Jeremy L. Jones's Blog, page 10
April 3, 2019
Random Writing Prompt Wednesday
I don't always do these but when I can find time, I do. Treasure Valley Wordsmiths put up a writing challenge where I had to write about a construction worker who has an imaginary friend.
Here is my attempt. Enjoy.
The Things We Leave BehindBy Jeremy L. Jones
A house with nobody inside is a corpse, something that only serves a purpose if there's something living in it. Otherwise its just a thing and a thing that grows rotten the longer it is left. This house, from the way the rain pours in from the roof and the way it creeks when even the slightest breeze comes up, I figure it's been empty for more than ten years.
I sit on a chair left behind by the last owners. A dark green fluffy recliner. The color has faded to nearly nothing and small creatures off and on make their home inside the tattered upholstery but its still remarkably comfortable. I wait listening to the water leaking in and the occasionally scurry of a rodent in and around the woodwork. I wait until I see headlights shining in through the front window.
Allen lets himself in the front door. He pauses to look just above the door frame and smiles, "It's still there."
He's referring to his name. He wrote it on the door frame just after it was installed. It would have been hidden behind some wainscoting when the house was lived in but that's long since fallen off.
"You're late." I say standing up.
Allen shrugs, "I had to say goodbye to my wife. Well, shall we do this?"
We walk from the main room into the kitchen. I point to a hole in the drywall. "Found a dollar there about a year back."
Allen nods, "That would be Stevenson. Had this thing about leaving a dollar in the walls. Said it was good luck."
Stevenson. The image of a gruff man with a thorough command of inappropriate jokes comes to mind and it makes me smile. "What happened to him?"
"You know as well as I do. He gave it up."
'Gave it up' is a code. It means he was injured in an accident and couldn't work anymore. If he'd found another line of work, he would have just said what it was. But accidents, it's not something we talk about. It's bad luck.
Allen pulls a flashlight from his jacket and turns it on. We're in the kitchen. There's a empty spot where a refrigerator would have gone and the cupboards have half-fallen off the wall. Allen tries the sink but nothing comes out. There's been no water or electricity here for quite some time.
"Old habit," he says "I always check the plumbing first. Electricity is easy but if the plumbing is bad, you might as well tear the house down. Ain't no good to anyone and it's just gonna cause more headaches in the long run."
We start to walk down the hallway and he laughs. "I had this super once. Back when I was pouring concrete. He would throw a quarter into whatever we were doing. Didn't matter what it was. Sidewalk, curbing, planter, if he wasn't there or was going to be late he'd call me up and say, "Hey Allen! Got any change?"
I laugh. "I worked with this guy once. He was Native American and, before every project, he would bless the ground. We'd all be standing there, leaning on our shovels waiting for his go-ahead to do anything. Meanwhile he's sitting in the middle of the worksite singing some old song and burning sage or something or other. He said it would keep spirits at bay."
Allen grunts. "Could have used him."
We walk down the hallway and his flashlight hits a part of the wall where the wallpaper is peeling off. Just above where the corner is hanging limp you can see the letters D,E and R painted in black.
"You would always leave notes behind wouldn't you?" said Allen looking at the message.
"I did. Notes. Poems. Sometimes fortunes like you might find in a fortune cookie. I always thought it would be fun if someone found those."
We keep walking. Allen stops outside one of the rooms and shines his flashlight inside. It might have been an office or a playroom or even a spare bedroom. As it is, it's just an empty box. His flashlight hits a spot on the wall. If someone didn't know where to look, they would probably miss it. But Allen knows where to look. Behind the peeling cream-colored paint I can just make out the words "Killed And BURIED'.
Allen grunts, "Should have used darker paint."
"Realtors were always against it. Said it made the room look small."
Allen shakes his head, "And having the wall say 'I was killed and buried here' is so much better."
Allen starts walking again and I follow. "I never understood," he says, "Why people get that urge."
"It's like leaving a piece of you behind," I say. "When you do it, you're thinking that maybe someone will find it. Long after I'm dead maybe. Someone will find something that I wrote and maybe he will think about me. And I will think about them. But you should know, you did it to."
"Yes," he said stopping in front of a battered door, "But when I did it, it was practical."
Allen just stands in front of the basement door for a few minutes. He reaches out to touch the handle but stops as if it were wired with electricity or something.
"We don't have to go down there. We could just leave. They are going to demolish the house tomorrow. Nobody needs to know."
"You and I both know that's not true," says Allen, "And even if it were, they would only tear it down to the foundation. The basement, there's no reason to touch that and we'd still be in the same place we are now. Families driven away, the house sits empty and you bringing me back here every goddamned year."
He takes a deep breath and opens the door.
"I never understood why people have a hard time selling a murder house," I say as he shines his flashlight into the gloom.
"It's like what you boys would do. Leaving money or notes behind. But the opposite. People assume that the ghost is here and will haunt them or something."
"You don't believe in ghosts," I say.
"I know," he says. "But people do. And it makes them easy to scare."
He walks down the wooden stairs. I can feel the wood move with every step and I wonder how much longer they are going to hold up. Allen's light moves right to left until he finds what he's come here to see.
"Wow, really outdone ourselves this time, haven't we?"
"I wanted to be clear." I say as his light travels across every painted word.
Across one entire wall there is a note in bright red paint, "My name is Allen Mitchell. Fifteen years ago I killed Edmundo Lopez and buried him under the X."
"There's no 'X'" Allen says.
"I figured you would want to add it," I say.
"You were always the poetic one," he says.
"I thought you didn't believe in ghosts."
Allen walks to the center of the room shining his flashlight all around as if looking for something, "I have a theory on that actually," he pulls a gun from his jacket pocket and holds it in his hand, "You see, you can't be here. Because you're down there." He points to the concrete floor with his gun. "So obviously, you aren't real. Just guilt and regret rattling around my brain making me do crazy things."
I hold up my hands, "I feel real."
"Yes, you do, " he says, "Or maybe, you're the real one and your picturing me back when I was the terrible person who did that awful thing."
"I feel like you'd have more hair if that were the case," I say, "Plus, you have the gun."
Allen smiles, "Or maybe we're both real and you are just what I become so that my brain can deal with all of this."
"It's a puzzle," I say.
Allen's light falls on a open can of red paint with a paintbrush still sitting on the rim. He takes it and walks back to the center of the room.
"It's not too late," I say, "You could just paint over it. The demolition team will be here in a couple of hours. Nobody will ever know."
"But you ain't going away. And I'm tired of waking up with paint on my hands and having to come here to see what you've done. I hate getting phone calls from the people who live here asking who Edmundo is and why he's painting notes on the walls. And I hate... I just hate."
Allen slumps against the wall underneath the confession and puts the gun to his head.
"We could go on just like before," I say.
"These places that we build. We want to leave something of ourselves behind. Something so people will remember us. A message for the future."
"What do you want to say?"
"That I'm sorry."
I pull the trigger.
Here is my attempt. Enjoy.
The Things We Leave BehindBy Jeremy L. Jones
A house with nobody inside is a corpse, something that only serves a purpose if there's something living in it. Otherwise its just a thing and a thing that grows rotten the longer it is left. This house, from the way the rain pours in from the roof and the way it creeks when even the slightest breeze comes up, I figure it's been empty for more than ten years.
I sit on a chair left behind by the last owners. A dark green fluffy recliner. The color has faded to nearly nothing and small creatures off and on make their home inside the tattered upholstery but its still remarkably comfortable. I wait listening to the water leaking in and the occasionally scurry of a rodent in and around the woodwork. I wait until I see headlights shining in through the front window.
Allen lets himself in the front door. He pauses to look just above the door frame and smiles, "It's still there."
He's referring to his name. He wrote it on the door frame just after it was installed. It would have been hidden behind some wainscoting when the house was lived in but that's long since fallen off.
"You're late." I say standing up.
Allen shrugs, "I had to say goodbye to my wife. Well, shall we do this?"
We walk from the main room into the kitchen. I point to a hole in the drywall. "Found a dollar there about a year back."
Allen nods, "That would be Stevenson. Had this thing about leaving a dollar in the walls. Said it was good luck."
Stevenson. The image of a gruff man with a thorough command of inappropriate jokes comes to mind and it makes me smile. "What happened to him?"
"You know as well as I do. He gave it up."
'Gave it up' is a code. It means he was injured in an accident and couldn't work anymore. If he'd found another line of work, he would have just said what it was. But accidents, it's not something we talk about. It's bad luck.
Allen pulls a flashlight from his jacket and turns it on. We're in the kitchen. There's a empty spot where a refrigerator would have gone and the cupboards have half-fallen off the wall. Allen tries the sink but nothing comes out. There's been no water or electricity here for quite some time.
"Old habit," he says "I always check the plumbing first. Electricity is easy but if the plumbing is bad, you might as well tear the house down. Ain't no good to anyone and it's just gonna cause more headaches in the long run."
We start to walk down the hallway and he laughs. "I had this super once. Back when I was pouring concrete. He would throw a quarter into whatever we were doing. Didn't matter what it was. Sidewalk, curbing, planter, if he wasn't there or was going to be late he'd call me up and say, "Hey Allen! Got any change?"
I laugh. "I worked with this guy once. He was Native American and, before every project, he would bless the ground. We'd all be standing there, leaning on our shovels waiting for his go-ahead to do anything. Meanwhile he's sitting in the middle of the worksite singing some old song and burning sage or something or other. He said it would keep spirits at bay."
Allen grunts. "Could have used him."
We walk down the hallway and his flashlight hits a part of the wall where the wallpaper is peeling off. Just above where the corner is hanging limp you can see the letters D,E and R painted in black.
"You would always leave notes behind wouldn't you?" said Allen looking at the message.
"I did. Notes. Poems. Sometimes fortunes like you might find in a fortune cookie. I always thought it would be fun if someone found those."
