Cherry
Blossom
Girls
(BOX SET)
Books 1-3
By Harmon Cooper
Box Set Copyright © 2019 by Harmon Cooper, Boycott Books, LLC
Edited by Dalton Lynne
Audiobook by Justin Thomas James, Annie Ellicott, Laurie Catherine Winkel, and Jeff Hays at Soundbooth Theater
www.harmoncooper.com
writer.harmoncooper@gmail.com
Email signup: https://geni.us/HCReaders
Facebook Group: https://geni.us/ProximaGalaxy
Patreon: https://www.patreon.com/HarmonCooperWriter
All rights reserved. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. You guessed it—I make this $#!T up!
Table of Contents
Table of Contents
Chapter One: Dark and Stormy
Chapter Two: You’re a Psychic Shifter, and I’m a Terrible Writer
Chapter Three: No Naked Moms in the Morning
Chapter Four: Shifting in Public
Chapter Five: Adjusting Grace’s Stats
Chapter Six: Stolen Pizza and the Idea of a Lifetime
Chapter Seven: Data Breach
Chapter Eight: The Second Cherry Blossom Girl
Chapter Nine: Getting Rid of Dead Bodies Ain’t Easy
Chapter Ten: Snuff Videos
Chapter Eleven: Hooking up in Stamford
Chapter Twelve: Two Days to Write a Book (or Death)
Chapter Thirteen: Creative Nonfiction Gamer Sci-Fi?
Chapter Fourteen: Steak and Shrimp with Veronique
Chapter Fifteen: A Hand in the Shower
Chapter Sixteen: We Will Destroy Them All
Chapter Seventeen: Memories Revisited
Chapter Eighteen: Heavy Metal Orchestra
Chapter Nineteen: Angel
Chapter Twenty: Stitched Up
Chapter Twenty-One: Ready to Die?
Chapter Twenty-Two: Coming Clean to Luke
Chapter Twenty-Three: Cherry Blossoms Revisited
Chapter Twenty-Four: Easy Access
Chapter Twenty-Five: The Plastic Room
Chapter Twenty-Six: Calling Angel Out
Chapter Twenty-Seven: Goodbye, Cruel World
Chapter Twenty-Eight: Cherry Blossom Girls, Inc.
Cherry Blossom Girls Book Two
Chapter One: Biker Feast
Chapter Two: Stranger Danger
Chapter Three: I Want an Ice Cream Truck in My Back Yard
Chapter Four: Dorian Gray and the T-Rex Made of Energy
Chapter Five: Mother is Watching
Chapter Six: Writing, Crawfish, and a Visit to the Local Strip Club
Chapter Seven: Surprise Visit
Chapter Eight: Put Her in the Trunk and Drive to Texas
Chapter Nine: Playing with Stats
Chapter Ten: Pornographic Insight
Chapter Eleven: Veronique’s Stats
Chapter Twelve: A Day in the Life of a Fugitive
Chapter Thirteen: Endgame Dreams
Chapter Fourteen: Dorian Wakes
Chapter Fifteen: Snack Attack
Chapter Sixteen: Botched Interrogation
Chapter Seventeen: She’s with Us
Chapter Eighteen: Pizza and Gruesome Jokes
Chapter Nineteen: Broken Bird’s Nest
Chapter Twenty: The First Grenade
Chapter Twenty-One: Mother
Chapter Twenty-Two: Incest is Best?
Chapter Twenty-Three: Back and Forth
Chapter Twenty-Four: YOLO
Chapter Twenty-Five: Up and Away
Chapter Twenty-Six: A Much-Needed Shower Scene
Chapter Twenty-Seven: Ken Kim Calls Again
Chapter Twenty-Eight: A Texas Gun Show
Chapter Twenty-Nine: Grand Theft Auto ATX
Chapter Thirty: Taking Down Helicopters is Fun
Chapter Thirty-One: Kidnap or Kill. The Story of My Life.
