Saturday Morning Funnies (Volume 1)

Wyrdsmiths is currently considering an offer by an archivist/curator who is interested in preserving our collective papers. Thus, I’ve been in my basement a lot lately, digging through the piles of things I’ve saved regarding my writing career to-date. There are boxes and files cabinets filled with sorts of nonsense, including my earliest attempts at fiction -- including boat loads of Pern, Star Wars, Star Trek, and Deryni Chronicle fanfic. However, in among all of this nostalgic, if god(dess)-awful trash, is the occasional stab at original fiction.

I thought it might be fun to “publish” excerpts of some of it here. Unfortunately, none of these pieces are dated. But, using the sophisticated detection method of “just guessing” and looking at the style of cursive writing I used on the torn out sheets of spiral notebook paper, I can confidentially place this unearthed artifact between the years 1978-1985 (junior high school to high school.)

Prepare to cringe (but dig this opener, eh?)

Father Time knows space as the last horizon for us all to explore. The eyes of tomorrow look ahead into the dark, dark emptiness of space.

Spacemen are a separate and lonely breed, for there lies but one lust in their adventurous souls: the thrill of conquest!

The diplomats of our time call the desecration of sacred lands not conquest, but “liberation” from the drudgery of freedom. Don’t get me wrong, the men we call aliens are still allowed free thought as long as it doesn’t conflict with our ideals and the laws we impose upon them.

I, being a spaceman,see once proud men fall broken at the force of our conquistadors. I deal in the death of those proud men who won’t fall without a struggle into our crushing hands. No quarter is given, all must fall. Unearthly blood floods the fields and the skies, where e’er I venture.

Yet something in me cries out – something human, god-fearing. My evil-marred soul lusts to be gentle, forgiving. But none around me hear my pleas over the war-cries of thousands. How to explain love to a battle-worn soldier; he knows only lust and hatred.

My mind returns constantly to that day. The day I learned of love. We had been assigned to keep the peace at a rebel rally. I heard the rebel leader speak. He was tall and handsome, gentle and fierce. He spoke to his fells with pride and anger. He spoke of peace. As his lips formed the words of life-giving hope, a bloody shot rang out. He fell, killed for his love of life. I saw his lover rush to his, I saw them her kiss her lover’s unresponsive lips.

[And there it mercifully ends]

If people enjoy this, I may continue to pull short gems like this one for your Saturday morning amusement/mocking.