Pocket Hole

“There’s a hole in the fabric of spacetime… in my pants.”

“No, that’s not a pick-up line. It’s true! There’s a hole in the bottom of my pocket and when I stick my finger through it, my finger doesn’t poke my leg, it goes somewhere else… somewhere cold. It’s really quite remarkable. Give it a try!”

“Miss? Miss, come back… oh, damn.”

And thus it was that Ken discovered the only stable wormhole known to humanity, but due to its unfortunate placement, nobody ever found out about it.

Audio Files

Soooo… I use Dropbox to share the audio files of me reading select stories… and Dropbox changed so all the audio files stopped working (thanks Dropbox).
I think I’ve fixed them but, unfortunately they are just links to Dropbox, rather than being embedded in the page. If anyone knows of a way to embed mp3s in WordPress without paying for premium or hosting it yourself, please let me know!

I’ve also deleted a few posts that were just lists of other posts where there were audio files. Fixing the original posts themselves was enough work, and I didn’t really see the point in fixing those too.

Please contact me if you come across one that doesn’t work, thanks!


As far as new stuff goes, I’ve added an audio file for

Norbert Faustino’s Disappearance: https://imasillypirate.wordpress.com/2016/09/26/norbert-faustinos-disappearance

and The Last Sunset: https://imasillypirate.wordpress.com/2017/01/02/the-last-sunset



Downpour, Part 3

This is the final piece of a 3 part story that started here: https://imasillypirate.wordpress.com/2017/03/20/downpour-part-1

Warning: This part contains graphic sexual content.


His feet sunk deep into the soft, needle-covered earth and the hands of trees brushed at his arms as if trying to embrace him themselves as he ran past. Her light skin almost seemed to glow in the moonless dark beneath the trees, just enough to let him know she was still there ahead: a ghostly specter darting back and forth between the trees.

Then, as if she had simply blinked out of existence, she was gone. He ran on a few steps, then came to a stop, panting, “Where did you… go?” Flynn called out between breaths, looking around. They had been running for a few minutes in a zigzagging path through the forest and he became aware for the first time, looking at the dark shapes of trees, looming in every direction as he was pelted with rain, that he had no idea where he was.

“Miss?” he called out. Waiting for a panicked moment — though whether it was panic because he was lost, or panic that he had lost her, he couldn’t say. Then he heard her giggle. It was soft against the roar of falling rain, but it was distinct, and he turned toward it to find her shape glowing against the darkness, then she slipped out of sight again.

He charged on towards where he had seen her, hearing her laughter rise. He tripped and tumbled forward. The ground had turned into a downward slope and he tumbled several times before coming to a rest sprawled out on his back, listening to what had initially been a girlish giggle and had now grown into a malicious cackle that seemed to come from everywhere.

Among the sounds of the rain, and the laughter, there was also the sound of a creek very nearby. On the hike he had seen a small stream in the forest; if this was it, it had been significantly engorged by the rain.

He climbed to unsteady feet, as he saw her materialize out of the darkness, a woman-shaped ghostly white patch among the outlines of trees and a backdrop of darkness.

“What’s going on?” he asked.

She just laughed and walked straight up to him, wrapping her arms around him and kissing him deeply. Her warm lips felt like boiling water juxtaposed to the cold rain. Flynn’s apprehension dissolved as the laughter ceased and her body pushed against his, both of them gasping for breath between kisses. He felt her pulling him down and followed her to the ground, laying atop her for only an instant before she rolled over on top of him, pushing him into the deep, sticky mud. He found his back supported in the darkness by the mud, but his head was being splashed from the side by the roaring creek. She broke from kissing to move down his body. Flynn tried to scoot with her, away from the water, but before he could, she had a hand between his legs which kept him from moving. If anything, she pushed him further toward the water when he tried to move. In an instant, his boxers were gone, and she was back on top of him, straddling him, her heat surrounding his penis as she rubbed against it, and Flynn gave up trying to get away from the creek.

