Was what I said when I dusted off Output: Opinion last week in preparation for my review of the aughts. When I set that blog up, I didn't have a great understanding of google's picasa system -- and also I had not yet signed over my entire existence to that establishment as I have now. Anyway, I uploaded the animated gif for the sidebar to my Geocities website and just linked to it.
Geocites, of course, is now defunct and I found a broken image icon where my Yesnobot once was.
I'm sure lots of people remember putting up their first website on that service or its bastard cousin Angelfire. Chances are, if you have a basic understanding of html and you were in high school during the nineties, you typed your first angle-bracketed command in a Geocities form, writing long-winded stories set in a Star Trek vs Star Wars role-playing setting -- or, you know, whatever subject matter you chose.
I completely forgot that Yahoo was retiring it until I noticed Output: Opinion was missing something.
Moment of silence.
I put a lot of crap on the internet in 2009. Thank you to the three or so people who read my stuff. I intend to keep it coming.
I know my review is a bit of a downer, but let's not forget that we're still alive. We're still action-packed, sexy people so let's get excited and go kick the future right in the dick.
Thursday, December 31, 2009
Friday, December 11, 2009
What the Birds Knew, part two
It was a mad press of bodies. They were suffocated by the sound of people shouting, overwhelmed by the sickening smell of sweat and mud and waste and something that might have been food. To make things worse, as Ed followed Vik through the crowd he realized that these people did not know each other. They lived elbow to elbow in this place and yet no one was alarmed by the presence of two dirty boys from what seemed like a different planet.
They did not want to run headlong into that sea of bodies. In fact, even the older, braver Vik was prepared to turn back until they heard heavy footsteps and shouting from the direction they had come.
The was little choice. Vik grabbed Ed by the wrist and yanked him across the dusty street between the crowd and the locked buildings they'd used for cover.
Most of the people in the street were as filthy as they were, and all were far too concerned with their own business to give the boys a second glance. The street Vik had chosen was the most crowded they could see. As they moved through, it was clear that the people there were engaged in some form of trade. Much of the bargaining concerned food or tools, but Ed could not understand the rest of it. Some of the traders were dealing in small vials, metal discs, and shiny trinkets.
Ed's attempt to puzzle it out was interrupted when Vik tugged his arm and led him into a small alcove between two shacks.
"Can't go back. Not yet," Vik announced between deep breaths.
"When?" Ed was frightened by what he had seen, but he was more afraid Vik's enthusiasm would getting the better of him. The older boy was the most adventurous of the village children. He had even been allowed to go with Dug and Mok when they ranged out to forage and hunt.
"They'll forget us. Then go."
"Hide here?" Ed nearly begged, but he knew it was too late.
"You hide. I want to see more."
They left their deerskin coats in the alley. It was hot inside the wall, and most of the children they saw ran about barefoot and shirtless. However, their hide pants and shoes were too muddy to be distinguishable from the threadbare and patched cloth garments which seemed the norm. Vik's belt with the pouches -- and whatever he kept in them -- was clearly too valuable to leave behind.
They did not run this time. It seemed Vik had already picked up on the frantic patterns, and so Ed allowed him to lead as they navigated currents of moving human beings.
Ed noticed that he could understand some of what these wall people were saying. He recognized the words for numbers, commands, and directions, but lacking context, he could not make sense of it.
They passed stalls and tables stacked with vegetables and meat, bottles and jars full of different colored fluids, clear glass bubbles pinched at one end by metal bands, even a few which featured large kettles full of some pungent substance doled out by the bowl.
Some of these were surrounded by dense crowds, all shouting and pushing while others were virtually abandoned. Ed was unable to comprehend why one could be so much more popular than the next.
A horn blast cut through the clamor. Vik halted and the crowed grew quiet. Then, in an eerily spontaneous manner, the crowd began to part. The boys were swept along, pressing themselves in with the wall people, clearing a path through the center of the dirty street.
A huge car was ambling down the lane -- a working car, all bright paint and polished metal. It made almost no sound other than the crackling of its wheels as they crushed the earth beneath. It hummed softly as it passed just inches from them, leaving a sweet odor behind. Its large open back section was stacked with crates. When it came to a rest, two men jumped down from the stack and began unloading it. Ed and Vik were still gaping at it when the crowd closed in around them and everyone went about their business.
The street came to an intersection with another, somewhat darker and less crowded. Vik took a moment to consider, but must have decided they were safer when hidden by the crowd, because he crossed quickly and continued along the same street. Although he could not see them from where they were, Ed knew they were headed toward the tall glowing structures they'd seen earlier.
After that, Ed noticed the stalls and shacks which lined the street were somewhat more solid than they were behind. Here and there, he spotted wall people in flowing robes dyed bright colors. These men and women were so large and pale, it was almost comical to watch them point and bellow orders, but they seemed to command respect from the disorganized mob.
They passed a crowd so raucous that even some of the fat wall people struggled to get close. Ed stopped. He decided to keep track of which items created the largest crowds, attempting to make sense of the strange customs beyond the wall.
Another horn sounded. Ed used the momentary lull to position himself closer to whatever was on the other side. When the small car passed, and the crowd expanded back into the middle of the street, he jumped in.
They were leaves. Stacks and stacks of broad green leaves in bundles. Oddly, they seemed to be from the very plants they had seen in the field.
He looked up. A girl about his age was standing behind the stacks. It seemed she had been tying the bundles up with string, but she stopped to peer at Ed with suspicion in her eyes. Ed wondered how long she had been watching him while he was worrying about foliage.
Ed froze. He met her gaze but only because he did not know what else to do. She knew. Just as in the village there were things only the children knew, it was the same here. The adults were too busy to notice a strange kid, but not her.
Ed felt someone grab his arm and yank him back into the street. Vik said nothing as he steadied the younger boy, just gave him the usual disappointed sneer. He stopped when he noticed the fear in Ed's eyes.
"She knows," he blurted, and they ran.
They did not get far before Ed started to notice more children following them. They seemed to emerge from nowhere, alerted by some inaudible call. It was hard to keep pace with Vik as he dodged and weaved through the crowd, but every time he dared to look over his shoulder, he saw at least one of the wall children in pursuit.
Vik looked back at him and jerked his head to the right. A second later, he turned and ran down an alley between two concrete buildings. At the far side was a wooden fence with bright light beyond. Vik got there first and began climbing, but Ed's wounded hand stung when he tried to grasp the planks and he could not keep up.
A rock smacked the fence just between the two boys. The alley was dark, but they could make out at least six figures blocking the alley from the other side. Vik jumped down and faced them.
"Are you lost?" one of them stepped forward, a boy around Vik's age. They were the same height, but where Vik was thin and wiry, he was thick with fat and muscle. Vik took a step forward, but made no reply.
"More muddy farm boys on my turf?" he said. "Didn't you learn last time?" The big kid moved toward Vik, fists clenched. His friends fell in behind him. "Maybe I should--"
Vik lashed out and found the big kid's eye with two fingers. He doubled over and covered his face with both hands. Vik hopped backward, but the other wall children seemed to have lost their courage.
For a moment, Ed hoped they might give up, but their leader's moans of pain turned into an angry roar. He charged at Vik while shielding his eyes with one arm. Vik dodged easily, however, and his attacker slammed into the wooden fence. Ed stepped away just as Vik crashed into the big kid, shoulder first. Rusty brackets creaked and the entire fence fell, sending Vik and his attacker tumbling into the light beyond.
Ed saw the stunned faces of a crowd of traders. Presumably they were bargaining with a purveyor of some kind, but that individual was likely trapped beneath the fence with the two boys wrestling on top.
Vik found an opening and delivered a chop to the big kid's throat. He released Vik and writhed on the ground, gasping. At this, his gang charged. Ed looked around for a way to escape, but the crowd that had gathered to haggle had pressed in even closer to watch the fight.
As Vik was scrambling to his feet, Ed noticed the items for sale. There were barrels full of small glass tubes packed with what looked like white sand. He had no idea what it was, but he had observed that it was in high demand whenever it was offered.
He kicked the nearest barrel, and send its contents spilling all over the gang's leader. He then upended a small box which sat on the table between them and the buyers which sent the objects flying in all directions like a rain of crystals.
Vik smiled at him as they slipped away in the confusion.
They did not want to run headlong into that sea of bodies. In fact, even the older, braver Vik was prepared to turn back until they heard heavy footsteps and shouting from the direction they had come.
The was little choice. Vik grabbed Ed by the wrist and yanked him across the dusty street between the crowd and the locked buildings they'd used for cover.
Most of the people in the street were as filthy as they were, and all were far too concerned with their own business to give the boys a second glance. The street Vik had chosen was the most crowded they could see. As they moved through, it was clear that the people there were engaged in some form of trade. Much of the bargaining concerned food or tools, but Ed could not understand the rest of it. Some of the traders were dealing in small vials, metal discs, and shiny trinkets.
Ed's attempt to puzzle it out was interrupted when Vik tugged his arm and led him into a small alcove between two shacks.
"Can't go back. Not yet," Vik announced between deep breaths.
"When?" Ed was frightened by what he had seen, but he was more afraid Vik's enthusiasm would getting the better of him. The older boy was the most adventurous of the village children. He had even been allowed to go with Dug and Mok when they ranged out to forage and hunt.
"They'll forget us. Then go."
"Hide here?" Ed nearly begged, but he knew it was too late.
"You hide. I want to see more."
They left their deerskin coats in the alley. It was hot inside the wall, and most of the children they saw ran about barefoot and shirtless. However, their hide pants and shoes were too muddy to be distinguishable from the threadbare and patched cloth garments which seemed the norm. Vik's belt with the pouches -- and whatever he kept in them -- was clearly too valuable to leave behind.
They did not run this time. It seemed Vik had already picked up on the frantic patterns, and so Ed allowed him to lead as they navigated currents of moving human beings.