We keep walking. Allen stops outside one of the rooms and shines his flashlight inside. It might have been an office or a playroom or even a spare bedroom. As it is, it's just an empty box. His flashlight hits a spot on the wall. If someone didn't know where to look, they would probably miss it. But Allen knows where to look. Behind the peeling cream-colored paint I can just make out the words "Killed And BURIED'.
Allen grunts, "Should have used darker paint."
"Realtors were always against it. Said it made the room look small."
Allen shakes his head, "And having the wall say 'I was killed and buried here' is so much better."
Allen starts walking again and I follow. "I never understood," he says, "Why people get that urge."
"It's like leaving a piece of you behind," I say. "When you do it, you're thinking that maybe someone will find it. Long after I'm dead maybe. Someone will find something that I wrote and maybe he will think about me. And I will think about them. But you should know, you did it to."
"Yes," he said stopping in front of a battered door, "But when I did it, it was practical."
Allen just stands in front of the basement door for a few minutes. He reaches out to touch the handle but stops as if it were wired with electricity or something.
"We don't have to go down there. We could just leave. They are going to demolish the house tomorrow. Nobody needs to know."
"You and I both know that's not true," says Allen, "And even if it were, they would only tear it down to the foundation. The basement, there's no reason to touch that and we'd still be in the same place we are now. Families driven away, the house sits empty and you bringing me back here every goddamned year."
He takes a deep breath and opens the door.
"I never understood why people have a hard time selling a murder house," I say as he shines his flashlight into the gloom.
"It's like what you boys would do. Leaving money or notes behind. But the opposite. People assume that the ghost is here and will haunt them or something."
"You don't believe in ghosts," I say.
"I know," he says. "But people do. And it makes them easy to scare."
He walks down the wooden stairs. I can feel the wood move with every step and I wonder how much longer they are going to hold up. Allen's light moves right to left until he finds what he's come here to see.
"Wow, really outdone ourselves this time, haven't we?"
"I wanted to be clear." I say as his light travels across every painted word.
Across one entire wall there is a note in bright red paint, "My name is Allen Mitchell. Fifteen years ago I killed Edmundo Lopez and buried him under the X."
"There's no 'X'" Allen says.
"I figured you would want to add it," I say.
"You were always the poetic one," he says.
"I thought you didn't believe in ghosts."
Allen walks to the center of the room shining his flashlight all around as if looking for something, "I have a theory on that actually," he pulls a gun from his jacket pocket and holds it in his hand, "You see, you can't be here. Because you're down there." He points to the concrete floor with his gun. "So obviously, you aren't real. Just guilt and regret rattling around my brain making me do crazy things."
I hold up my hands, "I feel real."
"Yes, you do, " he says, "Or maybe, you're the real one and your picturing me back when I was the terrible person who did that awful thing."
"I feel like you'd have more hair if that were the case," I say, "Plus, you have the gun."
Allen smiles, "Or maybe we're both real and you are just what I become so that my brain can deal with all of this."
"It's a puzzle," I say.
Allen's light falls on a open can of red paint with a paintbrush still sitting on the rim. He takes it and walks back to the center of the room.
"It's not too late," I say, "You could just paint over it. The demolition team will be here in a couple of hours. Nobody will ever know."
"But you ain't going away. And I'm tired of waking up with paint on my hands and having to come here to see what you've done. I hate getting phone calls from the people who live here asking who Edmundo is and why he's painting notes on the walls. And I hate... I just hate."
Allen slumps against the wall underneath the confession and puts the gun to his head.
"We could go on just like before," I say.
"These places that we build. We want to leave something of ourselves behind. Something so people will remember us. A message for the future."
"What do you want to say?"
"That I'm sorry."
I pull the trigger.
March 12, 2019
10 Things About 'My Dad Wrote A Porno'
10 Things about My Dad Wrote a Porno
Imagine, if you dare, your retired elderly father shows you a manuscript that he's been working on. As you start to read it, you realize that your father is showing you a piece of erotic fiction. Erotic fiction is written by a man with, at best, a loose grip on human sexuality, anatomy and, really, the nature of reality in general.
As your eyes scan the pages and your mind congers up images that you will never be able to unsee, what do you do? Do you politely compliment him on his creativity and immediately schedule a therapy session? Do you and your mother start looking into nursing homes? Do you very calmly, like a man shooting his rabid dog, take the paper out back and set it on fire?
Or do you, as Jamie Morton does, gather your friends together and read this confusing smut out loud while your best friends mock it and, by extension you, mercilessly and then release it on the world.
Spoiler alert, Morton did the latter.
My Dad Wrote a Porno takes the world-famous podcast about a book and returns it into book form. Besides the literary gold that is Belinda Blinked #1, you get to enjoy Morton, James Cooper, and Alice Levine's running commentary. The book is presented as a reading textbook in the worlds most confusingly depraved classroom. Warning. If you tend to read in public, as I do, you will start uncontrollably laughing and other people will as you why and you will find yourself in an incredibly awkward position.
1. Rocky Flintstone is My Writing Hero: The part I love most about My Dad Wrote a Porno and, indeed, the entire Balinda Blinked series is the fact that Rocky Finstone is fearless. Like, to a frankly worrying degree. Deep down in my writerly soul, there is a scared, insecure voice that constantly chirps at me, "What's wrong with you? Do you think you are so smart that EVERYONE should read the horseshit you dare commit to paper?
"You are not that smart. And, soon, everyone will know it."
"You think you are good enough to write books? You're barely good enough to write a sign that says 'Will Work 4 Fod' which is what you will end up doing if you keep this horseshit up.
Rocky doesn't appear to have that voice. I both envy him and love him for it.
2. It should be noted that Rocky Flinstone is as crazy as a shithouse ape:
I think I have made my point.
3. But The Fear is Universal:Best selling authors that are hugely successful and that I love with all the hearty-hearts my heart can heart sometimes admit that they live in fear that they are one misstep away from total failure. It's like they believe that they've pulled some elaborate scam trying to convince the world that they are actually awesome writers and they are perpetually one shitty sentence away from shattering that facade and being exposed as the idiotic boobs that they really are.
I feel like it's just the nature of the thing. Writing and publishing involve overcoming a lot of Fear. Fear of rejection, fear of pain, fear of humiliation, fear of being seen as less than, fear of failure, fear of success, fear of fear, fear of waking up in your high school gym naked while the entire class laughs at my tiny dingus.... so I've heard.
ANYHOO!
The point is. It's not something that goes away. It's always there. It's like a tiny imp that nests right in your medulla oblongata and cuts little bits of psyche for its lunch.
4. Keep in mind, his child and his friends mock him mercilessly:In most realities, Rocky Flinstone is just another drop in a sea of absolute insanity that is modern self-publishing. But, as fate would have it, Morton and his friends picked it up and, to their credit, saw an opportunity.
My Dad Wrote A Porno is basically Morton and his friends laughing hysterically at what, one can only assume, he thought was good writing. I don't think many writers actively try to write something bad. From everything I've heard and read about the man, he believes in his talents. Again, to a frankly worrying degree. Which would explain why he felt compelled to hand his son this bizarre pile of smut in the first place.
Which, again, ties back to my 'Shithouse Ape' theory.
5. But is it really bad?How does one measure success as a writer? For me it is simple. Do a lot of people want to read your shit? Do they enjoy it? Do they come back for more?
Welp, congratulations you are successful. Here's your trophy.
And this shit. It sold out the fucking Sydney Oprah House. I am not entirely sure that J. K. Rowling could do that. I'm not saying Rocky Flintstone is better than J. K. Rowling... but... just sayin...
6. So, let me say it again, Rocky is My Hero: So there is something... liberating about watching a person charge out into the fray, stark bolloks naked, waps and wangs flopping in the breeze with nary a fuck to be had nor given. Especially when the writing is as objectively bad as Rocky's. It's like watching that nude crusader riding headlong into an entire army sword and wang up for battle.
I feel like I am sitting on the battlements watching with slack-jawed amazement. A single tear rolls down my eye and I salute muttering, "Ride on, you beautiful crazy bastard!
7. Because, again, this is some seriously fucked prose:
8. I feel like I should comment on the plot but...The story follows Belinda Blumenthal the newly hired sales director at Steels Pots and Pans. On her quest to make Steels the foremost pots and pans producer in the world (if such a thing fucking exists) her and her clitoris -which is a character in its own right- must run the gantlet of office politics, micropeni, horny royalty and youngish voyeurs in order to...
...
To be honest, I really don't know.
It is meant to be erotica and, as I understand the genre, plot is, at best, secondary. But that being said...
9. The Opposite of Sex: ....This is the most unerotic erotica that I have ever seen. I am hardly a connoisseur of the genre, although I would be lying if I didn't admit to using my Kindle Direct subscription to occasionally satisfy my morbid curiosity.
And, for the record, Rocky Flinstone is not the worst erotica writer in the world. But if the purpose of the Belinda Blinked series is to titillate and arouse than this is nowhere close. I can't imagine the collection of fetishes one would need to carry in order to find Rocky's writing erotic and I really don't want to.
Although, presumably, Rocky wrote this because he finds it erotic which goes back to my 'Crazier Than A Shithouse Ape' hypothesis.
But gods help me I have laughed so hard that people on either side of me at the bar start giving me the kind of space one would give to a crazy person. So maybe I'm not as far away from Rocky's mental state as I would care to assume.
10. Words of.... let's call it wisdom.This from the book's protagonist, Belinda Blumenthal:
No poet has ever spoken truer words.
Imagine, if you dare, your retired elderly father shows you a manuscript that he's been working on. As you start to read it, you realize that your father is showing you a piece of erotic fiction. Erotic fiction is written by a man with, at best, a loose grip on human sexuality, anatomy and, really, the nature of reality in general.
