I am afraid of driving a car, because I am afraid I will break laws, get in trouble, get fined, and possibly hurt or kill someone. I am afraid that when insects buzz around my head that one of them will climb up or into my nose, ears, or mouth. I am afraid that my parents will find out the things about me that I am not ashamed of, and can freely admit to friends, but I fear would make them unhappy. I am afraid of falling down a steep hillside when I walk along slopes.
I am afraid that I will not be able to get health insurance when I need coverage because of my illness. I am afraid that I will be unable to make a steady living because of my illness. I am afraid that I will not be able to have children because of my illness. I am afraid that bad things will happen to those I love. I am afraid that I will be the cause of bad things happening to other people. I am afraid that “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to,” is not considered a valid excuse. I am afraid I am alone when I am alone. I am afraid that beyond this frail skin, this bubble of life, that there is only cold and nothing, and I am also afraid that there is something, but it is not something that is fair and kind. I am afraid that my love and trying will not be enough to make things okay.
I am afraid of a great number of things. Sometimes these fears bog me down, make me feel inadequate and puny, prevent me from doing things I want to do, or feel like I should be able to do. Sometimes they even paralyze me into inaction and depression. However, there are also many things I do not fear, and it is that what gives me my truest strength.
I am not afraid of being the first person out on the dance floor when everyone is standing around the edges of the room, nervous of showing themselves as joyous. I am not afraid of speaking my mind and standing up for what I sincerely believe in. I am not afraid of my own death or my own physical pain. I am not afraid to raise my hand and ask a question. I am not afraid to raise my hand and speak an answer. I am not afraid to sing at the top of my lungs if that will make me feel freer. I am not afraid to admit to liking things that other people do not like, or to disliking things that other people do like. I am not afraid to take the first slice of cake that no one has touched specifically because no one has touched it. I am not afraid to go say hello to the loners that others avoid. I am not afraid to say goodbye to people who are very dear to me but who I must distance myself from for a good reason.
I am not afraid to look into the mirror in front of me. I am not afraid to look at the mirror inside of me. I am not afraid to ask for help. I am not afraid to offer help. I am not afraid to change the fairytale so that the knight runs off with the dragon, or the princess rescues herself without waiting for a savior, or the queen reconciles with the king, or the enchanted tree says “Enough of this silliness, I am getting out of here.” I am not afraid to wear the clothes I feel like wearing and go the places I feel like going. I am not afraid to spin webs of longing. I am not afraid of snakes, or of spiders (as long as they keep away from my orifices), or of mice, or of thunderstorms or darkness. I am not afraid to tell someone I love them when I do love them. I am not afraid to take my doctor’s advice. I am not afraid to try something new, even if I think I will be very bad at it. I am not afraid to rappel and go on a zip line in the tropical rainforest. I am not afraid to make friends with cats I have never met before. Simply, and most importantly, though I have been afraid of it, I am not afraid to live.
Tuesday, June 28, 2011
Write-A-Thon Day 3
Private Roberto
By Donaya Haymond
The squad was immensely skeptical of the experimental robot at first, meant for seeking out and defusing mines. It had a set of retractable wheels for fast movement on roads, and eight pullout spindly spider-legs for rougher terrain. One long, hinged appendage tapering to a delicate multipurpose toolkit could disarm a standard piece of unexploded ordinance in a few minutes, while two stubbier mechanical limbs had the machinery to explore the ground and carefully do any excavation required. It had cost millions of dollars to develop and build, and was a great, shining hope for a future with far lower soldier and civilian casualties than in the wars of today. It also looked really, really silly.
It was a hobbledehoy of an artificial creature - all ungainly bits soldered together, the occasional loose part held tighter by duct tape, giving those observing it the distinct feeling (no matter how inaccurate) that a stiff breeze would make it crumple into a heap of scrap. It rolled erratically, like metal tumbleweed, when using its wheels; and its eight-legged scurry was similar to that of a tarantula with some kind of nervous system disorder. The military is concerned with function, not form or aesthetic. Prettiness lies within the domain of consumer products.
Codenamed “Private Roberto” and always referred to as “he” to prevent the enemy from targeting such a valuable piece of technology, its moniker immensely gave rise to jokes among the ranks that it was of Hispanic descent.
“You’re looking depressed, Private Roberto. Do I need to get a priest for you to confess to something you’ve done?”
“So, Private Roberto, is your family from Mexico, El Salvador, or one of those other countries?”
“Feliz Navidad, Private Roberto! Do you miss old Eve and Wall-E back at the hacienda?”
Private Roberto, of course, only replied with a gentle “Whir?” That’s all he ever said to anything. All other communication from him consisted of blinking lights or a message on his little screen, black digital typeface on a pale green surface, such as POWER LOW or PLEASE CHECK LEFT WHEEL. Whatever could be said against him, one couldn’t deny his programmed politeness.
As the months went by, despite the initial skepticism, it became clear that Private Roberto was very good at his job. He could clear a few hundred square meters of an open field, all by himself, in less than three hours, eliminating the breath-holding, tense tedium that was such work before his deployment. He had to be supervised by the bomb squad, but as they got used to how he operated, they found themselves with more time in between assignments to relax a little, write letters home, chat, and even play cards from time to time, on folding chairs while they kept an eye on what they were starting to think of as a pet. Their feelings towards him became close to one they would have had with a trained sniffer dog, even if Private Roberto was a good deal lumpier and more standoffish.
One day the technicians sent Private Roberto to inspect a patch of woodland before they sent any human beings there. He whirred, obliging, and quickly tiptoed to the assigned area to fulfill the mission. Less than ten minutes later, though, he stopped.
“What’s going on, Roberto?”
“You know he’s not going to answer.”
“I know it sounds stupid, but I worry about him when he’s out there.”
He let out several whirs, and the humans hearing it hoped they were only imagining that there was worry in those sounds, some kind of anxiety from a tool not meant to have emotions. Roberto tiptoed back to his handlers for input, one appendage held slightly away from his body.
He had a baby bird gently cradled in what passed for a hand. It was still in the ugly-cute pink stage with bulbous purple eyes, quite still and cold.
“Did he kill it?”
“It’s been dead for hours. Look at the ants crawling on it.”
“Why bring it to us?”
“I think the people who built him put in some kinda fail-safe to keep him from harming living things. Maybe he wants to check.”
“Whir?”
“It’s okay, Roberto. It’s dead. You can keep going.”
“Whir?”
“It’s dead, Roberto. As in…not alive. It was, but now it isn’t.”
“Whir.”
Roberto deposited the body of the baby bird at their feet and went back to his job.
Three of the men took Roberto fishing with them the next time they had a day off. They were neither reprimanded by those above them, nor mocked by those around them. One of the three took a photo of Roberto in a borrowed cap and jacket, with a fishing rod propped up next to him.
A new kind of bomb he was not programmed to recognize finally wounded – that is, damaged - Roberto, not beyond repair but enough to require extensive reworking. The reaction of his comrades surprised the journalist who had come to cover the newly declassified technology.
“No, you can’t just slap new parts on Roberto and make him go out again!”
“He needs rest. He’s done so much for us.”
“At least a furlough before he comes back into combat, if he can’t be honorably discharged.”
“Give him a Purple Heart!”
“Yeah, give him a Purple Heart!”
And so, after some consultation, Private Roberto was one of the first non-organic beings to receive a military medal. All his friends came to the ceremony, since he didn’t have any family…yet, anyway.
Monday, June 27, 2011
Write-A-Thon Day 2
She Sank Before She Rose
The earthquake caught her by surprise
she was asleep over her work, the legal papers
scattered, the tax forms piled, making her a pillow
(she had dreamed they were dead leaves)
and then the world broke open,
shook and shuddered, and in blind instinct
she dove, clutched at her head, huddled
balled-up and fetal, back to pre-birth to prevent
post death, and did not know what happened
for at least a few minutes after, until the world
regained some sanity and calm, until she realized
she was alive but trapped, pinned like the butterflies
she had wept for as a child when her big brother caught and killed
them to collect their pretty, iridescent husks,
as if stealing and hoarding empty shells were true love.
Trapped, lost to dust and smothered heat, but still a lit spark,
they would look for her, she hoped she prayed, they would find
rescuers would dogs would friends would know she were here
have the tools to find and save her, not give up till they reached her,
but meanwhile the air, so little air in this pocket
a barely-sufficient niche scooped out by a table with work that had been so important
now insignificant beside air (water and movement and food, soon too)…
She slowed her breath and thought of the still pool
memory of a Zen master she’d gone to when younger
who taught her to sit still and straight, think still and flowing
think of the pool not to be disturbed by petty worry
mindfulness of breathing, just the breathing, just the heartbeat
let it slow, control, transcend the moment –
the way you chew carefully to get full flavor, not gobble
the way you sink into a warm bath, not splash
the way you melt into an embrace, not grab –
the great Sufi mystic Jelaluddin Rumi, in the fifteenth century,
had once written, in his poems, concerning two types of breath
the breathing that is a shame and suffocation, and the other breath
love-breath, opening up, free, free even if the body is trapped
lost to dust and smothered heat, but it doesn’t have to die now
doesn’t have to die here, for if the mind can float freely what of a trapped body?
