Thanks to the firsts!
 
I want to thank Kim Riek and Lisa Holsberg today, for being the first to pledge their support. I'm still figuring out how the heck to use this thing (damn kids, get off my lawn), but seeing the first indications that people are willing to put out actual dollars to support my writing is super-inspiring. 

I'm also still debating between a monthly model and a per-piece model; I've got a monthly pledge model going now, but that may change after I make my first goal.


For now, I'll give you the chance to meet another character, briefly. I'll make a patrons-only post to complete the story. Again, if you like what you see - please pledge!


***

This wasn’t the plan. This wasn’t the plan. Petunia’s head kept up this string of words, over and over. This wasn’t the plan. It never was, was it? It was always only ever ordered things, ideas, thoughts about what one might do tonight, or tomorrow, or next weekend, or next fall. Not what’s happening right here, right now. Not anything that can’t be planned, that you would never plan for. Those things always just happen to you, throwing any plans you might have had out the window. And God laughs at you. Ha.


Things didn’t look right, Petunia was dimly aware. She was lying on her side, washed in a sea of squishy, inflated plastic, an odd smell permeating everything. In her immediate field of vision was a plastic vertical in dark blue or black, striped with sinister indentations and ferocious with toothy vents. To the left, through a cracked screen, blue lights flashed where a moment ago there had been glowing figures.


She tried to move, and found she was strapped in somehow. Somebody had trapped her, tied her up in something, thrown her in a room full of inflatable pillows and left her for dead. Now the cops were here.


She tried to move some more, and found that in fact she couldn’t.


She blinked once, twice. This wasn’t the plan. She must have gotten the bad drugs at the party. She knew she shouldn’t have hit off that vaporizer so late. I mean she figured it was only pot, but who knew with some of these journeyhounds? One guy in the crowd was only a degree of separation from Alex Shulgin. Maybe he’d made some of those alphabet-soup concoctions smokeable. She was floating.


Something knocked on the door. Knockknockknock. She tried to lift her head, tried to speak. This wasn’t the plan! she wanted to cry out. What came out was more like “Thiiiiihhhh...” She wasn’t actually sure whether it had come out at all. She tasted something odd. Iron.


“Ma’am! Please don’t try to move! We’re going to get you out of there. Just stay calm, okay?”


“Yuuuuh,” she said, and tried to raise her hand. Who were they to tell her not to move. She was pretty sure she got it into the air enough for someone to see. See that, she thought, there’s always rescue.


Still. This wasn’t the plan.


And where had the aliens gone?


***

(continued behind the pledge wall...)