Spankbelly:A day in my life.

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Here is the working title. It will be changed as the story fleshes out, and tells me what it wants to be called. If you have heard this one before, I'll need a new one for sure.

Creators of Man
Part One
Eternal Prisoners of Forgotten Moon

Copyrighted 2008 by Spankbelly, under penalty of "Yes, The Spanking King will come to your house and lay The MOTHER of ALL SPANK'NS. Seriously."


It will be a series of short stories. Designed to keep me interested. Because I never finish anything if it's too long. Each tale will host different characters and locations of a world that is not Earth. These shorts may just be mundane happenings in the average boring life of the people of this world. But they will all happen at the same point in history, slowly revealing the nature of the world, and the view of life from different eyes.
Ultimately as a whole, the shorts will question who created man (or the people of that world), and if they have free choice or a defined destiny.
Something I have wondered all my life. What if I don't want to be what I was designed for? Or, what if God does create certain people as "cogs in the machine"?
That's the plan, anyway. I can see it going off the rails quick.
Eternal Prisoners will not be part one of the finished product. But I need to work it out first. Because it will contain some of the science and reasons of how the world functions. This is a blend of Sci-Fi/Fantasy. I need to know the basic limits of the science before I write the fantasy. Because in the end, the fantasy is not fantasy. Eternal Prisoners may not even be part of the final draft. I just need it for a base. So I'm not too concerned with character development or if it makes any sense. I just need the stage for the rest of the play.
I'm not sure if I can pull it off. It will be a complex story line. And I want to make each short as different as possible. One might be science fiction, one fantasy, one comedy, one horror. My skill set is not that wide. Especially comedy.
Each told by the "voice" or tone of that character. This is very hard to do.
You know how every writer has their own style. Their way of using words. You can recognize who wrote something, because you know their voice. This is very noticeable when two writers have collaborated on one book. You can tell who wrote which scene.
I want each story to feel as if it was written by that character. I'm not sure if I can do that. I have only seen it done once, successfully.
Hyperion, By Dan Simmons (1989)
Spankbelly is no Dan Simmons.
Don't get excited. Because I never finish anything. That's why I stack boxes of meat for a living. This is just an exercise for me. I have not written anything serious in...ever.
And if I do put anything up here, it's a first draft. Don't expect quality.
And it's an adult storyline. So not much will be suitable under these posting rules. And you know, I'm not going to stick a whole novel on here.
 
Mail me a check. I'll send you a copy as soon as it's finished, in ten years.
 
Creators of Man
Part One
Eternal Prisoners of Forgotten Moon

Mechanic and Bogyman

Questions. Doubts, he whispered. Soft and low.
Joe went about the business of Joe. Down through the checklist. Check, check, check. His eyes never on the prisoner. Never a glance. Check, check, check.
The sentry watched Joe. Glass eyes never blink.
Questions, check. Doubts, check. Secrets, check. Check, check, check did Joe. As if he had no secret doubts his own.
The machine hummed it’s song. The machine held the prisoner, in frozen sleep.
What voice this? What doubts breathed? Whose thoughts be in the mind of Joe?
The machine hummed. The prisoner slept. Joe checked. The sentry did not blink.
 
[Mechanic and Bogeyman]

Questions. Doubts he whispered, soft and low.
Joe went about the business of Joe, down through the checklist. Check, check, check. His eyes never on the prisoner. Never a glance. Check, check, check.
The sentry watched Joe. Glass eyes never blink.
Questions, check. Doubts, check. Secrets, check. Check, check, check did Joe. As if he had no secret doubts his own.
The machine hummed its song. The machine held the prisoner, in frozen sleep.
What voice this? What doubts breathed? Whose thoughts be in the mind of Joe?
The machine hummed. The prisoner slept. Joe checked. The sentry did not blink.

