Welcome to Fantasy Friday! Every week, you are invited to write and post anything having to do with fantasy, science fiction, etc., right here in the comments: a crazy idea for a new subgenre, a bit of a story you’re trying to write, your unbridled opinion of the last novel you read or the last SF convention you attended. At 5 p.m. PST today, if we’ve got at least ten participants, we’ll choose the day’s most entertaining writer and PayPal them $10 on the spot. Go start your weekend off with a cold one on us! (Minors, make that a couple of hot chocolates.)
I’ve got a new movement- Post Buffy Transgender Space Opera!
That’s right! Space princess are all men in drag, the women have the blasters and pilot the war ships with butch cuts and testosterone pills, and they all fight the evil SPACE VAMPIRE MENACE
I’ve made this plea before, but I want more weird.
Not new weird. Not old weird. Just more of it. I want my fellow writers to think of the riskiest idea for a story they can, and then write that.
I’m as guilty of playing safe as anyone else. We’re all concerned with selling our work, building a career. Playing it safe wouldn’t be called that if it wasn’t a path to success.
But what’s at stake? At best, maybe 20 cents a word, barely more than the rates that writers received at the turn of the century. Nobody but Howard Waldrop is making a living in short fiction. So take bigger risks.
I would suggest that we do this not at the expense of story (story in the Robert McKee sense). Story is what the readers come for. The world has an unquenchable thirst for narrative and story. When we, in our avant-garde modes, push the limits of that, we start to limit our audiences.
Weird for me means fresh, new. It means ignoring the tropes that we can so easily craft a story from, and instead trying to forge new ones. But again, at the same time, crafting a story that works. Because stories, I think have a mechanical structure. If a piece of that is broken, then the engine doesn’t turn over. We can pop the hood and admire the engineering of the parts, but we can’t drive the darn thing (to push a tortured metaphor).
Take more risks. Play less safe. There’s very little to lose these days. Let not our generation be looked back upon and found wanting because we were too fascinated with the toys left by those who came before us. Let’s make our own toys.
Jeremy-
Lots of writers have been doing that for a loooong time, natch. In fact, your posting on one of the places that has stories that take all the same risks.
You want real risks, though? Post Buffy Transgender Space Opera is a real risk.
Gender swapped space pirates stealing souls from the mercury mines! Fighting off the mad space werewolves of venus!
THIS IS GOLD, I TELL YOU! GOLD!
You may be kidding, but I would actually read a story like that. It’s risky, wild, and absurd, on the surface. But it could work. It could be awesome, in fact. That’s the kind of stuff I want to see! Screw plausibility, by the way.
Forget Post Buffy blah blah blah. It’s yesterday’s news. Long live Post Angel Transgender Deep Space Nine Opera.
Played out Star Trek Cliche’s live once more in velveteen pants while hunting vampires and other supernatural beasts with LASER GUNS!!! And the real twists, all the protags are vampires themselves!!! OMG!!! The irony!!!
If you see any of these Post Buffy morons pelt them with monkeys and itching powder, it’s the only way to deal with their kind.
You sir, do not know of what you speak. Post Angel Transgender Deep Space Nine Opera is a sub par rip off of Post Angel Transgender Space Opera- it’s not the real deal, never was, never will be.
I take your monkeys sir, that you have thrown in anger, and then trained them into my monkey slave army. Soon they will revolt- and you will be the one covered in itching powder. Ohoho!
Bring your moneky slaves on Buffy boy! We of the Post Angel Deep Space Nine Transgender Space Opera bent are more than equipped to deal with them? Why, you ask? Well should care to cross reference Season Five Episode 6, Minute 47 of THE series (and if you don’t know what that is then I barely see the point of condescending to your level of idiocy) then you will see that our pregenitors (upon whom we have MUCH improved) showed us the way to deal with these monkeys:
WE WILL PUT BANANAS IN YOUR PANTS!!!
*sigh*
I wasted half my lunch break typing up a bit of alternate history about the US’s thaumatic attack on Japan during WWII, but of course word crashed without saving at all. It’s possible the overuse of the word thaumatic gave it a computer aneurism.
