The sky above Proxima B5 burned with fury. Dark storm clouds twisted and writhed, their pregnant underbellies smouldering with the amber glow of the volcanic fires beneath. Shafts of lightning lashed the upper layers of the storm, and violent claps of thunder bellowed over the craggy landscape. The rain hammering the iron cages of the slave market bore a noxious sulfuric stench. Zerkox hustled through the spaceport towards the market and squinted at the elemental battle overhead through his slitted third eye. “Just another fucking day in paradise,” he hissed. The little human was all he could afford. Humans came cheap, being so difficult to control. Not to mention all the restrictions their owners faced. He wouldn’t be able to take it off-world, not without a lot of trouble. Or equip it with any kind of protective armor or, Queen-forbid, weapons. Humans were cunning little slugs. So fucking cunning that the Queen’s council had nearly outlawed them altogether. Zerkox, while wary of what he was getting into, was also thankful that these drawbacks meant this species of slave was within his modest means. When he’d seen it listed on the manifest of the incoming slave ship, he’d licked his lip-scales and checked his savings. - Her name was Jen. She knew that much. But not much else. She couldn’t remember why she was naked in a cage, much less under a raging storm in this fiery hell of a place. She grasped the incongruity of it all, realizing that it wasn’t her natural world. The gravity felt wrong, pulling her to the floor with too much strength, hurting her legs as she fought to stay upright. The acidic rainwater had pooled at the bottom of the cage and sloshed over her bare feet. It stung like hot needles and despite her leg muscles demanding relief, there was no way she could sit down in that acid bath. She wondered why she wasn't more scared and trying to fight or flee. Outside the iron bars, a dozen reptilian creatures were gathered. Taller than her and larger in every proportion. Their scales shimmered green and grey in the rain. While they shared the same amount of limbs as she, they had an extra eye centered above the normal two, and a tail that flicked around their feet. They were monstrous, demonic beasts. But something dulled her fear, keeping the fight-or-flight urge blunted to a mere anxious curiosity. Drugged. She must have been drugged.

More from "The Butterfly Defect". This is an unpublishable novel written as an exercise to see if readers could ever get on the side of a very unlikable MC. Tracy ends up running a child exploitation ring, of sorts, with the help of an undercover "firm" that moves in very dark circles in the North of England. The story starts with her as a petty thief, stealing from the elderly clients she's supposed to care for as a nurse aide. When she meets a dying client with even less morals than hers, they form a bond. His passing would either see her mend her ways, or sink deeper into the murky depths of evil. Spoiler alert - she does the latter. :-) In this scene, she rides a roller coaster of emotions, at first thinking her life is over and then realising the government is actually asking the fox to look after a chicken. - Tracy suffered the biggest shock of her life on Monday afternoon Becky was at reception, messing about with the PC and her phone. Tracy returned from the staff room with coffees when an unfamiliar woman in a business suit came through the salon's front door. She had Sarah in tow, in her school uniform. At first Tracy thought Sarah's mum had sent a friend to drop her off. But this strait-laced looking woman, with hair tied back in a bun and a rather serious expression, did not look like a mate from the pub. And when the woman pulled an ID wallet from her coat pocket, Tracy had to put the coffees down quick and control her breathing. Sarah flopped down on the reception couch with her schoolbag. She looked like she may have been crying but seemed ok now. She said, "Hi Becky and Tracy." brightly enough, and fished her iPad out. "I'm Caroline Thornton from CPS." The woman said, holding up her ID, and added "Child Protective Services." She had to ask the dumbstruck Tracy, twice, to confirm her name. "Yes, that's me." Tracy said, heart sinking Out of the corner of her eye, Tracy could see Becky texting something on her phone and she hoped like hell it was a text to the firm.

