RPG Memoirs: Fiction or Nonfiction?

So…I’m at a little bit of a crossroads here when it comes to my nonfiction. Many months ago, I wrote a memoir about a D&D campaign I did with my brother in 2003 where I was a bounty hunter named Regal (it went about as well as you’d imagine, haha!). Ever since then, I’ve wondered if I should do those kinds of memoirs in the future. A small little voice told me that if I’m going to do them, why not just write them as fictional stories instead of memoirs? There’ll be more opportunities for showing instead of telling and it’ll feel like a real story. But given how some of those role-plays panned out, they wouldn’t make for very good stories on their own. Under a nonfiction microscope, I can analyze what went wrong and why. That’s basically the point of these memoirs: to show how much my storytelling skills and I have changed since those days. They can either be cautionary tales or legitimate master classes. What do you guys think? Are these kinds of stories better served as fiction or nonfiction?

Dirty Laundry

“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. Welcome to another episode of Beneath the Surface. I am your host, Aaron Moore. Tonight we’ve got a special treat for you. It’s no secret how Dread City’s debt crisis has ravaged our poor and working class population. Many of our citizens are losing their homes, their jobs, and in many cases, their families due to not being able to pay their debts on time. Here to expose the secrets of this little known debt industry is a man who wishes to be known by the pseudonym Heath Riggs. Heath, welcome to the show.”

“Good to be here, Aaron.”

Heath parked his ass at a dimly lit studio table across from his host, while live cameras filmed the interview from every angle behind the shadows. Aaron Moore clearly enjoyed the spotlight as evidenced by the fancy gray suit and tie he wore just for this occasion. Heath Riggs, on the other hand, thrived in anonymity, his black leather jacket, sunglasses, and hood covering everything but his black face driving the point home. While Aaron leaned his body in to ask the tough questions, Heath kicked back with his fingers in a triangle position and his heel across his lap.

“Now Heath, I want to start off by addressing with you the harassing ways in which debts are collected. The late night phone calls, the vulgar speech, the contacting of family, friends, and coworkers. By your own admission, these tactics should be illegal, yet debt collection companies get away with this all the time.”

Heath cleared his throat. “Well, you’re right about the fact that these tactics should be illegal. If they came from anybody other than a collector, the police would be called in a heartbeat. But the funny thing is, the harassment doesn’t actually get us our money faster. Then again, neither does the impending lawsuit and the subsequent garnishing of wages. This isn’t about collecting money we’ll never have. It’s politics. It’s all about weeding out the poor and disenfranchised so that they can’t influence our governmental policies. It’s not a conspiracy. This shit’s as real as it gets.”

Aaron, who was drinking a mug of hot coffee during Heath’s answer, spit out his beverage and choked on whatever was left. After wiping his mouth with his expensive sleeve, he said, “Mr. Riggs, I appreciate your honesty during this interview, but I have to ask you not to swear when giving your answers. We’re on live television in over a million homes. Surely, you understand.”

“Of course I do.” Heath grinned like he was onto something. “Wouldn’t want to offend your audience’s precious Christian ears. Wouldn’t want the children to hear any of this shit. Lord knows they might grow up to become free thinkers. We know that can never happen.”

“I’m warning you, Mr. Riggs….”

Taking his sunglasses off and revealing gray mechanical eyes underneath, Heath said, “Don’t worry, Aaron, I got the message loud and clear. You can’t swear on television, but if you do it behind closed doors with an unwilling secretary, it’s A-okay. I’m not just exposing the debt industries secrets, but yours as well. I agreed to do this interview because I want a clear conscience. Fourteen years of debt collecting began to wear on my soul after a while. I figured, as long as I’m here with an alleged sexual harasser, I might as well go the full nine, you know what I’m saying?”

“Cut the camera feed! Cut it now!” demanded Aaron. Without checking to see if his orders were followed, he leaned in closer to Heath’s face and pointed an accusatory finger at him. “I don’t know what kind of stunt you’re trying to pull, but you have no proof and neither do any of my accusers. Those cases were settled a long time ago. Now do you want to discuss debt collection or do you want to keep toying with me?”

“Why can’t he talk about both? It’s not like you two don’t deserve last words,” said a robotic feminine voice from the shadowy background. While Heath remained calm, cool, and collected, Aaron went bug-eyed and his body trembled at the sight of a cyborg assassin holding two severed heads by the hair like they were cheerleader pompoms. As soon as this mysterious woman stepped into the light, headless bodies all around the studio dropped to the ground and soaked the wooden floors in human blood and cyborg oil. A bald black woman with golden earrings and a green metal suit stared her newest victims down with a mischievous grin.

While Aaron curled up in a ball on the edge of pissing himself, the assassin said, “Don’t worry, honey. None of what you or Heath said made it on the airwaves. I made sure of that. It’s probably just as well. Although, if you want to tell your mindless viewers goodbye for one last time, I suppose I could let you do that.”

“Please…I don’t know who you are, but I’ve got a family I need to get home to. Don’t kill me! Please don’t kill me!” quivered Aaron while Heath smiled and shook his head.

“It’s the same old excuse: think of my family so that I don’t have to when I’m trying to take the secretary to pound town. Don’t worry, Aaron, I’ve got this.” Heath cracked his knuckles before getting out of his chair and strutting towards the assassin, who tossed the cameramen’s heads off to the side like they were easily disposable to begin with.

“What are you so cocky about, Mr. Riggs? You’re not making it out alive any more than Hard-On Henry over here. In fact, you’re the reason I came here today,” said the assassin with a grin.

Heath gazed his assailant up and down and whistled. “That’s some expensive hardware you’ve got there. How much did them arm blades set you back? Hundreds? Thousands of dollars? And that metal body? Shit, man, I don’t know how you pay for all that with just a Street Ronin’s salary. If only there was somebody here who knew how to make debt disappear quicker than those cameramen you laid out. Hmm…” Heath stroked his chin as he mockingly pondered this question.

The assassin flipped one of her arm blades and held it underneath Heath’s chin. He didn’t back down from his confident demeanor, but he was all ears for his would-be killer. “When you’re as good as me, money isn’t that hard to come by. I don’t know what kind of lies you’re telling about my client, but these poor suckers don’t go into debt because of politics. They do it because they could never make it in a capitalist meritocracy. That’s my special way of saying they’re fucking lazy.”

“Sure, whatever you say…Harlock!”

Upon hearing the assassin’s name, Aaron slowly lowered his feet to the bloody floor, obviously not caring that much about his designer shoes. “Wait a minute, you know this woman?”

“Not as well as I’d like to, but when you’ve been on the job as long as I have, you learn something about these poor pathetic motherfuckers. The boss man gives you a name, an address, and how much they owe. The rest of the research is up to you, hence why we often resort to calling friends and family to collect the debt. Harlock here doesn’t care about the circumstances of others, which is ironic considering those cyborg parts didn’t come easy in this so-called meritocracy. Besides, if she was really as hot shit as she thinks she is, she wouldn’t have revealed all this information to me. We’d both be dead as fucking fried chicken right now. But as it is…”

“Shut the hell up!” said Harlock as she drew a tiny droplet of blood from Heath’s cheek. He still didn’t budge, only smiled wider as he cleaned the wound off with his finger and licked it.

“Face it, lady,” said Heath. “You don’t want to admit it, but you can see the irony of a debt-burdened assassin working for a debt collection agency. You’re desperate for cash, so you’ll whore your services to anybody who can make shit go away. But the truth is…paying those suckers off ain’t going to solve everything. You would not believe the tricks they pull out of their asses just to keep you paying up. Ever heard of zombie debt? How about fifty percent interest? How about debtor’s prison? They still have that shit.”

Harlock narrowed her bladed eyebrows and dug the weapon deeper into Heath’s skin. He flinched a little bit, but not enough to give away whatever modicum of fear he might have been burdened with. She leaned in and said, “You know nothing about me and my struggles.”

“Exactly! Debt collectors don’t know shit about you, which is why they keep calling your ass in the first place! You could come crying to them with your whole life story and it wouldn’t be enough. They got no heart. They got no soul. If a big ass mega corporation had a heart and soul, they wouldn’t be in business for very long, would they? Capitalism is a bitch.”

