How Do You Read the Coffee Break Novel?

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You would think I would have the decency and the brains to limit the world’s first daily serialized coffee break novel to five days a week…those weekdays traditionally recognized as work days in the 1950s image of the perfect world where everybody clocked in at 9 in the morning and stumbled out at 5 PM. But I have neither.

And I don’t really feel bad about it. Not everyone works in an office. Not everyone has coffee breaks. Not everyone drinks coffee. And since this is a world’s first, not everyone knows how to read it. There will be chaos and war sprouting out of arguments over how to read a coffee break novel if you don’t have a coffee break. Families will purge members who drink tea on their coffee breaks. I’ve already received disguised death threats from football fans expressing their outrage that The Weekly Man will be published not just weekdays…but Saturday and Sunday as well…even though I had no say in that. You can thank the novel’s characters for that piece of insanity.

I’ve thought deeply about this and I’ve come up with some options.

You can read The Weekly Man five days a week on your morning or afternoon coffee break…and you can come in to work for a few minutes on Saturday and Sunday to read it. I foresee objections to this option and offer the following alternatives:

  • Stay home on the weekends and read three days’ worth of episodes on Monday.
  • Have your weekend coffee breaks at home in a room simulated to look like your work space.
  • Don’t bother reading those episodes, which will very likely increase the novel’s mystery aspect.

Personally, none of these options appeal to me, but then, I’m bald and have an unruly beard that I try to conceal from the public.

Now, let’s suppose you don’t have coffee breaks, don’t drink coffee, don’t work because you’re a 105 year old hippie like me, don’t have time on your 3 minute coffee break or…don’t whatever. I have a page, a hidden page that doesn’t appear on my website’s navigation bar because it’s a secret page. It has all the episodes, every single one of them listed for the whole two and a half months of its serialization.

One problem though.

Each episode will be posted on its scheduled date…not all at once. But you can still put aside some time and read say, a week’s worth or a few days’ worth. And you don’t even have to drink coffee while you’re reading. You can drink beer. Or tea. Click here for the secret page…but don’t tell anyone else. This is just for you.

Come to think of it, reading a weeks’ worth of episodes each Saturday would be more like the original serialized novels from writers like Dickens a thousand years before they had coffee breaks.

Using this secret link will allow you to read the whole novel after all the episodes have been published. But keep in mind…that would require a lot of clicking because each episode requires you to click to open it. You’ll get Click Thumb and Fingers and your hand will fall off.

Here’s another option that just occurred to me: Read the episodes at night while you drink coffee on a break from your evening activities. How cool would that be? You’re watching a movie with friends and suddenly stand up and announce, “I think I’ll have a coffee break now and read The Weekly Man.” You’ll be envied as the loneliest person on the block. I know this from experience.

I guess it boils down to this: Read it however you want. I’ve put together a few options to give you some choice and that choice is yours.

You can read The Weekly Man on its own blog here. If you’re reading on a cell phone or tablet, read it at the secret place mentioned above. And check out the welcome page at for more options and lots of freebies for readers and writers.

Ladies of the Fountain


The Three Rules for Wishing on a Fountain (if you really think your wish will come true):

1. Make your wish.
2. Throw your coin.
3. Run like hell.

He threw three coins, but the damn fool didn’t run.


Staring into the white sculptured eyes of the first lady of the fountain, he said: “I want you to be alive and be my woman.” He threw the first coin and it landed in the top bowl. To the next lady he said: “I want you to be alive and be my woman.” He threw the second coin. It landed in the middle bowl. To the last lady, he said: “I want you to be alive and be my woman.” He dropped the third coin right into the bottom bowl. As it dropped through the air, he was happy and thought about how cool it would be if all three of the statues in the fountain came to life and were all madly in love with him and wanted nothing more than to accompany him everywhere and fuck his brains out every day.

Cool, he thought.

“Thunk,” said the last coin as it sliced into the water.


He didn’t run. He stayed and stared at the fountain: a big circular bowl made of white marble. A short podium with three rams’ heads jutted out the center, and three ancient Greek-looking women, arms crossing their chests, stood back-to-back in a circle on top of the podium.

“Run, you idiot,” said thunk. But he stayed and he stared at the fountain.

Balanced like half the scales of an unfathomable justice on top of the three ladies’ heads was a second bowl though smaller than the one on the ground. A pillar sprung out the center of this bowl as though it were a single purpose of thought spurting from the minds of the three ladies, and there was a third bowl, smaller than the second bowl, on top of the pillar. The whole thing formed a V pointing skyward with water from a metal tube bubbling into the top bowl, trickling down into the middle bowl and then into the bottom bowl.


For makeup the ladies wore spider webs and dark streaks blown across their faces by the wind and the rain. He used to clear away the webs with this hand until one day a large brown spider with long legs poked its obscene body out from under a stone white lock of hair just inches from his hand. After that, he thought the webs actually lent the ladies a touch of naturalness so he left the webs alone.

The fountain appeared ancient, ancient and Greek, like the kind of thing to inspire myth and mayhem, which was exactly what it would do.


He stared into the ladies’ white stone eyes as he walked around the fountain, loving them and wanting them. Stone sculptures in a fountain. Beautiful and timeless. But stone. White stone.

