MARTIAN HOLIDAY 38: DaneelAH At Station Vogel

Overwhelmingly busy week -- sorry this is SO late!

On a well-settled Mars, the five major city Council regimes struggle to meld into a stable, working government. Embracing an official United Faith in Humanity, the Councils are teetering on the verge of pogrom directed against Christians, Molesters, Jews, Rapists, Buddhists, Murderers, Muslims, Thieves, Hindu, Embezzlers and Artificial Humans – anyone who threatens the official Faith and the consolidating power of the Councils. It makes good sense, right – get rid of religion and Human divisiveness on a societal level will disappear? An instrument of such a pogrom might just be a Roman holiday...To see the rest of the chapters, go to SCIENCE FICTION: Martian Holiday on the right and scroll to the bottom for the first story.

“What do you mean you’ve been expecting us?” asked AzAH as the airlock swung closed behind them.

The man smiled and said, “I can’t actually say anything more than that until the leader of our outpost has had a chance to talk with you. Would you follow me, please?”

DaneelAH, MishAH and HanAH stepped up beside the Translator of the group.

MishAH said, “This doesn’t look very good.”

HanAH, formerly a detective in Bradbury Dome, glared at his sister and snapped, “What was your first clue, Nancy Drew?”

She shot him an equally deadly glare and said, “I may not be your criminological equal, but who exactly came up with the connection in the Felix-Kaya murder?”

“Just because you think you know plants...” he said, turning on her.

DaneelAH, a forensic xenoarchaeologist attached to the Mayor of Bradbury’s research team, was the most recognizable face of their Artificial Human plaque; said, “If they’re going to kill all of us, I’m relieved to know that we’ll go down in our natural state.” He followed the man deeper into the outpost.

HanAH shot a vulgar phrase after him but followed anyway. MishAH and AzAH glanced at each other, smiled sheepishly, then followed the other two after clasping hands.

They passed several reinforced seams. HanAH nodded to one and whispered, “They’ve connected at least ten Combined Forces surplus bivouac domes into one. Looks like they just found a set of lava tubes, smoothed the surfaces then used the dome material to line them.”

“Pretty ingenious if you ask me,” said AzAH.

“We didn’t,” HanAH said. Clearly irritated, he slapped the wall. From far away came a groan.

“What was that?” DaneelAH asked.

From the front of their line, the man said, “The standard issue material has been impregnated with nerve and epithelial cells.”

“Your dome is alive?” MishAH asked. She stopped and leaned closer to the walls, touching them.

She started to take off her glove when the man from the front said, “If you’ll be patient, The Leader will see you shortly. Please come.”

She scowled, tapped the wall and despite a sound that was suspiciously similar to a giggle, she followed the others. The tunnel grew wider and unexpectedly, MishAH heard the sound of birds singing. Lots of them.

“Do I smell pine trees?” muttered HanAH.

The tunnel opened into a huge area. The four Artificial Humans stopped, blinking into brilliant light, surrounded by manicured lawns, slight hillocks, slender trees reaching ten meters up. The man leading them had turned to face them, smiling. He said, “Take your time. It hits most people this way. The actual room is only twenty meters across.”

“It looks bigger,” HanAH said, scowling.

“We have very good artists who use both conventional media as well as digital and holographic. I think it looks good, too.”

“Welcome, travelers,” said a voice. From ahead of them, around a corner, strode an extremely tall, very young-looking man. “Welcome to Emei Shan.”

HanAH snorted and said, “That’s a mountain in China on Earth. This is Mars.”

The young man smiled down at him then said, “An aficionado of our faith? Delightful!”

“I’m not a Buddhist,” MishAH said, obviously irritated.

The young man shrugged and said, “Nobody’s perfect.” He gestured to all of them, “I have tea laid out and I think rather than draw out the pleasantries inherent in our meeting, we must lay out our plans for war.”

DaneelAH stared at him, then said, “War?”

The young man nodded solemnly and said, “Do you see the coming persecution going in any other direction than full scale war against all people who do not openly acknowledge the Unified Faith In Humanity?”

“Nothing wrong with that,” HanAH said.

“Certainly that is true – the problem comes when the adherents of that Faith insist we repudiate our own faiths. And force us to betray our friends.”

