Guy Stewart's Blog, page 118

LOVE IN A TIME OF ALIEN INVASION -- CHAPTER 41

 
[image error]On Earth, there are three Triads intending to integrate not only the three peoples and stop the war that threatens to break loose and slaughter Humans and devastate their world; but to stop the war that consumes Kiiote economy and Yown’Hoo moral fiber. The Braiders accidentally created a resonance wave that will destroy the Milky Way and the only way to stop it is for the Yown’Hoo-Kiiote-Human Triads to build a physical wall. The merger of Human-Kiiote-Yown’Hoo into a van der Walls Society may produce the Membrane to stop the wave.
The young experimental Triads are made up of the smallest primate tribe of Humans – Oscar and Kashayla; the smallest canine pack of Kiiote – six, pack leaders Qap and Xurf; and the smallest camelid herd of Yown’Hoo – a prime eleven, Dao-hi the Herd mother. On nursery farms and ranches away from the TC cities, Humans have tended young Yown’Hoo and Kiiote in secret for decades, allowing the two warring people to reproduce and grow far from their home worlds.
“We had nearly fallen into stagnation when we encountered the Kiiote.”
“And we into internecine war when we encountered the Yown’Hoo.”
 “Yown’Hoo and Kiiote have been defending themselves for a thousand revolutions of our Sun.”
 “Together, we might do something none of us alone might have done…a destiny that included Yown’Hoo, Kiiote, and Human.” (2/19/2015)Lieutenant Commander Patrick Bakhsh (ret), whom I’d started calling Retired; stepped through the portal, a white plastic robot flung over his shoulder, and said, “What are you all looking at?”

Even the Herd Mother backed up, the Herd behind her pulling in tight and backing up against the wall.
The Kiiote rearranged their skeletons in that weird, squishy way so that Pack of six was ready to fight with claws, teeth, and nearly-telepathic minds.
For whatever strange reason, I stepped closer to ‘Shayla where she lay unconscious in my Great Uncle Tim’s arms.
GU Time said, “How did you do that?”
Retired slid the robot to the floor, pushing it to one side. “I came well-equipped to protect the Triad.” He looked my great uncle up and down, glancing at the dead immature Yown’Hoo where it lay in front of  the Herd Mother. “Which is more than I can say for you.”
GU Tim glanced over his shoulder, saying, “Nothing I could do about it.” He turned back to Retired and said, “I’d have been prepared if you’d given me warning.”
“We didn’t have time to do anything. The Triad refuge is a hole in the ground – but we don’t know who did it.”
“Ten guesses,” said GU Tim.
Retired shook his head. “Not enough.” He pursed his lips. “We need to stay still for a while and let the pursuit cool off.”
GU Tim snorted, “That’ll never happen. Your Triad here is hot stuff right now.”
Retired scowled. “How do you mean?”
GU Tim shook his head and held out his hand. Suddenly a 3D image appeared above his hand. It was a Human newscast. To paraphrase, they wanted all nineteen…suddenly eighteen…of us. Dead or alive. Preferably alive so we could be tried for crimes against Humanity. He lifted his other hand and we were watching a Kiiote vis. It was like a Human broadcast only in that there was an image. To me it didn’t seem to move except for the lips and there were lots of farting sounds. I couldn’t smell anything, but the Pack was suddenly twitching, yipping, farting in return, and the youngest pups fell down, rolled belly up, and squirmed until their elders nipped their feet, at which point, they played dead. In the Pack if one of the Leaders didn’t release them from the trance, they’d really die.
GU Tim closed his hand and opened it again. The scene on it was hovering in the air, looking down on a huge field of waving golden grace. An immense Herd galloped into view, groups streaming away from the main part of the Herd, the lines curling in on themselves, others groups interacting in ways I’d never been able to make any sense out of.
I knew it got to Dao-hi because she reared and pawed at the air uncontrollably and the rest of the Herd ran around her – in the close confines of the house.
 After everyone settled down, Retired said, “You’ve all been repudiated by your governments as some sort of rogue freaks.”“Freaks! We’re not freaks,” I managed, looking at ‘Shayla. She was one of the best looking girls I’d ever laid eyes on – in fact, one of the best looking Humans I’d ever seen; and I’d seen LOTS of people in my short life.
Dao-hi, was a strong leader and she’d calmed enough to say, “Not just ‘freaks’, Human friend. We have been declared anathema. Not only have we been banned from the Home World, but we have been banned from congress with any Herd but our own. We will never know anything as glorious as the image you just witnessed.” The Herd pressed close together and Dao-hi did something I’d never heard her do. She rumbled.
The Pack was on the floor, Qap and Xurf were grooming each other, passing licks to the rest as one or the other subordinates squirmed closer. Xurf looked at me, growled then said, “Our entire line has been cut from the breeding records. We are as good as Wilds.”
Great Uncle Tim sighed and said, “Your friend here has been recalled by his Human military commander – his General, I think we’d say.”
Retired shrugged, “I’ve ignored ‘cease and desist’ orders before. I’ve been decorated twice after ignoring the order.”
“Not one of those times, I think.” GU looked us over, adding, “I think there are going to be lots of people looking for you – Human, Yown’Hoo, and Kiiote. I say we move out right now. You may not have another time when you’re not surrounded by hostiles.”
Image: https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/7/72/Rhll_wire_rope.jpg

