I Am Anomaly

Guilty of not writing for a while, but I’ve returned to a project that’s started up again. Should have something of a preview again soon. For now, here’s a little something I wrote about myself, the nature and origin of creativity.

I am anomaly. I never fit the norm of most of my peers growing up, nor in my adult life. I suppose at least half of that is due to my genetics. Both sides of my family have had numerous creative people, and creative people are usually odd in some way as a general rule. There are idiosyncrasies here and there, almost like a small selection of obsessive compulsive traits. For myself it might be that I can identify most of the animals in my local region from memory, but I have trouble looking people in the eye when talking to them. I have the ability to completely catalog groups of animals and names in my mind, but when it comes to some social interaction I falter.

I have never been an outwardly social person, and I enjoy my solitude, but there are moments when I feel less than human. I’d like to be able to have closer relationships with people, but the truth is I don’t think I’m very good at it. Perhaps I’m too quiet, or not cheerful enough. I’m always thinking, absorbing information, and drawing it out to create my work.

I can understand how someone so silent and still might frighten others away. I reflect sometimes on how our minds work, and how thousands of thoughts are never given voice. We are constantly talking to ourselves on the inside, and no one has any idea what anyone’s really thinking. All the decisions we make, all the thoughts we do voice have been run through the check valve first. No one knows the first draft of a thought you had, or how you carefully chose to articulate it. I guess in a strange way, looking in from the outside gives a different perspective to human interaction. It’s a thing that begs the question, does anyone really know who another person is?

I often look at myself in the same light as a cheetah (not that I’m that fast, or cat-like). They are specialized hunters built for speed and endurance. Their own evolutionary process selected for those traits. However, their otherwise beautiful physique has also given them a great disadvantage. They’re fragile, and should lions or hyenas come to steal their kill they have little choice but to run. Some very creative people are so skilled and involved in their work that they seem to perceive nothing else. This is the catch 22 of the cheetah, being built for a singular purpose at the cost of functionality elsewhere. It is nearly like savantism in some people. This doesn’t apply to every artist, but some have dealt with this issue.

I find myself wondering if some of the same applies to humans with creative traits. My best guess is that whatever genes the ancestral cave painters, carvers, etc. passed down also went through its own specialization process. Though not so overt as to be expressed in the whole of the human species. This way, creative individuals could do their thing, be odd, and maybe contribute something unique to the species without damaging the population by passing on qualities that might increase mortality rates. Think about it, an early human working at some odd primitive craft, so concentrated he doesn’t hear a lion sneaking up on him. There are people who lose track of time, and forget to eat during painting, drawing, sculpting, etc. That couldn’t have survived well back then. Either some of these individuals were smart enough to do so within safety of their family groups, or they were killed off. Little by little, we built better shelters in which to live, and developed better tools for hunting and fending off predators. In the modern age, we no longer face threats from large predators hunting us, and most of us live in relative safety. We got away with it in the next several thousand years of civilization, and that is when these traits likely started flourishing even more.

When you look at things like spider webs and termite mounds, you understand why they were built. At their root is a single purpose, to survive. The spider traps its food in the web it weaves anew every night, and the termites house their growing colony. For advanced primates, creating things like music, visual art, sculpture, and architecture has no relevance to survival. It could almost be likened to peacock feathers. And that is the thing primates do, we display. We are in essence displaying to each other, whether to imply meaning, a sense of power, or beauty. It does leave me wondering how it all became so damned elaborate. I could say that it’s possibly because humans get easily bored, and that some can’t resist the challenge to go further. It would be easy to assume that humankind’s penchant for endless creative forces is somehow alien, but I don’t think it is. It’s all very likely that some weird genes got to have a bit of fun in the pool once civilization began.

So where do I fit in all this nonsense? I don’t know really. I only know what my odd compulsions drive me to do, and that I really want to achieve those things. I don’t know that I’ll leave work unique to my species when I die, or if it will impact just the small amount of people I know in my lifetime. For all I know an asteroid could smash into the Earth and render everything to dust before I get to leave a mark. But still, something is driving me to try anyway.


