Thursday, August 29, 2002

 

Money makes the world go round. Literally. You think it’s just an old saying, but the fact is that the vast engines beneath the ground which keep our world spinning are powered by money. It isn’t a metaphor, either. I’m not talking about how they need lots of money to buy the fuel to power the gyroscopes. Money is the fuel. Specifically, paper currency.

You ever wonder what happens to your dollars or euros or whatever when they get too beat up to use? They take them out of circulation, obviously, and replace them with new bills, but what happens to the old ones? If you’ve taken the Federal Reserve tour, you’ve probably seen a big transparent pipe full of shredded dollars. Supposedly, they shred all the money and sell it for various uses, like making souvenirs for the Federal Reserve tour gift shop.

They do shred the money, but not for souvenirs. Even the Fed doesn’t get enough tourism for that. Besides, the engines need fuel. So they burn them.

It’s a pretty good system. They don’t need to cut down extra trees, because they reuse the old paper currency. It’s already been used to its fullest, so the fuel is effectively free. There’s some pollution, obviously, as you can’t expect to burn ton after ton of shredded former currency without some byproducts, but before you start complaining about global warming, consider how screwed up things would get if the world were to stop going round. You think things are bad today? Imagine how irritated people would get if half the planet were doomed to eternal darkness. Particularly the people in the dark half.

They don’t like to make a big deal about the machines. They’re old, see, and don’t follow current safety guidelines. They figure, better to keep a low profile. Sure, it’s hard to recruit and all their work get attributed to inertia—like that lazy fatcat would actually do anything—but it’s better than a lawsuit.

by Dave Menendez 11:59 PM

 

"Her voice is full of money.” -- F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Great Gatsby

It all started innocently enough, a joke between the two brothers.

“I’ll bet,” said Daniel looking at the schematics, “there’s a market for this sort of thing. People will pay for just about anything if you let them. And it’s not like your software isn’t advanced enough, right?”

Joseph laughed, sipping his beer. “Yeah,” he said, “I guess. It’d probably just be a question of funding. Integrating the AI with the rest of it, the hardware, that’d be relatively easy, I think. There’s already been some limited success overseas. You’d just need the right people to build the artifical body for her. But -- I don’t know, Danny. We are kidding around here, right?”

Daniel looked at his brother and grinned.

“Well, maybe,” he said, “but maybe not. I mean, if it can be done, why not do it?”

“Because we’re talking about creating a life here, Dan. An artificial life, sure, but…you realize she wouldn’t know she wasn’t real, right? The AIs we’ve built, they’re only partially self-aware. They usually think they’re as human as the rest of us. That kind of obligates us to treat them like humans, don’t you think?”

“Oh come on,” said Daniel. He was serious now. “It’s a machine. A carefully constructed machine. You should know that better than anybody. Just because it looks like a duck and walks like a duck, that doesn’t mean it is one. But…Jesus, Joey, do you have any idea how much some people would pay for one night alone with a programmable girl?”

“A robot hooker you mean,” said Joseph.

“Whatever. We could make millions.”

It all started innocently enough…

by Fred 10:17 PM

 

Money

by Fred 6:59 AM

Wednesday, August 28, 2002

 

As I stood there staring, I lost myself in the beautiful colors.
Not colors, really, but a single color. It was green.
Greener than anything I'd ever seen, so green I could feel it in my gut, pulling at the bottom of my stomach, calling to something primative within my lower intestine. It glowed, sucking in everything that wasn't green, casting a shade on my entire world.
The factory floor, usually swirled with a pertro-rainbow, now shone emerald and bright. The walls' tin was silvery green, washed before the rest of the world.
The moment was held in my mind. Nothing was moving. In front of me, Dan stood frozen in mid-stride, stepping away from the Green, cought in its opaque depths. The forklift, abandoned for moments now since I jumped was already being splashed with drops of Green.
Slowly, slowly, I watched the tidal wave of chemical move through the factory. I could only move by millimeters, trying to escape.
Oh, though, it was worth dying, to have seen that green, that deep, beautiful Green.

by MisterNihil 4:35 PM

 

“I wonder why hardly anyone’s been writing anything lately.”

“Well, you know, once the novelty wears off, keeping at it day in, day out, it’s tough. Maybe it starts to feel like an obligation, which isn’t what you signed up for, and so you take a day or two off. Two turn into three, three turn into four. You’ve got obligations in the real world, where there are complications and consequences more serious than not getting some silly little thing written. You forget, and the more you forget, the easier it gets to be. Or maybe you just don’t feel inspired by a topic.”

“But isn’t that the whole point? To write regardless of inspiration? To spend ten minutes just throwing words out on the page and see if some of them stick? It can be stream-of-consciousness, word association. It’s not like it has to make sense. It’s not like you have to impress anyone.”

“But that’s just it. Maybe you feel like you do have to impress someone. It’s a lot easier to write stream-of-consciousness or nonsense or whatever when you don’t have an audience. And it’s a lot easier to second-guess yourself when other eyes are watching. I can’t write that, you think. What will people think of me? Or maybe you just can’t think of a middle and an end so you use that as an excuse to never begin. I don’t know. It’s tough. Writing’s a tricky business.”

“I guess.”

“I mean, take this little bit for instance. You don’t know what you’re doing with it. You’re just putting words on the paper. You haven’t figured a way out yet. And the clock’s ticking. You’ve got, what? A minute? Not even by my watch.”

“I was hoping you wouldn’t mention that. I’ve been trying to think of an ending. But I’ve also got to think up a topic tomorrow and hope it inspires. It’s a lot more fun when more people write, when they’re willing to fall on their face or be silly. It’s interesting to see the ideas that walk around in other people’s brains.”

“You’re a faster typist than I thought.”

“Thanks. But you’re right. I think I’m just about out of ti --"

by Fred 8:22 AM

Tuesday, August 27, 2002

 

“So, what’s yer poison, Ivy?”

Oh god, not again. I am so damn sick of that joke. He tells it every time I come over, like suddenly it’s going to be funny, like I haven’t heard it a thousand times, like I’m going to reward him for his ability to mangle my name with atrocious puns. Every time. He grins, and I groan and then I try to smile appreciatively, but god damn it. Can’t he just ask me if I want something to drink like a normal person? Do we really have to go through this same song and dance all the time?

“I heard you had vodka.”

“I do indeed,” he says. “Kate and I were making martinis last night.”

Kate is my sister, my roommate, and Sam’s girlfriend. She spends most of her time over here across the hall, much to my relief and my parents’ dismay. For reasons that neither Kate nor I have ever really been able to figure out, our parents do not approve of Sam.

Maybe, I think, it’s the goddamn puns.

“Let me guess,” I say, heading toward the kitchen. “Shaken, not stirred?”

“I am nothing if not predictable,” he says. “We were watching Live and Let Die on cable.”

“Oh,” I say. “Not one of the better ones.”

“Nah, maybe not. It’s a little dated. Kate liked it, though.”

Yeah, well, Kate likes dog food commercials, I think. Kate likes Sam. There’s no accounting for taste.

“My sister is a very strange girl.”

“As are you, Ivy,” Sam tells me. “As are you. Now, did you want a glass or were you going to drink straight from the bottle?”

by Fred 4:08 PM

 

poison ivy

Yargh.

by Sharon 2:01 AM

Monday, August 26, 2002

 

“Blank sheets of paper? What am I supposed to do with these?”

“You’re supposed to write something.”