IDEAS ON TUESDAYS 251

[image error]Each Tuesday, rather than a POSSIBLY IRRITATING ESSAY, I'd like to both challenge you and lend a helping hand. I generate more speculative and teen story ideas than I can ever use. My family rolls its collective eyes when I say, "Hang on a second! I just have to write down this idea..." Here, I'll include the initial inspiration (quote, website, podcast, etc.) and then a thought or two that came to mind. These will simply be seeds -- plant, nurture, fertilize, chemically treat, irradiate, test or stress them as you see fit. I only ask if you let me know if anything comes of them.
 F Trope: elves, gnomes and Halflings
Current Event: http://www.icenews.is/index.php/2011/07/02/icelandic-town-hopes-angry-elves-have-been-soothed-by-songs/
So…a guy – call him Geir Laxness – is born in Iceland and grows up. He’s got no mom and lives alone with dad, who is an anthropologist.
They’ve travelled a bit, so he’s seen a lot, but he’s always been shy. He reads lots of fantasy and likes LORD OF THE RINGS a lot and can even read the Icelandic translation (which his few friends think is weird). One of his heroes is “Snorri Sturluson, a descendant of Egil’s Saga’s hero, but this remains uncertain. The standard modern edition of Icelandic sagas is known as Íslenzk Fornrit.” His online name is “Snorri”.
He skypes other friends all the time and has contacts all over the world. Him and his dad are at a conference in Minneapolis, MN. It’s his first time in the US interior and he manages to get away from Dad and go to a fantasy and science fiction bookstore called “Uncle Hugo’s”.
It’s across the street from a REALLY intriguing International Marketplace and he figures he’ll pop over there and see what’s up…
That’s when he witnesses a murder: a group of white kids, tattooed with Celtic runes Geir understands, and heads shaved, on skateboards, attack and kill a black man and an Hispanic woman. They disappear back down a staircase to a bike trail below.
Geir tries to help, but doesn’t know to call 911 in the US, so he does what he can. As she dies, the woman presses a folded sheet of paper into his hand and says, "Our deaths have been unplanned. The gnomes are moving in force. You are from our world, please…"
Names: ♀ Iceland Image: https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/736x/ce/9a/1f/ce9a1f6ea617581fefbcec6d9e10d2ab.jpg

Slice of PIE: A Writer’s Faith Walk

[image error]I am “on retreat” this weekend because I needed it.
“On retreat” in this case, is a Christian phrase meant to suggest a retreat from the usual battles of the world in order to gather your strength before flinging yourself back into the fray (synonyms include: fight, argument, quarrel, fracas, dispute, disagreement, affray, skirmish).
For me, none of this involves my wife or kids. It does involve lots of other things.
The main one is that I have been in an internal spiritual skirmish with myself. I am a Christian (“duh!”, right?), but for some time now, my walk with God has been seriously lame. I mean that in both ways, too. Lame as in “that is SO lame!” and lame as in a physical handicap.
Because my walk has been lame, everyday stresses (both positive and negative!) – student testing, applications for summer school and for college, family members who are too close to a psychologically unstable military dictator, being overweight, a writing “career”, my education relicensure, and an upcoming wedding I will perform – have been enormously exacerbated by my parents’ continuing decline and the necessity of my deep involvement in that, as well as continuing issues with my wife’s breast cancer treatments.
Even the “triage counselor” at the school I work at thought me getting away for a retreat was a good thing. When I mentioned I’d been snapping at people, she said, “No, not that. It’s just that your eyes look flustered.”
The theme of this retreat has been “For we walk/live by faith, not by sight.” Second Corinthians 5:7. The verse is strangely tucked into a narrative that’s discussing whether or not we’d prefer to be dead and with God or alive and NOT with God. There is also discussion as to whether the Greek word should be translated into “walk” or “live”.
The Bible study leader has chosen the life of Abram-Abraham as the vehicle for this weekend, so we’ve been delving into his life as it is recorded in Genesis.
A couple of points and how they intersect with my writing.
The first point is that I prefer the “walk” translation over the “live” translation. As a writer, I am hyper aware of the meaning and implication of words. In this case, I find that “walk” is a more active verb than is “live”. My recent experiences with my parents have given me new appreciation of this. Both are victims of the life-sucking condition we tremblingly name “Alzheimer’s” – to universal dismay and sympathy. My parents live in a retirement community, but within that community, my mother lives in her chair. While she is absolutely and completely alive, her active and vibrant past has disappeared from her. She lives, so passively now that it is painful for me to see her.
While on this retreat, I went on a two mile walk through mud, over waterlogged fields, and along woodchip trails. I reveled in the quiet, and while it was cloudy and unseasonably cold, soaked in the peace as if it were brilliant sunshine.
“For we WALK by faith, not by sight.”
I may have been living by faith (though rather pathetically), but after this weekend, I may once again walk (by faith).
Secondly, while I have certainly been writing, submitting, and planning; in my perception, I’ve been laboring entirely on my own. God really had no part in my creative process, and to be frank, I didn’t see why he’d care about my trivial SF stories or about a career as insignificant as mine when he was clearly in charge of careers of men and women like Gene Wolfe, Connie Willis, Brad Torgerson, Kathy Tyers, and Orson Scott Card.
It’s clear that God intervened in the lives of men like Abraham; but I had forgotten that God’s word is meant for all of us. Even insignificant counselor/science fiction writers like me.
It’s good to remember this; it’s good to begin an active walk with God…
Image:  http://40.media.tumblr.com/06a8615ed9250b9537cc33f979eda283/tumblr_njc2of8xSg1s91yx0o1_500.jpg

