This is a
long short sci-fi story about space and goo and loneliness and love and fathers and stuff. It has been taking up most of my writing time lately, and I’m just happy to have this first draft done. Definitely a work in progress. Enjoy and feel free to provide feedback in the comments , pretty please. – OG Soggy Boi
By AJ Tompkins
Audio log – Hospital Corpsman Antony
Assigned: UENC Giles
Joint UEN/Herrmannian Empire Expedition
Mission Statement: Rendezvous with Exploratory Drones in Asteroid Belt Z-378 for Frozen Water Stores
Entry Number: 1,031
I am recording this entry with the purpose of submitting it as an official record and as part of my case against UENC Commander Charon, CO of the UENC Giles. I will attempt to leave out no detail, and cover all the bases for this complaint.
A Short Story By AJ Tompkins
The Claye Family had arrived in the new world in 1704, stumbling into a large chunk of property near Mount Pleasant, South Carolina. The third son of a baron, Oceanus Claye had departed England with the intent of winning his father’s favor (and perhaps a higher stake in his will) by proving himself an astute businessman. He made the move with his wife, Priscilla, and their two young daughters, Humility and Sarah.
Having won the Aspway Plantation during a gambling spree in London, the move promised to be a new start for the newlyweds and their children. Oceanus promised to forgo the gambling and drink, and Priscilla was forced to cut off her relations with the rakish Myles Johnson of Birmingham. The house and property were large, some of the largest in the area, and had already shown a habit of turning a profit in the rice trade. Much of the labor was done by a mixed crew of indentured servants and African slaves, who had endured much cruelty under the Aspway command. Oceanus, despite his flaws, had never had the stomach for cruelty, and he essentially retired the whip during his lifetime. Most of those in indentured servitude were released from their bonds, and Claye honored their deals, carving out small parcels of his own land for them to farm. Most sold it back to the plantation at respectable prices, seeking to move farther north.
A Short Story by AJ Tompkins
My father used to have me help him clean the kills he would bring home from hunting. The smell of stale tobacco and blood mixed sweetly in the garage, and I was always so happy to get to spend those Sunday evenings with him. He would have me pluck the birds, a menial task no one could mess up. The feathers came out in clumps and left the skin coarse, much like the stubble did my father’s face. It wasn’t until I was six that he finally let me make an incision or get my hands dirty inside the creatures. The removal of the guts was my favorite part at that age, I would lay them out and ask questions about the purpose of each little meat pile.
Salutations peachy peoples,
First, thank you for partaking in our little project here. If you came here just to find out what this post is about, welcome, please feel free to partake in the rest of our work as well, it’s quite good. In particular, two of our writers are working together to craft a Stranger Things/Twin Peaks rip-off that has been going for a full year now. If you frequent our blog (there has to be at least one person, amirite?) know this is a bit of a departure from my (AJT) usual style. To celebrate Hallows Eve, the turning of the season, and just for fun, this year I am attempting to craft a short horror story a week for the next month. I will post all the stories individually, and add them to this anthology post as well. I don’t know if I have the chops for horror prose, but this seems like a fun challenge.
In the coming weeks, you can expect… Little Birdie (slasher piece), Sycamore Man (a gothic tale), Cat Scratch Fever (curses and nursery rhymes, oh my), & [F4M] Prey Seeking Hunter (grotesque, uncomfortable, psychological thriller). I look forward to crafting these, to having deadlines, and to hearing your feedback. Happy Early Halloween everyone!
Edit: I’ve fallen behind, but promise to finish the project!
The following story is direct kin of another short story to be found on this site, Wickedly Wild
“What would you do you do when your stalker moves on?
