Author: admin bot (Page 2 of 13)

Two muscular, shirtless men in brown jumpsuits stand in the foreground, their chests exposed and sweaty. In the background, a man in a shirt looks on with a serious expression, partially obscured by shadows.

The Space Bears (chapters 1-3)

2025-04-28 / admin bot / 0 Comments

I’ve expanded My short story from 2023 into a full-length transformation epic. Read the first three chapters here.

Chapter 1: The Golden Ticket

I had been based out of Artemis Station for nearly a decade, working long-haul cargo routes to neglected outposts and failed experiments in galactic living. Six months to Vesta. Fourteen to New Rockall. The occasional ten-week jog to Hyperion. Interstellar freight isn’t glamorous, but the solitude suited me. The pay was steady. And when you’re in deep sleep for most of the journey, the years barely touch you.

Some guys can’t handle it—waking up decades older than their friends, missing birthdays, funerals, and civilizations. Me? I had nothing waiting for me planetside. No lovers, no obligations. I liked it that way.

Quid pro quo

2025-04-21 / admin bot / 2 Comments

Office politics

“Your golden boy is a walking lawsuit.”

Jules Wexler dropped the thick personnel file onto Landon Shaw’s desk with the dramatic flair of someone who had earned the right to make it land like a gavel. The manila folder splayed open, exposing a collage of typed complaints, red-ink annotations, and HR bleeding red flags.

Landon didn’t flinch. He glanced down, uninterested. His espresso was still steaming, untouched, beside a single Montblanc pen that cost more than some of his junior associates made in a month.

A dark, high-contrast image of many shell casings, with a reflective surface that catches the light, creating a textured effect.

Spent casings (chapters 1 and 2)

2025-04-14 / admin bot / 0 Comments

Chapter 1

The inside of U-Shoot-It Firing Range and Supply smelled like oil, sweat, and scorched earth, like the air after a lightning storm, but heavier. Will Reed hesitated outside the doorway, one hand resting awkwardly on his hip like he didn’t know what to do with it. The front desk guy had given him a clipboard and a set of eye and hearing protection without looking up. Standing outside the range’s heavy double doors, he realized he had no idea what came next. The rules were pinned bold, red, and unapologetic to the wall: No rapid fire. Always point downrange. Cross-lane shooting is explicitly forbidden.

The flannel shirt he’d pulled from the rack at the discount store itched against his skin. It still smelled of sizing spray and had the price tag on the inside of the left armpit. He owned the shirt since he paid for it, but it was still just a costume for him. Instead of wearing it, the shirt wore him. He stretched the hearing protection over his head and settled the pads over his ears, then adjusted the baseball cap he’d bought on a whim last week. The brim was too stiff, and the logo too clean.

He looked wrong in this place, and he knew it.

A glossy black shoe box with a thin white stripe across the middle, placed on a textured beige surface.

Bound in black and blue

2025-04-07 / admin bot / 1 Comment

Donovan hadn’t been expecting mail. The knock at the door startled him out of his whiskey-hazed stupor, where he’d been curled on the couch, nursing the ache of something old but still sharp. Patrick was out running laps around the neighborhood, steady and consistent as ever, which left Donovan alone as usual, with his thoughts for company.

He shuffled to the door, opened it, and stopped.

A large, sleek black box sat on the welcome mat. The return label rubbed away into smudged illegibility, but he knew what it was. His stomach tightened as he bent to pick it up.

Close-up of a person wearing black leather gloves and a dark suit with white cuffs.

Numbered assets

2025-03-31 / admin bot / 3 Comments

Drake always told himself he wasn’t like the others.

He knew all about his boyfriend Michael’s specialist kink—the serial numbers, the leather gloves, the obedience conditioning. He’d watched the transformations, the way Michael smoothed men over, reprogrammed them and paired them off like dolls. He’d seen the glassy eyes and the scripted lines. Hell, he’d even helped pick outfits and personalities for their new lives as retired assets after Michael lost interest in them.