While the mind sails, though, ground the soul, keep it within
not ready for heaven, so much to do still, please Anyone Listening,
Anyone Seeing, please let her breathe, please let her think of mortal home not
immortal home, please let that be some other day, some other death
she wished for the light to come to her, rather than she to light
calmness was her friend, philosophy her teacher
meditation her medic, her nurse, her doctor, all-in-one until others could come
till there could be glad cries and sobs that another was saved
one fewer tombstone, one fewer body bag, one fewer casualty in the news
though she wanted to cry and fight, she knew it would kill her
exhaust her will, use up the air in her precious pocket,
so she forced herself to lie still, and dozed and prayed and breathed.
She wanted water before long, the one thing Jesus reportedly complained
about, thirst, such a simple thing, rather than other things he could have lamented,
his unjust martyrdom or pain, meanwhile she was obsessed by
an itch in her leg she could not scratch, thought about the money
she’d pay to scratch it, held back a laugh,
mustn’t court hysteria, must stay calm
breathe, breathe, breathe, let the mind float but keep the soul within,
slow, slow, slow, s-l-o-w, s—l—o—w—e—r
self-preservation, she must live for the sake of those who loved her,
she must live for the sake of the good she could still do,
the sights she could still see,
the lives she could still touch.
The love-breathing, not the panic-breathing, the still pool
in her mind, rationing each second still alive until resupply,
until finally, finally, finally, finally, finally please
she heard the scrape of shovels and the barking of hounds,
more than twelve hours since the earth went mad,
more than twelve hours since she woke from her dream of the forest,
more than twelve hours yet she was still alive and only moderately harmed,
all the breath she had desperately craved there for her,
she gulped it in immoderately at last, greedy for it, so glad
so very, very glad and relieved,
just to be
alive.
Sunday, June 26, 2011
Write-A-Thon Day 1
E Equals MC Scared
By Donaya Haymond
The multiverse theory in physics states that there are an infinite number of universes, each one slightly different from the others, so that every possibility, every action and reaction, is explored somewhere, somehow.
In many universes, including our own, Albert Einstein is the greatest physicist of the 20th century. He is acknowledged as one of the most intelligent men ever lived, and, even with his flawed personal life that included multiple infidelities, a kind and basically good man.
According to the multiverse theory – one of the theories that came after him, and would have troubled the same man that claimed “God does not play dice with the Universe,” – there is at least one plane of existence where he heard the news of the atomic bombings of Hiroshima and Nagasaki in the newspaper. Perhaps in this same reality he had a slow sinking feeling when he realized it was his work, his breakthroughs in science that allowed this swift cut of the Gordian’s Knot this war had become.
There is at least one universe where he quietly whispered, “Oy vey,” and needed to go for a walk to clear his head. There is at least one where he did not manage to eat anything for the rest of the day. There may be ones he looked at the trees, the grass, nature outside, and wondered if one day all would be blighted by fallout.
It is possible he managed to calm his feelings of guilt and sorrow, knowing that this bold stroke probably saved the world from years of further war, this horrendous war that had claimed so much he loved. Or, in the chill of his grief and feelings of responsibility, he could have simply mourned. He could have mourned for the innocents of Japan who had not decided to fight this fight, who were merely born in the wrong place at the wrong time. He could have mourned for the children as yet unborn, whose genetic code would be warped by radiation, and who would have parents with all kinds of cancers and traumas, a great scar in their history.
He would have feared for what this meant for the future, a harbinger of another world war fought with nuclear weapons, which he predicted would lead to wars afterwards being fought with rocks. He might have had an inkling of the frightened decades to follow, hovering over buttons and having nightmares of a thousand, thousand mushroom clouds born of the two original parents.
He could not have known, unless some divine revelation showed him; that the Cold War never would ignite; that at least once freedom and democracy would peacefully erode at the harsh walls restricting whoever it could. Maybe the cosmos will never be kind enough for such visions to ever take place.
Did he embrace a friend or family member silently? Did he sleep at all that night? Did he stalk empty rooms, wondering if he did the right thing, if they did the right thing, if there could have been some other way, if knowledge is worth it for its own sake, if tools should be built when one cannot foresee all their uses?
The price of fame, as history has shown, is the public illumination of what the famous would rather have remain private woes. The price of wealth is constant demand upon it by those who wish to benefit from the wealthy. The price of beauty is a steady numbing to praise, a devaluation of all other of the beautiful person’s virtues. The price of knowledge, of adding to humanity’s store, is having on your shoulders everything that results from that knowledge, good or bad.
Some universes he regretted this more than he was able to resign himself to the bleak reality. In other universes, it was the other way around; he allowed himself to be consoled with thoughts of hands needing to get dirty, certain things that had to be done for the sake of a greater mercy.
Universes being infinite, there must be at least one where no bombs were dropped in the first place. There must be at least one that diverges even further, with no Albert Einstein born, no World War II, some other cities targeted, no cities targeted, more cities targeted…Again, though, the cosmos is probably not kind enough to ever let anyone see these differences and results, let us pick and choose which one we want to live in. Or with.
Saturday, June 25, 2011
300 for 30: Day 27
(This was originally written on commission for a sci-fi magazine, however, they have requested that I double it in length. So I thought I'd preserve the original 584-word micro-fiction here as today's 300-for-30.)
What We Found on Europa
The first probe to land on Europa, one of Jupiter’s moons discovered by Galileo, managed only to land upon the ice and roll around for a few hours, its multi-million dollar drill too fragile to break through the layer, which was thicker than expected, and allow it to dive into the waters below. Though the scientists involved in the mission pointed out that this proved there at least was liquid water, which had only been conjectured before, the public did not consider the mission a success. The robot was abandoned to crackle in the freezing temperatures.
It took more than a century for a private conglomeration of businesses, hoping to find rare and useful metals to compensate for the increasing scarcity of materials on Earth, to scrape together the funds for another exploration of Jupiter’s moons. They were hoping to emulate India’s recent monopoly of the rich Martian mines. One of the fleet of radio-equipped robots landed upon Europa, and did make it through the ice layer to the ocean. It measured increasing warmth as it descended, suggesting heat escaping from the core. All was darkness, though, and the sea-rover soon ran out of power, with nothing to charge its solar panel.
A hundred and sixty-eight years later, Free Luna of Earth’s Satellite, in association with New Earth Mars, sent a variety of crafts, some with humans in stasis aboard and some not, out to near space in an effort to find places where human life – and the lives of what non-humans we had managed to transplant – could expand. Europa had liquid water, we knew, and was at least in our solar system. All attempts at Venus had failed horribly, so away from the sun was our goal. Perhaps we could harness the heat of the core to groom the moon, make it Earthlike enough for us.
I am the first human ever to dive in a submersible craft into the depths of Europa’s oceans. I was supposed to share this with a partner, but she suffered a heart attack coming out of suspended animation. The technology is sadly not yet perfect.
Let those listening in from New Earth Mars, the nearest substantial settlement (not counting the temporary encampments on some of the larger asteroids in the Belt), and those on Free Luna and Mother Terra herself once the news is spread, let them know that I have come face-to-face with life.
It looks much like a small squid or large cuttlefish, only slightly larger than my hand, but has three eyes, huge and lovely eyes. It must feed on the tiny crustaceans my scanner is picking up, which in turn must live on bacteria nourished by the chemicals spouting from deep sea vents like the ones our ancestors discovered at the bottom of their sea.
I don’t know if it’s intelligent, the way we are, or even the way a dolphin or a chimp or raven is. I don’t know if it registers me as life, even. But it is blinking colors at me, the bioluminescence that is the reason for its vision, and I am blinking colors back at it as best I can, using my pen light.
It is too far for me to go home again, and I will never see another human face. Yet I do not regret this, not any longer. For in this encounter, at the bottom of this chilled soup of an alien sea, I have found God.
Thursday, June 23, 2011
300 for 30: Day 26
Poem #1: I Love You More Than Warcraft
I love you more than Warcraft, he said
And I've played that for seven years.
I love you more than fanfic, she said
And I've written that for seven years,
I love you more than xkcd, and more than LotR,
I love you more than looking up to see the shining stars.
I love you more than fantasy, she said,
I love you more than steampunk.
I love you more than tinkering on my computer, he said
And Asimov and Heinlein
To balance obsessions against adoration can sometimes be a fine line.
I love you more than Firefly, he said
I love you more than Minecraft.
