Tag Archives: science fiction short story

Greetings From Europa – Seventh Transmission: Europan Day Of Pay

Posted by Madd_Fictional on

First Transmission * Second Transmission * Third Transmission * Fourth Transmission * Fifth Transmission * Sixth Transmission

Greetings from Europa!

Today is isogoles, which is the monthly day of pay for everyone who lives on Europa, no matter what your profession, no matter how old you are. And we’re not talking about money because Europa has no currency, per se. People are paid off, each according to their needs. Some are paid in food while others are paid in services or clothing, or one of nearly a hundred things that serve as some sort of commodity here.

Since my family has the ability to grow our own food and my children are adept at creating clothing, we accept water as payment, as our village is far removed from the sea and a trip there and back would take nearly three weeks to complete and that’s only when conditions permit.

Today also marked the arrival of Denpa to our village, which caused the usual amount of excitement. Denpa is an envoy that travels from village to village delivering messages from other communities both near and far.

He’s the Europan version of e-mail, equipped with an audiographic memory that can store and recall spoken messages at will in the same voice, tone and inflection of the original person who spoke it.

Production in the village stops whenever Denpa appears as locals crowd around to hear if they’ve received a message from distant loved ones. I’m always excited when my wife gets messages from home and though I know it’s silly, I secretly pray that Denpa has a message from my mother and father. Hell, I wouldn’t even mind hearing from my older sister at this point.

Like I said, silly, but you have no idea how hard it is being the only one of your kind, even though I’m surrounded by the kindest beings in existence. I am so very far away from my home, and at times I feel every inch of that distance.

So, if you can hear this transmission and you have the ability to broadcast, please try to send me a message, a ping, anything.

Please.

Until next broadcast, this is Captain Edwards, signing off.

To be continued…

Text and Audio ©2014 & 2021 Rhyan Scorpio-Rhys

Greetings From Europa – Sixth Transmission: Through Neighbors’ Eyes

Posted by Madd_Fictional on

First Transmission * Second Transmission * Third Transmission * Fourth Transmission * Fifth Transmission

Greetings from Europa!

Forgive the brevity of this broadcast, but I’m really tired after a full evening of shig’umfu, which means interesting world of another and is a brand of documentary qik’climajh in which your neighbors must tell the story of your life as presented to them in casual conversations. It’s important that the exchange be casual. Purposeful family exposition is frowned upon as it comes off as braggadocio, which will most assuredly be included in the story your neighbor tells.

The most interesting thing about the ritual is the closer you get to shig’umfu, the friendlier your neighbors become. Now, don’t get me wrong, Europans by nature are a pretty inquisitive and sociable lot, but come shig’umfu, interest in your family, your life and even your day to day misadventures increase tenfold.

Also fascinating to note, equal importance is paid to the subject matter as well as the telling. Families put forth their very best experiences, both positive and negative, hoping to present layers of interesting source material. The teller is then responsible for arranging the events as to present a story replete with happiness, sorrow, triumphs and defeats, births and losses, because everyone knows the best tales take you on a journey through a full range of emotion.

Careful attention to detail must be paid because there’s nothing more shaming than to have the family whose story you’re telling correct you, though, in polite society that almost never happens. Still, most can tell by the expressions on the family’s faces whether you’ve gotten the story right.

All this may sound like a silly waste of time to you, but it’s really educational in that you get a glimpse at how your neighbors view you and your family. Tonight, it was my family’s turn to reenact our neighbors’ lives, all eighteen generations, so I’m sure you can see why I’d be tired.

But it was fun.

Until next broadcast, this is Captain Edwards, signing off.

To be continued…

Text and Audio ©2014 & 2021 Rhyan Scorpio-Rhys

Greetings From Europa – Fifth Transmission: Lemonade Boom

Posted by Madd_Fictional on

First Transmission * Second Transmission * Third Transmission * Fourth Transmission

Greetings from Europa!

You’re not going to believe this, but we’re in the middle of a lemonade boom on Europa. I guess that needs some explaining, doesn’t it? Okay, well, the cultural exchange in my house goes both ways. Usually, I learn Europan culture as my children learn it. My wife is a patient and excellent teacher. But at the same time, I try to sneak in a few Earth facts along the way, and my children love it.

