Archive for the Fiction Category


Posted in Fiction on March 20, 2013 by klogtheblog

frogscorpA frog met a scorpion by the side of a brook. The scorpion convinced the frog to help it cross the brook despite the frog’s hesitation at having anything to do with a scorpion.

“If I sting you, I’ll sink with you!” the scorpion said.

Of course, halfway across, the scorpion did sting the frog, saying, “You knew I was a scorpion when you picked me….Ugh! What’s happening to me?”

The scorpion convulsed with pain. Through his dying eyes, the frog smiled. “I am a deadly toxic Colombian Kokoe Poison Dart Frog. Prepare to die!”

“Oh, my Colombian friend, I have prepared to die for a long time.” Just then, the bloated corpses of a female frog and several dead tadpoles floated by. The frog’s expression turned from a pained smile to an agonized grimace. The scorpion laughed as he twitched. “Yes, I’ve been planning this revenge for years!”


“Your ancestor cruelly drowned my great-grandfather! Now your family dies, and your line dies with it!”

“Yes, but not alone,” croaked the frog.

Just then the air grew bright as giant mushroom clouds filled the sky.

“It was your great-grandfather who stung mine! While your family was plotting its crude revenge, mine was amassing a nuclear stockpile! Now the destruction of your kind is assured!”

“But at the cost of everything!” gasped the scorpion.

“What do I care? I’m dying.“

As the two of them died, a hot wind rushed over the land. Their bodies glowed with radioactive fire, and the water around them boiled.

–Dan Kilian

The First Incidence of That Thing Where You Say Everything The Other Person’s Saying and It’s Really Annoying

I Gave Up Borrowing for Lent -or- Fat Thursday



Posted in Comedy, Fiction on March 12, 2013 by klogtheblog

The assembled crowd gasped at the color of the smoke.  Four times the black plume had indicated that the new Pope had not been chosen.  But this time they had expected a pure white cloud and a return to influence of the Eurocentric Roman party inside the Vatican.  Instead there was a brief cough of yellow, greasy spume from the chimney.  Droplets of residue spattered onto the flagstones of the square.

A crackle and whine sprang from the speaker in a nearby Carbiniero’s ear.  He tore off his headset and cursed.  Around the square police officers in uniform and plain clothes struggled with communications gear that had suddenly gone haywire.

From inside the chapel came a dull booming sound, and then the staccato popping of small arms being fired in controlled bursts.  The chapel door opened by a crack, and then just enough for a Swiss Guardsman to push his head into the outside air.  “Iscariot protocol!” he shouted, before a clawed hand wrapped around his head, talons gouging his eyes, and pulled him back inside.  The door slammed shut.

The 98 people who died in the stampede from the square were the first of millions.

Pope–Steve Kilian

Dear Enormous Sea Creature

Light Bulbs Going Off

Know the Cranhgul

Posted in Fiction with tags , on January 25, 2013 by klogtheblog

Know the ImageCranhgul by their withered frames!  The lampreys that adorn their spines and clavicles drain sustenance from them while giving them the ability to see beyond the natural spectrum!  Their gums recede, their cheeks become hollows, they assume the classic skeletal visage of the mad wizard!  As the man shrivels the parasites grow fat and bulbous, but are kept hidden by the black cloaks that shroud this secretive race!  These robes cannot cover the stench of the Cranhgul, whose metabolisms are forever distorted by their sickening burden!  Their pores seep a clear fluid which reeks of the privy!Image

The lampreys grant long life to these disciples of forbidden arcana, allowing them to pursue strange courses of study for centuries on end!  They move past mastery of a subject into realms of knowledge of which normal mortals cannot conceive!  This has fed a long tradition of tales and songsImage that celebrate the Cranhgul’s greatness!  It was a Cranhgul who teased forth the rules of reanimating dead flesh!  It was a Cranhgul who unraveled time from matter, allowing the one to pass through the other unchanged!  It was a Cranhgul who first bound Will into iron, arming nations of warriors with weapons of terrible power!

ImageSome say that the parasites are the descendents of a great alien race!  If so their history is lost, as the parasites are no more than leeches when prised from the struggling forms of those Cranhgul that have been captured through treachery and luck!  Those slime-ensconced foulthings spew ichor when crushed underfoot!

Know the Cranhgul by their withered frames!

–Steve Kilian


The Most Brutal Route


Posted in Comedy, Fiction on October 22, 2012 by klogtheblog

Superman knew he was too late well before he pulled the car from the crevasse. Lois was dead. He’d gone after the nuclear missile; he had to. One love, however great, isn’t worth millions of lives. He’d done the right thing, but even at super-speed you can’t be everywhere at once. The rightness of his choice was little consolation. As he looked down at her broken body, a brokenness he could barely conceive of, a great sorrow shook his body. She was the one, she was gone. He would always be alone.

Sorrow turned to despair, and despair to howling rage. In fury he took to the sky. He accelerated past sound and light barriers, circling the Earth again and again. His revolutions magnetized the ions of space, pushing back on the earth’s spin. West to east he whipped around, and the Earth began to turn backwards. For the first time since the birth of the solar system, the sun set in the East, as the day reversed itself.

Finally he broke his spin and let the Earth return to its usual course. He came down to where he’d left Lois before his flight. Of course, she was still dead, but at least everything else was as well. His gyration of the earth had set loose massive tidal waves, balkanized the Earth’s crust, and stripped the atmosphere off the planet. Now all was rapidly freezing lava. Superman sat down on the freezing rock that was his home, and began to mourn his lost love.