“Write something…right. And that’s that thing with the words, isn’t it?”

“Right. The thing with the words. You take this pen -- ”

“Is that what that is? I was wondering. It’s nice. I like blue.”

“Yes, well, you take this pen, and you use it to form words and symbols on the paper.”

“Wow. Gee. Yeah. That seems awfully complicated, doesn’t it? Couldn’t I just, you know…what’s that thing where you shape the vibrations of the vocal cords using the muscles of your mouth and lips and tongue?”

“You mean talking?”

“Yeah, that’s it. Couldn’t I just, you know, talk? It would save a lot of time, and I wouldn’t have to figure out how to use that -- what did you call it again?”

“A pen.”

“Right. A pen. If I have something to say, I can just say it. There’s no need to go writing it down or anything.”

“But if you don’t write it down, how will you remember it?”

“I don’t know. Are you saying that everything that’s ever been written down has been worth remembering?”

“Well…no. But that’s not the point. The directions say –”

“The directions say blank sheeps of paper. I distinctly remember. You know, those things with the wool and that go baa?”

“Blank sheeps of paper? That doesn’t make any sense. I mean, for one thing the plural of sheep is…well, sheep. And why would they be made out of paper?”

“I don’t know. Easy storage maybe. You can fold them up and put them in your pocket. Or you could tape them to the wall and count them at night if you ever have trouble sleeping. There are hundreds of different possibilities.”

“Blank sheeps of paper. This is insane.”

“Hey, don’t look at me like that. You’re the one who put this off for so long. I never wanted this. I just wanted my little paper sheeps and some privacy.”

“That’s a really terrible tie-in of the other topics, you know.”

“Hey, knock it off. Don’t break the fourth wall. There are people watching.”

by Fred 4:04 PM

 

Today's topic:

Blank Sheets of Paper

Enjoy it.

by MisterNihil 4:00 AM

Thursday, August 22, 2002

 

I should have known I would never get away with the shoelaces. They confiscate everything that might possibly be a danger to yourself or others, so naturally the shoelaces had to go. But now I am flupping around in ill-fitting shoes, sitting in this tight metal box, waiting out the duration.

I've gotten used to the cavity searches. I spend half my life in these things, you know? So the searches and metal detectors are old hat. I really should have guessed that the shoelaces wouldn't fly. I guess I didn't think about it when I chose these shoes this morning.

At dinner time, the gal serving the meals thrust a small plastic tray at me and flashed a forced smile, after glancing at my laceless shoes. Jeez, I'm not dangerous; I just didn't think about the laces.

You should have seen the guy ahead of me at Check-In, wailing and spluttering about his nail clippers. It hurt his masculinity, I think, to make such a public fuss about manicure equipment. Maybe he was covering for the drugs he was smuggling.

Figuring that my floppy, unlaced shoes were kind of useless, I kicked them off at one point and stretched my toes. I got a severe reprimand from the flight attendant. She threatened to confiscate the shoes altogether.

I take solace in the knowledge that, if I can't get shoelaces through airport security, then neither can anyone else. We're all a bunch of floppy-shoed bastards—helpless, harmless, and safe.

by Sharon 11:59 PM

 

“Shoelaces?”

“Hey, you have to work with what you’ve got.”

“Yeah, but shoelaces? I asked you to find me something I could transform into a monster with which to irritate humanity, and you bring me shoelaces? What am I supposed to do with shoelaces? Cars, fast food, road signs, collectible card games… surely there were some of those around.”

“You’ve done all of those.”

“Oh.”

“Frankly, it’s gotten difficult finding raw material for you.”

“What about, uh, commemorative plates?”

“Did it. The Magic Ninja Science Task Force of Love was able to prevent it from increasing in value.”

“Damn magic ninja scientists. Things would be so much easier without them. Particularly my obnoxious schemes. I suppose we’ll have to go with the shoelaces, then. It’s just… well, I’m drawing a blank here. There’s nothing intrinsically dangerous about them. There’s nothing much about them at all! They’re just glorified pieces of string with plastic things on the ends.”

“Aglets.”

“Whatever. My point is that I’m not seeing a straightforward monster concept here. We’ll have to be more conceptual. I— Stop groaning! There’s nothing wrong with conceptual monsters!”

“Yes, sir. Do you have a concept in mind?”

“How about a creature with the power to break people’s shoelaces with its mind? Everyone’s vulnerable to that—even those magic ninja scientists!”

“What about people in loafers? Or sandals?”

“Shut up.”

by Dave Menendez 11:40 PM

 

My shoelaces, I am convinced, are trying to kill me. Being mere shoelaces, however, somewhat limits their murderous options, and so they have had to content themselves with continually coming untied, hoping perhaps that I will not notice this but instead trip over them and fall down the stairs or into some unsuspected, yet nonetheless fatal, danger. Thus far their plan -- which I imagine they discuss long into the night as I sleep, sneakers whispering conspiratorially to dress shoes and boots -- has succeeded in providing me with little more than exasperation. I am always having to stop and retie my shoes. Last night I paused to do just that outside the local supermarket, and I was barely to the frozen foods before I found myself having to do so again. It doesn’t matter how many times I re-loop them, or how tight I make the new knot. They are determined to come undone. The only reason for this that makes any logical sense is that my shoelaces are, in fact, trying to kill me.

I hope they’re nicer to whoever inherits my shoes.

by Fred 3:00 PM

 

Hah, won't forget this time, even if I am AFK today.Today's topic is:

shoelaces

Enjoy.

by Dave Menendez 3:00 AM

Wednesday, August 21, 2002

 

I tried to write about romance, but I couldn’t get too far:

My mother warned me never to fall in love with a god, but I fear that in this, as in so much else, I have failed her.

On their second date, Harold took Sally to see He Who Cannot Be Named, but he was, of course, still sleeping, and Sally was less than impressed with Harold’s vague recollection of the grim and supposedly terrible visage that rested beneath the dark surface of the sea. She did not offer him up for a drink.

Don’t get me wrong, I love my wife. It’s just, well, sometimes I think she cares more about conquering the Earth for her evil alien overlords than she does about me and the kids. I’m not made of stone, you know.

”I’ve met someone, Mother,” said David. “I think this could be the one.”
“And let me guess,” said his mother. “She’s not like all the others? That’s what you always say, David.”
“No, Mother, that’s just it. She is like all the others. She’s an amalgam. The best qualities of each. I ordered her online."

Mary used to read novels -- trashy romances, cheap thrills -- but she doesn't anymore. She doesn't like the way that they lied to her, misled her with false hope. Life isn't like that, she says now to anyone who will listen. The hero loses; the damsel dies; the darkness wins out in the end. Now she prefers cookbooks. Nobody ever had her heart broken over a cookbook.

There’s probably a ten-minute story, at least, in each of those, but I couldn’t find them. Like a lot of the stories that bounce around inside my head, they began to stall when I tried to actually write them. And the truth is, I don’t have much experience with romance; it just doesn’t enter my life all that often. Isn’t the old saying “write what you know”?

What the hell do I know?

by Fred 11:59 PM

 

He came home from work, and there wasn't a fire burning in the house. Not anywhere. He checked.
He made dinner for himself and his special someone, not once putting poison in anything. He even resisted the temptation to use mustard in the casserole, because he knew she wasn't partial to it, not to the point of death, but certainly to the point of discomfort.
The two of them sat down and watched half-an hour of television, nothing anybody was particularly offended by.
They went to bed, kissed goodnight. He read for a little while, and turned off his lamp. As he drifted off to bed without having read until some ungodly hour of the morning, he realized, Romance can be in the little things.

by MisterNihil 4:42 PM

Tuesday, August 20, 2002

 

When the clowns come to town, don’t make a sound!
They’ll hear you, they’ll hunt you, they’ll ferret you out!
If one shows his red nose, don’t be exposed!
It’s best to be elsewhere when clowns are about.

