In 2009, my first novel "Dreamers at Infinity's Core" was released to mild acclaim and even milder sales. The sequel was written and ready to go within months. Titled "Echoes of Infinity's Core," it was vastly superior in every way and advanced the concept into new and exciting ways and directions.
Nobody read it.
Nobody even saw it because it was never published. Through a series of mishaps and external horrors, the publishing venture that published my first novel fell through. That left a finished sequel and a half-finished third and probably final installment languishing in literary limbo for years.
In the meantime, I returned to the "Infinity's Core" universe twice with very short stories designed to expand upon what was already a rather expansive concept. Neither of those stories featured the snappy dialogue and quick scene jumps of the novels, skewing instead in a more esoteric direction. Someday I hope to write a collection of Core-related tales. but not before the story of Ned, Ernie and the Narrator has been told.
A few years ago, I started wondering if I could even write in that style anymore. I feared I could not, an alarming thought considering how badly I wanted to finish book three. Could I jump back into that sardonic, self-referential type of writing after having changed my style to one more introspective? There was only one way to find out.
That was the birth of the short story mentioned in this blog's title. Considering how much time passes between each novel, I knew there had to be things happening to my characters while they waited for the next Big Thing. What better than a smaller-scale version of the first novel, stripped down to two rooms in one house and my three main protagonists dealing with potential Armageddon and discomforting full front male nudity?
Yeah. Naked Ernie convinced me I could still do it. Thanks, Ernie, you poor beleaguered, magnificently tragic bastard.
So without further ado and no more context than that, here is the excerpt:
“LET US ENTER YOU.”
“Not even in a prison shower.”
“WE DON’T WISH TO IMPRISON YOU.”
“Flew right over their zipper,” Ernie says with a chuckle.
I decide now is the time to go for broke and say, “Rectus? Why did you steal Ernie’s shiny new expensive pants?”
“WE REQUIRE A CONDUIT THROUGH WHICH TO—“
“Enter our world and achieve life,” Ernie and I finish.
“Conduit,” Core-spawn loves that word. It was how some of them viewed Chad when they attempted to manifest into the physical universe. Now these also-rans are applying it to clothing? What’s next? Condoms?
“Gimme my fucking pants, you little assholes!”
Clearly Ernie has lost patience with this situation. I nod at him and he breaks into a trot, jumping onto the arm of my couch and into the air with a fluidity I’d have never expected from him. As the pants try to scamper away from his sudden assault, I break into a less graceful trot and manage to grab hold of one pant leg.
If you’re thinking that’s all it takes to resolve this, you really need to go read the book!
The pants twist out of my grasp as if there’s oil on my palms, floating through the air like a kite as Ernie’s jump into the air affords him the opportunity to wrap his arms around his clothing and land hard on his knees. I glance over in time to see not only a full moon but the cave entrance.
“GROSS!”
“Puke later, help now!” Ernie struggles on the floor with the writhing Rectus, clearly seconds away from losing the fight.
“Wait,” I say. “Hold on for a few more seconds.”
“No problem! Do you need to use the bathroom or anything while I’m doing that?”
Nobody likes a smartass and Ernie seems to have become the poster boy for sarcasm. I think I preferred him when he was slower-witted; I’m still not sure how he changed but perhaps it has something to do with the Narrator’s arrival. Speaking of whom, why should we have to suffer without our third wheel?
As if reading my mind, Ernie says, “Don’t call him! I’m half naked!”
Too late. I’m already sending an emergency text to my alternate reality doppelganger. What, you don’t have one? I thought everybody did.
He arrives within minutes, having apparently already been on the way over. Since he doesn’t belong in our world, a place he has dubbed rather arrogantly as “Earth-Redux,” he never likes to remain in one place for very long. He spends a lot of his time trying to figure out why he’s here and whether or not he wants to go back to a world he makes sound like a chaotic shithole. When he isn’t doing that, he takes advantage of the standing invitation to crash at my place. Little did he know what to expect when entering the house.
“Holy full frontal, Batman!” he says.
“Godammit,” Ernie says.
“I tried to text you,” I say.
The Narrator, who looks a lot like me except a bit heavier and with less hair on his head, tries to address me without looking at me. “I heard it go off but I figured I could check it when I…why is Ernie wrestling with those shiny pants? Is this the Earth-Redux version of Twister?”
I explain what’s been happening in as succinct a manner as possible. In truth, the Narrator is far better at self-editing than I am. The novel we wrote together was proof of that. He listens stoically, nodding once or twice, before responding:
“This might have rated an actual phone call, guys.”
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