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Upstairs in the kitchen Cybil walked in from the hallway, holding a cell in one hand and the gun in the other. She locked eyes on the passageway leading to the bomb shelter door. She brought the cell up and looked at it, pondering, breathing nervous. She continued walking toward the bomb shelter, slow, then stopped. She tapped the digits 9-1-1 into her cell and considered this action but had no idea why she needed to think it over. She hit the green icon and  brought the cell up to her ear and kept moving forward. A voice on the other end responded. “9-1-1, what’s your emergency?” Cybil pulled the cell away from her face and ended the call. “Shit.” She sat the cell down on the countertop near the refrigerator and continued forward until she stood directly in front of the bomb shelter door. She pulled the gun up, bowed her head and closed her eyes.  “Bertha.” She put her hand on the door. _____________________ Carl knew she bade him not to move, to assume the existence of a statue, and

Carl’s fantasies were of Cybil. He could never control himself at that age when she started to sexually mature. Her breasts were plump and full, her body fresh and soft. When she hugged him the fragrance of her hair enticed his senses and overthrew his rationale. He held her longer each hug, and every time he swelled with anticipation of intercourse. He remembered now the first time he penetrated her, how she moved beneath him. The logical thinking doctor side of him knew she was resisting, knew this was rape, but the demon was too hungry and needed to be fed. Her fighting with each thrust made it exciting, too powerful for a man to overcome, and this pleased the demon. He resolved that the doctor and the demon would have to find a way to coexist. Penny wasn’t his daughter; a surrogate victim fed to the demon would only keep it at bay for so long. In the meantime the fantasy would suffice.         Carl climaxed and exploded inside Penny. He grunted, panted, and collapsed, leaving her b

Crystal pulled up to the curb out front of Carl’s house in a different car than her own. She put the car in park and shut it off.  She stepped out in a hurry, went to the back and opened the trunk. Inside was a small handgun case. Crystal opened the case. Inside was a Makarov PM with a clip of 9x18mm ammo that had not been temporarily confiscated by the police. They had no legal right to do so but worrying about the law was not going to help now. She pulled it out, slid the magazine in, and then threw the case back into the trunk and tried to close it. Her prosthetic arm caught on a latch and she pulled hard, almost ripping it off. She centered herself to take control, then she released the latch and her arm came loose.   Of the norm she would not be this careless, but their hurdles with the police had rattled Deloris and she wasn’t in the right frame of mind for waiting. In the field you rely on intel. Going in blind is a surefire way of ending up dead. She had no idea if Deloris was

WARNING: THIS CHAPTER CONTAINS EXPLICIT MATERIAL OF AN ADULT NATURE, INCLUDING RAPE.  _____________________________ Deloris was thirteen when she had her first professional experience. Although she had numerous sexual experiences before, mostly going down on a boy, she was still a virgin. The internet made everything easier; information was everywhere, but she came by her knowledge honestly when she ran away and met real prostitutes who taught her what she wanted to know. No amount of discouragement kept her from diving headfirst into the shallow end of the pool.  You never forget your first, and she never did forget Damon. She got into his car an amateur.  Five dollars for some show and tell, ten dollars for a blowjob. Because she didn’t want to swallow she managed to convince Damon she was too young and inexperienced, and wouldn’t it be better if he fucked her? She negotiated for thirty and climbed on top. Hurt like hell. When he saw her holding back tears she thought she might have

Part I Like any kid I was first introduced to Ray Bradbury via the TV series Ray Bradbury theater. No surprise, it was my mother who loved the show. If you’ve been reading these articles by now you know she loved to watch her boys getting scared by watching all things creepy and then laughing like the Wicked Witch. Good times.  By the time I was in high school I knew the name Bradbury but, I’m ashamed to admit, I had not yet read his work. The Martian Chronicles was having a resurgence in popularity due in part to the television mini-series, but at that time in my life what informed my sense of all things sci-fi was (yes, of course) Star Wars. And to a lesser degree Star Trek. I don’t want to confuse the reader, as I am all about books, but let’s be honest. Books and television (and movies) have always had a close relation. Today people no longer ask the question that if a book is successful will it be adapted for film. The question is, “When can I see the movie?”  As a kid, for a sc