Archive for the Fiction Category

Darrell Vickers – ‘BU HOUSE CHAPTER TEN: HOT DUCKITY-DIG

Posted in Fiction, Serialized Book with tags , , , , , on December 11, 2018 by segarini

Once again, comfortably ensconced beneath a swayless palm, Tiberius continued to supervise the divinely dictated duck dig when lo! His singular and irrefutably great noggin received a cosmic command so powerful; it would have flambéed the occipital lobe of lesser prophets.

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DARRELL VICKERS – CHAPTER NINE: CRIME AND A WHOLE LOT OF PUNISHMENT

Posted in Fiction, Serialized Book with tags , , , , , on December 4, 2018 by segarini

To some, the rising sun brings the promise of all that is possible. It bathes the world in light, warmth and hope. Birds joyously sing in tribute to its wondrous quotidian arrival. Church bells peal in celebration of a new day being birthed. Cranberries pretty well don’t do anything at all – but they’re the exception.

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DARRELL VICKERS – ‘BU HOUSE: CHAPTER EIGHT THE WAGES OF SUN

Posted in Fiction, Serialized Book with tags , , , , , on November 27, 2018 by segarini

The noonday sun was not so much a “red and ruby chalice” as a “brain-cell deep fat fryer.” While the weather where the ocean meets the land is as cool and refreshing as a mermaid’s breath, the temperature rises one degree for every foot you step eastward from the PCH. By the time you reached the Cult Mansion, you could smelt base metals in your hat. It was so hot, people were envying Jeffrey Dahmer’s fridge victims. It was positively molten.

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DARRELL VICKERS – CHAPTER SIX: THE CULT

Posted in Fiction, Serialized Book with tags , , , , , on November 13, 2018 by segarini

A 1976 Jeep Laredo tore through the desiccated Malibu hills. Dirt and pebbles, abruptly torn from their slumbers, rose in umbrage in its wake. These uber-skinny, impossibly windy roads are L.A.’s great equalizer. No matter how rich and famous you are or how Versailles-like your digs, every time you pull your imported sports car out of the driveway, you risk receiving a mouthful of delivery truck. Or Jeep – because the girls were testing every known law of physics, especially centrifugal force, as they careened their way back to The Cult Mansion.

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DARRELL VICKERS – ‘BU HOUSE CHAPTER FIVE: BOY MEETS GIRLS

Posted in Fiction, Serialized Book with tags , , , , , on November 6, 2018 by segarini

‘BU HOUSE: CHAPTER FIVE – BOY MEETS GIRLS

A highly exclusive brand of eventide that you just can’t get in Bellflower or Willowbrook had fallen upon the land and sea. The beaming moon stood guard over the Earth’s most cherished children as they slumbered in their king-sized feather-mattressed beds. Hills full of wildflowers graciously wafted their delicate scents through the mild evening air. Little fuzzy bunnies hopped to and fro in gardens of purple kohlrabi, prickly caterpillar bean, white tomesol, black krim tomatoes and rainbow carrots. Shit nobody has ever heard of and even fewer people eat. Little did the local lagomorphs and ruminants suspect that the tubers and legumes they were blithely nibbling on would cost them upwards of a year’s salary if they were to purchase them at a Gelson’s or Mrs. Gooch’s.

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DARRELL VICKERS – ‘BU HOUSE: CHAPTER FOUR – THE ARRIVAL

Posted in Fiction, Serialized Book with tags , , , , , on October 30, 2018 by segarini

 A phone that Phillip Marlowe might have owned was ringing in a living room he might have found a dead body in. And the dead guy would have been the lucky one. Books and cigarette butts and liquor bottles appeared to be its only decoration. Teetering towards this ancient communications device on spindly, inebriated legs was The Amos Drawling. Sleeveless 45’s, fossilized foodstuffs and expired prescription pills crunched under his wobbly feet as he coughed and sloshed his way along.

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DARRELL VICKERS – ‘BU HOUSE CHAPTER THREE: THE ROAD GOES ON FOREVER…

Posted in Fiction, Serialized Book with tags , , , , , on October 23, 2018 by segarini

DARRELL VICKERS – ‘BU HOUSE CHAPTER THREE: THE ROAD GOES ON FOREVER…

There are few crucibles more harrowing and arduous than transcontinental travel by bus. These overheated, murderously under-deodorized rolling disease incubators make Gandhi’s March for Salt feel like Emma Woodhouse merrily gavotting through the Surrey countryside. It is easy to understand why Admiral Scott chose to march his men to an icy, grisly grave rather than catch a Greyhound to the South Pole. Those seemingly comfy seats, when first sat upon, have the soft and silky come-hither feel of a loud-laughin’, close-dancin’ Fotomat clerk at a Two-Bucks-For-Any-Well-Drink Barn Dance. After a scant few hours though, you begin to pick up the first clues that she may not actually be the girl of your dreams. After a couple of days, you’d gladly sell your cock to get away from her.

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