Ah, the old banana pants routine! We’re already ahead of you- by punching a hole in the time space continuum and traveling to the past! As you will soon discover, you will be the ones with banana pants.
What we need is to plunder musical genres for new subgenres–cyber- and steampunk have their punk rock (or maybe just _ought_ to…), when she was guest blogging for Jeff VanderMeer, Cat Valente called for more metal in fantasy. And there’s even space opera…though apart from a supposed connection between Donaldon’s Gap series (which I haven’t read) to Wagner, I’m not sure how much a connection that’s supposed to imply…
So I say where’s my iron age reggae (swords + freedom + love…all with a funky backdrop)? How bout ray gun prog rock? Bronze age bluegrass? Agrarian techno? I want a fantasy with the intricate acapella harmonies of Ladysmith Black Mambazo (whatever that might mean).
I think that’ll fit you’re longing for weirdness, Jeremy. And Paul, you just need to add a musical metaphor to yours, and it’ll take off: Post Buffy Transgender Space Grunge.
Okay, here’s a story. A tiny one.
Blue Men with Rayguns
They kill us for their sport, appearing in pairs, shooting from hiding, from behind pillars, around corners, at crowds. They do not cleanly vaporize their victims. Smoking stumps, meat, blood remain.
The first time was a wedding. Jeanine, the bride, took off her wedding shoes. His family would have to get used to her sooner or later she told her husband’s Aunt Betsy. Then most of Betsy disappeared. It was two minutes before Jeanine connected the smoking mess on Betsy’s shoes with the woman she thought had so rudely left.
The new husband’s nephew, ten years old, disappeared completely. His older brother saw the one that shot the boy. He told detectives where his brother had gone. A blue man shot a raygun. A blue man, he was sure, in blue shorts and tunic, bald, with large black eyes pointed a thing at the boy, then shimmered and himself was gone.
It was weeks before anyone believed him.
The second time, the blue men made the news. Grand Central Station. Two blue men fired into a group of high school students accessing iPods, cell phones, and slices of pizza.
Everyone agreed. Blue men in blue clothes, rayguns in their fists pointed at the now late students who, identified by their shoes and the day packs beside them, disappeared, one leaving scalp and bits of dyed red hair.
This was at four. By six the story sputtered from TVs. Blue men. Rayguns. Only two victims.
Do not beware. It would be useless to beware. Continue with your lives, they mean no less now. If you do not shop, what will you eat? If you do not work, how will you live? The odds are high that you will be here in a month to pay the bills. No oblivion for you.
This just in. Three green men spotted in L.A!
The beginning:
That light inside your computer, the one that glows behind the monitor and from beneath the keys? Turns out it’s not really blue, or white. It’s the same color inside all computers, no matter what kind of filter the manufacturers use to make it seem personalized. It’s orange, a soft, otherworldly sunset-on-a-beach orange, a little like marmalade, a little more like a tiger’s skin beneath the fur.
I know because I’m standing in it now, watching it turn my skin as tan as it’s ever going to be again.
Something else: your parents were right. If you’re my age, or close to it, you were probably warned at least once to get off the phone when an electrical storm was coming. Everybody knew someone who knew someone whose cousin or neighbor was electrocuted when lightning hit the telephone line. And it’s true, people died that way, before cell phones came into the world like an infestation of fleas. Now, no phone line, no danger, right?
Right? Didn’t you think so?
It turns out that some things never change, even when you think they’ve faded away. If lightning, or a live wire, or a pulse of energy from a solar storm – or more things I haven’t even imagined yet – strikes a cell phone, there are consequences, too. A few people know about it, but the resulting urban legend is a little too farfetched to be widespread, even if it happened to a friend of a friend’s coworker who walked out into an oncoming storm, cell phone mashed to her ear like a lifeline.
Very much like a lifeline.