Latest Goings On

Before I get into the latest on me, let me take a moment to thank those of you that read, and have started following me. I’ve noticed a bit of higher traffic even though my posts are sporadic. I appreciate that some folks can put up with that.

On to the latest.

Firstly, you may notice a change to the website theme, and that it is no longer so dark. I had to realize at some point that reading light colored text on black background isn’t easy on the eyes. So, I switched to a much clearer and crisp layout to help avoid that.

In the meantime, I have been reworking and fleshing out a longtime project that really needs to be finished sooner than later. I found this site to be very helpful in fleshing out plots, characters, and acts in a story.

Writing A Novel Using The Snowflake Method

There is a book being sold on the subject as well at this site, but I found using just the outlines on that page to be helpful enough. I definitely recommend using this method, since it has greatly helped me get my ideas straight.

Besides writing, I have also been reading a great deal again. Just recently got into British author Neal Asher’s work, and I can’t get enough. The Polity novels have been my favorite. I really found myself loving the Transformation series. Dark Intelligence, and War Factory were amazing reads. I’m awaiting the third installment, Infinity Engine, when it releases in the US. I strongly recommend this author for those of you who love aliens, A.I.s, and far advanced tech.

The Transformation series of books is the only book I’ve ever done fan art for. I love the war drones, and a few of the alien creatures. I’ve only done two so far, but I plan to do others soon.

This one is of the war drone ‘Riss’. She was deliberately designed like a parasite that once plagued the ruthless Prador species. Just so happens that said parasites resemble a Terran snake.

“Riss, The War Drone”


The second piece is of the monstrous ‘Hooder’, and bio-mechincal war machines designed by an ancient alien race. They are like a horrible version of a millipede, with a front end with slicing/dicing ‘manipulators’ that pretty much dissect prey alive. I doubt I added enough of the appendages that do all that work, considering the scenes I read. It’s pretty brutal.

"The Hooder"
“The Hooder”

I’ll not spoil anymore for you. Be back soon.

A Prologue From A Long Time Project

It’s been too long since I updated, but I’d like to share something I’ve been working on for a while. This is only the beginning. I would honestly like feedback on this if anyone’s willing to give it. Without further ado…




The dark gray eyes of eleven year old Daya Evanoff glared icily at the home now occupied by the murderers of her family. She had a score to settle with these men.

It had happened three days before. A war was just beginning, and Daya had only heard hushed whispers of it between her parents. She was too busy thinking of how to convince her father to let her get a dog. Avi, her sixteen year old brother, laughed at her attempts to sway their father, as he already knew the outcome. At the dinner table, Daya inquired on the subject for what seemed like the millionth time.

“Dad, come on,” she pleaded innocently. “We’ve never had a pet, and other families have dogs all the time.”

Her father just smiled kindly, saying, “Daya, this is a rough time right now, and we can’t afford -”

That’s when the men with guns burst through the front door.

One of them shouted, “GET ON THE GROUND NOW! EVERYONE! NOW!”

One of the men walked forward, having noticed Daya’s brother, Avi standing in shock, and shot him in the head. Everyone started screaming. Daya’s mother stumbled over her son’s collapsed body, crying and screaming. The gunman grabbed her by her hair, and pulled her up to his level. He held her with the gun to her head, and met eyes with Daya’s father.

“Just so we understand who’s in control,” he said gruffly. “I’ll be holdin’ onto Mom for a while. In the meantime, we’ll be taking any food, medicine, anything you have. Don’t be stupid, and everyone walks away alive.”

Two of the men tied Daya’s and her father’s hands behind their backs, and shoved them face down on the floor. It was then that her mother began screaming again as the men tore off her clothes. Daya felt a hot rage boiling inside her as her father shouted in anger. Each of the men took their turns raping and sodomizing her mother.

Unbeknownst to Daya, her father had managed to cut the cords binding him. She remembered the hunting knife he always carried. He quickly whispered to his daughter, “As soon as I cut you free, I want you to run. I don’t care what you hear, keep running.”

Daya witnessed her father become a blur of motion, effectively dispatching two men with his knife. She stood frozen, and he turned for the last time and shouted. “Go!”