Harlock’s eyes slowly lowered to the soggy floor as if Heath’s words got through to her. He took this small window of opportunity to grab her by the arm and swing her blade into her own stomach. While Aaron was in the background this whole time shivering and weeping, Harlock’s mechanical guts spilled all over the ground as she coughed up oil and blood. Heath yanked the blade upwards and split the rest of her upper body in two, bloodying the floor even more than it already was.

“What the hell did you do that for?! She was cooperating!” Aaron screamed.

“Recognizing how badly you’ve fucked up isn’t a Get Out of Jail Free card. In case you hadn’t noticed what’s been going on here the past few seconds, look on the ground. That bitch is beyond redemption. Speaking of which, let’s get them cameras rolling again…”

“No! No cameras! No! I’m done with this!”

“Oh, we’re just getting started, Aaron. We’ve got a lot to discuss. Debt collection and sexual harassment all in one story, although that piss stain on your pants will be bigger ratings boost than anything we talk about.”

Aaron spread his shaky legs to see that there was indeed urine on his groin. “Goddamn it!”

Heath shushed him. “Ah, ah, ah! No swearing! There’re children watching!”

Social Justice Warrior

The November breeze stung Pete Winger’s face while neon signs were burning his eyeballs. The sound of boots marching on concrete streets was the coup de grace in slowly waking him up from his head-pounding slumber. His first instinct was to roll out of bed and get in his trench coat and hat. Except where he laid was significantly less comfortable than a coil spring mattress. He couldn’t roll off of it either since his wrists and ankles were held in place with steel cables. Struggling for freedom didn’t get him an inch off of the steel surface that made his spine ache.

Pete finally opened his eyes, but not enough to take in the glow of the neon motel signs. Rundown buildings with American flags barely hanging on the doors (if the buildings even had doors). Concrete streets with potholes the size of dinner plates. Windows shattered. Graffiti smeared all over the brick walls. Minorities in ragged clothing out on their porches wondering just what the hell was going on.

Pete had the answer they were looking for. White hooded minions carried him on a steel crucifix while a cowgirl with an AK-47 strapped to her back led the charge. Her annoying voice seemed all too familiar to Pete when she ordered her hooded cohorts to stop. It was her alright. Long brown hair in a ponytail. Curvy hips. A leather biker gang jacket. A cowgirl hat with a feather in it. She was unmistakable. She was none other than Tifa Cody, America’s loudest voice.

Pete struggled some more in his bindings while Miss Cody goose-stepped into the middle of the street to address the impoverished citizens of this ghetto. “Alright, now listen up, y’all!” she belted in her signature southern accent. “It’s November and you know what that means for America: new politicians, same old crap. And in the interest of fairness, I’m here to make sure none of y’all are going to vote illegally in our fine democracy. Voter fraud is as real as it gets. If I catch one of y’all stuffing the ballot boxes this Tuesday, you’re getting an assload of lead!”

As Tifa unhooked her AK-47, Pete groggily said, “Hey there! You think you can get me off of this cross? I mean…Blue Lives Matter, right? Isn’t that what you’re always saying on the radio?”

Tifa pointed her gun at Pete. “Listen, Detective, and I use that word loosely, the operative phrase there is Blue Lives Matter, not Blue States Matter. I respect the authority of real cops who do their damn jobs, not Dick Tracy knockoffs like you who protect snowflakes like these!”

“Miss Cody…do you not see the irony of what you just said?”

Tifa cocked her gun. “What irony, Mr. Pete ‘Left’ Winger?”

“Well…um…You’re getting mad over the fact that poor black people are allowed to vote and yet they’re the snowflakes. Tell me how that adds up.”

Tifa fired a series of warning shots past Pete’s ear and had the minorities ducking for cover, their children screaming and crying. “This ain’t about skin color, you Snowflake Justice Warrior! This is about protecting our democracy from cheaters and thieves! You libtards don’t have a leg to stand on in the facts department, so you try to vote multiple times. And for the record, my stepfather is black, so don’t even try to play the race card with me!”

Pete chuckled nervously. “Okay, so we know you have a stepfather. But do you have any nieces and nephews? And when you visit them on their birthdays in Bumfuck, Alabama, do they refer to you as…Aunt Tifa?” That zinger got a chorus of “oo’s” from the ghetto dwellers.

“Lay him down, guys,” she ordered her robed minions. After they complied, she butt-stroked Pete in the stomach and earned a series of smoker-like coughs. He also spit up a wad of blood-laced saliva. “Your jokes are about as funny as the so-called woke comedians on late night TV. All that PC propaganda is turning your brain into mush. You don’t know how to tell a decent joke anymore because you’re too scared of getting thrown in Twitter jail.”

“Come on, you had to admit that was punderful.”

“I don’t have to admit a goddamn thing. As a matter of fact, boys, stand him up. I’m about to go all Auschwitz on his funny ass!”

As the hooded minions stood up the steel cross, Pete let out a string of, “No’s!” as if they would actually reconsider burning him alive. While he struggled once more to get free, Tifa pulled out a book of matches and struck them all on the collapsing pavement.

Her back turned to the residents, she said, “Are y’all seeing this? This is what happens when you try to fuck with my country! Ain’t no cops coming out to save him because he’s a damn traitor to real Americans, not the handout takers and ballot stuffers! Cops don’t like that shit! That’s why y’all keep getting shot all the damn time!” Tifa turned around momentarily. “Are you shitting me right now?! Are you filming this on your damn phone?!”

Tifa aimed her AK-47 at a shivering black teenager with his smart phone recording her. “This ain’t no comedy bit for your Tik Tok app or whatever the hell you young fuckers love to do! You drop that damn phone or I’m shooting it out of your damn hands!”

The teen refused to obey but continued to shiver. Pete knew it was now or never if he was going to save more lives than his own. He wiggled around on the cross some more. He struggled even harder. And harder. The steel bindings cut into his flesh and formed purple scars on his wrists and ankles. But the cross moved just a little bit at a time, so much so that the hooded minions had a hard time keeping it erect. They tried to call Tifa’s name, but she was in the middle of a tirade and had none of it.

Pete wiggled again. And again. His muscles ached and his limbs seemed as though they would fall off. And then…the steel cross lurched forward. “Look out!” shouted one of the minions as the cross landed on top of Tifa, bringing her and Pete into chest-to-chest contact. Her gun was knocked out of her hand, but the book of matches still burned and that tiny spark was enough to weaken the straps on Pete’s right wrist.

“Get off of me, goddamn it! Who do you think you are, Bill Clinton?” Tifa struggled while her hooded thugs ran away from not only the fallen cross, but also the minority residents who began throwing bottles and bricks at them. Some of them got away with no bruises other than their egos. Some of their heads splattered on the pavement. One hooded punk got his back cut up by pieces of glass.

As Tifa squirmed and wiggled to slowly pull herself out from under Pete and the cross, the detective tugged harder on the burning straps. His wrist singed with red hot pain. His skin grew crispy and black. The purple bruises opened up to leak pus and blood. But get his hand free he did. While Tifa crawled towards her AK-47, Pete began to unlatch his other wrist before hunching down and undoing his ankles.

Both Tifa and Pete slithered like snails across the ground while the hooded thugs were still being chased away by the impoverished residents. Tifa was fingertips away from her gun when Pete grabbed hold of her ankles and bear-hugged them. She rained knuckles on Pete’s scalp until she was able to crawl close enough to the AK-47 to grab it. But Pete ignored his head, wrist, and stomach trauma long enough to squirm over to her and get in a tug of war over the weapon.

Tifa elbowed and kneed Pete in the ribs and stomach, but he refused to let go of the automatic rifle. He spit a wad of blood in her eyes and snatched the rifle out of her hands, sharp pain in his chest aside. Despite being temporarily blinded, she slowly pulled herself to her feet and staggered towards one of the abandoned buildings. Which one, Pete couldn’t see because he was too busy curling up in a ball on the ground. Some neighborhood kids pulled him to his feet and supported him. When he asked where Tifa was, they didn’t know.

“Damn it, I can’t believe I’m letting that bitch get away!” Pete’s rib and chest pain sharpened like he was being closed in an iron maiden. He doubled over and spit up more blood, dazed at his surroundings. “Do me a favor, kid. Get me that American flag over there. I got an idea. Just do it!”

The teen retrieved the ratty-looking American flag off of a neighbor’s front porch and handed it to Pete. The detective waved his helpers away for a moment and he was able to stand up on his own two feet, beaten, but not dead.