MARTIAN HOLIDAY 80: Aster of Opportunity

[image error]On a well-settled Mars, the five major city Council regimes struggle to meld into a stable, working government. Embracing an official Unified Faith In Humanity, the Councils are teetering on the verge of pogrom directed against Christians, Molesters , Jews, Rapists, Buddhists, Murderers, Muslims, Thieves, Hindu, Embezzlers and Artificial Humans – anyone who threatens the official Faith and the consolidating power of the Councils. It makes good sense, right – get rid of religion and Human divisiveness on a societal level will disappear? An instrument of such a pogrom might just be a Roman holiday...To see the rest of the chapters  and I’m sorry, but a number of them got deleted from the blog – go to SCIENCE FICTION: Martian Holiday on the right and scroll to the bottom for the first story. If you’d like to read it from beginning to end (50,000 words as of now), drop me a line and I’ll send you the unedited version. ? z Z
FardusAH, assistant to Mayor-for-Life of Burroughs Dome, Etaraxis Ginunga-Gap leaned back in her chair, studying the Mayoral Consort, Aster Theilen for some time before finally saying, “Depending on the outcome of your party, I may have some questions about your God.”
“If you do, I will be happy to answer them.” She bowed slightly. “I’ll see you later.”
As Aster strode from the office, FardusAH touched her mauve lips with a navy blue finger, nails done in complimentary yellow. She said softly, “You most certainly will, your Honor. You most certainly will.” She turned to her screen and got back to work.
Aster stopped outside he office. Most people – certainly vo’Maddux’s agents, as well as the few “watchers” FardusAH employed – would expect her to hurry to the Mayor’s Pylon to begin planning; possibly to start picking colors and start the guest list. In the months since Etaraxis chose her as his main consort, she’d learned more about the elite of the Dome than she really cared to know. She pursed her lips, then went to edge of the ramp that spiraled from the uppermost levels, deep into the planet. Above, a lens shield that both collected and concentrated sunlight. The physical dome overlay that, stretching a kilometer in either direction from the Core, all the way to the Rim. The wealthiest Opportunians lived in the upper level of the Core and around the edge – what was called by some, the HOD. In that part of the Dome, people actually owned their own homes – owned a piece of Mars. Only the wealthiest, most deeply connected families lived there. That didn’t necessarily include the First Humans on Mars. He father was one of them, poor by HOD standards, but owning, nevertheless, a growing portion Mount Olympus.
He had friends as well. Some of them were not happy with how Mars had turned out. She sniffed. If her father had ever wanted to start an insurrection, he’d have plenty of tinder. The First Humans were scattered among the Domes – but some lived in the High Desert of Mars. Some were pariah to the common humanity that lived their lives out hardly noticing that they were aliens on an ancient world.
She sighed. He father knew them all; loved many of them. They would know where to find lots of orphans. But she had another kind of orphan she wanted to bring into the  Orphan’s Ball. She wanted Artificial Human children to be part of the celebration. They were different, but not less Human. She knew that her viewpoints would have gotten her killed just to speak them in some of the Domes. Even so, as the Mayoral Consort, she could actually effect change on Mars. The cast off Artificial Humans – they called themselves inti – were part of the future of the planet. To exclude them would not only incite rebellion, it wasn’t, as her father said, “Part of God’s plan.”
While she’d never been the fanatic her father was, she loved the Triune God and wanted to serve Him. This was her chance. She was in a place to do some good and she had allies. Undermining the status quo had never been her dream, but if she ever wanted to see a Mars unified and equitable, someone had to start something somewhere. She had to be transparent – using the shunt, in this environment, surveillance was a given. Mars had a society that an ancient science fiction writer had predicted with uncanny accuracy – a transparent society. Security and probably vo’Maddux herself, were happily spying on her even as she stood here. She resisted the temptation to wave and came back to the problem with the Orphan’s Ball. It regularly excluded the people who have less power and low status – the people that orphans ended up becoming. All of Martian society needed to be responsible for lifting them up and helping them meet the people they need to meet in order to grow up empowered.
She smiled bleakly at FardusAH’s response: “But they aren’t even Human! Some of the little freaks look like furless kangaroos!” She’d had the grace to blush black when she realized what she’d said. But FardusAH, with her network of assistants to all of the other Mayors of Mars, would be her most powerful ally.
In vo’Maddux’s mind, the Mayoral Consort should head to the Pylon and start her party plans. Instead, she headed down to her Dad’s. Her father was very familiar with the proletariat, the person-on-the-street; those who had been called “blue-collar” workers back on Earth in the middle of its Twentieth Century. Those were the men and women who listened to her dad; who attended his secret Christian churches – and who quite literally kept Opportunity Dome from falling apart. She needed to let him know that what she planned wasn’t “a stunt” by the Mayor’s Office.
She needed to form a new union of Martians, is what she needed to do.
Image: https://i.ytimg.com/vi/pv5BzHM3TJ8/hqdefault.jpg

