Category: fantasy

A dimly lit Taco Bell.


Do you have any tacos for vegans?


We don’t serve no space creatures.

LEN I’m from this planet.

CLERK Then don’t feed them alien overlords!





“We should have a flashback,” said Jeff spreading

his hands, “of the time he stowed away, scared,

riding in a test capsule with no one,

trapped in  a long orbit he never made.”

At which Leslie puffed on her cigarette.

“Don’t make me laugh, you hack. That’s the oldest

cliché in the book. The dark childhood mess

come back to enmesh him in its tight grasp.”

Her straight brunette bangs jittered. “Rollo stares

space in the face, unafraid. A mighty

white-suited orbit warrior, darting

into the far reaches of the unknown.”

Milton rubbed at the ache in his forehead.

“We know Rollo’s tough, but we gotta glimpse

his tender side. Maybe a space babe, a

statuesque princess from Mars with some spunk.”

“You have to be kidding,” sneered dry Leslie.

“The last thing we need is a Mars vixen,

a small-brained twit to simper at space hunks.”

“Let’s just do a jelly monster,” urged Jeff,

“like the one in ‘Moon of the Unhallowed’.

we can all get behind slimy feelers.”

There were reluctant nods. The meeting stopped

at four with notes on grappling tentacles.


The Invisible Mummy dragged his bandaged feet across miles of bleak desert before finally sighting a place to assuage his raging hunger: a vulnerable, isolated Del Taco.

The Invisible Mummy grunted in dry, thirst-roughened satisfaction. At the lonesome taco outlet he would satisfy both his cravings for food and creating mayhem at poorly guarded places of business.



The Invisible Mummy Goes to Lunch

The Invisible Mummy was having another bad day.
He’d been causing disturbances at the used car dealership, making mild bits of mayhem by disconnecting computers from wall sockets, smearing windows with bandage grease and pushing Mini Coopers out of their parking spaces. But the inattentive car dealers were too bored, distracted or hungover to notice his disruptions…..

Langston grimly watched the sad-looking clowns go through their routines. The dire moon, with its grey valleys and thin ponds of aquamarine goo, had enough difficulties, the inhabitants eking out an existence from mined stones and subsisting on common dehydrated fruits and flat slabs of compressed meat simulations, without being reminded of the drearier side of life by downbeat performances.

Moon Clown:

Continued: The Clowns of the Moon

Opening of my novel I Was a Teenage Ghost Hunter:

Devin stared through the large plate glass window of the Escamonde Hotel at the dark branches of the walnut tree.  In between two of the large, lower branches there was a wispy, white piece of fabric.  Or at least, there had been one a second before.  He blinked, and saw the fabric again.  But then he jerked away and yelped.

A small stream from the cup of caramel latte had burned his hand.  The paper cup lay on the floor where he’d dropped it, a pool of overpriced, precious sugary brown liquid pouring out around it.  “Shit,” he muttered.

“Isn’t that the fourth latte you dropped this week?” Ramona was asking in all seriousness, without the slightest trace of humor.  She had somehow instantly turned up at Devin’s side, where he hadn’t realized she was standing, and was looking darkly at the mess spreading on the floor.

Devin quickly wiped the hot latte drippings from his hands on a white towel and began soaking up the remains of the failed beverage with all the recycled napkins and paper towels in the vicinity.  He muttered some insincere apologies to Ramona and the elderly lady tourist who looked on peevishly from the other side of the counter, waiting impatiently for her indulgent drink.

“I’ll get that for you,” Ramona told the frail lady without enthusiasm.  She went into action on the latte, with her patented, sullenly slow-motion technique.

“I want whip cream,” chirped the lady, repeating her earlier instruction.  She was clearly perturbed at having her carefully planned Arcata idyll interrupted by a teenage barista’s incompetence and was eager to re-join her equally elderly lady friends at one of the cafe’s little wooden tables covered with one of the hotel’s quaint, handmade tablecloths so they could plan out their birding or antiquing adventures for the day.

“Yeah,” said Devin.  He’d popped back up, a soggy towel in one hand.  As Ramona plunked the latte on the counter, he grabbed a nearby canister and shot onto it an unceremonious glob of lopsided whip cream, giving the latte a final, disorderly glop of indignity.  The tourist lowered her white eyebrows darkly but took the cup and retreated without another word before some other injury could be visited on her beverage.

Read more: wattpad_finalA

Gorman Fowley approached the check-in counter with a wry, minor smile.  Too much time had gone by since he’d flown out of Evil International Airport.

The over-rouged, middle-aged brunette at the counter narrowed her eyes, accented with mint green eye shadow.  She gave a quirk of recognition with her mouth.  “Fowley.  Haven’t flown you out in a while.”  Her voice was a croaky instrument, like that of a toad from a sparse woodland.

Fowley plopped his luggage, a large rectangular item in dried-blood red, onto the scale.  “I’ve been missing it, Runa.  Sitting in my apartment thinking of all those destinations.”  Fowley had an unruly head of brown hair that poked out in varied directions and wore a crumpled, thrift store suit in a shade somewhere between light brown and salmon.  His face was leathery, with the over-tanned tone of a man who spent many idle days on corrupt beaches.