Chapter Thirty-Two: A Golden Shower in Santa Fe
Chapter Thirty-Three: Everyone Needs a Little Head
Chapter Thirty-Four: Cherry Blossoms
Cherry Blossom Girls Book Three
Chapter One: Wolf Shirts
Chapter Two: Talking Head
Chapter Three: An Impromptu Date with Dorian Gray
Chapter Four: An Explosive Tattoo
Chapter Five: What Happens in Santa Fe, Stays in Santa Fe
Chapter Six: Wichita, I Hardly Knew Thee
Chapter Seven: A Little Pressure
Chapter Eight: Luke, I Am Your Writer
Chapter Nine: Mind Games
Chapter Ten: Teenage Mutant Super Prisoners
Chapter Eleven: The Great Escape
Chapter Twelve: Damage Control
Chapter Thirteen: Out of Body Sex
Chapter Fourteen: Angel in the Backpack
Chapter Fifteen: Breakfast of Champions
Chapter Sixteen: Super Teens
Chapter Seventeen: Shopping Spree!
Chapter Eighteen: A Mansion in the Rockies
Chapter Nineteen: Running through Walls
Chapter Twenty: Stat Check
Chapter Twenty-One: Know Thy Enemy
Chapter Twenty-Two: Not Vegas
Chapter Twenty-Three: Possessed
Chapter Twenty-Four: Sex Scenes with Luke
Chapter Twenty-Five: Two Sheets to the Wind
Chapter Twenty-Six: Capture the Hero
Chapter Twenty-Seven: P.F. Panda’s Out the Wazoo
Chapter Twenty-Eight: Goodbye Future Super Babies
Chapter Twenty-Nine: Here We Go Again
Chapter Thirty: Thank You to the Stoners in Room 126
Chapter Thirty-One: Back and Forth
Chapter Thirty-Two: Coming Clean over Waffles
Chapter Thirty-Three: To WalMacy’s and Beyond!
Chapter Thirty-Four: Fast Attack
Chapter Thirty-Five: You Say Nevada, I Say Destruction
Chapter Thirty-Six: Banished
Chapter Thirty-Seven: The Trailer
Back of the Book Content
Chapter One: Dark and Stormy
It was a dark and stormy night when a nude woman showed up on my doorstep.
Really, it was, and sure, calling it a dark and stormy night is a literary no-no, but I was a writer – still am, even after all this – and I’m granted at least one hackneyed phrase.
Besides, I wasn’t kidding when I said it was dark and stormy. Nor was I kidding about the mysterious nude woman.
The electricity had cut off an hour ago, and a candle that smelled like pipe tobacco was the only thing lighting my tiny basement apartment.
It was cold, and even though I was tucked under a New England Patriots blanket my aunt and uncle had given me for Christmas last year, I could barely feel my toes.
Rain lashed at the tiny slit windows near my ceiling, and the entire apartment building creaked and moaned as thunder boomed in the sky.
Lightning cracked, and just as it subsided, I heard a terrible screech from the street outside.
My attention shifted to the front door as a car horn rang out. The person honked their horn again, and the peeling sound of tires slipped into my apartment.
What’s going on out there? I thought as I put my e-reader down.
There was no way for me to look out the window because it was too high up – a basement hopper window – and besides, the window was so grimy on the outside that I wouldn’t have been able to see anything anyway.
I had to do something, but …
Like I said before, I was a writer – still am – so I’m clearl
y not the I-heard-a-sound-outside-better-go-investigate-type.
I didn’t have a gun, didn’t have any type of survival or Boy Scout training, didn’t have any hand-to-hand combat skills, and didn’t venture out past dark very often.
Sure, I guess some writers were more daring – your Hemingways and your nature survivalist types … hell, even your gonzo guys – but not a science fantasy writer like me, and especially not a sci-fi writer who wrote gamer fiction.
What’s going on out there? I thought again as I ran my hand through my beard. More importantly, Why am I instinctively getting out of bed? Why am I putting my glasses on and smoothing my hands over my sweater?