“Tifa Cody! Get your ass out here and face me, you militia nitwit!” Screaming that caused even more sharp pain to bend him over. Still he waved off the neighborhood kids, who all gathered around with their smart phones to record the action now that Tifa and her stooges were a non-threat.

“So Tifa…you like to call people who don’t agree with you snowflakes, right? You like to call them SJW’s whenever they rightfully complain about being disenfranchised? Well…now it’s your turn to cry, sweetheart! I’m going to raise this flag…and everyone around me…will take a knee. Go on, do it!” The neighborhood residents did just that: get on one knee.

“Oh, that’s not enough to piss you off, Tifa? Sure pissed off the rest of your political flunkies. Wait a minute…I’ve got a better idea. Tifa Cody…if you don’t get your ass out here and surrender…I’m going to do something to this flag that’ll make your precious eyeballs leak like faucets. But what will I do to it? Will I wipe my ass with it? Will I blow my nose on it? Will I cough up blood on it? No…I think I’ll just fill it full of holes with your own assault rifle! And yes, it is an assault rifle no matter how much you say otherwise! I’m counting to three and this flag is going up in smoke! One…two…three!”

On cue, Tifa bolted out of a nearby building and shrieked, “NO!” before tossing a brick at Pete. It didn’t have the chance to smash his face in. It disintegrated into dust the minute Pete pulled the trigger and filled Tifa full of holes. Her bloody carcass dripped and splattered all over the building steps before rolling into the gutter. Everyone in the neighborhood, Pete included, took a moment to breathe heavily, either out of relief or heart-pounding adrenaline.

Pete slowly turned around and faced the cell phone cameras. “You see that?” He spit out blood and kneeled down in pain. “Crime doesn’t pay…no matter…who you vote for…For all of you…who say…All Lives Matter…clearly Tifa Cody’s didn’t…Don’t believe me?...Just ask her…She…drew…first…blood…” Pete’s vision blackened as he stumbled over face-first onto the ground, bleeding out of the mouth and any other wound her had. The neighbors gathered around to try and help him, but he was a lost cause.

The last thing Pete Winger heard before passing into the afterlife was police sirens off in the distance. This left him with an anxious feeling in his gut. Would these cops do the right thing? Whose side would they take: his or Tifa’s? Would these impoverished voters surrounding Pete become easy casualties? Pete Winger never got an answer to any of these questions. But hopefully whoever was watching the live videos being taken would question everything all at once, including their government. That’s all Detective Pete Winger could ask of them in his weakened state. His duty as a blue life that mattered was complete.

Where Is the Edge?

“When will these idiots ever learn?” asked Victoria Flare as she leapt from neon-lit building to neon-lit building. Her dark cybernetic body blended perfectly with the night sky. Even the neon signs did a piss-poor job of illuminating her most important features. Victoria took note of some of these signs: porn theaters, bars, strip clubs, and pawn shops. Just how far into the underworld did this briefcase thief go and would a bottle of Axe body wash be enough to get the grunge off of Victoria’s body? Why homeless people would ever want to look for handouts in a place like this, she would never know.

“The sooner I’m done with this, the better,” she said to herself while monitoring the radar screen over her eyes. Just a few more buildings to leap from. The blip was as obvious as a nun at a porn convention. Or in this case, a homeless thief in the back alley of a porn theater. Victoria shivered for more reasons than just being out in the frigid snowy night. But when she touched down in that slim alleyway (next to the dumpster no less), her business attitude was more radiant than any neon sign in this disgusting town.

She ejected two handguns from her wrists and pointed both of them at the heavily dressed drifter huddled against a pile of trash. She took note of the way he rocked back and forth in the fetal position while singing lyrics to the Within Temptation song “Where Is the Edge?” That voice was so raspy and damaged, yet angelically familiar. But even such marvelous singing couldn’t snap Victoria out of business mode. “Hands where I can see them, scumbag! Drop the briefcase and turn around slowly!”

With his body convulsing in the snowy weather, the drifter did as he was told down to the letter. He was hard to make out with the fuzzy hood over his head, but that damaged face was clearer than the starlit skies. The five o’clock shadow, the wide nose, the scars that would never heal, and the yellow teeth with one missing: this had been the very portrait of a once beautiful human being. “Waldo? Is that you?” Victoria asked.

“Oh dear god, Victoria…what the hell are you doing here?” asked the newly identified Waldo Spiegel, still adhering to his captor’s orders.

The cyborg mercenary lowered her weapons and said matter-of-factly, “I guess I could ask you the same thing. You’ve got something that doesn’t belong to you. Kick it over here and I’ll be out of your hair…or at least what’s left of it.”

“You think this is a joke, don’t you?” rasped Waldo as he lowered his hands. “There’s enough money in this briefcase to start my life over again, to stay out of the puzzle factory, to stay away from drugs. And now you, my oh-so-loving ex-girlfriend, have come to take that away from me. Anything else you want to take away from me? You want my soul? You want my balls on a platter? How about I just rip my heart out of my fucking chest and let you have that.”

“Don’t act like such a victim, Waldo,” grunted Victoria as she slowly advanced toward her former lover. “I didn’t take a damn thing away from you. You took it away from me. You want to talk about stealing hearts? That’s it, man! Remember that night at Tony’s Restaurant? The night you went fucking ape-shit? The only way I could ever be at fault for this is not seeing the warning signs sooner. You’re a loony, Waldo. You’re a fucking fruitcake.”

“Fruitcake? Fruitcake?!” shouted Waldo while kicking over a nearby garbage can. “You think I chose to go insane? Does anybody really want that for themselves? I tried my damnedest to keep my shit together. I never wanted to be locked up in a padded cell. But you…you turned me over to those white coats and now look where I am! You insensitive piece of shit!” Waldo’s fury was punctuated by him throwing trash from the spilled receptacle at his ex-girlfriend.

“Enough!” belted Victoria as she swatted away a tin can and ended Waldo’s barrage of filth. “You’re really going to blame all of this on me? What was I supposed to do, just let you go nuts again? You really think I could ever keep a stable relationship with a weirdo like you? Looks like the both of us would have worn white at our wedding, but at least my arms would have been free!”

“Fuck you and your lame ass jokes!” roared Waldo as he heaved the knocked over garbage can over his head and launched it at Victoria, who shot it down with a few bullets from her wrist weapons. He then blitzed up to her and shoved her around a few times while Victoria blankly no-sold his offence. He then ran around in circles screaming, cussing, and throwing punches at thin air before crashing in a heap and crying his eyes out.

Victoria’s stone-faced expression softened, but only with horizontal eyebrows instead of diagonal. She never forgot what she was hired to do, but also couldn’t help but take a modicum of pity on her train wreck of an ex-boyfriend, who rolled around on the snow and trash-covered ground bawling like a baby. She slowly approached him and tried to comfort him by peeling back his hood and petting his bald head.

The drifter swatted her hand away and sobbed, “Don’t touch me, Vickie. Don’t fucking touch me. It’s too late to save me now. You already made yourself clear when you dumped my ass all those years ago. If you want the briefcase, just take the fucking thing and get out of here. Leave me in peace.”

“If I leave you out here, Waldo, you’ll freeze to death,” whispered Victoria.

“What do you care if I die out here?” said Waldo while pie-facing her. “I’ve got no fucking future. That money’s going to run out eventually anyways. Who’s going to hire me? Who needs an ex-marine with a head full of sick and twisted shit when there’s a perfectly good cyborg who’ll gladly take my spot?”

“You want the truth, Waldo?” asked Victoria while holding his shivering hand in hers, to which he didn’t resist this time. “That puzzle factory as you call it was the best thing for you. You had access to the medicine you needed and you didn’t have to hang out with scumbag criminals who were beneath you. More importantly, you weren’t able to hurt anybody. You came very close to killing that taxi driver that night at Tony’s. Killing isn’t new to you since you were a marine, but I know you wouldn’t want to live with taking an innocent life like that. Do you remember now?”

Waldo breathed heavily as he tried to recall the memory. “I can’t remember a damn thing anymore. All I see are nightmares. Lots and lots of nightmares. Breaking up with you was one of them. You were my only real shot staying in control…and then you drop me off at the loony bin and never even bother to say hi every once and a while.”

“What if I promised to help you get back on your feet again?” asked Victoria.