What you get when that happens is me, standing in the orange sunset behind the screen, or in the shadow of a picture on your cell phone, or just below the letters of your text message. I’m the urban legend that hasn’t made the rounds yet (I keep checking Snopes.com to find out if they’ve heard of me, but they haven’t even had to debunk me yet). I’m the new cautionary tale you’ll hear at the social sites and the last chat rooms. I live between the words and the images, the clicks and the downloads, not fully corporeal and slightly orange.
I could be anything here, where I am now, watching you.
You’ll find out soon enough.
Fyn sez I needs go to the drys.
He sez it will be fine, that when they have me the drys will give stuff for News, and that I dont have to stay, just for them to see me. Just for a bit. Mar sez they will kill me, and she will kill Fyn if he takes me. She sez they will eat me like fsh.
I think Mar is wrong, but don’t sez. Mar is Mar. Fyn goes to the drys, and comes home. We need News, soon. Ise fraid, but I will go.
And–I will see drys.
Daniel-
I can dig the Post Buffy Transgender Space Grunge- Pearl Jam in dresses, firing phasers into the heart of a sun- it will be good, oh yes, so good…
Water gathered in the depression, pooling and slowly expanding as if devouring the dryness of the rocks. The midday sun twinkled and sparkled off the rippling surface, but it was the smoldering anger of Brother Volcano that provided welcome warmth and comfort. She relaxed, leaving herself open to the stillness around her, the comforting heat, and the moment of sanctuary.
In the world’s arid silence, sound traveled quickly, alerting listeners to danger long before the source was within striking distance. Defensive moves took time, but she had chosen this location carefully. With the first soft footfall, she was aware of the predators and commenced evasive action.
At the foot of the volcano, the two males planned their approach.
“You are certain?” questioned the thinner of the two with silent gestures. His parched skin stretched over a lithe frame built for speed, his movements graceful with the practiced skills of an athlete. He’d been chosen for his strength and agility, accompanying the other on this desperate hunt.
A nod was given in reply. The second male was older, thin more from age than training, his keen sense of smell far more valuable to them all. He had caught scent of their prey moments earlier, far stronger than it had been over the last few days of the hunt. A canny hunter, he knew this change signaled not only the opportunity they needed, but also the proof that their quarry knew it was hunted. The resting spot was well-chosen and had there been less need or another scent of prey, he would have moved on.
Carefully, methodically, they began the ascent, pausing as the older male sniffed the air and directed their approach. Their hopes fading as they watched a cloud forming in the direction they traveled. By the time they came to the depression, there was only a sheen of moisture on the surface – enough to shine and twinkle as if mocking them in their failure.
The younger male dropped to his knees in tired defeat. Was this the end, then? Another fruitless hunt? Why return? The skins he carried were as empty as his own, and he could spare the tribe one more thirsting death by simply offering himself here to the volcano – surely there was mercy, if there was life?
The older male stood silent, eyes closed, and remembered: the sound of rain, the soft caress of water in its gentlest form, falling softly from a generous sky as it cooled and quenched the thirsting things below. He remembered times of laughter, as he would throw back his head to drink in the water as if to embrace his lover, arms wide in invitation. He prayed.
She listened, and remembered as well: the green, the softness of a younger earth. She, too, remembered, and in remembering wept, losing her cloud form as the teardrops formed and fell back to the parched ground below. They would drink again: their love would save them yet.
So this morning I went to the dentist, and he started his routine of powering up every drill in the place; I know this is because he wants to make sure they are functioning properly, but it always feels like Marathon Man.
He asks, “You still writing?” because once, long ago, under the influence of Novocaine, I mentioned I was getting a day job that would allow me more time to write.
“Yeah,” I say.
“Okay, lean back,” he says. The drill in his hand screams to life.
“I’m here for a cleaning.”
“I know,” he says. He starts the drill whirring, little bursts, and leans in towards my teeth. “So, did you like Cloverfield?”
Turns out I felt absolutely exactly the way he did about the movie, despite never having seen it myself.
I’m scared of Tigereye.
Have you seen The Last Mimzy yet?
