Dime Novels From Oblivion

King Ulterecht's reign was in its 27th year when old age and the rigors of his lifestyle combined to assure he would not see the 28th. With his frail body wrapped in white linens, thin, pale lips, and shallow cheeks, the King already resembled a corpse. Every shallow breath was one closer to his last. His mind was dissolving into a swirling sea of memories, and the great sovereign could only watch helplessly as it drained into oblivion. While some may seem convinced more than others, neither commoner nor King knows what, if anything, awaits in the void. Still, the King was a pragmatic man and, after thinking about some of the more blood-soaked and debauched times in his life, decided to summon Cardinal Henry in one of his more lucid moments. The Cardinal had heard about the King declining health and was expecting the summons sooner or later. Henry brought with him a bible, a golden cross the King could grasp in his hand when he saw the white light beacon, and a ledger. Henry's

This story is in "Do Not Adjust Your Set!" If you enjoy it, maybe buy and read the whole thing? At the height of her professional career as a psychologist, Sophia Paulson transformed into the public avatar of her field. Her book, "You just don't get it: Unraveling the anxieties of modern adolescence," was an instant bestseller. As it tuned out, Dr. Paulson was not just a delight to read. She was also quite easy on the eyes. Not six months after Sophia became the best selling author, she was offered a chance to take on the much more popular medium of television. She was pushing 40, but only the most subtle signs of aging had manifested themselves. Her slender body and still smooth and taut skin made more than a suitable frame for the demands of modern fashion, and she seamlessly blended professional poise with a hint of sexuality. After about two years of dividing her time between her private practice and her daily sessions with her respectably s

Miles Webber was once the most well-known musician in the western world. After his untimely death at 29 Miles’s mortal remains were interred in a private mausoleum. The single room structure with its Romanesque column and a statue carved in the likeness of the departed strumming a guitar placed at the summit of the pitched roof was like a small temple where legions of followers could flock to pay their respects. Over the years through the crowds dwindled and before long even his most ardent admirers stopped making the pilgrimage to Miles's shrine. The decades passed, and the people who could remember seeing Miles play were themselves starting to part from the earth. Life goes on, and of course, death follows. The cemetery continued to expand, and the once prominently placed monument to Miles was now obscured by mausoleums built for other forgotten entertainers. Even before they died, the few lucky enough to have their remains committed to such an exclusive graveyard were commisi