As your eyes scan the pages and your mind congers up images that you will never be able to unsee, what do you do? Do you politely compliment him on his creativity and immediately schedule a therapy session? Do you and your mother start looking into nursing homes? Do you very calmly, like a man shooting his rabid dog, take the paper out back and set it on fire?
Or do you, as Jamie Morton does, gather your friends together and read this confusing smut out loud while your best friends mock it and, by extension you, mercilessly and then release it on the world.
Spoiler alert, Morton did the latter.
My Dad Wrote a Porno takes the world-famous podcast about a book and returns it into book form. Besides the literary gold that is Belinda Blinked #1, you get to enjoy Morton, James Cooper, and Alice Levine's running commentary. The book is presented as a reading textbook in the worlds most confusingly depraved classroom. Warning. If you tend to read in public, as I do, you will start uncontrollably laughing and other people will as you why and you will find yourself in an incredibly awkward position.
1. Rocky Flintstone is My Writing Hero: The part I love most about My Dad Wrote a Porno and, indeed, the entire Balinda Blinked series is the fact that Rocky Finstone is fearless. Like, to a frankly worrying degree. Deep down in my writerly soul, there is a scared, insecure voice that constantly chirps at me, "What's wrong with you? Do you think you are so smart that EVERYONE should read the horseshit you dare commit to paper?
"You are not that smart. And, soon, everyone will know it."
"You think you are good enough to write books? You're barely good enough to write a sign that says 'Will Work 4 Fod' which is what you will end up doing if you keep this horseshit up.
Rocky doesn't appear to have that voice. I both envy him and love him for it.
2. It should be noted that Rocky Flinstone is as crazy as a shithouse ape:
"His cock started to ejaculate semen which he quickly caught in his hands. He then covered her hair with it, twisting it all into a ponytail, Belinda's long black hair mixed with translucent sperm.. the most powerful sexual symbol he knew."
I think I have made my point.
3. But The Fear is Universal:Best selling authors that are hugely successful and that I love with all the hearty-hearts my heart can heart sometimes admit that they live in fear that they are one misstep away from total failure. It's like they believe that they've pulled some elaborate scam trying to convince the world that they are actually awesome writers and they are perpetually one shitty sentence away from shattering that facade and being exposed as the idiotic boobs that they really are.
I feel like it's just the nature of the thing. Writing and publishing involve overcoming a lot of Fear. Fear of rejection, fear of pain, fear of humiliation, fear of being seen as less than, fear of failure, fear of success, fear of fear, fear of waking up in your high school gym naked while the entire class laughs at my tiny dingus.... so I've heard.
ANYHOO!
The point is. It's not something that goes away. It's always there. It's like a tiny imp that nests right in your medulla oblongata and cuts little bits of psyche for its lunch.
4. Keep in mind, his child and his friends mock him mercilessly:In most realities, Rocky Flinstone is just another drop in a sea of absolute insanity that is modern self-publishing. But, as fate would have it, Morton and his friends picked it up and, to their credit, saw an opportunity.
My Dad Wrote A Porno is basically Morton and his friends laughing hysterically at what, one can only assume, he thought was good writing. I don't think many writers actively try to write something bad. From everything I've heard and read about the man, he believes in his talents. Again, to a frankly worrying degree. Which would explain why he felt compelled to hand his son this bizarre pile of smut in the first place.
Which, again, ties back to my 'Shithouse Ape' theory.
5. But is it really bad?How does one measure success as a writer? For me it is simple. Do a lot of people want to read your shit? Do they enjoy it? Do they come back for more?
Welp, congratulations you are successful. Here's your trophy.
And this shit. It sold out the fucking Sydney Oprah House. I am not entirely sure that J. K. Rowling could do that. I'm not saying Rocky Flintstone is better than J. K. Rowling... but... just sayin...
6. So, let me say it again, Rocky is My Hero: So there is something... liberating about watching a person charge out into the fray, stark bolloks naked, waps and wangs flopping in the breeze with nary a fuck to be had nor given. Especially when the writing is as objectively bad as Rocky's. It's like watching that nude crusader riding headlong into an entire army sword and wang up for battle.
I feel like I am sitting on the battlements watching with slack-jawed amazement. A single tear rolls down my eye and I salute muttering, "Ride on, you beautiful crazy bastard!
7. Because, again, this is some seriously fucked prose:
"The Duchess stood up and stretched her cramped body. Her nipples hardened with her feeling of freedom and they were now as large as the three inch rivets which had held the hull of the fateful Titanic together."Nuff Said. Also... three inch?
8. I feel like I should comment on the plot but...The story follows Belinda Blumenthal the newly hired sales director at Steels Pots and Pans. On her quest to make Steels the foremost pots and pans producer in the world (if such a thing fucking exists) her and her clitoris -which is a character in its own right- must run the gantlet of office politics, micropeni, horny royalty and youngish voyeurs in order to...
...
To be honest, I really don't know.
It is meant to be erotica and, as I understand the genre, plot is, at best, secondary. But that being said...
9. The Opposite of Sex: ....This is the most unerotic erotica that I have ever seen. I am hardly a connoisseur of the genre, although I would be lying if I didn't admit to using my Kindle Direct subscription to occasionally satisfy my morbid curiosity.
And, for the record, Rocky Flinstone is not the worst erotica writer in the world. But if the purpose of the Belinda Blinked series is to titillate and arouse than this is nowhere close. I can't imagine the collection of fetishes one would need to carry in order to find Rocky's writing erotic and I really don't want to.
Although, presumably, Rocky wrote this because he finds it erotic which goes back to my 'Crazier Than A Shithouse Ape' hypothesis.
But gods help me I have laughed so hard that people on either side of me at the bar start giving me the kind of space one would give to a crazy person. So maybe I'm not as far away from Rocky's mental state as I would care to assume.
10. Words of.... let's call it wisdom.This from the book's protagonist, Belinda Blumenthal:
"When you get what you want, you feel great!"
No poet has ever spoken truer words.
March 6, 2019
Ten Thoughts About Infinite by Jeremy Robinson
Infinite by Jeremy Robbins is best described like this, it's like Alice in Wonderland if Alice was a man trapped on a ship going faster than the speed of light and if Wonderland were the darkest parts of human nature.
The book opens with Will, our hero, getting stabbed in the chest and dying. After that, shit gets weird.
As part of a generation ship in the far-flung future, Will and the rest of his crew are humankind's last desperate hope for survival. Their mission is to go to Cognata, an Earth-like planet orbiting a nearby star, and establish a new homeworld for our species. (It turns out we kinda fucked over the old one)
The trouble is, one of the crewmembers went batshit insane, started killing people and locked down the ship's computer. Once Will recovers from his first death (the first of many) and subdues this nutbag, it's too late. He finds himself alone hurling through space at near light speed with nothing but the vastness of the Universe to keep him company. And it turns out he's immortal which is why he tends to die a lot. Infinite starts off at the edges of the human experience and, from there, keeps going.
1. A Journey Into Deep Thoughts: The part I loved most about this book was that the story revels in the kind of questions that leave me staring into blankly into my whiskey on a lonely night. What does it mean to be conscious? What does it mean to be human? Is our species doomed by our own biology? What about AI, will we create new non-organic life someday? What does that mean for organic life?! Could we make a perfect computer simulation of reality??! Are we LIVING in a perfect computer simulation of reality??!!! What is REAL???!!!!! IS ANYTHING FUCKING REAL!!!??? WHERE ARE MY PANTS!!!
AND WHY AM I OUT OF WHISKEY!!!!!
*passes out*
2. Deep Questions and Giant Fucking Frogs: The characters in this book, however, only have a few moments to ponder the unponderable before shit goes down. Could we create AI? Oh shit, I did and it's trying to kill me!! What if this is a simu... SHIT RUN! The simulation is trying to kill me! Does the Universe have an end? If you don't move your ass, motherfucker, it's going to end for you!! It's rare to have both of those work so well in a book.
3. To Survive, We Humans Must Channel Our Inner Spock: An early theme I found interesting is the idea that our ties within a community are incompatible with cooperation and, thus, survival. So, on this generation ship heading for a new planet, sexual partners are pre-arranged, sexual attraction to other crew members is grounds for dismissal and seats are randomly assigned in the mess hall so that relationships can't inadvertently form. See, because relationships lead to loyalty. Loyalty splits populations into competing interests and we end up hitting each other in the dicks with sticks.
Which, if you are at all aware of human nature.... yeah, we would totally do that.
4. BUT What The Fuck Is The Point Otherwise?!: As the story goes on, the theme evolves to something along the lines of 'relationships are what give our lives meaning.' Which... yeah! Our lives are largely defined by our relationships. It's a large part of how we define ourselves and our place in this world.
It's like taking the giant ball of shit away from the dung beetle. Do that and what do you get?
One sad little beetle.
5. Which is to say, once again, we are fucked: Just sayin. I wouldn't get this book expecting to walk away with much hope for our species.
6. Who the figgity fuck is driving this thing?: As a fan of character-driven fiction, something about this book did bother me. The two main characters feel like they had their legs tied together and were being dragged through the desert by the Story Horse.
There are times you can almost hear the characters say, "I am going to do this thing because the author needs me to in order to move the plot of this book. This is a good idea."
Also, I want a Story Horse.
7. Except for Gal: So early in the book our hero programs an artificial intelligence that he then turns loose on the ship. This snarky and slightly murderous AI quickly became my favorite character. Imagine if you put Mrs. Mabel in a computer then had it try to kill you? Pretty close.
8. Spoiler Alert... but you probably saw it coming: This was one of those books that ended with a kind of... meh... feel for me. Despite feeling like it was supposed to be a big reveal, I more or less saw it coming from about halfway into the book. And, without going to much into it, I was very much like.... oh... okay. Yeah. That makes sense. Is there any booze left?
9. But not everything maybe: Okay, actual spoiler here.
Seriously, skip to number 10 if you don't want spoilers.
Last Chance!