IDEAS ON TUESDAY 250

[image error]Each Tuesday, rather than a POSSIBLY IRRITATING ESSAY, I'd like to both challenge you and lend a helping hand. I generate more speculative and teen story ideas than I can ever use. My family rolls its collective eyes when I say, "Hang on a second! I just have to write down this idea..." Here, I'll include the initial inspiration (quote, website, podcast, etc) and then a thought or two that came to mind. These will simply be seeds -- plant, nurture, fertilize, chemically treat, irradiate, test or stress them as you see fit. I only ask if you let me know if anything comes of them.
SF Trope: genetic memoriesCurrent Event: http://physicsworld.com/cws/article/news/2013/jan/23/digital-files-stored-and-retrieved-using-dna-memory
Iker Dương flexed his bicep.
Leonie Gonzalez shook her head and rolled back over on her stomach.
“What? I thought you said you wanted to see a trick?” Iker said.
Without looking at him, she pulled up the latest Kathy Reichs Temperance Brennan book on her Kindenookpad – or knop – and got back to her reading.
“What are you mad at?”
Leonie said, “Listen Iker, I like you and all, but if you want us to be anything more than buddies, you’re going to have to actually talk to me.”
Iker sat down. The sappy sad look on his face almost made Leonie give in and feel sorry for him. Instead, she rolled over with her back to him.
He arched over her, planting his hands firmly on the ground then flipped his feet over, landing lightly. She almost grabbed him then, too. But they were almost done with their college freshman year, she wanted to get into medical school – she was aiming to be the first forensic anthropologist on Mars because now that the population there had topped three million and they’d celebrated their Diamond Jubilee, there were going to be old MURDERS…
He flexed his bicep again and said, “I’m trying to show you something.”
She sighed.
“Not my muscle! I’m showing you what we’re doing in the lab!”
“Trying to create muscles from nothing?”
“Hey!” He pouted and she relented a bit. “I’m sorry, but the Mexicans and the Vietnamese are not known for producing Olympic weightlifting champions...”
“It’s not my muscle, it’s what’s in my muscle!”
“String beans?” She winced an instant after speaking the words but couldn’t say, “Iker, wait!” fast enough to stop him from sprint away. She also couldn’t quite stop the thought that he had a rather cute backside as well and even though he was sorta on the skinny side…”Iker, wait!” He kept going. She stopped, pondered for an instant, then put her ancestry to work and sprinted, catching him in ten long strides, grabbing his arm. She thought for an instant that the bicep wasn’t as wimpy as she’d imagined. “I’m sorry, Iker – but you’re just such a tempting target. What...”
“DNA – I have a data package in my bicep. I’ve been carrying it for the past week and we’re going to take it out tomorrow to see if…”
From the shadows of the science building, a voice said, “I don’t think you should be talking about this, folks.”
Names: ♀ Swiss German, Argentinian; ♂ Mexican, Vietnamese
Image: https://pixabay.com/static/uploads/photo/2013/07/13/12/21/biceps-159681_960_720.png

POSSIBLY IRRITATING ESSAYS: How Do Writers Get Us To Slip Into An Alternate Reality? (Part 1)

[image error]Using the panel discussions of the most recent World Science Fiction Convention in Spokane, August 2015, I will jump off, jump on, rail against, and shamelessly agree with the BRIEF DESCRIPTION given in the pdf copy of the Program Guide. This is event #3678. The link is provided below…
Narrative Structure and Expectation
How do we enter stories? By what techniques do narratives pull us in? How do the expectations we have influence how we respond? I’ll break down some narrative techniques used in openings, and then go on to discuss how openings that match expectations can encourage us to keep reading while expectations that aren’t fulfilled can sometimes cause us to stop reading. How big a part does familiarity play in how well we can understand and adjust to a story? Finally, how do the things that we think we know but may be wrong about (as in history) make it easier or harder to be drawn into a book if our beliefs aren’t met? Kate Elliott
Author of plenty of books – though they all appear to be fantasy, which most of you know isn’t one of my favorite genres (I HAVE read the requisite classics by Lewis, Tolkien, LeGuin, Brooks, Card, Donaldson, Stroud, Clarke, Bull, Wynne Jones, and Nix)  – it’s clear that Elliot must have a clear grasp of writing technique. In fact, looking at the questions above, I can’t imagine that she would have been able to cover more than ONE of them in the time apparently allotted for the session.
In another fact, I don’t know if you could ever definitively answer these…
As I’m approaching the end of the Sasquan Program Book, I think I’ll stretch it out a bit and jump off from each one of the questions posed by the programmers and look at what it means to me and possibly how I would answer it.
So: How do we enter stories?
First and foremost, my initial response is “voluntarily”.
That being baldly stated, I suddenly realized that this isn’t entirely true. Take Susanna Clarke’s master work JONATHAN STRANGE AND MR. NORRELL for example. I’d never have read it on my own. Working at Barnes & Noble, I’d seen it numerous, sold a few copies – and was totally unimpressed by the bland cover and sheer weight of the thing. Clearly, it would be no fast read and would require an investment of time I rarely gave to ANY book, let alone a fantasy novel by an author I’d never hear of.
My daughter gave it to me to read because she’d fallen in love with it.
So I read it and quite involuntarily, I entered the story. The same thing happened when I picked up Stephen R. Donaldson’s first book, LORD FOUL’S BANE. Of course, the impetus there was to avoid studying for finals at Moorhead State University…
At any rate, both books drew me into their worlds and I read them to the end with complete satisfaction.
Be that as it may, HOW did I enter these stories?
How about “by reading the first sentence”?
“She came out of the store just in time to see her young son playing on the sidewalk directly in the path of the gray, gaunt man who strode down the center of the walk like a mechanical derelict.” – Chapter 1, LORD FOUL’S BANE
“It is January and I am arriving at an English country house in Yorkshire./Some years ago there was in the city of York a society of magicians.” Preface/Chapter 1, JONATHAN STRANGE AND MR. NORRELL
The first must have drawn me into the story by itself (though the impetus of my avoidance reaction to undergraduate finals was hard at work!) – the second, because I love my daughter and wanted to please her, I allowed myself to be drawn into the story.
But HOW?
The more I think about it, the more I think it’s more complicated than having an intriguing first sentence. Intent and external forces also have something to do with a reader’s response to a book. Even so, the first sentence of Donaldson’s book has some key points. The first is normalcy overlain by strangeness.
Actually, the dual sentences of Clarke’s books do the same thing: normalcy overlain by strangeness.
Let’s see if this works with my favorite science fiction books.
“The last gleaming sliver of Komarr’s true-sun melted out of sight beyond the low hills on the western horizon.” Chapter 1, KOMARR
“Streaker is limping like a dog on three legs./Fins had been making wisecracks about humans for thousands of years.” Prologue/Chapter 1, STARTIDE RISING
Strangely enough, it does.
In fact, STARTLINGLY comparable…
Takeaway:
Intent and external forces affect whether or not you enter a story.Juxtaposition of “normal” and “strange” in the first sentence(s) work to usher us into stories.
Whew. THAT was unexpected. Your thoughts?
Program Book: http://sasquan.org/wp-content/uploads/2015/06/ConGuide.toupload.pdf
Image: https://i.ytimg.com/vi/OnWqxg34rC4/hqdefault.jpg

