Been sitting on this a while. Started as one thing. Became another. Might turn into a third.

Names are placeholders, but I kinda like “Winthrop Blond.”

Was trying for a different style in each scene. Didn’t get very far. For obvious reasons.

Enjoy…?

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The neon haze of a false moon–blue and new–permeated the spartan sanctum, settling gingerly to softly illuminate the darkest recesses of the once nigrescent chamber. At the stainless steel desk that occupied the entirety of a bare wall hunched a svelte figure, lost in thought and wrapped in a starched lab coat. Onyx eyes, through a set of charcoal lenses that telescoped with pyramid-esque magnification, observed the manic work of mahogany hands. The frantic fingers of a listless pianist–elongated tendrils, thinned to the bone–curled and caressed finite instruments to perform surgical strikes with microscopic precision. Sparks of wild life shot forth from nanite womb into opulent gloom, only to be lost amid the aqua afterglow.

With a guttural sigh, the inventor delicately dropped the tools of his trade onto the sterile surface. As his tired eyes assessed and assayed the fruits of his toil, a smile parted his drying lips. “God, I’m good.”

With a calm hand, he shifted his extended spectacles upward, into the lopsided mass of cottony hair atop his head. His other hand wrapped around the two liter bottle that sat in wait at the near edge of the steel plane, its orange contents a murky brown in the artificial light. Pressing the plastic rim to his mouth, the inventor guzzled the liquid, tilting back his skull to access the final, sugary-sweet drops. Nary a glance was needed before pitching the bottle into the receptacle across the room, behind his back. A white sleeve of the lab coat acted as a napkin, absorbing excess soda from the still smirking face. Pulling back the slightly stained sleeve revealed a digital timepiece, reading 2:25 am. A yawn split the scientist’s jaw before he could remark “just in time for dinner.”

As if on cue, two swift knocks to the metallic door to the inventor’s right echoed through the scarcely adorned chamber. Bare feet hit cold, carpet-less floor in mid-stride. Twin bamboo shoots carried the slender form to the entry way in three steps, lab coat billowing behind in heroic fashion. Placing a palm against the identification key embedded in the wall to the right of the entrance whisked the sliding door into its cavernous recess. “You guys don’t kid about that thirty minutes or…” The scientist’s mandible refused to shut, for eager eyes fell upon an unexpected feast. Lips were licked just the same.

In the starkly lit corridor stood three perfect specimens of human design–each more statuesque than the last–in black leather trench coats that ended at the crests of matching stiletto boots. The awe-struck inventor heard his subconscious thoughts aloud: “Somebody must really like me.”

The flawless sculpture in the center of the trio sashayed forward, revealing porcelain skin between parted folds of leather. “Doctor Goodblood?”

Name recognition brought a modicum of coherence back into the mind of the long-secluded scientist. “Is, uh, is this a strip-o-gram?”

The woman’s deep purple lips pursed. “No.”

Goodblood’s jaw snapped closed, his head falling in equal parts embarrassment and disappointment. “Oh…”

A wicked twinkle cascaded behind her amethyst eyes. “Something far more intense, actually,” her throaty voice revealed, as loose, jet-black curls snaked around her alabaster visage.

“Oh?” The inventor’s black brows skyrocketed, yanking his features into full attention.

“Oh,” the woman repeated. Snatching the scientist by the collar of his coat, she tore him closer. Her free hand, tipped with razor sharp nails the color of her lips, lurched forward. Flesh ripped from bone in a spectral orgy of porcelain, mahogany, and crimson.

Darrow Goodblood fell to the floor, unconscious and unrecognizable.

---

FLIGHT of the ALPHA SQUADRON
in
“POP SHOCK”

---

An impassioned echo–even and deep–navigated the pearl threshold, slipping between the gaps of its slick facade, before leaping through the slacken doors, into freedom. Satisfaction slammed shut the ajar entrance, twisting the lax gates into a pursed heart. Just above, twin watchmen latched their viewports, then somersaulted into otherwise vacant vaults, unseen. Loosely knotted ropes plummeted from the lacquered crest of the manse, thrashing unoccupied against soft stone. A thin mist of euphoria traced smooth, subtle contours, as they, too, made their ascent, pooling for a moment in the divot below the sealed doors. An earthquake–born of rapid drumming, unchallenged by the terrain–jostled the edifice until its axis snapped backward, jerking the complex through the air.