One time, when they were curious about what I did when I was their age, I told them about how my mom helped me build a lemonade stand in front of our house when I was a kid. They went nuts over the concept and begged me to help them build one here on Europa.

I know what you’re going to ask and the answer is, No, Europa does not have lemons. So we improvised by using a sweet mineral root from the tree that grows in our backyard. I even taught them the English alphabet, or enough of it so they could spell the word LEMONADE. I offered to make the sign but was vetoed. They wanted to write the word itself which came out looking like “JBWQNADB” but they were so proud of themselves that I couldn’t bring myself to correct them.

At first I thought they had set themselves up for disappointment, as passersby only offered their lemonade stand the queerest looks, but my youngest, Nes’Tim bless him, started calling to them, “Hey, come buy our lemonade stand!“

Soon people flocked around as my kids poured cups of lemonade and told the story of how my mother and I created this custom on Earth. Again, I didn’t have the heart to correct them in the middle of their sales pitch. People stayed, listened to the story, drank the alien concoction and invited others to join. I’m sure they stayed for the novelty and not for the lemonade. Although made from sweet root, that concoction was the most bitter thing I’ve ever tasted in my life.

The next day, when I thought that the lemonade curiosity had passed, I stepped outside to see a crudely built lemonade stand on each of my neighbors’ doorsteps. But there was no competition in it. Everyone visited everyone else’s lemonade stand and listened intently as the stand owner related the tale of how I discovered lemonade. Apparently, they thought that the telling of the story was the key part of the transaction and that the drinking of the lemonade itself signaled the end of the story.

Weird, but funny. And I have to run now. I’ve drank more than my fair share of lemonade today and I think I’m going to be sick.

Until next broadcast, this is Captain Edwards, signing off.

To be continued…

Text and Audio ©2014 & 2021 Rhyan Scorpio-Rhys

Greetings From Europa – Third Transmission: Egami Doctor Visits

Posted by Madd_Fictional on

First Transmission – * – Second Transmission

Greetings from Europa.

It’s that season again, the time of year when all the families in the communities are asked to bring their egami in for routine physicals. What’s an egami? I hear you asking and the simple, though not totally accurate answer is, they’re mineral-based creatures primarily used for family transportation. Seemingly mindless and docile, the egami require very little care and are virtually inexhaustible. Normally, on Earth, creatures like these would have been enslaved and abused, but here, Europans go through an extensive interview process and accept the humble beasts of burden into the family structure to the point where they dine and sleep together.

My family is fortunate in that we live so close to an egami clinic, which means Rocky, our pet (it feels so weird referring to him that way, but I simply don’t have a better word) is always amongst the first to be seen. Yes, I think of our egami as a male, though they are gender non-specific, and yes, I was in charge of choosing the name. I just wish there was someone around to get the joke. Sometimes being the only one of your kind can be a lonely thing.

Naturally, there are those who grumble that lotteries should be drawn each season to rotate the order in which the egamis are seen, but these complaints usually come from the hermits who live on the fringes of the community and they are easily ignored since they generally tend to moan about everything.

The physical is more like a spa day for the egami. After their vital signs are checked, they are basically pampered for the day. Another function of physical season is to offer families the ability to trade in their egamis if they’re unhappy with them, which is extremely rare, but has been known to happen.

My family is quite pleased with Rocky, although sometimes my daughter wonders if he would have been better off living in the wild. The problem with this suggestion is, once you’ve domesticated an egami, very seldom do the wild herds accept them back into the fold, so most wind up dying from what is believed to be either loneliness or lack of affection.

Which is a horrible way to die and who would subject a family member to that?

Until next broadcast, this is Captain Edwards, signing off.

To be continued…

Text and Audio ©2014 & 2021 Rhyan Scorpio-Rhys

Greetings From Europa – Second Transmission: The Kramdens of Bensonhurst

Posted by Madd_Fictional on

First Transmission

Greetings from Europa.