JOURNEY TO THE PORTRAIT’S SECRET #84: July 31, 1946

[image error]This series is a little bit biographical and a little bit imaginary about my dad and a road trip he took in the summer of 1946, when he turned fifteen. He and a friend hitchhiked from Loring Park to Duluth, into Canada and back again. He was gone from home for a month. I was astonished and fascinated by the tale. So, I added some speculation about things I've always wondered about and this series is the result. To read earlier SHORT LONG JOURNEY NORTH clips, click on the label to the right, scroll down to and click OLDER ENTRIES seven or eight times. The FIRST entry is on the bottom of the last page.
The tractor trailer having slid to a stop, Edwina Olds, most lately Lieutenant, WACS (ret.) nodded then looked out the window. The cow she’d stopped in time to avoid smashing it death, stood in the middle of the road and behind it loomed a sign that read, FAIRELANE CREAMERY.
Tommy Hastings and Freddie Merrill, sharing the passenger seat next to her exclaimed, “This is it!”
Just then an old man and a young man, both with shotguns, stepped into the road and the headlights. The older man shouted, “Come on out with your hands up!”
Freddie grabbed the door handle and jerked it up. Ed exclaimed, “Stop right there, boy!” He froze.
“What?” the boys said in unison.
Ed shook her head, saying, “I’m highest ranking here and so I’m your commanding officer. You both stay here while I speak with the gentlemen with the loaded weapons. We ain’t in the Philippines anymore and we ain’t at war. So…” she opened the door slowly and with hands raised, stepped out of the cab and down to the ground without closing the door. The boys heard her say, “Excuse the rough stop, Sir. I have two boys with me, on Tommy Hastings and another Freddie Merrill who said I might check with you to buy some fuel for my rig. They seem to be pursued by Socialists from Duluth and as I’m a friend of theirs, I’m working to take them back to the safety of their home in Minneapolis.”
At the mention of their names, Charlie Fairlaine lowered his rifle, stepped behind his father and ran up to the passenger door. He yanked the door open, looked at the boys, and shouted back to his father, “It’s them, Dad!”
The elder Fairlaine lowered his shotgun, shooed his cow back to her corral then said, “Pardon me, ma’am. You be…”
Ed lifted her chin and said, “Lieutenant Edwina Olds, Women’s Army Corps, recently retired.” She nodded at the sign, “I take it you’re the Fairlaine advertised?”
Charlie jerked his head to one side and Tommy and Freddie climbed down while Ed and Mr. Fairlaine negotiated a fill on gas. Charlie gave them both unexpected slugs in the shoulder and grinned at them. “Good to see you two. Stayin’ out of trouble?
Tommy started to say, “Yea…”
Freddie said, “Hardly! The Socialists are chasing us ‘cuz Tommy’s mom has some kind of crazy picture or something and they want it so bad…” Tommy slugged Freddie, hard, because Mr. Fairlaine and Ed were looking over at them. Freddie rubbed his shoulder, looking down at the ground and pouting.
Ed called over to them, “Come on, boys! Mr. Fairlaine’s going to give us a fill – but you have a job to do, too.”
Freddie looked at Tommy, who let his eyes grow wide. “What…”
“Come over here, boys!” Ed snapped and they hurried. Charlie walked after them, grinning.
“Now listen careful, boys. Mr. Fairlaine here has a trade he’d like to make with us – ‘cause I don’t have any cash on me for gas. Only the company checks. So I had to make a deal in order for us to fill up and get you back home before our Socialist enemies catch you and me and turn us into roadkill.”
She nodded to Mr. Fairlaine, who said, “I’ll fill this honored veteran’s gas tank on one condition – and it’s up to you two.”
Tommy said, “What could we do, Sir?”
“My thoughts exactly! But Charles here seems to think you might be able to help him out. Next summer, the wife and I are going to California to see her sister. While we’re gone, we were thinking that the three of you might just barely be able to maintain the farm. No pay – but I’ll give this here veteran all the gas she can pack and won’t charge her nothin’. Charlie will get your help and me and the wife might actually take a vacation for once in our lives.”
“What do you say?” Ed asked.
Tommy looked at Freddie who shrugged and said, “Get me away from home.”
Tommy nodded and said, “Me, too.” He looked at Charlie, “Might be fun, too.” Ed held out  a hand, first to Tommy, then to Freddie and they shook. Then she held out a hand to Mr. Fairlaine, and he shook. Next to them, the truck rumbled.
Ed looked up just as a sliver of sun broke the horizon. She said, “Looks like it’s August the first, boys. Let’s get gas and get you home.”Image: http://www.farmcollector.com/~/media/Images/FCM/Editorial/Articles/Magazine%20Articles/2011/12-01/Barrels%20of%20Gasoline%20Kerosene%20Jugs%20and%20HandCranked%20Pumps/trew-fuel-01.jpg