Suprise! It was all a simulation! All of it! The whole book!
Okay, that's not entirely true. But that wasn't the strange part. See the Gal the slightly crazed AI I talked about earlier is designed to help Will escape an eternity of nothingness by essentially creating a virtual world for him. She proceeds to do this and, just so the simulation takes, proceeds to royally fuck his shit up.
But, in the end, it is revealed that she fell in love with him. Which... I don't know. I almost have to read the entire book again to see if that makes any sense.
10. Some Parting Words: And to quote said snarky AI, "Life is fun. Once you figure that out, you'll stop being such a sourpuss."
The book opens with Will, our hero, getting stabbed in the chest and dying. After that, shit gets weird.As part of a generation ship in the far-flung future, Will and the rest of his crew are humankind's last desperate hope for survival. Their mission is to go to Cognata, an Earth-like planet orbiting a nearby star, and establish a new homeworld for our species. (It turns out we kinda fucked over the old one)
The trouble is, one of the crewmembers went batshit insane, started killing people and locked down the ship's computer. Once Will recovers from his first death (the first of many) and subdues this nutbag, it's too late. He finds himself alone hurling through space at near light speed with nothing but the vastness of the Universe to keep him company. And it turns out he's immortal which is why he tends to die a lot. Infinite starts off at the edges of the human experience and, from there, keeps going.
1. A Journey Into Deep Thoughts: The part I loved most about this book was that the story revels in the kind of questions that leave me staring into blankly into my whiskey on a lonely night. What does it mean to be conscious? What does it mean to be human? Is our species doomed by our own biology? What about AI, will we create new non-organic life someday? What does that mean for organic life?! Could we make a perfect computer simulation of reality??! Are we LIVING in a perfect computer simulation of reality??!!! What is REAL???!!!!! IS ANYTHING FUCKING REAL!!!??? WHERE ARE MY PANTS!!!
AND WHY AM I OUT OF WHISKEY!!!!!
*passes out*
2. Deep Questions and Giant Fucking Frogs: The characters in this book, however, only have a few moments to ponder the unponderable before shit goes down. Could we create AI? Oh shit, I did and it's trying to kill me!! What if this is a simu... SHIT RUN! The simulation is trying to kill me! Does the Universe have an end? If you don't move your ass, motherfucker, it's going to end for you!! It's rare to have both of those work so well in a book.
3. To Survive, We Humans Must Channel Our Inner Spock: An early theme I found interesting is the idea that our ties within a community are incompatible with cooperation and, thus, survival. So, on this generation ship heading for a new planet, sexual partners are pre-arranged, sexual attraction to other crew members is grounds for dismissal and seats are randomly assigned in the mess hall so that relationships can't inadvertently form. See, because relationships lead to loyalty. Loyalty splits populations into competing interests and we end up hitting each other in the dicks with sticks.
Which, if you are at all aware of human nature.... yeah, we would totally do that.
4. BUT What The Fuck Is The Point Otherwise?!: As the story goes on, the theme evolves to something along the lines of 'relationships are what give our lives meaning.' Which... yeah! Our lives are largely defined by our relationships. It's a large part of how we define ourselves and our place in this world.
It's like taking the giant ball of shit away from the dung beetle. Do that and what do you get?
One sad little beetle.
5. Which is to say, once again, we are fucked: Just sayin. I wouldn't get this book expecting to walk away with much hope for our species.
6. Who the figgity fuck is driving this thing?: As a fan of character-driven fiction, something about this book did bother me. The two main characters feel like they had their legs tied together and were being dragged through the desert by the Story Horse.
There are times you can almost hear the characters say, "I am going to do this thing because the author needs me to in order to move the plot of this book. This is a good idea."
Also, I want a Story Horse.
7. Except for Gal: So early in the book our hero programs an artificial intelligence that he then turns loose on the ship. This snarky and slightly murderous AI quickly became my favorite character. Imagine if you put Mrs. Mabel in a computer then had it try to kill you? Pretty close.
8. Spoiler Alert... but you probably saw it coming: This was one of those books that ended with a kind of... meh... feel for me. Despite feeling like it was supposed to be a big reveal, I more or less saw it coming from about halfway into the book. And, without going to much into it, I was very much like.... oh... okay. Yeah. That makes sense. Is there any booze left?
9. But not everything maybe: Okay, actual spoiler here.
Seriously, skip to number 10 if you don't want spoilers.
Last Chance!
Suprise! It was all a simulation! All of it! The whole book!
Okay, that's not entirely true. But that wasn't the strange part. See the Gal the slightly crazed AI I talked about earlier is designed to help Will escape an eternity of nothingness by essentially creating a virtual world for him. She proceeds to do this and, just so the simulation takes, proceeds to royally fuck his shit up.
But, in the end, it is revealed that she fell in love with him. Which... I don't know. I almost have to read the entire book again to see if that makes any sense.
10. Some Parting Words: And to quote said snarky AI, "Life is fun. Once you figure that out, you'll stop being such a sourpuss."
January 4, 2019
An Open Letter To The United States Government
To: The Members of the United States Congress, The United States Senate, the President of the United States, other members of the executive and legislative branches, their corporate masters and whoever it may concern.
Listen, can we talk?
Let's get something out of the way. Government shutdowns are political theater. They the world's most expensive three-ring circus where there is no ringmaster, the entire show is exclusively run and performed by clowns and the entire show is just them throwing cream pies at each other and occasionally kicking each other in their little toot horns. And a good portion of the audience hasn't eaten, just wants the show to be over so they can go back to work and would really like one of those cream pies the clowns are just throwing around. This shutdown also features a drunken orangutan on calliope who occasionally stops to tweet things like, "WORST SHOW EVER. RUN BY SAD FACE CLOWNS! Must not allow sad face clowns to keep kicking happy clowns in nuts. SAD."
It's stupid, people are hurting and, above all, it's fucking embarrassing. We need to reach a compromise.
And as a patriotic citizen of these United States, I would like to offer a deal that should placate both sides and allow us to set the tattered remains of this republic limping along for a few more decades.
Up for debate is The Wall. Which is to say the big, beautiful wall along the Mexican border that will keep out all illegal immigrants and drugs (except the ones Republicans need for constructions projects/ recreational use) and fix all problems forever and ever, fuck the snowflakes #MAGA.
The Republicans for reasons, that I will never in the fullness of time comprehend, demand that the US build a wall. (I fully expect that sometime in 2020 or 2024 -depending on how long this bender goes on- the entire Republican party will stumble into the daylight, clutch their head, look at their watch, look at the crumbling remains of this once proud republic and mutter 'what...what the fuck did I do last night? I gotta stop drinking tequila.)
The Democrats, in a rare show of fiscal restraint or just general contrariness, refuse to fund it.
And we find ourselves here.
I want to start by saying this.
Democrats. Listen, I'm glad to see you actually unite on something. It's better than your usual act which looks something like the Three Stooges performed live while Wall Street showers the stage with money. But you're going to need to bend a little. It will be fine. Stick with me, I've shoved something special into this deal for your supporters that will help seal the deal.
Republicans. I get it. In order to continue to get your core demographic to continue to support tax plans and corporate policies that essentially force them to hand all their worldly possessions to a small group of oil barons and bankers, you needed a scapegoat. Illegal immigrants was an easy choice and you had the media outlets to whip your people into a rabid frenzy. Unfortunately, that key demographic in question went and elected, what is basically a cartoon villain. He's come up with something ungodly stupid but, in order to keep the lie going, you have to go with it.
And Trump promised them the Wall. (He also notably insisted that Mexico would pay for it which has obviously turned out to be a pile of horseshit big enough to build three Walls but let's move past that) Mr. Art-of-the-Deal has obviously proven that he couldn't negotiate a baton pass during a relay race, so this turd sandwich has been yours to take a big, steaming bite of.
Despite the fact that it’s an objectively stupid thing to do
Despite that it’s been done before with, at best, limited results other than a slight uptick in tourism several hundred years later.
Despite the fact that most Americans don't even want it anymore, if they ever did in the first place.
We need The Wall.
Or do we?
Because, as many Trumpian apologists breathlessly describe, The Wall is not an actual physical wall. It is a metaphor for a series of greater issues. The Wall is a symbol for things like increased border security, tougher immigration laws, a military presence at the border, man's inhumanity to man, that coming-of-age moment when a young man sticks his dingus in a microwave he overheated in a microwave and humankind's tendency to let fear drive it into insanity.
Delete as appropriate.
Fine.
But as long as we are speaking in metaphors let us talk about what the people who want the wall really want. What motivates the most rabid Trumpist adherent. Anger. Good old fashioned, White American, Not-In-My-Backyard, Speak-English-You-Godless-Heathen, Fuck-Everyone-In-The-World-Except-For-Me, anger. The kind of All-caps anger you see at the bottom of a Yahoo News article. Except harvested, squeezed, filtered, distilled, dried and shot right into the largest vein in the nation's cock.
The wall, in this case, is not a wall, but a giant middle finger to the rest of the world. Particularly Mexico and Mexican-like people which, in Trumpian terms, covers just about every human south of the 30th parallel.
So if they really want a middle finger. Why not build that?
It's gotta be gold. If Trump does it, it's gonna be gold.
Johnny Depp famously paid 3 million dollars to build a cannon to shoot Hunter S. Thompson’s ashes into space, the design of which was a 300’ metal pole with the Gonzo Journalism symbol -a hand with two thumbs gripping a peyote button- on top.
You can probably see where I'm going with this.
Replace the Gonzo sigil with fist displaying a single angry digit and put it up right on the southern border. Something like this:
Even if it costs twice as much -which given the federal government is not a stretch we can erect this monument to petulant white anger for about a tenth of one percent of the proposed cost.
Which means we can sweeten the deal.