A heavy thunder stormed through the gates, expelled from palpitating furnaces, their walls near collapse from the burden of constant overuse. At their center, a rhythmic fountain–red from filtered light–released erratic waves into the submerged corridors and chasms that lined this mobile isle, feeding the tributaries that led to the faults, now so volatile. The earth churned, upending mountains only to slam them back into the bedrock. Swollen streams threatened to burst as they filtered through an unnatural damn–a bulging metallic oculus, sheathed in a tanned tar. An aged crack in the otherwise flawless veneer ached anew, a deepening chasm of dusky brick red.

A shrill hiss barged through the parted entryway. Windows were drawn tighter still, their occupants long lost to cavernous darkness. The mist grew heavier, coalescing into thick droplets, primed to move only vertically. A change in terrain–from cascading crust to even plane–offered momentary relief.

As a thick blanket of white smothered the soaking facade, a familiar ringing–obtrusive and direct–took precedence. With an accepting sigh, the Portuguese woman tossed her sweat-stained towel into a bin, brimming with the discarded flop cloths of countless contenders–each on the way to a private euphoric release. Glancing over her bare shoulder, the restless woman checked to ensure the stationary machine concluded its artificial sift. Content with its static incline, Eliana Nunes caressed her artificial knee before jogging toward the gym’s door.

---

An alabaster arm–silken and scented peach–slinked across the waxed chest, heaving gently. Salmon nails, whittled to rounded points, sketched unseen bones-from clavicle to sternum and then to ribs–upon reddening skin.

“Easy there, killer,” the man’s voice–calm and confident–mused, as his tired, sapphire eyes took stock of the damage inflicted.

“I thought you liked it rough,” the woman teased, pressing her forefinger’s nail deeper into his skin, drawing a trickle of blood that pooled in the indent between his pectorals.

Shifting his weight to his bent elbows, the flaxen-haired man moved to sit upright. “I think I liked you better when you were asleep.”

Her titian-tinted tresses tumbled onto his shoulder, as her hand tensed, then smacked the fresh incision playfully. The action birthed a faint wince and left a noted mark. Eyeing the wound with her emeralds, she searched for a smile and found a yawn. Relaxing her muscles, the woman fell deeper into satin, her arm limply laying across his arched abdomen.”Lay down.” Her voice was a whisper, coated in sugar.

His form remained stoic, a Roman statue derived from the golden proportion. “That’s all right.”

“Promise I won’t hurt you–” Her eyes were saucers. He refused to drink. “–too much.”

A smirk creased his right cheek, dimpling a day’s growth. “That’s all right” was repeated.

“I just want to cuddle.” Her cleft chin came to rest in the crook of his numb left arm. Batting her thick lashes, her eyes locked with his, two feet away physically, miles away mentally.

“I think I’d rather be cut again.” The notion–delivered, as an infant, delivered in a tight bundle of sarcasm–lingered only a moment before his companion acted.

Her face stretched into a vibrant grin, flashing all of her capped teeth. “If you insist.” Before he could blink, she propelled herself up the cherry headboard and had his ear between her teeth. Her hand picked up its cold trail, this time headed south. His came to rest behind his slightly tussled hair, intertwined with its brother, and propped his head up for the best possible view. Her lips, coated in vanilla, suckled the length of his neck. As her incisors readied their next attack, a sharp buzz escaped the pile of discarded clothing on the shag rug at the foot of the bed.

“Sorry, babe.” His legs swung off the firm mattress, his feet connecting with stainless steel. Her mouth hung open, still at the ready. “That’s my cue.” Shifting through the crumpled cluster of cotton and lace, he assembled his ensemble and pocketed something dainty. “Time for me to save the world.”

An auburn eyebrow arched. “Wait…’babe’?” Her mouth snapped shut. Her nostrils flared. Her eyes narrowed. “Do you even know my name?”

His shoulder shrugged, while his silk-coated feet wormed into a pair of vintage P.K. Flyers. “Honestly, lady, does it matter?”

She opened her mouth to speak–to scream–but words failed. Her palpable anger shoved Winthrop Blond out of his quarters.

---

“Another ingenue?”
“I’m a heartthrob.”
“Such modesty.”
“Call me Blaise, baby.”

This entry was posted on Sunday, May 11th, 2008 at 10:06 pm and is filed under false start. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.