“Oh my god,” he gasped as he slid inside her.

She moved her body up and down only a few times and his hands ran up her body, one finding its way to cup her breast. She leaned down to kiss him, then sat up, pushing him deeper inside her and he gasped again.

Her right hand came up and began spreading mud across his chest as she rode him faster. Then he felt her hands on his throat, then chin. He could feel pressure beginning to build and was about to tell her to slow down when she began to laugh again. Then she pushed on his chin with alarming strength, his neck bent uncomfortably backwards and his head was submerged in the creek. He struggled to escape, struggled to breathe, but there was no way. She had him pinned and held him with impossible strength, continuing to thrust her body down onto his as he felt his semen begin to leave his body and his lungs start to fill with water.


Ever since the rain had stopped, Sheriff George Mathews had been waiting for a call like this: hoping it wouldn’t come, but knowing that it probably would. The rain had ended the night before, and he had been waiting on edge ever since, pretending to focus on the stack of paperwork on his desk. As soon as he heard Deputy Hank Wilson on the other end of the radio say, “Sir,” he sighed and knew almost exactly what he was about to hear. There was a certain way the word “sir” was said that told him what was coming. “We’ve found a body, you’ll want to get over here,” the voice finished. He didn’t need to be told, though, he was already three steps out the door toward the SUV.

“On my way.”

This was the third year in a row. He knew what he’d find when he got there. Every year, sometime in the first two weeks of June, they’d get a freak rain storm, and when it was over a single male tourist would be found dead in the woods. Naked and drowned: his body out of the water, his head in it. Close inspection (and less close inspection) would lead to evidence that he was probably having sex at the time of his death, but the rain will have washed away any trace of who it was with. The door to the cabin would be open and a woman’s dress made of thin white cloth, approximately size two, simple in construction, and unable to be matched to a manufacturer, would be recovered in the cabin or somewhere between it and the body.

There were no surprises. This fellow, a writer by the name of Flynn Smith, had rented the cabin, failed to check out, and the owner had come by to find the door open, water all over the floor, the man’s car in the driveway, his clothes hanging by a cold fireplace, but the man nowhere to be seen. She had then called dispatch and Deputy Wilson had led the short-lived search for the man, finding him not far from the cabin, at the bottom of a wide ravine. Wilson had known to check out the shortest path to the creek first, which had helped to keep the search short.

There, of course, were small differences. This guy had, it seemed, run out in his boxers. The last one, an accountant from LA named Christoph Mefodiy, had left a trail of clothes from the door of his rented cabin all the way to the stream. The first, a biologist by the name of Lance Benedikt had been found surrounded by his discarded clothing, as if they had been thrown off right before he had been murdered. Though they had all started at cabins in different places, they had all ended up drowned in different locations along Potok Creek. A new piece of information to surface with the Sheriff’s first glance around this cabin had been the appearance of two mugs by the stove with dry teabags in them. This guy had been making tea for whoever killed him, which meant he might have known her. That was new.

Standing over the body now — a new actor in a familiar scene – The Sheriff said aloud the words he’d been dreading. “Damnit, Hank. I guess we’d better call the fucking FBI.”

Downpour, Part 2

This is part 2 of a story that I am posting in 3 parts. For part 1, look here: https://imasillypirate.wordpress.com/2017/03/20/downpour-part-1


Soft lips brushed his ear and Flynn caught his breath, his eyes flitting open. For a moment he was confused as to where he was. The fire had burned down low but was still big enough to throw dynamic, dancing shadows across the entire room. He looked around for the owner of the lips, expecting to find Emily, and he looked for clues to his whereabouts: he only found the later which informed him that the former must have been a vivid dream. He was in his underpants, burritoed in a blanket on the couch in the rented cabin, with a book open on his chest. The windows were dark now, but he could still hear the roar of the sky falling outside. It had been light when he sat down with the book on Slavic mythological creatures to do some research for that damn, stubborn novel. As far as he could recall, he had made it less than a page through the section on the Rusalka, then he was waking up. His clothes still hung near the fire and he forced himself to his feet, knowing that the clothing had probably been hanging there too long and needed to be rotated. Though his body responded and he went through the motions of feeling the clothing, turning the damp parts toward the flame, then stoking up the fire, his mind still lingered on the couch.

