Freebies
- Introduction
- The Reformed Citizen (e-book)
- "Arrival"
- "The Devil's Cup"
- Stories from the Steel Garden (e-book)
- "Forget Me Not"
- "Breakfast with Chronos"
- The Midnight Recollections (e-book)
- The Knack (e-book)
- Time Chaser (e-book)
- "The Gilded Flame"
- "Morning Commute"
- "Ascension"
- "Swarm"
- "Don't Feed Santa Yellow Snow"
Free stuff rocks. That's why I've put together a page of free, no-strings-attached stories, novellas, and e-books for you to read, download, share, and digest. Everything here is released under a Creative Commons license, which means you are allowed / encouraged to pass the goods along. All I ask is that you put in a good word for me and plug my web site in the process.
A collection of novellas and rare, unpublished short stories (which, funnily enough, have been published since the book's release), The Reformed Citizen is my second anthology, and a deeper, darker glimpse into the speculative mind...as is explained on the back cover. It should be noted that this book contains the more adult-oriented versions of stories you may or may not have read online.
While 2005's The Midnight Recollections served as an introductory sampling of Gordon's short story work, this new collection of mostly novellas and novelettes delves specifically into the dark, the introspective, and the surreal. Most of the material presented herein comes in the form of rare and unpublished gems sharing similar themes of societal idiosyncrasies. The Reformed Citizen could be classified as "social science fiction"—with a devious twist. As usual, Gordon's ideas are potent and varied, unabashedly frank, his characters well-developed.
I don't normally write about elves and castles and the like, but there have been exceptions. "The Gilded Flame," for example—and now "Arrival," my long-lost novella (which appears in The Reformed Citizen anthology). The story was originally slated to be the basis for a shared-world project way back when, but for one reason or another it never got off the ground, and I ended up shelving it. Luckily, though, I tend to keep good records (read: piles of shit that eventually have to be dealt with or thrown out). "Arrival" was one of those things that got "dealt with." So, without further ado, here's a peek at the Cambrian hillsides as seen through a Summoner's eyes.
In retrospect, dying young was probably something no one in their right mind would want to do unless burdened with some sort of horrific, incurable disease—or, perhaps, if someone was stuck on the receiving end of a breakup with the only girlfriend he'd ever had (and would probably ever have). Many had chosen suicide as a solution to such circumstances, though its effectiveness was questionable since one was usually never heard from again upon exiting the flesh.
Matthew had considered asphyxiation, pills, getting drunk and hanging himself—but what if, in his stupor, he made a gross miscalculation and ended up doing only enough damage to prolong his suffering until the medics arrived? No, better to drive off a cliff at ninety miles per hour, fast and furious.
"The Devil's Cup" is a rewrite of an earlier story I did called "Lucifer Works at Starbucks" (From Beyond / Aug. 1999). Both are satirical in nature, and somewhat absurd, though TDC, to me, is a bit more slick.
"Look over my shoulder—be cool about it." When Terrence shrugged and stared blankly, Donald let out an exasperated sigh and jerked his head several times in Satan's direction. "Him. The guy with the horns. Don't stare. He might notice you."
"Oh, him. He's the new guy, isn't he?"
"I've never seen him before today."
"Hmm, now that you mention it..."
Donald swiveled in his seat, paid the devil a nasty look. Are the horns some kind of blatant fashion statement? A joke amongst the staff? A genetic defect? Or is it really Lucifer himself, scheming to steal everyone's soul when they least expect?
Stories from the Steel Garden (e-book)
Steel Garden, "that nudist worker / prison camp from hell where 13-year-old Richard Doroschenko and his family slave away to support the crooked ideals of the Sol Union," as summarized by one reader. This novel tended to piss a lot of people off, one, because of the (intentional) side-step ending, and two, because everyone was always naked. In any case, you're free to pass judgment however you please. Clothing optional.
Richard Doroschenko is a diligent worker and a kind-hearted resident of the Steel Garden manufacturing campus. He is also a storyteller with the ability to frame people, places, and events in such a way that the dismal mediocrity of everyday life becomes something bearable. This novel chronicles Richard's experiences during Earth's Sol Union days, when humankind is caught in a decades long galactic war that threatens to extinguish the human spirit once and for all—but Richard has a unique point of view, and he soon learns that his storytelling ability is more than just make-believe...
An Urban Prophets (see "Swarm," below) vignette written for a flash contest involving trees, "Forget Me Not" is a peek at Carl and Alyssa's tender side(s).