Image: http://cdn.theatlantic.com/static/infocus/china032612/c06_41130106.jpg

IDEAS ON TUESDAYS 96

Each Tuesday, rather than a POSSIBLY IRRITATING ESSAY, I'd like to both challenge you and lend a helping hand. I generate more speculative and teen story ideas than I can ever use. My family rolls its collective eyes when I say, "Hang on a second! I just have to write down this idea..." Here, I'll include the initial inspiration (quote, website, podcast, etc) and then a thought or two that came to mind. These will simply be seeds -- plant, nurture, fertilize, chemically treat, irradiate, test or stress them as you see fit. I only ask if you let me know if anything comes of them.

SF Trope: body transformations/cyber implants/the Borg…

Current Event: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_2qPWc32LS8&feature=related, http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SIqAnrjqb0Y, http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QWTE97GteZA

[NOTE: STAR TREK’s Borg still creep me out and while they ended up defeated, compromised and hardly implacable by the end of all the series, I wonder if the writers did that to make themselves feel safer. When they first appeared in ST:TNG, they were anything BUT beatable…and they still creep me out…]

Hajnal Nagy stared at her lab partner. “What do you mean, they ‘creep you out’?”

Voytek Jankowski shook his head. “It doesn’t bother you that Ms. Hawkinson’s substitute is more machine than human?”

Hajnal shook her head. “Why should the ratio of Mr. Yakovlev’s flesh to metal and plastic bother you?”

“Didn’t you ever see the old movie, ‘Terminator’?”

“Duh. I like old movies as much as you do, so yeah, I saw it. But what does a time-traveling robot have to do with our substitute? He looks Human.” She glanced at the man where he was working with another student at the front of the chemistry room. While he certainly did look Human, the left side of his face was augmented by non-flesh implants. He’d told them he’d been in a car accident and they’d rebuilt his eye, ear and replaced the left side of his jaw with plastic bone and teeth. His hand was also partially prosthetic and, he’d added, even though they couldn’t see it, he carried a pacemaker to keep his partially damaged heart beating and had an implanted TENS unit to take care of his pain. He’d finally added that TENS was an acronym for Transcutaneous Electrical Nerve Stimulation unit.

He’d written that on the white board, smiling and saying, “Isn’t this one of those ‘teachable moments’?”

“You didn’t think him talking about ‘teachable moments’  was sort of creepy?”

“Why would that be creepy?” Hajnal asked.

“I want to know what he thought he was teaching us.”

Hajnal rolled her eyes and got back to the work on the page of problems. Voytek said, “But...” Hajnal waved him off half a dozen times before he left in a huff. Once he was gone, she found herself looking up at Mr. Yakovlev. He was leaning on one elbow, pointing to a worksheet and trying to explain something to a student.

She muttered, “Stupid Voytek!” and got back to work. But she couldn’t help it. Her eyes were drawn back to his face. The plastic skin was identical in color to his real skin. The eye had a white sclera, but the iris was silver and the pupil wasn’t exactly round but a vertical oval, almost lizard-like. The fake skin on his hand was also a perfect color match and – she noticed with interest from where she sat – there were hairs on both of his arms. “Stupid Voytek!” she muttered. She turned in her stool so her back was to the front of the room.

She was sitting like that, hunched over the worksheet, when a voice said, “Do you understand orbital notation…” the voice paused, rustled paper, then said, “Ms. Nagy?”

Knowing that she was blushing crimson, she didn’t turn or look up, but hunched farther as she said, “Uh, yes, sir. It seems pretty straight-forward.”

He hummed, “Perhaps you’d like to come up to the front of the room and demonstrate your methodology for the rest of the class. Few of them seem to understand why you do not fill in the 5s1 orbital until after you’ve filled in the 3d5 and 4p3 orbitals.”

Someone from the class called out, “Hajnal gets it!”

Someone else started pounding on the table, “Let Hajnal teach us! Let Hajnal teach us!”