He really didn’t have much of a life.

He looked away from the fountain, into the long narrow distance of The Green, a strip of grass, trees, walking paths and benches by the river, and of course, a white stone fountain with three sculpted women of indeterminate ancient origin.

He strolled to the edge of The Green where it banked on the river, stood by a massive weeping willow and stared across the river, so wide at this point that tourists mistook it for a lake. A light wind whipped across the gray water and brushed gently through the droopy leaves of the willow. Alder bushes, reeds, ferns and saplings crowded the bank down to the water’s edge where muddy flotsam dried in the sun. Further down The Green, Dutch Elms towered into the sky, their tops spreading out like giant umbrellas in the heat-dazed air.

His head bustled with images of beautiful women whose loose robes flapped in lusty zephyrs revealing perfectly sculpted legs and cleavage plunging into depths that would drive him mad.

Warm gusts of wind rippled the deep grass of the Green like footprints of an invisible presence.



It was an abrupt change in the splish and drip of water in the fountain, a change in delicately balanced rhythms. The breeze evaporated into stillness. A million blades of grass stood erect. Every leaf on every tree hushed and hung. Time blinked for an instant and something sneaked past time’s inexhaustible logic and dipped its magical toes into the water of the fountain.


Too late to run.


The ladies stepped out of the bowl wiping spider webs and whiteness from their faces. Deep blue flashed into their as eyes they looked around curiously, taking in the grass, the sky and the trees. They looked each other up and down with growing recognition and smiled.

“At last,” said Tia. “Time to party.”

“You might want to cover up a bit, dear,” said Alaia, pointing to a comely example of ancient breast slipping into full view at the top of Tia’s robe. “We don’t want our cleavage plunging into depths that will drive the mortals mad.”

“Speak for yourself,” said Tia as she nudged her robe barely enough to cover the pale pink of an eternally erect nipple.

“Oh, you guys,” said Epsy. “Always on at each other.”

The other two looked at her, thinking simultaneously All this time to contemplate, and still a ditz.

“Where is he?” said Tia.

Alaia pointed at a man standing by the riverbank. He wasn’t a memorable person: balding up front, long ponytail dangling from the back, generic face.

“You’ve got to be kidding,” said Tia.

“Think about it, dear. What kind of man is going to throw three coins into a fountain, make the same wish three times and really expect to get his brains fucked out?”

Tia looked at him again, shrugged her shoulders and pouted. “You’re right. If we just didn’t need the losers.”

Alaia nodded. “Better make this good.”


His name was Rollo. Rollo. His jaw hung dangerously close to falling off his face as Tia walked toward him, her robe slipping ever so slightly to reveal the tip of a nipple winking from depths that threatened to drive him mad. She moved across the grass like butter mixing with warm honey and put her arms around his neck. He felt her breath on his face―a warm Mediterranean scent heavy with lust and music―and all his strength flowed out of his body and into her lips as they pressed on his mouth. He flowed into her, eyes wide and body sapped of the will to even tremble. Her kiss drained his soul and left his body a single vibration of desire. He felt her thigh pressed up hard against the hardest erection of his entire life.

Alaia and Epsy looked at each other, winked and smiled.

Tia’s lips seemed to float away from Rollo’s mouth and she giggled and every giggle blew hot pleasure into his face. “I’m Tia,” she said. “And you’re…?”

Her voice sent a wave of pure lusty energy caroming off every cell in his body and landed full on his erection. “Huh!” he said.

“Huh,” repeated Tia. “Strange name. Is there a story behind it?”

Her voice rolled through his body like a hot snowball gaining strength and momentum and splashing into his penis with a force that nearly emptied his brain into a black hole of pleasure.

“Look, Huh, I know you can talk,” said Tia. “You made the wishes. Three times. Once for each of us…and here we are. Say something.”

“R…” said Rollo.

“And…” encouraged Tia.

He felt himself falling into her eyes and somewhere in the space that he fell through, the word “Rollo” slipped into the paralyzed wind.

“Rollo,” said Tia, nodding. “Reminds me of someone I used to know a long time ago.” She took his hand and led him to where Alaia and Epsy stood, smiling.  “I want you to meet my…let’s say…sisters. This is Alaia.”

Alaia curtseyed and said, “Pleased to meet you Rollo.”

Rollo opened his mouth slightly and nodded.

“And this is Epsy,” said Tia.

Epsy futtered her lashes and winked at him. “I don’t care what the others think,” she said. “I think you’re cute.”

Alaia and Tia looked at each other and rolled their eyes. Rollo stared into Epsy’s eyes and felt himself evaporating into her direction. He smiled. His mind was beginning to clear enough that he could think at least one clear thought. His wish. In his wish, they were supposed to fuck his brains out.

“That’s right, Rollo,” said Tia.

His eyes widened. Did I say that out loud?

“It’s Ok,” said Epsy, giggling. “This way we know how to please you.”

Suddenly, everything seemed to make sense to Rollo. His wish had come true. They would be with him. The three women looked at each other and grinned. “For a slow start, this one caught on quick,” said Alaia.

“Time to explore!” said Tia. She pointed toward the end of The Green where buildings peeked out from behind the maples and elms. “Is that a city?”