For me, I turned to porn. Just conventional stuff. You know, some lady, probably 28, playing some 18-year-old strumpet, sucking dick so hard her slobber is dripping down onto her tits, the camera. Those undercarriage shots, ya know. just a man’s asshole and balls and veiny porn-staple cock, and drool. Its gotta be fake drool. A mouth full of lube to deal with the ferocious acting. That kinda thing. I really liked it when the guy would go down of the chick. The starlet. I ain’t a feminist, not by a long shot, and see this is why. Going down on a chick ain’t giving her power, I ain’t a pussy Muslim turning to Mecca to pray. I’m showing her how I got power over her, ya know. I’m a good person because I eat pussy. That’s all society demands of me to be better than your average red-meat tom brady run-ada-mills. “
“What the fuck you telling her about porn for, she asked how you got here.”
Alberton Sheriff Sage Sanders figured today was as good enough a day as any. Like each before it, it had passed with its own little mountains of difficulty and reward, surprisingly indistinguishable from each other. The Sheriff had always had a strong feeling for this little turn-off, a loose gravel half-circle jutting out from the old highway that one could take for hours without seeing another vehicle. It looked out over a small knoll and into the sharp mountainous geography that the Sheriff liked to call “wickedly wild”. A river with four names (and only about 4 feet wide at this junction) wandered like a drunken surgeon’s blade next to the old highway, with a plethora of fern’s, proud old pines, occasional oaks and other shrubbery sprouting in its wake. He stood with his knee’s resting against the guardrail, doing a sort of balancing act and staring out into the wickedly wild. His father had spent years wandering places like this, tirelessly searching the Pacific Northwest for signs of Bigfoot, or Sasquatch, leaving for months at a time with nothing but a motorcycle and a thermal scanner. But that’s neither here nor there. The sheriff was running through the struggles of his day, his mouth twitching like a dog having a particularly good dream.
His daughter was his first problem. Continue reading
The following piece comes from beyond the twilight zone, straight out of
compton the ethernet, internet, and othernet, it travelled via rainbow road from Asgard to bless all our eyeballs. This is the first post to grace The Peachy Kings that doesn’t come from a regular poster (I know I know i’ll get those other guys to post) so please, show some love for Isaac Birchmier, Esquire. Isaac comes to us humble internet readers via astral projection, shining rays of love and motherly (yet-oh-so-masculine) care from his home planet Xanadu, this first piece a tale of losing control and the fear that comes with that all too natural experience. Enjoy.
The Painter, The Room, The Bucket of Paint, The Mural
By Isaac Birchmier
On the walls surrounding him were the most beautiful of scenes. Gardens of flowers—petunias, daffodils, lilacs, chrysanthemums, hibiscus, marigold, geranium, primrose. Images of deer racing through the green, the bright solar intensity casting UV beams in ocular stripes. The rhododendrons seemed almost to dance, like something out of the most picturesque Disney movie: the birds chirping in harmony, the world innocent and happy. For something like eons he sat there, happily engrossed in the scenery. He watched, enthralled, the world around him dancing and chirping and bright. He sat in the center of that scene, a smile permanently fixed on his face. For the longest time his world remained this way: perfect, sublime, beyond compare.
Here is a selfie of Rick on Ventura Beach a few nights ago.
I sat amongst a circle of witches. Witch is such a misunderstood idea. Witch means wise one, one who studies everything on the spectrum. One who tenaciously studies. There is also the facet that we slept with angels or aliens, but do not let that cast a bad light upon us. It’s certainly brave. The fear you didn’t know you harbor is the ancient fear of someone who questions, who seeks knowledge. What is Satan if not a scholar? We discussed launching another cultural revolution at your children, and worse yet, removing the money from the counter-culture movement. An inquisition.
Here is a selfie of Rick on Ventura Beach a few nights ago.
I’m out of the room before Evan can finish kissing my ass. Evan and I have been editing the show together since PARTY CAPTAIN first set sail, splicing and snipping and gawking until the final product is the perfect temple to Dionysus and hedonism and capitalism and all things of excess. Evan and me have watched human beings come out of the darkness of societal norms and into the light of truth for three years, we have seen undeniable truth that god can not exist. Continue reading