IDEAS ON TUESDAYS 249

[image error]Each Tuesday, rather than a POSSIBLY IRRITATING ESSAY, I'd like to both challenge you and lend a helping hand. I generate more speculative and teen story ideas than I can ever use. My family rolls its collective eyes when I say, "Hang on a second! I just have to write down this idea..." Here, I'll include the initial inspiration (quote, website, podcast, etc) and then a thought or two that came to mind. These will simply be seeds -- plant, nurture, fertilize, chemically treat, irradiate, test or stress them as you see fit. I only ask if you let me know if anything comes of them.
H Trope: apocalyptic diary/journal/logCurrent Event: http://news.discovery.com/earth/oceans/lost-continent-discovered-beneath-indian-ocean-130225.htmAndrianampoinimerinatompokoindrindraZehrezgi – who preferred to go by Andri Zee – tried to keep his last meal down as the boat rocked beneath his feet.
“Isn’t this exhilarating?” exclaimed Shamma Maslah.
“When do you think the hurricane is going to stop?” he asked.
Shamma burst out laughing. “There’s no hurricane! In fact this is the calmest day I’ve seen since we were out here.” She glanced at him and went to the railing and said, “If you don’t like the ocean, why’d you come out here?”"This site is within the waters of my country.”

She made a face, saying, “I didn’t know you had a country. Not how you talk about it anyway.”
“Madagascar is my homeland!” She grunted and leaned over the rail, looking deeply into the water. “Watch out!” he cried, stepping forward, arm outstretched.
She looked at him and laughed, “What? It scares you when I lean out this far?” she said, leaning back over the railing. Suddenly the water below her grew dark and began to bubble, gently at first, then wildly. Water geysered into the air. She screamed and staggered backward, into Andri Zee’s arms and they watched in horror as...
A fluorescent orange conning tower surged out of the water, sluicing aside until the hatch on top opened up and a young lady waved at them.
Shamma shouted, “Laura! What’s going on?”
“You won’t believe what we discovered! Not only is Mauritia a sunken island – there was some sort of sealed chamber there!”
“What?” Andri exclaimed. Majoring in archaeology, THIS is what he’d come for! “Where is it?”
“They had to send down the big sub and they’re bringing up the entire chamber right now.”
Shamma looked at Andri then Liz, bobbing in the conning tower of the sub and shouted, “The time is all wrong! Mauritia sank when the dinosaurs died. There shouldn’t be anything there.”
Liz shrugged, “I don’t know about when it sank or what should and shouldn’t be there, but there’s something big and it looks like it was sealed. See you in a bit!”
They rendezvoused at the small sub dock. The massive winch from the ship platform had lifted a barnacled encrusted, roughly cubic case into the air and was swinging it over the helipad, where it lowered the box down.
The metal groaned as the cables above relaxed. Andri said, “It’s heavier than it looks.”
“Way heavier,” said Liz.
Shamma frowned. There was something about it. Something strange. Despite the noise around her, she could hear…not exactly hear…sense? Feel? She wasn’t sure. Something. The hot sun of the Indian Ocean beat down on the head of the crew. Men and women in trunks and halters scampered around the deck, disconnecting chains, cables, hosing down the object. SCUBA divers were lifting up from the waterline; heavy metal music abruptly blared from the deck speakers and the recovery work began in a part atmosphere.
Shamma found a spot, out of the way. Her work on the project was cataloging and identifying life forms; part of a survey team that had set out to begin to quantify the anecdotal evidence that the oceans were beginning to recover now that the world population had precipitously fallen during the H7N9 Pandemic of 2014-2016. With over two billion people dead, the Earth seemed empty now. It scared her sometimes. Abruptly, a  migraine assaulted her. It had been years since she had one.
That was when heard a voice, speaking in Olde English. She only caught the first few words, vaguely familiar, but somehow wrong as well, “In the beginning, I created this earth to inhabit heaven...” The migraine became blinding and with a squeak, she passed out.
Names: ♀ UAE, Somolian; ♂ Madagascar, Ethiopian; ♀ Hebrew (diminutive of “Elizabeth”)Image: http://orig09.deviantart.net/b789/f/2009/033/8/9/sable__s_diary_by_lyfaster.jpg