“You might call it that,” said Rollo. “More like a glorified town, if you ask me. It’s…”

“Are there places to eat and drink?” asked Tia.

“And shopping?” said Epsy. “Are there places to shop?” “How is the food in your glorified town?” asked Alaia.

“Is the wine heady?” asked Tia.

“Actually,” said Rollo, “this city is known mostly for its relaxing atmosphere and absence of choice.”

The ladies looked at each other, puzzled. Then they giggled and grabbed Rollo’s arms and dragged him toward the buildings. “We need to party,” said Tia. “And you…you need a life.” She winked at the other two.

As they passed by a statue of Robert Burns, the Scotch sage seemed almost to look on in approval through pigeon-shitted eyes.


FountainSrory 005

On the opposite side of the street, sprawling Victorian style houses put on Victorian airs in the morning haze, their wood rot painted over,  dusty curtains sagging heavily behind fading windows.

“What a shame to build with wood,” said Epsy, “when stone is so much more permanent.” Tia craned her neck around Rollo and joined Alaia in glaring at her.

They passed a marble and brick building fronted by sculptures of animals and abstract shapes clawing at the air.

“Is there food and wine in this building?” asked Epsy.

“That’s just an art gallery,” said Rollo. “Mostly paintings and… “At least it’s made of stone…for permanence.” Tia and Alaia glared again.

They came to a building that filled the sky, stone and glass towering above them. Epsy regarded the building approvingly. She was about to comment on its stoneness when another thought crossed her mind, something deep and infinitely meaningful for someone cast in stone since God knows when. “I have to pee.” All three ladies stopped, almost tugging Rollo off his feet. “And that’s not all I have to do,” said Epsy, slapping her robed rump. The three giggled and Tia pointed at the building. “Are there facilities in there?”

“It’s a hotel,” he said. “But they’ll have public washrooms on the main floor.

“We have to pee in public?” said Epsy. “I don’t think I want to do that. At least not yet.”

“I mean, they’re…”

“He means open to the public, Eps,” said Tia. “Nobody’s going to watch you tinkle.”

They went through a pair of massive brass doors and into a high-ceilinged hall, ornate with leather, red felt and muffled air. Daryl Shaw, a reservations clerk who dreamed of someday owning his own bed and breakfast, suddenly put together all the parts of his life into something that finally made sense. He saw into the deepest meaning of things and realized that he really didn’t want a bed and breakfast because he didn’t really like people and didn’t want to spend his life serving and reserving them. He grabbed onto a bundle of initial plausibilities, walked off the job, and set out to make his life itself a work of art.

Rollo led the ladies into a hallway and pointed at an overhead light announcing RESTROOMS. “The door under the light,” he said. Giggling and pinching each other, the ladies disappeared into the washroom. Rollo waited for what seemed like hours. He thought that no human being could pee for so long. He was about to knock on the door when it burst open and the ladies barged out in a storm of laughter. Tia hooked her arm under Rollo’s. “You don’t notice it so much when you’re stone and have a couple hundred pounds of fountain on your head.”

Rollo nodded. “I suppose so.”

As they passed an open door with an unmade bed, Tia looked in and said, “A bed!” Without another word, she pulled Rollo into the room and threw him onto the bed. His clothes peeled off as he flew through the air and he landed naked. Tia was also naked. Behind her, Alaia and Epsy were naked. Staring at Tia’s marble-like breasts, Rollo said: “I think I’m going to loose my mind.”

Mounting him, Tia said, “You most certainly are.”

She pounded onto him for what seemed like hours. He was a wave rushing over an infinite ocean as she surfed his penis into a crazy horizon. He felt his pleasure soar into the universe and crash into the end of time and then soar again over and over and then it was Alaia riding him and then Epsy and then Tia again and all the fixed perspectives of his life seemed to flow out of his brain and evaporate from the churning surface of a pool of pure pleasure. It might have lasted hours, it might have lasted years.

As they left the hotel, Rollo had difficulty getting his head around the fact that it was still mid-morning. So he stopped thinking about it.


On the sidewalk, Epsy belched hard enough to knock three pigeons senseless. Passerby Richard Conway saw this, walked into the street and fell into an open sewer. As he plunged to certain death, he wrote an entire rock opera about a down-and-out truck driver in his head. It ended with a plop.

Tia yelled, “Gypsies!”

Everyone followed her eyes to the park across the street, filled with open-walled tents and tables. “That’s an arts and crafts fair,” said Rollo. “They have it every…”

“Oh, look at the beautiful scarves,” said Epsy.

“You said the shopping wasn’t good,” said Alaia, one eye cocked scornfully.

“But it’s only…”

“It’s wonderful!” yelled Tia. “Let’s shop!”

They pulled Rollo across the street and past ticket attendant June MacLean who picked up her iPhone and began writing that novel she’d always dreamed of, now that everything was suddenly so crystal clear.

“Oh look at the scarves!” barked Epsy. They rushed to a green-topped tent with hundreds of tie-dyed scarves flapping from wooden hangers and the ladies disappeared into rows of swaying color.