I love you more than Doctor Who, she said
And favids and photoshops
I love you more than Deadpool, and more than Sherlock Holmes
I want us to join together and build a geeky home.
Your touch is greater than scientific dreams
Your kiss more glory than prizes
I fear no spoilers or Adaptation Decay
When I'm faced with such surprises
That the pleasures buoying me up so long
Have brought me here to you
Sleep to this lullaby we made
And I'll hold you all night through.
----------------------
Poem #2: What You Have Done
Be with me when I'm far away,
Every third thought is of us -
Never have I known such warmth.
Jubilation when I come to stay,
Adoration I've come to trust.
My shining light I carry now.
In sickness I found your hand in mine,
Now health shines on worst of days;
Wellness is loving and being loved,
Realizing when you find
Incadescence far away -
Go to it, make it yours.
Have I done enough to let you know
The worth you have for me?
Say what I may, while I still am
Overcoming darkness below,
Now I'm healing faster, since you have set me free.
I love you more than Warcraft, he said
And I've played that for seven years.
I love you more than fanfic, she said
And I've written that for seven years,
I love you more than xkcd, and more than LotR,
I love you more than looking up to see the shining stars.
I love you more than fantasy, she said,
I love you more than steampunk.
I love you more than tinkering on my computer, he said
And Asimov and Heinlein
To balance obsessions against adoration can sometimes be a fine line.
I love you more than Firefly, he said
I love you more than Minecraft.
I love you more than Doctor Who, she said
And favids and photoshops
I love you more than Deadpool, and more than Sherlock Holmes
I want us to join together and build a geeky home.
Your touch is greater than scientific dreams
Your kiss more glory than prizes
I fear no spoilers or Adaptation Decay
When I'm faced with such surprises
That the pleasures buoying me up so long
Have brought me here to you
Sleep to this lullaby we made
And I'll hold you all night through.
----------------------
Poem #2: What You Have Done
Be with me when I'm far away,
Every third thought is of us -
Never have I known such warmth.
Jubilation when I come to stay,
Adoration I've come to trust.
My shining light I carry now.
In sickness I found your hand in mine,
Now health shines on worst of days;
Wellness is loving and being loved,
Realizing when you find
Incadescence far away -
Go to it, make it yours.
Have I done enough to let you know
The worth you have for me?
Say what I may, while I still am
Overcoming darkness below,
Now I'm healing faster, since you have set me free.
300 for 30: Day 25
I closed my Fanstory.com account today, ending what has been a significant era in my development as a writer.
Fanstory.com is like fictionpress.com in that authors post their work for reviews, but you have to pay for a subscription, which gets you two guaranteed reviews per chapter, a newsletter, and free entry into their contests for which you can get cash prizes. It was the one spam email offer I ever took up, and for several years it served me well. I got better, more rounded and mature feedback from readers, and best of all, I met my fairy godmother there.
Sally Odgers was initially just another of my fans, but she critiqued with a steady combination of enthusiasm and a helpful eye for details, eventually putting her marks on all the Laconia novels. I started reading her work and realized she was a woman of vast talent, a real professional. Eventually I discovered that she has been working in the business for six decades as an author, editor, manuscript assessor, and workshop teacher. She has won the Australian World Fantasy Award, an achievement even mentioned on Wikipedia. And she loved my work. She volunteered to write me a letter of recommendation to anyone I wished while I was still trying to get published, and when she got a job contracting for Eternal Press she introduced me to the company, nudging them to take me on. She is now my regular editor. She might as well have waved a wand and told me that I would go to the ball.
I don’t regret my time subscribing to Fanstory. But after a hiatus where I was concentrating on getting the first three novels out, I came back to find the place changed. Perhaps it was me who had changed. All I knew is that I saw an endless circle of people patting each other on the back in order to receive pats in turn, a wheel of inflated yet insubstantial praise and excessive granting of stars per review, with ugly flames and comments for those who didn’t comply. It feels more like an author mill than a think tank of creativity. I am saddened, and I have said goodbye.
Happiness Was a Warm Gun
(Author's note: This was originally written for a horror-story contest on Fanstory. Didn't win, but got some very good reader responses.)
I woke up cold and shaking, fumbling for my syringe and the pack of disposable needles. It took thirteen flicks of my lighter to get a flame bright enough to see where the kit was. No matter how many times I'd done it, the injection still hurt, still made me hiss long and low as it sank into the flesh. But the drug - I needed the drug. Nothing was more important than the drug.
Eight pills I took, little bitty ones, my whole body shuddering with the jitters and fears of my want. Algae growing in my water bottle, hard to wash down, wanted to spit but swallowed. I needed to get clean water and food. I'd have to face the world. God.
I hoped to slip out without getting the attention of my landlord and all the other tenants, but no such luck. He came to the door before I'd even got my bra on. Bang, bang, rent due, I'm-going-to-kick-you-out-sister-unless, and the 'unless' was something I knew I'd never be able to rely on again.
"Just a second! Let me get dressed properly!" I called, nearly ripping seams in my rush to open the door before he kicked it.
He wasn't angry this time, though. Pale. He badly needed what I couldn't give him.
"Miaka..." With a desperate futility I retrieved a check mailed from my brother, who kept begging me to move to New Zealand and take refuge with him, no matter the difficulties involved. "Look! I can pay you for this past month! And I'm going to move out. There's got to be a flight I can take if I bribe someone."
"Miaka, money isn't going to help me anymore." The landlord opened the door wider and reached through, grasping my hand. I didn't like it when people touched me without permission.
Twisting my wrist but still trapped - damn how shriveled-up and weak the stuff made me - I looked at him with a mixture of sorrow, pity, and fear. "No. I'm sorry. I can't spare any. You know how hard it's become to find?"
"Of course I know, hon. And that's why I have to take it from you. I'd rather not hurt you." He couldn't. I would rather die than lose my stash. I wouldn't let him.
I wasn't a naturally violent person, but the need for the drug did things to people. The needle was still in my other hand, tip not yet discarded, so in the ensuing panicked scuffle I jabbed it into his eye. He screamed and collapsed to the floor, releasing me in order to try to get it out. Gushing blood, vitreous humor and aqueous humor - worst names for pain-juice ever, I might add, words change over the millennia and this wasn't funny at all - and me crying and saying I was sorry, gathering up what I had left of value into a bag and clutching it to me.
I should not have looked back at him, and I really would have preferred becoming a pillar of salt to what my punishment was. When he yanked the needle back out...his eye came with it. He let go and the skewered eyeball, like the world's most grotesque hors d'oeuvre, fell a few inches to the floor and bounced.
He stopped yelling then. That's what it does when it starts, makes them quiet and dreamy. So, of the two of us who were there, I was the only one who vomited when his new eye coalesced into being. His other original eye and the new eye gently plopped out, also bouncing gently before coming to rest beside his head. Another pair of eyes followed quickly.
If he was very lucky, the virus would stop with his eyes, and he would just lie there making new ones until he died of dehydration. If he was unlucky, he'd have other organs coming out the orifices (or at least trying to), gruesomely and relentlessly, before sweet, forgiving death came to claim him.
I did my best to recover composure and dry my tears. The kindest thing to do would be kill him now, but I had no weapons and would be beyond overcome if I had to touch the thing he was. I pleaded his unhearing forgiveness once more, and then rushed into the street, doing my best to admit nothing.
There was no huddled tent of skin, growing, flowing, knotting around skin skin skin she can't move for all that skin. I didn't, didn't, didn't hear the dispassionate retching of a wretched man on his hands and knees, puking up sections of hearts, lungs, stomachs, and I don't know what else.
I knew how to fly a helicopter. If I could make it to the air base without being robbed by someone still untouched, like me, then I might be able to get to an airport in a city where the epidemic was under better control, where I could prove I was healthy and they could let me take a plane to hide in my big brother's house and have nightmares forever.
My medical research company had only wanted a way to cheaply and ethically produce replacement organs for transplant patients, and if one of the top leaders of the project hadn't been kidnapped by terrorists and forced to hand over what they needed to weaponize it, that's all that would have happened. We would have made the world so much better. Instead we - no time, surprise, you see, everything so fast - we - we - We barely had time to come up with any antidote at all. It was inconvenient, with ironically heroin-like side-effects. The city crumbled in horror before we had time to distribute it widely.
Thanks to me, five of the families from my building were already safe. But now I had so little, and the antidote had to be taken multiple times a day to remain effective, and if I stayed even a few hours more I would be gone. I couldn't vomit again. I would pass out.
I found an unchained bicycle and increased my speed with relief. There was still a chance. I thought about New Zealand, green and stable and peaceful and clean.
The streets were full of carrion birds, rats, and cockroaches. I nearly crashed when a murder of crows fluttered almost in my face. New Zealand. New Zealand.
A few hundred thousand medical monsters were all that stood in my way.