“Nobody can save me!” shouted Waldo. “There aren’t enough drugs in this world to keep those nightmares out of my head! There aren’t enough social workers to keep me off the streets! Everything is about money these days! Why do you think this place is run by mega corporations?! It costs money to get help and it costs even more money to stay sane! That briefcase might sustain me for a little while, but I need something permanent, damn it! Who’s going to give me a chance now, Vickie? Who?!”

Victoria’s eyes dampened at the thought of her boyfriend making complete sense amongst all of the madness. She wiped away a single tear with her wrist and asked her boyfriend, “Do you want me to take the nightmares away? Do you want something permanent? There’s only one way I can do that, Waldo. You know what it is.”

Waldo wiped away his own cascading eyes when he peeked down at Victoria’s wrist guns. He shivered hard as he contemplated this decision and Victoria could feel his fear and sadness radiating off of him like an angel’s halo, which he would need when he nodded in approval. “Let’s do this. Please, let me go!”

Victoria hugged Waldo’s head tightly as the two of them sobbed together and sang “Where Is the Edge?” in perfect harmony. She said, “Even after all of the drugs, you still have the most beautiful voice, Waldo Spiegel.”

“I love you, Vickie!”

“I love you too, honey-bunny. Close your eyes. This won’t take long.” The homeless marine did as he was told yet again, though his eyelids served as a piss-poor levy for his flowing eyeballs. Victoria’s own eyes were burning with sadness and rage as she held the wrist gun to her ex-boyfriend’s chin and took her sweet time in pulling the trigger. “You’re free, my darling. You’re finally free.”

BANG!

Waldo’s head exploded and his body went limp instantly. Victoria stood up and wiped away her burning eyes, not knowing what to do with Waldo’s corpse. He needed a proper burial, but this was hardly the place to do it with all of the trash and pornography on the ground. She retrieved the briefcase full of money and tapped her radar visor, ejecting a Bluetooth microphone towards her lips.

“The mission is complete, Executor. I have the briefcase. The target has been neutralized. I did everything you asked me to do. But you’re not getting this money back, my friend. Since you and your corporation won’t do it, I’ll donate these greenbacks to a schizophrenic charity. There should be enough here so that what happened to the thief won’t happen to anybody else. And by the way, that thief has a name: Waldo Jeffrey Spiegel. Remember that name until the day you die. I know I will. If you want to come for me and the briefcase, you’d better bring the National Guard, motherfucker, ‘cause I’m not letting this shit happen again!”

“….Good luck, Miss Flare! You’re going to need it!”

CLICK!

Shield Me

The closer the subway train got to the Dreadnaught City station, the more Colonel Scott Percival doubted whether or not he could return to a normal life. Still dressed in his black khakis, brown boots, and black combat vest from the war, everything about Scott screamed “soldier”.

There was not one trace of love or peace in his contemplative facial expression as he kept his eyes glued to the floor of the train. Visions of war caused him to clench and unclench his ham-hawk fists. His energy blade was nestled by his side in case the war came back home with him. He never knew when the next explosion would come or who would be next to fire an assault rifle at him. In the cyberpunk hellhole of Dreadnaught City, being steadfast and hyper-vigilant was a way of life.

Scott’s inner demons were interrupted by the beeping sound of the train doors opening at its final stop for the night. With nobody else onboard except for him, getting off this clunky car was the easiest part of his evening so far.

The hardest part was seeing his girlfriend Gayle Rodriguez leaning against a platform pillar with her arms and legs crossed and tears running down her face. No trace of happiness, not even a weak smile, just a red cocktail dress, flowing black hair, and eyeballs full of stinging juices.

The traumatized soldier approached the equally traumatized girlfriend and wrapped his massive arms around her in a tender embrace. “It’s okay, baby girl. I’m home now,” Scott said in his best smooth jazz voice while stroking Gayle’s silky soft hair.

Gayle broke the embrace and looked into Scott’s coffee brown eyes with her own puppy-dog expression. “You don’t understand, babe. I can’t be with you anymore. I’ve done something horrible. I’m sorry, Scott! I can’t do this! I had to make money while you were away…and…I…I…”

“Back to work, sweetheart. Your dinner break was over an hour ago,” said a rough feminine voice from the shadows of the platform. When the woman walked into the overhead light, she revealed herself to be a gasmask-wearing heavyweight with a large red geisha robe fitting snugly over her pudgy features. Like Scott, she too had an energy blade nestled beside her, ready for combat at a moment’s notice.

With a look of concern shadowed by his black dreadlocks, Scott asked, “Gayle, who is this woman? What have you been doing while I was away?”

Gayle’s sobs became louder as she buried her face into her boyfriend’s chest and yelled, “I’m sorry! I’m so sorry, Scott!”

“Break up the love fest, you stupid bitch!” shouted the obese woman. “There are horny men that need attending to and I don’t have anybody else to do it! You want your paycheck? You want to keep living in a heated apartment? Come with me! Never mind that loser you’re hugging! If he was a real boyfriend, he would have stayed home with you instead of running away from his so-called patriotic duty!”

Scott broke the embrace with his girlfriend and slowly paced toward the female pimp with his hand firmly around the dragon-themed hilt of his energy blade. “What did you say to me, bitch? What did you say?! You want to get your head chopped off tonight or what?!” Gayle was about to interrupt him with a sorrowful warning, but Scott backed her off and said, “Just stay behind me and don’t do a damn thing! I’ve got this! We can talk about the whole prostitution thing later! Right now, I’m going to gut this fat bitch alive and spread her insides all over this fucking platform!”

The pimp glared at Scott behind her hideous gasmask and drew her skeleton-themed hilt before ejecting a blade of hot red energy from it. She swung it around with the deftness of a samurai, sometimes even showing off when she spun it in the air. “For the record, my name isn’t fat bitch. It’s Carla Madder. Madame Carla Madder. The only one who should get her name changed to bitch is that woman you’re protecting!”

Scott Percival screamed in primal fury before drawing his glowing blue energy blade and throwing down with Carla Madder. Gayle stayed in the background curled up in a ball on the floor and letting her tears and snot run down her legs. The two warriors slashed and twirled their blades at each other, sometimes blocking with their weapons and other times flipping and dodging out of harm’s way. Their weapons even took chunks of cement out of the pillars and floor. The more destruction they caused to public property, the more they swung at each other with a berserker’s fury. Their furious brawl stalled with the two warriors holding their weapons together and glaring violently at each other.

“Is that all you got? I thought you soldiers had big fucking grenades. Turns out your just smuggling some cherry bombs!” taunted Carla. After laughing obnoxiously at her own joke, Scott went for an overhead slash only to have her duck down and head butt him in the stomach, dropping him to his knees and causing him to release his blade. Carla kicked the weapon onto the train tracks and stared at her opponent with a grizzly bear’s hunger. She even took her gasmask off and revealed her mouth to be an ugly contraption filled with razor sharp teeth and bloody red lips.

Gayle’s eyes shot up in horror at she watched her boss lick her top teeth with disgusting sexuality. Scott’s girlfriend crawled over to the edge of the platform and vomited stomach acid onto the train tracks.

“You have every disease on the fucking planet and you’re suddenly disgusted by what my mouth looks like. What about what YOUR mouth looks like, bitch?!” shouted Carla, earning her a punch to the gut and a clenched-teeth expression from Scott. The rock hard fist sank into her big belly like her body was made of quicksand. The wide-eyed Scott even struggled to pull his hand out, even grabbing his own wrist with his free hand.

“Pathetic! That’s all you soldier boys are!” taunted Carla as she popped Scott’s hand out of her belly and spin kicked him in the chest, sending the “soldier boy” flying backwards several feet and rolling on the ground. The demonic pimp squeezed her own breasts in violent anticipation while Scott was lying on his back hacking and wheezing.

Gayle crawled over to Scott and wrapped his huge arm around her shoulders in an attempt to get him to his feet. Even with Scott’s cooperation, lifting him was like trying to lift a small car. He continued to inhale deep, raspy puffs of oxygen, but dropped down to one knee. “Come on, Scott, get up! Please! Help me!” shouted Gayle.

The words of encouragement filled Scott’s mind with fire and fury. Even with his lungs burning and his chest stinging, he got up on his feet, looked his girlfriend in the eyes, and said, “I love you so much right now.” And then he heard a whirling noise and felt a hot blast of energy seer through his shoulder. He screamed in horrific pain as his left arm limply fell to the ground in a splash of blood, no longer attached to his already pain-wracked body. Scott got down on one knee again and clutched his shoulder, squealing through gritted teeth and tightened eyelids. Gayle screamed along with him and hugged his neck tightly.