All around them, artisans, artists, crafts persons, patrons, customers, critics, apprentices, sculptors, weavers, etchers, potters, jewelers, glass blowers, and stone masons perked up from artistic detachment, and a new generation of craft emerged from their collective consciousness. Never-before dreamed of motifs that mocked all pre-conceived notions of design sprouted willy-nilly from minds suddenly bursting with fiery notions.

By the time the ladies exited the tent―scarves blowing from their necks, arms and ankles―the laid-back mid-morning arts and crafts show was bustling with excitement. They passed a tent with racks displaying thousands of porcelain pins, broaches, ear rings, and belly button rings all decorated with colorful bugs. Rollo noticed Epsy’s attention pausing a moment on a bright black and white ladybug pin. He bought it for her. She smiled and giggled and pinned it to her robe right over her left thigh. Then she kissed him on the cheek.


FountainSrory 004

A folding sign advertising a special on Irish stew caused them to detour into Molly’s Coffee House. Molly’s turned out to be a licensed coffee house. The ladies drank every drop of wine, beer, and spirits from the bar and then from the store room. A group of Bohemian tourists passed a note book around their table and wrote the world’s first collective unconscious novel to win the Nobel Prize for literature. It was about coffee and beer.


Back on the sidewalk it was mid-morning. Rollo and the ladies were festive and drunk as they passed a man in a three-piece suit who gawked at Tia in a manner that displeased her. She smiled at him and ran her finger down the inside neck of her robe just enough to reveal the exact amount of cleavage to make him tear off his clothing and devote the remainder of his life to naked barding.

They passed a tall red brick building with a sign announcing Sports Hall of Fame. Alaia pointed at a large patch of thick grass shaded by a towering Dutch Elm. “Let’s rest awhile,” she said. Nobody argued.

Laying in the grass Rollo listened to the three ladies talk of many things, like how Tia drove Nero fiddling mad with her cleavage and Alaia teased Da Vinci by changing the slant of her mouth every time he was just about to get it right. Epsy giggled as she told how she inspired Catullus’ bed sheet tent.

“Which brings to mind…” said Tia.

And the three ladies converged on Rollo in the deep green grass under the tall Dutch Elm on a hazy summer mid-morning.


They came to a fountain similar to the one on The Green, except it had just one figure and it was on top of the fountain.

“Pan!” screamed Tia, pointing wildly at the golden figure, naked and mischievous-looking with his baby face and old eyes. “What are you doing here!”

Rollo half expected the statuette to answer but it remained frozen in stone and gold paint, unspeaking, water pouring from its midsection. A tiny breath of sadness seemed to surround the ladies as they nodded to each other. Alaia said, “Another time.”

“You knew him?” asked Rollo.

“Partied with him many times,” said Alaia.

“Sometimes he had sex with the wrong people,” said Tia.

“And the wrong beings,” added Epsy.

Alaia shrugged and smiled at the statuette. “See you later,” she said. “Party animal.” She pointed to a sign over an alley between two red brick buildings. “What’s that?” she asked.

Rollo read the sign. Piper’s Lane. “It’s named after the statue I guess. It leads to an outdoor party area with tables and decks and umbrellas.”

“Party area?” said Tia.

“Yes, but …”

“What are we waiting for!” said Epsy.

“But, it’s …”

“Time to party!” said Tia.

“But it’s closed!” yelled Rollo.

“What do you mean closed,” asked Alaia. “It’s late.”

Rollo looked around at the mid-morning cityscape and shrugged. “It doesn’t open until noon. In fact, most of the bars…”

“Let’s go,” said Tia.

As the ladies pulled Rollo away from the fountain, he could almost have sworn that the Pan’s mouth curved into a brutal smile. Seconds later, they were in shade between the two old buildings in an alley that smelled of urine and wood rot. The stone walkway was cracked and potholed. Epsy made no comments on the permanence of stone.

The alley opened into a sunlit square with brightly furnished decks, cobblestone walkways, specialty shops, pubs―most of them closed―and a large roofless dance area with an empty stage. There were about twenty people scattered through the decks and tables, drinking coffee, reading newspapers or talking quietly.

Epsy and Alaia pulled Rollo into the center of the courtyard where they sat under a wide blue and white striped umbrella while Tia grabbed onto a bartender, ignored his pleas that they were closed, and told him to bring food and drink, lots of food and drink. “More food and drink than you dare dream of,” she commanded. The bartender would eventually write a film script about two beer bubbles that fall in love and soar to the top of the glass where they evaporate together and reach an infinite oneness in the surrounding air. It would be lauded as one of the most remarkable films of all time but, with a running time of twenty-four hours, it would never actually be produced.

By the time Tia got to their table, other people were starting to arrive. Bar owners messing with computerized accounting programs closed their laptops after deciding that today would be a good day to open early. People working in surrounding buildings decided it was time for a break, time for a frosty cold beer and some salad. A group of drunken rednecks who had slept under their table the previous night so as not to lose it the following day decided to start the world’s first intellectual country band. They called it the “Existential Cowboys Who Are In Touch With Their Feminine Selves.” During their first live performance―in a country bar―the audience would pummel them to death with beer mugs and pitchers.