She ran for the door, and out into the forest nearby. She had wanted to stay and fight alongside her father. She knew he was a war veteran, having served once when she’d been very young. He knew what he was doing, but that didn’t make her any happier. A fair distance away, Daya could hear echoing gunfire. Deep down, she knew her parents were now dead.

Two cold nights she waited, drinking from a stream and eating tubers like her father once taught her to find. She also found his weapons cache. She never cried aloud. Over those two days in the forest, a cold rage began to seep into her bones, replacing what was once fear. A decidedly more predatory part of her had awakened.

On the third night, Daya spied her home from safe distance, watching, and waiting. She noticed one of the men wandering out of the house carrying a beer. Clearly drunk, and preparing to take a piss on the trash pile that littered the area just a few yards away from the house. Silent as a shadow, she slid out of the forest. As he emptied his bladder with a sigh of relief, Daya leapt onto his back.

A shard of broken glass dog deep into his throat from behind, robbing him of any death cry. As he fell to his knees choking on his own blood, Daya slid the shard across his throat to finish it. The man fell to the ground, his body twitching in desperation for breath that wouldn’t come. With one man down, she could begin what she came for. She had not come unprepared.

Among the many things her father taught her and her brother, one involved the mine cache. Just this year, he had taken them both out to the cache in the forest, and trained them on how to use the mines. Avi had already been through the procedures, but he went along to help Daya learn it just the same. A safeguard in case things got ugly, her father had said. The mines were little more than black discs about an inch thick and seven inches wide. It was only when the holo-controls were activated that they appeared more complex.

Daya crept up to the side of the house, just underneath an open window. Carefully, she peered around the corner to the backyard. Laying a few feet from the back door with three bodies piled like day old trash. In the darkness, she didn’t need to see any detail to know it was Mom, Dad, and Avi. A present, but distant sadness arose in her. There were no tears left to cry, and only one thing left to finish.

Under the open window, Daya layed out three mines; each one for a life taken. Activating the holo-controls, she programmed a thirty second delay to allow for her escape. No hesitation when she threw the mines through the window with all her hatred. She darted back to the safety of the forest, and waited.

Silence hung for a moment, then fearful shouting rang out too late. The first mine detonated with a thundering crack and vivid flame so intense it sent a shockwave that shook the trees. Daya ducked down to brace herself, she had to see this through to the end.

In the five seconds that followed, one screaming man ran out of burning home, he himself covered in flames. He didn’t get far before the second and then third blasts expanded out, propelling debris in every direction. A piece of the house impaled him, and he collapsed in flames. If there was anyone left screaming, their cries were drowned out by the roaring flames.

With only minor cuts and bruises, Daya watched the inferno consume her former home. In that moment, her bloodlust was sated. She managed to kill every one of the fuckers. She would’ve started grieving right then if only she could feel anything. Only a cold, numb emptiness seemed to take its place. Mental state aside, surviving the next few days would have to take priority.

For roughly a week, Daya stayed in the forest, subsisting on little each day. Days and nights seemed to blur, making her question whether or not she existed in some suspended dream. Something needed to change soon. After bedding down next to her father’s cache for one final night, Daya lay awake among the sounds of owls and howling coyotes. The cache held supplies other than the mines. Crates buried under a tree contained food rations, and medical supplies. Daya could stay here if she was stubborn, but eventually, someone else might come along wanting what was here. Alone, she wouldn’t stand a chance. She had to find a better option.

She set out at daylight into the nearest town, unsure of what she would find. Abandoned, and collapsed buildings were common sight. Broken asphalt to piles of rubble. Not surprising considering the toll of war, but still startling to see in the flesh. It was why her father had chosen to live so far out of town, nearer to wilderness. Even that forethought hadn’t saved them.

Her thoughts stewed until hunger gripped her stomach painfully. Cold winds of an approaching winter blew through her mop of unkempt brunette hair. The clothes she wore barely kept her pale, thin form warm enough. A numbness not from the cold had already made itself at home inside her.

A ruckus of crows nearby caught her attention. Daya turned off the asphalt to follow their chorus. She wondered if they were the same flock that roosted in the forest with her at night. For all their squawking, they were the only familiar company she had left. On occasion their calls had alerted her to food sources; trees bearing fruit or edible flowers. Once, they’d chased after a swarm of grasshoppers, almost as if to dare Daya to try the same. It hadn’t been the best meal she ever had, but it was appreciated nonetheless.