WRITING ADVICE: What Went RIGHT With the SciFutures Treatment (an idea bank company) Guy Stewart #34

[image error]In September of 2007, I started this blog with a bit of writing advice. A little over a year later, I discovered how little I knew about writing after hearing children’s writer, Lin Oliver speak at a convention hosted by the Minnesota Society of Children’s Book Writers and Illustrators. Since then, I have shared (with their permission) and applied the writing wisdom of Lin Oliver, Jack McDevitt, Nathan Bransford, Mike Duran, Kristine Kathryn Rusch, SL Veihl, Bruce Bethke, and Julie Czerneda. Together they write in genres broad and deep, and have acted as agents, editors, publishers, columnists, and teachers. Since then, I figured I’ve got enough publications now that I can share some of the things I did “right” and I’m busy sharing that with you.
While I don’t write full-time, nor do I make enough money with my writing to live off of it...neither do all of the professional writers above...someone pays for and publishes ten percent of what I write. When I started this blog, that was NOT true, so I may have reached a point where my own advice is reasonably good. We shall see! Hemingway’s quote above will now remain unchanged as I work to increase my writing output and sales! As always, your comments are welcome!
I’m going to skip the history a bit because I’m still somewhat in shock…
I am part of an online writers group called CODEX. We trade writing advice, share frustrations, and celebrate success together.
Occasionally, we share new markets or comment on closed ones.
In December of 2014, one of the members posted a call for writers for this company: “SciFutures - Prototyping the Future: SciFutures is a tech and innovation company that uses storytelling and science fiction prototyping to guide organizations in creating their preferred futures. We specialize in big, long established companies that need assistance dealing with the rate of exponential change that's happening in the world today. Find out what it's like writing science fiction stories for these corporations and what it means to be a futurist in this realm.”
I’d published a book and several articles that helped people use science in everyday life, from preaching children’s sermons to an experiment you could do involving heart rate and respiration at an all-girl sleepover. The science part was natural. The writing part was natural, too. So…
I sent the requested information and after a few, brief exchanges, really didn’t hear much from them until Thursday, March 17. I got this in my email before I left for work: “Dear Writers: I would like to invite you all to participate in our current brief on mood modulation which I have attached. It would be appreciated if you can let me know if you are unable to complete this assignment so I can offer your place to another writer. The deadline for this brief is Monday the 21st by 9am.”
WHAT?!?!?
How could anyone expect me to be creative, artistic, and you know, WRITERLY in four days?
I read the brief, and then I knew that contrary to what my “author’s voice” was screaming at me, I could do this. Besides, I’d done work-for-hire before. I talk about it here…hmmm…I just realized that I have NOT talked about it. I worked for the Science Museum of Minnesota and the television series, NEWTON’S APPLE writing curriculum that went with the TV broadcasts, as well as vacation Bible school puppet shows and activities for AugsburgFortress Publishing, and a handbook of twenty-six activities you could do with an online children’s magazine’s first story collection (only got a “kill fee” for that one).
At any rate, they wanted two treatments for the idea and as I work with high school students, the connections were obvious and I made use of experiences that I’d had in my thirty years of teaching and in the past five years as a guidance counselor.
I followed the formatting rules they’d included, wrote up the beginning of the stories (they only wanted about 1000 words each) and sent them off. The pay they offered was HUGE compared the amount of work involved – but then I realized that except for getting my work in CRICKET, CICADA, and ANALOG, the pay I’d gotten writing for the museum, the PBS television channel, and the religious publisher as a work-for-hire was coming out of a corporate budget and I didn’t retain any rights.
That might be the “worst” part of the deal. By the same token, it’s unlikely that I’ll be doing any more writing about Dr. Jill Yaeger, for a defunct TV Science show, or vacation Bible school curriculum all on my own. The mood modification ideas are interesting, but I actually like writing about aliens more than I like writing near-future SF…though I should point out that my sales of alien stories are minimal while my sale of stories dealing with technology in the near-to-century-ahead and how Humans interact with it have been noticeably more numerous…hmmm.


Two days ago, a HUGE deposit appeared in my PayPal account. They liked the ideas and promptly paid for them!The take-away from this Writing Advice:I went with my strengths – science and writing.I took up a challenge.I’m not an “author” (subject to “the inspiration of the Muse”), I AM a writer!I do work-for-hire – not often, but as necessary.I CAN write to a deadline, even when it’s short!I shouldn’t have been surprised (but I was!), I’m a pretty good writer and I like thinking about how science and Humans interact.
Anyone else out there work-for-hire sometimes? What was your experience like?
Image: https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/736x/9f/22/3b/9f223b1e57a36e14db3eb13715fbe3f9.jpg