“Enough of this shit!” shouted Carla, immediately gaining the silent attention of Gayle while Scott continued to cry out in agony. From where she was standing, it appeared the pimp threw her energy blade at her opponent. She confirmed this when she pointed her sausage finger at the hilt of her blade, which was halfway across the platform. “You’ve seen how much of a protective boyfriend your so-called man can be. How protective is he going to be with just one arm? How is he going to earn you the kind of money you made while working with me, Gayle? Is he going to be a circus freak? Is that how he’ll earn his money?”

Carla breathed like a wild beast while Gayle slowly backed away from her. The heavyset pimp approached her like a lion getting ready to feast. She kicked Scott in his shoulder hole along the way, causing the battle born soldier to roll around and scream even louder. Carla smiled viciously and said, “Gayle, give me my energy blade and all will be forgiven. You can come back to work anytime you want. I’ll even give you some…extra shifts!” Gayle attempted a fierce glare at her boss, but could only muster more sorrow. “Give it to me, Gayle! Give me the goddamn blade!”

This was Gayle Rodriguez’s chance to see the writing on the wall. She could side with her armless boyfriend and potentially live on the streets or continue having sex for money and live comfortably. Scott was a gentleman and the ultimate romantic lover. There was nothing romantic about what Gayle did for her paychecks. But big paychecks they were, so big that she could be in line for a promotion. Plus, how could she look Scott in the face after everything she did while he was away? Paycheck or not, it was wrong. Dead wrong.

With shaky legs and arms, Gayle got down on one knee and struggled to keep the energy blade in a firm grasp. Carla motioned for her to toss it with a wave of her hand. The prostitute steadied herself and once again tried to form a strong glare. All she did was shake some more. Her insides felt like they were being ground up into meat. With one girly throw, she tossed the hilt of the energy blade.

Carla reached up to grab it, but the hilt sailed over her head and into the one arm of Scott Percival, who ejected the red energy and slashed the pimp’s throat in one quick motion. Blood and organs flowed heavily from Carla’s big neck as she dropped to the ground and soaked the platform with her life juices. She tried to curse at her former charge, but all that would come out was a waterfall of blood. Once she landed on the floor chest first, the final tidal wave of blood splashed onto the train tracks below. One final twitch of her fat pinky and that was all she wrote.

Scott tossed the blade aside and looked tearfully into his girlfriend’s eyes. She looked back at him with that same ghostly expression before running up to him in high heeled shoes and hugging her one-armed man tightly while showering his face with kisses. “I’m so sorry, Scott! I didn’t mean for things to turn out this way! Please forgive me!” she begged.

Even with one arm, Scott’s hug felt warm and protective, like a romantic shield. “I’ll never let anything bad happen to you again, Gayle. I’ll find a way to make money. And when I do, we’re going to have that family we’ve always wanted.”

“I love you, Scott!”

“I love you too, baby girl. Let’s get the fuck out of this dump.”

The Audiomancer

Fully automatic pistol? Check. Blue trench coat? Check. Badass shades? Check. Nasty attitude? Double check. With his hands stuffed in his pockets, Edge Spider whistled a playful tune as he ascended the busted-up wooden stairs of the Neon Neighborhood Apartments. Through the mirrored shades resting underneath his afro do, he glared at the janitor at the top of the stairs, an old man in gray overalls mopping the floors. Edge reached the second floor and the elderly custodian never took his scowling eyes off of the cybernetic thug.

“Dude, what the fuck you lookin’ at, old man? I’ll kick your ass if you don’t take them eyes off of me! Keep mopping that dirt and don’t pay me no mind, bitch! Jesus!” threatened Edge as he scurried down the hallway to the apartment of his choice. He never turned around to see if the janitor was still glaring at him. All of his attention was on the number on the scratched up wooden door in front of him: 4B. “That’s the one.”

Edge knocked on the door several times and said, “Hey, Lisa! Come on, baby girl, open the goddamn door!” No reply. He knocked even harder this time and said, “Open the door, bitch! I ain’t got all day!” Still no answer. He then pulled a small wire from his trench coat pocket and fiddled with the lock until he heard a click. He chuckled to himself and said, “Bitch, you’re making this too easy.”

With one harsh swing of the door, Edge burst inside the shabby apartment and yelled, “Here’s Johnny!” in a prolonged voice. Not even the gangster’s obnoxious tone was enough to awaken Sgt. Lisa Baker, who sat hunched over at her computer lightly snoring with thick headphones on her ears. “Damn, that must have been some powerful shit.”

Shutting the door behind him with a loud thud wasn’t enough to startle Lisa, but slapping her in the back of the head and knocking her headphones over was. The blond ex-marine in a ratty pink bathrobe held the back of her head while stretching her sleepiness out with her other arm.

“Wakey, wakey! Eggs and bacey! Rise and shine! It’s breakfast time!” said Edge in a quasi-playful tone.

“Hey, Edge. How’s it going?” said Lisa in a languid, zonked out voice.

“Well, babe, I wish I could say things were going great, but they ain’t. I’ve been lookin’ at my bank account today and it’s getting pretty damn low. That might have something to do with you being late on those payments. So where’s my money, bitch? You obviously love them audio files I gave to you. Now you gotta pay for them sum-bitches,” said Edge while hovering over her.

“Listen, man,” said Lisa as he rubbed the exhaustion from her eyes. “Those files have done wonders for my PTSD. I’m grateful to have them, I really am. But I’m having a hard time coming up with money, okay? Ever since I came back from the war, I had a hard time finding work. Just give me a few more weeks and you’ll get your money.”

Placing a hand on Sgt. Baker’s shoulder, Edge said in a sarcastically comforting tone, “Okay, baby girl. I’ll give you a few more weeks. And then I’ll give you a few more weeks after that, a few more weeks after that, and a few more weeks after that. I could give you enough time for me to be in a fucking nursing home and I still wouldn’t get my money. Them audio files are making you lazy, bitch. You know how I feel about lazy people.”

His feelings were confirmed when Lisa’s head drooped over and she fell asleep again. “Oh, no, you didn’t. I know you didn’t just fall asleep on me.” The marine’s response was even heavier snoring than before. Edge gritted his teeth, grabbed Lisa by her shoulders, and tossed her across the room, all while yelling, “Wake up, asshole!”

The soldier slowly stirred from her slumber and gazed up at Edge with foggy eyes and a crooked smile. “Hey there, big boy. What can I do for you today?”

“Oh, you know damn well what you’re going to do for me! You’re going to break out that checkbook and give me what I came here for! If I have to throw your ass out the window, I’ll fucking do it! I’m telling you, you’re hooked on them audio drugs! I’m cutting your ass off until I get my money!” shouted Edge while pointing an accusatory finger at his victim.

Lisa made a flat tire noise and torpidly said, “Audio drugs? Babe, that wasn’t an audio drug I was listening to.”

“Oh, don’t gimme that bullshit! You was snoozing like a lazy little dog! I saw you myself!” snapped Edge. For full proof, he put the headphones on for a quick listen. His pissed off expression softened as he announced, “This ain’t no audio drug. This is just some new age piano shit.” He threw the headphones across the room and yelled, “Where the hell are my audio drugs, bitch?!”

Lisa’s laughter suggested that she was never tired to begin with as it was full of energy and gusto. When asked what she was laughing about, she said, “Word of advice, Edge Spider, if that is your real name: when you give painful audio drugs to complete strangers, do a better job of wiping your personal data off of them. Then again, it’s not really your fault, is it? You did everything you could. It’s just that my team was better!”

“Team? What’s all this about a team?” asked Edge before his confused expression turned into a full-on quivering lip. “You ain’t no marine with Pussy-Traumatic Stress Disorder! You’re a cop! You set my ass up!”

“I sure did,” revealed Lisa. “Somebody had to do something about those audio files crushing people’s brains. You’re no healer. You’re just a common scumbag drug dealer, Edge. Every file you gave me has been uploaded to the police database. If I were you, I’d run like the wind.”