I woke up cold and shaking, fumbling for my syringe and the pack of disposable needles. It took thirteen flicks of my lighter to get a flame bright enough to see where the kit was. No matter how many times I'd done it, the injection still hurt, still made me hiss long and low as it sank into the flesh. But the drug - I needed the drug. Nothing was more important than the drug.
Eight pills I took, little bitty ones, my whole body shuddering with the jitters and fears of my want. Algae growing in my water bottle, hard to wash down, wanted to spit but swallowed. I needed to get clean water and food. I'd have to face the world. God.
I hoped to slip out without getting the attention of my landlord and all the other tenants, but no such luck. He came to the door before I'd even got my bra on. Bang, bang, rent due, I'm-going-to-kick-you-out-sister-unless, and the 'unless' was something I knew I'd never be able to rely on again.
"Just a second! Let me get dressed properly!" I called, nearly ripping seams in my rush to open the door before he kicked it.
He wasn't angry this time, though. Pale. He badly needed what I couldn't give him.
"Miaka..." With a desperate futility I retrieved a check mailed from my brother, who kept begging me to move to New Zealand and take refuge with him, no matter the difficulties involved. "Look! I can pay you for this past month! And I'm going to move out. There's got to be a flight I can take if I bribe someone."
"Miaka, money isn't going to help me anymore." The landlord opened the door wider and reached through, grasping my hand. I didn't like it when people touched me without permission.
Twisting my wrist but still trapped - damn how shriveled-up and weak the stuff made me - I looked at him with a mixture of sorrow, pity, and fear. "No. I'm sorry. I can't spare any. You know how hard it's become to find?"
"Of course I know, hon. And that's why I have to take it from you. I'd rather not hurt you." He couldn't. I would rather die than lose my stash. I wouldn't let him.
I wasn't a naturally violent person, but the need for the drug did things to people. The needle was still in my other hand, tip not yet discarded, so in the ensuing panicked scuffle I jabbed it into his eye. He screamed and collapsed to the floor, releasing me in order to try to get it out. Gushing blood, vitreous humor and aqueous humor - worst names for pain-juice ever, I might add, words change over the millennia and this wasn't funny at all - and me crying and saying I was sorry, gathering up what I had left of value into a bag and clutching it to me.
I should not have looked back at him, and I really would have preferred becoming a pillar of salt to what my punishment was. When he yanked the needle back out...his eye came with it. He let go and the skewered eyeball, like the world's most grotesque hors d'oeuvre, fell a few inches to the floor and bounced.
He stopped yelling then. That's what it does when it starts, makes them quiet and dreamy. So, of the two of us who were there, I was the only one who vomited when his new eye coalesced into being. His other original eye and the new eye gently plopped out, also bouncing gently before coming to rest beside his head. Another pair of eyes followed quickly.
If he was very lucky, the virus would stop with his eyes, and he would just lie there making new ones until he died of dehydration. If he was unlucky, he'd have other organs coming out the orifices (or at least trying to), gruesomely and relentlessly, before sweet, forgiving death came to claim him.
I did my best to recover composure and dry my tears. The kindest thing to do would be kill him now, but I had no weapons and would be beyond overcome if I had to touch the thing he was. I pleaded his unhearing forgiveness once more, and then rushed into the street, doing my best to admit nothing.
There was no huddled tent of skin, growing, flowing, knotting around skin skin skin she can't move for all that skin. I didn't, didn't, didn't hear the dispassionate retching of a wretched man on his hands and knees, puking up sections of hearts, lungs, stomachs, and I don't know what else.
I knew how to fly a helicopter. If I could make it to the air base without being robbed by someone still untouched, like me, then I might be able to get to an airport in a city where the epidemic was under better control, where I could prove I was healthy and they could let me take a plane to hide in my big brother's house and have nightmares forever.
My medical research company had only wanted a way to cheaply and ethically produce replacement organs for transplant patients, and if one of the top leaders of the project hadn't been kidnapped by terrorists and forced to hand over what they needed to weaponize it, that's all that would have happened. We would have made the world so much better. Instead we - no time, surprise, you see, everything so fast - we - we - We barely had time to come up with any antidote at all. It was inconvenient, with ironically heroin-like side-effects. The city crumbled in horror before we had time to distribute it widely.
Thanks to me, five of the families from my building were already safe. But now I had so little, and the antidote had to be taken multiple times a day to remain effective, and if I stayed even a few hours more I would be gone. I couldn't vomit again. I would pass out.
I found an unchained bicycle and increased my speed with relief. There was still a chance. I thought about New Zealand, green and stable and peaceful and clean.
The streets were full of carrion birds, rats, and cockroaches. I nearly crashed when a murder of crows fluttered almost in my face. New Zealand. New Zealand.
A few hundred thousand medical monsters were all that stood in my way.
Wednesday, June 22, 2011
300 for 30: Day 24
“My period’s usually here by now each month,” Taylor elaborated as Nat took her hand and led her to one of the mattresses. Without seeming to be aware of it, she had an arm protectively over her stomach. “And I’ve never felt that particular kind of nausea before.”
“I thought you weren’t supposed to…” Ferdinand began.
Sally rolled her eyes. “Hush. If there ever was a time not to criticize, honestly. Congratulations, dear. I presume it is your fiancé’s.”
Taylor’s smile fluttered but shone. “You’re right, Ferdinand, I wasn’t supposed to. But there are circumstances you don’t know about. You were asking earlier how Derrick and I have this mind-link. It’s time to tell you that story.”
Ferdinand by this point had figured out that Rivki would accept his fingers in lieu of a pacifier. It hurt less than the neck, and right now the infant seemed to want more comfort than nourishment. “Go on,” he said, much more gently.
“When I was sixteen I started having visions. I was visited by a ghost named Tylianvornika, or ‘Ty’, myself from a previous life. The life was in a different universe. Fortunately I found out I wasn’t crazy, because my two best friends could see her too. They had lived lives in that universe as well. We faced an apocalypse together.”
Nat put his chin in his hand and nodded. “You need to sell the movie rights.”
Taylor gave a laugh. “Only you, Nat, could say that so sincerely and respectfully.”
“Forgive me if this sounds far-fetched,” Ferdinand said.
“Ferdy, you’re holding a vampire baby and listening to a story by a young lady who is periodically possessed by her lover, at which point her eyes glow orange,” Sally said.
“Point taken. Only my sister gets to call me that, though.”
“Duly noted.”
“Anyway, Derrick was there too. His name was Riquaniuvant, or ‘Riq’. I hadn’t met him yet in this life. I knew I would one day, though. Two years later, I did. I started working at his pet shop. But he didn’t remember me. Sometimes he’d look at me oddly, like he was recalling something from a dream, but he never said a thing.
"I had a little bedroom in the back part of the shop, the way people so often do in countries like Thailand. Derrick had a separate bedroom and bathroom, and we shared a kitchenette and living area. We had only been friends up to that point. One night, as I was trying to sleep, Ty came to me one last time. ‘He’s washing dishes,” she told me. ‘Go kiss him. Then, when he remembers and asks if you will, go to his room with him. One day it will save your life.’”
“I thought you weren’t supposed to…” Ferdinand began.
Sally rolled her eyes. “Hush. If there ever was a time not to criticize, honestly. Congratulations, dear. I presume it is your fiancé’s.”
Taylor’s smile fluttered but shone. “You’re right, Ferdinand, I wasn’t supposed to. But there are circumstances you don’t know about. You were asking earlier how Derrick and I have this mind-link. It’s time to tell you that story.”
Ferdinand by this point had figured out that Rivki would accept his fingers in lieu of a pacifier. It hurt less than the neck, and right now the infant seemed to want more comfort than nourishment. “Go on,” he said, much more gently.
“When I was sixteen I started having visions. I was visited by a ghost named Tylianvornika, or ‘Ty’, myself from a previous life. The life was in a different universe. Fortunately I found out I wasn’t crazy, because my two best friends could see her too. They had lived lives in that universe as well. We faced an apocalypse together.”
Nat put his chin in his hand and nodded. “You need to sell the movie rights.”
Taylor gave a laugh. “Only you, Nat, could say that so sincerely and respectfully.”
“Forgive me if this sounds far-fetched,” Ferdinand said.
“Ferdy, you’re holding a vampire baby and listening to a story by a young lady who is periodically possessed by her lover, at which point her eyes glow orange,” Sally said.
“Point taken. Only my sister gets to call me that, though.”
“Duly noted.”
“Anyway, Derrick was there too. His name was Riquaniuvant, or ‘Riq’. I hadn’t met him yet in this life. I knew I would one day, though. Two years later, I did. I started working at his pet shop. But he didn’t remember me. Sometimes he’d look at me oddly, like he was recalling something from a dream, but he never said a thing.
