My short story, the Sinister Soul Surfer, is published in Fault Zone, a publication of the SF Peninsula branch of the California Writers Club. Ever read a story where a main character is possessed by an evil ghost or demon or alien? A super villain does that to Super Holly Hansson, and that leads to a Mad-Magazine-like scene-we’d-like-to-see, and to the battle cry of the bully being inverted.
I will update this page if the book is made available on Kindle as well.
Here is an excerpt from the story. At this point, Holly is possessed by Bobby Breaker (the Soul Surfer, annoying surfer dude who can jump into and take over other people). Cal Critbert, Holly’s super-smart and Batman-esque boyfriend and soulmate, tricked Bobby/Holly into an alley, where he tried to free Holly from Bobby using Holly’s kryptonite. That was promptly knocked out of his hand and down a storm drain.
Bobby/Holly got up. No green in his cheeks, just healthy Swedish pink. He bodybuilder-flexed—”I’m stoked!—and threw a punch.
I casually leaned left. Bobby had Holly’s body, but he didn’t have her boxing skills. Next to my head, a blue-clad arm plowed into the dumpster up to the elbow.
My chances of saving Holly were nil. So I punched Bobby/Holly in the nose.
“Ow!” Bobby/Holly pulled his arm out of the wall and gaped at me. “How come that hurt? You only got normal strength!”
“Then have a normal knuckle sandwich.” I punched rosy red, super-strong, pillow soft lips. I kept my expression grim despite guilt twisting my gut.
Bobby/Holly charged with all the finesse of a bull. My Intellecta-judo redirected him onto an alley wall. Then the other wall. Then the dumpster. Olé.
Yes! A twitch in Bobby/Holly’s right eyelid, Holly hated when I used her super-strength against her! I grabbed long silky hair—Holly loathed that—and threw Bobby/Holly into a big patch of cobwebbed alley ivy.
Holly was fearless. But she could be creeped out. She clawed spiders and webbing off her arms, face, and hair: “Ew, ew, ew, ew, EW!”
No! Bobby/Holly’s stupid squint returned! “Whoa! She almost woke up!” He strutted toward me, fist cocked. “You’re going to sleep!”
Anger and revulsion had failed. So I leaned into the punch. My soulmate connection with Holly prevented her super-strength from harming me. But Holly was six-foot-one and she loved me, her writing, and her punching bag, not always in that order. Her normal strength packed a wallop.
I saw stars. I said, “You hit like a girl.”
My split lip and my right eyelid swelled as Bobby/Holly pummeled and yelled, “Why aren’t I smashing you?”
Same soulmate reason I punched you without breaking my hand, stupid. My Intellecta-stamina kept me standing. I scrutinized my assailant: eyelids twitching, pupils dilating, lips trembling. Holly’s heart was breaking!
Bobby/Holly stepped back and blinked hard. “Down, DOWN!” He glared at me. “I know what you’re doing! I’m outta here!” With a Superman pose that perfectly suited Holly, Bobby/Holly flew straight up.
Time for Chekhov’s shotgun rule! I drew my Intellecta-gun and fired. Bobby/Holly ping-ponged between alley walls and plowed into the dumpster in a tangle of red cape, blue-clad arms, blonde hair, and long legs. WHAT HAD I DONE?
Logic left me. I ran to her. “Holly! Speak to me!”
A six-foot transparent hand punched out of the dumpster and slammed me against the wall. Bobby/Holly ogled how it extended from his outstretched left arm. “Tubular!”
Bobby/Holly’s right hand held a fifty-pound dumbbell. My soulmate connection wouldn’t protect…both should hear this.
“Bobby. If you punch me with that, the momentum will pulverize my skull. I will die by Holly’s hand. Do you really want that?”
The dumbbell aimed the dumbbell. “Yeah! Any last words?”
I cast my heart into Holly’s big blue eyes. “I love you, Holly.”
TO BE CONTINUED!!!