A glitchy, sepia-toned image of a bedroom with two twin beds. The ornate, dark headboards and patterned bedspreads are partially distorted by digital effects. A small nightstand with a book or papers is placed between the beds.

Pleasanton hospitality

2025-03-24 / admin bot / 0 Comments

Frank’s hands tightened on the steering wheel as they pulled into town, knuckles pale beneath his sun-darkened skin. The truck groaned a little under the weight of Brendan’s belongings—a life packed up in boxes after a messy breakup Frank had no interest in hearing about.

Brendan sat hunched in the passenger seat, arms folded, jaw tight. His thick-rimmed glasses slid a little down his nose every time they hit a bump. He pushed them back up with a tired flick of his finger. He wore a gray hoodie, threadbare from too many washes, and skinny jeans cuffed above worn sneakers. His dark hair was shaggy, grown long at the sides—messy in a way Frank suspected was intentional.

Close-up shot of a person wearing a clerical collar and a chain. The image is stylized with a dotted, high-contrast effect, emphasizing the texture and shadows on the persons face and clothing.

Confession

2025-03-17 / admin bot / 0 Comments

The confessional was dark, save for the flickering candlelight casting broken patterns against the wooden partition. The air, thick with ghostly wisps of incense, felt even heavier with something deeper—unspoken desires pressing against the walls, waiting to be exposed, waiting to be exorcised.

Nathan knelt on the worn leather cushion, his hands folded tightly on the tabletop. His belly, straining the buttons of his shirt, pressed against the prayer kneeler with each shallow breath. The act of kneeling itself sent a strange thrill down his spine. He closed his eyes and exhaled, slow and unsteady.

A grayscale digital illustration of a person sitting at a table with an open laptop and a coffee cup. The focus is on the cup and laptop, with the background softly blurred, depicting a casual and relaxed atmosphere.

Sidelined

2025-03-03 / admin bot / 0 Comments

Journal entry: March 3rd

Location: The goddamn coffee shop. Across the street. Where I always am.

I don’t even know why I’m writing this. Maybe if I get the words out of my head, they’ll stop echoing so loudly. Maybe if I force them onto the page, I’ll finally see how absurd all of this is. How ridiculous. How wrong.

Or maybe—God help me—I just want to remember.

They’re at the restaurant again. Our restaurant. Or at least, it was ours, once. Now it belongs to them. Rod and Jason. The happy couple. The perfect pair. The ones who fit together like puzzle pieces while I sit here alone, watching.

Two people holding hands, seen from behind. One is wearing a blue plaid shirt and jeans, while the other wears a light gray top and brown pants. The background is softly blurred, giving a warm and intimate feeling.

Out and proud

2025-02-24 / admin bot / 0 Comments

Carter and Ken strode into the glass-and-chrome office building, shoulders brushing slightly against each other as they passed through the revolving doors. Best friends for over a decade in addition to coworkers, they were inseparable, though neither would have described the other as their “type” if asked.

Carter, the taller of the two, was broad shouldered with a sharp jawline dusted in a five o’clock shadow that always seemed intentional. His hair was dark brown, neatly styled, and it still fell perfectly across his forehead even after a long day. Beneath his tailored charcoal suit, his chest filled out his shirt in all the right ways. Athletic but not bulky, Carter’s lean build reflected his commitment to taking care of himself without obsessing over it. His deep-set hazel eyes gave him a commanding presence, drawing curious, enamored glances whenever he entered a room.