That kiss had felt so real… but he DID have a habit of tricking himself into feeling what he wanted to feel. He dropped the blanket on the couch and made his way to the stove, slipping the tea kettle onto the burner and cranking up the heat.

Staring at the gas flames licking at the bottom of the kettle, his skin prickled in the cold air of the cabin. Exposed in his boxers, Flynn lingered on the edge of shivering; his muscles were tight and ready to start the shivering process, but they weren’t doing so yet. Any small change in temperature would tip him from the razor’s edge into fits of shaking from the cold, or relax his muscles. He looked forward to climbing back under the blanket on the couch with a cup of tea. Then, once warm, he would probably start packing up. He’d be leaving the following morning.

The knocking at the door was faint at first. He wasn’t even sure he’d heard it, but while left wondering if it was possible between the faint first knocks and the later, louder knocks, his body turned a whole new kind of cold. This one was the chill of apprehension. He didn’t know exactly what time it was, but it was late. It was pouring rain and he was in his boxers in the middle of nowhere. Despite the myriad reasons Flynn knew he shouldn’t answer the door, he didn’t see an alternative. There was no peephole in the door or he would have used it. Another set of three knocks came from the door as he reached it. Not urgent, demanding knocks, but solid and straight to business; there was no misinterpreting what it was or what its creator wanted.

Taking a deep breath, he opened the door a few inches, leaving his mostly naked body hidden behind the door and peering through, “Hello?” he said. His voice had all the confidence of an orphan in a Dickens novel.

The fear for his own safety melted away immediately when his eyes landed on the woman standing at the door, replaced by a fear for her. She was drenched from head to shoeless feet. Her red hair was plastered to her down-turned face and slumped shoulders and her white dress clung to her thin body, obscuring only as much from view as a thick fog might.

“You look like you’re freezing, where did you come from?” he asked, opening the door a little more. Noticing as soon as he said it that she wasn’t shaking from the cold either, but in her case that this was probably due to the onset of hypothermia, rather than just not being cold enough. She looked up then, revealing a face that mirrored Emily’s, and he caught his breath. His mind never lingered on the idea that it might be her. There were differences for sure — this woman was a few years younger than Emily, her hair was longer, she was a little shorter, her skin less tan — but they could have been sisters.

She moved towards the door, and he stepped aside pulling the door the rest of the way open, saying, “Let’s get you warm.”

She moved slowly into the room, leaving a spreading trail of water around her naked feet, her eyes not leaving his. In the light of the room, he noticed another difference in her from Emily, her eyes were an almost unnaturally bright green. “Come on,” he said, closing the door and walking toward the fire, “come stand next to the fire.”

The fire stoked up easily and, by the time she made it to stand next to him, he had it built up to a decently sized roar. Flynn could feel her bright eyes burning into his back, the whole time he worked, and when he turned, sure enough, he found her staring at him. The eyes no longer burned into his, however, the walked slowly up and down his body and he was suddenly reminded of his nakedness.

“Here,” he said, moving quickly to the couch and grabbing the blanket, “wrap yourself in this,” but she only shook her head. Her eyes had found his again and locked there. Her expression betrayed nothing of what was happening inside her mind, as if her face were a soft, beautiful mask. She just watched him. He was trying to come up with an excuse to go into the other room and cover himself, but it felt weird to take care of himself before making sure that she was on her way to warming up. Then the tea kettle broke the silence and he bound over to the stove, saying “Oh yeah, I was just making some tea. Would you like some?”

After he pulled the kettle off the burner and turned the stove off, he looked back to her. She nodded, those bright green eyes fixed on him. She was already moving toward the stove.