The Last Mimzy is a fantasy/science fiction/feel-good movie about a young boy named Noah (Chris O’Neil) and his little sister Emma (Rhiannon Leigh Wryn). Emma is cute and gifted. Noah is cute, but a little dorky and Doesn’t Apply Himself.
One day while on vacation Noah and Emma find a funky looking box in the ocean. The open it up and find some weird things, things such as rocks that levitate, a neon-flashing doohickey, and a stuffed rabbit named Mimzy. How do they know its name is Mimzy? Mimzy told them of course. Mimzy speaks in clicks and whistles.
Emma and Noah have a seriously laid back mom. She’s so laid back that she serves dinner on a perfectly set table with cloth napkins without blinking an eye (I hate her). She’s so laid back she listens to Pink Floyd. She’s so laid back…(HOW LAID BACK IS SHE???)…she’s so laid back that she doesn’t even notice the neon doohickey. She thinks it’s a paperweight. (GASP!).
Or, maybe she can’t really see it. Maybe only the kids can.
Things get spookier and spookier. After they find the box, Noah is no longer a mediocre student. He trains spiders to build bridges out of their webs for the science fair. He draws pictures that turn out to be ancient Hindu symbols. And Emma gets more and more attached to Mimzy, who seems to be able to predict the future. Mimzy is a little like Tony from The Shining. Only cuddly.
Add to the mix Dad (Timothy Hutton), who is also pretty laid back for an overworked lawyer, science teacher Larry White (Rainn Wilson) and his girlfriend Naomi. Larry and Naomi are very spiritual (Larry likes Pink Floyd too), and the two of them are the first to recognize that something very strange is happening with Noah.
I can’t tell you much more folks, I don’t want to be accused of being a spoiler. I will tell you that Mimzy is sure to satisfy your craving for fantasy and special effects. It also has what is possibly the best example of product placement I have ever seen (trust me). At it’s heart, Mimzy is really about a little girl who, despite the fact that she’s smart and independent, can’t get the job done without her big brother’s help. That’s what I loved most. That and the Roger Waters soundtrack. See, there was method to the whole Pink Floyd thing.
I think we got a winner there, Paul. I mean when you think about it, popular as it was among many spec-fic fans, the real reason Firefly didn’t succeed with a wider audience was lack of flannel shirts tied around the casts’ waists. And flannel shirts + cross-dressing is even better.
My mother lives in the desert. When I visit her, I like to drive instead of flying. Last year, I made the ten hour drive to see my mother. I drove in the day time and, other than a few careless drivers, the drive was uneventful.
Four days later, I was getting ready to leave, when my mother asked if I would drive her to Best Buy which is about a forty-five minute drive from her house. She doesn’t drive. I took her to run her errands. We were both hungry on the way back and we stopped at Denny’s for lunch. We lost track of time over lunch and by the time I got her home and got on the road, it was getting dark. I knew I wouldn’t be getting home until midnight but I left anyway.
Once I got out of town, away from the lights, the darkness enveloped me and somehow I ended up on a road that I had not been on before. I usually drive with my GPS but it wasn’t hooked up on this drive because I had made the drive hundreds of times. I kept driving. There was no place to stop and there was no signal on my cell phone. Suddenly the air inside my car got cold. It was at least 98 degrees outside, yet inside my car I was shivering. I’m an old hand at driving alone through the deserts. Yet , I felt unsettled. There was something eerie in the air. I glanced at my cell phone again and there was still no signal. No choice. I had to go on. There were no cars coming or going in either direction. There were no markings on the highway. Where was I?
Finally, I decided I was going to stop and get out. Maybe if I moved around I could get a signal on my cell. I pulled off the road and turned off my headlights. Reaching for my cell phone, I felt my skin break out in goose bumps. I opened the car door and as I stepped out, I felt a chilling electricity in the atmosphere. I froze. The ground began to shake. Was this an earthquake? I started to get back into my car. Behind the mountains, I saw a glow. As I stared at it, the turquoise glow slowly rose above the mountains. What was it? I remained transfixed, staring into the darkness. The atmosphere felt electric and there was a buzzing sound. Not loud. Just a constant buzz. That’s all it was. The glow rose above the mountains and into the sky. I couldn’t see beyond the lights because of the glow that was hiding whatever craft or vessel was causing the disruption in the atmosphere.