The other day a qik’climajh — translation, translation… uh, I guess they would be considered the Europan version of storytellers — acted out the Tragedy of Nes’Tim, the famous surface whale whose fossilized remains rest at the highest point of Pwyll.

Once the most revered being on Europa, the spiritual prophet Nes’Tim was slain by the heretic tribe, Sel’Tab, during the height of the Glacial Wars. Meis’lo, a relative of my wife, is the only surviving witness to the tragedy. He was a child at the time, and foolishly wedged himself between the heretics and Nes’Tim. He was lucky to escape the confrontation with his life. He bears the scar of the puncture wound over his second heart.

The Sel’Tab, not above slaying a prophet, apparently had qualms about murdering a child. While I wish I could have met Nes’Tim, I’m glad that Meis’lo was not the one killed during that skirmish. Despite his nearly 600 years of age, he is a great history buff and I love talking about Europan history with him.

Back to the qik’climajh, a term that actually covers both the person telling the story and the act of storytelling (it sounds complicated but you can tell the difference when the word is used in a sentence). The ritual of the qik’climajh is that everyone in attendance takes turns telling a story.

I, unfortunately, am not much of a storyteller, so when it came to be my turn, I chose to talk about one of my favorite classic comedy shows, The Honeymooners. I tried to explain the concept of television and quickly abandoned it when I sensed the crowd getting restless.

As I retold a few of the episodes I remembered best, the ones with the chef of the future, Carlos mambo lessons, and rubber marshmallows, I watched their faces knot in confusion. At first I thought it was my fault. As I said, I’m nobody’s first choice for a storyteller, but I couldn’t have been more wrong.

It was the concept of KramdenRalph, as they referred to Mr. Gleeson’s character, they struggled to understand. In fact, his character was so perplexing to their Europan mindset, it sparked a great debate amongst the elders, who couldn’t find the logic of how and why everyone tolerated the portly bus driver.

After many hours of serious debate, the consensus was that NortonEd and KramdenAlice should have stripped KramdenRalph of all his possessions and exiled him from the village of Bensonhurst, armed with only a Handy Housewife Helper and a can of KraMars Delicious Mystery Appetizer.

Now, I’m actually looking forward to next week’s outing because I can’t wait to get their take on Seinfeld.

Until next broadcast, this is Captain Edwards, signing off.

To be continued…

Text and Audio ©2014 & 2021 Rhyan Scorpio-Rhys

So, You Want To Date A Prex Girl, Do You?

Posted by Madd_Fictional on

image

E-mail. I get e-mail. Tons of email. The two most frequently asked questions are:

  1. Can I get your private number, because I’d like to date you outside of work?
  2. Do you know such-and-such-girl on such-and-such-floor? If so, can you put in a good word for me? I think we’d be great together.

Answer #1: No, because I’m off the market. Despite the fact that the devotion pact I made with my husband dissolved the moment he died, he is still the husband of my heart and I will never take another. I am, however, in a steady relationship with an ex-floor manager here at the prex, the nature of which is none of your business.

Micha isn’t attractive to me… in the same way none of you humans are, not that this is your fault… your race is simply not designed to be alluring to my race. I chose Micha as a companion because I feel safe being with him. Working in the same field, I don’t have to hide anything and that makes me feel good about the chances of our relationship staying the course.

Answer #2: I’m no matchmaker. You want to pick up a working girl at the prex? Do your own legwork.

The first thing you need to realize is only we’re allowed to call each other girls.

Prex girls are women.

And despite what we do for a living and the abuse we put up with on the job, we are interested in finding good men, the same as most other women. Especially since we meet so many different kinds of men everyday at work, and ninety-nine percent of them don’t even come close to being on their best behavior.

So if you want to be selected by a prex girl, you really need to be outstanding.

The worst tactic to try is becoming the object of your affection’s regular customer. You are no longer dating material at that point, you’re a revenue stream that dries up when you attempt to cross over into the relationship zone. Prex girls know how to treat clients, and rarely, if ever reveal their true intentions to the clientele, so the girl you fall in love with might not be the girl you wind up with if you manage to finagle a date this way.

Is it true that prex girls only date the staff?