LOVE IN A TIME OF ALIEN INVASION -- Chapter 40

[image error]On Earth, there are three Triads intending to integrate not only the three peoples and stop the war that threatens to break loose and slaughter Humans and devastate their world; but to stop the war that consumes Kiiote economy and Yown’Hoo moral fiber. The Braiders accidentally created a resonance wave that will destroy the Milky Way and the only way to stop it is for the Yown’Hoo-Kiiote-Human Triads to build a physical wall. The merger of Human-Kiiote-Yown’Hoo into a van der Walls Society may produce the Membrane to stop the wave.
The young experimental Triads are made up of the smallest primate tribe of Humans – Oscar and Kashayla; the smallest canine pack of Kiiote – six, pack leaders Qap and Xurf; and the smallest camelid herd of Yown’Hoo – a prime eleven, Dao-hi the Herd mother. On nursery farms and ranches away from the TC cities, Humans have tended young Yown’Hoo and Kiiote in secret for decades, allowing the two warring people to reproduce and grow far from their home worlds.
“We had nearly fallen into stagnation when we encountered the Kiiote.”
“And we into internecine war when we encountered the Yown’Hoo.”
 “Yown’Hoo and Kiiote have been defending themselves for a thousand revolutions of our Sun.”
 “Together, we might do something none of us alone might have done…a destiny that included Yown’Hoo, Kiiote, and Human.” (2/19/2015)
All of a sudden, I was lifted from the ground. Fax, Pack Second of their part of our Triad, tried to run, but a white hand grabbed his tail and gave it a yank. He yelped, then fell to the ground unconscious – something to do with the tail being a fifth limb and yanking it hard enough to dislocate the bones, it caused an electrical surge into the brain stunning him.
My attention went back to the owner of the hand as it turned to me, at an angle impossible for a living Humanoid. When it’s eyes began to glow and when I lashed out with a judo kick and hit solid plastic...I knew I was dead.
The hand tightened around my throat. Gasping, I could feel myself start to blank out when I heard a voice shout, “Oscar?”
That voice I recognized just before the world around me started to fade away – it was my great uncle, Tim Orwell. I tried to say his name, but it came out a strangled wheeze.
I heard him shout, “Drop him!” The hand released me and I fell to the cold ground. I threw up. I heard Fax snuffling and a moment later, he stood up in his canine form and horked up a blob as well.
My great uncle said, “Don’t you two make a fine couple.”
Scrambling to my feet, I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand and knelt by Fax. Looking up at him, I said, “What are you doing here?”
He snorted then said, “I live here. I think me asking the question would make more sense.”
“We’re left the Cities because the Dome was attacked and someone’s trying to kill the Triad.”
My great uncle went to one knee, scooped me and Fax up, and shouted something in a language I’d never heard before. The humanoid robot – not a realistic-looking one like my great uncle – took off for the barn. Great Uncle Tim said, “We have to get all of you undercover. Those choppers will be back when they realize you couldn’t have gotten much farther than my farm.”
“This isn’t a farm! It’s a dump! Nobody would think Humans lived here!”
“Perfect,” he replied and with a leap that landed us on at the foot of the steps of the farmhouse’s back porch. He strode up and with a shoulder, pushed the door open. It was like passing through a portal into another world. I’d have figured that we’d gone through some sort of spacetime portal but I knew perfectly well that Humans certainly didn’t have that technology – we’d barely started exploring the asteroid belt and the atmospheres of Venus, Jupiter, Mars, and Neptune when the Ideology War of the Kiiote and Yown’Hoo spilled all over Earth. But as advanced as their tech was over ours, neither of them had managed to jump distances instantaneously. The run down farmhouse we’d been Peeping Tom-ing into had vanished and we appeared to be in a corridor leading to a well-guarded checkpoint. GU Tim carried us past unmoving robots identical to the one that had tried to strangle me.
Before we reached them though, ten of the white plastic robots appeared at a place where the farmhouse door intersected this space. Each one carried two unconscious Kiiote or Yown’Hoo – except the last one, who carried an unconscious ‘Shayla, bleeding from a head wound; and a blood-smeared robot carrying what was left of the immature Yown’Hoo Ked-sah-ti. I squirmed until Tim released me then raced back, shouting, “What did you do to it, you monster?”
The robot held the immature out in its arms and said, “The Humans in helicopters shot the immature. I had nothing…” I cut it off by taking Ked-sah-ti and shoving the unfeeling thing away.
I ran back to GU Tim and said, “You can save it, can’t you?” I admit, I was choking up. The blood, the emotion, the fact that there were people chasing the Triad, the fact that ‘Shayla wasn’t awake to help me decide anything made my already hyper sensitivity rocket into full-blown hysteria.
Tim didn’t take it, but reached out instead and touched the immatures neck then shook his head. “It’s far too late. Its body is already cooling.”
Dao-hi, Herd Mother to one third of the Triad clacked on her sharp hooves over to the dead one, snuffled it, sneezed then walked back to me and said, “Its death will be charged to all Humans and to you in particular.” Then she stepped back and reared, pawing the air with her hooves. I knew better than to move even a centimeter in any direction. While the act was symbolic; representing the vicious battles fought millennia ago on the Yown’Hoo homeworld, the swipes of her hooves could both crush a Human skull and gouge out gobs of Human flesh.
I’d seen it happen in real life once. That was enough. After three swipes at me, she dropped back down onto all fours and said, “We are of the same Herd, Os Car, but we are no longer allies. At the end of the corridor, the portal opened again.
Lieutenant Commander Patrick Bakhsh (ret), whom I’d started calling Retired; stepped through the portal, a white plastic robot flung over his shoulder, and said, “What are you all looking at?”Image: https://pixabay.com/static/uploads/photo/2014/11/02/12/07/robot-513775_960_720.jpg