“The Lost Isle of the Decapitated Children,” Runa said wistfully.

“The Canyon of Sacrificial Goats.”

“Bloated Crone Mountain,” continued Runa, glancing toward the huge graphic poster on the wall.

“Archfiend Archipelago,” countered Fowley.

Runa put an abrupt end to the dreamy recitation.  “What your final destination?”  Her fingernails, bathed in dark pomegranate polish, were poised to strike the dusty keyboard.

“Imp Town,” said Fowley triumphantly.


In an irregular galaxy,

hunkered behind a sprawling nebula,

Controlling a system of stars numbering

A total difficult to count,

The relatively tireless, foolhardy officers of

Space Command voyage between worlds,

Exploring, researching, and ferreting out

Vulnerable potential colonial outposts.

These are the accounts of some of their less

Successful expeditions…

Now all of your favorite The Planet of… stories are in one convenient place, my new e-book ‘Space Command and the Planets of Doom’.

You get:

The Planet of the Miniature Mummies

The Planet of the Orange Oceans

The Planet of the Dehydrated Primates

The Planet of the Belligerent Monks

The Planet of the Dead Wombats

The Planet of the Unstoppable Vines

The Planet of the Visible Robots

The Planet of the Invisible Robots

The Planet of the Ravenous Snails

The Planet of the Telepathic Jellyfish

The Planet of the Frozen Spiders

And The Planet of the Green Monkeys.

And if you act now, we’ll throw in, at no extra charge, The Putrid Moon.

All yours for just $0.99 at

Plus, check out The Planet of the Frozen Spiders absolutely free:

But be careful…once you get a taste for Frozen Spiders there’s no going back.

Follow me at:!/brianhenry63

Here’s one of your favorite scenes from my novel ‘House of Prension’.  Follow the link for the complete novel:

Not Jabbs  (From ‘House of Prension’, Chapter 14)

Some bolder Jabbs showed themselves the next morning: they’d watched the foreigners with trepidation during the Fog Hour from the safety of rocky nooks.  As the Prensioners stirred, the Jabbs apprehensively continued a vigil.  Pinkface slyly noted their surveillance as he rose, quietly shifted into a sitting position and made traditional placating gestures.  Aulic pointed out the dried eggplant squares, making motions he hoped would be interpreted as an invitation to try a sample.

After long minutes of this face-off, a few Jabbs cautiously skittered forward, offering stock greeting phrases.  Despite their strange appearance, they were quite fluent in Mervan.  A broad-faced specimen, an apparent leader, skittered about at the group’s front staring at the newcomers with the same motionless gaze of the others.  Pinkface made a diplomatic overture.

“Jabbs, we come with peaceful intent, almost as if we are people who might want befriend you.”  He coughed uneasily.  “Although that is certainly not strictly necessary.”

            The lead Jabb moved his head from side to side, which involved moving his entire body since the parts were continuous, appraising the visitors.

“You are not Jabbs,” he said at last.  His voice had the characteristic Jabb squealing sound of rocks scraping against a metallic surface. 

            “No, of course we’re not Jabbs,” said the Elder impatiently.  “Do we look like Jabbs?”

            Aulic rested a calming hand on Pinkface’s arm.  “We’re from a different tribe.”

            “A different tribe of Jabbs?” asked the Jabb leader.

            “No, we’re from…”

            “A tribe of people across the desert,” inserted Pinkface.

            “Perhaps a long lost Jabb tribe that has changed in appearance and manner so much as to be an entirely strange looking group of beings . . .” the Jabb leader began.

            “No, we actually have nothing at all to do with Jabbs,” Pinkface insisted.

            “Then you should not be here,” the Jabb reasoned.

            “We’re visiting,” said Aulic, before Pinkface could make an insult.

            “I see.”  The leader folded two appendages.  “Do you plan to poke in Jabb tunnels, find a luscious one for your own?  Excavate grub worms, uninvited?”

            “Absolutely not,” Pinkface assured him.

            “Then we can relent in our vigilance.  We invite you for grubs.”

            “I should remind you we’re not Jabbs,” Pinkface repeated.  “I cannot make that point too strongly.  Your grubs may be an inappropriate nutrition form for us.”

            The Jabb kicked with his stubby legs, as though acknowledging the Elder.  “I have eyes in my head,” he said.

Arvin squinted.  “Is he being rude?” he whispered to Pinkface.

Pinkface spoke out of the side of his compressed mouth.  “Not at all.  It’s a Jabb trait to make remarks on utterly obvious subjects.  It’s a recurrent meditative practice, a way to maintain their attachment to reality.”

The Jabb went on, gesturing at the desert.  “The rocks are dry today.  Dry for everyone.” 

Pinkface winced.  The Jabb speech tones grated on his ears like the skull of a long-dead hum squirrel scraping repeatedly on a jagged granite escarpment. 

“We spread our appendages to welcome you.”  The Jabb wiggled his upper limbs and extended them, stepping closer to Pinkface.

            “That’s a wonderful gesture, but we must move on speedily . . .”