She finally turned around. Now that she was thoroughly embarrassed, she looked up at Mr. Yakovlev as he said, “This is a teachable moment, Ms. Nagy.” He smiled and she noticed then that his teeth, instead of being white, were silver. And as she looked, a tiny red light lit up on each one, while at the same moment, the vertical oval glowed blood red…

Name Origins: Hungary, Poland

Image: http://i.huffpost.com/gadgets/slideshows/211906/slide_211906_741900_large.jpg?1330556560

WRITING ADVICE: Bruce Bethke’s TWELVE STEP PROGRAM FOR WRITERS #5

Somewhere around thirty years ago, I met Bruce Bethke for the first time – when I responded to an ad in a newspaper for a science fiction writers group seeking new members. I called, then sent in an “audition story” and was invited to join the group at the ORIGINAL, original Loft Literary Center (before grant money started flowing) in Minneapolis. One of THEM reviews books now, the other published a few books and short stories but no longer writes. Bruce doesn’t write much lately except for non-fiction; he is currently executive editor of STUPEFYING STORIES, an irregular anthology of new speculative fiction, he mostly works for a super computer company as well as presiding over Rampant Loon Press. These nuggets of wisdom can be found here: http://www.sfwa.org/2009/06/a-12-step-program-for-writers/. They are used with the author’s permission.

5. We have proclaimed to God, to ourselves, and to anyone else who would listen the exact nature of the many failings of our former editors and publishers.

 

Before I go on here, I should say that I have a deep and abiding respect for Bruce as a writer, an editor, as a teacher and especially as a friend.

I hesitate to presume anything so rash as that I “know him”. Our lives have intersected a number of times, in several ways, and at more than a few venues. We’ve lunched together, worked together and argued. But I cannot presume to know him because much of our relationship is through the internet.

On the other hand, I do know that he has a razor sharp sense of humor, a critical and perceptive eye and I take anything he says seriously.

However, I do NOT take everything he says at face value!

When WORKING together, I interpret his comments to mean exactly what he says. In personal commentary, I ALWAYS take his comments to be carefully and clearly expressed. When we discuss the state of the world however, I take what he says as I would take a grain of sand (some would say “salt”, but I’ve learned his crystals aren’t that small, so I’ll say sand here and imply that it is a granite crystal): a possible irritant designed to elicit honest discussion or to simply make me think.

A bit of background before I go on: I am the oldest child in my family, first born male child and a son of privilege. I married into a family in which I was the last adult before the children were counted and figured sometimes I BELONGED at the children’s table at Thanksgiving.

As the usual oldest, I was always cast as the part of a parent or the shoemaker or the princesses father in high school. I had one friend who was older than me and mobs of friends who were younger. I was consistently cast in the role of “mentor” and have been my entire life. I had no older brother; I had no one to kick my metaphorical ass when I made stupid choices or decisions.

From the beginning, Bruce became my mentor. He’s not a lot older than me (I got to be a grandfather first!); but as far as writing and life experience, he is indeed my mentor. His wife was diagnosed with breast cancer before mine was and as a result, he was able to pull me up beside him and be a shoulder on which I could lean. He was an “award-winning author” first; published first; created a genre-defining word first; and was an editor first.

All of this I say to point out that I don’t take EVERYTHING he says as serious and sometimes have to search a bit to find the meaning.

The meaning here, if I may be so bold as to speak it, is that we should refuse to burn our bridges no matter how awful our experience. By this I do NOT mean that we be doormats to whims of agents and editors, I mean that gossip, slander (even if it’s true), and bad-mouthing someone is NEVER appropriate; not because “today’s junior prick is tomorrow’s senior partner” (in case you were wondering, it’s a line from WORKING GIRL) but because nothing ever happens in a vacuum and everything is fodder for character building.

Bruce is a smart man; he has learned from experience. He takes what he has learned and passes it on. Sometimes he passes it on without embellishment and sometimes he makes me dig for meaning. This is a “dig for meaning” kind of wisdom.

And if it wasn’t meant that way? Meh. That’s how I’m going to take it!

By the way, Bruce is writing a series of articles about writing, publishing and the history of STUPEFYING STORIES. If you want to skitch over there, here’s the link: http://stupefyingstories.blogspot.com/

Image: http://www.dubinandlee.com/Portals/65944/images/BurningBridge.jpg

IDEAS ON TUESDAYS 95

Each Tuesday, rather than a POSSIBLY IRRITATING ESSAY, I'd like to both challenge you and lend a helping hand. I generate more speculative and teen story ideas than I can ever use. My family rolls its collective eyes when I say, "Hang on a second! I just have to write down this idea..." Here, I'll include the initial inspiration (quote, website, podcast, etc) and then a thought or two that came to mind. These will simply be seeds -- plant, nurture, fertilize, chemically treat, irradiate, test or stress them as you see fit. I only ask if you let me know if anything comes of them.

