Two sibling paranormal magazine reporters, Winston and Wendell Fortena, investigate esoteric occurrences, otherworldly incidences and strange scientific phenomena, then write about it in a relatable way for the electronic publication, Remote View Magazine. Obviously, strange things will happen amidst relatable human experiences, and there will be a crisis. I’d rather not ruin the surprises.

Excerpts from the full length novel In Absentia.

August 35th Monday 9:43 AM

Tatarabeularmamento Hill Country. Rumfoord County. Rumfoord.

Steven New, a thin and pale Caucasian male (aged 28) with closely cropped dark brown hair and wire-frame glasses, climbs a hill fifty-three miles from I-38754 on his orange and UFO tractor beam blue 1970 Eliminator Mark II bicycle. Kevin Neece lags behind on the 1895 Thomas replica he borrowed from Steven’s garage.

Neece, not as thin but just as pale (with dark brown hair and glasses, too) takes his feet from the pedals and places them on the pavement, while leaning his tired arms on the handlebar of the classic fake. His marriage weight sags over his belt. New spins around onto the shoulder and coasts back downhill to meet him.

New goads. Come on! These bikes are made for riding!

“Shutup,” no space between, Neece abruptly retorts with his semi-standard reply. “I’m not in the same shape I used to be.”

New goads again, “When were you ever in shape, Kevin?”

“Shutup!” Kevin blasts him with widened eyes to emphasize. He looks back down the hill and then to the orange summer sky. Sweat is sliding down the side of his face.

Steven adjusts the flying disc knapsack on his back, pulling the shoulder strap tight over his super-faded t-shirt bearing the main character from the classic 8-bit video game, Spaz in Space. He and Kevin are on their way around (as part of their get sexy for our wives fitness plan) to the other side of the hill to play some spirited flying disc golf in Chufton park.

With a curious gleam, Neece eyeballs the uphill tree line to their left. New notices and turns to see what Neece was seeing.

“They sure put that up fast,” says Kevin. He is referring to the massive rooftop rising above the oak trees in their line of sight.

Steven grunts, “Huh.”

“What?” Neece requests with mock insistence.

“I’mâ pretty sure that wasn’t there yesterday.”

…

I held Holly in my lap while her parents ate their share. She wasn’t old enough for the cake, so she just jammed the rustling wings of her cloth ladybug book into her mouth, squeezing them between her gums and soaking them with her spittle. She was a terrifically happy baby (Mom would remark later that it shown in her eyes how much she was loved). It was a delightful change from the fussy first few months. Not that I’m the sort of guy who gets delighted. My right arm was wrapped around her belly to prevent falling and my left hand was resting on the table’s edge, ready to catch should she squirm too much. She flapped the ladybug’s wing and then reached to turn it around, while placing her tiny left hand atop mine in the same exact position. Her palm was centered on the back of mine and her fingertips barely reached my knuckle. It was one of those time-stopping moments that could transform a frozen, granite heart back into a blood-beating life giver. A quarter-million microscopic, electric bear cubs, pattered across my neck while I witnessed this brief blessing. Nobody else caught it. Holly lifted her hand off mine and time eased quietly into its normal speed.

Excerpt from the short story, The Afterlife’s Not Fair.

“So, which one’s a suspect?” I ask, while he swings the front door open. I start in, then stop and Winston bumps into me, which I address. “Watch it, homo.” And then move quickly past to be a paranormal prima donna: “Is there still a body in there? I’m not going in there with a fuckin’ body. Their psychic residue is gross enough, and of course the reproductive fluids; I don’t wanna see all of that at once, so-”

“This isn’t a fresh scene. Get in here, before the real press sees me bringin’ y’all around. C’mon.”

Before you get understandably militant, I should inform you that “homo” is no longer a derogatory slang shortening of “homosexual.” It is a derogatory slang shortening of “homeowner.” For example, Billy tells his pals that instead of going out and tying one on, he would be staying in so he can get up early and mow his front lawn before it gets too hot outdoors. His bachelor-lifestyle, apartment-dwelling friends who still have their freedom and ability to hump who they want when they want would rub in the terrible situation that Billy has gotten himself into by using the abbreviated argot. “You’re such a homo.”

Writing by Brock Rizy. Mature audience.

Winston and Wendell Fortena™ and © Brock Rizy 2012