Ed noticed that he could understand some of what these wall people were saying. He recognized the words for numbers, commands, and directions, but lacking context, he could not make sense of it.
They passed stalls and tables stacked with vegetables and meat, bottles and jars full of different colored fluids, clear glass bubbles pinched at one end by metal bands, even a few which featured large kettles full of some pungent substance doled out by the bowl.
Some of these were surrounded by dense crowds, all shouting and pushing while others were virtually abandoned. Ed was unable to comprehend why one could be so much more popular than the next.
A horn blast cut through the clamor. Vik halted and the crowed grew quiet. Then, in an eerily spontaneous manner, the crowd began to part. The boys were swept along, pressing themselves in with the wall people, clearing a path through the center of the dirty street.
A huge car was ambling down the lane -- a working car, all bright paint and polished metal. It made almost no sound other than the crackling of its wheels as they crushed the earth beneath. It hummed softly as it passed just inches from them, leaving a sweet odor behind. Its large open back section was stacked with crates. When it came to a rest, two men jumped down from the stack and began unloading it. Ed and Vik were still gaping at it when the crowd closed in around them and everyone went about their business.
The street came to an intersection with another, somewhat darker and less crowded. Vik took a moment to consider, but must have decided they were safer when hidden by the crowd, because he crossed quickly and continued along the same street. Although he could not see them from where they were, Ed knew they were headed toward the tall glowing structures they'd seen earlier.
After that, Ed noticed the stalls and shacks which lined the street were somewhat more solid than they were behind. Here and there, he spotted wall people in flowing robes dyed bright colors. These men and women were so large and pale, it was almost comical to watch them point and bellow orders, but they seemed to command respect from the disorganized mob.
They passed a crowd so raucous that even some of the fat wall people struggled to get close. Ed stopped. He decided to keep track of which items created the largest crowds, attempting to make sense of the strange customs beyond the wall.
Another horn sounded. Ed used the momentary lull to position himself closer to whatever was on the other side. When the small car passed, and the crowd expanded back into the middle of the street, he jumped in.
They were leaves. Stacks and stacks of broad green leaves in bundles. Oddly, they seemed to be from the very plants they had seen in the field.
He looked up. A girl about his age was standing behind the stacks. It seemed she had been tying the bundles up with string, but she stopped to peer at Ed with suspicion in her eyes. Ed wondered how long she had been watching him while he was worrying about foliage.
Ed froze. He met her gaze but only because he did not know what else to do. She knew. Just as in the village there were things only the children knew, it was the same here. The adults were too busy to notice a strange kid, but not her.
Ed felt someone grab his arm and yank him back into the street. Vik said nothing as he steadied the younger boy, just gave him the usual disappointed sneer. He stopped when he noticed the fear in Ed's eyes.
"She knows," he blurted, and they ran.
They did not get far before Ed started to notice more children following them. They seemed to emerge from nowhere, alerted by some inaudible call. It was hard to keep pace with Vik as he dodged and weaved through the crowd, but every time he dared to look over his shoulder, he saw at least one of the wall children in pursuit.
Vik looked back at him and jerked his head to the right. A second later, he turned and ran down an alley between two concrete buildings. At the far side was a wooden fence with bright light beyond. Vik got there first and began climbing, but Ed's wounded hand stung when he tried to grasp the planks and he could not keep up.
A rock smacked the fence just between the two boys. The alley was dark, but they could make out at least six figures blocking the alley from the other side. Vik jumped down and faced them.
"Are you lost?" one of them stepped forward, a boy around Vik's age. They were the same height, but where Vik was thin and wiry, he was thick with fat and muscle. Vik took a step forward, but made no reply.
"More muddy farm boys on my turf?" he said. "Didn't you learn last time?" The big kid moved toward Vik, fists clenched. His friends fell in behind him. "Maybe I should--"
Vik lashed out and found the big kid's eye with two fingers. He doubled over and covered his face with both hands. Vik hopped backward, but the other wall children seemed to have lost their courage.
For a moment, Ed hoped they might give up, but their leader's moans of pain turned into an angry roar. He charged at Vik while shielding his eyes with one arm. Vik dodged easily, however, and his attacker slammed into the wooden fence. Ed stepped away just as Vik crashed into the big kid, shoulder first. Rusty brackets creaked and the entire fence fell, sending Vik and his attacker tumbling into the light beyond.
Ed saw the stunned faces of a crowd of traders. Presumably they were bargaining with a purveyor of some kind, but that individual was likely trapped beneath the fence with the two boys wrestling on top.
Vik found an opening and delivered a chop to the big kid's throat. He released Vik and writhed on the ground, gasping. At this, his gang charged. Ed looked around for a way to escape, but the crowd that had gathered to haggle had pressed in even closer to watch the fight.
As Vik was scrambling to his feet, Ed noticed the items for sale. There were barrels full of small glass tubes packed with what looked like white sand. He had no idea what it was, but he had observed that it was in high demand whenever it was offered.
He kicked the nearest barrel, and send its contents spilling all over the gang's leader. He then upended a small box which sat on the table between them and the buyers which sent the objects flying in all directions like a rain of crystals.
Vik smiled at him as they slipped away in the confusion.
Friday, December 4, 2009
What the Birds Knew, part one
"You see?" Vik had run on ahead and Ed was panting trying to keep up as they climbed the hill.
"Can't see anything! Too dark!" The younger boy braced himself on one of the wispy trees, catching his breath.
"Over there," Vik was standing on the crest, pointing off into the distance. Ed clambered over the edge and took in the view. The hill was not large, but it still offered a modest view of the floodplains below. As his eyes focused, Ed could make it out. It wasn't much more than a grey blur at this distance, but he could see the wall.
"Dug said not to go near. Said they kill you 'fore you even see 'em."
"Dug's old and stupid. You want to see inside or no?" Vik turned to the younger boy. "Can't get over by myself."
The moon had emerged from the clouds, so the boys smeared mud on their faces and deerskin coats to hide them from its light. They crept slowly through the bog, keeping their bodies low and their eyes open for snakes. Here and there, the wetland was broken by patches of cattails and shrubs. Here they would dash ahead, keeping the foliage between them and the wall.
It was bigger than Ed thought it would be, many times the height of the tallest man. As they neared the base, they could see something glowing inside, almost as if whatever lay beyond was burning brightly and without smoke.
They were creeping through a dense patch of trees near the wall when Vik stopped abruptly. He pointed to his right.
There among the reeds, almost entirely swallowed by the mud was a rusted metal frame. Ed knew what it was. Cars were everywhere. They were full of useful metal parts, turned on their sides they made excellent walls, you could even live in some of the bigger ones.
This one was open all around and had a frame which supported a far rarer relic -- a gun. A big gun at that. Dug had the village's only example of the weapon, a simple long rifle he polished far more often than he fired. This car gun was several times its size, but choked with creeping vines and rust.
Vik put his finger to his mouth and pointed up at the wall above them. Elsewhere it was smooth concrete, but here it was pocked with craters of varying sizes, with one huge one just beyond Vik's reach. Dark, twisted rods protruded from the wall's damaged section.
"Quiet now," Vik whispered as he removed the rope he'd wrapped around his torso, "and leave that."
Ed knew he meant his spear. He found the short metal rod buried in the mud inside a brick building that was too thin to be a house. It was about as long as his leg, heavy, with two points, one of which curved backward. It gave him blisters, but he scraped off the rust and sharpened it with a rock. Grudgingly, he removed the cloth strap and laid it inside the gun car so he would remember.
"Take this," Vik handed Ed the rope. It was old and rough, but flexible. "I boost you up and you knot it, right?"
"Right," Ed nodded and looked up at the wall. He could feel his heart in his throat. Vik walked right up to the wall and knelt in the sandy mud around its base. Ed looped the rope and draped it around his neck before he climbed onto the older boy's shoulders.
After that it was as easy as climbing a tree. Ed scurried up the wall using the metal rods exposed by whatever carved the holes. When he was most of the way up, he wrapped the rope around one of them and knotted it, leaving about equal amounts on either side of the knot. Below, Vik seized his end and pulled hard, testing it. When he was satisfied, he followed Ed up the wall.
Just before the boys reached the top, Vik tapped Ed's foot from below. He pointed off to the side where a sparrow had nested in one of the holes blasted into the face of the wall and smiled. Ed grinned back.
"Only the birds know what they do inside the wall," was all Dug would ever say about it, other than warning them to keep their distance -- which he did at length.
Ed gained the top just before Vik, but as he reached over the edge, he felt something snag. He pulled his hand back and saw the blood trickling down his arm before he felt the tear in his palm. He gasped, and almost lost his hold with the other hand.
"Cut me," he gasped. "Somethin'."
Vik hissed to silence him and climbed up beside. He gripped the edge more tentatively, and pulled himself up to his chin. "Ah," he said and began to rifle through the leather bags he had sewn into his belt. He handed a strip of cloth to Ed. As he was trying to wrap his hand properly without falling, Ed noticed Vik hoisting himself to the top brandishing shiny metal pliers.
After Vik had cut through the barbed wire and tossed a portion of it behind them, the boys climbed to the top and looked beyond. It was as if they'd crossed into another world. The smell of the swamp was gone, replaced by the smells of dirt and rain and waste. The wall went straight down from where they were, but here and there it was supported by a rounded tower made of the same material. From them, bright lights shone down below, like single burning rays of sunlight. The ground here was flat and covered with low vegetation, but beyond they could make out buildings at least as tall as the wall itself, all of them glowing so brightly, they could not see in the shadows around them.
They lowered themselves with the other half of the rope and left it dangling there for the return trip. The ground was moist and spongy between the plants, which were all identical, growing in long rows side by side.
Vik did not wait to puzzle out this mystery. He motioned for Ed to follow and together they made their way across the bizarre plain, careful to avoid the roving circles of light cast by the towers.