H Trope: Tomes of Eldritch Lore

Current Event: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ptahhotep

“You’ve looked at it a thousand times,” said Mnar Al Massri, leaning over the glass case. “Besides, this is a reproduction.”

Abbas Farhan shook his head without taking his eyes off the tablet. “My sources say that this one is the real one.”

“Why would they send a zillion year old Egyptian tablet to Moorhead, Minnesota?”

This time he looked up at her, still leaning over the exhibit. “Because they’re hoping someone like me will see it.”

She rolled her eyes. “You’re still insisting you’re some sort of reincarnation of Ptah hotep?” She snorted. “Aside from that being violently against everything we believe in, aside from the fact that when you claim that you sound like more of an idiot than you usually do, and if you exclude the fact that statistically speaking, this can’t possibly be the real – you have got to be totally delusional that something of this historical magnitude would happen to someone like you!”

This time he stood up. “Wha’dyou mean, ‘someone like me’?”

She shook her head. “Listen Abbas, we’ve known each other since our freshman year. We’re both in the second year of our masters degrees – that mean we’ve been friends for over six years. We’ve seen each other through who knows how many romances and break ups, an uncounted number of study sessions. We’ve gotten to know each other so well that my parents don’t even count you as a possible husband for me anymore! Dad thinks of you as his foster son.”

He snorted and muttered, “Thanks a lot for that.”

She shook her head, smiled and said, “You are a much, much better friend than a husband.”

Angry, he pulled away from her, eyes flashing and said, “When I have enough wealth to claim your hand, you’ll never say that and your father won’t pretend I’m just a good friend anymore!” He glanced down at the tablet and tapped the glass above a peculiar symbol and said, “This is what will make all of MY dreams come true!” He made a fist and slammed it down on the ultrahard glass case, shattering it in an explosion of shards. His face distorted as the alarm bells went off and security guards came running and he bent over the tablet and began to read in a voice so deep, Mnar couldn’t actually hear it but rather felt the ground around them shudder. But it didn’t matter any longer. When the guards reached the room...

Image: http://www.maat.sofiatopia.org/iptahhotep1.jpg

Slice of PIE: Chrono-Perception and Life-Perspective

I am a member of a an online writers group that is made up of writers of many ages and at many experience levels. I’ve been with this group since 2005. After seven years of watching some writers mature and move on to much bigger and better things; watching others keep on and on and on at the same writing level neither getting worse nor getting better, I have an observation to make.

New writers are an IMPATIENT lot!

When I joined seven years ago, online submissions were rare. ANALOG, ASIMOV’S, FANTASY & SCIENCE FICTION (still doesn’t), ABSOLUTE MAGNITUDE, STRANGE HORIZONS, TALES OF THE UNANTICIPATED, INTERZONE and more did not accept them.

Those of us who wrote then wrote on word processors, printed out a manuscript, wrote a cover letter, addressed two envelopes (one to the magazine editor, one to ourselves (called a SASE (Self Addressed Stamped Envelope)), stopped at the post office to get the thing weighed and sent it on its way. Then we waited.

I started keeping rigid records in January of 1990 – pre-Internet Age. I routinely waited eight to forty weeks to hear back from editors. Often enough to not be alarming, I sometimes waited over a year. During that time, I got back to work with the thought firmly in mind that I might not get a response for a year.

Reading the sometimes less-than-professional comments on the forum regarding how long some of these youngsters had to wait – and then loudly announcing that because an editor took 200 DAYS, they were striking that editor from their list of places to submit because they were TOO SLOW and THAT WASN’T RESPECTFUL OF THEM AS A WRITER – makes me smile and wonder how they would have fared in the “olden days”.

Not to say that expectations of instant response aren’t visible everywhere. It manifests itself in such things as pre-cooked pancakes that you simply have to microwave (really? What could be more simple to make from scratch than pancakes?) to express cash machines, drive-through restaurants and “Suddenly Salad” mixes.