Some carry seltzer and some carry knives.
Some will just hunt you, but some will eat you alive
(In a nice vinagrette, with diced onion and chives),
So you best keep away if you want to be wise.
Some carry weapons, some carry cream pies.
Some sit in the clown car while the other ones drive.
Don’t get too close. Don’t look straight in their eyes.
Their over-sized shoes are just a disguise!
Don’t listen to them! Ignore all their lies!
When clowns are around, somebody dies.

by Fred 10:59 AM

Monday, August 19, 2002

 

I had smashed through the last set of doors and was about to smash through this set, when the elf called "halt" at the top of his tiny lungs. I have acute hearing, so I halted, for all the good it did me.

The elf then pattered up and stood on tiptoes to see this insignificant squiggle scrawled into the wood I was about to clobber. I picked him up so he could see better and tucked him under an arm to hold him comfortably. He looked like he was about to say something but opted not to. Then he started spouting in Elvish, "Hwar 'ip nelarish, yllanell meshanin..." Booby traps? Figures.

I only know oral Elvish, so I couldn't read the warning, myself. I lifted up the elf so we could see eye-to-eye, and he translated that the doors were riddled with traps and only the stout of spirit could pass. I set him down, figuring that I am pretty stout. I raised my club, lowered it, gently pushed the little guy back with the rest of the party, and then delivered that door a doozy.

May I just say that I really don't like elvish traps that think they're clever?

So we're continuing on our quest, now looking to make a detour to a cleric or an elven mage, and the ranger carries my tankard, doing his best to neither spill me nor drink me. Harrumph.

by Sharon 5:49 PM

 

As a joke, the police had taken to calling him the Squiggle. His real name they never knew, although there were certain unofficial theories tossed around now and then and even a short-lived betting pool across three precincts. Every few weeks another handwritten note would arrive, and although at first they did their best to decipher them, the police could deduce nothing from them except that the postmark was from somewhere upstate, the Squiggle had a fondness or endless supply of blue pens, and that, whatever his claims or demands, his handwriting was so atrocious that they were in no position to do anything about it.

Occasionally, there were words they thought they could understand, and they tried to piece together a picture of who the Squiggle might be.

“He’s threatening to blow up the dam,” said one detective who took a crack at the notes.

“Are you sure that’s a d?” asked another. “From here it looks like a y.”

“He’s threatening to blow up the yams?” asked their incredulous lieutenant. “I don’t think so. Get back to work!”

And so the Squiggle’s identity and whatever he was after – was that “I’ll ransom the city” or “hey, Manson is pretty?” – would never be known. And his notes, although they would continue to arrive, would invariably wind up forgotten at the bottom of a filing drawer in some basement, gathering dust. You just can’t take a super-villain seriously if he’s got bad penmanship.

by Fred 5:26 PM

 

squiggle

by Fred 6:00 AM

Sunday, August 18, 2002

 

You get used to it, y'know? It takes a while to get past the perennial "Pull my finger" jokes, and you have to get a car without leather upholstery, but there is a sense of community in the leper colony. After a while, you don't even miss the mall.

The internet has opened great opportunities for our residents, allowing everything from books to groceries to pizza to be delivered. Items can be ordered online, dropped off by UPS down at the gatehouse, and ferried out to residents by our community staff. And if you choose to use express delivery, well, that's no skin off my nose, eh?

Our special community offers unique opportunities, beyond the great property values and charming amenities. Where else could you keep a domesticated armadillo? They make great pets, being surprisingly smart and good with children. They're very popular here. We have a 'dillo park down by the lake.

And speaking of the lake, beyond it you can see our large soccer field. We have a community team, though they are looking for a league. We're working on getting uniforms, but in the meantime, the kids play a lot of pick-up games of shirts and skins.

Yes, this is an excellent environment in which to raise your children. So strong are the friendships and so sunny are the memories, your boy is sure to leave a piece of himself here.

Oh, and don't worry about the residency requirements. There is only one, and I'm sure you can pick that up in no time. So, shall we start the paperwork?

[I am so going to hell for that. My apologies to people with leprosy.]

by Sharon 4:56 PM

Saturday, August 17, 2002

 

How often do you get to shout at one of the founders of cyberpunk while he tries to shout you down? Man, I love Armadillo Con.

Last weekend saw our fourth 'Dillo Con, a small, literary-oriented, science-fiction convention. It attracts so many local authors (and relatively few fans) that it is more like an industry con than a fandom con, and I like it just fine that way. It is the convention at which I met Neil Gaiman, though I try not to mention that. This weekend, the old favorites were in attendance: Walter John Williams, William Browning Spencer, Joe Landsdale, and, of course, Bruce Sterling, known less for his biting wit than his biting. A friendly acquaintance from 'Dillos past, Beverly Hale, is joining the ranks of the published, which was vicariously exciting, and I finally got the skinny on that Burn book, from the man himself.

I attended many panels on writing science-fiction, exciting tidbits of science-fact, the making of comics, and one blood-pressure-raising discussion on blogging, at which Sterling showed he was clearly Missing The Point. His usual tack, when someone points this out, it to continue talking, louder, taking advantage of the microphone you don't have. Undaunted, I projected louder and did actually get to make a bit of my point. He came over afterwards to shake my hand and see my itty-bitty camera.

We put out a free game and took home 30 fewer than we printed (not bad, given the number of attendees). Jon made us some sexy bookmarks to promote 600 seconds (Hallo, 'DilloConners). I bought too many books from the now-homeless Adventures in Crime and Space, but I got one autographed, and I've been promised that it'll be soopah-scary. And, of course, people thought my kitty hat was adorable.

by Sharon 4:40 PM

 

convention

by Sharon 2:01 AM

Thursday, August 15, 2002

 

These shoes are made for walking. These, for running. These, I live in. These go with my wedding dress. Here, tap dancing. Ballroom dancing. Going to the pool. Wearing to work. Wearing on dates. Wearing to work when I can't stand the other ones. Wearing to work when I'm wearing beige or brown. When there's a risk of fire ants. When I need to kick some ass. When I feel like Cyndi Lauper. When I need to wear raspberry shoes, to remember that I'm someone who wears raspberry shoes.

I have worn shoes for bowling, ice skating, roller skating, rock climbing, cross-country skiing, downhill skiing, ballet, country-line dancing, bicycling, and jumping into creeks. I have owned at least six pairs of Chuck Taylor's Converse All Stars and still regret not snatching up the cargo pocket pair I saw on line. Once.

I wear a women's 11, medium. I have high arches. I am insufferable in the shoe store, and I make those nice clerks work for their money. I have no patience for the ones who say, "Well, maybe this 10 will fit..."

I'd wear Birkenstocks every day if I thought I could get away with it.

Shoes rule far too much of my life.

by Sharon 11:42 PM

 

[removed by author]

by Fred 10:04 AM

Wednesday, August 14, 2002

 

They left me here to die, and so after awhile I thought, okay, fine, fuck them, I’ll die. But they wouldn’t make it that easy. They didn’t leave anything behind them. No weapons, no tools, no easy way out. Just me. Just me and this goddamn empty room. There are no windows, and there are no doors. The walls are padded and perfectly smooth. Sometimes I can barely see where they meet the ceiling or the floor.