Ummm, yes, that’s mostly true, but mainly because it’s a safe bet. Working together, you get to know the real facts about this particular job. And it’s easier for a girl to open up and feel comfortable being honest. Giving of yourself in open truth is always preferable to giving of yourself in guarded truth, if you understand my meaning.

So, are you saying I should get a job at the elegance palace?

Absolutely not!

You wouldn’t be the first guy who thought they could land a quick job here and go girl hunting. Prex girls are very sensitive about this and can spot an intruder and sniff out your intentions in an instant. You’ll be avoided so hard you’ll swear you had leprosy.

If you really want to date a prex girl, never step foot in the prex, and meet them somewhere else, at a location that has nothing to do with the escort, sex, or adult star industries.

How am I supposed to know they’re prex girls, then?

Well, that’s the trick, isn’t it?

To be continued…

©2014 Rhyan Scorpio-Rhys

Creative Commons License

Don’t Call Me Princess

Posted by Madd_Fictional on

king Tank VENDOR 2

There’s a term I’m encountering more and more that started on the message boards that has finally made it’s way to the prex.

Princess.

I can’t tell you how much I hate it.

Girls in my line of work offer their flesh to men for money, not pleasure. Why use such a beautiful word to describe someone they can’t be bothered to treat half as beautifully?

Is it because the men who pay for sex don’t want to own up to the fact they bought the act of ejaculating? Because the memory of being with a beautiful and experienced woman is tarnished by the reality of cash exchanging hands?

Does princess magic all the bad stuff away? If they drill the word into their everyday vocabulary, does it make it seem like they respect the girls. If it makes them feel good, then isn’t it good word to use?

The truth of the matter is they reduce the sense of sin of buying sex when they use the word. After they’ve enjoyed the sex play and before the guilt sets in, they start calling us princess.

Worse are the ones who practically live at the prex and feel they’re experts in the field and try to lecture you on what an honor it is to work at the prex because so many smart and entrepreneurial girls working in the field.

They want to think their behavior is right. Wake up, you just bought a prostitute! It’s not respectable. Whenever you say, “I spend my time with lot a of pretty princesses.” what you’re actually saying is, “I feel like a man when I pay cute girls to fellate me.”

If you want to get off properly, you should just be honest. Don’t say things like, “I’m going to the castle to see my princess.” just say, “I’m going to a whore house to see a prostitute because I want to have sex with somebody instead of being alone at home, giving myself a French handshake.”

Got me?

To be continued…

©2014 Rhyan Scorpio-Rhys

Creative Commons License

Shrinking Violetta And Shirley Swiper

Posted by Madd_Fictional on

image

There’s a girl at work who calls herself Shrinking Violetta. In very high demand because she’s the best submissive you’ll ever have the chance to meet. And we’re not talking role play submissive, either. She is the genuine article, a true submissive.

When you hire her, she serves you from the bottom of her heart. None of that pretend nonsense of addressing one another as Mistress, Master or Slave, or negotiating limits of submissiveness. Vi has the uncanny ability to anticipate her client’s needs and fulfill them before they ask, sometimes before they’re even aware they wanted it.

I know this first hand because she demonstrated her talent for me. You must understand I have no desire to control anyone, but the attention Vi paid to my every desire was a heady experience and though I never need to do it ever again, I enjoyed myself immensely and I’m honored that she shared her skill with me.

I plan to talk about Vi and her amazing abilities in depth, with her consent, of course, or maybe give her a chance to vent as a guest blogger at a later date. This post, however, deals with a completely different matter, a non-sexual reality about working this business that saddens me.

I gave you the brief insight into Vi so that you may understand just how popular she is. She’s the only one of us that consistently books clients the instant her high-heeled foot touches prex floor.

So, one day when her line of clients ran out the door and the rest of us fought for scraps, Vi dashed into the changing room to slip into her business attire and left her purse in the room. And she wouldn’t be the first. Lots of girls leave their bags on the table instead of their lockers, because this place had been safe for long time. When she returned to the room, as you might have guessed, she found some of her money was missing.