The fact is that microwaveable pancakes – with their list of ingredients that goes far beyond flour, eggs, water, salt, and baking soda – don’t taste as good as homemade. No, really: if you’ve never made your own pancakes from a classic recipe and taken them hot off the griddle and compared them directly to frozen pancakes “fresh” out of the microwave, you don’t know that there is a difference. I suspect the quality of writing of today’s younger writers may be suffering as well. I am NOT saying that ALL young writers can’t write. I am wondering out loud if, in this age of instant gratification a young writer might not be tempted to write faster and ponder less, sending their brainchild out into the world before it has a chance to age to perfection; before it has a chance to be anything more than Boone’s Farm Apple Wine rather than with the patience that comes out of knowing you’re going to have to WAIT for a response and if you’re going to wait four or five or six months, you’d better do everything in your power to make sure the outcome is going to be in your favor – and working to produce a Chateau Cheval Blanc 1947.

The same might be said for the explosion of self-published SF novels. Writers who refuse to wait, then announce that Publishing Is Dead then follow a protocol, formatting their own work in mobi or whatever, buying or making a cover then putting their work online in hopes that their sales will match DUNE (which was, BTW, originally published by the very same publisher that produces CHILTON’S complete car repair manuals for virtually every can made since, like 1957….).

I’ve read several of them in various genres – horror, SF, fantasy, romance, even a textbook. Most of them read like wine that’s aged into vinegar would taste or like dumping three RAMEN noodle “flavor packets” into one cup of water only gets you brine strong enough for shrimp to live in tastes...awful.

I believe that the pursuit of instant publication has driven many young writers to engage in instant writing, sacrificing style, depth and thought for a “quick fix” of possible fame tomorrow.

How many of you are going to disagree with me?

[After I posted this morning, my FaceBook Feed brought me this article that not only says more clearly what I was saying here, it's saying it from an AWARD-WINNING blogger! http://annerallen.blogspot.com/2013/01/the-number-one-mistake-new-writers-make.html?spref=tw]

Image: http://gallo.com/Images/Our%20Wines/BoonesFarmBottle.jpg, http://www.ecole-nobilis.ch/galeries_photos/images/Cheval_Blanc_1947.jpg

STEAMPUNK MONKEY #9

The idea for this starts with a story I tried to write about a thieving monkey who took keys and used them to unlock its cage. That was it. The story was called BRIGHT FLASH THE MONKEY’S PAWS. It was my third or fourth attempt at writing a picture book – and it was really bad. With the advent of the genre of steampunk, I started rethinking the story. Here it is – OK, just realized that I wrote something entirely different for #5 than I thought I did. So…this is going to be where the story SHOULD have gone. If you don’t mind, ignore #6 above!

Clementine shouted, “You come back here!”

A pigeon landed on her foot, but Clementine didn’t sneeze.

Up on a stone wall, the steam monkey laughed at her.

She picked up the bird to throw it at the monkey and she still didn’t sneeze.

Image:  http://us.123rf.com/400wm/400/400/vitorta/vitorta0901/vitorta090100019/4175886-silhouette-girl-with-doves-isolated-on-yellow-background.jpg

IDEAS ON TUESDAYS 93

Each Tuesday, rather than a POSSIBLY IRRITATING ESSAY, I'd like to both challenge you and lend a helping hand. I generate more speculative and teen story ideas than I can ever use. My family rolls its collective eyes when I say, "Hang on a second! I just have to write down this idea..." Here, I'll include the initial inspiration (quote, website, podcast, etc.) and then a thought or two that came to mind. These will simply be seeds -- plant, nurture, fertilize, chemically treat, irradiate, test or stress them as you see fit. I only ask if you let me know if anything comes of them.

F Trope: Magic librarian

Current Event: http://guides.slv.vic.gov.au/magic (Watch the video! Absolutely fascinating!)

Bella Heathcote peeked around the corner and whispered to Rupert Chidiac, “How much farther?”

“It’s supposed be at the end of the aisle,” Rupert whispered. The young man and young woman made their way through the dark library.

 “This is a magic library – how do we know it’s still there?”

“It’s not a magic LIBRARY; it’s a MAGIC library.”

“That’s not what you said!” Rupert hissed.

“The emPHAsis is on the first SYllable.”

“What?”