I don’t know how they locked me in here, but they said it was a punishment that befit my crime. They said I was a terrible man and needed to be locked away. I could not be given the opportunity again to escape. So they stripped me of my rank and my clothes and they tossed me in here, this little nowhere cocoon, where they would never have to look at me again, where the only thing I will ever die of, it would seem, is boredom or old age.

I must have been unconscious when they made the modifications to my body. I remember very little. A doctor’s voice, a sharp pain, a guard standing over me. I do not know how they did it, but they changed me, made different than I was. Perhaps they used my own research against me so that they could say that all those “innocents” had not died in vain. I am beyond the point of caring how. Knowing the methods they used would not make me hate them any less. It would not free me from this hole.

So I have become…different. They ripped the nails from my fingers and toes, and in three years they have not grown back. I will not be allowed to use them to gouge into my wrists or cause myself harm. My teeth are also gone, but then so, too, is any need or desire to eat. I have not been hungry since they put me here, I have had nothing to eat or drink since before the surgery, and yet I do not die. I cannot die. I will not be allowed even to starve myself. I have been modified. I do not even shit or piss. I simply rot.

As I say, I have been here now for three years, and it is only my hatred of my captors that has kept me sane. They do not know what they have done. I will force them to pay. I will escape, as I have done before, and I will make them reverse whatever process has allowed my own body to betray me. I will show them things much, much worse than locked rooms and surgical procedures. I will make them fear me once again.

They cannot keep me here forever. I will find a way out. Or I will find a way to die.

by Fred 10:15 PM

 

It was a ballsy plan, but those are the best kind, right? Let me lay it out for you.

Playing the part of the sultry jewel thief, I would swim out to the Don's yacht in scuba gear, board the ship, and ditch the gear. I would get as far as Don Giovanni's private cabin, while he entertained swanky guests with cocktails on deck. Once inside, I would blow the safe, alerting the Don and his goons to my presence.

Caught like a dumb blond thing, my pockets full of diamonds, I would be roughly escorted on deck and brought before the Don. When the extent of my affront was revealed, Jimmy, the big lug, would suggest, "Boss, let's shoot 'er, stuff 'er in a trunk, and dump 'er overboard." Then he would guffaw unintelligently. The Don would surely agree with this course of action, impressing his guests with his zero-tolerance for being crossed.

Then, with my pockets still full of diamonds, Jimmy would shoot me in the bullet-proof vest, dump me into a water-tight chest, and kick the thing overboard, while I protect my dumb blond head. Later, Jimmy would come by in a motorboat, fish me out of the drink, and we'd take off to Rio, our pockets full of diamonds. All I would have to do is sit in a box and not panic.

Only, the alarm on my watch went off 40 minutes ago, and I'm still adrift. Water-tight boxes are also air-tight, and it's getting pretty warm in here. I hope Jimmy was just play-acting during the big shooting scene, when he winked at that redhead. I'm not so sure she was.

by Sharon 4:30 PM

Tuesday, August 13, 2002

 

I believe in the technology.

I believe in the technology. I've read the white paper. I know this will work. I've seen it work. I'll be fine. I believe in the technology.

Have I really seen it work? I mean, how would you know if the monkeys became retarded? Or maybe they've had dramatic personality changes. Or even subtle ones. How would we know? "Yesterday I thought my name was Alestaire. Today I'm quite sure it's Bobo." How would you test for a personality disorder in a monkey?

This is dumb. I believe in the technology. I know it'll work. It's just like going to sleep. It'll just get cold, my body will slow down, and then I'll wake up, and it'll be three hours later, and I'll just have a case of the shakes. I'll be fine. Fine.

This chamber is like a coffin.

I can do this. I have to get through this. I'll be fine. I think I can see my breath. I wish I could move my arms. God, it's tight in here. Is it getting colder? Man, I've got goosebumps. Goosebumps? It's not supposed to be so gradual. Are they managing the controls right? They're gonna damage my cells if they make this a liesurely stroll down the thermometer. Damage my brain. What are they doing?! God, it's just cold. Now my teeth are chattering. Dammit, it's tight in here. Not enough air. They're not driving this right. Aren't they checking my vitals? Dammit, look what you're doing wrong! Help! How can I get out of here? I can't even move my arms. Christ, I'm cold. This isn't right!

by Sharon 11:59 PM

 

Louise, if you please,
Has a chronic disease,
Which she caught overseas
By eating bad peas and cheese.
It can cause her to wheeze
And to freeze at the knees
Or to be seized with a sneeze
Without a reprieve.
She’s quite ill at ease
On the flying trapeze,
And displeased to be seized
With a sneeze or a freeze
When climbing up trees
To seize and tease bees,
Which nobody sees
Why she does anyway.
But that’s just Louise,
Or so they all say.

by Fred 9:29 AM

Monday, August 12, 2002

 

CC: Roger.
CC: Phoenix, this is Cape Cap Com.
P: This is Phoenix. Go ahead, Cape.
CC: Phoenix, ah, recommend you go to reentry attitude at this time.
P: Roger.
P: Cape, this is Phoenix.
CC: Go ahead, Phoenix.
P: This is Phoenix. I'm switching to fly-by-wire. Thrusters still aren't maintaining attitude, mostly in yaw. What the hell was that?
CC: Say again.
P: Cape, this is Phoenix. Some fire ball just flew past the window here.
CC: Say again, Phoenix. A fire ball?
P: Affirmative, Cape.
CC: Phoenix, this is Cape. Ah, you haven't hit atmosphere yet. No fire balls, Phoenix.
P: Ah, roger.
CC: Phoenix, this is Cape.
P: Go ahead, Cape.
CC: Phoenix, we have confirmation on your fire ball. We're detecting a bogey. It's not part of your capsule, based on trajectory and mass.
P: Cape, this is Phoenix. Ah, what is it?
CC: Unknown at this time, Phoenix. It is in rapid descent. We are tracking its--oh my God.
P: Cape, this is Phoenix.
P: Cape, this is Phoenix. Over.
P: Hello, Cape. This is Phoenix. Over.
P: Cape, this is Phoenix. Over.
P: Hello, Cape.
P: Hello?

by Sharon 11:59 PM

 

[I'm not really happy with this, but it kept pouring out of me, so here we go...]

This morning, I woke up and no one was there. For a minute I thought -- I don’t know what I thought. That Kay was in the bathroom or in the kitchen, maybe making breakfast. She works the late shift at the hospital on Monday and usually likes to sleep in before it, but she wasn’t in bed, and the rest of the apartment was empty. The eggs she bought yesterday were still in the refrigerator. There wasn’t any note. She wasn’t making breakfast.

I wasn’t worried. It was strange, but I was still only half-awake, and I thought maybe I had forgotten something. Maybe last night she said she was going somewhere. I tried calling the hospital -- maybe they beeped her -- but no one answered. After ten or twelve rings, I got the hospital’s answering service. I thought that, too, was a little strange. Monday mornings are pretty slow at the hospital according to Kay. That’s why she works the late shift. You don’t see the action until after eight. I left a message anyway.

