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What I Write

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Sue started awake, her head pounding. 

“Intruder alert! Intruder alert!”

She fumbled around the night table. Toppled the wine decanter. Found the lamp. Light stabbed her eyes. A blood-coloured pool was dripping onto the carpet. At least the decanter had only been half full. Or is that half empty? 

A blast shook the wall. The alarm died. 

Sue lurched out of bed. Stumbled toward her closet. Of course we’d be attacked when the team’s two powerhouses are on a different planet. 

A third blast vibrated the floor. On second thought, naked is fine. She stepped to the door, clutching her throbbing temples. She touched the wall. Her skin turned eggshell white and nanocarbon tough. Dean’s architectural design enabled her to navigate the Edison Edifice in a camouflaged and highly armoured state.

Sue left her room. Smoke drifted in the hallway. Smoke scented like.. Pork? If this is another of Dean’s culinary experiments I’ll throw his rubber balls in a blender. 

Then she heard the maniacal laughter. 

“You taught you see de last hov meee, Fawnt hasy? Tink again!” 

Sue knew that accent. It was Voyageur, the French Canadian megalomaniac. That explains the pork.

“I’d hoped I’d smelled the last of you, you French milquetoast!” Dean did love wordplay.

“Boss taird!” Shrieking laughter. A sizzling hiss. “Smell dis, block ed!”

A waft of burnt sugar drifted into the hallway.

Sue peered into the lounge. A gaping hole was melted into the balcony window. Across the lounge, Voyageur was swooping through the air in a miniature flying canoe. 

That’s new. 

So was his outfit. Previously, the furious francophone had sported a home-stitched costume with roadkill fur trim. Now, his red toque and sash shimmered with a telltale smartfibre lustre. His white cotton blouse and dark trousers were padded with body armour. As usual, the bearded Quebecois was hurling explosive tourtiere. He’d kept the roadkill. 

Dean widened his torso and caught a tourtiere. He folded into a ball, absorbing the blast of the perilous pork pie. An amber liquid erupted from Voyageur’s left wrist. Dean rolled, evading the viscous spray. It splashed across the outer wall of the soularium, sizzling on the thick glass. A wave of maple stench assailed Sue’s nostrils. What is that? Maple napalm? Her guts roiled. 

“Say au revoir to centuries hov heenglish cultural domhinance!” Voyageur was in the midst of a tourtiere tantrum, his satchel seemingly containing an inexhaustible barrage of the projectile pastries. “De Quebecois will ave dere revhenge!” Dean expanded his hands, catching the pies and tossing them back at Voyageur, but the French Canadian’s canoe was too swift a target. 


Sue crept toward the melee. Predictably, the foe had apparently discounted her threat potential. Or outright forgot she existed. Sexist pricks. Voyageur would remember when she nailed him with her Flabbergaster. For a moment. Then he’d fall into a psionic daze. Game over. She reached for the holstered psygun – Damnit! She’d forgotten the Flabbergaster in her room. Right. I’m naked. She cradled her pounding head.

What I Write

I write short prose and poetry, spanning sci-fi, horror, urban fantasy, superhero stories and comedy.


I have a story published in DrabbleDark: An Anthology of Dark Drabbles

My Write-a-thon Goals

Writing Goals

My current goals are to continue to hone my craft, gain insights from and build connections with other writers,