A scream outside sent a shiver down my spine.
It was April in New Haven, Connecticut, and it was a lot more frigid than it should have been. I was reminded of this as my bare feet touched the concrete floor and a spark of cold cut into my bones.
I silenced the voice at the back of my head telling me to go back to my bed, get under the covers, finish my digital copy of The Art of War, and not venture into the unknown.
I slipped into my sandals and took the steps up to the exit.
The curiosity had gotten to me.
Here goes nothing, I thought as I unlocked the top bolt. I had to see what was going on out there.
A bitter wind fringed with droplets of water nearly tossed me off the steps.
But the weather was of no interest to me as my eyes fell on a naked woman lying on the curb, her skin pale and her long blonde hair a mess over her face.
She looked up at me and her eyes flashed white.
Help.
A feminine voice appeared inside my skull, and my first instinct was to glance around to see where it had come from.
Please …
The ghastly woman’s face began to morph, starting with her bleach blonde hair, which turned dark, and moving down to her chin, which elongated as her skin started to bubble and change color.
Her skin snapped back into place, and she collapsed after one last glance at me with her piercing white eyes.
By this point I was stooped in front of the wet woman, lifting her into my arms.
It was the start of a story that I could have never written, a story that many would later deem impossible, a story that would make my writing famous, and expose a terrible government secret.
She was the first Cherry Blossom Girl.
Chapter Two: You’re a Psychic Shifter, and I’m a Terrible Writer
Wooster Square, a small neighborhood near Yale University, was famous for two things.
The first was its pizza, which was remarkable for its taste and the thinness of its crust. The next was the Yoshino Japanese cherry blossom trees, which were planted in 1973 and had thrived ever since, resulting in a yearly festival.
I didn’t know the moment I brought the woman into my basement apartment that her arrival would signal the blooming of the cherry blossoms that next morning, but I’d find out soon enough, especially because my apartment was just a few blocks away from the square.
The only thing on my mind as I brought her in and wrapped her in my New England Patriots blanket, was getting her help.
This thought quickly changed when I set her on my bed, and her face began to change into mine.
The sheer horror of seeing someone’s face change into yours is something I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemies. There I was, messy beard, dark bags under my eyes, glasses, hair parted at the side, pointy nose.
It was enough to throw anyone off balance.
I fell backward, cracking my ass on the hard concrete of my floor – dammit, I needed to get to Ikea to get a carpet, but I was broke! – and as I got to my feet, the nude female who had been lying on the curb outside my basement apartment had officially turned into me, down to my threadbare sweater.
She stared at me a moment longer and as she touched her face – the spitting image of my face – her eyes changed to the same color as mine. Hell, she even had the light beard stubble on the chin and the nonexistent stubble near the corners of my mouth down.
“What the hell are you?” I asked as I backed into my writing desk. My notepad fell, followed by my computer speakers and an old coffee cup filled with pens.
“What the hell are you?” she asked in my body but with her soft voice.
There was something melodic about the way she spoke, that soothed me even though she was speaking to me from my own body.
“Can you please … um … change back?” I asked.
Change to what?
This time her voice was in my head.
I could have sworn that just moments ago she spoke to me in person … but maybe that was in my head too. My features began to melt away, starting with the crown of her head, and soon she was back to her old self.
Pale skin, bleach blonde hair, blue eyes, voluptuous, clean-shaven – a Scandinavian dream if there ever was one. She didn’t seem to mind that she was sopping wet and in a stranger’s home. She also didn’t seem to mind that the blanket had fallen from her chest, revealing her large breasts.
The candlelight cast her silhouette to the wall on the right, which reminded me that she was indeed a real person. Because for a second there, I thought I’d eaten something bad for lunch, or that the one time I took shrooms in college was coming back to haunt me.
A Joseph Campbell quote came to me: “A blunder – apparently the merest chance – reveals an unsuspected world, and the individual is drawn into a relationship with forces that are not rightly understood.”