Beyond the fields, they found another wall -- much shorter than the first, but made of polished metal and too high to scale. To their right, it seemed to run unbroken all the way to the big wall after it turned.
Ed was about to suggest they turn back when Vik noticed the lights off to the left. "
You see?"
Ed saw, although he wished he hadn't.
As they got closer, they could see that the light came from a small building, just a room really, that intersected the metal wall. It had a door with a window, and from it a path ran out into the field.
Vik edged up to the small building. Ed held back in its shadow, wishing he could dissuade Vik, but too frightened to speak. The light was not like the ones from the towers, it was just a small lamp, dimly illuminating the area.
Vik crawled beneath the door, careful to stay away from the window. As he made to pull himself up to peer inside, he placed a hand on the door. As soon as he put his weight on it, the door swung open and Vik tumbled into the room beyond. Ed jumped when he heard. He saw the door close behind Vik with an audible click.
He heard a muffled pounding from the other side, but Vik did not emerge. "Hey!" he heard from inside. More knocking. "Push it, Ed. I can't!"
Through the window Ed could see Vik alone in the small room. While Vik pounded on his side in vain, it swung open easily for Ed.
"Opens from one side," Ed declared, and immediately felt stupid for saying it. He entered the room which was made of the same polished metal as the wall, with a black dome in the center of the ceiling. Vik paused to wedge his pliers in the first door to keep it ajar before they tested the door opposite.
Confident that the other door opened from both sides, the boys walked out to a dusty road that ran along the metal wall. Beyond that they could see a series of long, tall buildings with dim alleys running between them. They tried a few of the doors, but found them firmly locked. They could not see anyone around, but they could hear the sounds of people off in the direction of the glowing city they saw from the wall.
Keeping to the shadows, they moved in that direction.
It was the biggest village they had ever seen. More people than Ed thought could live in one place spread out all around in a dense mass of tents and lean-tos strung between mismatched wood and brick cottages. The streets were dirty and poorly-lit, but even at this hour the people were awake -- eating and drinking and laughing and fighting.
The shacks and hovels were small enough that the boys could see the city beyond. The buildings got bigger and brighter until they seemed impossible. It was as if they'd wandered into a story about the old world, when people built skyscrapers and the cars moved on their own and men and women made war in the sky like eagles.
Ed could see that even Vik was afraid.
"Can't see anything! Too dark!" The younger boy braced himself on one of the wispy trees, catching his breath.
"Over there," Vik was standing on the crest, pointing off into the distance. Ed clambered over the edge and took in the view. The hill was not large, but it still offered a modest view of the floodplains below. As his eyes focused, Ed could make it out. It wasn't much more than a grey blur at this distance, but he could see the wall.
"Dug said not to go near. Said they kill you 'fore you even see 'em."
"Dug's old and stupid. You want to see inside or no?" Vik turned to the younger boy. "Can't get over by myself."
The moon had emerged from the clouds, so the boys smeared mud on their faces and deerskin coats to hide them from its light. They crept slowly through the bog, keeping their bodies low and their eyes open for snakes. Here and there, the wetland was broken by patches of cattails and shrubs. Here they would dash ahead, keeping the foliage between them and the wall.
It was bigger than Ed thought it would be, many times the height of the tallest man. As they neared the base, they could see something glowing inside, almost as if whatever lay beyond was burning brightly and without smoke.
They were creeping through a dense patch of trees near the wall when Vik stopped abruptly. He pointed to his right.
There among the reeds, almost entirely swallowed by the mud was a rusted metal frame. Ed knew what it was. Cars were everywhere. They were full of useful metal parts, turned on their sides they made excellent walls, you could even live in some of the bigger ones.
This one was open all around and had a frame which supported a far rarer relic -- a gun. A big gun at that. Dug had the village's only example of the weapon, a simple long rifle he polished far more often than he fired. This car gun was several times its size, but choked with creeping vines and rust.
Vik put his finger to his mouth and pointed up at the wall above them. Elsewhere it was smooth concrete, but here it was pocked with craters of varying sizes, with one huge one just beyond Vik's reach. Dark, twisted rods protruded from the wall's damaged section.
"Quiet now," Vik whispered as he removed the rope he'd wrapped around his torso, "and leave that."
Ed knew he meant his spear. He found the short metal rod buried in the mud inside a brick building that was too thin to be a house. It was about as long as his leg, heavy, with two points, one of which curved backward. It gave him blisters, but he scraped off the rust and sharpened it with a rock. Grudgingly, he removed the cloth strap and laid it inside the gun car so he would remember.
"Take this," Vik handed Ed the rope. It was old and rough, but flexible. "I boost you up and you knot it, right?"
"Right," Ed nodded and looked up at the wall. He could feel his heart in his throat. Vik walked right up to the wall and knelt in the sandy mud around its base. Ed looped the rope and draped it around his neck before he climbed onto the older boy's shoulders.
After that it was as easy as climbing a tree. Ed scurried up the wall using the metal rods exposed by whatever carved the holes. When he was most of the way up, he wrapped the rope around one of them and knotted it, leaving about equal amounts on either side of the knot. Below, Vik seized his end and pulled hard, testing it. When he was satisfied, he followed Ed up the wall.
Just before the boys reached the top, Vik tapped Ed's foot from below. He pointed off to the side where a sparrow had nested in one of the holes blasted into the face of the wall and smiled. Ed grinned back.
"Only the birds know what they do inside the wall," was all Dug would ever say about it, other than warning them to keep their distance -- which he did at length.
Ed gained the top just before Vik, but as he reached over the edge, he felt something snag. He pulled his hand back and saw the blood trickling down his arm before he felt the tear in his palm. He gasped, and almost lost his hold with the other hand.
"Cut me," he gasped. "Somethin'."
Vik hissed to silence him and climbed up beside. He gripped the edge more tentatively, and pulled himself up to his chin. "Ah," he said and began to rifle through the leather bags he had sewn into his belt. He handed a strip of cloth to Ed. As he was trying to wrap his hand properly without falling, Ed noticed Vik hoisting himself to the top brandishing shiny metal pliers.
After Vik had cut through the barbed wire and tossed a portion of it behind them, the boys climbed to the top and looked beyond. It was as if they'd crossed into another world. The smell of the swamp was gone, replaced by the smells of dirt and rain and waste. The wall went straight down from where they were, but here and there it was supported by a rounded tower made of the same material. From them, bright lights shone down below, like single burning rays of sunlight. The ground here was flat and covered with low vegetation, but beyond they could make out buildings at least as tall as the wall itself, all of them glowing so brightly, they could not see in the shadows around them.
They lowered themselves with the other half of the rope and left it dangling there for the return trip. The ground was moist and spongy between the plants, which were all identical, growing in long rows side by side.
Vik did not wait to puzzle out this mystery. He motioned for Ed to follow and together they made their way across the bizarre plain, careful to avoid the roving circles of light cast by the towers.
Beyond the fields, they found another wall -- much shorter than the first, but made of polished metal and too high to scale. To their right, it seemed to run unbroken all the way to the big wall after it turned.
Ed was about to suggest they turn back when Vik noticed the lights off to the left. "
You see?"
Ed saw, although he wished he hadn't.
As they got closer, they could see that the light came from a small building, just a room really, that intersected the metal wall. It had a door with a window, and from it a path ran out into the field.
Vik edged up to the small building. Ed held back in its shadow, wishing he could dissuade Vik, but too frightened to speak. The light was not like the ones from the towers, it was just a small lamp, dimly illuminating the area.
Vik crawled beneath the door, careful to stay away from the window. As he made to pull himself up to peer inside, he placed a hand on the door. As soon as he put his weight on it, the door swung open and Vik tumbled into the room beyond. Ed jumped when he heard. He saw the door close behind Vik with an audible click.
He heard a muffled pounding from the other side, but Vik did not emerge. "Hey!" he heard from inside. More knocking. "Push it, Ed. I can't!"
Through the window Ed could see Vik alone in the small room. While Vik pounded on his side in vain, it swung open easily for Ed.
"Opens from one side," Ed declared, and immediately felt stupid for saying it. He entered the room which was made of the same polished metal as the wall, with a black dome in the center of the ceiling. Vik paused to wedge his pliers in the first door to keep it ajar before they tested the door opposite.
Confident that the other door opened from both sides, the boys walked out to a dusty road that ran along the metal wall. Beyond that they could see a series of long, tall buildings with dim alleys running between them. They tried a few of the doors, but found them firmly locked. They could not see anyone around, but they could hear the sounds of people off in the direction of the glowing city they saw from the wall.
Keeping to the shadows, they moved in that direction.
It was the biggest village they had ever seen. More people than Ed thought could live in one place spread out all around in a dense mass of tents and lean-tos strung between mismatched wood and brick cottages. The streets were dirty and poorly-lit, but even at this hour the people were awake -- eating and drinking and laughing and fighting.
The shacks and hovels were small enough that the boys could see the city beyond. The buildings got bigger and brighter until they seemed impossible. It was as if they'd wandered into a story about the old world, when people built skyscrapers and the cars moved on their own and men and women made war in the sky like eagles.
Ed could see that even Vik was afraid.
Friday, November 27, 2009
Two Hundred and Thirty-five Angels
A cordite charge ignites. Ninety pounds of uranium are launched at another sixty pounds at a thousand feet per second,
The mothership slides out of F-space just beyond the beacon perimeter. It is a massive and sluggish craft, but the forward zetarays make short work of the nearest defensive platform before it can launch intercept fighters. The whole thing goes up in a big green cloud.
Five turns to optimal delivery range. The natives will likely catch up to them in three. Power is diverted to the torches. The gunners taking potshots with the zetarays stand down, even the softly pulsing lights on the command deck dim. The mothership fires off toward the sun.