“Stay by the fire, I’ll bring you the tea,” he said, looking uncomfortably away from her and busying himself with looking through the mugs in the cupboard. He had been using the same mug his entire stay. Some of the others were dusty. He settled on one and rinsed it.

“Black okay?” he asked, “It’s a little late, and black tea is pretty caffeinated, but it’s what I have.”

He looked up to find that she was still making that slow, deliberate walk toward him. Each step paused for a moment above the floor, water dripping off of it before it touched down, a small puddle spreading around each foot.

“You need to stay by the fire to get warm,” he repeated.

She shook her head slowly, her head moving, but her eyes remaining fixed on his. Her face had started to betray a smile. He dropped a single bag of black tea in each cup.

Her next step was faster than its predecessors and she put her foot down without the strange, calculated pause. The foot had only just touched the ground, though, when she made the first sound he had heard from her. She hissed and jerked her forward foot back from the floor and quickly replaced it in the small puddle left by her previous step.

“Oh no, did you pick up a splinter?” he asked, setting the kettle down and crouching in front of her. Uncomfortable with how badly he suddenly wanted to be near her. “Let me see.”

He reached for the foot, but stopped when she started to move. She slipped the dress off her shoulders and began peeling it away from her skin, down her body, exposing her breasts.

“Good idea,” Flynn said, standing and turning away, suddenly burning with embarrassment that he had taken the moment to glance at her body before turning, “get the wet clothes off. I’ll grab you a-” but he stopped when he felt her cold hand on his shoulder from behind. It slithered a little down onto his arm and he allowed himself to be turned to face her. His eyes went to the dress, now in a spreading puddle around her feet. He looked back up to her face, passing by the tight, thin body with little droplets of water clinging to the fine hairs covering her smooth skin, “we should get you into some dry-” but then he stopped, she was no longer looking at his eyes. Her view had found its way to his crotch, which he was embarrassed to find hardening.

“I-I, I’m sorry, I… um…” he stammered, trying to turn around again, but she held his arm with surprising strength and looked him in the eyes, a knowing grin now painted across her face. Her other hand clutched his side and drew him to toward her. He didn’t protest now, letting himself be drawn in close to her. He stopped just in front of her, her perky breasts almost touching his chest, their faces less than eight inches apart, his feet wet now in her puddle. He took a deep, unsteady breath, as her hand slithered from his side up his chest, to the side of his face. She smelled like a forest stream. Asked previously to describe the specific scent of a forest stream, Flynn would have been at a loss, or even claimed that they didn’t have a common smell, but in that instant he knew exactly what the smell was. It was refreshing, and coaxing, like a stream might be during a long hike on a hot day. She was his stream in the hike he’d been taking since Emily left and he wanted to rest on her banks, sip from her waters, and bathe in her refreshing pools. Her lips parted and she pulled him in deeper. Her body was cold, and wet against his, but her lips were warm. Her kiss was hungry, and his was the same, his arms now around her feeling her lean, muscular body against his.

Their kissing increasing in frequency, she led him back toward the fire, their shuffling steps sloshing through the shallow puddle on the floor. Then she pulled away from him with a gasp.

“I’m sorry, did I-” he started, letting go, but stopped when he saw that she wore a playful smile as she took another step backward. Not knowing what to do, Flynn waited, watching. Needing her body to be against his own, but exercising restraint because he didn’t understand what was happening. All at once, she bound to the door. She moved in a fast, fluid, motion, without a noise, faster than he had seen her move so far. Then the door was open and she was standing in the doorway, one hand raised toward him, her index finger waving in the international sign for “come to me.”

Immediately he began toward her, but when he reached the door, she was in the driveway, still looking back at him, the cabin’s light glinting off her eyes. Worry that she should get warm was gone; Flynn was no longer thinking as he rushed out into the rain, immediately becoming soaked as he watched her turn and run off into the trees. He followed.