Ha! I wanted to scream at myself, if that’s not the understatement of the year …
The electricity flickered on and she looked up to the single bulb hanging from my ceiling.
“Yeah, it’s a crappy place,” I said.
“Who …?” She pointed at me.
“Who am I?”
She nodded, and her voice appeared in my head: Who are you? Gideon Caldwell? You are Gideon Caldwell.
“That’s right,” I told her as I touched my chest. “I’m Gideon.”
I hadn’t met many people named Gideon, and I doubted that anyone living in Wooster Square was named after someone from the Hebrew Bible. I wasn’t raised religious or anything; I think my parents just liked the name because of some song by a band named My Morning Jacket.
“I’m Gideon,” I said again, with more confidence. “Gideon Caldwell.”
Gideon? I like that name.
“How are you doing that, lady?”
She tilted her head at me. “My name isn’t lady.”
“I have no idea what your name is or what happened, but I’m calling the cops.”
I moved to my phone, which rested on its charging pad near my computer.
My legs suddenly stopped functioning.
They didn’t turn to jelly or anything, they just froze, as if they’d suddenly been crafted from concrete and left to dry for a week.
My legs frozen, I tried to reach my arms out, but I was too far away from my desk. I looked at the woman as fear spread across my face. I wanted to move, but at the same time, I had the urge to stay exactly where I was.
“You can … freeze people?”
My knees buckled, and I tumbled sideways, nearly colliding with my lamp.
No call. Her voice whispered inside my head.
“Let me get this straight,” I said as I got to my feet. “You can freeze things, talk in my head and … change forms.”
I pinched my arm. Nope, not dreaming.
“So,” I felt stupid as the next words tumbled out of my mouth. “You’re a psychic shapeshifter.”
The woman took a deep breath and fell, her head smacking against the edge of my bed and her exposed breasts bouncing up and down.
It must have been something I said.
I tried a few more times to get to my phone with the intent of calling an ambulance.
Every time I moved away from the bed, it became harder and harder to move, as if I were stepping through quicksand,
or participating in a mud run. I had a friend who liked to do those mud runs, and I had no idea what the appeal was – nor did I like getting dirty, even though I lived in a kind of grimy basement apartment.
I glanced around. Well, it wasn’t too grimy, but it wasn’t that nice either.
My computer desk was against the wall next to the door – or I should say, the steps leading up to the door. Next to that were a futon and a small coffee table that I picked up from Goodwill. There was a kitchen, but it was the size of a closet, not even large enough for a microwave. On the opposite side of the kitchen was my bed, and on the opposite side of that was the bathroom.
I liked my bathroom, actually. It had a walk-in shower and an old medicine cabinet. I don’t know why I liked that cabinet, but I did.
In less than a week’s time, this place would be a distant memory, and my return to New Haven would be tainted by the loss of a friend and an attack from an incredibly powerful super being.
But the Gideon Caldwell a day before the cherry blossoms bloomed had no way of knowing this.
“Remember,” I told myself as I paced before the bed, “you’re the adult here, um, yeah, you’re the adult.”
I needed to cool down, and a single aspirin always helped calm my nerves for some reason. I went to the medicine cabinet, took a pill, closed it and looked at my own reflection in the mirror.
“You have to do this.”
It was like goddamn Tony Robbins had stepped into the room.
Confidence swelled in me, and sure, I sounded ridiculous, but somehow saying this gave me just enough confidence to go back into my bedroom / living room / kitchen / open area concept space and try to wake the mysterious woman.
Or tend to her.
I didn’t have the slightest clue how to ‘tend’ to someone, but I figured it would involve helping her sit up, or propping her up against a pillow, or putting her feet up – no, no, that was stupid.
I had no idea what I was doing.
Goodbye, Tony! I was nervous, shocked, my palms were sweaty, and I still felt the adrenaline rushing through me. Or at least, the after results of the adrenaline rushing through me.
I had written tons of fight scenes for my LitRPG, cyberpunk, and science fantasy books that I’d self-published to little or no accolades.