[Mechanic and Beauty]

Away from him now. Away from Bogeyman. Away to all the others. To all the machines that hummed and held the sleepers of frozen death.
Check, check, check.
Some still good, and ripe as new. A bruise here, a nibble there. Some mere scraps of nightmare.
Down through the lines and over the rows, Joe checked the machines that hummed and held. Joe checked those that once were. Those that once danced, in laughter and light.
Till he came here. To the rows of darkness. Where no hums hummed. Where no machines blinked their lights of stasis.
The only sound, Joe's own breath. Odd and out of place. A solemn beacon in this mortuary of electric ice.
Yet far off, Bogeyman whispered still.
Joe passed the empty chambers. Deep into the black. Deep where the sentry did not follow, no need here. Here where all was used and gone. Where the machines were vacant , even of death.
But one light shone. One forgotten crypt held it’s secret treasure.
Joe did his checks. But this time, he did gaze into the belly of the beast. No sentry recorded. No nightmare coiled to spring.
Here slept Beauty. And Joe did dream.


[I have no idea what happens next]
 
Joe did dream. A dream of long ago, and far away. A waking dream. A dream faint and forgotten.
A dream of sun and earth. Of light and laughter. Of a face not Beauty’s, but of beauty all the same.
Joe gazed at Beauty and dreamed and dreamed.
The dream faded, out of grasp. Joe hurried the checks, soon he would be missed.
He touched the glass one last time, turned and walked into darkness.
Just steps from the glow of Beauty’s prison, he bumped his nose into the mechanical eye of the sentry.
 
Spankbelly;1945195; said:
Joe did dream. A dream of long ago, and far away. A waking dream. A dream faint and forgotten.
A dream of sun and earth. Of light and laughter. Of a face not Beauty’s, but of beauty all the same.
Joe gazed at Beauty and dreamed and dreamed.
The dream faded, out of grasp. Joe hurried the checks, soon he would be missed.
He touched the glass one last time, turned and walked into darkness.
Just steps from the glow of Beauty’s prison, he bumped his nose into the mechanical eye of the sentry.


This one makes me feel independent.., like its time to turn a new leaf. Dont know if anyone cares but i figured id share.
 
That's all for tonight. I think it's too soon for Joe to get busted. I need him to show me some more things before...well I don't know how he will be punished. But it might not be pretty. I have a feeling these guys don't mess around.
 
slowef;1945208; said:
This one makes me feel independent.., like its time to turn a new leaf. Dont know if anyone cares but i figured id share.
Joe cares. He has some hard times ahead.
 
[Mechanic and Doctors Three]

“Talk to us Joe, we’re here to help.”
Three voices spoke at once. A practiced chorus of malpractice.
Stereophonic quackery.
Naked Joe wondered when the chromed stool would warm.
“I’m not sure what you want to hear.”
Doctors examined Joe.
“Seems you’ve gotten a few bumps and bangs since your last visit.” Observed Surgeon, the central head. The original captain of the torso.
Psychotherapist, the left sided addition asked “How are you feeling, Joe? Rumor has it that you’ve been acting a little erratic.”
“Erratic? I perform my function.”
“Perhaps you have forgotten your function?” Theorized Chemist. “Have you been taking your medications?”
“Yes!” No hesitation there. It is important to not hesitate when telling a lie.
Doctors six eyes seemed skeptical. “What is your function?”
“I check the machines. I make them do as machines do. I do as Joe does. I do as Joes have always done.”
“Yes, yes. You are a Mechanic. You make the clockworks work.”
Doctors hands worked at Joe, worked the flesh spoiled by Sentry. “That is why we need you.” Doctors paused it’s repair. “That is why we want to help.”
“Help?” Joe for some reason, had always had an aversion to Sickbay, perhaps it was the odor. And to Doctors.
It’s several hands ran down Joe’s seams. “We made you Joe. Of course we want to help.” The hands caressed, as a mother does. “We set you from the pieces of numerous Joes.” The Doctors hands held Joe’s. Joe’s two hands of many fingers. “We birthed you from all the Joes of beginnings end.”

[Why? What does Doctors want from our Joe? I‘m not sure yet. But I hear the whispers of Bogeyman. I‘ll have to think on this.]
 
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