Presently, she found the flock tearing apart the remains of a wooden house. As she walked closer, the resident termite infestation became obvious. Some of the black birds were snapping up mouthfuls of the bugs, while others used sticks to dig further into the hive for grubs. Daya took her own handful as a quick snack, eating them quickly so as not to be bitten by the angry drones.

After watching for a few minutes, she recognized one of the birds; a crow baring a small white patch on one wing. This was the same flock from the forest after all. Just as they appeared sated with their share of termites, the crows took flight toward the heart of the town. Again, she would follow the murder of black birds.

She noticed more people passing her on the streets on the way. If the old stores were still open, they might have some stale bread, or dried meat. As she rounded on the old shopping square, she realized they were barely functioning, if not already abandoned. Busted windows, empty shelves, and a smattering of last minute scavengers told of a wave of looting now days over. Daya entered one of the stores, empty of anyone, and found a small bag of dried fish meat that had been kicked underneath shelving during the fray. She sat outside on an old bench eating a few pieces of the jerky.

Once more, the voices of crows drew her in again. Something was different about these calls. They were desperate and frantic. Sounds she had never heard before. Driven by instinct, Daya searched them out again. Near the side of one of the shops, a teenage boy kicked violently at a helplessly flapping crow. Already injured by previous blows, the bird couldn’t escape his attack. A spilled bag of old bread lay on the ground nearby, its contents being pillaged by members of the flock. Some of the birds dove, swiped, and pecked at the boy to no avail. A enemy proving too enraged to stop.

In an instant suspended in time, a white patch of feathers flashed from a battered wing.

The boy screamed and shouted angrily. “Stupid fucking animals! Stealing everyone’s fucking food!”

That’s when he he brought his foot down to stomp down hard on the bird. Daya took in the blood gushing from its mouth, and even more pooling beneath the pulverized body. None of her actions seemed to register after that point. Somehow, she was on top of him, bashing his head in with a brick. Blood spattered on her face and clothes, and brain matter clung to the brick each time she brought it down on him. When she stopped, she realized that he had been easily twice her size. How had she moved so fast she would never know. She stood, kicking the twitching body away. She picked up the dead crow, cradling it in her arms, and ran away as fast as she could from the square.

She buried the bird in a nearby park she often visited with her mother, and sat underneath a large oak tree. The bird hadn’t really been a friend, but she had grown fond of it over the short time she’d become familiar with the flock. The crow had only been trying to survive. Like her. Like the boy.

Daya couldn’t fathom the exact reason she killed the boy. Maybe, in some small way, to make up for what she couldn’t do for her family. At no other point in her life had she ever been so driven to kill. That night, she returned to her makeshift home in the forest. Eventually, she nodded off to memories of a better time with silent tears running down her cheeks.

A series of vibrations shook Daya from her slumber. A loud engine whine coming from the sky, booming overhead, and fading into the distance. She stood up, not quite afraid, but alert. Another aircraft zoomed over the canopy of trees. A copter-jet, black with white foreign lettering. There were several in the distance, all heading toward the center of town. She could see them start descending fro where she stood. Daya ran in their direction, knowing they could be carrying food and medicine. It was a chance she had to take if she wanted to keep herself alive. The will to survive seemed to be the last of her possessions.

When she arrived in the town square, she saw soldiers unloading medical supplies and food from cargo crates. Many of the town’s orphans, widows, and families lined up anxiously for their shares, Daya herself included. Soon after, one of the soldiers announced to the people that some of them could be flown to a neighboring region for hospitalization, and treatment. To the orphans, they offered to take them where they would be given a new life, a place to live, an education, and when ready, a job.

“For those of you who have lost everything, your country will give it back to you.” He said.

Daya made herself one of the number of children to leave the desolate town. Now strapped in her seat inside one of the jets, she watched silently as they rose from the ground. A sense of surrealism swept over her as the town became small and faraway, and the world outside became so much bigger. For many hours, she watched through the window as forests, lakes, and cities passed by below her.