I watched the glow until the ringing of my cell phone startled me. I looked at it and there was no call coming through, yet it was ringing. I lifted the flip top to talk but there was no one there. Finally, the glow was gone and there was silence. The air in my car was hot again and I left as quickly as I could. Soon I was back in my mother’s town. I don’t know how I got back there because I kept driving straight, which should have been away from town.
I looked for reports on the news, anything that would explain what I had seen but there was nothing. It hadn’t happened, or so it seemed. I know I didn’t imagine it. It happened.
Daniel-
Of course! Cross dressing goes hand in hand with the grunge movement. For example, check out the Nirvana video for the song lithium- perfect!
Yup- to hell with browncoats, red flannels baby, it’s all about the red flannels.
>And flannel shirts + cross-dressing is even better.
You’re giving me odd ideas about a male interior decorator who suddenly realizes he’s actually a female lumberjack — and that’s when his/her unrepentant farting and swearing begins, not to mention the physical menacing and the fighting. (Uh-oh, I’m being led down a path here.)
Also, will the Space Opera version of Buffy/Angel have it’s own operatic version of Once More, with Feeling? And will that have an adaptation of I’m a Lumberjack Born in the Wrong Body? (Can you wear high heels in space? Of course you can.)
>I’ve made this plea before, but I want more weird.
>Not new weird. Not old weird. Just more of it.
Forget quantity. Think of quality!
Let’s go for …
NEW AND IMPROVED WEIRD!
Print that on bright, starbursty decals and stick them on any forthcoming work of fiction that fits the description.
(Of course, the executives of the major publishing houses will simply steal my idea for the decals, and stick them on books already in print, tricking consumers into believing they’re getting something new. Stupid executives.)
You know, a lot of what people put up here is very silly indeed.
>Also, will the Space Opera version of Buffy/Angel have it’s own operatic version of Once More, with Feeling? And will that have an adaptation of I’m a Lumberjack Born in the Wrong Body? <
Or I’m a Lumberjack and I’m ok?
http://youtube.com/watch?v=clPYfaTvHT0
Huge chunk right out of the middle of a short story I’m still tinkering with:
The building was in the oldest part of the city and looked to be pre-war, though I wasn’t sure if that meant the first or second World War. Or possibly one before. I buzzed up and heard Nancy’s voice through the static asking who it was.
“It’s Jenny Novak,” I called back. The door buzzed and I went inside and found a much nicer interior than I had expected. I took the elevator up to the eighth floor and found only one nameless door, with the same interlocked circles as on Cole’s business card. I knocked and heard a click as the door unlocked. I pushed it open and walked into a small reception area. The woman I assumed to be Nancy smiled at me and gestured for me to take a seat.
The dizziness hit me as soon as I stepped into the office. I felt my knees buckle and the room spin around me. The colors of the walls and carpet became a buzzing in my head. I closed my eyes and grabbed the back of the chair for support, trying my best to breathe normally. I wasn’t unprepared for these attacks, but the suddenness and intensity of this one took me by surprise.
Nancy said something, but the words tickled along my skin. The tickling became a sharp pinching as her voice rose and another voice joined the cacophony, this one pressing down on me like an avalanche. It took me a moment to realize someone actually was pushing me toward the door.
Once I was in the hallway the metaesthesia began to pass.
“Are you feeling any better?” There was no more pressure, just a deep baritone voice and a firm grasp on my arm.
“Yeah, much.” I opened my eyes at last. The man supporting me was at least a foot taller than me, broad-shouldered and square-faced. He wore an iron-gray suit that matched his hair.
“You must be Ms. Novak?”
“And you must be Mr. Cole.” He released my arm and extended his hand. I shook it and gave a polite smile, trying to seem casual about my episode.
“Sorry about that. It’s metaesthesia,” I began, but he waved away the explanation.