Instead of taking that wise advice, Edge chuckled evilly, pulled his automatic pistol from his pocket, and aimed the Freudian weapon at Lisa with a cocked barrel. “They ain’t gonna take me if I have a hostage. You look important enough to them folks at the po-po station. So come on, baby girl: on your feet. Put them silky smooth hands of yours behind your pretty little head.”

Lisa did as she was told, but did so with a wicked grin of her own. “Okay, sweet cheeks. You win!” She pulled a knife from her thick hair and threw it with a blinding quickness at Edge’s gun, shattering the weapon into pieces.

At first the gangster looked down at the metal parts with fright, but then threw his arms in the air and smiled as he said, “Nah, nah, nah, cutie pie. You’re the one who wins this time.” In one swift motion, Edge threw a roundhouse kick at Lisa’s face, spinning her around in the air before she tumbled onto her shag carpet floor. Edge yelled, “I ain’t gonna spend my life in no federal prison! Fuck this shit, I’m outta here!”

Just when Lisa was stirring, Edge booted down the apartment door and sped down the hallway with every ounce of athleticism he possessed. The janitor was still glaring at him with viper-like eyes. “Damn, dude! The hell’s wrong with yo ass?!” shouted Edge as he shoved the janitor out of the way. It seemed like he would have a clear path to freedom with an empty lobby and an empty stairwell.

And then the drug dealer felt something hook his ankle, causing him to roll down the stairs and bang his body on every sharp corner of the stairs. By the time he reached the lobby, he was holding his ribs and head while whining in pain. Some of his blood painted the stairs and the railing on the way down.

Once his vision cleared up, Edge looked at the top of the stairs to see that the old man had a hook at the end of his mop before he concealed it again like a switchblade. Lisa held her bruised face as she joined the janitor, who then hugged her and asked, “Are you alright, Baker?”

“Yeah, I’m fine. Thanks for the assist, Private. I’ll put in a good word for you at the station and we’ll see about getting you that promotion you’ve always wanted,” said Lisa. She looked down at the battered and broken gangster and said, “Here’s another piece of free advice, shit-head: treat the janitor with the same respect you give to the CEO.”

Edge spit out a wad of blood in a poor attempt to hit either Lisa or the undercover cop. “He ain’t no motherfucking janitor! Goddamn you two!”

The two cops trudged downstairs while the “janitor” ripped his wrinkly skin off to prove that he was actually a lot younger than his character suggested. Lisa rolled Edge on his stomach before cuffing his hands behind his back. “Edge Spider, I still don’t know if that’s your real name, but you’re under arrest for distributing illegal audio files. You have the right to legal counsel, which you’ll probably need since you can’t put together a decent sentence yourself.”

Author Interview: Jesikah Sundin

1. What was the inspiration for you wanting to be an author?

Other authors, without question. I’ve always been fascinated by the art of storytelling. Even as a child, I would dissect books into their various parts: world building, characters, plot, and theme. Libraries were my favorite place outside of nature. Rows and rows and shelves upon shelves of adventures and information just waiting to be discovered and known. Happiness.

2. In your opinion, what are the qualities of a likeable book?

An immersive world, many complex plot layers, with believable characters is incredibly important to me as a reader. Flawed characters who elicit a gamut of emotional reactions are the absolute best. I also enjoy lyrical writing styles and vivid descriptions. I’m a sucker for good scenery exposition. I want to feel the magic of a waning sunset and rising moon, the wind touching each leaf, the spray of salt water colliding with earth. With this combination, everything around me dims as the words float off the page and become a living, breathing story.

3. Does music play a role in your creative process?

Absolutely! In fact, on Spotify I have a near-eleven-hour playlist with songs that feed my writing for this series, aptly titled The Biodome Chronicles. The music ranges from industrial electronica, alternative metal, grunge, dubstep, orchestral pieces from movies and video games, to pop and rock favorites from various bands.

4. What sources of creative fuel do you draw inspiration from?

Books, maps, poetry, as well as fantasy, scifi, and travel visuals on Pinterest. I love art. LOVE it. Sometime I peruse DeviantArt to absorb the beauty, whimsy, and ethereal imagery of people and words, real or imagined. 

5. How did you break into the writing business?

Well, I had left a career a month earlier and yearned for a new adventure. Storytelling and writing is a huge part of who I am. So much so, a few friends and my father all suggested I write a novel. Within the year, a collection of serendipitous moments led me into relationship with other authors who kindly held my newbie hand through drafting, revision, and the various stages of publishing. They were so patient, answering my many questions and sharing their hard-earned wisdom. I owe so much to each of them.

6. Do you prefer paperback or digital books and why?

I prefer paperbacks. Nothing beats the feel of a book in your hand or flipping pages. I love the swish sound, too! *le sigh* However, I also read books on my phone and Kindle device. Sometimes I’m too impatient for the next book in series to arrive or don’t have space to pack the preferred paperback.

7. In your opinion, how important are libraries to our society?

Libraries are the cornerstone of a healthy society and the building blocks for freedom. All people should have free access to books and resources of information. I’m a huge supporter, whether neighborhood little lending libraries or government institutions.

8. What are the qualities of having a sympathetic main character?

This is a fantastic question. For me, a sympathetic character is flawed, either by choice or by circumstance. They should feel real, possessing both likeable and unlikeable qualities. Their struggles become my struggles. Their heartache my heartache. I want to grit my teeth when they make poor choices, hold my breath as they strive to overcome, and cheer when they finally do. And, if they don’t, empathize with their despair and disappointment. But in order for me to feel any form of sympathy? They can’t be perfect people who do perfect things every perfect moment of every perfect page.   

9. What did you do for a living prior to becoming an author?

Oh, wow. A stew pot of occupations. Let’s see … most positions have been in business administration. I was a licensed bridal consultant / wedding coordinator at one point. Also a Kindermusik educator for ages newborn through five years. I worked in a boutique dress shop in my late teens, selling handmade designer antique-styled clothing fashioned from the Regency era, the 1920’s, and 1930’s. Loved the linens and pinafores and French peasant inspired colors and designs. But, those fun jobs were fleeting compared to years and years of administration odd-end jobs. The job I held right before authordom was Director of Operations for a Kindermusik studio.

10. Do you have any words of wisdom for aspiring authors who might be reading this interview?

Write. Pour words onto a page. Don’t worry if it’s well written or the worst stuff ever penned in the history of the world. As a writer, your job is to tell a story. That’s it. Tell a story. An editor will polish the writing to make your story shine. Beta readers will help you fill in plot and character cracks and crevices so the reading experience is even smoother. But your job is to purge the story, no matter how messy the process. Neatly chisel each word into existence or vomit the letters onto the page. But get them out. Once you do, editors, beta readers, and fellow writers will be there to help you the rest of the way. It takes a village to write a novel! :)

 LEGACY (The Biodome Chronicles #1)

by Jesikah Sundin

ISBN-13: 978-0-9913453-7-3

ISBN-10: 0-9913453-7-1

ASIN: B01KBAL1JM

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Cover: http://www.jesikahsundin.com/wp-content/uploads/2014/01/Legacy-full-EBOOK-cover-final-updated-2014-JPEG-2-brighter-cover.jpg

LOGLINE:

Worlds collide when a hacker form the near-future helps siblings from an experimental medieval colony decode the mystery behind their father's death in a psychological game of survival. 

SHORT DESCRIPTION:

Siblings born and raised inside an earth-based experimental Mars biodome have only known a rustic medieval life rich in traditions and chivalry. Groomed by The Code, they have built a sustainable community devoid of Outsider interference––until the unthinkable happens.

Cultures clash when the high technology of the Anime Tech Movement collides with the Middle Ages in a quest for truth, unfolding a story rich in mystery, betrayal and love. 

LONG DESCRIPTION:

A sensible young nobleman, Leaf Watson, and his sister, Willow Oak, live a rustic medieval life rich in traditions and chivalry. Sealed inside an experimental biodome since infancy, they have been groomed by The Code to build a sustainable community devoid of Outsider interference.

They are unwitting pioneers on a path toward confined interplanetary homesteading.

Life within their walled garden is predictable and peaceful until the unthinkable happens. With his dying breath, Leaf and Willow’s noble father bequeaths a family secret, placing an invisible crown of power on Leaf’s head. Grief-stricken and afraid for their lives, the siblings defy their upbringing by connecting with Fillion Nichols, a punk hacker who, unbeknownst to them, is linked to their lives in shocking ways. Their encounter launches Fillion into a battle with his turbulent past as he urgently decodes the many secrets that bind them together, a necessity for each to survive.