We could make a hundred of them. They could go up along the southern border every hundred or so miles, especially along well-traveled routes. Imagine a hundred gleaming middle fingers sending a proud and unified 'fuck you' to our Southern neighbor. Fuck it! Let’s paint them gold too just to make sure Trumpy approves.
And let's not forget. That was three million for a cannon! We could probably save money and make them simple metal poles with The Mighty Bird at full mast. But Fuck. That. Noise. We'll keep them as fully functioning cannons.
And we will even fire them off one day a year. And I've actually got a suggestion for the annual Firing of the Middle Fingers.
Black Friday.
This abomination of corporate greed is already so uniquely American that I can't think of a better day for hundreds of thousands of rabid Trumpites to pile into their cars and drive south for a weekend drunken, down-home debauchery that will make the after party of a Ted Nugent concert look like Woodstock.
And they would probably want to leave early which means that every family's most annoying member would suddenly have better things to do on Thanksgiving then spread conspiracy theories and vitriol all over the table like that cranberry sauce in a can that NOBODY LIKES! (See! I told you I stuck something special in here.)
All in all, it would be just as effective as an actual wall but for a fraction of the cost. Maybe even more so. Because at least one day a year, fuck if I would go anywhere near the southern border.
The Republicans get to placate their core supporters, the Democrats get to help at a fraction of the cost, federal workers get to go back to earning a paycheck and we all get a little vacation one day a year for one reason or another.
I humbly submit this compromise so that we can move forward as a country and fall face-first into the next Biblical-scale Clusterfuck.
Sincerely
A concerned citizen.
Listen, can we talk?
Let's get something out of the way. Government shutdowns are political theater. They the world's most expensive three-ring circus where there is no ringmaster, the entire show is exclusively run and performed by clowns and the entire show is just them throwing cream pies at each other and occasionally kicking each other in their little toot horns. And a good portion of the audience hasn't eaten, just wants the show to be over so they can go back to work and would really like one of those cream pies the clowns are just throwing around. This shutdown also features a drunken orangutan on calliope who occasionally stops to tweet things like, "WORST SHOW EVER. RUN BY SAD FACE CLOWNS! Must not allow sad face clowns to keep kicking happy clowns in nuts. SAD."
It's stupid, people are hurting and, above all, it's fucking embarrassing. We need to reach a compromise.
And as a patriotic citizen of these United States, I would like to offer a deal that should placate both sides and allow us to set the tattered remains of this republic limping along for a few more decades.
Up for debate is The Wall. Which is to say the big, beautiful wall along the Mexican border that will keep out all illegal immigrants and drugs (except the ones Republicans need for constructions projects/ recreational use) and fix all problems forever and ever, fuck the snowflakes #MAGA.
The Republicans for reasons, that I will never in the fullness of time comprehend, demand that the US build a wall. (I fully expect that sometime in 2020 or 2024 -depending on how long this bender goes on- the entire Republican party will stumble into the daylight, clutch their head, look at their watch, look at the crumbling remains of this once proud republic and mutter 'what...what the fuck did I do last night? I gotta stop drinking tequila.)
The Democrats, in a rare show of fiscal restraint or just general contrariness, refuse to fund it.
And we find ourselves here.
I want to start by saying this.
Democrats. Listen, I'm glad to see you actually unite on something. It's better than your usual act which looks something like the Three Stooges performed live while Wall Street showers the stage with money. But you're going to need to bend a little. It will be fine. Stick with me, I've shoved something special into this deal for your supporters that will help seal the deal.
Republicans. I get it. In order to continue to get your core demographic to continue to support tax plans and corporate policies that essentially force them to hand all their worldly possessions to a small group of oil barons and bankers, you needed a scapegoat. Illegal immigrants was an easy choice and you had the media outlets to whip your people into a rabid frenzy. Unfortunately, that key demographic in question went and elected, what is basically a cartoon villain. He's come up with something ungodly stupid but, in order to keep the lie going, you have to go with it.
And Trump promised them the Wall. (He also notably insisted that Mexico would pay for it which has obviously turned out to be a pile of horseshit big enough to build three Walls but let's move past that) Mr. Art-of-the-Deal has obviously proven that he couldn't negotiate a baton pass during a relay race, so this turd sandwich has been yours to take a big, steaming bite of.
Despite the fact that it’s an objectively stupid thing to do
Despite that it’s been done before with, at best, limited results other than a slight uptick in tourism several hundred years later.
Despite the fact that most Americans don't even want it anymore, if they ever did in the first place.
We need The Wall.
Or do we?
Because, as many Trumpian apologists breathlessly describe, The Wall is not an actual physical wall. It is a metaphor for a series of greater issues. The Wall is a symbol for things like increased border security, tougher immigration laws, a military presence at the border, man's inhumanity to man, that coming-of-age moment when a young man sticks his dingus in a microwave he overheated in a microwave and humankind's tendency to let fear drive it into insanity.
Delete as appropriate.
Fine.
But as long as we are speaking in metaphors let us talk about what the people who want the wall really want. What motivates the most rabid Trumpist adherent. Anger. Good old fashioned, White American, Not-In-My-Backyard, Speak-English-You-Godless-Heathen, Fuck-Everyone-In-The-World-Except-For-Me, anger. The kind of All-caps anger you see at the bottom of a Yahoo News article. Except harvested, squeezed, filtered, distilled, dried and shot right into the largest vein in the nation's cock.
The wall, in this case, is not a wall, but a giant middle finger to the rest of the world. Particularly Mexico and Mexican-like people which, in Trumpian terms, covers just about every human south of the 30th parallel.
So if they really want a middle finger. Why not build that?
It's gotta be gold. If Trump does it, it's gonna be gold.Johnny Depp famously paid 3 million dollars to build a cannon to shoot Hunter S. Thompson’s ashes into space, the design of which was a 300’ metal pole with the Gonzo Journalism symbol -a hand with two thumbs gripping a peyote button- on top.
You can probably see where I'm going with this.
Replace the Gonzo sigil with fist displaying a single angry digit and put it up right on the southern border. Something like this:
Even if it costs twice as much -which given the federal government is not a stretch we can erect this monument to petulant white anger for about a tenth of one percent of the proposed cost.
Which means we can sweeten the deal.
We could make a hundred of them. They could go up along the southern border every hundred or so miles, especially along well-traveled routes. Imagine a hundred gleaming middle fingers sending a proud and unified 'fuck you' to our Southern neighbor. Fuck it! Let’s paint them gold too just to make sure Trumpy approves.
And let's not forget. That was three million for a cannon! We could probably save money and make them simple metal poles with The Mighty Bird at full mast. But Fuck. That. Noise. We'll keep them as fully functioning cannons.
And we will even fire them off one day a year. And I've actually got a suggestion for the annual Firing of the Middle Fingers.
Black Friday.
This abomination of corporate greed is already so uniquely American that I can't think of a better day for hundreds of thousands of rabid Trumpites to pile into their cars and drive south for a weekend drunken, down-home debauchery that will make the after party of a Ted Nugent concert look like Woodstock.
And they would probably want to leave early which means that every family's most annoying member would suddenly have better things to do on Thanksgiving then spread conspiracy theories and vitriol all over the table like that cranberry sauce in a can that NOBODY LIKES! (See! I told you I stuck something special in here.)
All in all, it would be just as effective as an actual wall but for a fraction of the cost. Maybe even more so. Because at least one day a year, fuck if I would go anywhere near the southern border.
The Republicans get to placate their core supporters, the Democrats get to help at a fraction of the cost, federal workers get to go back to earning a paycheck and we all get a little vacation one day a year for one reason or another.
I humbly submit this compromise so that we can move forward as a country and fall face-first into the next Biblical-scale Clusterfuck.
Sincerely
A concerned citizen.
December 6, 2018
Because Sometimes You Just Need A Book About A Man Who Kills A Lot Of Aliens
It's True. Sometimes you do.So I read one.
Earth Unknown is about a man. Well, not just a man but a clone. A bad-ass clone who gets chased by soldiers, police, alien hordes... really anything. He's a very chasable person. He also gets shot a lot. And stabbed. And burned, and... listen, he's having a really bad week.
So it's like this, Nathan Stacker is the aforementioned chasable clone. Aside from having to make a living working for a shady futuristic mafia called The Trust, he's living the perfect life on Alpha Centauri until, of course, his wife turns up dead. And, you guessed it, he's the prime suspect given the fact that surveillance video shows that he was the only one to go in or out of her apartment around the time of the murder.
Now, I'd like to take a quick moment and point out that it is established early that he is a clone which means there are literally hundreds of guys running around with his genes on. (Presumably underneath their jeans) And nobody, including the main character, realizes that this is an easy frame job. All he knows is that he didn't do it!
How did the Trust possibly set him up with LITERALLY HUNDREDS OF CLONES OF HIMSELF RUNNING AROUND!
.....ANYHOO....
The chase begins. Police chase him through the domed cities of Proxima Centauri. Then soldiers chase him to a space hanger. Then fighters chase him off the planet and all the way back to Earth.
Which has seen better days.
The Earth we all know and love has been overrun with some kind of alien that is at least fifty-percent claws and fifty-two percent teeth. They come in great, black waves biting and clawing and... well you get the image of a wave of oil that will claw your eyes out.
Enter Sherrif. A six-gun toating, equally bad-ass man who's been on Earth since everything went to hell. And it's up to him and a group of Space Centurians who might as well be dropping onto Earth wearing red shirts to catch Nathan Stacker.
Meanwhile, Nathan has to find the dark secret that killed his wife while being chased by aliens, strange incestuous survivor cults, Sherrif and our redshirt soldiers.
I wanted to like it. And I did. Just not as much as I probably should have. Or could have. For me, the problem was in the characters.