At first, she thought she misplaced it and looked all over, but it never turned up. It wasn’t a little bit of money, either. It took several days to make that money. She worked prex subbing during the day and hostessing at night. She made that money selling her obedience. She made it selling her flesh that was soft and smooth but now covered with welts and bruises. She needed that money to pay off her loans.

We all had an idea who the thief could have been. Vi, heart as large as the sun, helped out her best friend, Shirley, by getting her a waitressing job at the prex. It’s not the best gig and you have to constantly fend off gropers and develop a thick skin against derogatory comments, but at least you’re not being penetrated by the clientele.

Come to find out that Shirley really isn’t such a good friend because she was extremely displeased to discover a guy she likes was one of Vi’s regulars. Not that jealousy was a good enough reason to steal someone’s hard earned cash, but you could have understood the revenge angle. But other things have gone missing since Shirley started working the prex. Make-up, clothes, jewelry and not the expensive stuff, either. Just junky costume stuff, but still, it was the principle of the thing.

A couple of the girls confronted Shirley Swiper, a name that surfaced almost the instant she became a suspect, but she denied stealing anything and there was no proof so the whole matter was dropped. There really isn’t a point to this other than venting frustration on how shitty people can be to working girls. Even friends. Needless to say we all use the lockers now.

Thanks, Shirley.

To be continued…

©2014 Rhyan Scorpio-Rhys

Creative Commons License

Blind Man’s Bluff

Posted by Madd_Fictional on

The elegance palace I work at is huge, larger than most I’ve seen in the city, with at least two thousand working girls at an average age of twenty-five, which is pretty decent for a bordello.

In the center of the Hostess Center, there’s a big stage, where a live band sets the palace’s mood. Why a live band at a sex shop? To help break the ice. Most of the clients are pretty intimidated when they first walk in, so it’s the hostess’s job to make them relax.

One of the activities is the Single Mingle, where I have to dance with a client if they ask me. Refusing a client the dance means I have to pay a penalty. The only time I was ever tempted to pay was when this client who looked like he had great, great, great, great grandchildren, asked me to dance.

He kept pulling me in close by the waist and I could feel his erection poking my thigh. Hard enough to sex four women at once. But that was the only solid thing about him. His grip around my waist was feeble and he had a body tremor that he desperately tried to suppress. My guess is that he was rounding the corner on eighty and found a pill that gave him an eighteen year old erection. Problem is if I kissed him hard enough he’d have a heart attack, so instead I danced him around until his hard on caught up with his age and sent him on his way. I considered that my senior citizen service for the month.

***

I have a regular customer, a blind man, and if it’s possible for a girl in my line of work to have a favorite, then he’s mine. A hassle-free man that I don’t have to dress up in silly costumes for or pretend to be someone else. Our sessions are almost always the same. Short, but sincere small talk, followed by kissing and heavy petting, then a massage followed by a leg hump in cowgirl position until he ejeculates. The very first time I put his erection between my lubricated thighs and moved up-down for several minutes, he exploded easily.

When it was over, he asked, “Did you use a rubber?”

“No, I didn’t.”

“Why not?”

It caught me off guard, the way he asked. If I’m honest, I felt a little insulted that he thought I was so filthy that he could get a disease off me from a simple leg hump. I wanted to tell him what I pack is far worse than any STD he could ever imagine.

“Is it really all right with you?” he asked.

Then I understood. He thought he was inside me. I chuckled and explained who I was, what I was capable of and what I actually did.

“Taking advantage of a blind man, eh?” If he was hurt, I couldn’t detect it.

“That’s not it at all. You didn’t know who I was. You didn’t come here looking to beat the odds or for an easy way to die. You didn’t judge me based on my appearance. I wasn’t a spectacle. So, what I gave you was pleasure and let you keep your life.”

He reached out for my hand and I took his. “I’m not sure how happy I am being deceived like that, but it felt real. The best I’ve ever had.”

And the damnedest thing happened. Despite the fact that I sell sex and death for money and I hate my job, this blind man paid me a compliment that made me feel good about myself.

Pathetic, I know, but you have to take the good bits as they come.