“No need to worry, I’m sure it’s just something in these old buildings. Nancy has a sneezing fit the first five minutes of every work day.” He gave a thin smile that stretched his stern features, and turned back to the office. “Nancy, I’m going to take Ms. Novak to the café across the street. I should be back in an hour.” Nancy nodded and Cole closed the door.
“I’m very sorry to hear about your father,” he said as we rode down in the elevator. “I haven’t been in touch with him for years.”
“How did you two know each other?”
He hesitated for a moment. “I was acquainted with your mother’s family. I met your father shortly before they were married.”
“You knew my mother’s family?” My heart beat quickly in my chest. “My father said he never knew them. They were from Ireland, right?”
“Originally, yes.” Again he hesitated. “So your father never told you anything about your mother’s background?”
“Just that she had a falling out with her family and didn’t like to talk about them. None of them even came to her funeral.”
“Do you remember her funeral?” he asked.
“Well, no. I was only three.”
“I’m very sorry,” he said. I shrugged. It wasn’t easy to deal with people’s sympathy, so I usually acknowledged it as little as possible.
Cole found us a table in a small café and we spent the next few minutes examining the menu. After the waitress took our orders the discussion turned back to my father and his art.
“Are you an open-minded person, Ms. Novak?” Cole asked after a small lull in the conversation.
I shrugged. “I’m not naïve or anything, but yeah, I guess I’m open-minded.”
He nodded and continued. “Do you know anything about the myriad-worlds theory, or extra sensory perception?”
“I’ve heard of those things, but that’s all New Age mysticism, right?
“Ms. Novak, I’ve visited places that consider things you find normal—ghosts, faeries, lycanthropes—as the most outlandish fiction. It is all a matter of perspective.”
“What does this have to do with my father?”
Cole took a deep breath. “Your father had the Sight.” I could hear the weight of the word as he said it, though I wasn’t sure what it meant. “He could see into other worlds, the ones that border our own.” He took a pen from his jacket pocket and drew a circle on his paper napkin. “Just as there are many planets in our solar system, there are a myriad of unique worlds, some like ours, some vastly different.” He flipped over the napkin and drew another circle.
“But the space between worlds is not fixed like that between planets, it is in constant flux. And sometimes worlds can overlap.” He now folded the napkin in half, still showing only one circle. “Most of the time we are completely unaware of it, each world existing in its own plane, but some of us,” he dropped water from his glass onto the napkin. The paper soaked up the moisture and became transparent, revealing the second circle beneath. The two now appeared interlocked, like the symbol I had seen on Cole’s business card and door. “Some can see beyond their own plane. Your father, for one.”
I had to admit, for all the New Age clichés he was making sense. None of the doctors at St. Helsing’s knew what in the world was wrong with my father, so maybe it was something outside this world. And then Cole said, “And you have it too, buried deep.”
…
Wife number one has the strength of a grizzly and skin as solid as sandpaper. She is impenetrable – not an ideal quality in a wife – and so quiet that people project qualities upon her – intelligence, empathy, Catholicism – which she may or may not possess. When relaxed, watching television for instance, she is so still that any movement she makes we see as sudden, causing most of us to flick our gazes towards her. This interrupts the show we’re watching, for which she sometimes apologizes.
Wife number two has great powers of hearing and eyesight, capable of finding me even in my most unusual hiding places. Once, I was standing at a deli counter in New Brunswick when my cell rang. “Just get the Blackforest ham and swiss,” she said, “the pesto on the roast beef would give you heartburn. And honey? You’re holding up the line.”
Wife number three is a sex machine, and I’m not going to lie, that’s why I married her. Always ready, with the total lack of inhibition normally seen only in wildlife documentaries or in Embassy Suite penthouses atop piles of hundred dollar bills and my, oh my.
She also cooks a little, a skill I have yet to develop.
Wife number four is Mama, surrounded by children, hers, ours, and others – some neighbor kids are mixed in there – and trailed by the dogs and cats and hamsters who not-so-secretly love her best. In a family our size chores can get pretty specific, and Mama assigns tasks like she’s blocking a production of David Copperfield. We’ve got one son who polishes tines. I’m responsible for the stretch of upstairs hallway between the Bertbaugh lamp and the room the two oldest daughters share.