Take the chasable clone, Nathan Stacker. As a man who very recently walked in on his wife's grizzly murder, he's in an emotionally fragile place. You can tell because in the brief free moments when he's not shooting something or being shot at, he takes the time to cry. And it feels.... mostly awkward. It's as if the author said to himself, "Okay, I've written me a bad-ass clone who don't take no shit from nobody knowhow. A lot of people chase him. That's cool. But I want to show that he's got an emotional side too. Throw in a tender moment that shows that he's really more than... OKAY ENOUGH WITH THAT SHIZNITT! MORE ASPLODE!!"
The Sherrif as well rubbed me the wrong way. His most distinguishable characteristic is his desire to carry around a six-shooter when there are clearly better weapons available. That and his metal arms which he uses to beat aliens with. And his folksy attitude toward alien domination (which is probably what rubbed me wrong, to be honest) But, besides that, there was nothing much there.
But maybe I'm looking at this wrong. Like the title of the post says, sometimes you just need a book about a man who kills a lot of aliens.
This is the first book of a series, although I don't see myself diving into the rest of them anytime soon. It has potential. There are a couple loose ends flopping around that are kind of interesting. Not the least of which is... you know... Earth overrun by a swarm of angry oil aliens. And maybe find out who killed Nathan's Wife (It was totally the Trust who, for some reason, nobody believes exists and they got another clone to do it. But that's just my prediction.) And there is, of course, the random soldiers on Earth that pretend that they are soldiers from Proxima. And the random maniac who might be firing missiles into the sky over Earth...
Yeah, part of the problem is also that nothing was resolved. This wasn't so much the first book as the first chapter. You have to keep reading in order to learn more. And maybe I will. Because sometimes you just need a book about a man who kills a lot of aliens. Not five of them in a row.
Earth Unknown is about a man. Well, not just a man but a clone. A bad-ass clone who gets chased by soldiers, police, alien hordes... really anything. He's a very chasable person. He also gets shot a lot. And stabbed. And burned, and... listen, he's having a really bad week.
So it's like this, Nathan Stacker is the aforementioned chasable clone. Aside from having to make a living working for a shady futuristic mafia called The Trust, he's living the perfect life on Alpha Centauri until, of course, his wife turns up dead. And, you guessed it, he's the prime suspect given the fact that surveillance video shows that he was the only one to go in or out of her apartment around the time of the murder.
Now, I'd like to take a quick moment and point out that it is established early that he is a clone which means there are literally hundreds of guys running around with his genes on. (Presumably underneath their jeans) And nobody, including the main character, realizes that this is an easy frame job. All he knows is that he didn't do it!
How did the Trust possibly set him up with LITERALLY HUNDREDS OF CLONES OF HIMSELF RUNNING AROUND!
.....ANYHOO....
The chase begins. Police chase him through the domed cities of Proxima Centauri. Then soldiers chase him to a space hanger. Then fighters chase him off the planet and all the way back to Earth.
Which has seen better days.
The Earth we all know and love has been overrun with some kind of alien that is at least fifty-percent claws and fifty-two percent teeth. They come in great, black waves biting and clawing and... well you get the image of a wave of oil that will claw your eyes out.
Enter Sherrif. A six-gun toating, equally bad-ass man who's been on Earth since everything went to hell. And it's up to him and a group of Space Centurians who might as well be dropping onto Earth wearing red shirts to catch Nathan Stacker.
Meanwhile, Nathan has to find the dark secret that killed his wife while being chased by aliens, strange incestuous survivor cults, Sherrif and our redshirt soldiers.
I wanted to like it. And I did. Just not as much as I probably should have. Or could have. For me, the problem was in the characters.
Take the chasable clone, Nathan Stacker. As a man who very recently walked in on his wife's grizzly murder, he's in an emotionally fragile place. You can tell because in the brief free moments when he's not shooting something or being shot at, he takes the time to cry. And it feels.... mostly awkward. It's as if the author said to himself, "Okay, I've written me a bad-ass clone who don't take no shit from nobody knowhow. A lot of people chase him. That's cool. But I want to show that he's got an emotional side too. Throw in a tender moment that shows that he's really more than... OKAY ENOUGH WITH THAT SHIZNITT! MORE ASPLODE!!"
The Sherrif as well rubbed me the wrong way. His most distinguishable characteristic is his desire to carry around a six-shooter when there are clearly better weapons available. That and his metal arms which he uses to beat aliens with. And his folksy attitude toward alien domination (which is probably what rubbed me wrong, to be honest) But, besides that, there was nothing much there.
But maybe I'm looking at this wrong. Like the title of the post says, sometimes you just need a book about a man who kills a lot of aliens.
This is the first book of a series, although I don't see myself diving into the rest of them anytime soon. It has potential. There are a couple loose ends flopping around that are kind of interesting. Not the least of which is... you know... Earth overrun by a swarm of angry oil aliens. And maybe find out who killed Nathan's Wife (It was totally the Trust who, for some reason, nobody believes exists and they got another clone to do it. But that's just my prediction.) And there is, of course, the random soldiers on Earth that pretend that they are soldiers from Proxima. And the random maniac who might be firing missiles into the sky over Earth...
Yeah, part of the problem is also that nothing was resolved. This wasn't so much the first book as the first chapter. You have to keep reading in order to learn more. And maybe I will. Because sometimes you just need a book about a man who kills a lot of aliens. Not five of them in a row.
November 16, 2018
Five things I learned while writing Saturnius Mons
Well, that's it! The last episode.
Right here:
That's it. For now. Hope you enjoyed the ride.
Looking back on this whole process from the first evening in an apartment in Bellevue Nebraska that I started making the first notes that would become Saturnius Mons to this moment kinda makes my mind spin. I mean basically, I learned how to WRITE A FREAKING BOOK! In my own mind, I've often compared the process to a college course where I was training for the job I really wanted in life.
And, much like an actual college course, I'm broke and I have a command of impressive knowledge that is ultimately unmarketable.
But, hey, no crushing debt!
Anyway...
I sat down and tried to think of ten things that this book specifically taught me about being an author. I mean short of HOW TO WRITE A FEAKING BOOK! Because it did that as well.
But, for some reason, I could only think of five. And here they are.
1. There's A Reason I Need GPS
Like many humans in our modern world, I have forgotten what it is like to have to navigate the streets of a city using only my wits and a functional knowledge of local geography. Turns out I need that when it comes to writing too. When I first started on the journey of becoming an author, I basically wanted to give the finger to any idea of an outline. I was like, 'Whooo!! No rules! This bastard is a car WITHOUT A STEERING WHEEL! Hang On Bitches!"
And like a car without a steering wheel, it basically careened into a ditch within the first five minutes.
It took me a while but I've figured out that my brain functions better if I have a destination mapped out ahead of time. I've not noticed many constraints to my creativity, artistic vision or any of the other bullcrap I told myself I would lose if I put in the extra effort ahead of time.
I learned that, just because someone is in control of the car, doesn't mean that person is not an asshole and will take you places you never wanted to see in the first place.
2. Every Author Should Record Their Own Audiobook
Holy mother of silver-coated shit, did I find a lot of little typo nuggets left behind. One of those annoying bits of writing advice that nearly everyone says to writers is 'read your shit out loud'. Which I do. Several times.
Here's the thing. There's a difference between reading your shit out loud when you're the only one in the room and you're trying to knock out a chapter so you can play video games in your undies. It's quite another when you have to make sure every word is clear and articulated and.... wait did I actually write 'his inevitable fate was inevitable?' Seriously?? Jesus Tap Dancing Christ I suck.
I have since started modifying my 'read out loud' exercise. Now I try to read it as if I am actually recording it for the podcast. Will it have any positive effect? Wait and see!
3. Writing Several Main Characters is Freaking Hard!
If I had to do it again, I would write a series that involve a single main character. Maybe that person would be part of a larger group but the story would be about that person. Keeping track of several characters is an exercise in mental logistics. You want to pay attention to one person but you have to keep in mind what another person is probably doing in the background. Scenes that involve the entire group have to involve the entire group or else you have someone just awkwardly standing to the side. The editing phase involves going back to make sure you didn't lose someone along the way, you have to check in with everyone and... and...
*HEAD ASPLODE!*
I guess what I am saying is that it's a lot to keep in old Duder's head, man.
4. Never, Ever, Ever Write Someone Who Does Not Use Contractions.
Isra, I love you. I really do. But why in all the hells did I think it was a good idea for you to not use contractions when you speak? Seriously? I spend at least half my time pulling apostrophes out of your dialogue. It's like trying to pull all the thorns out of a big rubber ball I rolled into a rose garden.
5. The Things You Made Up In Your Head Become Real And That Never Stops Being Weird.
For several years, Viekko, Althea, Isra and Cronus were like my imaginary friends. Seriously. I've probably spent as much if not more time thinking about them than I have my own wife. And, in a sense, they are real to me. I know how they look, sound, what they are likely to say and how they will likely react. At the same time, I'm fully aware that they are characters I just sat down and made up.
Except that they are out now. Every once in a while, someone will ask me a specific question about the book. They will ask me how, for example, Viekko became hooked on Triple-T. Or how (spoiler alert) Isra doesn't have any record of her before she was 12. A friend of mine even asked if The Decline and Failure of 21st Century Civilization by Martin Raffe was a real book.
For some reason, the fact that other people know about these characters and are engaged enough to ask me about them makes them just a little more real. This whole thing. All of it. I just sat down and made it all up. And people seem to like it. I don't know why that's weird for me, but it is.
I'm also thankful for that.
Cheers!
Right here:
That's it. For now. Hope you enjoyed the ride.
Looking back on this whole process from the first evening in an apartment in Bellevue Nebraska that I started making the first notes that would become Saturnius Mons to this moment kinda makes my mind spin. I mean basically, I learned how to WRITE A FREAKING BOOK! In my own mind, I've often compared the process to a college course where I was training for the job I really wanted in life.
And, much like an actual college course, I'm broke and I have a command of impressive knowledge that is ultimately unmarketable.
But, hey, no crushing debt!
