Science Fiction Sample, And An Update About Venting My Emotional Vehicle


I’m purging a whole lotta crap out of my ribcage. Emotions get stuffed in there; I have a lot of dark, ugly things in my ribs. And I’m emptying them out, but it sucks. It sucks because all the negative, blocked, squishy (not the good kind of squishy, the rotten, smelly kind) experiences that I’ve hidden in order to cope are stored there, and I’m doing a renovation of my interior, so of course the goo in my ribs has to go. It just smells terrible. Spiritually. I mean that it smells spiritually. It doesn’t actually smell, like, in your nose or anything.

I Knew A Man Very Like Alexander Skarsgard In School

He was a strange duck, very kind in his heart, but he had the most awful manners. He was like a walking sexual harassment lawsuit, pending. But very sweet. He never bothered really good women, and his irritating teasings were coming from a clean place. A lot of men harass women because they’re horrible human beings, and selfish, but this guy, Carl, we shall call him, poked at unhappy, broken women, in an effort to cheer them up. He was very childish.

Oh, Victor, Why Are You Bringing Up Carl?

I brought up Carl the friendly harasser because I thought about fixing him. I generally think about fixing everyone that I meet, because I know how to fix people. Yeah, I know that sounds arrogant or something, but I do. I rebuild people, when I feel like it. And when I think my repair-work might last. People destroy themselves, you know, when they think they can get away with it without becoming homeless. Carl didn’t destroy himself; he was already broken, almost beyond repair, by the infidelity of his parents, and the cruelty of his homeland (he was a foreigner).

Those Rotten Ribs, Which Stink

Anyway, I was pondering the potential fixing-up of Carl, and I ran my projection equipment, which I always do before picking up a new broken person, and I found that, though it would, over the course of about fifteen years, be possible to fix Carl, I could not bring myself to face the stench. His ribs, and his lower lumbar vertebrae, were stuffed with inherited poison. He’d tried to absorb and cleanse the sins of his mother and father, you see, and he didn’t have the tools for the job. When a child, later an adult, attempts to purge another, and they cannot do the job, they hide the evidence, usually in their bones.

It Would Be Like Performing Surgery On A Rank Corpse

Carl is the type of man who will never, ever, ever let go of a love for and loyalty towards his parents. Which means that he will never, ever allow anyone to remove the rot and the decay from within his bones. I could fix Carl, by blinding him, and then bending him over my knee and gutting him, but it would take a long time, and, as I said before, it would smell very, very bad. Spiritually, not in the physical world.

What Are Spiritual Smells, Victor?

If you don’t have any extra-sensory perceptions, you should probably think about developing some. For the future, you know, when the machines are supposedly going to take over (which, having connections to construction, I just do not believe can ever happen, really). Smells, though. I mentioned that death is black, several days ago, and I said that I wouldn’t tell you about what evil was like. I will tell you this: it smells, like you wouldn’t believe. Spiritually.


Good Writing:

Mary felt taken aback by this choice of words. She was not entirely offended; she figured Ethan was not used to talking to people that he liked. She had seen him interact with other cyborgs, a little, and their way of communication was not exactly fluffy or harmonious.

The truth was that Ethan wanted to hurt her feelings; he was uncomfortable with their connection, and he was living in a fold of contradiction. He wanted Mary to be happy, but he did not want to make her happy himself, and he did not want to encourage her affection for him.

He sensed, in an instinctual way, and also because she had nearly died rescuing him on the guardship, that she loved him, and he had never been loved wholly in his life. He did not like how vulnerable and owned it made him feel. He preferred the cold, heartless relationship he had to his alien master, and to the conquering race as a whole. They were monstrous and cruel, but they never expected him to parse his own feelings, and he was finding, as he interacted further with Mary, that interpreting his own feelings was an exercise fraught with trouble and pain.

Very, Very Bad Writing:

Mary did not enjoy the expression he used in referring to her this way. She had very strong feelings about how he was speaking, stuffing them away, Ethan would learn in the future if she was just nicer to him. The cyborgs were different to mortal men, who had shown her gentility and charm.

Ethan was more machine than man; his heart cold, filled with dark thoughts and a rib of metal down his spine. Unhappy he was inside, and sharing the misery would be closer between them.

It became plain, especially after her life-saving actions, that she liked him more than a lot, and he was not in the tune enough with his emotional side to be comfortable figuring out how to say to her that he really wanted to, and would like, to slow down their togetherness. It was all too fast and hard for him to wrap his clumsy mind around, here, especially.

Worry About Your Own Malfunctions, Carl!

Most people don’t smell bad, in their auras, but most people also don’t attempt to carry and purge their parents’ evil. Proscription: Don’t try to carry or purge the sins of anyone else. Sins, here, being in reference to the distortions and damages ladled onto natural energy forms. I’m venting and dumping old pain, which smells bad, spiritually, but Carl was carting around a pile of infectious ooze and decades-old septic decay. Nasty. Like, if I opened him up, and began the purging process on him, I wouldn’t be able to be in the same house as his body. Ugh.

You’re reading a blog about writing by Victor Poole. Evil auras are described with frightening accuracy in this series. Thursday is my favorite day, because it’s still a writing day, but it’s almost the weekend (break!).