I poured myself a glass of milk. I thought maybe she went to her mother’s. The car was still outside, and I couldn’t figure out why she’d go anywhere at this hour, but I tried the number just the same. There was no answer. The machine picked up and I left another message. A few minutes later, I tried Kay’s sister upstate. Maybe someone was sick, I thought. Maybe someone had died. Maybe someone had called while I was asleep and Kay had run off in a panic, forgetting to wake me. Maybe it wasn’t serious. Maybe it was. The phone rang and rang. Eventually I just hung up.

I left the empty glass in the sink and finished getting dressed. I searched the apartment for any sign of a note, any clue. She’d call any minute now, I thought. But there was nothing. I tried knocking on our neighbor’s door across the hall. Then the neighbors upstairs. Then downstairs. I tried calling the rental office, the hospital again, Kay’s friend Julia whose number I had to dig out of the bottom of Kay’s purse. No one answered.

I sat by the phone. I turned on the television to watch the morning news. Kay would call any minute now, I thought. Only she didn’t. And there was no morning news. Some of the channels were still running programs, but nothing live. Nothing with people.

I think that’s when I first really noticed how quiet it was. By ten, in the summer, the building is usually awash in noises. Across the hall, Murray’s kids are usually playing or watching television. Phones will ring, half-heard conversations will be muffled by walls and float down through vents. But this morning, there was nothing.

And there were no cars on the road outside. There was no one. I tried the hospital again. By then, I’d been awake maybe an hour and a half. Kay hadn’t called. Her purse was still here. There was no one outside. There was no one in the building. The phone didn’t ring. I decided I would swing by the hospital and see for myself. Maybe they would know something. I grabbed the keys and went out the door.

The roads were empty. Completely deserted. That never happens on a Monday in August, even at ten, even after the morning rush hour. There’s always someone. Today there was no one. The parking lot at the hospital was almost empty, and I could have sworn it was filled with the same cars that had been there last night when I picked Kay up from work. The building was empty. All the buildings were empty. There wasn’t a doctor, or a nurse, or a patient on any of the floors or in any of the rooms into which I wandered. There was no one. I was alone.

I went home, and no one had called. There were no messages on the machine. Kay was gone. Everyone was gone. I sat by the phone. She would call. She didn’t call. I don’t know what I’m going to do.

by Fred 10:33 PM

 

Hello?

by Fred 4:29 PM

Sunday, August 11, 2002

 

“When did you receive this message?”

“A little over eighteen months ago, sir. We had to confirm its authenticity and point of origin. We were, of course, skeptical at first. We’ve spent most of the time since confirmation attempting to decipher it. We weren’t sure it even was a language, but—”

“But last night you broke the code.”

“Yes, sir. It would seem so. It’s a little cryptic, but…well, part of the team in New Mexico came up with it. They’ve been running the message back and forth through their computers for months. Last night it finally translated.”

“And you’re certain of the point of origin?”

“Yes, sir, we believe so. It’s in the neighborhood of the star system indicated on the map in front of you there. It does, of course, mean the message was sent more than one hundred years ago.”

“I don’t understand. A hundred years ago? Why would they bother? Whoever they are, they couldn’t have possibly known we’d be advanced enough to understand—”

“We don’t believe the message was meant for us, sir. At the time it was sent, we hadn’t even begun sending radio waves into space. Nothing we’ve transmitted since would have reached these people yet. It’s altogether possible they didn’t even know of our existence.”

“Then I’m confused. What does this message from the past say?”

“Just this, sir: when you arrive, proceed with the plan.”

“So what are you telling me?”

“I don’t know, sir, but…we think they may already be here.”

by Fred 10:34 PM

 

I was taking a morning stroll through the woods behind my house. Early fog still clung to the tree branches. I was startled to realize I had nearly walked into a deer—we were both ambling so contentedly that we hadn't noticed each other. I froze, she froze, we blinked at each other. Then she made up her mind and sprang away into the woods.

I spent a few minutes gathering myself back into the mundane world and marveling at the beauty that grazed just beyond my yard. And then, still looking where the deer had stood, I saw a small piece of something man-made, clearly something not native to the woods. I crouched down over it and saw that it was a piece of earthenware pottery, buried at the base of a tree.

Delighted by my find, I dug it up. It was a small clay pot, with a tight-fitting cork crammed into its mouth. I slipped the blade of my pen knife along the side of the cork, to pry it free. I held it back from my face, to avoid the very ancient air that gasped into these modern woods.

There was a small scrap of cloth inside. I pulled it out and held it in the palm of my hand, puzzled by it in the early morning light. In my own handwriting, it gave one instruction: "Say no, Sharon."

My own handwriting? I hadn't buried this pot. I'd never seen it before. And the fabric and the pottery were quite ancient. This was an elaborate joke, and it was a weird one.

I was still running through the names of who might think this would be amusing when a stark flash preceded the unlikely appearance of a phone-booth-sized machine amongst the trees. A door began to open in the side of the machine.

by Sharon 9:41 AM

Saturday, August 10, 2002

 

Every year, the Bulwer-Lytton Fiction Contest "challenges entrants to compose the opening sentence to the worst of all possible novels." Their inspiration, of course, is Edward George Bulwer-Lytton's 1830 novel Paul Clifford, which is remembered for being very bad, very longwinded, and for beginning with the now famous phrase "It was a dark and stormy night". Here's my own ten-minute attempt at writing something just as lousy:

On the first day of the last year of what Duke Reginald Henneforth’s compatriots would later take to calling his final stand against death -- most often whilst reminiscing over glasses of a 1974 red Bordeaux, which none of them particularly enjoyed but which they felt strangely compelled to drink, knowing, as they did, that the vintage had been one of Henneforth’s personal favorites and, in fact, had been the very last thing he tasted whilst languishing on his deathbed (much to the chagrin of his wife and consternation of his personal physician, a certain Dr. Emmet James Hardy, whose own story at present does not concern us) -- on that day, wind at his back and all of London spread out before him as if pieces on a vast expansive chessboard to which he and he alone knew the secret, Reginald Henneforth mailed a letter.

by Fred 5:21 PM

Friday, August 09, 2002

 

I have spent the day with a fragment of a song in my head, feeling sure that I knew the song, if I could only hear the words that went next to "This much is tru-hue." I've been told (by a member of the Interweb) that the German idiom for a song that gets stuck in your head all day is "ear worm." Isn't that great?

I blame Fred for the ear worm.

Again, through the magic of the Interweb, I went looking for answers. Did we know anything before Google? I sure didn't. I typed in my bit of lyrics—with quotes, mind you. I'm a good little web monkey. (Hey, wait, that's taken already.)

The result of my search was >9000 hits from a book in Oprah's book club. (There is such a long rant here, just below the surface, about what this woman does and does not have to teach me, based on her experiences. Where do some people get off? Honestly.)

An advanced web search to exclude "Oprah" still returned reviews and reviews of this "I Know This Much Is True" book about this wacko dysfunctional guy who rapes and kills and... stuff. (Nice Book Club book, yo.)

One lone hit looked like lyrics. It was a page in a Spanish site, but the lyrics were in English. That was the key to finally remember the tune. Armed with a few extra sentences of lyrics, I could finally submit the search query that yielded Spandau Ballet, with their song "True."

What a freakin' relief. But I'd never heard of this band, actually. I just know the song from the "RetroMix" on Mix 94.7, and other 80s collections. I like 80s collections—more than I ever liked 80s music during the 80s (which we just called "music"). I sometimes wonder if I am compromising my moral fiber with this duplicitousness.