"I had a little bedroom in the back part of the shop, the way people so often do in countries like Thailand. Derrick had a separate bedroom and bathroom, and we shared a kitchenette and living area. We had only been friends up to that point. One night, as I was trying to sleep, Ty came to me one last time. ‘He’s washing dishes,” she told me. ‘Go kiss him. Then, when he remembers and asks if you will, go to his room with him. One day it will save your life.’”
Tuesday, June 21, 2011
300 for 30: Day 23
A small window slid open and a pack of sticky rice, a plastic-wrapped haunch of roast chicken, and a banana dropped onto the floor inside their cell. Taylor dove for it.
"Don't choke, dear," Sally said.
When she was finished eating, which took no more than five minutes, Taylor crumpled up the plastic and put it in the corner of the bathroom, since there was no garbage bin. She flushed the banana peel down the toilet. “Don’t want it attracting flies,” she muttered.
Rivki started crying again. Ferdinand rocked him and rubbed his back. “Have you heard from Derrick?”
Taylor poked her head out the open doorway. “He’s out on the bail Dianne paid for him. He’ll be on a flight this afternoon his time.” Then she closed the door.
“So…anyone have an idea how we can pass the time?” Sally asked, attempting to comb her long brown hair with her fingers.
“We could play ‘Never Have I Ever’,” Nat suggested. Ferdinand glowered at him. “Okay, Supernatural Superserious votes no. Shall we tell jokes? Or stories? Or we could share personal confessions of a dark and serious and/or humorous nature?”
“I’m thinking of joining the Mormons,” Ferdinand said, even surprising himself.
Nat whipped his head around. “What?”
“Before you get into a theological argument, boys, I think Taylor’s just been sick,” Sally said.
“Oh God.” Nat rushed to the door and knocked. “Taylor, are you all right?”
“Could it be food poisoning?” Ferdinand asked.
“Probably not this soon after eating,” Nat replied.
Taylor was silent for a few seconds, which was a pause lengthy enough to make all of the vampires nervous. Then she began to, of all things, laugh. She opened the door and her eyes were filled with tears. Happy tears. “I’m not certain, but I think…I think I’m pregnant.”
"Don't choke, dear," Sally said.
When she was finished eating, which took no more than five minutes, Taylor crumpled up the plastic and put it in the corner of the bathroom, since there was no garbage bin. She flushed the banana peel down the toilet. “Don’t want it attracting flies,” she muttered.
Rivki started crying again. Ferdinand rocked him and rubbed his back. “Have you heard from Derrick?”
Taylor poked her head out the open doorway. “He’s out on the bail Dianne paid for him. He’ll be on a flight this afternoon his time.” Then she closed the door.
“So…anyone have an idea how we can pass the time?” Sally asked, attempting to comb her long brown hair with her fingers.
“We could play ‘Never Have I Ever’,” Nat suggested. Ferdinand glowered at him. “Okay, Supernatural Superserious votes no. Shall we tell jokes? Or stories? Or we could share personal confessions of a dark and serious and/or humorous nature?”
“I’m thinking of joining the Mormons,” Ferdinand said, even surprising himself.
Nat whipped his head around. “What?”
“Before you get into a theological argument, boys, I think Taylor’s just been sick,” Sally said.
“Oh God.” Nat rushed to the door and knocked. “Taylor, are you all right?”
“Could it be food poisoning?” Ferdinand asked.
“Probably not this soon after eating,” Nat replied.
Taylor was silent for a few seconds, which was a pause lengthy enough to make all of the vampires nervous. Then she began to, of all things, laugh. She opened the door and her eyes were filled with tears. Happy tears. “I’m not certain, but I think…I think I’m pregnant.”
Monday, June 20, 2011
300 for 30: Day 22
Story ideas I have yet to expand upon:
1. Waiting for the Snow, a Waiting for Godot pastiche featuring male Emperor Penguins huddled together during the Antarctic winter, each cradling a single egg on his feet, talking about the meaninglessness of life. I plan to use this as the premise of my script for my playwriting class next semester. The penguins would be played by four men in tuxedoes wearing orange bowties and baseball caps. Their mates, played by three women dressed the same way, would show up during the second act (one of the mates got eaten by a leopard seal).
2. My Life as an Octopus, a novel based on a prompt I responded to in a high school creative writing class. The idea is that Octavia is a genetically engineered octopus with human-level intelligence who has learned to communicate by typing on a waterproof keyboard. This is the biography of her strange and wonderful life. The thing that’s held me back thus far is that this would require a lot of research before I could get started.
3. Another idea requiring a lot of research, but would be ridiculously awesome, would be a crossover novel between Rudyard Kipling’s Kim and The Jungle Book. Kim would have some spy mission for the British Empire that required him to spend time hiding in the jungle, and Mowgli would provide him with assistance. Perhaps Kim could repay him by pulling strings to keep Mowgli’s forests and his wolf pack protected. I’d have to have a great grasp of Victorian-era British-occupied England, what dialects were spoken, the geography of the Sewanee, and several other things, but I might even be able to get this published, since Kipling’s characters are now public domain.
4. An anthology of short stories covering minor Laconia characters.
1. Waiting for the Snow, a Waiting for Godot pastiche featuring male Emperor Penguins huddled together during the Antarctic winter, each cradling a single egg on his feet, talking about the meaninglessness of life. I plan to use this as the premise of my script for my playwriting class next semester. The penguins would be played by four men in tuxedoes wearing orange bowties and baseball caps. Their mates, played by three women dressed the same way, would show up during the second act (one of the mates got eaten by a leopard seal).
2. My Life as an Octopus, a novel based on a prompt I responded to in a high school creative writing class. The idea is that Octavia is a genetically engineered octopus with human-level intelligence who has learned to communicate by typing on a waterproof keyboard. This is the biography of her strange and wonderful life. The thing that’s held me back thus far is that this would require a lot of research before I could get started.
3. Another idea requiring a lot of research, but would be ridiculously awesome, would be a crossover novel between Rudyard Kipling’s Kim and The Jungle Book. Kim would have some spy mission for the British Empire that required him to spend time hiding in the jungle, and Mowgli would provide him with assistance. Perhaps Kim could repay him by pulling strings to keep Mowgli’s forests and his wolf pack protected. I’d have to have a great grasp of Victorian-era British-occupied England, what dialects were spoken, the geography of the Sewanee, and several other things, but I might even be able to get this published, since Kipling’s characters are now public domain.
4. An anthology of short stories covering minor Laconia characters.
300 for 30: Day 21
I went on a hike today with my parents to a waterfall. I really didn’t want to go. It was the waxing period of another depressive episode; the rainforest was tropical, humid, and full of insects that wanted to drink the sweat from my face so I had to constantly wave them away with my hat; it was raining intermittently; there was nothing particularly interesting or exciting about yet another Southeast Asian waterfall; and there was mud everywhere. But had I not gone, not only would I face my parents’ disappointment on Father’s Day of all days, but my self-critical thoughts would have had a merry time reminding me how I’m trying to lose the weight the medication has made me put on.
The guidebook said that the walk was 400 meters. They had left off a digit; it was actually 1400 meters, up and down hills and across creeks and streams. I generally enjoy hiking, but not in such mugginess when I was feeling this lousy to begin with. I constantly waved my arms like propellers to keep the flies and other creatures from attacking.
The problem with walking in one direction, turning around, and then walking back, is that every step on the way there is another step you know you’ll have to take on the return journey. A long, cantankerous spiel was running through my head as I panted through my nose to keep from swallowing any bugs by accident, and my soul itched and creaked inside me.
Yet when we got to the waterfall, which I still found utterly uninteresting, I felt myself begin to heal. The rain fell in earnest but it didn’t bother me. I had pushed and pushed, and it had gotten harder and harder, but when the endorphins kicked in and I had worked through all the ill-temper, I was okay. Okay. I even made jokes on the walk back.
Sometimes dealing with something difficult is like lancing a boil.
The guidebook said that the walk was 400 meters. They had left off a digit; it was actually 1400 meters, up and down hills and across creeks and streams. I generally enjoy hiking, but not in such mugginess when I was feeling this lousy to begin with. I constantly waved my arms like propellers to keep the flies and other creatures from attacking.
The problem with walking in one direction, turning around, and then walking back, is that every step on the way there is another step you know you’ll have to take on the return journey. A long, cantankerous spiel was running through my head as I panted through my nose to keep from swallowing any bugs by accident, and my soul itched and creaked inside me.
Yet when we got to the waterfall, which I still found utterly uninteresting, I felt myself begin to heal. The rain fell in earnest but it didn’t bother me. I had pushed and pushed, and it had gotten harder and harder, but when the endorphins kicked in and I had worked through all the ill-temper, I was okay. Okay. I even made jokes on the walk back.
Sometimes dealing with something difficult is like lancing a boil.