And for the record, for all you that might think a leg hump is lazy, let me tell you that it’s more work and harder to make a man ejaculate than either manual or oral stimulation.

Now, I hear you asking, “If you can do all this then why do you kill so many men?”

Human men die because human men are stupid! I offer them options but they always want what’s worst for them. Who wants any other orafice when they have access to a taboo killer vagina?

Did I mention how stupid human men are?

To be continued…

©2014 Rhyan Scorpio-Rhys

Creative Commons License

Prexing Elevator Chat

Posted by Madd_Fictional on

For most of my life on your world I’ve made my living working in an elegance palace. Before you ask, the place I work at is really nothing more than a bordello. I don’t know who came up with the name elegance palace, but I have to tell you, neither I nor any of the other girls working there find anything elegant about it.

The elegance palace is secreted in a building that looks like any other office building, only this one is filled with nothing but adult-themed shops on each floor. I call it prex melata, which in my native tongue translates as ejaculation building.

The thing I really hate about the prex is that it only has one entrance and one elevator. When my shift ends, no matter how I time it, I always manage to get stuck in the elevator with potential customers, who know who I am because I’m the only person on the planet who looks like me.

Alien.

The thing that doesn’t belong. The piece that doesn’t fit. I don’t know what you do by trade, but try to imagine that after an arduous day of ending the lives of horny men through intercourse that you now have to ride in a crowded box with men who just had some other girl service them and all of them eyeing you and thinking that they’re the one who could probably beat the odds and survive.

I hate it. I hate the looks, I hate the arrogance, and I hate the sameness of it all. Eventually they all will come to see me. Eventually they all will die.

At least in the elevator there’s hardly any conversation. I envy girls who don’t have to talk to the men they sleep with. I, on the other hand, am legally obligated to strike up conversations with everyone interested in sleeping with me. I’m the only elegance girl that comes with a Surgeon General warning. Sleeping with me will kill you. You must be made fully aware of that and sign legal documents to that effect.
Occasionally, though, I’ll get a customer that asks, “Do you work here?”

Well, duh, is what I think, although I answer, “Yes“

“I’d like to visit you. What’s your name? What floor do you work on? Do you see customers outside of here?”

I want to tell him not to come. Tell him that I don’t want to see him. That I don’t talk to, let alone service, customers outside the shop, especially to men who have not paid to talk to me.

Some men do that, the smart ones. They come in and lose their nerve and I don’t blame them. They still have to pay for my time but I cut them a discounted rate. And while I don’t enjoy talking to people who view me as a sexable piece of flesh, I take pity on the ones who back out at the last minute. It must be similar to talking someone down off a ledge.

If I do happen to get a talker on the elevator, I don’t smile or make eye contact. I simply answer their questions as curtly as possible and walk away abruptly when the elevator doors open. This usually avoids them feeling comfortable enough to follow me on the street. It’s what scares me the most about the job, no joke.

I have a friend, well, she’s more of a colleague, in the business we call the sexociates, and I don’t know if it’s a vibe she gives off or what, but she attracts more gawker stalkers than all the rest of us combined.

Gawker stalkers are creepy men that lurk around the prex and watch the girls as they leave the building. It’s gotten so bad that Tawni, my sexociate, not her actual name but I doubt even I know her real name, has a taxi on call that she runs into every night as soon as the elevator doors open.

Gawker stalkers never do anything to the girls, to my knowledge, they just watch. But it’s still creepy. I get chills thinking about the possibility of some strange guy following me home. They should just commit and pay the fee and get to play a little bit rather than being a loser that skulks in the shadows and goes home alone, unsatisfied.

When people find out what I do for a living, they seem so fascinated with the concept of dealing out sex for money. I almost regret letting people know because all our conversation after that point turns to them pumping me for kinky-or-weird-but-true stories.

And that’s when my relationships begin to die.

I don’t have any eccentric stories. My vagina forces orgasm and death, and if that isn’t enough to interest you, then what else do we have to talk about? My life is boring, really. So boring that no one wants to hear about it.

How about you?

Will you please read my lonely talk?

To be continued…

©2014 Rhyan Scorpio-Rhys