One of the many seemingly random “Bits” I hope to explore in this space–my final frontier . . . is my fiction work. As if reality wasn’t suffering enough here already, hmm?
By fiction I mean both screenplays and novels, perhaps even some short pieces.
Like everything else that spews from my fingers, like Mork from Ork in reverse, my fiction also verges on weirdness . . . or hadn’t you noticed? I kinda like throwing normal present day people in normal settings into something a little unusual and watch what happens.
Kind of like what I do with you here. ~giggle~
Here’s one short example that randomly landed on me in a Creative Writing/Fiction class a few college terms ago. Don’t ask me what I was on at the time . . . I don’t want to talk about it.
It goes something like this . . .
Ms. Amoeba, P.I.
The bullet holes were gone. I felt around my chest and abdomen, but they were nowhere to be found. Maybe I’d imagined the whole thing and simply fainted, like women are always doing in old movies. Twits. But the memory of the bullets tearing into me was painfully clear. The two goons with the semi-automatics had fired at least a dozen rounds into me and left me for dead in this trash-strewn alley.
Or so I thought. Even my dress was unscathed.
I got up, shook it off, and made my way to Tony Desilio’s lounge, determined to find the answers to my first mystery. The second would have to wait, the one with the tiny saucer that had landed in the street in front of me and gone squish. I wasn’t sure I saw that either, especially the weird ooze that leaked out. I know I shouldn’t have touched it. The blur of memories that hit me at that point don’t bear thinking about, at least until I got a drink in me. The thugs dragged me into the alley while I was distracted with that.
Or so they thought.
When I arrived at Tony’s, I expected more trouble, but the goon at the door that looked like a meat locker just gave me the hairy eyeball and let me in. The weasel that shot me first was waiting in the wide foyer. I could tell they both sported big revolvers under sweaty armpits.
“Sid, the broad’s still alive,” said the bouncer .
“Shut up, Dob, and check her for a vest,” said Sid, eyeballing me. He looked less cool than he acted.
The bouncer, as chivalrous as a hockey player, bounced me against the wall—hard—to make me more cooperative, but the effect was anticlimactic. My back seemed to flatten against the cheap paneling, then bounce back.
Weird was not the word.
With his other meaty paw, Dob reached toward my blouse, a flicker of something unsavory in his eyes as his fingers hovered over my cleavage. I felt that helpless thing women hate so much, for about three seconds. This truly pissed me off.
I shifted and something went squish. The arm that was wrenched behind my back melted away–and reconstitute in front of me. I didn’t have time to freak out about it. Maybe later.
All I knew was they were trying to do to me what they already did to my family. I could feel my anger focusing into the clenching of my relatively small fist, becoming a rock-hard ball of hate, a fist-sized boulder of it. Without thinking, I swung it up, striking Dob hard enough to send him flying off his feet. Everyone in the room was shocked, including me.
Sid brought his gun up, but the big one rolled over and jumped me first, pinning me to the floor under 400 pounds of smelly flesh.
The next thing I knew I was on my feet again, slapping away Sid’s pistol, then Sid, who hit the far wall, then folded onto the floor. The bouncer hoisted himself off the floor staring at his hands.
“What the hell are you lady?” he said, “You melted. Slipped away like Jello.”
I stepped toward him and he backed away.
“Shoo!” I said and he disappeared out the front door under his own steam.
I stepped past Sid’s limp form and headed for Tony’s office, my mind reeling with what just happened. Whatever it was, it didn’t stop me from my original goal. Nothing could stop me from that. Tony was going to pay. I entered and closed the door behind me. Tony swiveled his chair toward me and smiled.
“Hey, Babe. Nice to see you. Still looking good despite reports from my guys.” he was a cool customer right to the end. “You’re really starting to annoy me.”
“I’m just getting started.”
He didn’t seem impressed. I’d left my gun back at the office, I wouldn’t have been impressed either. I was about the same shape as a cocktail waitress. A smart one.
Tony stood up from his desk and came toward me. I decide to meet him halfway.
“You killed my family,” I said through my teeth. “Burned them alive in a fireball. Got anything to say for yourself?”
“Only that my boys are getting clumsy. They were just supposed to get you. I don’t like nosy women in my business. Here, let me get the boys in here so we can tie up this loose end.”
He went to whistle and I caught his hand. He looked down, mesmerized as my hand melted and flowed over his. The look of terror came when I pulled him to me and his body became engulfed in parts of me, as well. I didn’t know what I was doing, but my body did. He dissolved quickly, thousands of horrible deeds flashing into my mind as his skull was digested into me. When it was done, there wasn’t a cell of him left and I knew his every secret.
Half disgusted, half vindicated, I dropped into his chair and stared at my hands. They looked completely normal. I had become some kind of human-amoeba thing, and I’d just digested someone alive. How do I deal with that?
I was a PI, not a late night cinema monster. What do I do with this?
The tiny UFO came to mind, squashed under the tire of that checkered cab. The answers had to be there. No sooner had a I thought the thought, than memories flooded in. Memories that weren’t mine.
Frantic fighting to get control of my ship. Strange buildings falshing past, then asphalt racing up. There was an awful crash. Then a close-up of a zigzagged Michelin putting out my lights, before I could react. All I felt then on were memories of memories–also not mine. Seems aliens’ lives flashed in front of them at death, too.
I saw the history of a world far from our own, familiar weirdness filling my human side with awe. This creature was not a monster. It had been an emissary of peace, a critter with an important mission. And as it died it came to a desperate decision. I came to my senses realizing a dead alien emissary somehow passed something of itself into a skirt-wearing P.I., who could suddenly do things to bad guys that would put her off her grain for weeks.
—Excerpt of Ms. Amoeba, by Miki Marshall
Not my usual cup of bananas, this anti-heroine thing. At the time I thought it might have some promise as a possible prelude to a series of stories. I’m not sure of the gruesome ending though. ~shiver~
I’m kinda wondering what you think. (No, really!) I mean, if you’re weird enough to still be reading my blog, I might as well put you to work. You my kinda people!*