Youth cultures clash when the high technology of the Anime Tech Movement collides with the Middle Ages in a quest for truth, unfolding a story rich in mystery, betrayal and love.

AWARDS / HONORS:

LEGACY proclaimed winner of:
2014 Chanticleer Book Reviews Great Beginnings Cygnus winner for Sci-Fi/Fantasy
2014 National Indie Excellence Award Finalist for Science Fiction.
2014 Cygnus Award for Sci-Fi / Cyberpunk
2014 Dante Rossetti Award for Sci-Fi / Cyberpunk
2014 Dante Rossetti Grand Prize Award for Young Adult Fiction

REVIEW BLURBS:

"A captivating YA hybrid of sci-fi and medieval fantasy, mystery, and romance, Legacy opens The Biodome Chronicles series with divergent worlds on a carefully planned collision course." -- Chanticleer Book Reviews

"Jesikah Sundin is pioneering a whole new genre: near-future medieval fantasy with a cyberpunk twist..." -- Selah J. Tay-Song, award-winning author of Dreams of QaiMaj series

"...This book was beautifully written. It was detailed, immersive, and had a subtlety that I cannot help but be impressed by." -- Kookie Krysp Reviews 

AUTHOR BIO:

Jesikah Sundin is a sci-fi/fantasy writer mom of three nerdlets and devoted wife to a gamer geek. In addition to her family, she shares her home in Monroe, Washington with a red-footed tortoise and a collection of seatbelt purses. She is addicted to coffee, laughing, and Dr. Martens shoes ... Oh! And the forest is her happy place.

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Profile Picture: http://www.jesikahsundin.com/wp-content/uploads/2015/07/Jesikah-Sundin-Author-2-square-e1436908785364.jpg

ADDITIONAL BOOKS / IMAGES:

The Biodome Chronicles:  https://scontent.fsnc1-1.fna.fbcdn.net/t31.0-8/13254786_811098469022873_2959663607339095703_o.jpg

ELEMENT (The Biodome Chronicles #2)

ISBN-13: 978-0-9913453-6-6

ISBN-10: 0-9913453-6-3

ASIN: B011AHP1CS

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Cover: http://www.jesikahsundin.com/wp-content/uploads/2015/07/Elements-front-cover-FB.jpg

TRANSITIONS: Novella Collection (The Biodome Chronicles #2.5)

ISBN-13: 978-0-9913453-4-2

ISBN-10: 0-9913453-4-7

ASIN:  B01FEAWV3E

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Cover: http://jesikahsundin.com/wp-content/uploads/2014/01/Transitions-front-cover-RGB.jpg

Nail Bomb

Riding public transportation can be a daunting task all by itself, judging from the peculiar characters who occupy those bus seats. On this particular day in cyberpunk city, it was downright dangerous. The city bus had its usual colorful characters such as the war veteran with a loud voice, the old man who wanted to know how everybody’s “trading stock” was doing, the mentally ill woman who was talking to herself, and the overweight mother of a baby she never made any effort to keep calm while the little one screamed like a demon.

The only person on that bus who wasn’t bothering anybody and was only minding his own business was the black hoodie-donning Psymon Nordonus. The only movement he made was with his head bobbing back and forth to “Killpop” by Slipknot on his MP3 player. Such aggressive heavy metal was sure to block out the cacophony of weirdoes, all of which were being ignored by the hefty bus driver.

Psymon was barely looking out of the corner of his eye at the large mother and the war veteran arguing with each other. At least one time during that conversation, both parties reminded each other that America was a “free country”. No, Psymon didn’t actually hear that, but he had been around those kinds of people before. Pathetic, he thought to himself.

The verbal spat turned into a shoving match and the baby in the stroller was even more obnoxious to listen to than before. Once the woman was shoved into her seat again, a baldheaded baby doll dropped out of the stroller and started coming to life. The sudden animation put everyone back in their seats as they watched on in terror. This doll was jerking around like it was being electrocuted and then started dancing like a creepy ballerina.

When the little guy in the stroller refused to stop crying, the doll sprayed him with green gas and knocked him into unconsciousness, to which the mother also passed out due to the fright of it all. “Ah, that’s much better!” the baby doll said to itself. The mechanical nightmare started yelling “booga-booga-booga” at everyone and causing them to jump out of their seats. Things really got horrifying when the doll revealed it had a bomb strapped to its back and a dead man switch in his hand.

“Alright, you disgusting cretins, listen up!” screamed the doll. “My name is Baby and I’m here for one reason: to collect all of your wallets and gadgets! You hand them over to me and you can all go home happy! If not, I can let go of this goddamn switch and send a rainstorm of nails flying in every direction! Ooo, the thought of that much blood splattering all over the place gives me the chills! It must be one of those ASMR things!”

The war veteran, whose voice suddenly dropped a few octaves, said, “Listen here, Baby. I don’t keep a wallet on me. I’m just a beggar trying to make enough to get by. It took an entire tin can full of coins just to get on this damn bus.”

Baby’s neon red eyes shot up in mock surprise before the wicked doll pretended to cry like his namesake suggested. He even rolled around on the floor and kicked his legs for added dramatic effect. When the homeless veteran knelt down to see what was up, he was greeted with a metallic head butt to the skull, opening a gash on his forehead and knocking him into a deep slumber.

“You little scumbag!” shouted the doll. “I don’t give two shits if you’re a bum off the streets or a ghetto whore living on welfare! You’re handing your belongings over to me or I’m going to take my thumb off of this goddamn button!”

The bus driver had no idea what to do but to keep driving, as if any release from the acceleration pedal was going to aggravate this terrorist doll some more. He barely had the strength to softly say, “That gentleman needs to see a doctor. He could die.”

“Keep driving, you donut-munching lard-ass! If you even think about going to a hospital or anywhere else where there’re cops waiting, I’m turning this entire bus into a reverse porcupine! Hell, there are already enough pricks on the inside, so I guess it doesn’t matter what I do with the dead man switch!” threatened the evil doll.

One by one, the bus patrons threw their wallets, change, and electronic devices on the floor without further resistance. Baby laughed like a wicked hyena as he went around collecting these items to put in a garbage bag. While he was scooping up his riches, he felt a sudden jolt that bounced his head in all directions and shot out a few sparks. This only lasted seconds and he was back to his old form in no time.

As soon as he recovered from that shock, Baby had eyeballs on the one man he neglected to extort: Psymon Nordonus, who continued to rock out to his heavy metal like it was just another day on the bus.

“Son of a bitch…” said Baby to himself as he walked over to Psymon and kicked him in the ankle to get his attention. The mysterious passenger shook off the slight pain, pulled his hood backwards, and took off his headsets.

“Can I help you with something?”

Baby smiled sarcastically and said, “Yes, I would like something. I want two pieces of chicken, a buttermilk biscuit with extra butter, a large order of French fries, and an extra large Diet Coke to wash all of that down. I can only do so much to watch my weight.” The cuteness was over when Baby screamed, “What do you think I want?! Didn’t you hear a damn thing I said?! Are you crazy?! Have you been listening to that god-awful music this whole time?!”

Psymon said, “Hey, don’t diss Slipknot, okay? They may look like a bunch of serial killers with those masks, but those guys know how to rock. Take a listen and judge for yourself.”

Baby ripped the MP3 player from Psymon’s hands and pressed the volume all the way down so that he didn’t have to listen to the “god-awful” music. “Word of advice, shit head: the next time you try to be a smart-ass to someone with a nail bomb attached to his back could be your last! Seriously, there’s nothing stopping me from letting go of this button right now! I could just lift my thumb and bam, you’re all dead!”

The metal head cleared his throat and said, “Well, that seems to be our situation. I have no idea what being blasted with a nail bomb feels like and I don’t care to find out. But seriously, man, you should try that music sometime. It’ll set your soul on fire, bitch.”

“I’m warning you!” yelled Baby as he raised the MP3 player with his good hand. He was about to lash out at Psymon when he finally saw what was on the device’s screen. Coding. Lots and lots of coding, particularly of the zeros and ones variety. “What the hell? Were you trying to hack into my system? Is that what the jolt was? Oh, that’s it! I’m taking this bus to hell right here and now!”