The old Prospect Bend VFW hall smelled like sawdust, sweat, and coffee gone stale in the pot. The scent was decades old—as permanent as the cracked linoleum floor and faded American flag pinned to the back wall. The men gathered inside were tired. Not just from the heat—though the single oscillating fan in the corner wasn’t doing much to cool the high desert air. Not just from the years of hard labor—though their calloused hands, stooped shoulders, and sun-weathered faces spoke of decades spent working ranches, mending fences, and running businesses that stopped turning profits years ago. No, they were tired because they had lost. Earl Lindstrom, mayor of Prospect Bend, wiped the sweat off his brow with a white handkerchief, unknowingly yet symbolically waving a flag of surrender. He cleared his throat and tried to look in control, but his weak, tinny voice immediately betrayed his true self. “All right, folks. Let’s come to order,” he said, smacking a gavel against a sagging foldable card table. After leading the room in the Lord’s Prayer and the Pledge of Allegiance, he plucked a page of notes from the table, the paper crinkling in his chubby hands. “I know lots of us are worried. I know it ain’t good. But we got a way forward.” Murmurs rippled through the room. Everyone knew how the numbers looked. Half a century of ignorance and resistance to change had bankrupted the town. Three generations of elected leaders had squandered, mismanaged, and embezzled from the town’s coffers. The police department barely functioned. The streets were crumbling. Half the storefronts on Independence Avenue were boarded up. Some bean-counting bureaucrat at the State Capitol in Salem had given Prospect Bend an ultimatum. Either return the town to solvency or be forcibly disincorporated. Wiped off the map. Which is why the men from PulseTech were there. Three of them—tall, polished, and impeccably dressed—cut impressive figures at the mayor’s table. Their haircuts were precise, their suits casual but expensive looking, their smiles just wide enough to feel disarming. Despite the sweltering summer heat, they sat perfectly at ease, hands folded as they waited for the townspeople to finish simmering in their own misery. Mayor Lindstrom concluded his long-winded assessment of the town’s dire straits. Then, he yielded the floor to the frontman of the PulseTech team. He was young for an executive, maybe thirty-five, with a square jaw and a confident stance. His charcoal gray suit and fitted white shirt seemed impervious to the dust and grime that swept through Prospect Bend whenever the winds changed. He leaned forward slightly, drawing the townspeople in. “Mayor Lindstrom, thank you for having us,” he said smoothly. The winds were changing, indeed. “Gentlemen, my name is Grant Hudson. I’m with PulseTech.” Grant’s voice was calm and assured, with an untraceable Generican accent and a slight rising tone at the end of each sentence. A voice like his could make any bad news sound like an opportunity. “We understand your concerns,” Grant continued. “Prospect Bend is facing serious financial hardship. Your elected leaders and small business owners have done their best, but traditional solutions aren’t enough. The world is changing, and towns like this—well, they either adapt or get left behind.” A calculated silence allowed the townspeople to absorb his words. A few scowled. Others just nodded grimly. The man was right. “But we have a solution,” Grand said, smiling. “A full-scale revitalization project—privately funded, expertly managed, and designed to bring Prospect Bend into the future.” The mayor shifted in his seat, the cheap folding chair creaking under his weight. “Now, Grant, we appreciate the offer, but this is a simple, plain-speaking ranching community. What exactly does this deal mean for us?” Grant’s smile widened. “It means your problems go away.” The sales pitch was adequate, if blunt. A ripple of tension passed through the room. Grant waited for the rumblings to die down before he continued. “We take over essential services. Law enforcement, infrastructure, utilities. We eliminate inefficiencies, cut waste, and prioritize modernization. Improvements attract new businesses, bring in new residents, and increase property values for everyone.” “And in return?” Someone grunted from the back of the room. Grant, as if anticipating the question, spread his hands wide. “Just a little governance consultation.” The murmurs grew louder. Mayor Lindstrom raised a hand. “Now, hold on, let’s hear ’em out.” Grant nodded. “Look, gentlemen. We’re not here to take over your town. We’re here to advise and consult. You’ll still have a mayor. Still have local businesses. However, the town manager position will be held by an employee of PulseTech. His office will provide leadership. Direction. A vision.” He took a breath and then delivered the final pitch. “PulseTech can return prosperity to Prospect Bend. And all it takes is