Echo: A Dystopian Science Fiction Novel

You’ve seen it, I’ve seen it, we’ve all seen it. 

As I stop at a red light, I look to my left and see a car full of children digging deep in their noses, their grubby little fingers squirming like sea-creature tentacles in the midst of a seizure.  They’re going three knuckles deep.  A distant part of me wonders whether their brains are safe, and also whether they’re violating any obscenity laws.

I see one of them light up like he’s just won the lottery.  He pulls a Gross-coated finger out of a nostril so he can inspect his craggy, alien organ-like bounty.  He gives it the same attention a Real Housewife of New Jersey might use to select her next diamond trinket.

His eyes widen and he licks his lips.

(Oh God—don’t do it.  PLEASE don’t do it, kid.  You’re gonna make me—)

My pleas are ignored.  The stroller-spawn begins dining on his catch.  I clap my hands over my mouth like a valley girl who’s just received news that the profession of cheerleader has been phased out.  Tears spring from the corners of my eyes, and I question the existence of a divine being.


Sweat breaks out across my body.  My gorge rises…falls, rises…falls.  I focus every iota of my soul on trying not to vomit.  Finally, I gain some measure of control.  I place trembling hands back on the steering wheel.  My skin is as pale as a cave spider’s.

The kids throw a grin at me, their horrid little lips peeling back in a rictus.  Then they close their eyes and begin chanting under their breath.  A dark miasma of eldritch symbols begins forming around them, circling their head and torsos in long chains of arcane characters. 

What in the—

Then they extend their arms and huddle up, bringing their green-speckled fists close together like some kind of evil version of Captain Planet.  A blast of sickly emerald light erupts from their unified hands.  I shield my face with a bent forearm and turn away.

There’s a giant rending sound as the ceiling of their car pops off and goes spinning through the air.  An enormous column of viscous goo erupts skyward.  Hundreds of faces tilt up and watch as a demonic face forms above them.  Beneath its dripping features, the rest of column forms into a blob-like body.  Its lips lurch, quiver, then it lets loose with a thunderous cry that shakes the glass of my driver-side window.


Boog-or begins tromping through traffic, stepping on cars and injecting them with horrid blasts of nose jam.  In less than a second, each car is stuffed to the point of bursting.  Radiator grills, the cracks around the windows, the cracks around the doors…they’re all limned with slimy Gross.  As for the poor bastards within these death-traps, most of them are lost in a block of solid Goob.  I see one unfortunate soul get his face squished against a window by the sheer force of the pressurized kid-cement.

I unbuckle my seat belt and tumble out of my car, letting loose with a long stream of vomit.  Pardon me all to hell, but this is some next level shit; maybe I can hold it when four kids are going at their nostrils like deep-earth miners, but not when they’ve instantiated a lethal killing machine comprised of one of their foulest byproducts.

I stumble past cars gagging and coughing, wiping barf from my lips and tears from my eyes.  Then I see Boog-or’s titanic shadow stretch long across the ground, enveloping me and the next dozen yards in a stretch of sun-blotting darkness.  I turn around and see a dripping foot descending toward me.  Within its outline I can see screaming faces—the faces of those that have been assimilated by this engine of evil.

No options left.  I open my eReader to Echo.  Magic flash.

Charlie Sheen emerges from a six-foot rip in the air.  He surveys the scene with eyes that have seen damn near everything:  porn stars run amuck, Hollywood coke fiends, psychedelic communion with Retrorax warlords in the astral plane of Ildathia Nyanshi…he turns his weathered face up toward Boog-or and utters five simple words.

“There is no Santa Claus.”

The foot stops in mid-air.  Boog-or emits a curious rumbling.  It carries on for a full minute and then changes in tone, morphing into a horrendous, brain-splitting screech.  Without intending it, I realize that I’ve hunched in place, frozen in a cringe as I anticipate being crushed under a monstrous limb made of solid snot.  Now I straighten, watching in awe as the towering abomination begins to shrink.  As Boog-or shrivels, he clutches his head and falls to his knees, letting out a soul-rending wail of pure agony.  In a matter of seconds, he becomes a bubbling green lump…then a speck…then fades out of existence.

I turn to thank Charlie Sheen, but he’s no longer there.  I swivel wildly in place, looking for my half-insane savior, but he’s vanished from sight.  His disembodied voice utters three more words:

“You’re welcome.  Winning.”

My eyes come to rest on the evil children that instantiated a city-crushing booger-demon via their filthy ways.  They’re crying their eyes out, bemoaning the loss of their beloved friend Boog-or.

Their mom glares at me and shrieks, “Have you no SOUL?  You MONSTER!!!”

Obviously, I can’t use logic with this lady.  How do you argue with someone who thinks it’s okay to unleash hell on earth in the form of a disgusting goob-giant?  So I don’t try to justify myself.  Instead, I rub salt in the wound.

I cup my hands around my mouth and yell, “There’s no Easter bunny either!”


Have you encountered a coterie of ankle-biter sorcerers (don’t quote me on this, but I believe that’s the root meaning of the word “children”) whose fell powers have the potential to envelop your city in waxy death?  Never fear!  Get Echo Vol. 1 on Kindle here:  Vol. 1 on Kindle.  Vol. 2 on Kindle here:  Vol.2 on Kindle  Vol. 3 on Kindle here:  Vol. 3 on Kindle  #kindle #kindleunlimited #sciencefiction #scifi #books #novel #book


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