Writin' and Wrongin'

I wrote GALAXY REVOLT when I was eleven, which admittedly seems like an embarrassingly advanced age for the swill that you see before you. But now it is time to pit my garbage against my (as Billy Faulkner would put it) progenitor's garbage. WHO WILL "WIN"??

"...a clay tray-like thing in her feeble hand." (1)

It wasn't a tray. It was a tray-like thing. So I guess it was a... chafing dish?


Now let us compare that serving of prose with this delicious morsel from A GREAT SEDUCTION:

"This is officer Colin Walsh of the Chicago 4th district calling. Are you Ryan Langdon?"

"I am."

"Tis me distinct displeasure to be informing you your mum passed on today."

His mom died! She was 47.


My soul died! It was 54.


"There were five tiny wriggly thing on the tray. They were a form of worms, with three tentecales out of their head, but looking quite dead." (2-5)

I don't know if even Freud would touch this imagery.


And now progenitor prose stylin':


Missy's mother said, "You should be getting out more, dear, dating and having fun."

"Mom I appreciate your wish, but with my physical urges I'll take matters in my own hands."

Alice was quiet. And Missy was thinking of her time with Ryan, which prompted her to say, "I really miss Ryan's morning glories."

"He bought you flowers in the morning?"

Wistfully, "No, Mom. It was when he'd wake up with a boner so hard a cat couldn't scratch it. It's an early morning quickie!"

Alice vomited hard, and out came a form of worms, with three tentecales, and the poor lady looked quite dead.

"It's been a long day. I going to bed mom." She left thinking it was nice seeing her mom enjoy her granddaughter but after yet another weed inspired talk about getting out more, getting some, she was ready to go to bed.

In bed, she did herself fantasizing the morning Ryan had furiously taken her bending her over in the shower, pounding into her a glorious start for the day.


What have we always said is the most important thing? Getting furiously bent over and banged in the shower? No, breakfast.


"Sho-grine felt dizzy, but kept watching the four glowing eyes, shining so deep, that it seemed they might be able to see the back of Sho-grine's head." (22-25)

That is indeed deep. And pointless. Then again, maybe the back of Sho-grine's head is super interesting??


Speaking of interesting, take us home, Daddy-o!


A liftetime of killing was killing Luis. When he and Maurice drove into the motel parking lot, he was almost done. Having killed Ryan to the reader's great pleasure, he was now going to kill his fellow assassin because it filled up pages.

In the motel Luis asked Maurice to walk to a nearby store to get a bottle of whiskey, while he drove to return the scuba equipment.

When he came back the Jim Beam bottle was open. Plastic cups with whiskey in them were out on the table.

Luis stared into the back of Maurice's head. "How barbaric and brutal an Otello thou art. Where doth the ice be?"

Maurice, exasperated with Luis's Shakespeare posturing, "I'm not Otello! I saw a sign for it. It's at the other end of the balcony. I'll get it." He took a bucket and walked shoeless to the ice machine, across from the ignored decrepit swimming pool. The 300 pound native pushed the button. A few cubes fell into the bucket. He returned from the dented machine to the room, where he found Luis seated at the table with cup in hand and Andy dead asleep on the floor.

[Another scintillating paragraph follows where it's explained that Luis had switched Maurice's Folger's instant with poison. Let's catch the action now!]

Maurice put the cubes in both cups. He picked his up, saying, "To success compadre, may it be my last venture whacking dudes."

Luis toasted, "Farewell! A long farewell, to all my greatness!," and thought, "Parting is not such sweet sorrow that I shall say goodnight till it be morrow."

"When I get home," said Maurice, "I'll check if the $50 thousand's in my account. If not, I may not be done terminating folks," and he slammed the whiskey.

And said, "The fat cats better pay off or...," his words were choked off. His body jerked back in a massive spasm and he grasped at his chest, as he crumpled to the floor veins and eyes bulging. A few body twitches. Then nothing.

Luis thought, "Poetic justice. The Maori died of his own poison. It brought to mind Shakespeare's Hamlet, "hoisted on his petard."



Tis me distinct displeasure to inform everyone that I have passed on. Dad wins.