It was not being done with callousness or wrath. It was the only logical solution. A shockwave hit fifteen orbits ago. Nothing but blue haze was detected at the furthest reach of the observers in the outer arm galaxies at thirteen. At twelve orbs, they knew.
It could not be allowed to happen. Collision with another universe would wipe out an expected ten percent of the colony. An additional seventy would be scattered through the nothing beyond by the erratic gravity patterns. The leadercaste found this unacceptable, and so they made a plan.
Four turns into the run and the mothership passes close enough to a ringed giant to see it from the viewports. It is a green dot twice the size of the stars beyond. Periodically, the zetarays flare up and destroy debris, small beacons, and civilian ships. Even with decreased power, sensors get a read on the enemy craft. A dense formation of warships that mustered near the inner planets are rushing to meet them while a sea of smaller vessels -- pickets and patrollers from the outer defense platforms -- are swarming in from behind.
The order is given and the young pilots file into their small fighters. The mothership will not stop to engage the defenders. There is no time. The simple laborcaste soldiers plug a series of pipes into sockets on all four arms. Not only do these devices allow the operators to interface directly with their crafts, but they pour a cocktail of substances into their bodies which enhance performance and free them of the worry that whether or not the run is successful, it is a one-way trip for the escorts.
Makercaste minds used the five orbs after the discovery to make the plan a reality. They dramatically increased the range of listening devices. They honed F-drive technology. They created the device.
There was no hesitation, no decision to be made when they found that large portions of the incoming universe were occupied by advanced sentient lifeforms. The plan had to be carried out.
Three turns left and the mothership's pursuers reach weapon range and begin firing. The blast shields take the brunt of the damage, but the commander deems the risk to the engines too great to ignore.
Armored panels blast open and fly off the rear portion of the mothership, exposing the great fighter bays beneath. Five hundred thousand fighters spill out, their pilots jacked up into a frenzy.
Their pursuers are far less maneuverable than the mothership's escorts. They fire their primitive weapons, but seldom hit anything. Their numbers seem limitless, however, and the fighters are hard-pressed to keep them at bay.
As the plan slowly came to fruition over the intervening seven orbits, it became clear that the native species of the other universe were far less advanced than the colony. Still, some had established galaxy-spanning civilizations with a degree of technology that could pose a threat. After all, the plan called for the destruction of every incoming star. The colony's resources would be spread thin.
Two turns and the inner planets' fleet is arrayed ahead. The mothership's rear guard is disintegrating, but they have managed to stall the enemy long enough. The delivery is on schedule.
The remaining dock gates rocket outward and two million fighters form a giant wedge ahead of the mothership. Frigates and Battleships melt in the first barrage. The fighter spear plunges into the enemy formation, viciously attacking any craft that may impede the mothership's progress.
A few of the natives did manage to gather enough information to cobble together a modest defense. They developed a system of beacons that would broadcast F-space static in a protective bubble. Any starship would have to use far slower means of transport within or be torn to pieces.
The motherships were built -- craft that could penetrate the target system, defend themselves long enough to reach the star, deliver the device and have a small chance of escaping if the beacon network was damaged enough in the assault.
One turn and the ragged remains emerge on the other side of the defenders' fleet. Few fighters remain, their pilots too inebriated to resist the urge to attack targets many times their size with reckless fervor, much less hold a formation.
The mothership is badly damaged. Most of the forward blast shields have been torn away. Atmosphere and fuel are leaking from great breeches in its side. However, it lumbers on unopposed.
The plan called for a lightning strike. A simultaneous assault on every star in range of the motherships' F-drives. They were to leap across the nothing and destroy their targets before their gravity wells and defenders could threaten the colony.
Optimal range achieved. The mothership has split into four sections, exposing a gigantic projectile inside its mostly hollow superstructure. The engines ignite, and it screams toward the sun. The mothership breaks off and slowly comes about. Its systems are so badly savaged that they barely notice the glow.
They have turned around entirely, and what remains of the mothership is facing the way they came. Every hand hoping they managed to punch through the beacons. The stars are practically gone now. The whole universe is pulsing with light.
The coordinates are set. The commander gives the order. The F-drive sparks into action.
And everything goes white.
and everything goes white.
The mothership slides out of F-space just beyond the beacon perimeter. It is a massive and sluggish craft, but the forward zetarays make short work of the nearest defensive platform before it can launch intercept fighters. The whole thing goes up in a big green cloud.
Five turns to optimal delivery range. The natives will likely catch up to them in three. Power is diverted to the torches. The gunners taking potshots with the zetarays stand down, even the softly pulsing lights on the command deck dim. The mothership fires off toward the sun.
It was not being done with callousness or wrath. It was the only logical solution. A shockwave hit fifteen orbits ago. Nothing but blue haze was detected at the furthest reach of the observers in the outer arm galaxies at thirteen. At twelve orbs, they knew.
It could not be allowed to happen. Collision with another universe would wipe out an expected ten percent of the colony. An additional seventy would be scattered through the nothing beyond by the erratic gravity patterns. The leadercaste found this unacceptable, and so they made a plan.
Four turns into the run and the mothership passes close enough to a ringed giant to see it from the viewports. It is a green dot twice the size of the stars beyond. Periodically, the zetarays flare up and destroy debris, small beacons, and civilian ships. Even with decreased power, sensors get a read on the enemy craft. A dense formation of warships that mustered near the inner planets are rushing to meet them while a sea of smaller vessels -- pickets and patrollers from the outer defense platforms -- are swarming in from behind.
The order is given and the young pilots file into their small fighters. The mothership will not stop to engage the defenders. There is no time. The simple laborcaste soldiers plug a series of pipes into sockets on all four arms. Not only do these devices allow the operators to interface directly with their crafts, but they pour a cocktail of substances into their bodies which enhance performance and free them of the worry that whether or not the run is successful, it is a one-way trip for the escorts.
Makercaste minds used the five orbs after the discovery to make the plan a reality. They dramatically increased the range of listening devices. They honed F-drive technology. They created the device.
There was no hesitation, no decision to be made when they found that large portions of the incoming universe were occupied by advanced sentient lifeforms. The plan had to be carried out.
Three turns left and the mothership's pursuers reach weapon range and begin firing. The blast shields take the brunt of the damage, but the commander deems the risk to the engines too great to ignore.
Armored panels blast open and fly off the rear portion of the mothership, exposing the great fighter bays beneath. Five hundred thousand fighters spill out, their pilots jacked up into a frenzy.
Their pursuers are far less maneuverable than the mothership's escorts. They fire their primitive weapons, but seldom hit anything. Their numbers seem limitless, however, and the fighters are hard-pressed to keep them at bay.
As the plan slowly came to fruition over the intervening seven orbits, it became clear that the native species of the other universe were far less advanced than the colony. Still, some had established galaxy-spanning civilizations with a degree of technology that could pose a threat. After all, the plan called for the destruction of every incoming star. The colony's resources would be spread thin.
Two turns and the inner planets' fleet is arrayed ahead. The mothership's rear guard is disintegrating, but they have managed to stall the enemy long enough. The delivery is on schedule.
The remaining dock gates rocket outward and two million fighters form a giant wedge ahead of the mothership. Frigates and Battleships melt in the first barrage. The fighter spear plunges into the enemy formation, viciously attacking any craft that may impede the mothership's progress.
A few of the natives did manage to gather enough information to cobble together a modest defense. They developed a system of beacons that would broadcast F-space static in a protective bubble. Any starship would have to use far slower means of transport within or be torn to pieces.
The motherships were built -- craft that could penetrate the target system, defend themselves long enough to reach the star, deliver the device and have a small chance of escaping if the beacon network was damaged enough in the assault.
One turn and the ragged remains emerge on the other side of the defenders' fleet. Few fighters remain, their pilots too inebriated to resist the urge to attack targets many times their size with reckless fervor, much less hold a formation.
The mothership is badly damaged. Most of the forward blast shields have been torn away. Atmosphere and fuel are leaking from great breeches in its side. However, it lumbers on unopposed.
The plan called for a lightning strike. A simultaneous assault on every star in range of the motherships' F-drives. They were to leap across the nothing and destroy their targets before their gravity wells and defenders could threaten the colony.
Optimal range achieved. The mothership has split into four sections, exposing a gigantic projectile inside its mostly hollow superstructure. The engines ignite, and it screams toward the sun. The mothership breaks off and slowly comes about. Its systems are so badly savaged that they barely notice the glow.
They have turned around entirely, and what remains of the mothership is facing the way they came. Every hand hoping they managed to punch through the beacons. The stars are practically gone now. The whole universe is pulsing with light.
The coordinates are set. The commander gives the order. The F-drive sparks into action.
And everything goes white.
and everything goes white.
Friday, November 13, 2009
The internet never sleeps
There's a certain magic in the very early morning. It's still dark, but the city isn't sleeping. It's coiled like a viper. Waiting.
I had forgotten that today is Friday the 13th until I arrived at work a few moments ago. I'm not particularly superstitious. However, at this point, it's rather irrelevant. The myth has a life of its own. When you and everyone around you is expecting something crazy to happen, the prophecy will fulfill itself.
I fear I may regret agreeing to work overtime today.
News of the Day
9/11 Suspect to Face Trial in New York, Official Says
Lawyers, judges, and the like fear public scorn for failing to completely discard legal system in favor of just stringing up certain individuals.
McCain aides kept me bottled up, says Sarah Palin in new book
Yes, and it was probably the best decision they made during the whole campaign.
Among Obama Aides, Debate Intensifies on Troop Levels
Country invades Afghanistan, regrets it. Why is this still a surprise?
Good morning. This is your brain on Caution Thinking.
I had forgotten that today is Friday the 13th until I arrived at work a few moments ago. I'm not particularly superstitious. However, at this point, it's rather irrelevant. The myth has a life of its own. When you and everyone around you is expecting something crazy to happen, the prophecy will fulfill itself.