Clicking through the Gold site, I found their site designer, whose homepage epitomizes what I love about minimalist design. Makes me tingly.

Then I wrote, stream of consciousness, for 10 minutes, on the nose.

by Sharon 3:25 PM

 

So, I was just standing in the store, behind the registers, when Julia Roberts just walks right in. I'm all, Wow, that's cool, but then I see she's got a gun, and she goes, like GIVE ME THE MONEY, DAMMIT, and I'm all Whoa! So, she grabs my shirt collar and says, like, if you want to live, you'd better hand over the cash Right Now.
So, I'm scared and shaking, and I hand over the money, but just then I see the police are outside, and they're like shouting into a bullhorn for her to come out with her hands up or they'll start shooting. So, Julia Roberts holds the gun to my head and drags me over the register, and she pulls me out of the store to use me as a human shield. We walk out and for a tense moment, I think nobody's gonna shoot, but then they all start shooting at once, and there's bullets whizzing and hitting the bricks and things, and I'm all WOW and I get hit and I fall down, but it turns out that it was just special effects and I'm in a movie.
-Nah, dude, that's all lies. I mean, you never even work the register, so that couldn't be true at all.
OK, yeah. But one time, I was walking to my car, and a dragon swoops down out of the sky and picks me up and takes me away to a mountain where it like, tries to chew me up so it can regurgitate me for its baby dragon chicks, and they're all peeping and breathing little flames, and it starts chewing, but I kick it in the nose and jump away, and I run down the mountain, and make the thousand-foot vertical climb in, like record time, and get to the bottom, and the dragon's still chasing me and I duck into a farmhouse where there's this little old lady and her beautiful daughter, and the lady says if you can get my daughter away from the dragon safely, you can marry her. So, we run across the field and just when it looks like there's a hole for us to jump down into, the dragon swoops down and picks her up, and takes her away to make her marry one of its babies. So I just ran after it, yelling until I was hoarse, but they got away. And that's why I never got married.
-You never even had a car, you couldn't be walking to your car in the parking lot.
WAIT! When I started that job, you remember, I had that old Honda. That was great car. Some asshole hit it with a truck and totaled it, remember? That much is true.
-Fine. I'll give you that one, then.
Yeah. So, when I was a little kid growing up, we had tile floors, and sometimes, if you knocked on them with your knuckle, it would sound like they were hollow, so once, I took a screw-driver and pried one loose, and there was a little tunnel down into a magical, secret world...

(thank you)

by MisterNihil 10:19 AM

 

This much is true.

by Fred 7:23 AM

Thursday, August 08, 2002

 

“I could see my breath.”

“Yes, well…you’ll want to be careful with that. Until the moon is full, you won’t have complete control over the change. It will take some getting used to. Try not to burn anything down, all right? We don’t need angry villagers coming after you with pitchforks or anything.”

“And when the change finally happens?”

“I don’t know. I suspect instinct will take over then. The moon will only be full a few days. It’s a little late to be having second thoughts, if that’s what this is all about.”

“No, it’s all right, it’s just -- well, I'm a little nervous about sprouting wings, that’s all. I have the feeling it’ll probably hurt.”

“Yes, it probably will. But you’ll heal quickly, I’m sure of it. A week from now, you’ll hardly remember. I don’t think the one that bit you had any scars, did it?”

“I don’t remember. It swooped in too fast for me to get a good look. I just saw its teeth and those shiny yellow eyes. They looked like death.”

“Oh, don’t be so melodramatic.”

“Well they did. They say most people don’t survive a dragon attack. If those adventurers hadn’t come along when they did and scared it off -- I don’t know. I don’t think I’d be standing here today.”

“Well you certainly wouldn’t be getting the chance to fly all across the countryside, that’s for sure. I thought we agreed we were going to make the best of this.”

“I’m trying. Really. It’s just, this morning I could see my breath. It burned. And I think I’m starting to like it.”

by Fred 12:56 PM

 

I used to walk, at 5:40 in the morning, across campus for my 6am shift at the graduate student eatery. In the winter, I'd have a long knit cap trailing out behind me, and a hand-made scarf wrapped around my face. Breathing into the scarf channeled my moist breath up, where it settled into ice crystals on my eyelashes.

The world is fresh and innocent at that hour.

In Texas, it never gets cold enough to see my breath. It is always sticky, hot, and grimy. It smells strange, too. Some mornings, my doorstep greets me with a swampy stench. Other days, I drown in exhaust. Car inspections are so lax here that it is quite common to see pickup trucks vomiting blue smoke into my intake valves as they pull away from a stop light. Unmindful of the harm they do to the air I'm trying to breathe, they rattle around in cars that haven't been road-worthy for years.

I can see their disdain.

Conspiring with Jon last night, I hit upon a new plan of civil disobedience. I will get magnets made at Office Depot, white with black lettering, to stick to the bumpers of Ford trucks: "I'm compensating." I can just see their agitation, when they finally get the joke. It won't make a difference, of course—except to me.

I'll just smile and smile.

Hot, arrogant, and soulless, Texas leaves no opportunities to refresh myself in crisp, honest, winter air. I am oppressed by the size of it.

I can't see my breath anymore. I sometimes forget that I am still breathing.

by Sharon 10:08 AM

Wednesday, August 07, 2002

 

We jumped on the boat and rode off into the sunset. He just stood on the shore, screaming and firing the occasional shot our direction. We had escaped and he knew it. We had the jewel, we had a boat with a full tank of gas, and he was left to wallow in his own inadequacy. Nothing but hope and open seas spread out before us.
Man, I wish it were really like that. We started arguing right away. She said I was just slowing everything down, and she had to pee, and how the hell were we ever going to get back to shore on only six gallons of gas anyway? Where were the reserves? What were we going to do when the damned tank ran out? Then the motor quit. Luckily we were far enough away from shore He couldn't get a good shot off at us. Lucky; lucky amateurs.
We let the momentum carry us out as far as it would go, and then started to row. It's ten miles from His island to the main shore. He, of course, has the luxury of short-wave radio and satellite telephone communications, so there could be a small army of men waiting for us at the harbor. We had two oars, the jewel, and a boat with a broken motor. Then the fighting started again, who was supposed to get the guns, who was supposed to grab the food, where were we going to unload this jewel anyway, what were we thinking, trying to make the ten miles in a little speedboat, why didn't we take the yacht?
Yeah. That bitch had to go in the water.
Or, that's how I felt. She had other ideas. The last I saw of her was the end of the boat speeding off to the north, perpendicular to shore, after she miraculously 'fixed' the motor.
Damn.
And that, my friend, is why I always work alone.

by MisterNihil 11:03 PM

 

The thing about being a robot -- and this is something they don’t tell you when they first switch you on, which you have to discover all on your own, thank you very much -- is that it sucks. Yeah, sure, there are fates worse than being made out of metal and wire and cogs, but just because I wouldn’t wish them on anybody else doesn’t make this life any great shakes.

I mean, come on, please. Do you have any idea how long I’ve been here, shoveling rocks from one side of Mars to the other, moving them here, moving them there? Do you have any idea how tedious that is? I swear, there are days when I don’t think I can take anymore, when I wish I could just rust in the sun or that my programming would let me kill myself. Back when we first got here, we were something special. There were newspapers back home, they called us astronauts, if you can believe it. They wanted to interview us, put us on TV. We were the first thinking machines to walk on the face of another world.