300 for 30: Day 20
My Objections to the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints
1. All “worthy” young men age 12 and up can have the priesthood power bestowed upon them. No female ever can. The arguments for this sound suspiciously similar to those once used to justify women not having the vote: women share in their fathers’ and husbands’ power, they have hidden influence on the men that runs deep, it is simply not their sphere, etc.
2. They made me fear and hate my romantic feelings towards women.
3. They made me fear and hate my budding sexuality towards everyone in general.
4. The Book of Mormon states that the Lamanite people, a supposed lost tribe of Israel, were cursed with dark skin because of their sinfulness. ‘Nuff said.
5. For several decades men of African descent were not permitted to be ordained with the priesthood. No explanation or apology was made after this policy was altered.
6. The church authorities commanded the masses to support and campaign for Proposition 8, overturning legal same-sex marriage in California.
7. The older I got, the more and more my female role models om in the Church started to resemble Stepford wives.
8. This quote: “Of course it’s important for a woman to be educated. You never know what might happen to your husband!”
9. This quote: “The Prophet has instructed women not to delay marriage and family for the sake of education.”
10. This quote: “Oh, don’t worry about your mother being a Buddhist. She’s sure to convert one day.”
11. Though polygamy is banned, a widower may be “eternally married” to multiple women if only one of them is alive. A widow must be “eternally married” to only one husband, living or dead.
12. I was taught to rely on a “still, small voice” in my mind to confirm that things were true. The voice was no stiller and no stronger than the voices that criticized me, that mocked me, that hurt me, that proved to be symptoms of my mental illness. I tugged on the thread and the whole thing unraveled.
1. All “worthy” young men age 12 and up can have the priesthood power bestowed upon them. No female ever can. The arguments for this sound suspiciously similar to those once used to justify women not having the vote: women share in their fathers’ and husbands’ power, they have hidden influence on the men that runs deep, it is simply not their sphere, etc.
2. They made me fear and hate my romantic feelings towards women.
3. They made me fear and hate my budding sexuality towards everyone in general.
4. The Book of Mormon states that the Lamanite people, a supposed lost tribe of Israel, were cursed with dark skin because of their sinfulness. ‘Nuff said.
5. For several decades men of African descent were not permitted to be ordained with the priesthood. No explanation or apology was made after this policy was altered.
6. The church authorities commanded the masses to support and campaign for Proposition 8, overturning legal same-sex marriage in California.
7. The older I got, the more and more my female role models om in the Church started to resemble Stepford wives.
8. This quote: “Of course it’s important for a woman to be educated. You never know what might happen to your husband!”
9. This quote: “The Prophet has instructed women not to delay marriage and family for the sake of education.”
10. This quote: “Oh, don’t worry about your mother being a Buddhist. She’s sure to convert one day.”
11. Though polygamy is banned, a widower may be “eternally married” to multiple women if only one of them is alive. A widow must be “eternally married” to only one husband, living or dead.
12. I was taught to rely on a “still, small voice” in my mind to confirm that things were true. The voice was no stiller and no stronger than the voices that criticized me, that mocked me, that hurt me, that proved to be symptoms of my mental illness. I tugged on the thread and the whole thing unraveled.
300 for 30: Day 19
The women's temporary nonviolent psychiatric ward is secured by locked double doors. There is a common area with battered and stained furniture, a television with a pile of VHS tapes – I’d always wondered where they went after DVDs took over, I suppose this is it – scattered fashion magazines, coloring books, and crayons. The carpet is that multicolored, slightly nauseating variety popular in waiting rooms of all types.
There is a station for the nurses and techs, who are able to take a shortcut and cross over to the men’s side as well. They have a counter one can lean on when you irritably ask whether one’s medication is ready yet, or plead with them to be able to go out to the garden for fifteen minutes that afternoon, with escort.
Down the hall, which feels very long if one’s side effects cause drowsiness and very short if one is looking for places to pace, there are two meeting rooms, only one of which has clear windows to the outside and is of course usually locked, and everyone’s bedrooms that we each share with a roommate. The soundproofed, solid white isolation room with cameras is off to the side. It frightens me, too Arkham Asylum.
One of the fluorescent lights in the hall has a panel laid over it with a painting of blue sky and clouds. I’m embarrassed how much it helps.
The “sharps” closet contains personal items we can only use with supervision, like my iPod and Stacey’s crocheting (wooden hook, of course, metal would be banned outright for the duration), for a three-hour window each day. A tech has to open the closet and sign things out.
Sometimes I feel like I’m in kindergarten. Sometimes I feel like I’m in prison. Sometimes I feel like I’m at a sleepover that just goes on and on and on, where I’m not allowed to leave until Mom comes to get me, and she’s late.
There is a station for the nurses and techs, who are able to take a shortcut and cross over to the men’s side as well. They have a counter one can lean on when you irritably ask whether one’s medication is ready yet, or plead with them to be able to go out to the garden for fifteen minutes that afternoon, with escort.
Down the hall, which feels very long if one’s side effects cause drowsiness and very short if one is looking for places to pace, there are two meeting rooms, only one of which has clear windows to the outside and is of course usually locked, and everyone’s bedrooms that we each share with a roommate. The soundproofed, solid white isolation room with cameras is off to the side. It frightens me, too Arkham Asylum.
One of the fluorescent lights in the hall has a panel laid over it with a painting of blue sky and clouds. I’m embarrassed how much it helps.
The “sharps” closet contains personal items we can only use with supervision, like my iPod and Stacey’s crocheting (wooden hook, of course, metal would be banned outright for the duration), for a three-hour window each day. A tech has to open the closet and sign things out.
Sometimes I feel like I’m in kindergarten. Sometimes I feel like I’m in prison. Sometimes I feel like I’m at a sleepover that just goes on and on and on, where I’m not allowed to leave until Mom comes to get me, and she’s late.
Thursday, June 16, 2011
300 for 30: Day 18
I'm going with something half-baked today, because I'm tired and starting to slide into another depression. Who knows, I might perk up in the process.
So you get a list! (And there was much rejoicing - insert dispirited 'yayyyyy'.)
Writing-Related Things I'm Doing At the Moment
1. This 300-for-30 which is going to morph into 750-for-Clarion on the 26th.
A. Some it, as you have seen, is miscellany like this.
B. Another portion is my Raw Ghosts of Thailand expansion, again obvious on this blog.
C. Though I'm in composting mode, letting Sweeping the Puddles Away mature in my brain before I make a serious attempt at it, I may take a few nibbles as part of the Write-A-Thon if I tire of A and B.
2. A "translation" of a Shakespeare play into modern English [I won't say which publicly; I signed a non-disclosure agreement], ghostwriting for a $200 payment. Due on the 25th. I'm glad it's not overlapping with the Write-A-Thon.
3. Editing the first manuscript in my new long-term position, for $50. Low pay but great resume/work experience credit; the publisher is quite snazzy. This is due on the 22nd. I have not received the actual manuscript yet. If I don't get it by tomorrow I am requesting an extension, because I said I'd need a week to do it, and they had better GIVE me a week, by Eru! And they'll give me another one immediately afterwards that I must have done before August 1st, since they "had to fire one of their copyeditors".
* I must admit, I am curious about what the copyeditor did.
4. Waiting to hear back from Queryshark, of queryshark.blogspot.com , to see if she is interested at all in either posting my query for Seasons Four Open the Door on her blog and eviscerating it, or on, just maybe, requesting pages. In the meantime I am polishing the query until it screams, so that if 90 days pass with no reply I can resubmit a better one in September.
5. Waiting to hear back from various other agents for Seasons Four.
6. Promotion, promotion, promotion for Humans and Demons and Elves. I'm hoping to get the Facebook page fanbase to at least 300 before July 7th. I will have to take some time off my Embassy job on the big day to be available on live chat during my appointed hour, and draft up some contests/"press releases" to put on the Yahoo loop.
7. Waiting to hear back from The Memory Eater anthology about whether a story I submitted pleases the editor enough to be included. I would get a share of whatever the book makes. I adore the Ryan-North-edited Machine of Death anthology this is inspired by, and would love to be part of a similar project. I'm on equal footing with all the other submitters credential-wise, though, since the editor has explicitly stated s/he doesn't care about that. But their twitter does follow mine, which can't be a bad sign anyway.
8. Growing my Twitter community- largely consisting of trying to find interesting things to say on command, like a trained parrot.
9. Occasional fanfic, because I'm a writingslut like that.
10. And a partridge in a pear tree.
So you get a list! (And there was much rejoicing - insert dispirited 'yayyyyy'.)
Writing-Related Things I'm Doing At the Moment
1. This 300-for-30 which is going to morph into 750-for-Clarion on the 26th.
A. Some it, as you have seen, is miscellany like this.
B. Another portion is my Raw Ghosts of Thailand expansion, again obvious on this blog.
C. Though I'm in composting mode, letting Sweeping the Puddles Away mature in my brain before I make a serious attempt at it, I may take a few nibbles as part of the Write-A-Thon if I tire of A and B.