Within minutes Piper’s Lane was hustling with the sound of laughter and clinking glasses. Everywhere, the conversation was animated and passionate with talk of spatial relationships and the delicate balance between reality and illusion. People theorized and postulated new meanings into their ordinary lives, rising as they did into new realms of awareness.

A group of musicians lugged instruments onto the stage, plugged in and started playing. The music was indefinable, like something not heard on earth since gods slept in the clouds and woke up in ditches. The music flowed like hot tomato sauce over the tables and umbrellas and into the streets and over the buildings and over the naked bodies of hundreds of vibrant humans gathered in Piper’s Lane talking of form and content and the countless ways of arranging them into new meanings.

Rollo glanced around at naked men and women standing with drinks in hand, sitting with palms cupped over bare knees, absently scratching public hair while making a point about the ontological proof for the non-existence of reason. It didn’t surprise Rollo that he was also naked. In fact, it seemed more than natural, almost expected. And he wasn’t surprised when the three ladies pounced on him as one. Everyone was suddenly inside everyone else. They coupled on tabletops, on bench tops, on chairs, on the ground and standing up. An elderly man who’d just been told by his doctor an hour earlier that he would never get it up again felt his penis whip up like a telephone pole. People performed wild acts on the naked musicians as they played without dropping a note. Their music spiraled inexorably from mild to frenzied, and electrified the air, propelling the gathering into further sexual acts, into new ways of inserting body parts into body parts and positions that broke all rational laws of gravity and flexibility.

As they fucked, they talked. They talked about literature and art and ideas. They spoke in poetic tongues. They plotted plays and devised dialog. They inspired each other and consumed each other.

Whatever Rollo was feeling was far beyond sex with the three ladies who pummeled his penis and licked his body and kissed him all over as though they were one thing covering every square inch of his body simultaneously. He felt alternately on fire and frozen in space and time. His mind emptied into a beautiful ocean of calm and Tia, Alaia and Epsy were waves breaking over his being while he sank happily into a void where everything was waiting to become.

His loins began to build to something wonderful and great and the thought crossed his mind that in all the sex he’d had so far, he hadn’t come once.

Now, he felt the impending explosion. His awareness flew out the top of his head and soared into the air. He gazed right through the blue and white umbrella at himself covered with three beautiful women of indeterminate ancient origin mauling every cell of his body with their lust as all around them hundreds of people talked and found new ways to penetrate each other.

His brain exploded as his loins exploded.

And he emptied.


Rollo shook his head. It was dark. He was standing by the bank of the river under the massive weeping willow. The air was still. The grass was motionless. Every leaf on every tree slept, dreaming of the warm sun and winds that would come the next day. He looked across the river, so wide it appeared more as lake than river, and he wondered where the day had gone. He turned and looked longingly at the three ladies in the fountain. He reached into his pockets for coins but his pockets were empty. He remembered wishing earlier. How long had it been? How long had he been standing by the river?

He was hungry. He walked toward the fountain looking at the one he thought of for some reason as a bit of a ditz and feeling strangely as though he could almost imagine her thighs wrapped around his waist. He walked past the fountain thinking about the relationship between Incan architecture and the work of Andy Warhol. These thoughts would eventually lead to a unified theory of the arts that would make Rollo the greatest art theorist of all time, even though he would never be able to actually sit down and discuss a single one of his arguments without losing interest and turning his attention to something else like perhaps a mote of dust riding the tide of an exhaled breath.

He passed by the fountain without noticing the faded stone outline of an insect much like a ladybug pinned on the robe over the left thigh of one of the ladies.


He lived for another forty years. He never married. He never had sex. He worked day and night on his unified theory of the arts and he sculpted in stone. He was never lonely, feeling in some reach of his being that he’d reached some inestimable height from which he was slowly falling back to an world that he would probably never reach. For the most part, he was content.

He died in a car accident. The doctor who performed the autopsy was surprised to find no brain in his skull.


NOTE: This story was originally published in Twisted Tails VII: Irreverance by Double Dragon Publishing. If you’d like to read some more fiction like this, you can get the anthology at Amazon.

Ross Howard – Psychic


Ross Howard was a psychic. A real-life, bonafide, honest-to-goodness psychic. And he’d been a psychic for, oh, let’s see now…six hours. Ever since he’d been banged on the head by a hammer that morning on his way to work. He wasn’t sure how that had happened; probably just a random head banging but, when it was over, Ross was a psychic.

He could read minds. Predict the future. Lift heavy objects through the power of thought. He hadn’t tried the last one yet, but he could predict the future and he’d predicted that he would soon be lifting heavy objects just by thinking it.

In the meantime, he was having one hell of a time reading peoples’ minds, delving into their most inner secrets, peeking into the stuff of their lives, prying away the illusory boards shuttering the windows into their pasts.

Only problem was…people kept lying to him. In their thoughts. And he had ample proof of this. For instance, he read the thoughts of a woman in the coffee shop line-up just a few hours ago. She was thinking about buying a regular coffee with lite cream but, when she opened her mouth to order, she said, “I’ll have a double caramel latte.”


And he could have sworn he’d seen the hint of a malicious smile as she placed her order.

An hour before that, a man driving an SUV in front of Ross was thinking about turning right but almost as soon as Ross read the man’s thoughts he suddenly turned left without any warning and cut across traffic at a busy intersection, almost crashing into a Ford pickup, a convertible Punch Buggy and a woman on a mountain bike.

