest boundary to death that he allows himself. That great void that pervades. That pressure of nocturne, like the bottom of the oceans of the mind. And maybe he wants to peer beyond the illusions (that conglomerate of memory and fantasy) to peek into the dark dimensions, that unholy slumberous nil. Find him on twitter!

Alyssa Warren, Supernatural Fiction Editor

Sometimes Alyssa Warren remembers why she allowed her birth. For too long she floated in the ether, curious about the meaty breaths of humanity but finding no desire to leave that yellow comfort, that glowing peace. Maybe it was a mistake to come down to this planet, to be born to the struggle of organisms. If so, there is some comfort. From ether born, to ether go. All she has to do is wait sixty years. Find her on twitter!

Rune Bear Bios (Attempt One)

Stuart doesn’t like the bios I’ve written for Rune Bear.

Desmond White

Although currently facing execution by gas frogs (he’ll be dropped into a stank pit in April), Desmond White used to be the fearless leader of the Resistance until he took a bearbolt to the back and was captured. (A bearbolter is a fully-automated turret that launches American black bears.) This is his only known photo because he’s too ugly for full lighting.

Brandon Patterson

Having hacked more corporations than you can count on a calculator, Brandon Patterson has retired from a life of cybercrime to pursue his true passion: building websites for the Resistance against Gressian rule. Brandybuck lives in Dallas, New Texas, just outside the Omega System, with two servitor-skulls and a shapeshifting croissant named Cindy. He enjoys long walks on computer-generated beaches.

Stuart Warren

Stuart is an artificial construct compiled from discarded Rembrandt paintings and a dump of data-files removed from the Galactic Library because they were considered useless to intelligent life—literary criticism, mostly, and an eccentric medium called the “comic book.” Stuart currently serves the Glessian Majesty as a royal flusher, although he hopes to upgrade to a showerhead or sonic toothbrush.

Alyssa Warren

Alyssa Warren was Queen of the Solar Centaurs until she fell in love (some say it was an arranged marriage) with a dashing artificial toilet. Now, Her Neighness lives in a tiny apartment filled with books and a baby and an actual baby that she produced through sheer force of will (the toilet helped a little). When she’s not conquering minor planets with her braying legionnaires, Alyssa can be found at the farmer’s market sampling local honeys or knitting bad ass dog sweaters.

Here’s what Stu wrote for himself:

Stuart writes fiction and magic realism and lives in a tiny apartment filled with books and a wife and baby. Occasionally he reads a book and writes about it on Sequart.org, but mostly he shouts from his blog stuartjwarren.com about life and the books that he authors.

I’ll only accept it if he adds:

He also writes really boring bios.

Filler

We needed filler content for a literary magazine we’re creating, i.e. stuff of no consequence that will be deleted once we publish. So I wrote this.

“The Robot” by Botswana Brokeball

There is a girl who is a robot. She wakes up in the wastelands but doesn’t remember who she is (actually she’s a secret human). All the humans are dead but she doesn’t know until she meets communists called the Rainbow Riders. Their symbol is the rainbow. In my story all robots are rainbow stripe colors. The girl-robot-secret-human is named Eve, the first human. She’s actually the first human cryogenically frozen by Adam to be awakened when the technology has developed to de-freeze cryogenically frozen women. Eve decides to rename herself Even Stevens. After a lot of walking in the dust-broke wastes, her CPU glitches, and her hard drive crashes, and her URL is hacked. She was a robot the whole time! The story ends with a vulture digging a nest into her brain and finding pink gummy brains to its delight and surprise. She was a human the whole time too! In the end I show up in the book to congratulate the reader on finding the secret, then I tip my fedora and walk off the page. I was the monster at the end of the book!

Author Bio

I am from Remdonesia which is a small independent nation-state in the offshore drilling waters of California, America. Don’t be alarmed if I send you intimate details about my body via Facebook. I am only testing the ability of humans to communicate over long distances via Facebook. Shout out to nail clippers. Y’all the real heroes.

Published — “An Obituary for the Coolest Christian”

The Higgs Weldon, a humor site that does everything from comedic credits to caption contests, published my satirical panegyric “An Obituary for the Coolest Christian.” The piece satirizes Christian youth culture (sans the tight pants, iphones, and XS plaid shirts—that’s Christian youth Starbucks culture). The site is run by Los Angeles stand-ups Robbin Higgins and Paige Weldon and others (sorry to cut you short, others). They also have a live Higgs Weldon show which is a mix of character, sketch, games, and other improv facets at the Hollywood Improv Lab.