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I will write more of them, evolving in an universe in which the Somehow Dimension allows really weird things to happen.
My primary goal is to regroup all these short stories and flash fictions (you can already read "Two Minds and Cactus" and an interview with Knutt the Unscarred) into a larger document, also available for free and under CC license. And maybe, who knows, have enough content to issue a paperback.
But, there's a but: I am one. Not THE one (although, who knows) but one. I need help. If you would like to edit, illustrate or paginate, I will drop my pants and dance the helicock on the top of a mountain. There's a mountain not far from where I live, I'll do it.
There is the good news: if ever this paperback sells (or any merchandising), I will share the revenue with anyone contributing to the project.
Don't read me wrong: the stories will remain fee, CC and the whole nine yards. Buying a paperback will just be a way to support a writer who shares his unending love for words and absolutely no lemons.
Mean while, I am counting on you to share and spread the word, it won't cost you more than a click.
Thank!
You've read the whole story?
This is for you:
Post mortem:
I won't let you cliff-hung about what happened next. He spent 48 hours doing nothing, got bored and, having found a new interest for everything underground, went off with Henri to become an archeologist.
To this days they are still enjoying their job, and frequently have very interesting conversations with excavated corpses from all around the globe.
Tronton is still a gravekeeper, and has become the head of the United Revived Union, which has managed to grant awakened cadavers a social status and a mandatory minimum salary for their labor. They still do not have the right to own land.
Post prandial:
- The main protagonist has no name, neither has the thing he is looking after. This is a challenge I gave myself and I hope I didn't confuse you too much. Then again, this is a non-sequitur, surrealist story and I'm naughty like that.
- If you're Swiss, Canadian, French, fat, tall, or dead, and got offended by anything I wrote: I grow a sense of humor in my garden, I'll send you seeds.
- I do not know how to make grass alcohol. In before you ask.
Post scripture:
Thanks for bearing with me through my first short story. Thanks for reading!
Finally:
Zombie. There, I said it.
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