I fear I may regret agreeing to work overtime today.
News of the Day
9/11 Suspect to Face Trial in New York, Official Says
Lawyers, judges, and the like fear public scorn for failing to completely discard legal system in favor of just stringing up certain individuals.
McCain aides kept me bottled up, says Sarah Palin in new book
Yes, and it was probably the best decision they made during the whole campaign.
Among Obama Aides, Debate Intensifies on Troop Levels
Country invades Afghanistan, regrets it. Why is this still a surprise?
Good morning. This is your brain on Caution Thinking.
Wednesday, November 11, 2009
"Elk-Man? I hate that guy."
I found this thing today while looking for inspiration for Unhuman NPCs. While it's not particularly useful for that, I encourage everyone to give it a spin. Here are some of my favorite results.
Jay has learned to absorb the damage from mental attacks and use it to increase his fame throughout the nation. Sadly, Jay struggles with being foolish.
Jay has mastered the ability to make duplicates of himself, however only when concentrating. Shamefully, Jay is notorious for being extremely smelly.
Jay has mastered the ability to make spiders appear from nowhere, but only while thinking hard. Shamefully, Jay becomes clueless in the presence of string.
Jay possesses the power to change shape into an elk. Terribly, Jay endures the burden of being kind of an asshole.
Jay has learned to absorb the damage from mental attacks and use it to increase his fame throughout the nation. Sadly, Jay struggles with being foolish.
Jay has mastered the ability to make duplicates of himself, however only when concentrating. Shamefully, Jay is notorious for being extremely smelly.
Jay has mastered the ability to make spiders appear from nowhere, but only while thinking hard. Shamefully, Jay becomes clueless in the presence of string.
Jay possesses the power to change shape into an elk. Terribly, Jay endures the burden of being kind of an asshole.
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
Mind the gap
What I am thinking about:
I really need to spend an afternoon with that logo. I like it, but the resolution is crappy and the gear teeth should be centered on the head.
I am planning a work of farcical, subversive fantasy starring orcs. I do not know what form it will ultimately take, however, as it is primarily an act of universe creation. I promise to post the flash fiction intro here soon.
Games and games. I want to play Unhuman soon and I just spent a few hours working on Settlers of World Domination.
Do I really need clipless pedals?
Why did I agree to work all this overtime?
Oh yeah, clipless pedals.
Defiant fist-shaking in Rob's general direction.
Why did I feel the sudden urge to post this homage to the Rat, anyway?
Wishing I lived in a time and place where creative, well-rounded individuals could make a living with what they're good at rather than laboring in obscurity while doing demeaning shit for money.
Or, failing that, some age of heroes and legends where I could get me a battle axe and a tankard and find good honest work as a berserk.
This is Caution Thinking. Have a nice day.
I really need to spend an afternoon with that logo. I like it, but the resolution is crappy and the gear teeth should be centered on the head.
I am planning a work of farcical, subversive fantasy starring orcs. I do not know what form it will ultimately take, however, as it is primarily an act of universe creation. I promise to post the flash fiction intro here soon.
Games and games. I want to play Unhuman soon and I just spent a few hours working on Settlers of World Domination.
Do I really need clipless pedals?
Why did I agree to work all this overtime?
Oh yeah, clipless pedals.
Defiant fist-shaking in Rob's general direction.
Why did I feel the sudden urge to post this homage to the Rat, anyway?
Wishing I lived in a time and place where creative, well-rounded individuals could make a living with what they're good at rather than laboring in obscurity while doing demeaning shit for money.
Or, failing that, some age of heroes and legends where I could get me a battle axe and a tankard and find good honest work as a berserk.
This is Caution Thinking. Have a nice day.
Saturday, October 24, 2009
Among us
I recently started watching Showtime's Dexter. I expected yet another immersive and artistic serial wonderfully free of some -- certainly not all, mind you -- of the constraints placed upon such series by the big networks.
Also, I thought Michael C. Hall was the best part about Six Feet Under.
Anyway, what I wasn't expecting was a fun and frightening take on a theme I encounter over and over not just in the stuff I read and watch, but in my own artistic pursuits -- the extraordinary scattered throughout the mundane.
Like vampires, cylons, the mutants from X-Men or Kung Fu masters in Stephen Chow films, Dexter imagines a world of capable and crazy serial killers around every corner.
The show proves this stuff is fun to think about, even if it concerns murder. It certainly makes the bus ride a little more interesting when you can plan out escape routes and counterattacks just in case the guy next to you is a secret robot assassin or something.
Also, I thought Michael C. Hall was the best part about Six Feet Under.
Anyway, what I wasn't expecting was a fun and frightening take on a theme I encounter over and over not just in the stuff I read and watch, but in my own artistic pursuits -- the extraordinary scattered throughout the mundane.
Like vampires, cylons, the mutants from X-Men or Kung Fu masters in Stephen Chow films, Dexter imagines a world of capable and crazy serial killers around every corner.
The show proves this stuff is fun to think about, even if it concerns murder. It certainly makes the bus ride a little more interesting when you can plan out escape routes and counterattacks just in case the guy next to you is a secret robot assassin or something.
Saturday, October 17, 2009
An open letter to the NSA agent currently monitoring my internet useage
Dear sir or madam,
I know how this looks, but I assure you there is a perfectly rational explanation. You see, while you get your kicks watching us shower or listening to our private telephone conversations or reading the personal email accounts of your significant others, the rest of us like to play games and stuff.
As I mentioned in my gaming blog, I'm currently managing a tabletop role-playing game that is set in a fictional world very much like our own. I did this for a few reasons, which I discuss there, but the biggest advantage to this is an unpredictable aura to the setting and actors that I really enjoy. Sort of like how we can't predict how liberal you lot are going to be with our rights regarding unlawful search and seizure, but without that fascist je ne sais quoi you do so well.
If the group decides to set off in a new direction, or the action takes place in a location I had not anticipated, I can use google maps and bring up an image that can be used for reference or just plain atmosphere. It is particularly fun because not even I can anticipate exactly what is going to happen and I'm ostensibly controlling it.
The first session took place primarily in the suburbs of Pittsburgh, which is likely not terribly interesting to you. However, the upcoming game will likely take place in New York City, a setting with which I am not terribly familiar.
Naturally, I am making use of online resources to plan for this next session. This planning includes finding a home for a fictional financial investment firm in the Wall Street area, but may also require digging up additional maps, historical data and points of interest.
I just wanted to put that out there as a courtesy. Maybe I can save us both some time and effort and you can get back to watching me pee or spying on your grandmothers or whatever.
Love always,
Jay
I know how this looks, but I assure you there is a perfectly rational explanation. You see, while you get your kicks watching us shower or listening to our private telephone conversations or reading the personal email accounts of your significant others, the rest of us like to play games and stuff.
As I mentioned in my gaming blog, I'm currently managing a tabletop role-playing game that is set in a fictional world very much like our own. I did this for a few reasons, which I discuss there, but the biggest advantage to this is an unpredictable aura to the setting and actors that I really enjoy. Sort of like how we can't predict how liberal you lot are going to be with our rights regarding unlawful search and seizure, but without that fascist je ne sais quoi you do so well.
If the group decides to set off in a new direction, or the action takes place in a location I had not anticipated, I can use google maps and bring up an image that can be used for reference or just plain atmosphere. It is particularly fun because not even I can anticipate exactly what is going to happen and I'm ostensibly controlling it.
The first session took place primarily in the suburbs of Pittsburgh, which is likely not terribly interesting to you. However, the upcoming game will likely take place in New York City, a setting with which I am not terribly familiar.
Naturally, I am making use of online resources to plan for this next session. This planning includes finding a home for a fictional financial investment firm in the Wall Street area, but may also require digging up additional maps, historical data and points of interest.
I just wanted to put that out there as a courtesy. Maybe I can save us both some time and effort and you can get back to watching me pee or spying on your grandmothers or whatever.
Love always,
Jay
Friday, September 25, 2009
Buy the t-shirt, get the decoder ring
Biking to work yesterday, I made my way around the entire security perimeter downtown. In the shadow of a couple of tractor trailers parked sideways across Liberty Avenue, I noticed a young protester about to be confronted by what appeared to be building security from some nearby establishment.
"Let me see that shirt. What does that sign say?" I heard as I inched closer, trying to appear nonchalant. The garment in question was printed in simple block letters, "RESIST" or something like that. The sign read simply "9/11 -- INSIDE JOB" in what looked like street number stickers you affix to your mailbox when you move into a new house. He was alone, I stuck around despite my reservations about his subject matter and tactics. Freak loyalty and all that.
"Aw, man!" the security guy said when he read both slogans. A portly fellow wearing an official-looking black printed t-shirt I didn't bother to read, he approached the protester.
"I gotta get a picture," he announced with a guffaw, handing a digital camera to another guard and putting his arm around the young man with the sign.
I do not know what to make of any of this.
"Let me see that shirt. What does that sign say?" I heard as I inched closer, trying to appear nonchalant. The garment in question was printed in simple block letters, "RESIST" or something like that. The sign read simply "9/11 -- INSIDE JOB" in what looked like street number stickers you affix to your mailbox when you move into a new house. He was alone, I stuck around despite my reservations about his subject matter and tactics. Freak loyalty and all that.
"Aw, man!" the security guy said when he read both slogans. A portly fellow wearing an official-looking black printed t-shirt I didn't bother to read, he approached the protester.
"I gotta get a picture," he announced with a guffaw, handing a digital camera to another guard and putting his arm around the young man with the sign.
I do not know what to make of any of this.
Sunday, August 30, 2009
A little audience participation
I just finished reading The Surrogates, a five-issue SF comic series written by Robert Venditti and drawn by Brett Weldele. Published in 2005 and 2006, this is not exactly breaking news. However, if you listened to me and went out to see District 9, then you likely caught the trailer for the comic's upcoming film adaptation.