They reached the end of the aisle without the end shelves moving anywhere. Nothing jumped out at them. In fact, by the time they turned the corner, they were walking rather than sneaking. “I said that the library isn’t the magical part, it’s the books, information, paintings, photographs and artifacts that are magic. It’s extremely valuable.”

“I thought this was supposed to be scary,” said Rupert. “Money isn’t scary.”

“If you don’t have enough it’s scary.”

“How would you know?”

“You think you know about me, I could tell you...”

They’d been walking along the dim aisle, light from green EXIT signs and security spotlights from each end of the library. Rupert whispered, “What was that?”

“What was what?” Bella said. Beside her head, a breathy voice spoke from the bookshelf.

“...that...that...that...”

“Did you say something?” she asked Rupert.

“Uh...uh...uh...” said her friend.

“What’s wrong with you?” snapped Bella, spinning around. “Quit messing around!”

Something on the bookshelf said, “...around...around...around...”

“Who said that?”

“...that...that...that…” said the bookshelves.

Bella stared at the shelves then lifted a hand. The books themselves had been pushed back. In front of her was a  small picture frame. Inside was...

Image: http://www.teddybearworld.org.uk/userimages/library2.jpg

WRITING ADVICE: Bruce Bethke’s TWELVE STEP PROGRAM FOR WRITERS #4

Somewhere around thirty years ago, I met Bruce Bethke for the first time – when I responded to an ad in a newspaper for a science fiction writers group seeking new members. I called, then sent in an “audition story” and was invited to join the group at the ORIGINAL, original Loft Literary Center (before grant money started flowing) in Minneapolis. One of THEM reviews books now, the other published a few books and short stories but no longer writes. Bruce doesn’t write much lately except for non-fiction; he is currently executive editor of STUPEFYING STORIES, an irregular anthology of new speculative fiction, he mostly works for a super computer company as well as presiding over Rampant Loon Press. These nuggets of wisdom can be found here: http://www.sfwa.org/2009/06/a-12-step-program-for-writers/. They are used with the author’s permission.

4. We have made a searching and fearless inventory of every old unsold scrap and fragment of manuscript in the bottoms of our filing cabinets, in hopes of finding something we can sell to somebody, somewhere.

Oooo.

Sitting beside me is a MS I will read then send to my agent – even after she told me she’d be happy to handle my NON-science fiction stuff, but just didn’t know what to do with my science fiction.

A bit of history, though. The reason it was never submitted...well, it WAS submitted. I worked with the editor of CRICKET BOOKS on it for nearly a year. She would send pages of suggestions, I’d rewrite and send the changes back. She’d make fewer changes, etc. All very cool and above-board.

Then something happened that I have never understood. I’ve pondered it for 11 years and I still don’t understand what happened.

Someone else published my book.

It’s true. Once day I was writing, happy as a clam, with a very possible publication contract approaching. A week later, the editor said I’d done good work, but we were done.

My book was an historical/fictionalized recounting of the Great Hinckley Fire of 1895. The event was not only full of excitement, but terrifyingly horrible and it was a local event, so few (if any) other people would have come across it. The same editor I was working with purchased and published a shortened version of the story in CRICKET MAGAZINE (where not only was it the lead story of the July 2001 issue, she also bought a “fact” sidebar, and wrote an editorial noting that one of the first women journalists had covered the GHFire! In my mind, I was practically THERE!)

Then the “other” book came out and not only did it recount the Great Hinckely Fire adventures of Maggie – but my (unpublished novel) recounted the same events and MY character was named MEG…

That was eleven years ago. The “other” book is out of print, the author hasn’t written anything new in years. My STORY, while similar, has a different emphasis and it just needs a bit of brushing and polishing and I think it might be ready. I told my agent I’d be sending it to her at the end of February.

I also sent off a short story that might or might not be dead. See, I “trunk” stories all the time. Most of the time it’s because they’re hideously bad. But sometimes I “trunk” them (I should probably change that. “Trunk” is an antiquated reference to taking a paper manuscript, tying it with twine and tossing it in an old-fashioned, round-topped sort of giant suitcase. I should say “archive”)…sometimes I archive them because even though I LIKE them a lot, no one else seems to.