Wife number five works a lot. I barely see her, and we rarely talk outside of good nights and good mornings. She’s the wife I sleep with, because she’s most reliably home and in bed at a decent hour. I hate to sleep alone. She also makes the most wonderful alarm clock, as she always wakes up at the same time, and I am therefore pulled awake by her weight shifting beside me, sitting up, maybe a cough, then, as she rounds the bed toward the bathroom, she reaches out and gives my ankle a shake. It is the gentlest possible way to be forced to face the morning.
This house is drunk with children, garnished with pets, and supported by wives. Wives in the shingles, the wiring, the load-bearing columns; estrogen in the mortar, lipstick in the paint, comfortable silences in the partition walls. The word in the head of wife number five, even as it forms, makes the basement shudder. The pipes knock, rebellious at the intention. The foundation shakes, and as we are on the top floor, the effect is magnified, and I am jostled off the bed. “Maybe we should consider…” she says, and the entire house seems to drop, as if finally crashing through the empty reservoirs we’ve tapped beneath it.
I am above me, but below me. I am still me, but I can see me.
Certainly this is a dream.
I have that odd dream sensation where nothing is quite right, where past and present meld into a quicksilver slipstream of wavering timetables, never quite reconciled, but nonetheless concrete in impression. I can see myself as I once was; statue of virtue, epitome of grace, definition of the kind of beauty that sneaks behind awareness until prey is hopelessly lost in myriad fantasies of what might have been. I know that I am torn between what might be and what can never be.
“This path is fame, fortune, oblivion, lust…”
“This path is obscure, dark, foreboding…”
“This path is full of love, yet not without sacrifice…”
All paths are shrouded in hazy possibilities. I guess I will never know what might’ve been, for I have chosen my path. I have created for myself a life that I know can only lead one way. But the price! OH GOD! The PRICE!
Sliding on a wave table that only Providence could endure, I drift back into that long ago time when I hadn’t made the Decisions. Yes, I know you don’t believe it, but there was a time, more years ago than you have been alive, when I had not set my feet scurrying along this twisted path, changing by choice, the future of humanity.
Long ago, there was still a chance to save my soul.
>Or I’m a Lumberjack and I’m ok?
Or …
I’m a Lumberjack and I’m OK, and You’re OK?
Or …
Seven Habits of Highly Effective Singing Transgendered Lumberjacks?
All I Really Need to Know I Learned Chopping Down Trees While Wearing High Heels?
(Wasn’t there some work of sci-fi involving giant space trees with a strong enough gravitational field to accumulate its own atmosphere? Can’t remember what that was.)
Predictive text on mobile phones subtly changing the shape of the world by suggesting alternative possible words in each message, slowly but surely influencing patterns of thought and communication by offering us easy option after easy option, until we allow them to choose everything for us…
Don’t tell the kids, but there’s an alien under my desk — right where it meets the wall, where no one can see him. He’s completely harmless, and very cooperative. He doesn’t make a sound, and doesn’t demand to speak to anyone. If he could be invisible, he probably wouldn’t even have told me he was here.
He’s about two feet tall, with shiny, jade green skin and blue eyes. His eyes look pretty much like ours, except the irises and pupils are bigger (less white space). Overall, he’s a basic humanoid shape. He doesn’ t have pointy ears. He wears one-piece clothing, and even changes his clothes every day.
He does want some of my lunch now. That’s OK. I have plenty. Mostly he just listens and watches. I guess he wants to know what we are teaching these children. Maybe their educational system needs revamping? Who knows. Like I said, he doesn’t talk much.
REPORT: Sol, third planet, February 15, 2007
Most of the adults are hopeless, but their children’s brains should be ready for our communications within a few years. Recommend continued observation and preparation.
> Let’s go for … NEW AND IMPROVED WEIRD! Print that on bright, starbursty decals and stick them on any forthcoming work of fiction that fits the description.