Now, I know I go on and on about this so I'm going to spare you the typical diatribe about remakes and adaptations. I'm going to play this one a little differently.
The Surrogates was good. Really freaking good, actually. Now maybe I totally missed the train on this one, because it certainly happens from time to time, but I didn't even know this series existed until I saw the trailer. I suspect a large portion of the folks who go to see this will not have been exposed to the comic.
Get your hands on it and read it. Do it for this little exercise, but also just because you won't regret it. After wading through all that Marvel junk, I decided to take a little sabbatical from comics. Thankfully, Venditti's imaginative series is a welcome change, fun and moving, smart and concise. However, it isn't quite Star Trek or Watchmen-grade nerd holy ground material and that's why it's perfect for this experiment. We can look at the comic and its adaptation and discuss the market and medium jump without having to fight against the never-ending current of ad hominem arguments that involve the term "fanboy."
Some things aren't meant to be accessible on the scale that Hollywood producers require. Sometimes when you force them to be, you lose that spark that made them original in the first place. A comic book has the luxury of assuming the reader is at least somewhat interested in the far-fetched and extraordinary -- it's free to experiment. On the other hand, a major motion picture is forced by the system to play to the center to justify its typically extreme level of financial investment.
This system obviously makes money, but it's not exactly geared toward preserving the artistic spirit of the source material. This is the root of my problem with adaptations, it's not just blind devotion to a franchise, as many like to imply.
Read the comic. Watch the movie. Decide for yourself.
Now, I know I go on and on about this so I'm going to spare you the typical diatribe about remakes and adaptations. I'm going to play this one a little differently.
The Surrogates was good. Really freaking good, actually. Now maybe I totally missed the train on this one, because it certainly happens from time to time, but I didn't even know this series existed until I saw the trailer. I suspect a large portion of the folks who go to see this will not have been exposed to the comic.
Get your hands on it and read it. Do it for this little exercise, but also just because you won't regret it. After wading through all that Marvel junk, I decided to take a little sabbatical from comics. Thankfully, Venditti's imaginative series is a welcome change, fun and moving, smart and concise. However, it isn't quite Star Trek or Watchmen-grade nerd holy ground material and that's why it's perfect for this experiment. We can look at the comic and its adaptation and discuss the market and medium jump without having to fight against the never-ending current of ad hominem arguments that involve the term "fanboy."
Some things aren't meant to be accessible on the scale that Hollywood producers require. Sometimes when you force them to be, you lose that spark that made them original in the first place. A comic book has the luxury of assuming the reader is at least somewhat interested in the far-fetched and extraordinary -- it's free to experiment. On the other hand, a major motion picture is forced by the system to play to the center to justify its typically extreme level of financial investment.
This system obviously makes money, but it's not exactly geared toward preserving the artistic spirit of the source material. This is the root of my problem with adaptations, it's not just blind devotion to a franchise, as many like to imply.
Read the comic. Watch the movie. Decide for yourself.
Sunday, August 23, 2009
Thursday, August 20, 2009
Healthcare rant supplement
I realized while compulsively rereading my previous post that it was a little meandering. This is partially due to the fact that politicians, citizens and the media are capable of talking about this serious and nuanced issue for HOURS using nothing but empty, out-of-context buzz words all the while pretending it counts as substantive discourse. This offends me not just as a writer or a member of this community, but as a living being with a brain. Consequently, I may have spent more time thinking up zingers than making sense. My apologies.
However, the chief problem was that I attempted to dance around the issue most central to any article written on the topic. I failed to adequately address and explain my own feeling as to whether or not we should adopt some sort of national federal healthcare system as seems to be the plan.
That's because I don't know how I feel.
I don't like to use such titles, but in this case I feel it may save us some time. I consider myself to be an anarchist of a kind. This is primarily because I believe that large-scale, hierarchical society is a dangerous, destructive thing which rewards terrible behavior while simultaneously providing an ethical and logistical shield for that behavior. I relate very strongly to the new tribalists. I agree that tribe and band scale civilization is the way to go in the long run. I am not -- obviously -- a primitivist, but most importantly, I do not presume to have all the answers. I do not claim to know what the stable, sustainable and sane culture I hope to see will look like. However, I must point out -- emphatically -- that what we are doing now is not working.
Would I like to have free or at least more affordable healthcare at my disposal? Of course I would, don't be stupid.
The real question is whether or not I can justify it. It's problematic to say the least. A system so vast could only be managed by the kind of massive bureaucracy I despise.
Come to think of it, healthcare is a major sticking point for most people when I'm selling the whole new tribalism package. While I do believe it should be possible to decentralize without losing MRI scanners and dialysis machines and whatnot, realistically I expect we shall have to do without much of that.
What if you get sick or seriously injured? This is the obvious question, and I have no easy answer for it. Things will be difficult, to be certain. However, I am also certain that life beyond our current insane civilization -- life without work-related stress and injury, without the poisons of industry, without the cars and the tanks and the stealth bombers will be many times healthier than life is now. On the whole, it will be better for people. This I believe.
I know that sounds harsh -- "Things will be difficult," -- harsh and ominous and maybe even evil. It sounds, but it isn't. I am not advocating a world in which we eschew all technology -- provided it can be used responsibly. I am also not advocating a system in which we all follow strict rules of behavior. Such matters would be delegated to the individuals in one's own tribe of willing participants. I see no reason why a tribe or many tribes would be unable to dedicate time and energy to caring for the ill. Most would, I suspect. The level of care provided -- and the level of commitment required by the fit -- in such an arrangement would always be tailored to the will of the participants.
Contrast that to the situation we have now in the United States. Many are without insurance and thus if a serious issue arises, must seek emergency treatment and possibly crippling debt. Those fortunate enough to have medical insurance pay monthly fees to a corporation which exists primarily to turn a profit. If something happens and medical care is required, these companies actually employ people tasked with finding a way to avoid paying for it. You could fill the corporation's coffers for decades only to be dropped at the moment you need their services in exchange.
Who's evil now?
That said, we do not live in the world of my imagination. We live here, now. I believe that world can exist, but I know it will not happen overnight. Would I like to see some sort of less evil alternative to the current system in the meantime? Of course I would, don't be stupid.
The danger, I think, would be to inflate such a minor concession into a victory of any substance. In fact, we would have to be particularly wary of the new power dynamic it would create. I do think, though, that in the short term, it would likely be better to put something like healthcare into the hands of a body that at least has to pretend to listen to us.
However, the chief problem was that I attempted to dance around the issue most central to any article written on the topic. I failed to adequately address and explain my own feeling as to whether or not we should adopt some sort of national federal healthcare system as seems to be the plan.
That's because I don't know how I feel.
I don't like to use such titles, but in this case I feel it may save us some time. I consider myself to be an anarchist of a kind. This is primarily because I believe that large-scale, hierarchical society is a dangerous, destructive thing which rewards terrible behavior while simultaneously providing an ethical and logistical shield for that behavior. I relate very strongly to the new tribalists. I agree that tribe and band scale civilization is the way to go in the long run. I am not -- obviously -- a primitivist, but most importantly, I do not presume to have all the answers. I do not claim to know what the stable, sustainable and sane culture I hope to see will look like. However, I must point out -- emphatically -- that what we are doing now is not working.
Would I like to have free or at least more affordable healthcare at my disposal? Of course I would, don't be stupid.
The real question is whether or not I can justify it. It's problematic to say the least. A system so vast could only be managed by the kind of massive bureaucracy I despise.
Come to think of it, healthcare is a major sticking point for most people when I'm selling the whole new tribalism package. While I do believe it should be possible to decentralize without losing MRI scanners and dialysis machines and whatnot, realistically I expect we shall have to do without much of that.
What if you get sick or seriously injured? This is the obvious question, and I have no easy answer for it. Things will be difficult, to be certain. However, I am also certain that life beyond our current insane civilization -- life without work-related stress and injury, without the poisons of industry, without the cars and the tanks and the stealth bombers will be many times healthier than life is now. On the whole, it will be better for people. This I believe.
I know that sounds harsh -- "Things will be difficult," -- harsh and ominous and maybe even evil. It sounds, but it isn't. I am not advocating a world in which we eschew all technology -- provided it can be used responsibly. I am also not advocating a system in which we all follow strict rules of behavior. Such matters would be delegated to the individuals in one's own tribe of willing participants. I see no reason why a tribe or many tribes would be unable to dedicate time and energy to caring for the ill. Most would, I suspect. The level of care provided -- and the level of commitment required by the fit -- in such an arrangement would always be tailored to the will of the participants.
Contrast that to the situation we have now in the United States. Many are without insurance and thus if a serious issue arises, must seek emergency treatment and possibly crippling debt. Those fortunate enough to have medical insurance pay monthly fees to a corporation which exists primarily to turn a profit. If something happens and medical care is required, these companies actually employ people tasked with finding a way to avoid paying for it. You could fill the corporation's coffers for decades only to be dropped at the moment you need their services in exchange.
Who's evil now?
That said, we do not live in the world of my imagination. We live here, now. I believe that world can exist, but I know it will not happen overnight. Would I like to see some sort of less evil alternative to the current system in the meantime? Of course I would, don't be stupid.
The danger, I think, would be to inflate such a minor concession into a victory of any substance. In fact, we would have to be particularly wary of the new power dynamic it would create. I do think, though, that in the short term, it would likely be better to put something like healthcare into the hands of a body that at least has to pretend to listen to us.
Monday, August 17, 2009
I'm going to make a simple request
I want all the sign-waving, colonial garb-wearing, jingoistic slogan-shouting racist idiots protesting healthcare of all things to put their money where their mouths are.
Central to the whole argument -- if you can get someone to talk about it for ten seconds without resorting to non sequitur ramblings about twentieth century autocrats -- is that it is scary to think what the government could do with the power over our health. I have no problem with that sentiment. In fact, you can start just about any sentence with "It's scary to think what the government could do with..." and I'm going to be there with you.