When eleven year old Daya Evanoff next set foot to ground, she would become a new animal.

Random Character Chat 1

Before I start with some new content, I’d like to share an awesome web comic I found recently.  http://falsepositivecomic.com/

It is an anthology of fantasy & science fiction accompanied by gorgeous artwork and great storytelling. The stories have a Philip K. Dick feel to them while still being pretty original. Some storylines and characters end up intertwining throughout the anthology. I recommend it, and I’m subscribed and awaiting more.


In the meantime, I’ve been fairly busy with my day job, and finding time to get writing or even artwork done is left only so much time during the week. I got the idea to have a few of my characters to have philosophical discussions as a serial feature on the blog. These chats may or may not end up in the novel project they’re associated with, but it gives a bit of insight into the thoughts of the characters themselves and how they interact with each other. Some discussions reflect my own meanderings on certain topics, as well as events the characters may be enduring.


So I give you the first iteration of Random Character Chats.


This chat occurs between two characters; Daya, a female operative trained since childhood, and Tark, a genetically engineered male chimpanzee operative.


Daya:  “Why do you think it is we choose savagery even when we know better? Even when we have all the foresight to see where it leads?”


Tark:  *Shrugs*  “Because we’re still animals. The only real difference being that we mask our savagery with subtlety, under the guise of being ‘civilized’. Even as a genetically altered chimpanzee, I’m still given to moments of heightened aggression. Though, I probably have a little more impulse control than my wild cousins.  I think it’s in the wiring. Not much can undo millions of years of evolution, and aggression is a key part of why both our species got this far.”


Daya:  “So, in other words, we’re doomed because we’re aggressive assholes?” *Laughs dryly*


Tark:  “Yep, pretty much.”


Daya:  “Gives me such hope for the future…”


Tark:  “Don’t give up, Sunshine. There’s still a slim chance that at some point someone could change the game. Someone who makes a sacrifice to transcend biological constraints, and maybe lead us all to become something better. Hopefully, something with the conviction to heed its own foresight.”


Daya:  “That’s a hell of a thought.” *Stares at Tark*


Tark:  “What?”


Daya:  “You really are the most insightful ape I know.”


Tark:  *Grunts sarcastically at Daya*  “Shut it. I’m the ONLY insightful ape you know.”



That’s all for now. Will get more chats up soon, maybe some artwork if I can. Thanks for reading!

Writing Materials & Finding The Love Again

writing materials

I have to admit that I’m no good at staring at a blank screen trying to type something. I actually prefer physical notebooks to write down my chapters or jot down ideas. I don’t know what it is exactly, but having something physical before me helps the writing process. Not to mention that I can take it to quiet places to concentrate on the work. It also makes things easier when finally sitting down at the blank screen, since I have the work already written down. Then the process becomes simple transfer with a bit of quick editing thrown in.

I suppose my need for physical objects to write falls in the same line as my preference for physical books. One takes for granted the tactile pleasures of the paperback and hardcovers. There’s also the smells, especially if it’s a brand new book.  I also enjoy the cover artwork on some books.

Rediscovering the love for an old project has also been an issue for me. After reading a blog post over at The Writer’s Path, this one here http://ryanlanz.com/2015/01/17/how-to-feel-like-writing-again/ I realized that I hadn’t edited my work in some time. I’ve just been trudging through trying to get as many chapters done as I could without stopping to edit. I can already see how going over all the material and polishing will make me feel again.

Pouring over the details and improving upon what you have can bring back the flame you once had for an old project. As I haven’t done this in many months, it will be a good opportunity to run over everything and tie up any loose ends.

I definitely suggest subscribing to the blog linked above if you are serious about writing. There are many great articles, interviews, and more.


To other writers out there, what works for you jot down your work/ideas? Physical or not?



“Goodbye Terra Firma”

Another flash fiction piece created back in October of 2012. Tried to capture a real sense of impending doom for this one. Used a first person point of view to narrate, and much scenery from a disturbing dream I had.