Downpour, Part 1

Let me start off this post by saying that I hate reading serials. I lose interest when I’m caught up and have to wait for the next piece. Also, sometimes they never actually end… and I read for the story, so until I know it’s finished, I have a hard time emotionally investing in the story because I’ve been hurt before. It’s not you… it’s me…

I’ve been getting the impression, however, that I’m in the minority in this opinion. People seem to love serials right now. I write for myself, but I post for you peoples, so I’ve decided to take this short and break it into three parts. It is finished and already waiting to post; if I’m abducted by aliens and never seen again, you will still get the rest of the story.

If you ‘re like me and don’t want to start until you can read Downpour all at once, I get it. Just come back in 2 weeks (April 3rd) for the whole thing, and feel free to look through the archive. I’m sure I have stories up that you haven’t read; nobody has read them all.

If you plan to read it as it comes out, I feel that I should warn you that it contain more sexually explicit language in the 2nd and 3rd parts than the 1st.

Please feel free to contact me with comments on this little experiment.



The sky opened up and the rain came down. In buckets, in sheets, in cats and dogs, no matter how you chose to say it, it all happened at once. One moment there had been not a hint of rain and appeared to be only sparse cloud cover between the tall trees, but in the time it took to walk back into the bedroom and fish a sweater out of his bag the air outside had, more or less, turned to water. Flynn liked the sound and smell of rain, but this was a thunderous roar that made him uncomfortable about being stuck under an unfamiliar roof.

The windows took a pounding while he peered through them at the smudges of color that, before the water had started coming down, had been his Subaru Outback and the trees on the far side of the rented cabin’s driveway. Now, obscured by water pouring off the eves and the downpour, they were just dancing blotches, the more distant objects fading to white in the mist rising from the dark, fragrant soil. Flynn had been through storms, but had never, in his life, seen so much rain at one time, especially during June.

Renting the cabin to celebrate their three year anniversary had been Emily’s idea. He had to imagine, though, that even when they made the reservation, and paid the non-refundable deposit three months before, she had known she wouldn’t be joining him. His heart and mind were full of adventure, but he choose to experience them through the pen and book, not his body. She said she loved that about him at first, but their relationship had become stale. She left him for adventure and excitement and Flynn didn’t blame her.

The tea kettle express let out a whistle to announce its arrival, and Flynn forced his gaze away from the window. The cabin was a small, three room place. The single bedroom wasn’t really big enough to house anything but its namesake, the restroom was clean, and the living-room was cozy. All three rooms housed sparse furnishings and decorations of mellow browns and greens. It was all very clean and well organized — a little too clean to appear lived in. Flynn got the impression that this cabin hadn’t been anything other than a vacation rental for a long time.

Making it to the stove, Flynn clicked off the gas range, then poured the steaming water into his mug. The first bag of black tea floated in the water and he reached for the box to grab a second. The man knew what he was doing and that it wasn’t healthy, but he did it anyway. Emily had always made the tea too strong. Sometimes, if he brewed the tea strong enough and closed his eyes, for the briefest of moments — feeling the warm, fragrant steam curling into his nostrils, the cup warming his hands — he could pretend that she had never left him. He could pretend for that instant that she might, at any moment, lay her hand on his shoulder and say something like, “Come on, Goober, those dishes aren’t gonna do themselves.” That was her special nickname for him: Goober.

Then the moment would pass, and Flynn would be left sadder and more alone than before: feeling the loss anew every time. Plunking the second tea bag into the mug, he knew it would hurt, but couldn’t help himself. He wanted so badly to not feel alone anymore, even if only for a moment.

The warming mug nestled firmly in his palms, he made his way back to the window, pausing by the desk that sat along the wall. When he had first arrived two days before, Flynn had thought that he might, perhaps, take some time to write. He had been blocked up since she left, and thought that the change of scenery and lack of distractions might do for his writing what fiber did for his bowels. The lack of distractions just made him lonelier. At home he could throw himself into one project or another, but here all there was to do was think. The surroundings were beautiful, and the hike he had gone on the day before was exactly the sort of thing that Emily had accused him of never doing. That was all he could think about while out there: “Emily would have liked this,” “Emily would have tried to climb that,” or “That would be a cute spot for a picnic… Emily thought picnics were very romantic.”