Now, I'm going to list the things that these folks have been perfectly willing to trust the government with:
The power to determine our reproductive rights, the power to determine which relationships are valid and which are not, the power to imprison us if we disobey, the power to force us to imprison others if they disobey, the power to weigh human lives against the interests of the corporations who really run things, and... I feel like I'm forgetting something important... Oh yeah, enough nuclear weapons to destroy the world several times over.
Am I to believe that providing an alternative to the greed-based healthcare system we currently have in the vague hopes of improving it is the final straw? That's the key piece of evidence that finally turned you against big government? Get serious. You're not fooling anyone.
I can't think of a better use for the government than pitting it against big business. It's got to be a lot more pleasant than the way it works now, with the government rescuing and supporting corporations while stifling our freedom, seizing the fruits of our labor, using us for cannon fodder, outlawing our behavior, and locking us up if we have a problem with it.
That's where your argument falls apart, assholes wearing tri-cornered hats. You can wave your "don't tread on me" flags around until you keel over from the pre-existing condition your awesome private insurance provider will drop you for, but you fail to recognize the scope of the issue.
If we're not going to dismantle the large-scale corporate model simultaneously -- and I do hate saying this -- we kind of need the state. I thought the financial crisis of 2008 and subsequent bailouts put to rest all that invisible hand nonsense. if you leave them alone, the corporations will screw you. They will screw you and me and your grandma and her dog for a dollar, total.
So go ahead and kill the government and leave the corporations intact. You watch what happens. You'll get rid of the only power that can stand between you and a real boot on your face.
Orwell was wrong, Huxley was wrong. The government is not behind your problems. It's just the tool used by those who are. I say we might as well use it to make things suck a little less while I convince you we could do without all of the above.
Please stop playing at revolution. You're doing it wrong.
Central to the whole argument -- if you can get someone to talk about it for ten seconds without resorting to non sequitur ramblings about twentieth century autocrats -- is that it is scary to think what the government could do with the power over our health. I have no problem with that sentiment. In fact, you can start just about any sentence with "It's scary to think what the government could do with..." and I'm going to be there with you.
Now, I'm going to list the things that these folks have been perfectly willing to trust the government with:
The power to determine our reproductive rights, the power to determine which relationships are valid and which are not, the power to imprison us if we disobey, the power to force us to imprison others if they disobey, the power to weigh human lives against the interests of the corporations who really run things, and... I feel like I'm forgetting something important... Oh yeah, enough nuclear weapons to destroy the world several times over.
Am I to believe that providing an alternative to the greed-based healthcare system we currently have in the vague hopes of improving it is the final straw? That's the key piece of evidence that finally turned you against big government? Get serious. You're not fooling anyone.
I can't think of a better use for the government than pitting it against big business. It's got to be a lot more pleasant than the way it works now, with the government rescuing and supporting corporations while stifling our freedom, seizing the fruits of our labor, using us for cannon fodder, outlawing our behavior, and locking us up if we have a problem with it.
That's where your argument falls apart, assholes wearing tri-cornered hats. You can wave your "don't tread on me" flags around until you keel over from the pre-existing condition your awesome private insurance provider will drop you for, but you fail to recognize the scope of the issue.
If we're not going to dismantle the large-scale corporate model simultaneously -- and I do hate saying this -- we kind of need the state. I thought the financial crisis of 2008 and subsequent bailouts put to rest all that invisible hand nonsense. if you leave them alone, the corporations will screw you. They will screw you and me and your grandma and her dog for a dollar, total.
So go ahead and kill the government and leave the corporations intact. You watch what happens. You'll get rid of the only power that can stand between you and a real boot on your face.
Orwell was wrong, Huxley was wrong. The government is not behind your problems. It's just the tool used by those who are. I say we might as well use it to make things suck a little less while I convince you we could do without all of the above.
Please stop playing at revolution. You're doing it wrong.
Saturday, July 25, 2009
Tales from the front desk
I know I promised an angry tirade or two, but my crushing overtime schedule hasn't been quite so bad. I've also been working on some maps for Erul-Iton.
Instead of fury, I offer comedy. But first, I feel I must elaborate a bit.
I sacrifice hours of my life in exchange for currency at an upscale apartment building. My official position is front desk attendant, a job which is part security, part customer service, part records management, part administrative assistant, but mostly involves making these idiots feel special. The simplest way to describe it is to say that my job is to enforce the rules in an environment where everyone thinks the rules don't apply to them.
I'm tempted to just say "the rich" when I complain about the residents, but putting aside my usual complaints about money, class, and power, this is not totally accurate. Many are a special kind of rich. We who work here have a term for it, but I ought not reveal this in such a public forum.
You see, I was raised to value labor. A work ethic and a trade and self-reliance and all that. While my early-to-bed-early-to-rise needs a little work, and my skill with power tools brings shame upon my ancestors, I've learned just what you get when you grow up with absolutely none of that.
Some of these people have so much money, they're completely useless.
Whether it's the result an inborn trait -- too much caviar during pregnancy -- or a learned sense of entitlement, I work with people who never learned how to perform simple tasks. From the operation of the simple lever and chain mechanism inside a toilet tank to the complicated operation of a television remote to working a door that you push to open, they're often rendered helpless by the challenge of remarkably banal activities.
In the future, I'll be using this space to document the foibles and failures of the wealthy whilst performing tasks you and I take for granted. Just look for the "tales from the front desk" tag, and no snitching if you know where I work.
Instead of fury, I offer comedy. But first, I feel I must elaborate a bit.
I sacrifice hours of my life in exchange for currency at an upscale apartment building. My official position is front desk attendant, a job which is part security, part customer service, part records management, part administrative assistant, but mostly involves making these idiots feel special. The simplest way to describe it is to say that my job is to enforce the rules in an environment where everyone thinks the rules don't apply to them.
I'm tempted to just say "the rich" when I complain about the residents, but putting aside my usual complaints about money, class, and power, this is not totally accurate. Many are a special kind of rich. We who work here have a term for it, but I ought not reveal this in such a public forum.
You see, I was raised to value labor. A work ethic and a trade and self-reliance and all that. While my early-to-bed-early-to-rise needs a little work, and my skill with power tools brings shame upon my ancestors, I've learned just what you get when you grow up with absolutely none of that.
Some of these people have so much money, they're completely useless.
Whether it's the result an inborn trait -- too much caviar during pregnancy -- or a learned sense of entitlement, I work with people who never learned how to perform simple tasks. From the operation of the simple lever and chain mechanism inside a toilet tank to the complicated operation of a television remote to working a door that you push to open, they're often rendered helpless by the challenge of remarkably banal activities.
In the future, I'll be using this space to document the foibles and failures of the wealthy whilst performing tasks you and I take for granted. Just look for the "tales from the front desk" tag, and no snitching if you know where I work.
Monday, July 20, 2009
Stuff that history nerds like
I've been working on fleshing out the history of my D&D setting. I find this to be a very rewarding task. As I mentioned a while back in my review of the newest edition, the last time I was involved in a D&D game, we spent hours working on the setting. The world had a distinct spirituality that actually influenced game mechanics, and a great sense of history. More time was put into creating that setting than playing it -- several times over, in fact.
Our current game takes place in one very large city -- at least for now it does -- and I think it's important for that place to have a history, to be a character. Therefore, I put together a timeline detailing the major events in the city's history.
Not only does this sort of thing get my inner fantasy dork going, but I recommend it for anyone running a tabletop game. While I was filling it out, I found myself simultaneously constructing a "people's history" in my head.
So now, not only do I have the official version down on paper for my players to read and hopefully accept as a sort of apology for the huge delays between sessions, but I have this other set of events from which I can draw story ideas and use to improve those I already have. The conflict between the two histories is likely going to be a big part of the game overall, which is more skulking and scheming and politicking than kicking and fighting and looting.
Our current game takes place in one very large city -- at least for now it does -- and I think it's important for that place to have a history, to be a character. Therefore, I put together a timeline detailing the major events in the city's history.
Not only does this sort of thing get my inner fantasy dork going, but I recommend it for anyone running a tabletop game. While I was filling it out, I found myself simultaneously constructing a "people's history" in my head.
So now, not only do I have the official version down on paper for my players to read and hopefully accept as a sort of apology for the huge delays between sessions, but I have this other set of events from which I can draw story ideas and use to improve those I already have. The conflict between the two histories is likely going to be a big part of the game overall, which is more skulking and scheming and politicking than kicking and fighting and looting.
Sunday, July 12, 2009
Still getting used to it
I know Caution Thinking has been gathering dust. This is partly because I've been working on the new Western Pennsylvania Culinary Warfare League contest. As previously noted, I have a better work ethic when it comes to the more focused projects.
In addition, I feel the need to devote time to some housing issues -- cleaning, packing, and the like -- while staring down the barrel of a nasty overtime schedule later this month. All that time at work will likely increase blog output in general, but I can make no promise that there will be more than a series of classist screeds.
My final excuse is the work I'm doing for my Dungeons & Dragons group over at Crippled Vulture Games. My players have been more patient than could be expected during this lengthy hiatus and I want to play again as soon as possible.
And now a little something for the locals. I just read this article in today's Pittsburgh Post-Gazette. Honestly, I'm not sure how to react to the news that perhaps we may have over-estimated the impact the new Children's Hospital would have on the area. I did not grow up in Lawrenceville, but I've been here for two years now and I consider myself a member of the community.
Lawrenceville and the surrounding neighborhoods -- which are all very nice in their own way and I can't see why one would feel the need to claim one's establishment is in Lawrenceville when it's just across the street in Bloomfield -- are experiencing an economic revitalization lately. As opposed to the Whole Foods falling out of the sky-style rebirth of East Liberty, more often than not this is the result of the success of various small local shops and whatnot.