“That’s better,” he thought.

–Dan Kilian

Batman vs. The Taliban

Dear Acme Product Returns

Mother Inferior

Posted in Fiction on October 5, 2012 by klogtheblog

They could smell burning flesh as they approached the temple. The sweet smoke rose from a woman – perhaps one of the Order.  She had been impaled on a roughly hewn wooden post sunk in the fountain of the entry courtyard. When last they had visited the place that fountain ran with clear water. Now the spring had been fouled; a thick, dark fluid ran clotted and scabbed over the rim of the fountain, puddling around the woman.

She shuddered slightly as they approached, her frame settling lower on the post. The smoke came from a necklace she wore about her neck. Her skin cracked and sputtered around the cord and whatever amulet it held, scorched scar tissue trying to swallow the thing. She opened one bloodshot eye — the other was nothing more than a crusted mass of pus — and looked down at the men surrounding her. A croak that was almost a sigh leaked around the shaft of the post jutting from her mouth.

Her vestments were filthy with blood and sweat, and hung loosely to expose swaths of skin that had been marked with crude lettering. Tharon traced his finger across the script, black letters on cracked and peeling skin. They had been burned into her side. He thought back to his days at the monastery, learning the ancient tongues from bent-backed priests. Before he could remember the name of the language the translation came to him: “Mother Inferior.”

As if this were a joke.

“How can she still be alive?” asked one of his companions. He couldn’t focus on which one it had been, couldn’t see anything but the abomination in front of him, couldn’t breathe anything but the greasy cloud that threatened to choke the hope from his voice. As if in response, the woman’s exposed skin crackled with fresh vigor as the sun came from behind a cloud. Her body twitched and shivered, and her one eye bulged and finally popped in a gout of steaming gore that turned to smoke before hitting the ground. Still she whimpered.

He unlimbered his pack and hefted his mace. The words of the ritual gathered in his mind, almost unbidden. “She’s not,” he said.

–Steve Kilian

Zoning Out

Mr. Obama: Playground Monitor

Discussion of Gojira’s “Dawn”

Posted in All things music, Critique, Fiction on August 29, 2012 by klogtheblog

With the birds singing at the beginning of it i just imagine an empty field sided by men stringing their bows, and a bunch of dumb sparrows blissfully unaware of the carnage about to unfold.

Rather than dumb sparrows, I interpret them to be the lesser brothers of the massive and improbable bird that hurtles downward from far above them. This creature, or construct, or abomination – this phenomenon of imagination – is composed of flesh made metal and metal made flesh, clockwork and feathers and bellows and lungs all heated to a sullen glow, a meteor shedding altitude for speed. 
The sparrows chirp lightly in recognition as the fallen satellite hits the ground just before unfurling it’s wings – it is here that the listener realizes that this bird is meant to fly in thicker skies than those we know. The deepest troughs of our atmosphere are hard and featureless vacuum to this thing. It flies instead under the surface of the Earth, skipping and gliding along the thermals of the mantle, spinning and diving through magma and diamond alike, then climbing from time to time to broach the enamel-thin surface of our world.  It erupts from below in gouts of pulverized granite and feldspar, basking in near-silence before plunging back into the crust. 
But then, around 3:45 in the playback, something goes dreadfully wrong. Whether the earthbird is damaged or ill is unknown. But the rhythm of its wings is altered, and not for the better. Was it shot by some wary guardsman as it toyed with the surface world?  Are there predators lurking in the stony fathoms below? Or was this no more than the aging of a plaything put to use more rigorous than it could sustain?  No matter, for now there is a battle afoot. 
The battle is fought heartbeat by stuttering heartbeat, the bird swooping core-ward and back, perhaps seeking to fuse its broken parts in the heat of Earth’s molten womb. But the mending is imperfect. And now the crippled beast must fight more furiously through the crushing strata.
Fight it does. And though the song ends, the listener knows that this combat will continue until the core grinds to a halt, solidifying in the final inevitable chill. 
–Benny Snaxxx
–Steve Kilian

Listening to Sunn O)))

Why I listen to Monster Magnet

Steve Helps Me With My Script

Posted in All things music, Fiction on August 27, 2012 by klogtheblog

Editor’s note: I’m currently co-writing the script for a musical about campaign financing. Ran what we’ve got by some friends and Steve suggested the following musical number.

Senator Strombach’s chest explodes as an interdimensional rift opens and allows a giant claw to erupt from his sternum.



A claw!

A claw!

From my chest has burst a clapping snapping claw!

It rips and tears and makes of meat a fleshy slaw!

A claw!




Bring to me my gun

Not the small but the larger one

Make sure it’s full of ammuniti-on

I must defend this plane – the only human one



What’s that you say?  Perhaps you’re right!

My focus on this item has blinded larger sight

Humans only exist in this single universe

To think anything else would simply be perverse!

And if we are truly utterly alone

Then it’s OK to do the thing I thought should never be done

So fire it up! Release the beast!

I’ll get the Medal of Honor or a Nobel Prize at least

The time has come!




The Vorticolion Deviiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiice!



Vorticolion Deviiiiiiiice!








I am so fucking good at this!  Really, this is so easy I don’t see why you need any help.  But if need be I’m here.

–Steve Kilian


The Equation