Anyway...
I sat down and tried to think of ten things that this book specifically taught me about being an author. I mean short of HOW TO WRITE A FEAKING BOOK! Because it did that as well.
But, for some reason, I could only think of five. And here they are.
1. There's A Reason I Need GPS
Like many humans in our modern world, I have forgotten what it is like to have to navigate the streets of a city using only my wits and a functional knowledge of local geography. Turns out I need that when it comes to writing too. When I first started on the journey of becoming an author, I basically wanted to give the finger to any idea of an outline. I was like, 'Whooo!! No rules! This bastard is a car WITHOUT A STEERING WHEEL! Hang On Bitches!"
And like a car without a steering wheel, it basically careened into a ditch within the first five minutes.
It took me a while but I've figured out that my brain functions better if I have a destination mapped out ahead of time. I've not noticed many constraints to my creativity, artistic vision or any of the other bullcrap I told myself I would lose if I put in the extra effort ahead of time.
I learned that, just because someone is in control of the car, doesn't mean that person is not an asshole and will take you places you never wanted to see in the first place.
2. Every Author Should Record Their Own Audiobook
Holy mother of silver-coated shit, did I find a lot of little typo nuggets left behind. One of those annoying bits of writing advice that nearly everyone says to writers is 'read your shit out loud'. Which I do. Several times.
Here's the thing. There's a difference between reading your shit out loud when you're the only one in the room and you're trying to knock out a chapter so you can play video games in your undies. It's quite another when you have to make sure every word is clear and articulated and.... wait did I actually write 'his inevitable fate was inevitable?' Seriously?? Jesus Tap Dancing Christ I suck.
I have since started modifying my 'read out loud' exercise. Now I try to read it as if I am actually recording it for the podcast. Will it have any positive effect? Wait and see!
3. Writing Several Main Characters is Freaking Hard!
If I had to do it again, I would write a series that involve a single main character. Maybe that person would be part of a larger group but the story would be about that person. Keeping track of several characters is an exercise in mental logistics. You want to pay attention to one person but you have to keep in mind what another person is probably doing in the background. Scenes that involve the entire group have to involve the entire group or else you have someone just awkwardly standing to the side. The editing phase involves going back to make sure you didn't lose someone along the way, you have to check in with everyone and... and...
*HEAD ASPLODE!*
I guess what I am saying is that it's a lot to keep in old Duder's head, man.
4. Never, Ever, Ever Write Someone Who Does Not Use Contractions.
Isra, I love you. I really do. But why in all the hells did I think it was a good idea for you to not use contractions when you speak? Seriously? I spend at least half my time pulling apostrophes out of your dialogue. It's like trying to pull all the thorns out of a big rubber ball I rolled into a rose garden.
5. The Things You Made Up In Your Head Become Real And That Never Stops Being Weird.
For several years, Viekko, Althea, Isra and Cronus were like my imaginary friends. Seriously. I've probably spent as much if not more time thinking about them than I have my own wife. And, in a sense, they are real to me. I know how they look, sound, what they are likely to say and how they will likely react. At the same time, I'm fully aware that they are characters I just sat down and made up.
Except that they are out now. Every once in a while, someone will ask me a specific question about the book. They will ask me how, for example, Viekko became hooked on Triple-T. Or how (spoiler alert) Isra doesn't have any record of her before she was 12. A friend of mine even asked if The Decline and Failure of 21st Century Civilization by Martin Raffe was a real book.
For some reason, the fact that other people know about these characters and are engaged enough to ask me about them makes them just a little more real. This whole thing. All of it. I just sat down and made it all up. And people seem to like it. I don't know why that's weird for me, but it is.
I'm also thankful for that.
Cheers!
November 8, 2018
Climax! Boom! Pow! Sparkles!
Here it is, folks. The big conflict where all the loose ends and conflicts get slammed together and the story tumbles end over end coming to rest somewhere in the middle of a cornfield surrounded by smoking debris. Strap in, this is going to be a needlessly decked out car slamming through a wall of televisions. Also, the televisions are on fire for some reason. Why? They just are. Shut up.
By the end of this chapter, you might have this weird, uncomfortable feeling. This strange nagging that shit is still unresolved. Questions are still unanswered. And things just don't feel right.
If so, good.
*horn blow*
*confetti*
I had a weird mantra during the writing of this book and, in fact during the whole series. Fans of Joss Whedon and the Buffy series will get it. The rest of you, just hold tight for a moment.
The mantra was a line from their musical episode, "The battle's done. And we kind of won. So we sound a victory cheer. But where do we go from here?"
I wasn't a huge fan of Buffy and even less so for Angel. The only reason I watched it is because my wife and some friends basically had the equivalent of a television intervention on me and forced it on me. It was for my own good.
And the result. Hit and miss. There are some things that I love about the series. And there are some things that make my eyes roll so hard that I can see my prefrontal cortex. But the line in question comes from their famous musical episode and its ending stuck with me for a long time and still makes me smile to this day. I like that feeling where the characters themselves are looking around confused that they managed any kind of victory and are left with this overwhelming sense of... 'shit. Now what?' There's no clear path forward. Things definitely didn't turn out the way they were supposed to. It's not a tragic ending, but it sure as Sweet Saint Foozball ain't happy either.
So what does this have to do with this book?
Well, if I did anything correctly, the reader should be walking away with roughly the same feeling. That's what I was going for at any rate.
Why?
Because it isn't over. The journey to decide who gets to control the emerging civilization on Earth and beyond is just getting started. Titan was just the beginning. It is the flick of the first domino.
Because heroes don't always win. Don't believe me? Look around the world we live in. Evil thieves, pimps and conmen running around like looters after the Rapture. Truth justice and freedom don't always win out. Hell, I don't think that those ideals have a winning record in the grand scheme of things.
Because... well as Isra said,
Fun fact: Did you know Pyrrhic is supposed to be capitalized when referring to a scenario where a victory is achieved but at a cost that makes it feel like a defeat?
You can't say you never learned nothing from me.
Unless you knew that already.
By the end of this chapter, you might have this weird, uncomfortable feeling. This strange nagging that shit is still unresolved. Questions are still unanswered. And things just don't feel right.
If so, good.
*horn blow*
*confetti*
I had a weird mantra during the writing of this book and, in fact during the whole series. Fans of Joss Whedon and the Buffy series will get it. The rest of you, just hold tight for a moment.
The mantra was a line from their musical episode, "The battle's done. And we kind of won. So we sound a victory cheer. But where do we go from here?"
I wasn't a huge fan of Buffy and even less so for Angel. The only reason I watched it is because my wife and some friends basically had the equivalent of a television intervention on me and forced it on me. It was for my own good.
And the result. Hit and miss. There are some things that I love about the series. And there are some things that make my eyes roll so hard that I can see my prefrontal cortex. But the line in question comes from their famous musical episode and its ending stuck with me for a long time and still makes me smile to this day. I like that feeling where the characters themselves are looking around confused that they managed any kind of victory and are left with this overwhelming sense of... 'shit. Now what?' There's no clear path forward. Things definitely didn't turn out the way they were supposed to. It's not a tragic ending, but it sure as Sweet Saint Foozball ain't happy either.
So what does this have to do with this book?
Well, if I did anything correctly, the reader should be walking away with roughly the same feeling. That's what I was going for at any rate.
Why?
Because it isn't over. The journey to decide who gets to control the emerging civilization on Earth and beyond is just getting started. Titan was just the beginning. It is the flick of the first domino.
Because heroes don't always win. Don't believe me? Look around the world we live in. Evil thieves, pimps and conmen running around like looters after the Rapture. Truth justice and freedom don't always win out. Hell, I don't think that those ideals have a winning record in the grand scheme of things.
Because... well as Isra said,
“There is not much satisfaction in Pyrrhic victories,” said Isra, “But one has to take what they can.”
Fun fact: Did you know Pyrrhic is supposed to be capitalized when referring to a scenario where a victory is achieved but at a cost that makes it feel like a defeat?
You can't say you never learned nothing from me.
Unless you knew that already.
November 2, 2018
Yes, Cronus can fly on Titan as well... sorta.
Before we get into this week's little rant, one addendum to last weeks.
Isra has/ had a choice (delete as appropriate to you). On some level, I feel, the choice was inevitable. But even me, as the writer, got a tiny lump somewhere in my guttyworks when I read that out loud again.
What exactly am I referring to?
Well listen to the podcast here:
And... yeah, if anyone is out there and is so inclined, let me know what you think. Did Isra make the right choice? Was there some other way it could have gone? Did you rage throw the book at the picture of me that you have hanging in your room for some reason you weird creepo?
Yeah, let me know. Comments below. Or on Facebook. Twitter. Or rocket-powered donkey.
ANYHOO!!
The man subject of chapter 31 today, Cronus flying while wearing the Venganto suit. Or, at least, Cronus flailing around in the pyramid for a minute before crash-landing... in a Venganto suit.
Here's the thing, sometimes stuff has to be cut. Most of the stuff from the first draft of Saturnius Mons got cut out because it was a gigantic steaming pile of horse turds. They were scenes and scenarios so rediculous that they only proper response is to crumple it up and toss it away while doing a face plant into the desk.
Some parts were good but there was never any point to them. In writers parlance, we refer to these as your 'daisies'. They are basically things that make your own writerly heart swell with pride but either slows down the story or just sticks out like that dick playing with his phone during a movie. (Don't do this, kids. It distracts from the movie and makes me want to take your phone, ring up your mother and inform her that she did a terrible job raising you)
And some things are good but the story changed to the point that they don't make any sense in the storyline. This is one of those things.
See, in the first draft, Cronus was supposed to fly into the city wearing the Venganto suit while the others snuck in using the mammoths as cover. I took a moment to show, from his perspective, what that would be like. But, since he is no longer doing that, this scene obviously had to be cut.