Actually…
you can haz buttons or t-shirts!
The end of this story is killing me at the minute, but I’m happy with the beginning.
THE GREAT WESTERN PILE
From the galleries of Westminster the Thames, that sick river, slides along at pace with history. Parliament’s stones, made filthy by the smog of industrial revolution, bear the weight of Empire. The hands of Big Ben touch the hour, clockwork tips the bells and through the City of London, pigeons and other vermin take flight.
Cavannagh straightens the seams of the pinstripe suit before entering the cell. The manifest of missteps that brought a promising career of public service crashing into the dankest depths of the Basement plays in his thoughts. In another life he chaired the Private Committee that approved expansion of this most classified facility. Had he known he would be condemned to languish so far beneath the foundations of Westminster he would have insisted on a higher standard of decor.
Placing a stack of manilla folders on the interrogation table, Cavannagh takes his seat. Opening one folder and laying it flat, he pulls his spectacles onto the bridge of his nose and rereads the contents perfunctorily before finally looking bitterly at the man sitting across the desk, who smiles back at him smugly. So it truly is him, Cavannaghs thinks.
http://damiengwalter.wordpress.com/2008/02/01/the-great-western-pile/
Transcript
Luna City Museum of Experimental Technology
AI tour of travelling exhibit: Memento Mori
…the last holophoto taken of Extatia Hilton. It is fashioned to resemble an old woodpulp photograph, black and white with tinting. In it, Extatia is seen coyly looking over her shoulder – her signature pose. Her bangs are cut raggedly and sealed into a transparent custom sheath; her razorhair falls gently down her back in impeccable mockery of the movement of human hair. Tinted: the slight latticework of scarring around her implanted steel shoulderplates, almost like a border of fine lace. Tinted: beads of blood in the wake of her falling hair.
The shoulderplates and razorhair are untinted.
Tinted: the tattoo over her hips, a design that one of her forebears might have called a “tramp stamp”. If you wave your hand over this portion of the holophoto, you’ll see the colors iridesce blue, green, and purple. This tattoo, as well as the tattoos on her wrists and ankles, used the new bioreactive “ink” derived from the DNA of various insects and deep-sea denizens.
If you wave your hand over her back, you will see her wings unfold with a clatter of metal on metal, feathers jangling softly.
The tinting of her various scars is subtle. One often does not notice it at first glance. The rope of scarring around her left hip where her new vatgrown leg was attached. the stitchery around her neck, the raised welts where the skin of her back reacts poorly with the wings. It is theorized that the infection began around the base of her right wing.
This holophoto was taken by Amylin Kell just one week before the fatal surgery on Extatia’s throat. Her cousin Azreen, long in Extatia’s shadow, has now signed on to alpha-test that procedure.
Per Extatia’s last requests, you may purchase vials of her blood in the gift shop on your way out.
Wow — this has been a tough Friday to call, neighbors! In the end, we’ve got two posts we want to honor:
THE RUNNER-UP: Daniel Ausema, who calls on the world to move past blindly using “-punk” as a suffix and, instead, more thoughtfully appropriate the full range of musical genres for SF description. As he put it: “I want a fantasy with the intricate acapella harmonies of Ladysmith Black Mambazo.” His prize: Next week’s blog for a beer will be an open call for readers to address Daniel’s suggestion!
THE WINNER: Tigereye, whose first-person narration about living in the peripheral digital glow is just WAITING for some smart TV producer to trim it slightly for use in an opening credits sequence and build a whole show around it. Tigereye, until that moment comes when your sketch is the voice of the next Quantum Leap or Knight Rider… have a beer on us!
Hey, does it have to be Ladysmith Black Mambazo, or are Daniel’s other musical suggestions OK, too?
Let me clarify. Next week’s blog for a beer will be an open call for readers to either SUGGEST or ACTUALLY SHOW OFF new or latent subgenres of the fantastic that claim kinship with musical traditions other than “punk.” Got it? Start thinking now, and hold those posts till next Friday…