“Goodbye Terra Firma”

1,197 Words

It all started with strange lights in the sky. It was summer and I was at camp with the other girl scouts. I’d been trying in vain to get to sleep in my tent with the humid heat and flying bugs. The only bugs I cared for were the fireflies.
I heard a couple of the other girls outside, getting boisterous over something. I brushed the red hair out of my blue eyes, abandoning my attempt at sleeping and came out of my tent to see what all the fuss was about. They were all standing out on the grass, some of them pointing to the sky.

“What’s going on?” I said as I approached the group.

“Look, there’s a line of red lights in the sky!” said one girl.

“Do you think it’s aliens?” asked another girl.

I just stood there unable to voice any question or opinion I had. The sight of these neatly organized lights made my body tremble with an apprehension I’d never felt before.

The lights were red stars in the sky aligned in two rows stretching across the whole sky. Little did any of us know that these rows of light encircled the globe.

A year later, very odd things began happening. I remember being on the beach shuffling my bare feet in the sand, and feeling the sea breeze on my face. I had been enjoying that day until I saw the beached dead carcasses of whales and dolphins onshore. A week later the news reported no definite cause for the deaths.

Throughout the years, more and more animals beached all over the world. Following that, more types of sea life began dying in great numbers.

I still can’t forget the time I watched small marine creatures crawling en masse out of the seawater. They were fleeing from something in spite of the fact it meant their own death to do so.

Our best scientists looked to our seas, did surveys on the dying multitude of species, and ran every test they could. Nothing obvious was wrong with any of the species, but an external element was killing them.
A microorganism of unknown origin was finally found in the samples taken from the corpses. It was nothing like any Earth native species. It consumed everything indiscriminately, and multiplied in vast numbers.

I was just out of high school when all seafood was declared contaminated because of some alien parasite. I was so young then, and even this bit of news did not strike enough fear into many of my age group. We should’ve been so much more afraid than we were.

Our government tried using chemical and biological weapons designed to destroy the alien microbes, but they failed miserably.
There was an interview with a government scientist on the news. He looked tired and forlorn. “Nothing we can make can beat them.” He said.
I could see the fear in his eyes, even though he was trying to hold it at bay.

Evolution usually takes millions of years, but these things don’t play by those rules. Before we knew it, these microbes were evolving into larger, more complex animals within a few decades.
Everything else was falling prey to them. We were afraid to swim in our own oceans.

Just before my twentieth birthday, I was driving over the bridge in my hometown when I saw a group of people standing off to the side. They were staring at something in the water.
I stopped off, and got out of my car. As I approached the group, no one spoke a word, they just watched.

“What’s out there?” I asked. My question was immediately answered the second I reached them.

Fleshy, leaf-like things the size of buildings, were emerging from the sea in all directions. More of them were unfurling as we stared down at them. The alien plants, if that’s what they were, looked like the fins of a fish with a crooked spine.
Long fleshy fans of turquoise arched out of the sea for miles.

One of the older men in the group turned to me and said, “I never would’ve thought something like this could happen.”
His face was one of shock and disbelief, and he had a dazed, far away look in his eyes.

“Neither did I.” I replied, my mouth suddenly dry.

The old man turned back to the sea, and added one last thing. “I suppose it’s not long now, before we go just the same.”
He then lifted a bottle of liquor I hadn’t noticed before, and took a heavy swig.

I think that was the moment when I realized deep down that our species didn’t stand a chance.

When everyone started developing sores and other symptoms, the fanatical among us began preaching about biblical plagues, and the rapture. They’d been claiming the end of times scenarios for some time before then. No one believed until it was too late. Not that belief would have saved anyone.

I am watching as unseen alien microbes waste the plant life of my world, and as the animal life begins to succumb to the same fate. It is terrifying, and there is nothing we can do to stop it.

We are being devoured from the inside out. I might’ve told you the world itself was dying, but that is not the case.
This planet is being wiped clean. Basically, that’s what terraforming entails; molding one environment to suit the needs of a colonist species. It just so happens that our “colonists” much prefer the extermination of virtually all native flora and fauna on their new world.

We are just one in the struggle of the billions of life and death battles in the universe. Our single demise does not mean much in retrospect, and we simply don’t contend in the face of astronomical statistics.