Crazy liar.

And had Ross seen the man laughing into his rear view mirror?

So he figured he’d try a little reverse psychology. A woman sitting at a restaurant counter bounced her choice between the lemon meringue and apple pie before deciding on the lemon meringue. But Ross knew she was lying and knew that she would pick the apple. When the waitress came over to her, she said, “Could I have a slice of that lemon meringue pie, please.”

These people couldn’t even tell the truth when they were lying. And again, he could have sworn he’d seen a nasty grin on the woman’s face as she ordered her lemon meringue pie.

It was mid-afternoon in suburbia and the sun was shining, not a cloud in the sky, but there was just the slightest of breezes to keep everything warm but comfortable. It was a beautiful day to be a psychic…if he could just figure a way to get people to think the truth. The woman at the restaurant kept with her decision to the lemon meringue pie, but she’d led him to believe that she would get the apple pie by deciding not to get the apple pie.

Had she done that deliberately, just to mess with his head? Or…were mysterious forces at work? With the gift of his new powers, maybe he’d opened some sort of portal into states of being beyond the ordinary. Had he disturbed things that were better left alone? He thought about this for a few minutes and decided it was time to lift heavy objects with his mind.

He focused on a garbage truck parked by the side of the road about thirty feet away. He thought deeply. Very deeply. He visualized the truck lifting gently upwards from the pavement. He closed his eyes and imagined all weight and substance drifting out of the truck so that it would rise, rise, rise from the pavement. He opened his eyes and the truck was still grounded. So he commanded out loud that the truck rise. He lifted his hands, palms upwards, as though he were lifting the truck with his arms, and said, “I command you to rise! I command you to rise!” The truck stubbornly stayed where it was.

Ross decided that he’d probably seen a little further into the future than he’d guessed when he predicted he could lift heavy objects with his mind.

Back to mind reading.

He saw the mini mall a few blocks ahead with the bright blue sign announcing his favorite cyberbar, The Lively Laptop Cyberbar and Grill. Beer and a laptop. That’s what he needed. He passed a yard surrounded by a metal fence and looked into the future, predicting that a dog would bark at him. As the walked by the fence, sure enough, a vicious Dachshund barked indolently at him as it lay on its side in the cool grass. His ability to look into the future was starting to develop.

He walked through the tinted glass doors of The Lively Laptop Cyberbar and Grill into a large LED lighted room with a bar running the length of one wall, booths attached to the other wall, and coffee tables surrounded by easy chairs filling the floors. The glow of monitor screens lit the faces of about a dozen people hunched fervently over laptops. No one was talking. He’d never paid much attention to the other customers in the past, but today he would be paying much attention.

Time to read some minds and find out who was downloading porno. He bought a Corona from a young woman wearing thick glasses who dragged herself reluctantly from her laptop behind the bar. He read her mind. She was irritated with him. She frowned when she passed the beer over the counter to him. Ah, he thought, someone’s finally thinking the truth. He paid for his beer and walked slowly, so as not to attract attention, to one of the tables against the wall. He opened a dated laptop sitting in the center of the table and pressed the ON button. While the laptop booted up, he looked around the room. Who’s mind would he read?

His eyes settled on a middle aged man in a two piece suit with his tie and shirt collar loosened around his neck. He focused on the man’s head, looking deep into his brain, opening his own mind to whatever thoughts would flow from the man’s cranium. Almost immediately, he knew the man’s name—Bob. Bob something. He knew the man was writing an email to a business associate. He knew that man was writing, “I’m sure Hanson will go along with the plan, but we’ll have to watch Mercer carefully.”


That was a successful mind read. He thought about approaching the man and asking his name and what he was doing, but the thought crossed his mind that the man might suspect that his mind had just been read. That was something he’d have to think about. Secrecy. If other people found out about his powers he could find himself in a bit of a pickle. How would they react to his ability to peer into their deepest secrets? Would there be those who would want to hire him for his psychic talents? Would there be those who would fear his talents and want him dead? Would they see him as a precursor to a new race of superior human beings and fear for the extinction of the human race as it is? Would he be seen as a threat to national security? Would they send teams of men in black suits and black SUVs in the wee hours of the night to wisk him off to some secret laboratory where he would spend the rest of his life under observation, poked with cold steel instruments, interrogated endlessly, hooked to wires and electrodes, subjected to psychological testing at all hours of the day and night?

No…he would have keep his new powers secret. At least, for the time being. In the meantime, he would work on them, develop them, get a grip on his full potential. And right now, he would read someone else’s mind. Let’s see. The woman in the corner with the glasses that seemed to cover most of her oval face. Her eyes were the size of silver dollars as they stared into the laptop monitor, her face illuminated eerily, like a phantom object shining out of the darkness of the corner. He stared intently at her high forehead, stared into her forehead where the gray matter was, where her thoughts were. Her name was Sara. She was thinking, “…mmm, ffttt. Mmmm…rrrrgggg; mmm…fftt…”

No way could that be a lie. So her name had to be Sara. His powers were in top form. He was reading minds like a pro. He was on the cusp of great things. No one could stop him now. If they came for him in the wee hours of the night, he would know. He would know before they knew. He would lift them into the skies with his ability to lift heavy objects just by thinking about it and let them hover over their fate until they screamed for their mommies.