Before Baby could lift his thumb off of the dead man switch, Psymon made a split second move to hold onto the detonator with one cyber arm and tap the screen on his so-called MP3 player with the other. The last thing Baby saw before dancing and jolting into oblivion was the fact that Psymon Nordonus was a true cyberpunk in every sense of the word. This bus was only supposed to be full of “losers” and “wash-ups” who gave up on their dreams. A vigilante hacker? Not in a thousand years would Baby have anticipated that.

With one square-toed boot, Psymon kicked out the window and threw the thrashing Baby out with his hand on the detonator. When he released it, the storm of sharp metal nails exploded all over the outside of the bus. They dented nearby cars on the highway and cracked a few windows. The drivers were pissed off as evidenced by their obnoxious honking, but otherwise unharmed.

“Driver, get this thing to a hospital. That guy still needs your help,” ordered Psymon, to which the driver complied. Everyone on the bus was in silent shock. The most fearful response in this entire vehicle was traumatic shaking. The real baby started to come around and was crying painfully yet again. The mother? She was snoring the ride away while other people were tending to the unconscious veteran’s wounds.

Going back to his usual introverted self, Psymon didn’t lose himself in an MP3 player this time, but to the computer chip he snagged from Baby’s body before throwing him out of the window. It was marked as property of the DX-Corporation, a fact which made Psymon smile to himself and say, “Oh, the fun I’m going to have with this thing when I get home. You bitches are dead.”

The Matrix

MOVIE TITLE: The Matrix

DIRECTOR: The Wichowski Siblings

YEAR: 1999

GENRE: Cyberpunk

RATING: R for violence, language, and disturbing moments

GRADE: Pass

Thomas Anderson is an everyday guy who works a nine-to-five job and pays his taxes like a good little worker bee. Neo, on the other hand, knows there’s more out there than what his five senses will tell him. Neo comes into contact with a hacker named Morpheus, who tells him that the world he knows is nothing more than a dreamscape used to disguise the ugly dystopian future that the world really is, where machines control everything and humanity is fighting to survive. Neo wants to be a part of this war against the machines, but has to deal with Agent Smith, a virus in the matrix who wants to keep the sheepish people in their dreamlike states. The sooner Neo becomes accustomed to the matrix being one big lie to the world, the sooner he can achieve the greatness he was destined for.

One of the many interesting things about this movie is that it was published in 1999, when computer hacking and the internet were both in their infancy. For all we know, Neo could have been using America Online this whole time, where all he has to do is point and click. The cell phone he receives to contact Morpheus is a huge dinosaur that looks like a tumor growing out of his ear. Imagine if The Matrix was published in today’s world with Twitter, Face Book, smart phones, tablets, and all that crazy stuff. Hacking would be a lot easier to get away with, that’s for sure. Maybe Neo could be a member of Anonymous, you never know. Maybe he IS a member of Anonymous, which would make Agent Smith quiver in his Gucci shoes. The anachronistic nature of The Matrix back then and today makes for an interesting debate among scholars or those who have just smoked a bowl of marijuana.

Another thing I enjoyed about this movie was the message it sent of questioning everything around you and not seeing the world in black and white. Chances are good that in the real world, we’re not being controlled by gigantic machines and no FBI agents are going to take away our mouths anytime soon. But some would argue that we are living in a dreamlike state 24/7. We live paycheck to paycheck, we do everything we’re told to do, we try our best to live up to everyone else’s standards of what the American Dream should be, and nobody questions it, because questioning it would make you a bad member of a society that thrives on blindness. When you lose the ability to think for yourself, you’ll never break out of the cycle and live up to your potential.

And of course, I’d be remised if I didn’t mention the biggest elephant in the room when it comes to The Matrix: special effects. The freezing of time while circling the camera around, the slow motion dodging, the convincing fight scenes despite the actors having no martial arts training, these are all things you can thank The Matrix for revolutionizing. What I don’t understand is why every comedy movie that was made after 1999 feels the need to parody this style of cinema. Shrek did it during a fight sequence with Princess Fiona, there was a Scary Movie scene where the masked killer bent backwards to dodge a projectile, and I’m pretty sure there’s a WWE videogame somewhere that parodies Trinity’s freeze-frame crane kick. Parodying The Matrix’s special effects is not funny. It’s cliché. Leave the fancy martial arts madness to the directors of this film.

If you take the blue pill, you will go back into your dreamlike state and you’ll never have to deal with dystopia again. If you take the red pill, you’d better fasten your seatbelt, Dorothy, because Kansas is going bye-bye. If you need a more convincing argument to take the red pill, the blue one is in suppository form and is the size of a tennis ball. It’s time to wake up, people, and you can do it by spending a little quality time with The Matrix.

"Stay Positive" by The Streets

If you’ve been reading this blog for the past few years now, I not only applaud you, but I also want you to notice “The Secret” by Rhonda Byrne is a part of my book collection. It has helped me in so many ways, but if I can be honest for a moment, staying positive is hard work. It may seem like easy pickings thinking positive thoughts all the time, but mental illness and general depression can really put a strain on such things.

For these moments, I have “Stay Positive” by The Streets, a British rap song with an uplifting message, but moody lyrics and background music. Somehow, it’s hard to do what the song’s title says when Mike Skinner is saying things like “You were born alone and believe me, you’ll die alone.” And yet, I need this song for all the times I feel down.

This song was published in 2002, but it would be a year later when my brother James introduced me to The Streets. It was around 2003 and 2004 that I started writing Pumping Filter, a movie script about high school woes and a big middle finger to those who abandoned me during that time. That’s what it was supposed to be. Instead, it was Pulp Fiction on steroids, so much so the script was unreadable.

The ending to this story isn’t any happier. Four high school students meet their fates in the most ugly ways possible. Tommy Dragon falls out of a window, Daniel McBride gets killed by a gangster, Dave Ridley goes to prison after committing murder, and Dexter Lee commits suicide by hanging due to complications from mental illness. Is it any coincidence that “Stay Positive” would have been the end credits theme to this movie if it made it to the big screen? It worked for Kidulthood, why not Pumping Filter?

And then we fast forward to the year 2010, particularly in November when I’m writing a cyberpunk novella called Dark City Tales. As the first word in that title suggests, nothing happy ever goes on in this story. Then again, it’s a cyberpunk world, where corporations own everything, governments are powerless to stop them, everybody has explosive guns, the police are corrupt, and the sky is as gray as static on a TV screen…just like in the real world!

With all of this nasty shit going on in urban America, the apocalypse shouldn’t be too far behind. In Dark City Tales, it wasn’t. Two cyborg mercenaries named AJ Rollins and Andre Devilheart destroyed the entire city just by fighting each other with highly explosive weapons. Even after the city was leveled and AJ and Andre was mangled beyond repair, they still wanted more! Do you think this is a good time for “Stay Positive”? Honey, it’s going to take some serious rainbow and unicorn shit to get this world back in order.

Pumping Filter and Dark City Tales have so much in common. They’re both about dystopian hellholes, they’re extremely violent, and most of all, they were so badly written they had to be scrapped. I consider those two pieces of writing to be just another way of sharpening my literary blade.

I see a lot of that in my past pieces of writing: they’re not future Pulitzer-winners, but they are opportunities to improve my writing. I’d like to think I’ve improved dramatically since 2002, so much so that I wouldn’t mind using some of my old characters again. If you thought the old characters were unhappy with being pummeled before, wait until they get put through the ringer again with new and improved stories. And yes, there will be plenty of opportunities to use “Stay Positive” as background music. Go see your mates. When they don’t look happy, play ‘em this tape.

　

***SOUND FILE OF THE DAY***

Hello and welcome to the Mental Health Hotline.

If you’re obsessive-compulsive, press 1 repeatedly.

If you’re codependent, ask someone to press 2 for you.

If you have multiple personalities, press 3-4-5-6.

If you’re paranoid, we know what you are and what you want, stay on the line and we’ll trace your call.

If you’re delusional, press 7 and your call will be transferred to the mother ship.

If you’re schizophrenic, listen carefully, a small voice will tell you which number to press.

If you’re depressive, it doesn’t matter which number you press, no one will answer you.

If you’re dyslexic, press 6-9-6-9-6-9-6-9-6-9.

If you have a nervous disorder, fidget with the hash key until the beep. After the beep, please wait for the beep.

If you have short term memory loss, try your call again later.

If you have low self-esteem, hang up, all of our operators are too busy to talk to you.