Author

A massive stone idol
to the gods of the sea
A token remembrance
of you
and of me
Built on the seashore
Buried in sand
The fate of decay
The ruins will stand

av Paul Hathcoat 1976

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Tallahatchie River

2020 Zebulon Winner
Science Fiction/Fantasy
Bronze
The Tree Farm

Saturacon av Paul Hathcoat
Book II
Excerpt:, Chapter 9 ~ Study and the Student

“You grow succulenti?” I ask.
“Sybarinian Spider Weed. We have acres under glass,” notes Captain Imogee.
“What about the spiders, how do you control the little devils?”
“The spiders pollinate the plants and control pests. We take good care of them and they take good care of the cactus. As an additional control measure, we harvest some of the spider larvae and pickle them.”
Imogee holds the bottle of golden liquor up to the light for me to see. There’s a long plump, spider larva floating at the bottom of the bottle.
“What the hell is that for?” I recoil in disgust.
“It adds traces of psychotropic compounds to the liquor. I can pour it in your glass if you want,” offers Imogee. “Eat it for good luck and a little extra kick. It’s crunchy on the outside, soft on the inside.”
“I'll respectfully pass on the bug, Sir.”

PH2016

Robot House av Paul Hathcoat
Book III
Excerpt: Chapter 4 ~ The Black Stygian

Long ago, even before the beginning of time, a lost mariner beheld the heavenly Goddess, Dawn. She is the brightest star in the night sky. Her crown is sparkling blue. Her hair is tied in ribbons of silver light. She is a blindingly bright spirit that exists in a world beyond the infinite singularity. Her nature is pure love. Her touch is mercy to the soul.
Keeka sticks her head in my cabin door.
“Robert, what are you doing?” She steps in and peeks over my shoulder.
“I’m writing a story about the Goddess Dawn, her beautiful daughters, wicked Nyt, and my travels through space, time, and dimension. Look,” I scroll through the many pages.
“I see. You have been a busy boy. You promised me an hour ago you would get some sleep.” Keeka waits for an answer. “Well?”
“I want to write my story,” I plead.
“You look tired,” Keeka gently lifts my chin. “Your eyes are bloodshot. Can't you sleep tonight?”
“No, I don’t want to go to bed,” I pout.
Keeka gently massages my shoulders. “Is it your inky blackness thing again?” She asks in a soft sympathetic tone. “Robert,” Keeka presses, “is it Nyt?”
Keeka sees the awful truth in his eyes. She sees Nyt and the utter horror of her hellish nightmares. She hears the tortured screams, cries for mercy, and the agony of those who lay dying.
“Yes, it’s her,” I reluctantly admit.

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Seven Sisters av Paul Hathcoat

Book IV

Excerpt, Chapter 5 ~ Domain of the Titans

“Look who’s coming down the trail!” Keeka points to a spot on the trail high above. She gives a loud whistle, “Fa’weeet-fa’wheeel.”
   It is Rutchy and Scrumpy descending from the very heights of Domum Titanum. Hearing Keeka’s whistle, they increase their speed and appear as little more than blurs.
   In moments, they stand before us their bobbed tails wagging furiously, metallic coats covered in sparkling frost and snow. Scrumpy sets a beautiful frosty white ice crystal about as thick and as long as my arm at my feet. The ice crystal is sublimating stringy smoke white vapors that quickly dissipate in the high mountain air. The crystal looks hot, like a smoldering white-hot billet of titanate pulled from a forming press. White-hot titanate hammer-forged into frames. A sight to behold. A dream.
   I stand before Vulcan Forge, the Quadrant Navies largest forming press. The shop floor is bathed in dazzling white light, it is immeasurable hot. Hurricane bellows roar and fills the furnaces with arcing blue plasma. I lower my blast googles and look into the hearth. Burning with the brightness of the sun I see a white metal billet. The low, slow thunder of the booming hammer beats fill my ears with blood. I behold the forming of an unyielding white metal into armor. Indestructible armor that will cover the bodies of Titan Sigs and clad the warships of space and time.
   A Sun maiden stands before me, jet black hair, olive skin, and green eyes. She is draped in diaphanous red silk, belted at the breast with a braided gold cord. She asks, “Robot, will you fight the darkness?”
   I’d forgotten the dream until seeing the smoldering ice crystal that lays at my feet.
   “Did you bring daddy something? That’s a good girl,” praises Keeka.
   “Woof, woof!” replies Scrumpy.
   “Isn’t she a good girl, Robert? Tell Scrumpy she’s good,” requests Keeka.
   “Good girl,” I say, petting and brushing the frost from her coat.
   I pull off my glove and reached down to pick up the crystal. "It's beautiful."
   “Don’t touch it, Wog, it’s dangerous to unprotected skin!” says Robee, in stern a voice.
   “Robot, you don’t dare touch!” snaps Keeka.
   “Wut’s the problem?” I ask.
   “It’s dry ice. You will freeze your skin. Robots will not damage their skin. We forbid it,” insists Keeka.
   “Frozen CO2?”
   “Yes.”
   “Crystal CO2 grows at the top of the mountain?”
   “Yes, Robot.”
   “Alright, I won’t touch it. It must be very cold at the top of the mountain. Frozen CO2 would put the temperature at what, around -75C?”
   “Yep, Wog,” twangs Robee.
   “Goddess dang cold,” I nod my head.
   My standard navy issue thermal gloves are rated LNI, liquid nitrogen immersion. I put my glove back on, pick up, and carefully examine the vaporous blue crystal faithful Scrumpy has lain at my feet. The crystal is magnificent, save a bit of dog chewing. The ice out-gasses CO2 and melts into nothing.
   “I think we need to talk about appropriate frame protection when you girls play on top of the mountain, I lecture.
   “Yes, Robot,” Keeka reluctantly agrees.
   “Subspace is dangerous,” I firmly remind.
   “Yes, Wog,” Robee impatiently agrees.
   “Nice girls don’t play in subspace without proper protection, you’ll damage your frames,” I scold.
   “Ummmm, ummmm, ummmm,” cries Rutchy.
   “You’re a nice girl, aren’t you?” I pet and praise Rutchy, brushing the ice and snow from her coat.
   “Woof!” she says, wagging her little bobtail furiously.
   “What did the girls do up there?” I ask.
   “They took sensor readings and scanned local outer space for any heat, radiation, or dimensional anomalies, and Scrumpy brought daddy a present,” says Keeka.
   “What are they looking for?” I ask.
   “Stuff, Robee.
   “What kind of stuff?” I ask.
   “Scary stuff,” replies Robee.
   “What kind of scary stuff?”
   “Dim gray shadows outside your porthole, awhooooo,” howls Robee.
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Promise of the Prophet av Paul Hathcoat
Book V
Chapter