"Carl, it's freezing. I don't understand why we have to do this."
"It'll be worth it, Aly. Just be patient."
Huddled in their sleeping bags, and wrapped in several layers of cotton T-shirts and wool sweaters, Alyssa Newman and Carl Hanson sat together beneath the midnight shade of a sycamore grove. All around, the patterned darkness, comprised of shards of moonlight trickling through the treetops of the arboretum, was still and silent, save for the faint hum of the nearby skyway.
Yep, thought Alyssa. No one up but us danger hunters, freezing our butts off like dorks. Carl's lucky he's cute. Otherwise he'd be spending the night out here alone.
Which might have been just as well, for in the handful of hours they'd spent outside, shivering in the cold and sharing a thermos full of lukewarm Moroccan mint green tea, he'd given her no information beyond "be patient."
This was the precursor to Time Chaser. It was also the basis (partially) for "Fogy" / "Babe" (which appears in The Reformed Citizen) and a piece of erotic fiction that ended up lost between the bed sheets, so to speak. It's obvious why: Chronos' story reads like something a horny 15-year-old writes when stolen Hustler magazines and free Internet porn preview JPEGs just aren't cutting it…which isn't all that far from the truth. The characters are physically beautiful, oftentimes naked and / or aroused for absolutely no reason, and the science is just God-awful. But enough time has passed that I'm able to look back with a certain amount of fondness at the burgeoning of my career as a writer. Even if it was based on libido and boredom.
So, here you go—watch out for pulsing penises and heaving breasts, as this story contains more than a few. 
"It's hard to get past my appearance, I know—"
"What's hard to get past? You're telling me I'm supposed to believe you're a day over nineteen—twenty at the most—when I don't think you've even started shaving yet—"
Chronos cuts me off: "You're thinking in terms of old style age. Wrinkles, sagging skin—you're only old if you're old. I don't look old enough so I'm full of shit, right? And you, a middle-aged tabloid reporter, having to come out here on a limb because you haven't had a really hot story in too long, your editor thinks it's time to put you out to pasture unless maybe, maybe you can come up with an exclusive that nobody's been able to get in almost three centuries. An exclusive that only Demis Matheson could possibly get. So you follow a lead or two, a friend of a friend of a friend drops the hint that he can get you an interview with Chronos, the human sector's only time chaser to have jumped multiple streams without being caught by the feds…you come here to meet me in person, and when you do, you suddenly want to call it a night simply because I don't look the part. Sounds like an awful waste of time, doesn't it? For the both of us."
The Midnight Recollections (e-book)
The first 5 years or so of my writing career can be found in this volume. The material was originally published in online e-zines and small press magazines between 1999-2004; many of the venues have since closed shop, so this is pretty much the only place you'll be able to get these, er, nuggets.
Glimpse into the surreal world of a mysterious painter whose artistic ability captures more than just the memories of the deceased; Visit Shade City, where color is the law and equality is literally skin-deep; travel to the snowy borderlands of Kyrth and witness the ultimate battle between mortal and god—from "Yet Another Reality" to "The Gilded Flame", these twelve collected stories are the speculative snapshots of one of the genre's rising stars. Rest assured: The Midnight Recollections will keep you up long past midnight.
The Knack has proved to be my most popular novel—great for publicity, but bad for an author who never really was into vampires. Nevertheless, this is how it turned out, first as a successful series at deviantART, then as a paperback. The subject matter involves a lot of teenage sex, as well as some violence, so if this isn't your thing, click somewhere else.
Adolescence: a time of change, a time of discovery and (for those who possess the knack) awakening magical abilities. For Aaron Capps, growing up is an uneventful ritual—until he meets Kyna, who changes his life forever by introducing him to a treacherous reality where willpower becomes something tangible and the mind rules all.
This sucker has been reincarnated twice: first, as an erotic adaptation (most of which has been reconstituted here at Jessture.com as "Breakfast with Chronos") of the original novella, then again in 2004 as an actual novel. Thematically, the plot is rather abstract, focusing more on the metaphysics of time travel. It was a great exercise in learning to finish what I started; I also learned never to wrestle naked with a four-armed female bodybuilder named Daisy.
Unintentionally separated from his birth stream, Storm Anderson was a fugitive on the run, an exile of humanity, and the Time Patrol's biggest headache—but little did he know that his fate lay not in his long-lost past but in his imminent future.