As has been my experience in the past, for some of those storues, I just have to find the right someone. For example, “Mystery on Space Station Courage” was written specifically for HIGHLIGHTS FOR CHILDREN. They weren’t interested. When I sighed and sent it to the second market, CRICKET bought it and the relationship there has become a long-standing (and lucrative) one!

I had written “Peanut Butter and Jellyfish” specifically for ANALOG and while the editor thought it was nice, he didn’t buy it. I sent it around, then archived it. When I stumbled across a newer market whose audience was exactly the one I was aiming at, I sold it for a little bit of cash to CAST OF WONDERS in England. They made a podcast out of it that was fantastic!

Another was my first and only attempt at writing a literary SF story. That one bounced around forever because the people who read it were hideously "genre bound" and kept asking questions about why it didn't end like they expected it to, until the author of the 12 Step Program for Writers read it, liked it (a lot, apparently as it will be included in a "best of" anthology) and published it in STUPEFYING STORIES.

So – I just sent off a story I love, that I archived several months ago. We’ll see what happens.

While Bruce meant #4 tongue in cheek, I think I know him well enough to see that there’s a grain of real advice in there that has gotten me sales in the past – and just might get me sales in the future as long as I stir in a modicum of honesty when evaluating those old stories…

Image: http://www.thisoldtrunk.com/soldtrunks/T100a.jpg

THE RECONSTRUCTION OF MAI LI HASTINGS 45

I read the play version of Daniel Keyes’ FLOWERS FOR ALGERNON when I was in eighth grade. It has stayed with me for decades, a haunting symbol for both the overwhelming possibilities of the human intellect and the overwhelming impossibilities faced by a profoundly challenged human mind. I’ve started and stopped this novel a half a dozen times in eleven years. I want to bring the original idea into the present millennium. To read RECONSTRUCTION from beginning to here, click on the label to the right and scroll several pages back until you get to the bottom first entry – which happens to be Chapter 2...

CJ reached the stairs first, the paramedic right behind him.

That was a good thing, because CJ almost didn’t make it up the stairs, teetering at the top and leaning back far enough that Darryl had to push him forward with a hand in the small of his back.

Job was waiting for him at the top of the stairs. He grabbed his best friend’s T-shirt and pulled himself up. Job shouted, “Hey! This is my best Green Lantern shirt!”

CJ staggered past him, Darryl close behind with Mom bringing up the rear. Mom dashed past Darryl then as she and CJ ran up the stairs together. Mai Li screamed again when they reached her room.

CJ’s sister was thrashing on her bed, her eyes wide and wild. He and his mom reached her at the same time. Mom sliding her arm under Mai Li’s head. CJ vaulted over her bed, landing on the other side, panting, the world swinging around him wildly. He thought he was gonna barf again, but swallowed hard and didn’t. Mom said, “Mai Li, sweetheart. We’re here. Mom and CJ are here.”

Darryl and Job stood in the doorway, panting.

Mai Li stopped screaming. She stopped struggling. She looked at Mom, then looked at CJ. She smiled at him, reached out and put her hand along the side of his face. She hauled off and slapped him. “Idiot! Why did you leave me? I’ve got so much to tell you! I think I know how to fix the nanomachines so that they won’t start to retro-construct my brain. You’re gonna be the only one who can fix it, kiddo.”

“Me?” CJ exclaimed. He looked up at Mom, who was looking at him, too. “I can’t hardly read without a coach! What makes you think I can do what you did?”

She smiled and reached out for his face again. He flinched when she put her hand back where it had been. “Sorry about that. I’m not really in control anymore.” For a minute, her eyes went vague. Her hand fell back to her side and for a horrible and thrilling moment, CJ saw her old self. Not the arrogant, Lady Genius Smarter Than The Whole World, but the sister he’d grown up with. The one who could barely pick up her Oat Ring cereal. The one who drooled.

The one who needed him and Mom.

An instant later, Mai Li the Lady Genius was looking at him. She said, “The nanos are eating my brain, idiot brother. There’s nothing I can do about it. But the research is sound – it’s just that Dr. Douchebag was in it to make a buck and get the Nobel Prize in Physiology or Medicine.”

“But I’m not a genius!”