2. A "translation" of a Shakespeare play into modern English [I won't say which publicly; I signed a non-disclosure agreement], ghostwriting for a $200 payment. Due on the 25th. I'm glad it's not overlapping with the Write-A-Thon.
3. Editing the first manuscript in my new long-term position, for $50. Low pay but great resume/work experience credit; the publisher is quite snazzy. This is due on the 22nd. I have not received the actual manuscript yet. If I don't get it by tomorrow I am requesting an extension, because I said I'd need a week to do it, and they had better GIVE me a week, by Eru! And they'll give me another one immediately afterwards that I must have done before August 1st, since they "had to fire one of their copyeditors".
* I must admit, I am curious about what the copyeditor did.
4. Waiting to hear back from Queryshark, of queryshark.blogspot.com , to see if she is interested at all in either posting my query for Seasons Four Open the Door on her blog and eviscerating it, or on, just maybe, requesting pages. In the meantime I am polishing the query until it screams, so that if 90 days pass with no reply I can resubmit a better one in September.
5. Waiting to hear back from various other agents for Seasons Four.
6. Promotion, promotion, promotion for Humans and Demons and Elves. I'm hoping to get the Facebook page fanbase to at least 300 before July 7th. I will have to take some time off my Embassy job on the big day to be available on live chat during my appointed hour, and draft up some contests/"press releases" to put on the Yahoo loop.
7. Waiting to hear back from The Memory Eater anthology about whether a story I submitted pleases the editor enough to be included. I would get a share of whatever the book makes. I adore the Ryan-North-edited Machine of Death anthology this is inspired by, and would love to be part of a similar project. I'm on equal footing with all the other submitters credential-wise, though, since the editor has explicitly stated s/he doesn't care about that. But their twitter does follow mine, which can't be a bad sign anyway.
8. Growing my Twitter community- largely consisting of trying to find interesting things to say on command, like a trained parrot.
9. Occasional fanfic, because I'm a writingslut like that.
10. And a partridge in a pear tree.
Wednesday, June 15, 2011
300 for 30: Day 17
Chapter 15: Saving Grace
Taylor and Nat eventually fell asleep platonically huddled together. Ferdinand woke up with an arm around Sally, then rolled away, embarrassed. Sally opened one eye. “I really don’t mind that much,” she murmured.
Before Ferdinand could say anything, Rivki started crying. So instead of trying to figure out the best way to respond Ferdinand scooped up the baby and helped him bite. It hurt less this time. Ferdinand must have been getting used to it.
“If he gestated for three years,” Taylor said sleepily, “how – how long is Rivki going to nurse? Your neck is going to be covered in little tooth marks.”
“Assuming they let us keep him,” Ferdinand replied, stroking Riki’s black hair.
Nat sat up, rubbing his eyes. “They gave him back because they couldn’t get him to eat otherwise, and they didn’t want him to die. I don’t know if there’s another social experiment happening without a vampire baby draining the adults, to isolate the independent variable and all that jazz.”
Taylor gave a weak laugh. “I feel like I’m in a Beckett play. Waiting for Derrick.”
“Mm. Or a really, really low-budget Doctor Who episode,” Nat said.
"How, exactly?" Ferdinand asked.
"In some of the Classic Who, they get captured, then they escape, then they run around for a while and find out things and see monsters, and then they get captured again. Just in time for the cliffhanger."
"Speaking of which, have you guys tried to bang the door down?"
Nat sighed. "Yeah. They can run an electric current through it. I'm not doing that again."
Sally stood and headed to the bathroom. “I’m getting some water. It’s not filling, but it’s better than nothing. I advise you gentlemen do as well. Hard meantimes ahead.”
The silence that followed was so uncomfortable that Ferdinand broke it before Sally’s return. “I hope Miriam meant for us to call the baby ‘Rivki’. It doesn’t sound Arabic to me.”
“What, are you thinking she was trying to say something else, and we misunderstood?” Nat asked.
“He’s a pretty ad hoc child anyway. Let it go,” Taylor said.
“Oh. My. Goodness.”
“What is it, Nat? I can’t look where you’re pointing; I have a baby latched onto a major artery. Never said that before.”
“Gecko. Large gecko.” Nat leaped to catch it on the far end of the wall. “If I get it, I’ll share.”
Taylor seemed more depressed than ever at how desperately pleased Nat was.
Taylor and Nat eventually fell asleep platonically huddled together. Ferdinand woke up with an arm around Sally, then rolled away, embarrassed. Sally opened one eye. “I really don’t mind that much,” she murmured.
Before Ferdinand could say anything, Rivki started crying. So instead of trying to figure out the best way to respond Ferdinand scooped up the baby and helped him bite. It hurt less this time. Ferdinand must have been getting used to it.
“If he gestated for three years,” Taylor said sleepily, “how – how long is Rivki going to nurse? Your neck is going to be covered in little tooth marks.”
“Assuming they let us keep him,” Ferdinand replied, stroking Riki’s black hair.
Nat sat up, rubbing his eyes. “They gave him back because they couldn’t get him to eat otherwise, and they didn’t want him to die. I don’t know if there’s another social experiment happening without a vampire baby draining the adults, to isolate the independent variable and all that jazz.”
Taylor gave a weak laugh. “I feel like I’m in a Beckett play. Waiting for Derrick.”
“Mm. Or a really, really low-budget Doctor Who episode,” Nat said.
"How, exactly?" Ferdinand asked.
"In some of the Classic Who, they get captured, then they escape, then they run around for a while and find out things and see monsters, and then they get captured again. Just in time for the cliffhanger."
"Speaking of which, have you guys tried to bang the door down?"
Nat sighed. "Yeah. They can run an electric current through it. I'm not doing that again."
Sally stood and headed to the bathroom. “I’m getting some water. It’s not filling, but it’s better than nothing. I advise you gentlemen do as well. Hard meantimes ahead.”
The silence that followed was so uncomfortable that Ferdinand broke it before Sally’s return. “I hope Miriam meant for us to call the baby ‘Rivki’. It doesn’t sound Arabic to me.”
“What, are you thinking she was trying to say something else, and we misunderstood?” Nat asked.
“He’s a pretty ad hoc child anyway. Let it go,” Taylor said.
“Oh. My. Goodness.”
“What is it, Nat? I can’t look where you’re pointing; I have a baby latched onto a major artery. Never said that before.”
“Gecko. Large gecko.” Nat leaped to catch it on the far end of the wall. “If I get it, I’ll share.”
Taylor seemed more depressed than ever at how desperately pleased Nat was.
Tuesday, June 14, 2011
300 for 30: Day 16
Because of the explicit nature of today's writing, instead of putting it up here I am sending it in a private message to people I know are interested. Others may request it in the comments. It's all about balancing artistic freedom with keeping this blog PG-13 at the highest.
Monday, June 13, 2011
300 for 30: Day 15 (Halfway Through!)
Ferdinand's first thought upon emerging out of the darkness was that he might sustain some brain damage, given all this violent blacking out recently. At least he didn't drink much alcohol, and hadn't let himself get drunk since his turning, for fear of losing control and hurting someone.
The memory of him almost losing control and hurting someone hit him at the same instant he heard Nat's voice, soft and ragged at the edges. Ferdinand opened one eye the tiniest bit, trying to preserve the illusion of remaining out of it while still wide enough to catch a glimpse of Nat. The older vampire was curled in a fetal position with his head sideways in Taylor's lap. She cupped his cheek with her left hand and stroked his mussed, sweat-streaked red hair with the other. "I don't think I'll be able to," Nat was saying.
"Oh, Nat. Once he comes into his senses he'll be glad you stopped him," Taylor replied.
Nat clutched her knee. "That's not what I'm worried about. I haven't always been the person you know. I'm so old now. I did things when I was young..."
"That was then. You saved me. Focus on that."
"I've gotta say it like tearing off a band-aid. Otherwise I'll never get it out." He spoke even more quietly, barely above a whisper. "I went to Vietnam during the war the US had with it. My choice. I was already turned by then. I thought I'd be able to kill and eat people without guilt if it was for my country."
"Didn't work out that way, I'm guessing."
Reaching up, Nat gently put a finger over Taylor's lips. "Thank you, but please let me finish. One day while I was there, more or less doing okay, though there were issues and all, I stumbled on some American soldiers. I usually kept clear of them. They were - they were...hurting...a little girl. I did something I should not have done. Very bad. Beyond the pale."
Taylor said nothing, but kissed the top of his head, letting him gather his thoughts.