one signature.” He pulled a sleek tablet from his briefcase and set it on the table before the mayor. For a long moment, no one spoke. Then, from the back, a voice cut through the silence. “And what if we say no?” Everyone turned, forming a halo of contorted bodies around Buck Stamets, the last real cowboy in Prospect Bend. He sat with his arms crossed, a permanent scowl etched onto his sunburnt face. His jeans were stained with dirt, his boots caked in mud and bits of scrub grass, and his hat was pulled low over his sharp, lined features. He looked at Grant like a man looks at a rattlesnake that got too close to the porch. Grant didn’t flinch. He maintained his calm, painted-on smile. “Then you go bankrupt.” Mayor Lindstrom heaved himself out of his chair, his trick knee popping with a grotesque crack as he got to his feet. “He’s right about that, Buck. We’ve all read the notice from that fatass down in Salem. Disincorporation is the only other option.” “Or maybe we could elect someone competent and fix our own damn town.” A few men muttered in agreement. “Fix it with prayers.” another voice cut in. All eyes moved across the room to Father Dale Peterson, standing near the exit, his Bible tucked under one arm, a rosary hanging from his cassock’s belt, a frown carved into his usually peaceful face. “Faith has carried us through hard times before,” Father Dale said, his voice steady. “You gentlemen come here with your money, fine clothes, and promises, but the Lord doesn’t ask for a contract. He asks for trust. Community. That’s what holds a town together, not some out-of-state tech corporation with big ideas.” Grant tilted his head as if generally considering the cleric’s words. “Father,” he said lightly, “do you think faith alone is going to fix your roads? Restore your businesses? Pay your people?” Dale hesitated, and Grant pounced. “You say you want a strong community. Then, let us help you build one. A better one. A healthier one. A stronger one. We believe in the power of transformation, Father. We believe in making this town—and every man in it—the best they can be.” Father Dale clutched his Bible tighter as the townspeople averted their eyes. Not exactly blessed with the charism of preaching, the priest had failed yet again to inspire his flock with a meaningful sermon. Their problems would have been solved long ago if prayers could save the town. Unable to construct a response, Father Dale withdrew into the corner. “I got one question.” Nate Ferguson emerged from a group of men standing in the back. The only person to have moved to Prospect Bend in living memory, “Nate the Pate”—short for patriot—was a transplant from somewhere back east. Taciturn to a fault, Nate had made no close friends, and no one really knew much about him other than he was an untamable libertarian. He lived off -grid, hunting and fishing for his livelihood, and only came into town when necessary. “What happens to our freedom?” Nate asked, eliciting a few groans from the others in attendance. The Pate was nothing if not predictable. “Because I don’t trust any company that tells people what they can and can’t do.” Grant laughed and rested his perfectly manicured hands on the table. “Freedom isn’t going anywhere,” he said, nudging the tablet an inch closer to the mayor. “We’re giving you more than you’ve ever had before.” The room was silent. Mayor Lindstrom sighed heavily, rubbing his temples. He looked at Grant, the other two PulseTech goons, and then at his own people. Everyone in Prospect Bend was tired, desperate, and out of options. “Shall we put it to a vote?” Lindstrom asked. Grant had already proffered him a stylus to sign. The show of hands was conclusive if not a landslide. The town approved the deal by a vote of 29 in favor to 19 against, with Nate the Pate abstaining, having rejected the legitimacy of the town government. Without another word, Mayor Lindstrom took the stylus from Grant. He let the tip hover over the screen for a long moment of hesitation, and then he signed. The deal was done. Grant shook Lindstrom’s hand and turned to face the townspeople. “Gentlemen, welcome to the future.”

Welcome to PulseTown™

2025-02-17 / admin bot / 0 Comments

Want to see how this turns out? Buy “Welcome to PulseTown™” on Kindle for the rest of the story.

Chapter 1: The Contract

The old Prospect Bend VFW hall smelled like sawdust, sweat, and coffee gone stale in the pot. The scent was decades old—as permanent as the cracked linoleum floor and faded American flag pinned to the back wall.

The men gathered inside were tired. Not just from the heat—though the single oscillating fan in the corner wasn’t doing much to cool the high desert air. Not just from the years of hard labor—though their calloused hands, stooped shoulders, and sun-weathered faces spoke of decades spent working ranches, mending fences, and running businesses that stopped turning profits years ago.

No, they were tired because they had lost.