So while it is unfortunate that these joints aren't getting the kind of business injection they had hoped for, I think it may work out better in the long run. Until the Children's Hospital came around, the area's growth was a more organic, ground-up sort of thing. UPMC, however, is a massive organization that likely maintains a few dim, smoke-filled board rooms. It would be sad indeed if sometime in the future their executives decided that our charming Liberty Avenue, Penn Avenue, and Butler Street commercial districts would better serve the overlord as glorified food courts made of national chain restaurants. I'm not saying UPMC doesn't lack the power to do this anyway, but we might as well just hand them the keys if so many local places are counting on traffic from the hospital.
Call me paranoid, but it just seems that relying on the big corporation to support a neighborhood when that neighborhood's success thus far has been the result of local commitment is counter-intuitive.
In addition, I feel the need to devote time to some housing issues -- cleaning, packing, and the like -- while staring down the barrel of a nasty overtime schedule later this month. All that time at work will likely increase blog output in general, but I can make no promise that there will be more than a series of classist screeds.
My final excuse is the work I'm doing for my Dungeons & Dragons group over at Crippled Vulture Games. My players have been more patient than could be expected during this lengthy hiatus and I want to play again as soon as possible.
And now a little something for the locals. I just read this article in today's Pittsburgh Post-Gazette. Honestly, I'm not sure how to react to the news that perhaps we may have over-estimated the impact the new Children's Hospital would have on the area. I did not grow up in Lawrenceville, but I've been here for two years now and I consider myself a member of the community.
Lawrenceville and the surrounding neighborhoods -- which are all very nice in their own way and I can't see why one would feel the need to claim one's establishment is in Lawrenceville when it's just across the street in Bloomfield -- are experiencing an economic revitalization lately. As opposed to the Whole Foods falling out of the sky-style rebirth of East Liberty, more often than not this is the result of the success of various small local shops and whatnot.
So while it is unfortunate that these joints aren't getting the kind of business injection they had hoped for, I think it may work out better in the long run. Until the Children's Hospital came around, the area's growth was a more organic, ground-up sort of thing. UPMC, however, is a massive organization that likely maintains a few dim, smoke-filled board rooms. It would be sad indeed if sometime in the future their executives decided that our charming Liberty Avenue, Penn Avenue, and Butler Street commercial districts would better serve the overlord as glorified food courts made of national chain restaurants. I'm not saying UPMC doesn't lack the power to do this anyway, but we might as well just hand them the keys if so many local places are counting on traffic from the hospital.
Call me paranoid, but it just seems that relying on the big corporation to support a neighborhood when that neighborhood's success thus far has been the result of local commitment is counter-intuitive.
Sunday, June 21, 2009
Saturday, June 20, 2009
Old stories
Very little of my old material has survived. I know I'm not alone among those who write who over-analyze every phrase the second it's written. I hate my old stuff. This is with good reason. I am not the same person who wrote all that dorky shit in Intro to Creative Writing.
Writing alone, however, doesn't really do it. I am a different person now because I not only wrote, but submitted. I endured the criticism of my peers. I have little good to say about institutionalized education, but this is one thing I do appreciate. You must participate, not just quietly scribble and squirrel it away.
There's more to it, of course, but a writer is often forged in ridicule, embarrassment, and perceived failure.
In this spirit, I've decided to dust off some of my older pieces. Most of them are between one and two years old, as everything else has likely been lost forever.
Sheets of printed paper and text documents can be trashed, deleted, forgotten. There's a refreshing sort of permanence to publishing like this. It's harder -- perhaps impossible -- to take it back.
Writing alone, however, doesn't really do it. I am a different person now because I not only wrote, but submitted. I endured the criticism of my peers. I have little good to say about institutionalized education, but this is one thing I do appreciate. You must participate, not just quietly scribble and squirrel it away.
There's more to it, of course, but a writer is often forged in ridicule, embarrassment, and perceived failure.
In this spirit, I've decided to dust off some of my older pieces. Most of them are between one and two years old, as everything else has likely been lost forever.
Sheets of printed paper and text documents can be trashed, deleted, forgotten. There's a refreshing sort of permanence to publishing like this. It's harder -- perhaps impossible -- to take it back.
Untitled I, Chapter 1
"Oh no. No no no no no no no."
Billy has never killed anyone before. There is the click of plastic on pavement as the murder weapon drops from his hand. Whoever this guy was, he never even got the chance to put on a proper shocked expression before he died. There he lies, still wearing a smug half grin and vacant stare like he's looking right through Billy at something far more interesting. Well, he's staring with one eye, anyway. Most of the left side of his face is covered by that smoking crater.
He's young. At least, he looks young. You never can tell with these guys. He's hairless, and his pale skin looks sick in the oily streetlight filtering into the alley, but his build says this was once the body of a lithe, active man. He's wearing the same gray jumpsuit they all wear, with the same sideways figure eight on his forehead.
What was he doing down here? Billy wonders aloud to no one in particular, pretending for a moment that it matters. Billy's mind is beginning to recover from the shock of his first manslaughter offense, but each second some new horrific detail stands out and is announced by an increasingly unpleasant tightening sensation in his chest.
He is standing over the dead body of an immortal. In a neighborhood like Billy's they are practically legendary. The procedure to transform a normal human being into a partially synthetic is invasive, time-consuming, and most of all, expensive. As a result, it is only the extremely wealthy who undergo the transformation. Everyone believes they'll get there some day, though.
Billy looks down at the gun, hesitates a moment before he picks it up. It doesn't mater. It's covered with his fingerprints, and registered in his name. His stomach turns again. It's almost weightless but still unwieldy with the careless lack of ergonomics that is the trademark of discount products everywhere.
The laser pistol was a gift from his mother. He didn't want it, but she wouldn't take no for answer. She said it was a rough neighborhood and he should carry some kind of protection. The irony is lost on Billy who is trying not to hyperventilate.
He manages to calm himself. No one else saw this happen. The guy was out in a bad neighborhood in the middle of the night.
Billy jumps, startled by a high-pitched wail coming from behind and above his head. He turns to face it, reflexively shielding his eyes from a blinding spotlight. Between the deafening notes of the alarm, he can make out the rapid click-click-click of an computerized camera.
A different flash of light and the alley is silent again. The floating machine crashes to the ground in a heap of smoldering circuits and melted plastic. Billy is up and running.
Billy has never killed anyone before. There is the click of plastic on pavement as the murder weapon drops from his hand. Whoever this guy was, he never even got the chance to put on a proper shocked expression before he died. There he lies, still wearing a smug half grin and vacant stare like he's looking right through Billy at something far more interesting. Well, he's staring with one eye, anyway. Most of the left side of his face is covered by that smoking crater.
He's young. At least, he looks young. You never can tell with these guys. He's hairless, and his pale skin looks sick in the oily streetlight filtering into the alley, but his build says this was once the body of a lithe, active man. He's wearing the same gray jumpsuit they all wear, with the same sideways figure eight on his forehead.
What was he doing down here? Billy wonders aloud to no one in particular, pretending for a moment that it matters. Billy's mind is beginning to recover from the shock of his first manslaughter offense, but each second some new horrific detail stands out and is announced by an increasingly unpleasant tightening sensation in his chest.
He is standing over the dead body of an immortal. In a neighborhood like Billy's they are practically legendary. The procedure to transform a normal human being into a partially synthetic is invasive, time-consuming, and most of all, expensive. As a result, it is only the extremely wealthy who undergo the transformation. Everyone believes they'll get there some day, though.
Billy looks down at the gun, hesitates a moment before he picks it up. It doesn't mater. It's covered with his fingerprints, and registered in his name. His stomach turns again. It's almost weightless but still unwieldy with the careless lack of ergonomics that is the trademark of discount products everywhere.
The laser pistol was a gift from his mother. He didn't want it, but she wouldn't take no for answer. She said it was a rough neighborhood and he should carry some kind of protection. The irony is lost on Billy who is trying not to hyperventilate.
He manages to calm himself. No one else saw this happen. The guy was out in a bad neighborhood in the middle of the night.
Billy jumps, startled by a high-pitched wail coming from behind and above his head. He turns to face it, reflexively shielding his eyes from a blinding spotlight. Between the deafening notes of the alarm, he can make out the rapid click-click-click of an computerized camera.
A different flash of light and the alley is silent again. The floating machine crashes to the ground in a heap of smoldering circuits and melted plastic. Billy is up and running.
Friday, June 19, 2009
A brief introduction
Yes this is a journal blog. It'll be as aimless and meandering and silly as they all are, I expect. I don't feel that I have to justify creating this space to you or anyone else. The bulk of my published work on the internet is focused and well-organized, and so I don't consider this to be a particularly grievous affront to my belief that these kinds of blogs are always at least a little self-indulgent and pointless.
In fact, I'm not so sure that's necessarily bad, anymore. My thoughts tend toward the chaotic at the best of times, it's just that my attention to detail and weird complex about organization require that I spend hours and weeks revising, formatting, and re-imagining. This can be an advantage, but I feel that it can also stifle the creative process somewhat.
To be honest, I also wanted to try out this design idea.
However, this is more than just a place to record my non sequitur ramblings and display two days' worth of photoshoppery. I also plan to use it as the umbrella under which I shall organize my other projects. You can access these by clicking on the icons to the right.
In fact, I'm not so sure that's necessarily bad, anymore. My thoughts tend toward the chaotic at the best of times, it's just that my attention to detail and weird complex about organization require that I spend hours and weeks revising, formatting, and re-imagining. This can be an advantage, but I feel that it can also stifle the creative process somewhat.
To be honest, I also wanted to try out this design idea.
However, this is more than just a place to record my non sequitur ramblings and display two days' worth of photoshoppery. I also plan to use it as the umbrella under which I shall organize my other projects. You can access these by clicking on the icons to the right.
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