"I buried it pretty deep, that memory. Tried to make up for it in so many ways. Desperate situations make people desperate. I get that. But Ferdinand...he's been my friend all these years. What I did...what I..." He put his hands over his face. "Pushing him against the wall like that - it made me remember what I did to those men, when I was angry and lost, lonely and vengeful. It felt way too good. God, it was so good - and I wanted more from my friend, more than he would ever want to give me. Like I wanted to repeat the most horrible thing I've ever done."
"Oh, Nat." Taylor sounded a little teary herself, though not at all disgusted or frightened. It reminded Ferdinand of how Selene used to be, when they had to face his weaknesses.
"I know how he feels. I know he wasn't just fighting because of his craving to bite you. He found out just before we were trapped that I'm attracted to him, and have been for a long time. I sensed the hunter in him, for you, but he could feel the hunter in me, for him. Assuming we get out of here, that means I must never see him again."
The memory of him almost losing control and hurting someone hit him at the same instant he heard Nat's voice, soft and ragged at the edges. Ferdinand opened one eye the tiniest bit, trying to preserve the illusion of remaining out of it while still wide enough to catch a glimpse of Nat. The older vampire was curled in a fetal position with his head sideways in Taylor's lap. She cupped his cheek with her left hand and stroked his mussed, sweat-streaked red hair with the other. "I don't think I'll be able to," Nat was saying.
"Oh, Nat. Once he comes into his senses he'll be glad you stopped him," Taylor replied.
Nat clutched her knee. "That's not what I'm worried about. I haven't always been the person you know. I'm so old now. I did things when I was young..."
"That was then. You saved me. Focus on that."
"I've gotta say it like tearing off a band-aid. Otherwise I'll never get it out." He spoke even more quietly, barely above a whisper. "I went to Vietnam during the war the US had with it. My choice. I was already turned by then. I thought I'd be able to kill and eat people without guilt if it was for my country."
"Didn't work out that way, I'm guessing."
Reaching up, Nat gently put a finger over Taylor's lips. "Thank you, but please let me finish. One day while I was there, more or less doing okay, though there were issues and all, I stumbled on some American soldiers. I usually kept clear of them. They were - they were...hurting...a little girl. I did something I should not have done. Very bad. Beyond the pale."
Taylor said nothing, but kissed the top of his head, letting him gather his thoughts.
"I buried it pretty deep, that memory. Tried to make up for it in so many ways. Desperate situations make people desperate. I get that. But Ferdinand...he's been my friend all these years. What I did...what I..." He put his hands over his face. "Pushing him against the wall like that - it made me remember what I did to those men, when I was angry and lost, lonely and vengeful. It felt way too good. God, it was so good - and I wanted more from my friend, more than he would ever want to give me. Like I wanted to repeat the most horrible thing I've ever done."
"Oh, Nat." Taylor sounded a little teary herself, though not at all disgusted or frightened. It reminded Ferdinand of how Selene used to be, when they had to face his weaknesses.
"I know how he feels. I know he wasn't just fighting because of his craving to bite you. He found out just before we were trapped that I'm attracted to him, and have been for a long time. I sensed the hunter in him, for you, but he could feel the hunter in me, for him. Assuming we get out of here, that means I must never see him again."
Sunday, June 12, 2011
300 for 30: Day 14
The bathroom door stayed shut for a long time. Sally fell asleep, as did Rivki. Ferdinand placed the infant in a corner so that no one would accidentally roll over and crush him. As he came near Taylor, despite the barrier between them, he realized it wasn’t just her embarrassment and desire for privacy keeping her in there. Taylor must have blown her nose too hard, because he could smell it bleeding.
He knew the correct thing to do would be to scoot away, as far as possible given the circumstances, and recite poetry until certain…urges…passed. Right. Really, though, couldn’t she at least give him a little taste of it? He wouldn’t bite her. He had self-control. He could – well, if she just – maybe – so thirsty – everything going brown and fuzzy…
He felt strong hands yank him backwards, and before he could voice his objections and declare how he was fine, didn’t need intervention, Nat’s mouth closed over his in a bruising, aggressive kiss. Ferdinand tried to hit him and to tear down the door keeping him from that beautiful scent, but Nat pressed him against the wall with his entire weight, pinning him despite his struggles, and squeezed his hands around Ferdinand’s throat. “Don’t frighten her even more,” Nat growled, low so Taylor wouldn’t hear. “Stay there and calm down.”
“Get off m-“
When Nat not only sealed his lips over Ferdinand’s again but also thrust his tongue in his mouth, Ferdinand clamped down with his fangs. It must have hurt but Nat made no sound, holding fast and choking Ferdinand tighter and tighter. It takes ten minutes to make a vampire black out from air loss, usually, but Ferdinand was already weak from hunger, exhaustion, and head injury, so it was probably more like five minutes before he fainted.
Clarion UCSD Write-A-Thon
What: Like a walk-a-thon, a write-a-thon has participants set certain goals that will tax their abilities and ask others to sponsor them for a good cause.
Who: Me, and hopefully 99 other writers. At the moment there are only 35 total, so you should go join! They'll take anyone who loves to write and is willing to put in the time and effort.
Why: This allows underprivileged young writers who show speculative fiction writing promise to attend a workshop to hone their skills under great instructors. I have had the benefit of lovely creative writing teachers, mentors, and resources. Not everyone has. Also, Neil Gaiman put an announcement on Twitter about it, and when I replied saying I joined, he thanked me personally and donated $50 to get me started. I nearly died of squee. There are drawings for prizes for both participants and donors, but if that's the only reward I get I will still be thrilled.
Where: My page is at http://www.theclarionfoundation.org/writeathon/wrtn-writerpage.php?writerID=8145
How: I will be posting 750 words a day from June 26 to August 1 on this very blog. If my gentle readers are willing, I would love to raise at least $150 this year, though of course more would be great. There is a donation button on my page. They take PayPal and are fully tax-deductible.
The 300-for-30 challenge will be put on hold for the duration of the Write-A-Thon, but since you'll be getting even more from me, I doubt there will be complaints. :D
Saturday, June 11, 2011
One of Them Meme List Things
Inspired by
http://aliceofcamelotfromthestacks.blogspot.com/1 – Your favorite series of books (with more than 3 in the series)
The Discworld books by Terry Pratchett.
2 – A book that you wish more people had read
The Crock of Gold by James Stephens.
3 – Your favorite recent book
Bird by Bird by Anne Lamott.
4 – Your favorite book ever
Oh dear. Can't decide.
5 – A book you hate
Twilight.
6 – Your favorite writer
Neil Gaiman.
7 – A writer you don’t like
Dan Brown.
8 – Your favorite work in translation
The poems of Jelaluddin Rumi.
9 – Best scene ever
The black cat fighting off The Devil in one of Gaiman's short stories.
10 – A book you thought you wouldn’t like but ended up loving
The play Equus. I read it for class. Initially very dubious. Ended up being the one I liked best all semester.
11 – A book that disappointed you
The Da Vinci Code.
12 – A book you’ve read more than twice
The Man Who Mistook His Wife for a Hat by Oliver Sacks.
13 – Favorite childhood book
The Phantom Tollbooth.
14 – Favorite male character
Psmith, a creation of P.G. Wodehouse.
15 – Favorite female character
Meg Langslow, a pragmatic mystery-solving blacksmith in the novels of Donna Andrews.
16 – Your guilty pleasure book
There aren't any books I feel guilty about enjoying. Fanfics, on the other hand...
17 – Favorite trilogy or tetralogy
Robert Holdstock's Mythago Wood quarto.
18 – Favorite book cover
The cover of Endless Nights.
19 – Best ensemble of characters in a book
The whole gang in Good Omens.
20 – Favorite kiss or love scene
Eowyn and Faramir's few scenes in Lord of the Rings.
21 – Favorite fictional romantic relationship
The one in Robert Graves' Homer's Daughter.
22 – Favorite ending/climax
The ending of Isaac Asimov's short story "The Last Question".
23 – Most annoying character
Lex, the little girl in the book version of Jurassic Park. I wanted the T-Rex to get her.
24 – Best quote
HUMANS NEED FANTASY TO BE HUMAN. TO BE THE PLACE WHERE THE FALLING ANGEL MEETS THE RISING APE.- DEATH of Discworld
25 – A book you plan on reading
The Unincorporated Man, a gift from my love this past Valentine's that I haven't gotten around to yet.
James Branch Cabell.
26 – OMG WTF? plot
Falling Sideways by Tom Holt. Cloning a centuries-dead witch the hero has fallen in love with based on a painting, frog aliens, reincarnation, and a single bag of sugar on a table in an empty room.
28 – First book obsession
The children's books of Roald Dahl.
29 – Current book obsession
Everything by Anne Lamott I can get on Kindle.
30 – Saddest character death
Sirius Black. Such a crappy life for such an awesome character made me hate the wizarding world of Harry Potter beyond redemption.
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