He took a long celebratory drink of beer, then watched as his laptop screen finally displayed Firefox. He cursored to the Google search box and entered: mind reading for beginners. 556,000,000 results. He decided to do some research later. In the meantime, he would just learn by doing. He turned the laptop off and chugged the rest of his beer.

Outside, the sky was beginning to cloud over. Ross predicted rain.

He spotted a small plane in the sky and decided to try his hand at long distance mind reading. He projected his thought reading power into the sky and centered on the plane, penetrating the fuselage, directly into the mind of the pilot, whose name was Bob. Bob was thinking about his approach to the airport, which seemed strange. Ross thought that the airport was in the opposite direction. But he wasn’t sure. So he wouldn’t accuse Bob of lying. As he thought this, he noticed that the plane dipped its wing. Wasn’t that how pilots saluted and acknowledged someone on the ground? Well, he wished Bob a happy landing.

Yes, his powers were getting stronger by the moment. He was reading people’s minds like reading comic books. He was the master of transparency. He started thinking about how best to use his powers and the answer came into his mind immediately: time to get rich.

He headed straight for the Tenth Street Casino. It was time for some poker, and it didn’t matter how straight faced the other players were. But he would let them win some small amounts, at first. Let them get over confident, ready for some big bets. He would know exactly when to lose and win. He would play them from within their own minds.

An hour later, he walked out of the Tenth Street Casino broke, his wallet cleaned out, his savings cleaned out, his wrist minus a watch.

Liars !

He couldn’t believe it. It was as though they all knew that their minds were being read and deliberately did the opposite of what they were thinking. Even when they were about to do the opposite of what they were thinking, they suddenly did the opposite of that.

Cheating liars!

He was stunned. Heading towards him down the sidewalk was a woman pushing a stroller with something bundled up so tightly it was impossible to tell if it was a baby or a dog. He read the woman’s mind as she was about to pass him. It was a baby boy. His name was Bob. Finally, another successful mind reading.

The woman stopped and looked at him quizzically. Uh-oh. Was his secret out? Did she, through some form of mother’s intuition, sense that he’d been reading her mind? Would they be coming for him in the wee hours of the night?

“Traci,” said the woman.

Ross stared at her. What the hell was she talking about?

“My baby is a girl. Her name is Traci, not Bob. And that’s a nasty bump you have on your head.”

(Note: This is one of the great stories in the Twisted Tails VIII anthology and this one isn’t even near the best.  You can order a copy of it a by clicking HERE.)

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The War Bug

(Excerpt from my third novel, The War Bug. You can buy it at Amazon. Just do a search for crazy stupid book. BTW, there’s no giant ant in the book. The War Bug is a computer virus that causes a war between online city states…but turns out to be kinda nice when it helps the lead character get his virtual family back. I wrote a short story in which the cover artist get his for putting an ant on the cover. The publisher who published the book with the ant on the cover also published the story in which the cover artist gets his. Go figure.)


The Great Nano Canyon

“Cold murdering bitch. Damn, just one night with her, one hour!” muttered Jeemo, as he wiped drool from his chin and took off the white robe. The orange spikes on his head stood straight up like sharp erections.

Jeemo Roosenvelt would gladly have taken the sexclone’s place if he could have fallen to his death with his brain fresh full of sex with Bella and the smell of her cruelty seeping into his gray flesh.

He stared at his naked body in the wall length mirror. “Perfection!”

Vast folds of flesh rolled over thick layers of fat. Seven feet, seven hundred pounds. Jeemo loved the symmetry of the numbers. Somewhere under that mass his penis twitched crazily. He could feel it. “Yes. Throb my hidden toy, throb for the goddess Bella, psycho lust kitten of the emerald palace.”

He turned sideways, looking up and down the bulk of his body, at the gray face bulging out of his shoulders, and the fan of orange hair spikes forming a line from one ear to the other. His hands and feet were small and delicate; his movement as he turned before the mirror, fluid and graceful. He loved to watch himself move. He loved to watch himself standing still. He loved to watch himself eat, sit, lying down. Every wall of every room in his mansion, except one, was a mirror. Through the mirrors he could watch his enormous girth stretch into an infinity of reflected images.

A tuxedoed serverclone—one of the lower orders of clones, bred without legs, but equipped with anti-gravity boots so that their footsteps would not irritate their owners—floated to his side with a glass of red wine on a silver tray. It was reflected thousands of times over in the walls. “Dinner will be ready in ten minutes, Mr. Roosenvelt.”

Jeemo whisked the wine glass to his lips with a single motion and the serverclone floated away. Sipping wine, Jeemo bounced lightly, mounds of skin shaking like sickly jelly, to an arched window. The glass in the window could withstand the force of an F7 tornado—and it had.

Outside, the moon spilled over a Mid-west gutted like a war zone, spreading into the darkness, deep into the New Tornado Alley leading right up to the edge of the Great Nano Canyon. In the distance, strange light played in the air over sections of the canyon, dancing in bursts of blue and orange. This was normal.

