Tales From A Darker Star: Volume 3

By A. Octavia

Nobody gets off easy in the future, especially on 'The Island.' That's doubly so if you have no shred of memory on how you got there, or who you even are! In another story, 'The Prism' is a remote observation post that's about to be battered by a massive storm. In 'Ride,' a couple on vacation explore their long-desired exhibitionist side during the climax of the world cup. Of course, sometimes fighting an 'Impulse' can land you on an orbital medical station for a quick check-up. Everyone already knows 'A House Divided' can't stand, but it could also land a husband in jail for spousal abuse unless his wife can convince a detective it was all consensual. No matter how you slice it though, in the end 'Friends In Need' are friends indeed. These six erotic tales offer an uninhibited glimpse through the keyhole of a distant future that eerily resembles our present.

• Language: English
• Publisher: A. Octavia
• Release date: Oct 31, 2018
• ISBN: 9780463828793

A. Octavia

From an ancient desk in a sunlit corner of a room, A. Octavia writes about worlds hidden behind a veil of time and cosmic dust. He also writes an Erotic Blog, and hosts an Erotic Podcast available on iTunes and Stitcher."The world is too big and full of everything to close your eyes and do nothing." -A. Octavia.

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Tales From A Darker Star: Volume Three

A Collection of Science-Fiction Erotica

By A. Octavia

Tales From A Darker Star: Volume 3,

A Collection Of Science-Fiction Erotica

by A. Octavia

Copyright 2018 A. Octavia

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Chapter 1: The Island.

The farthest back I can remember was the way the sea off of the deck railing looked so blue. Deep, soul-crushing blue. I remember thinking that if I stared too long, it was going to be impossible to pull away from. Nothing else existed before the blue: not the ship, not why I was there, not who I was... just the memory of my hands on the rail, watching the sea stretch all the way out to the horizon.

I've been able to pick up some clues from the wreckage that washes ashore. Usually after a good storm or a strong tide. It's only fragmented-- bits and pieces that sheared away from the hull of the broken ship that remained out past the breakers. Early on I was tempted to swim against the riptide, but just as I started to wade out, I saw a few bodies wash up on shore. Whatever lived in the water between me and the answers I craved didn't seem to have a discriminating palette. Needless to say, I never tried again.

I used to bury all the bodies after matching up the pieces as best I could. I’ve spent countless days digging up the loose interior sand until it turned into soil. In the end, it just took too damn long. The tide would shift, and the bodies I couldn't carry or drag up off the shoreline would wash out again. That's when I built the pyre. I recorded every detail I could into a kind of ledger I made. I still carry some of the flotsam, I still dig, but I save it for special occasions. It isn't favoritism, mind you-- it's weakness. I can't burn children. I just can't.

So far my ledger has three hundred seventy names, descriptions of clothing, marks, missing limbs… Details--as many as I can stomach. The graveyard has sixty-four and every day I watch the horizon. I gave up on rescue a long time ago and settled in my heart that I was going to die here. Someday. Every morning when I wake up, I tell myself it's not today. Never today. I won't stop saying it, and I won't make a mistake. When Death finally does get around to me, when my hourglass empties, He'd better bring friends. A lot of God-damned friends because I am not going quietly.

Anthropomorphic personification: it's a long-winded way of explaining how we as human beings make difficult concepts simple. Imparting human traits so we can equalize ourselves against something beyond our control or understanding. We call a storm ‘mean,' or the tides ‘vicious,' or the things swimming among the shoals ‘sinister.’ It's Death in a black robe tapping the sand out of my hourglass just so he doesn't have to wait quite so long. There are days when I swear I can hear his bones tapping away at my time.

The island has its fair share of character flaws, too. It took a bit longer than the shoals or the weather to nail down, but I got there in the end. I antholomophicized it. See, it knocked me down, time and time again, just to see if I would decide to get back up. It's testing me, but I refuse to give it any satisfaction. Whenever it acts up, I just fix my hair and tell it it hits like a bitch. I should know-- it takes one to know one.