Mai Li smiled and pulled her hand back as if to slap him. He jerked away. She grabbed his hand and pulled him closer. “You aren’t the kind of genius I am, idiot little brother, but you’re still a genius. Now that you can read decently, there’s nothing that will stand in your way.” She let go of him and he fell backwards. Job caught him. His best friend always had his back.

She lay quiet for a while, her eyes open, staring at the ceiling. She turned to Mom and held out her hand. Mom took it as Mai Li said, “Mai Li loves her mommy. Even when she’s pulling her hair. The only reason she does that is to get closer to her mommy. She doesn’t mean to hurt. Just to be close. Don’t be mad, mommy. Please don’t be mad.”

Mai Li closed her eyes. Her breathing slowed. Then stopped.

Mai Li was dead.

Image: http://www.visualphotos.com/photo/2x4115409/.jpg

IDEAS ON TUESDAYS 92

Each Tuesday, rather than a POSSIBLY IRRITATING ESSAY, I'd like to both challenge you and lend a helping hand. I generate more speculative and teen story ideas than I can ever use. My family rolls its collective eyes when I say, "Hang on a second! I just have to write down this idea..." Here, I'll include the initial inspiration (quote, website, podcast, etc) and then a thought or two that came to mind. These will simply be seeds -- plant, nurture, fertilize, chemically treat, irradiate, test or stress them as you see fit. I only ask if you let me know if anything comes of them.

H Trope: personally experiencing the death of a _____________

Current Event: http://www.psychologytoday.com/blog/popular-culture-meets-psychology/201209/near-death-experience

“How do you know how other people experience death?” asked Mr. Folgers, the senior psych teacher.

Carl Haven leaned over to his best friend, Clarke Halverson and whispered, “How do you know when a teacher has gone over the edge?”

“Mr. Haven? The Other Mr. Haven? If you have something to share, let the whole class experience your wisdom.” Mr. Folgers snarled, then spun away from the class back to his Powerpoint presentation.

Clarke glared at the teacher’s back then turned his glare on Carl. A moment later he curled over his notebook and started writing furiously.

Carl looked over his best friend at Se’Anna King whose seat was in the next row. Her eyes widened. He lifted an eyebrow and shrugged.

When the bell rang, Clarke was out of his seat like a shot and out of the room. Carl said to Se’Anna, “What’s wrong with...”

Mr. Folgers walked up to him and handed him a yellow slip of paper. Carl exclaimed, “What am I getting a detention for?”

“I believe we have some catching up to do, Mr. Haven Your current grade in the class stands at an NC.”

“What? How can that be? I had a C+ last week!”

“That was before the test you and the Other Mr. Haven cheated on together. You both failed. That and your clone’s repeated missing of due dates and generally sour behavior have placed his otherwise untarnished Grade Point Average in jeopardy.”

Carl snatched the detention slip and muttered darkly under his breath as Mr. Folgers said, “I’ll see you later this week, Mr. Haven. Oh, and send your recalcitrant friend my way as well. I have a slip for him. Right after I call his parents tonight.”

Carl froze, his anger draining away and turned around. “Don’t call his dad, Mr. Folgers! Please? It’ll just make matters worse!”

The psych teacher sniffed, “A phone call in the past has brought amazing results, Mr. Haven. Now hurry to lunch or you won’t be able to have your daily infusion of Mountain Dew to maintain your sunny disposition.”

Carl glared at the teacher’s back then stomped out of the room. The door had a spring-loaded closer, so it was impossible to slam. He stopped in the lav on his way to the foyer where he’d meet his girlfriend Nyota and her passel of gfs and they’d head out to lunch together. He was washing his hands when it felt like someone kicked him in the chest.

He staggered backwards, gasping, stumbled and fell to the floor between the pair of urinals he’d just turned from. From the open lav door, he heard a scream. Then a horrible burning lanced up his leg from his foot to his thigh. He couldn’t help but scream. It felt like someone had blown his leg off!

He looked down expecting to see blood, but there was nothing. Only dirty lavatory floor. An instant later, a younger kid – probably a freshman – ran into the lav, yanking the door closed behind him. Not looking at Carl on the floor, he staggered past and went to the handicapped stall and slammed the door.

On the floor was a red footprint. Carl was staring at it when another wave of searing pain shot up his arm from his hand…

Image: http://www.vitalimaging.com/images/library/pain_hope_research/appendix_phantom_pain.jpg