You were one strange kid, Nacho (Part Three: false starts)

In October, I was forced to move. In the move, I found a bunch of old floppy discs from high school that were packed with horrifying examples of my childhood prose and poetry. Now, I post it to the front page to preserve the greatness that is me. (cough)

Most of the files on the disc drives are the beginnings of stories that go nowhere. These false starts are legion. Here are a couple I ran across today as I converted files and broke MS Word:

Untitled, last save date: April 18th, 1993 (I was in college at this point):

It was a unique opportunity for Sanachel to serve on a colony world. He was used to space stations and starships; living and working in squalid quarters reminiscent of the first submarines in the early part of the twentieth century.

Now, a colony world had endless possibilities. On the Outer Rim, the colonies were frontier towns of scientists and soldiers–adventurers of mind and body. Open air, sunlight, weather, a virgin landscape untouched by Mankind. It was a fascinating prospect.

Daren Four was a cold, grey world. Tundra and icy ground were the only real landscape, and the sky had a perpetual overcast quality. To some, it was dreary. But adventure and a lust to be outside made this world look to be a paradise to Sanachel.

Sanachel was a Tech-Op. The Daren Four colony was located on the shore of one of the planet’s oceans. Daren Four was a very new planet, and only satellites had mapped the continent past the ocean. The colony was concentrated with assimilating the local natives more than exploration. But the Foundation had supplied an exploratory team and enough equipment to run separately of the colony’s affairs. That was where Sanachel came in. He was to help program and calibrate a new, state-of-the-art, on-board computer system for a series of robotic marine vessels. Some form of ship which could travel across the ocean and launch terrain vehicles onto the new continents. Hovercraft and airships may have been easier, but samples for marine biologists and so forth could be taken much easier from a boat. The computers were very complicated, and Sanachel had been reading over the operating system for a month. It would take Sanachel some time to get everything in order.

They had left the Daren Orbiter in a shuttle, and Daren Four loomed huge and grey-blue out the side windows. The co-pilot, a man named Parker, called repeatedly over the comm-link for the colony control tower.

“They’re not on the ball down there…” the pilot, Welsh, murmured. He was concentrating on a series of switches and knobs.

“I can’t figure this.” Co-pilot Parker glanced sideways at Welsh, “There’s not even a lander beacon on. I’m getting nothing but dead air.”

Welsh was quiet for a few moments, as if he hadn’t heard. Then, slowly, he turned to his co-pilot. “I don’t like the smell of this, Park…”


The next one is called “Stress: Contributing Factors.” Last save date: March 21st, 1992. I don’t know what the fuck this is about:

Stress: Contributing Factors

Today it was a glass of milk, my tapes, a math test, and my professor chastising me for slowly (and quite inexplicably) failing my classes. I have no excuse for anything, it’s all my fault. But I must kill to avenge my wounded pride and boost my ego up. I must have blood on my hands, and veins underneath my fingernails in order to stabilize my tense mind and unbalanced emotions. I must be happy again, and happiness has it’s roots in destruction. I have prepared a list of people who I plan to murder, and their offending crimes. The names have been changed to protect the innocent, and the events have been greatly exaggerated in order to prove to myself that I am better than them.

I would like to begin with a young man who I shall call `Billy’. Billy, you see, is what most of us call a pussywillow wimper. Or, in laymen’s terms, a wimpy little duder.