I've found quicksand, scattered pools of it. After one or two sand baths I started to spread out rocks wherever I went to mark my trails. I used to carry rope, but it was more of a pain that it was worth, so I only do it now if I plan to branch out and explore new terrain. Among other amenities: I found a sulfur spring, a pool of what looks like boiling mercury, and a bottomless pit big enough across to swallow a whale. Birds roost among the rocks around the edge, and I've seen bats fly out at dusk. It happens like clockwork every night, except when they feel a storm coming. They know, somehow. Atmospheric pressure, maybe. A subtle bit of shifting in the wind...

For the record: I've developed a strong distaste for bananas and coconut. Even if I sprinkle in some crab or fish. Raw, roasted, sauteed, soup, kababs-- I've eaten them in every conceivable way, and after all this time, they just taste like cardboard now. Sometimes it's refined cardboard, but still cardboard. That being said, I'm not fond of starving.

I'd really like to say my time on the Island has been a Disneyland experience. I’d practically kill for some whimsical jaunt where I crashed ashore, had a musically choreographed montage of my struggling to cope, and then at the end of the song I’d flash forward to where I've overcome adversity, mastered the elements and befriended the local animals. I'd like to say that. I could so see myself as an uber-sarcastic Tarzan, or a less-than-kind Jane Goodall, but in case you missed it before-- the island hits like a bitch. The monkeys were mean little shits, too. If you ever got between one of them and it's tribe, they'd scream, scratch, and bite like a pack of hyperactive little savages. They howl like wolves at every full moon-- I'm assuming because they're pissed off about the great nightlight in the sky. They're wicked fast, like flies you can't ever swat; and they’re smart little fuckers. I had to keep finding new and ever more innovative ways to lock up my food stores because they can problem-solve. The little bastards watch and learn.

I’m assuming life’s not all sunshine and roses here for them, though. Some kind of jaguar hunts them. Thankfully I've never had to see it in the flesh, but I have seen its spoor and the occasional faint tracks. The monkeys become communally silent whenever they feel it. This might land me on the bad karma list, but I'd be lying if I said those quiet nights didn't make me smile just a little bit.

A few weeks into my unplanned tropical sabbatical these five materials crates washed ashore. It was a bit of a shock because there wasn't any kind of storm the night before. Let me clarify-- the ‘crates’ were these kinds of big, shiny, metallic tubs. It took me all day to drag them above the tide line, and then another two or three to figure out how to get them open. The keypads were toast, but at least the seals looked intact. In the end, I think it was worth it. The first crate washed out of one of the shore-leave storerooms, or maybe up from one of in the main holds of the ship. I managed to unpack a few spear guns, some fishing spears to go with them, a handful of full-face snorkeling masks, flippers, and my personal favorite: some knives in those little rubber sheaths that I keep strapped to both my calf and my forearm now. (I broke three blades and dulled two more to the point of peanut butter spreaders before I figured out how to re-sharpen them.)

The second crate was full of canvas: lifeboat covers judging by the size and the shape. They had the large ship logo all up front and center. They were the same off-white color as the hull with a blue, green, and red 'A L L' overlapping at the center. There were tie lines made of nylon cabling that came in really handy for collecting water and making tent canopies.

The last three crates were empty. I remember being so livid at first. All the time and effort spent getting them open, wasted-- and on what? Empty boxes? Big, metal, ...sturdy... empty...boxes. In hindsight, it was probably the best damn thing that ever washed ashore. I turned them into multi-function toolboxes that alternated between rather-uncomfortable-storm-shelters, rainwater collection tanks, or food lockers that kept my spoils safe from the aforementioned little simian shits.

Primates aside, I try to view every day is a gift. Some days were more comfortable than others, and I don't think I tended to dwell on the past much. I mean, sure I wander around from time to time, I take notes, and I accept clues as they appear, but I don't hunt backward. I promised myself I wouldn't. I refused to waste time actively searching for answers that wouldn't alter my current state. The future was something to plan for, to be prepared for: I could accept that. Looking for salvation, or some meaning to a life I don't have anymore…?