I still can’t believe that I am to be one of the last minds to reflect on the things that made this world unique. I am nearly 60 years old, and I don’t have much time left. I know from watching the others that death isn’t going to be easy.
Everything humankind has ever done, and all its potential will become little more than ruins. Millions of people have died, and whatever is left won’t last much longer. I have no choice but to accept the same fate. There is simply no alternative.

I would’ve liked to live longer, to watch my grandchildren grow, and maybe travel the world. Those poor children will never see our world the way it used to be, and sadly, they too will succumb. They might’ve become great inventors or philosophers. Now they will never have the chance to fight for those human aspirations.

It is brutally unfair, but then, so is the nature of life. If there is any silver lining to this crisis, it is that we die making way for another form of life. That doesn’t make it any easier to swallow.

When the last of us are gone, it won’t be much longer before new life crawls out of the sea, and whoever began this great process will come down from the sky.


~ Lynn


A flash fiction piece written back in October of 2012 for a contest over on SFFWorld.com. Decided to post it here to add a little something special since my hiatus.  I have another flash fiction from a few years ago that I will post next week, so stay tuned. 🙂


By Lynn DeRiso
679 Words

A creature swims upward and away from the darkness of its home. Something buried in its subconscious has called it to the surface. It doesn’t remember the surface, nor does it understand why it is drawn there.

Before it reaches the light green of the upper ocean strata, it catches a fish-like animal and gulps it down quickly. The aquatic creature has managed to survive in the darkness, hunting, feeding, and occasionally breeding. It doesn’t recall ever being an infant, or how it came to be here. It seems that life has always been this way.

It pauses a moment to look at one of its arms. There are marks down its length, and they stand out against the mottled flesh. These marks are permanent.
A flicker of hidden memory surfaces, and the creature begins to recognize the marks as letters and numbers. Though, it doesn’t understand their meaning.

As the creature breaks the water’s surface, a pale green-gray sky with angry winds greets its presence. Waves swell all around, sea spray stinging its eyes. Vision feels strained in the light, as its eyesight is more suited to life in the darkness.

There are large black objects suspended in the sky. Wispy clouds flow past in gale force winds, as red and blue lights pulse on the underside of the objects.
A long wand points downward from one of the dark orbs, emitting a series of nearly unnoticeable pulses of energy.

The creature looks at its arm once more, and lifts the limb fully out of the seawater. The slender arm terminates in an appendage with five digits, thick webbing between them.
The creature’s memory tells it that this is a hand. It knows this word, even the sound of it. It tries to speak this word, but all that it achieves is a gurgling noise.

It is in that moment that the creature’s deeply buried memories begin to surface. While it fails to speak a half remembered language, it realizes that its home of watery darkness is not its first.
A blue and green sphere, beautiful and precious, appears in vivid visual memory. Then, the last recollection of this world floats into mind.
The continents are pale and brown, and the seas are a dark gray. It is the dead home world of humanity.

The creature pined for the ability to say that world’s name, even for one last time.

The name John flashes into the mutated human’s mind. That was his name once. Now, the serial number tattooed on is arm is his only identity.
He remembers that he and others like him were brought to this alien ocean years ago, after being changed drastically to fit the environment. They were the first in a series of people to undergo forced adaptation.
He recalls being told about the wand, and that he is to come within its range periodically for exposure to its quantum waves. These waves, he remembers, function as a tune up for his mutated body. It keeps his cells from rejecting the changes, and strengthens his immunity.

As he looks toward the ships one last time, he knows that more humans live up there. They are the stewards of John’s kind, and of a project spanning many decades.
The mutated humans were the first phase of adapting to the alien world. There would be more soon enough.

John submerged again, dazed, and returned to the darkness beneath. His eyes readjust, and soon the others become visible once again. Their forms, once recognizably human, had a more serpentine appearance. Large, spiny fins sprout from their sides, arms, and tails. Male and female are nearly indistinguishable.

As John swam toward them, perhaps what would be one of his last recollections of irony occurred to him.
Humanity had reduced its home world to an uninhabitable rock within less than a thousand years. This new home would force a drastic change in them in less than a century. By the time they have fully adapted, this alien world will have consumed all that it is to be human.