An insight into the empire that Alice will soon discover she'll inherit. (my attempt to drop some exposition into a salacious scene without it being an info dump) -- The Carpathian Mountains, 380 miles northwest of Bucharest By the time the Range Rover turned off the E81 and headed up through the long, narrow village of Stolna, they’d already been driving for six hours. It would take another hour, crawling higher into the Southern Carpathians, before they’d arrive at the castle. Lars cursed his old man’s bladder and tapped on the partition separating him from the driver. Hopefully this stop would be the last before their destination. The snow fell heavily now, settling in the needles of the Silver Fir trees. Outside, the air bit him sharply, and he rubbed his liver-spotted hands together for warmth. Standing behind a tree, fumbling with his zip, Lars reflected that no matter how rich or powerful a man was, he still needed to take a piss like the poorest of men. It was one of nature’s levelers. Ten minutes further up the road, the driver switched into four-wheel drive mode and engaged the lower gear ratio as the tyres crunched through an inch of snow. The remaining hour became two, and Lars dozed off. He woke when they made the final turn into a steep, unmarked driveway. Wrought-iron gates slid aside to allow them entry. Here, the forest thinned, the altitude too high, and the terrain too rocky for many trees to lay down roots. Craggy cliffs of grey shale loomed above, and on a massive outcrop, the castle stood majestically. It always exuded an eerie dominance over the landscape, but this afternoon, in the half-light of the snowstorm, its visage was haunting. The original castle, constructed seven centuries ago in the Byzantine era, had been largely swallowed by each generation of extensions and modifications. The resulting edifice now resembled a chaotic citadel. Jagged towers rose above the curtained stone walls snaking around the mountainside. Most of the vertical slitted windows set into the ancient masonry were dark, but a few in the east wing glowed the sickly yellow of cat’s eyes, squinting at prey. Blue lights blinked atop the most incongruous modern addition, a helipad, rendered useless today by the weather.

I fear some of my stuff might be too dark for anywhere else, so I'll put it here instead. This novella is definitely unpublishable. Its set within the Third Reich's Lebensborn program and told from the point of view of the participants. The intention isn't to glorify the Third Reich, although the characters certainly see it as glorious because they've been denied a moral compass. (or at least had it blinded). I still love my characters. Shrug. Here's a scene from early on... ---- Kristina raised her hand and asked matter-of-factly, "Are we going to have babies?" "Yes, hopefully," Greta answered. "Perfect German babies. But tonight, a treat. We're dining in the city. You'll be collected from your homes between six and six thirty. Wear your uniforms, to make your school proud, but also these." She opened a velvet-lined mahogany jewellery box and beckoned them to come forward. Nellie was first and her eyes shone as Greta pinned a silver brooch to her lapel. The upward-pointing lightning bolt, symbol of the Lebensborn program, with the slanted SS beneath. When everyone had theirs, Greta said, "Wear them with pride. But act with good graces. I know you will." In the evening, under a soft drizzle of rain, highly polished limousines crept through the suburbs collecting the eight students from their homes. The driver opened and closed the rear door for each VIP. They left behind parents still coming to terms with their family's good fortune. A uniformed doorman in bottle-green, with brass buttons and white gloves, greeted them on arrival at the finest restaurant in the city. He ushered them through heavy wooden doors with frosted glass panels etched in Art Deco geometrics. The doorman held the students in the foyer until they had all arrived and then led them through to the dining room. Greta was there waiting for them, sat at a long central table, surrounded by smaller tables with regular guests. The girls marveled at the cream wainscoted walls, deep burgundy drapes, and the thick wine-coloured carpet that hushed their footsteps. All warmly lit by wall sconces of frosted glass. Their table had been dressed in a crisp ivory-white tablecloth, the linen folded so sharply at the corners it could have been paper. The nine place settings held heavy silverware—three forks, two knives, two spoons—and a wine goblet at each place.

Rather than have my dodgy stuff swamp the other categories, it has it's own category. You can still read and comment on it at your leisure. Cheers. Let me know if you'd like a dedicated category for your work too.