At the cabin, his mind wandered so easily to the memories of the good times and it hurt so much more. At home, his eyes could wander to the blemishes in the walls where a plate, cup, or picture frame had shattered when the fight got heated and his words turned nasty. She wasn’t as good with crafting biting words, but that single semester she spent on the softball team her sophomore year in college was still apparent in her pitch and it left marks on the walls. These were solid, unwavering reminders of the bad times that were always there when Flynn needed them. Though, the passion that drove her to throw things and scream profanities, even, wasn’t all bad. It was that same fiery passion that had made the fucking so good. The sex was wonderful, but it had been the fucking that had benefited the most from her naturally passionate disposition as a redhead.

In the cabin, there was no remnant of her except Flynn’s memory and the spectral remains of their plans: no scarred walls to remind him of the bad times. Standing in front of the window, he brought the mug up to rest against his lips, his eyes slipped closed and he took a long, deep breath through his nose. The steam brought with it the thick, dark smell of the over-steeped tea. He had brewed it strong enough. She was there. It was just an instant before she would brush against him, kiss his neck and tell him that she forgot something in the car and that it was his job to fetch it for her. It was a perfectly normal moment with her: a moment almost long enough for his lips to start curling up into a smile.

Then it was over. As the moment waned, he almost heard her starting to call him Goober, but it was gone, and he was suddenly cold and alone in the middle of nowhere with nothing to do but read books he couldn’t focus on, write the novel that wouldn’t budge, or think about Emily.

His eyes slipped open to reveal the greens, browns, and grays that danced before him on the window. His breath caught.

Something moved. The background image was composed of rain pelted branches, all of which was seen through wavering sheets of water, so it all moved and was blurry, but something moved differently. It was only for an instant, but he had the very real sense that someone was walking down the driveway just past his car.

Seeing someone walking past his car back home, in San Diego, wasn’t that surprising; it was usually parked out on the street and he shared an apartment complex with at least one hundred other people. Here, though, it was strange. To get to the cabin he had driven down an unpaved, private road with a gate on it for half an hour, snaking through what appeared to be National Forest. The entire time he had been up there, including on the hike, he had yet to see another human being, and not even other living creatures, aside from birds and insects.

The door was only a single step away, and he was there, fumbling with the lock before he even started to breath again. Then the door was open, and Flynn stepped out into the rain, past the sheet of water. Cold rain plunged through his sweater and pants, drenched his socks, and filled his shoes instantly, but his attention was focused on finding the intruder. His eyes flicked around the driveway. The rain still poured, the branches of the trees still wavered, the mist still curled up off the ground, but there was nothing else to see. Nothing moved that shouldn’t, and nothing was out of place.

He vaguely became aware of what he was doing — of the pain in the ass that drying his clothing in front of the fire was going to be — as his feet carried him out to the muddy driveway. Flynn looked behind the car at the ground. The driveway was uneven gunk, the surface ninety percent covered by muddy puddles. Had he been a trained tacker, maybe he could do something with that, but his tracking experience was limited to having read two books with main characters that could track (one of them was tracking robots in space, though, so it probably didn’t count). He wasn’t sure what he had expected to find there, but whatever it was, all he found was mud, more rain, and the vague sense that someone was watching.

He stood there — not getting more wet, due to there being a finite quantity of water that his clothes, hair, and skin could hold, but getting more and more cold and uncomfortable — and he continued to look around. Even the sense that he was being watched began to dissolved in the rain. It left him feeling silly. There was nobody up there but him, and the pattern recognition in his brain must have misfired among all that movement in the rain.

Shuffling back toward the cabin, he laughed at himself, because that seemed like the right thing to do, but the laugh was a weak, slow, and lonely sound. It wasn’t until he made it back under the eves that he noticed his right hand was still clutching the mug. The contents were cold and mostly water now. At least it was no longer too strong.