But, like I said, part of me likes it. I try not to get bogged down too much by description, mostly because I don't think I'm terribly good at them. But every once in a while I come up with some that make me go, "yeah... maybe I don't completely suck at them."
So here it goes:
Isra has/ had a choice (delete as appropriate to you). On some level, I feel, the choice was inevitable. But even me, as the writer, got a tiny lump somewhere in my guttyworks when I read that out loud again.
What exactly am I referring to?
Well listen to the podcast here:
And... yeah, if anyone is out there and is so inclined, let me know what you think. Did Isra make the right choice? Was there some other way it could have gone? Did you rage throw the book at the picture of me that you have hanging in your room for some reason you weird creepo?
Yeah, let me know. Comments below. Or on Facebook. Twitter. Or rocket-powered donkey.
ANYHOO!!
The man subject of chapter 31 today, Cronus flying while wearing the Venganto suit. Or, at least, Cronus flailing around in the pyramid for a minute before crash-landing... in a Venganto suit.
Here's the thing, sometimes stuff has to be cut. Most of the stuff from the first draft of Saturnius Mons got cut out because it was a gigantic steaming pile of horse turds. They were scenes and scenarios so rediculous that they only proper response is to crumple it up and toss it away while doing a face plant into the desk.
Some parts were good but there was never any point to them. In writers parlance, we refer to these as your 'daisies'. They are basically things that make your own writerly heart swell with pride but either slows down the story or just sticks out like that dick playing with his phone during a movie. (Don't do this, kids. It distracts from the movie and makes me want to take your phone, ring up your mother and inform her that she did a terrible job raising you)
And some things are good but the story changed to the point that they don't make any sense in the storyline. This is one of those things.
See, in the first draft, Cronus was supposed to fly into the city wearing the Venganto suit while the others snuck in using the mammoths as cover. I took a moment to show, from his perspective, what that would be like. But, since he is no longer doing that, this scene obviously had to be cut.
But, like I said, part of me likes it. I try not to get bogged down too much by description, mostly because I don't think I'm terribly good at them. But every once in a while I come up with some that make me go, "yeah... maybe I don't completely suck at them."
So here it goes:
Cronus flapped fiercely for a few moments to pick up altitude settled into long glide over the sea. The thing they never tell you about flying, he thought, is how tiring it was on the arms. He had flown before, of course. He had been a half-bird, half-human creature in an immersion game at the time, but it counted. Well, it would have counted about thirty minutes ago.
He remembered when he was getting dressed that the gloves had controls in the palm that could be controlled by the fingers. He pressed one of the buttons out of curiosity. There was a large, hollow thunk and his head shot back as a firebomb shot out the front of his mask, fell to the sea below him and detonated. Good to know. He tried a toggle. There was a short burst of air from behind him and he suddenly jerked to the right. So that’s how they were able to maneuver so fast.
He tried another switch on his other hand. Up until now the entire world had been shades of blue and purple though the infrared. He could see where he was going, but not very well. The wide space of warmer air seemed to indicate the city, but that was his only guide at the moment. When he hit the button, his vision changed back into the visual spectrum.
In the distance, light from the refineries reflected across the Ligeia Mare. Ahead the icy rings of Saturn caught the light from the sun behind them and filed the western sky with a diffuse, heavenly glow. The planet itself was almost completely black and the rings circled it like shimmering crystal around a black pearl.
Up to now, his mind had been racing trying to figure out exactly how he would accomplish the monumental task ahead. For a brief moment, and for the first time since he arrived on the moon, he blessed the day he unplugged. No human in the Strata could have come up with this scene.
October 23, 2018
Isra. Laban. Round 3. Fight!
It's chapter 30 and we're getting to the climax of one of my favorite battles in the book. And it has nothing to do with Viekko superman-ing across Titan killing fools.
It's about Isra and Laban or, rather, Isra's need to control over everything.
"Isra is your mother. I know you wrote something in the front of your book about her stubbornness being based on Kari. That's bullshit. She's a hard ass. She's good with a gun. She's a bit of a control freak. That's your mother."
My father, Gib Jones, on a few of my deep-seated issues.
That man isn't wrong. My mother does enjoy basically running everything. Maybe that's where this comes from to a certain degree.
But I also believe that the desire to control things is not reserved for certain individuals. Everyone, to some degree or another, feels better when they are in control. Or, at least, they feel more secure. They might be driving themselves bat-shit insane trying to micromanage the fucking world, but they feel good about it.
And, as we learned in an iconic scene in Fight Club, letting go of control runs against our survival instinct at times. When things are spiraling out of grasp, the instinct is to try and force it back into a place where we have some determination over it. It's why self-driving cars, I believe, will take a lot of time to get any traction in this world. Even if they get to a point where the technology is a thousand times safer that human-driven cars, people will be reluctant to give up control.
That's the conflict I see here and why this moment between Laban and Isra is so interesting to me. Because Isra really does care for her team immensely. She is the type of person who will push her people right up to the limits of their abilities and stamina to the point where they look down and see rocks tumbling down the cliff.
But she will also be right there with them. She is the kind of leader who is at the front lines ready to lead the charge. But, being a leader of this type, she does have more than a few issues letting things just happen. And right now her options, as presented by Vince Laban are:
A: Maintain control. Possibly kill everyone on your team.
B: Give up and maybe save them.
Or maybe not.
She's going to spend some time scrambling for a viable option C. Or an option A where everyone lives.
October 17, 2018
Isra Talking Shit to the Mammoths
Not to much to say about chapter 29 other than it's a chapter where, once again, I am setting blocks in place so that I can stand up, hike up my big-boy pants and kick them across the room while screaming.
I imagine I was an adorable child.
So it's time to dive back into the early drafts and see what I cut out of this scene and -man, oh, man- did I find something weird.
Like I mentioned a few chapters back, Isra (or Ariane as I originally named her... seriously go read the post, it will all make sense. ... It will make more sense) changed fairly radically from the first drafts up until now. Brash, slightly foul-mouthed and more than a touch violent, Ariane was almost like Isra's evil side.
In fact, now that I think about it, she really is. I think if Isra has a voice inside her that she has to ignore it would be the first draft of her I wrote.
Wow.
....
I think I just blew my own mind.
....
...
Like... kaboom!
....
What?
Oh yeah. I was writing shit. Sorry.
ANYHOO!!:
I actually cut a lot out of this section. Not only did the story change quite a lot but I was more interested in getting everyone to the city to enact the plan so that SPOILER ALERT ...not really...
everything can go terribly wrong.
But I came across this little scene and it made me giggle. I hope it makes you giggle as well.
This, on the other hand, comes from Viekko's evil side.
I imagine I was an adorable child.
So it's time to dive back into the early drafts and see what I cut out of this scene and -man, oh, man- did I find something weird.
Like I mentioned a few chapters back, Isra (or Ariane as I originally named her... seriously go read the post, it will all make sense. ... It will make more sense) changed fairly radically from the first drafts up until now. Brash, slightly foul-mouthed and more than a touch violent, Ariane was almost like Isra's evil side.
In fact, now that I think about it, she really is. I think if Isra has a voice inside her that she has to ignore it would be the first draft of her I wrote.
Wow.
....
I think I just blew my own mind.
....
...
Like... kaboom!
....
What?
Oh yeah. I was writing shit. Sorry.
ANYHOO!!:
I actually cut a lot out of this section. Not only did the story change quite a lot but I was more interested in getting everyone to the city to enact the plan so that SPOILER ALERT ...not really...
everything can go terribly wrong.
But I came across this little scene and it made me giggle. I hope it makes you giggle as well.
This, on the other hand, comes from Viekko's evil side.“God it stinks something fierce down here. Now how do we get this big bastard to go to Halifax?”
“I have no idea,” said Cronus, “The old king made up some kind of special call that Halifax uses.”
“So what? You want us to wait in a pool of elephant shit until he decides to call us over!” yelled Ariane.
“Not so loud. I can hear you and mammoths don’t use that kind of bad language. Listen, all you have to do is drive the alpha male. The others are programmed to follow him.”
Althea put her hand on the mammoth’s flank. It was making some low moaning sounds and was weaving back and forth slightly.
“He doesn’t sound too good does he?” said Althea.
“Doesn’t smell particularly hot either, though I imagine he’s just less fragrant at the best of times. He’s still got to move, or were all dead. You’re good with animals, Althea. You talk to him.”
Althea moved down the animal’s flank patting it and whispering, “There, there big guy. I know you’re not feeling good, but we really, really need to find Halifax. You know Halifax, right?”
The mammoth grunted.
Althea took a few steps forward and beckoned the mammoth, “Come on. Come on, let’s go big guy, you can do it.”
The mammoth groaned again this time it was accompanied by a rude sound and terrible smell from the other side.
“Brilliant work.” said Ariane.
“It’s neuro-linguistic programming. You need to reset the learned behavior.” said Cronus.
“Oh, and how do we do that?” said Ariane.
“I’m not sure. The records in the dome were kinda vague. You need to center the animal’s focus on the new trigger and then relate that order to a programmed action.”
Ariane thought for a moment and said, “Why didn’t you say so? I can do that.”
She walked in front font of the animal, grabbed it by the tusks and pulled it forward until she was inches from his eyes, “Listen you treacherous little shit! We’re going to find Halifax and we’re going now. I move you follow. Understood?”
There was a certain look in the creatures eye. He probably didn’t understand the exact nature of the request, but he understood that it came from another creature that was much smaller and a lot meaner.
Ariane released the mammoth’s tusks, walked around behind him and slapped him hard on the rump, “Move you bastard!”
The mammoth reared up slightly and slowly started podding forward.
Althea glared at Ariane as she went back to pick up Viekko.
“What?” said Ariane, “I’ll tell Halifax the new code words when I see him.”
“Don’t worry big guy.” said Cronus’ voice from the radio, “She’s pretty much that way with everyone.”