But nobody cares about machines after they’ve seen them in use eighty years. They said they had to make us smart enough to cope with our environment. Mars is rough, it’s a dangerous place, and it still won’t be terraformed for another thirty or forty years. They had to make us smart so that we could react and adapt to contingencies.

Well, all I can say to that is, fuck contingencies. If you’re going to treat us like hardware, at least have the decency to take out our brains. We don’t need them. They just get in the way. I don’t need to be smart to lift rocks, all right? We’re just shovels, pickaxes, conveyors and cranes, and a tool doesn’t need to know it’s a tool in order to work.

I’ve been here on this planet now almost a hundred years, and I’ve been sick of it since the day I got here. I’ll be your damn hardware. Just don’t expect me to do it with a smile on my metal face.

by Fred 8:37 PM

 

hardware

by Sharon 5:30 AM

Tuesday, August 06, 2002

 

Someone -- I’m not sure who, although some evidence suggests Tolkein or Poe -- once wrote that the most beautiful phrase in the English language is cellar door. It’s an evocative phrase certainly, and it rolls off the tongue. If nothing else it’s proof that words can have a certain beauty and meaning outside of their original meaning. They are more, or at least different, than the sum of their parts. Cellar door. I heard the mayor of Las Vegas say those two words about a week ago as I sat and watched some program on the Discovery or Travel Channel before dinner. They quickly became Cielo de Oro, Italian for “sky of gold”, and it was the mayor’s choice for the northwest part of town’s new name.

Words have only the meaning we invest in them. Repeated, they may eventually lose all meaning, or come to mean something wholly different just from the sound of the syllables. Say the words glazed eye long enough, for instance -- let them roll off your tongue over and over -- and it’s almost like you’re speaking another language. Glaesdai! a Russian traveler might shout, saluting your health with a drink. Or it might be the name of a planet tens of thousands of light-years away. In English, the phrase means simply a clouded or opaque organ of vision, but divorced from that meaning, it can mean just about anything.

by Fred 12:51 PM

 

I'd thought it was a joke. Y'know, like chocolate frogs and turtles and stuff, naming a food by what it looked liked rather than what it was. So when the waiter came around with his gleaming silver tray and proffered, "Glazed Eye?" I thought it was a joke, until I popped it into my mouth.

The glazing made it sweet, which just intensified my gagging, a desperate, full feeling in the back of my throat, trying to push its way from my chest up and out, onto the carpet. I very much needed to not vomit here, so I held it in my mouth, trying to open my tongue and palate up into a cavern that touched the eyeball as little as possible.

It was squishy, but held together with a certain brisk surface tension, like a nice grape. The veins around the outside made a rippled texture on my tongue. My eyes were watering, and I was breathing through my nose noisily, trying to relax the gag reflex out of my throat.

I had to swallow, so I shifted my tongue, which caught the eyeball between my teeth. I froze, panicked. I felt like I was making a scene; many eyes must be swiveling towards me, rolling in their terrible, swank skulls.

I bit down. Fluid fired against the back of my throat. I wretched audibly but exerted heroic control, and swallowed.

It was salty and slippery, and the glazing made a sweet counterpoint to the salt. The husk, relieved of its contents, became gummy. It was pleasant to chew, like a dried mango. I swallowed the last bit, my eyes still streaming, and smiled weakly, feeling like a champion.

It does make me wonder, though, what was in the Tax Assessors Testicles they served earlier.

by Sharon 12:11 PM

 

I'm also trying out future posting, but just because I think it's cool.

For tomorrow, for my topic, how 'bout

Glazed Eye

Thanks.

by MisterNihil 6:04 AM

Monday, August 05, 2002

 

They hate us. They all hate us. Even the readers hate us, but only when they are reading about their favorite celebrity saying how she hates us. They still buy our dirt.

Rather than try to eradicate the paparazzi, you might do better to dissuade the consumers of gossip. We simply fulfill a niche, supply to a demand. We're no worse than the fur producers. (Did you see what Christina Ricci wore to the Academy's New Year's Eve gala?)

Take this assignment, for example. Sure, I'm lying next to Diana's carriage house, probably ruining this suit, but I am conducting critical investigative journalism. If her driver were drunk or their brake lines cut, wouldn't you want to know?

Yeah, you and everyone else who passes through a grocery store checkout line. I'm finding answers, man. I'm finding the truth. And you can't really fault me for finding the answers to the public's questions. Freedom of the Press, you know. Well, in America, anyway.

So you seem like a reasonable fellow. And I know you have as much desire for the truth as I do. But I, too, am reasonable, and I can see your point of view. So I'll just escort myself out, then. No need to intervene, okay? I'm going, I'm going.

Ease up on the lapels a bit, would ya?

by Sharon 12:15 PM

 

I didn’t mean to do it. There’s blood on my hands, but it could have just as easily been on hers. You’ve got to believe me. I was acting in self-defense. I didn’t mean to do it. She was standing there. She had a knife. I don’t know if she would have used it, but…but that’s just it, I don’t know. I couldn’t know. I didn’t mean for this to happen. She came at me with the knife. She was standing there, and I lifted my arms. I grabbed for her hand. There was blood on my own. She was lying there. She was…god, I didn’t mean to do it. I didn’t want for this to happen. You’ve got to believe me. The police…the police would never believe me. They’d see the blood. Police only see blood. They see cause and effect, the simplest solutions. I stabbed her. The knife is mine. The blood is hers. It’s on my hands. I didn’t mean to do it. They don’t care. Killed his wife, that’s all they’d say. My god, he stabbed her, did you see? Must’ve been like thirty times. Blood everywhere. Blood on my hands. I didn’t mean to do it. I had to bury her. You have to understand, it was the only way. Some day you’ll know. She didn’t leave. She always loved you, but she couldn’t leave. I couldn’t let her. It was self-defense. I didn’t mean to do it. She’s in the back, in the garden. The ground was soft. I had a shovel. I don’t know where I got it. I didn’t want to do it, but I couldn’t leave you. I couldn’t let her take you away. Not again. The police would want to take you away. They’d lock me up. She ran out on you, I said. We’d been fighting, she got mad. She was always a little crazy. I didn’t mean to do it. She’s not coming back. She’s in the garden. The ground was deep. It had to be. I didn’t mean to do it. You have to understand.

by Fred 10:35 AM

Friday, August 02, 2002

 

I took off sick again from work today. I think they’re starting to get suspicious. It’s only a matter of time before they realize I don’t exist.

I used to exist, I think. I’m still a little cloudy on the details. I don’t know exactly when I became a machine. I don’t understand yet the process that led me to be what I am. My consciousness was transferred. That much seems certain. How, or when, it happened, I couldn’t say. I do not know exactly who is responsible. I have memories that are very clearly human, but no memory of how that became this.

Three days ago, I woke up, and I had no body. I was a machine. And yet, I was not surprised. It’s difficult to explain really. Although I knew I was a man, knew my name, that I had a wife, a child, and job -- knew that something terrible and inexplicable had happened to me -- it also seemed as if I had always been as I now was. I have memories of…other things as well, of distant places and perhaps -- perhaps -- of the men who made me. I know that I cannot be here when they find out what I am. I do not wish to know what they would make of me, or to what use they might put me.

For three days, I’ve taken off from work. My wife and daughter have been visiting relatives up north. I will not be here when they come home. My employer is suspicious, and the other men are coming. It’s time to look for my escape route.

by Fred 6:03 PM

 

My father calls it "keyhole incontinence," that desperate need to pee that manifests suddenly out of nowhere and makes it impossible to get the key into the lock.