This was a fantasy piece I wrote for Sword's Edge in 2004. The magazine is now, sadly, defunct, so I've archived "The Gilded Flame" here at my web site.
"Alexander," Taurus greeted, now fully integrated within Gregori's body. He flexed his limbs, adjusting to the strengths and sensations of a fleshed man. He smiled. "My subject, my child. Why have you called Taurus to the physical realm?"
The gods were all-knowing. Taurus did not have to ask a question that had an obvious answer. Still, it was appropriate that Alexander play along until the ultimatum presented itself.
He rose to his feet. "Many turns past, when I was a youth, my beloved Min and I trained at the Eternal Champion as royal athletes for your Games. While on display before the many gathered kingdoms, come to witness the splendor of the competition, a god let loose his wrath for the sake of his own passion."
All cheer drained from Taurus' face. "Speak with care, mortal child."
This is a parody of various conspiracy theories and global government epiphanies—take heed at your own risk.
Jersey's nostrils flared. "Have you ever met a politician?"
"Well, no, can't say that I have—"
"Exactly my point! We only think we know who we elect into office, but it's only a small smattering of people they select to get the 15% of the votes required for the public debates, and then once one of them's in office, it's business as usual, keeping you and me in the dark, keeping us at our menial jobs so that we can keep paying our bills, our taxes, and when we're not working for them, we're sitting drunk in front of the television and allowing ourselves to be spoon-fed the latest political and societal propaganda."
A quick, thoughtful piece I did for an anthology a while back. The notions of rebirth and resurrection have always fascinated me. I wonder if Heaven's waiting room might be anything like this.
I died.
And yet I could still hear myself thinking, still hear myself wondering if I'd truly passed on, or if I wasn't just living out the madness of another bout of delirium.
I opened my eyes and found myself lying on a rounded, sandy rock a dozen or so yards across. At the center of the rock a single apple tree bore its fruit and provided adequate shade from an omnipotent sun that seemed to shine from all parts of the cloudless sky.
This was part of the Urban Prophets series I did a few years ago, and chronicles the adventures of a group of teenage "danger hunters" who live (or will live, as the series takes place in the not-too-distant future) in the Santa Clarita area.
Moon Canyon was a manmade abscess just south of Plum Canyon. It served mostly as a debris field for the West Sierra Skyway. The area was nestled between two low hillsides, napped with wispy tall grass and gangly sycamores, discarded car parts and jettisoned fuel cells—and presently bathed in an unearthly glow being cast by the aggravated clouds above. It was like a black and white analog film that had been colorized badly: The soil was a sulfuric yellow, the grass an almost neon lime-green, the neatly-aligned mobile homes' metallic finishes glinting like polished sterling.
"Look at that," Carl murmured, his gaze alternating between the stormy sky and the skin of his hands, which now had an aqua hue to it. He rolled up his sleeves. "I'm turning into Casper."
"Your eyes are yellow too!" Vanessa exclaimed. She looked down at herself, marveling in the phenomenon. "It's like being in a room full of black lights, only better. You think so, Aly?"
Alyssa swallowed, her eyes transfixed on the storm clouds. "I think this is going to be one humongous swarm."
"Don't Feed Santa Yellow Snow"
Retribution works both ways, as young Davy Setter discovers on a Christmas Eve unlike any other…
I killed Theresa's cat on Christmas Eve. With a slingshot and a marble. It was an accident, of course—Patches had simply run in front of my shot at just the right moment and gotten clocked in between the eyes. At least, that's the story I kept repeating in my head as I stood over the animal's lifeless form. Truthfully, I was pretty good with a slingshot. I knew exactly where I had been aiming, I knew exactly why this cat was dead, and I knew that I was going to be in big trouble when Theresa found out. She'd tell Mom. Mom would tell Dad, and Dad would make whipped cream out of my ass.
Maybe she's just knocked out, I thought, but it was obvious she was much worse off. I'd been nudging her with the edge of my sandal for nearly ten minutes now and nothing. With a sigh, I pocketed my weapon of mass destruction and hoisted Patches' body in my arms. I took her out into the unpaved alleyway that ran behind our duplex and deposited her amongst the sea weeds—the grass that hadn't been cut in a decade, if at all. In actuality, the alley was more of a time-worn pathway of packed dirt drowned in unkempt trees, bushes, and tall grass. There were probably things tossed here by neighbors that had never been recovered in twenty years…things that had never meant to be recovered.