The canyon wasn’t.


Less than a hundred years into the new millennium, the human race came close to becoming cheese soup. It started with the world’s smallest computer, a computer so small, it could only be seen with an electron microscope. It was the first assembler nanobot, a concoction of seven atoms that had been circuited, programmed and instructed to build—though what the nanobot was supposed to build was never known. In the process of building, it killed ten million people, including the people who had programmed it, and the last communication with them had been from the project’s lead Nano-applications Specialist, Milton Nadd.

His pallid face had filled the phone monitor as he whispered, “My god, it’s cheese soup…”

Then the screen had gone blank.

No one will ever know why it was cheese soup, but here’s how the nanobot was supposed to work: it was supposed to visit neighboring atoms and nudge them around until it had built another nanobot exactly like itself. Then the two nanobots were to visit neighboring atoms and nudge them around until they had built two more nanobots exactly like themselves. Then the four nanobots…

It was much like E-bola, only faster. In fact, it was so fast that, by the time Milton Nadd had said “cheese soup”, he was cheese soup. And his videophone was cheese soup. The other researchers and scientists and administrators and computer technicians in the room with Milton Nadd were all cheese soup. Desks, computers, chairs, paper clips, Far Side calendars, pencils and papers and books were all cheese soup. A million dollar electron microscope shook twice then collapsed into a splash of cheese soup that turned most of the floor into

cheese soup. The walls literally flowed into the floor and the ceiling fell and bubbled into the yellow-orange liquid. Within minutes, the entire underground high-security maximum-containment, fool-proof, fail-safe, absolutely accident free and “Senator-Jonz-you-won’t-ever-have-to-worry-about-anything-escaping-from-this-place-or-my-name-isn’t-Doctor-Milton-Nadd” facility was cheese soup, and it was working its way up through the ground, turning layers of red granite, quartz schist and an elevator containing junior research assistant, Jaqui Wright, who, strangely, had always wanted to be cheese soup, into cheese soup.

Now the assemblers were in gear, revved up and ready to rock, rarin’ to chew into the atoms of igneous and metamorphic rock, bite into the neutrons of trees and grass and asphalt and spit out cheese soup. Highways, lakes and towns, swimming pools and rivers, airports and trains, canoes full of frothy cold beer, and entire cities all churned into cheese soup. Hundreds of square miles of North Dakota were cheese soup by the time the news began to spread. Around the world, people panicked and rioted while others prepared quietly to become cheese soup. Jerry Springer was thawed from cryostasis and hosted a special on people who had sex in vats of cheese soup. Leaders of the Unified Global Village pondered and debated over international chat forums and concluded that it was time to try something new, and soup was always OK. Just when the world was ready to accept cheese soupness, the assemblers stopped.

Just stopped.

There was no apparent reason. They just stopped, after having created a mass of cheese soup that stretched from Winnipeg to Fargo and from Williston to Duluth. The whole planet held its breath in unison, as the ocean of cheese soup trembled like gunky jello without advancing a single atom in any direction. It stayed like that for three days. Then the giant mass of cheese soup went “ping”—not a loud ping, but a barely audible “ping”, like two expensive champagne glasses toasted by ladybugs. By the time the “ping” had “inged”, the cheese soup was gone. In its place was a perfectly round bowl in the earth, its walls polished and smooth. Millions of people who had flocked to the edges of the cheese soup

stared quietly, their faces a wall of open-eyed non-expression around the massive hole left by the cheese soup.

Nobody knew why it disappeared. Nobody knew why it stopped. Only the handful of Nanotechnologists Milton Nadd had called just before he became cheese soup knew why or how it had started, and they later restricted all nanoresearch to space stations far from the Earth’s orbit until the research was proved safe. Or at least somewhat reasonably safe.

Of course, there were those who thought a giant empty bowl was a big improvement over the former landscape.


For the briefest flicker of time, Jeemo’s mind drew him back to the failure of nano-treatments to change his body, rejecting him like a bad odor. Then the rejection by his parents, as though he were an insult to their DNA, and then his childhood spent with serverclones and software. Other than his parents, he’d never been in the same room as a real human, never touched real flesh other than his own. But that was all he’d needed, to feel himself real and nano-resistant, so perfect even the bots couldn’t improve him. He was the new standard of human perfection, and he loved every cubic inch of space he occupied.

But he’d gladly die for just a brush of Bella’s cold touch.

“Hot damn! That crazy woman’s going to fuck my brains out and flush me into the ocean.” The throbbing between his huge legs went into hyper drive at the thought of plunging into the ocean with Bella’s acid love fluids burning into his body. All he had to do was get the woman and the girl for her.

He sipped his wine as he stared into the sky over the Great Nano Canyon. The pink hole that was his mouth curved into something like a smile. And there’s the key to it all, he thought, why didn’t I think of that sooner? I’ll move it later. He’ll never find them now.

A sweet aroma curled into his nostrils. Mmm, honey glazed ham. There would be Poinsettia Eggs en Gelee. Potatoes Savonnette and watercress soup. And none of it would taste like chicken. Oh, it might hint of chicken on the aftertaste—chicken was inescapable these days—but the glazed ham would taste like glazed ham on the first few chews.