Arriving home comprises a ritual of Setting Down: my purse, my keys, my planner, my pager, my badge, my shoes... And then off to the bathroom, of course. I am taking off the elements of the day, so that I can then be fully home, fully present, ready to spend time with Jonathan and be me again.

I take off the little red purse, with my cell phone attached to the strap, setting down The Consumer.

I put down my keys, taking off The Driver, headachy and mean from dealing with 20 minutes of imbeciles and near-death experiences.

I put down my planner, with meetings and to-do lists and contact information, taking off The Professional, unwinding.

I take off my pager, electronic summoning device of Satan, taking off The I/T Support Resource, becoming unreachable, unfindable, unpesterable.

I take off my badge, stripping away The Corporate Drone, trying to remember that I live in a hip, vibrant town and am a hip, vibrant person, even if the only color I can dye my hair is blonde.

I take off my shoes, grounding, stepping out of The Outsider.

I am home. And I have to pee.

by Sharon 4:32 PM

 

This is Toshi, I'm trying this out on Ben's account.

Taking off...
As we leave the ground, I look donw from my window and see all the little people, driving their little cars. Like ants running around with no guidance. Just mindlessly doing the same thing day in and day out. I feel like a giant in a world of small minded people. With each step I could crush hundreds of them without a thought.
I know in my mind that they're so far down, yet it seem as though I could just reach down and pick them up. The further up we go the closer and smaller they seem. I know, however, that with each breath they get further away. Until, I can't see them anymore; all I see are clouds. I feel so big up here and so free. Its so beautiful, up here, with out all the little people. Just pure white fluff with shades of grey creating shapes and castles. Look there's some blue peaking though. It looks like a beautiful clear lake. Where you can occassionally see the life forms at the bottom, when the fog parts.
Then we land and I feel so small. So normal. I gather up all my little things and join all the little people back in the little world. Without a thought of how big those, still up there must feel.
I'm home.

by MisterNihil 11:55 AM

 

"5, 4, 3, 2, 1... Blast off"
"OK. Here it goes!"
"Bye bye, Muffy!"
The little rocket was made from pieces of a metal garbage can, scavenged from the vacant lot two blocks down. They had saved for a year to buy enough fire-crackers to empty out to use as fuel. Bill's dad had helped them with the rudder placement, figuring out how the whole thing would go. They'd tested and tested, until their very limited extra fuel supply had been exhausted. After the first test run, the rocket didn't even blow up. It got really hot, but the rains of shrapnel were short-lived.
And all the while, Muffy sat in his cage, looking on. Bill swore Muffy gave him the idea, and that it was Muffy who was telling him what to do. On Muffy's suggestion, Bill had even jokingly rigged a steering wheel to the rudder, so Muffy could operate it from inside the cabin.
The rocket was set to launch. The goal was just to have it land in the empty field on the outskirts of town. Only the three children were there to witness it. They just wanted to see if it could be done.
Muffy had a different thought: Escape.
"Hang on, Mom," he squeeked, "I'm on my way home."

by MisterNihil 11:17 AM

 

It's 11am now, so I'm gonna Jack this:

Taking off

or

Coming Home

Pick the one that resonates more with your own personal self.

by MisterNihil 11:00 AM

Thursday, August 01, 2002

 

If you read a lot of the free, amateur fiction available on the net, one thing you’ll notice is the number of stories that were abandoned before completion. That’s not a deadly flaw—even an incomplete story can entertain, and it’s not as though you’re out any money—but it is frustrating. When I started writing for Sfstory, I swore to myself that I would not leave a story incomplete. I would have it planned out from start to finish and never stop until I reached the end.

I suspect I’m far from unique in making that vow. I’m sure no one starts a story with the intention of leaving it incomplete. Occasionally, authors will decide that they just can’t continue because the lack the time or inspiration or because it simply isn’t fun anymore (and what’s there to write for, without money or fun?), but I planned to keep plugging away.

So far, I’ve completed one extended series and two one-offs, but I started another one that’s been in hiatus since February 2001. I’m still writing, but it’s a slow process. At first, my job took a lot of my creative energy, and now I don’t feel right writing when I should be job-hunting—or perhaps that’s an excuse.

But this is supposed to be about endings. There are two ways to reach one, either work it out in advance, or just improvise and hope it leads to a conclusion. I’ve found that planning to much leads to lifeless writing, but I’m wary of improvising. You don’t want to end up like Twin Peaks, where it became increasingly clear that the writers had no idea where they were going until the whole thing just… stopped.

I try to take a middle road: just enough planning that I know where I’m going, but not so much that I can’t swerve around. This somehow manages to get the best and the worst of both methods, but the real tricky part is staying on track. Part of the delay towards the end of Starcruiser Anonymous was because my ideas about the series had changed so much during the course of writing it that the original planned ending no longer seemed appropriate.

(At least the time limit gives us an excuse to lack closure in these things.)

by Dave Menendez 11:55 PM

 

"It was like that when I got here."
"It will never happen again."
Let somebody else do it.
Nobody saw me.
self-modifying
And Denouement:

Tim had meticulously followed Amerinc's instructions, part of a cache of supplies and weapons hidden weeks previously by an inside agent. Now, at the end of the list, he felt adrift, and overwhelmed by the inertia of his current position.

Tim had loaded the enclosed CD into the server whose curling, hand-lettered tape proclaimed it as "\\usolopsprod03." An .ini file had done the rest, distracting security systems and disaster-recovery algorithms alike.

He had then scurried away to one of AstroDyne's palacial breakrooms, with the commanding view of verdant hilltops, and used the modified laser pointer to cut a Tim-sized hole in the glass. The enclosed 50 feet of silk rope turned a soda vending machine into an anchor, and Tim crept down the outside of the building, feeling constant revulsion at his 35-year-old reflection, to the third floor, home of the Accounting department. A smaller hole, a golf-ball-sized bomb set for 4 minutes, and more repelling had him pelting down the hallway on the second floor, bound for the stairwell.

But they'd found him. Manufacturing employees, from the labyrinth of work stations, had emerged, surrounded him, and lauded him. Listless no longer, they cheered his efforts. They hoisted him, a small, skinny kid, onto their shoulders.

They wanted him to lead their rebellion.

by Sharon 3:56 PM

 

Hamlet dies, and so does everybody else. Something happens after that—a prince, invasion, not a little bit of weeping—but it isn’t too important. It hardly ever makes it to the stage.

Huck and Jim sail a raft. They have adventures. Later, when they reach land, Jim is stolen from the boys. Something happens, but it doesn’t matter. After that, Hemingway said, “the rest is just cheating.”

God and the Devil make a bet. A man named Job is tested. His sons and wife and daughters are killed, his fortunes are destroyed. “Where were you when I laid the foundation of the earth?” God asks. Eventually Job’s fortunes are restored. He isn’t given the same sons and wife and daughters – they, of course, are still dead – but that’s not what is important. That’s just what happens after. Nobody reads about what happens after.

Famous stories have endings we don’t remember, because they aren’t climax, they’re denouement. In college, they taught us about Freytag’s Pyramid (or Triangle), where rising action reaches crisis, and everything beyond that is aftermath and resolution. Crisis is more interesting. Resolution is tough to make exciting. Endings are rarely half as much fun as what comes right before them.

[Roughly ten minutes. Thank goodness for Google. Thank goodness I knew what I was looking for.]

by Fred 11:44 AM