Like they say, "sex sells" and The Nautilus Shell is no exception. In fact, it won an Honorary Mention in the 78th Annual Writer's Digest Writing Competition. It is a humorous and irreverent short story about over-bearing, neurotic co-workers who get their comeuppance. In this excerpt, our "heroine" is caught daydreaming:

    She had disappeared before. Not by walking away from obligations and relations to start up anew under some alias in some new place; though at the present, that seemed a viable option. No. It had been, Poof!  Gone, like when Harry Potter put on his Invisibility Cloak. People walking past and not seeing her. Ala-kazam-flippitty-flam-gone—-and not just once.

***

    The next time Alison disappeared, it was with Franco. They’d spent the night at the local pub and had stepped out into blinding nothingness. It took them an extra minute to make it down the hidden steps. Cars pulling into the driveway could not even penetrate the dense cloud with their headlights. People passed by, seemingly close enough to touch, but lost to the mist. They were equally invisible and Alison pulled away with a giggle, disappearing into the ether.

            “Hey,” Franco called.

            She heard the smile in his voice and swiped a hand in his direction, meaning to grab his ass. He grabbed her hand instead and enveloped her in a spinning embrace; a salsa move that ended in a breath-stopping kiss as a drunken couple giggled and stumbled past, clearly unaware of them.

            “Let’s get out of here before someone bumps into us.” He gave her a tight hug and then took her hand. It was a few short blocks to their beach front parking spot. Stopping next to the car, Alison began to pull off her shoes.

            “What are you doing?” Franco asked.

            “Going for a walk.” She tugged his hand. “You coming?”

            They walked blind and barefoot through cool mounds of sand as moon-kissed mist danced silver and white all around them. It swaddling them in a density that echoed every hush and spray of the invisible ocean as they held hands on that otherworldly beach, walking into nothingness from nothingness; listening only to the sea and their heartbeats. Franco put his hand on her waist and they stopped; falling to their knees with a lingering kiss. He laid her gently in the sand and slipped his hand under her shirt to her bra. Pushing it aside, he cupped her breast and she pressed a palm against his cheek. When she opened her eyes, the fog was so thick that only his face floated in it. His shirt came off and then hers. 

            “Aren’t you worried someone will bump into us?” she teased, nibbling his shoulder.

            “No.” He pulled her tighter to him.  “I’m only worried about one thing.”

            “What’s that?” she sighed.

            “Taking you to heaven.”

            The door of Alison’s office suddenly blew open, as if a bomb had blown. Wood splintered and cracked along the jamb and the strike plate hung askew. John, Helena, and presumably Marlene crammed into the opening; their faces contorted and gleamed with perspiration. Gina’s head popped up behind them at frequent intervals. Alison ignored their reflection in the glass as she lowered her feet, keeping her eyes on the cottony wisps that pressed against her office window and flowed past in streaked ribbons of thick and thin. The file in her lap spilled around her as she slowly spun to face the intruders; its stretched and creased manila folder fell in a tent at her feet.

            “What is the meaning of this?” John sputtered through ragged breaths.

            “Schneider file. Now!” Marlene roared.

The Dredges is a dark and gritty, futuristic short story of murder, sex, manipulation and total mind control. In this excerpt Jane, our "villainous" puppet master is trying to get a hold of her puppet, Will. He just killed Vincent for her and is unwittingly, about to have his memory erased...again:

    “I’m sorry, we have no record of that ward,” the operator announced.

    “What? I was at Intake with him myself,” she protested, wincing as she recalled the crazed smirk on Will’s face as the patrols dragged him away for transport to KRIST1. “It’s me, Jesus.” His hot breath filled her ear. “I forgive you.”

    “We have no record.”

    Jane hesitated, aware of the consequences questions could bring, but suddenly she didn’t give a damn. Vincent was dead and if Will had talked, then she was done for anyway. “I want your supervisor, now,” she demanded, fingering the hard plastic card in her pocket that had belonged to Vincent.

    “Surely, you can see how my supervisor can’t help if there’s no record.”

    “Look. I filled out paperwork. I sat with him in room eight. He is…was…there. His I.D. number is—”

    The operator’s voice softened and she sighed. “I’m not supposed to tell you this,” she whispered. “He’s been transported.”

    “What? He said he’d call. When—”

    “Please. I can’t tell you any more.”

    Jane frowned, but nodded. “Okay. I understand. What’s KRIST1’s number?”

    She wrote the number on the back of an appointment card. On the front, Will Hilson was noted as the ward.  Melanie Lane was noted as the T.F. She was Will’s treatment facilitator and practiced medicine the same way a researcher experimented in a lab. Every ward was a guinea pig. If things got out of hand, all she had to do was call in the patrols and her little experiment would go out for reprogramming. Once the memory was cleared, she could start again with a different drug cocktail. It was all just part of the service.

    Jane ended the call and stared at the card for a moment. It looked like Will was going to miss this afternoon’s appointment. “Melanie Lane, T.F.,” she growled. “Total Fuck-up excelling at her job.” She took a deep breath and dialed King Reprogramming Intern Station, Terminal 1.

    A man with an Asian accent answered and the l’s in Will’s name disappeared when he repeated it before transferring her.

    “Hi.” There was sunshine in Will’s voice.

    “Hey. How are you?”

    “Good. Been here a couple hours. I left a message. Can you come?”

    “Downtown?” she groaned, checking the ends of her rich brown hair. Through the diner’s glass she watched the waitress place their order in front of Parker. He turned his handsome face toward her and smiled. His All Access card was worth more than Vincent's.

    “I need clothes.”

    “Now? Aren’t visiting hours over?”

    “They were supposed to send my stuff. Some mix up…I don’t know.” He chuckled dryly. “They gave me a coupla gowns, but I’m the only one that looks like I belong here.”

    Served him right to only have the underwear on his ass to his name. She considered saying no, but her need to know what he had told the patrols prevented her from doing so. She pulled Vincent’s All-Access card from her pocket. The password to everything he owned was burned into her memory.

    “Fine,” she said. “I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

I’m waiting, there were promises...

We just spoke, encouragement and plans

Is there mail in my box?

The mouse smoothly fills my palm,

Index finger stretched to,

Click…there’s mail.

Not what I need.

A message in my phone?

Credit card thin, black rubber framed screen,

Zero credit…

There are no calls.

Back to my cave,

Where a tide of

Silence and empty words pound the

Stones of my heart

You call…

More promises, more lies.

Understanding spills from my lips, but

In my mind,

I’ve shackled you in my cave,

And the tide’s coming in,

To drown your worthless proclamations.