I have this sordid story out at Amazon (.99c)... waiting for my free promo days to reset so I can put it back up for free.
It is utterly bizarre, space fantasy with no direction except that Voltaire keeps getting interrupted from work on Candide.
In any case, here is a little excerpt:
Voltaire, if that is who truly wrote Candide, was seething when he heard about the alien infestation on Mars. Three incoherent sentences glared up at him from the yellowed parchment and he flung the quill across the room. I will never finish this tale! He thought, then put voice to his words, startling the cat. His cleaver gleamed in the candlelight and he cursed again, running outside to his waiting vehicle....
.....
"Whenever a rain storm came, I ran and hid under huge rocks that stunk of old feet and red things that crawl upon you as the setting sun gleams over Earth after a rain storm, not including the little splash of color that flitters over the pine trees in June; certainly not as horrible as the feel of maggots on your coccyx, nor the gentle heat of a boiling seaside shadow—no, I hid where I hid, because it was fun to hide; yet more fun to writhe in pain in those rocks. That is a run-on sentence. Not the rocks, what I just said. These things were horrible, but I didn't care; I was as free as a lark."
I have this sordid story out at Amazon (.99c)... waiting for my free promo days to reset so I can put it back up for free.
It is utterly bizarre, space fantasy with no direction except that Voltaire keeps getting interrupted from work on Candide.
In any case, here is a little excerpt:
Voltaire, if that is who truly wrote Candide, was seething when he heard about the alien infestation on Mars. Three incoherent sentences glared up at him from the yellowed parchment and he flung the quill across the room. I will never finish this tale! He thought, then put voice to his words, startling the cat. His cleaver gleamed in the candlelight and he cursed again, running outside to his waiting vehicle....
.....
"Whenever a rain storm came, I ran and hid under huge rocks that stunk of old feet and red things that crawl upon you as the setting sun gleams over Earth after a rain storm, not including the little splash of color that flitters over the pine trees in June; certainly not as horrible as the feel of maggots on your coccyx, nor the gentle heat of a boiling seaside shadow—no, I hid where I hid, because it was fun to hide; yet more fun to writhe in pain in those rocks. That is a run-on sentence. Not the rocks, what I just said. These things were horrible, but I didn't care; I was as free as a lark."