Dear readers, I will give you, over the next few days, several story beginnings from which to choose. You get to vote which story you want to see serialized here.
My plan is to start a weekly serial story that will appear every Wednesday.
The story beginning that gets the most votes (at least two more than the next highest vote getter) will be serialized.
I’m not going to put a time limit on the voting. When I think we’ve gotten all the votes we are reasonably going to get I’ll start. I’ll give it at least a week after the last initial entry is made.
I’m thinking the stories will be:
1. A fantasy comedy with wizards, magic, wee folk and the like.
2. A Space Opera comedy. It’ll kinda be a mix of Dune, H.P. Lovecraft and Hitch Hikers’ Guide to the Galaxy (do you abbreviate that HHGTTG, 2H2G, H2G2 or HHGG?).
3. A children’s fantasy story. I have a lot of these in my head and some of them I’ve written for my little Props. Most likely however, this one will be set in Chorak and begin with Princess Galacien.
4. A mystery. This will most likely be starring Alison Brickhouse and be after she leaves the CPD (or maybe before her transformation).
5. A horror story, probably Lovecraftian, but not funny.
Here’s the first installment, a comedy fantasy:
Mystery Magic Of Fish Island
“Yes my son?” The small dark priest was wearing a pair of black shoes, black socks, black pants, black shirt, well, you get the idea. He also wore a black trench coat and black leather, driving cap.
“I’m a girl, Father.” The stocky girl in a stocky wool sweater, overalls, golashes and a wool slouch hat was wrestling the young priest’s bags aboard the small ferry in misty rain.
“Sorry. What can I do for you, erm?”
“Name’s Brandy, Father. Brandy-Polly Unsaturated.”
“Can I help you with the bags, Brandy-Polly?”
“No, but you can look out behind you.” The sailor nodded over the priest’s shoulder.
When he turned and looked he was eye to nipple with a very large woman. His eyes scaled her until he reached her eyes, a good foot above his own and six and a half feet above the dock. Her face broke into a pleasant smile.
“Good morning, Father,” she said in a contralto voice he could barely hear from that distance. She stepped past him, onto the boat. She easily carried two fully stuffed army duffle bags. She looked like she had just stepped out of a Land’s End catalog, or maybe one of those large print ones for seniors. The ferry listed considerably when she stepped aboard. She was solid, all muscle, not bulky. She was so ripped you could see muscle striations through her vest, made of down the geese volunteered; water-proof, yet breathable Gore-Tex pull over; 100% New Zealand wool flannel shirt died with dolphin friendly pigments; and moisture wicking, recycled polyester undergarment. She also wore no bra.
“Coming Father?” The sailor was doing sailor type things to the controlly parts of the boat. The motors roared and the boat started to move away from the dock before the priest could even respond, let alone get aboard. He jumped and just caught his foot on the gunnel with his other foot still in space above the icy water of the sound.
The Land’s End large print grabbed his arm and lifted him aboard with one hand.
“Glad you could make it Father, this is no time for a swim,” she said. “I’m Maxine Sharpy.” She shook his hand.
“I’m Father Jose Incognito.” He smiled up at her.
“Are you going to be Fishton’s parish priest?” She asked, still holding his hand. Father Incognito wanted to let go, but he couldn’t so he just kept shaking.
“Yes, and yourself?”
“I’m a post-doc in Anthropology from the University of Washington.” She leaned forward and whispered in his ear. “I’m on my way to study the Wee Folk of Fish Island.”
Before he could respond a loud voice called out from the dock.
“Drats. I plumb forgot my other passengers.” Brandy-Polly said as she turned the boat around.
The voice belonged to a woman nearly as tall as Maxine, but thin as a model. She was wearing a tiny black dress, a small, but outrageously expensive and designer hand bag and impossibly pointy shoes. She was accompanied by four other women, each of different hair and skin color, but all wearing the same clothes and an aire of disconnectedness. At their center was a woman, equally as tall, but more sensibly wrapped in a fur.
The boat bumped against the dock and the black-dressed women all stepped aboard like they were stepping on the lifeless body of a prostrate male worshiper. They then reached back and lifted the fur-robbed woman onto the deck. When she landed, Father Incognito was knocked aside. The women all looked at him with contempt.
“Do you know who I am?” The furred woman said. Father just shook his head.
“I am Princess Darion Mouning and these are Model-Captain Ashley, Model-Sergeant Bea and Models Cinthia, Deloris and Ekaterina.”
All the models looked down on him with swollen lips and disinterested eyes.
“You may proceed Captain Unsaturated.” Princess Darion waved her hand contemptuously.
“You can call me BP highness. Where are your bags?”
All six women held up bags so small that they probably had to break down a stick of lipstick and spread the parts among themselves to fit them.
“We are all packed.”
As they pulled away into the fog the princess pulled off an opera glove and twisted a ring there. Just before she closed her eyes to mutter an incantation she noticed the wide-open mouth and eyes of the small priest.
"Oh, don't worry Father. It's just a fashion ring, not an imortality ring."
She closed her eyes, muttered something and gave the ring a twist. Immediately all the models and the princess were attired in fashionable trenchcoats and had attractive umbrellas.
Father Incognito fell over.