tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-47707370611764744632024-03-05T09:46:20.404-08:00"...and then, I shall write a book, about my adventures!""Dear me--what adventures?!?"<br>"I have yet to have them, but they shall be simply thrilling!"<br>(The muses of a world-traveling author with a trunk full of stories.)Petre Panhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09116806277306186024noreply@blogger.comBlogger164125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4770737061176474463.post-1730150039836725802023-04-16T08:24:00.003-07:002023-04-16T08:24:26.384-07:00Goodbye<p style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: white;"><span style="font-family: times;">Sometimes there are no "good" memories -<br /></span><span style="font-family: times;">It's the mists over swamps in the forests we've passed -</span></span></p><span style="font-family: times;"><span style="color: white;">Once "life-giving" tropical fruit - bittersweet -<br />Lies scattered half-eaten on that lonely path.<br /><br />'Cuz the enemy of your enemy can't see your friend<br />Beautiful minds were too sick to meet<br />And every "friend" falls to gray fog at the end.<br /><br />So even when we heard footsteps<br />The forms walking beside us were shadows of men<br />Ghosts of the past were ghosts all along<br />We were each one walking alone.<br /></span><br /></span>Petre Panhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09116806277306186024noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4770737061176474463.post-3184200335874721212021-09-23T01:09:00.005-07:002021-09-23T01:10:43.561-07:00A Neodymium Exodus Excerpt...for those of you who've been here.<p><span style="color: white; font-family: times;"> This is just the first chapter, of course--you can get the full book through <a href="https://books2read.com/u/mgE7l0" target="_blank">Wordfire Press</a>!</span></p><p><span style="color: white; font-family: times;">What book, you ask?</span></p><p><span style="color: white; font-family: times;">Well...</span></p><p align="justify" style="line-height: 0.19in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; text-indent: 0.25in;">
<span style="color: white; font-family: times; font-size: small;">Lem’s
a mace-wielding, teen space-ninja in a universe of sentient
insectoids, purple jungles, and insane electromagnetic fields. She
solves most problems by hitting harder, and never plays by her
enemy’s rules—until Jared Diebol captures her.</span></p>
<p align="justify" style="line-height: 0.19in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; text-indent: 0.25in;">
<span style="color: white; font-family: times; font-size: small;">Diebol
is the rising leader of an army uniting the galaxy by force. He
believes that the violent energy being Njande has “contaminated”
Lem and her friends from another dimension to conquer the
matter-based universe. Diebol’s army usually kills contaminated
people—but he vows to cure Lem.</span></p>
<p align="justify" style="line-height: 0.19in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; text-indent: 0.25in;">
<span style="color: white; font-family: times; font-size: small;">When
Diebol kidnaps Lem’s family, he forces her to choose between the
matter beings she loves and the energy person she adores. If Lem
rejects Diebol’s cure, her family dies—but if Lem cuts out
Njande’s energy, she opens our universe to a much darker
thermodynamic attack.</span></p>
<p align="justify" style="line-height: 0.19in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; text-indent: 0.25in;">
<span style="color: white; font-family: times; font-size: small;">A
blend of hard biomedical science fiction with multicultural fantasy,
<i>Neodymium Exodus</i> combines the introspection of classics like<i>
Perelandra</i> with the vibrant boldness of modern best sellers like<i>
This Alien Shore</i> and <i>Space Opera</i>.</span></p><p align="justify" style="line-height: 0.19in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; text-indent: 0.25in;"><span style="color: white; font-family: times; font-size: small;">And you can read the first two chapters below:</span></p><p align="center" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0.17in; margin-left: 0in; margin-top: 0.25in;">
<span style="color: white; font-family: times; font-size: 12pt;"><b>CHAPTER ONE</b></span></p><p align="center" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0.17in; margin-left: 0in; margin-top: 0.25in;"><span style="color: white; font-family: times; font-size: 12pt;"><b>Lem</b></span></p><p align="justify" style="line-height: 0.19in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="color: white; font-family: times; font-size: 12pt;">Everyone
in the ice cream parlor froze when Lem Benzaran grinned.</span></p><p align="justify" style="line-height: 0.19in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; text-indent: 0.25in;">
<span style="color: white; font-family: times; font-size: 12pt;">Everyone
except the meat-man: the literal lizard in a suit, consummate
businessman who dealt in favors and pounds of flesh—he didn’t
notice. His ruby-scaled claw left a streak of something like sweat on
the plastic parlor table as he leaned over and cooed at Lem’s
little sister. Lem stirred the dregs of her milkshake, her eyes never
leaving her glass: in its reflection she watched the string of drool
drip down onto the monster’s business suit. Lem was listening …
listening to his heavy breathing.</span></p><p align="justify" style="line-height: 0.19in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; text-indent: 0.25in;"><span style="color: white; font-family: times;">
“<span style="font-size: 12pt;">She
ain’t for sale, Skins,” Lem said. She said it for everyone in the
ice cream parlor to hear. She wasn’t a big fan of warnings herself,
but the people who ran her life required them.</span></span></p><p align="justify" style="line-height: 0.19in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; text-indent: 0.25in;">
<span style="color: white; font-family: times; font-size: 12pt;">The
businessman’s green hair puffed in offense; his slit eyes gleamed
in the sunlight filtering through the wide storefront windows. “Mind
yourself, <i>witch</i>,” he sneered.</span></p><p align="justify" style="line-height: 0.19in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; text-indent: 0.25in;">
<span style="color: white; font-family: times; font-size: 12pt;">Witch,
huh? Lucky for him he didn’t call her crazy.</span></p><p align="justify" style="line-height: 0.19in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; text-indent: 0.25in;">
<span style="color: white; font-family: times; font-size: 12pt;">A
loud slurp silenced the whole parlor as Lem finished off her shake,
savoring the cool sweet cream on her bitter tongue.</span></p><p align="justify" style="line-height: 0.19in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; text-indent: 0.25in;">
<span style="color: white; font-family: times; font-size: 12pt;">Four
seconds later Lem had chopped down the businessman like an overgrown
holly bush. No one interrupted. No one helped, either. The
space-lemur policeman in the corner stared at the phone in his paws,
ears perked as he pretended not to see; the Wonderfrog server behind
the counter tapped his bulging fingertips on his skull as if truly
worried about dessert.</span></p><p align="justify" style="line-height: 0.19in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; text-indent: 0.25in;">
<span style="color: white; font-family: times; font-size: 12pt;">Lem
tightened her grip on the meat-man’s wrist, spitting through her
teeth as she ground his face harder into the plastic table. “Whatever
I am, everyone in here knows you’re selling little girls to the
grays, and one day I’ll prove it and get Officer Scritch there off
his duff for a change.” Her voice dropped to a husky whisper. “But
the day you talk to my sister again? Officer Scritch won’t be
lookin’ for you. Won’t <i>be</i> a you to find.”</span></p><p align="justify" style="line-height: 0.19in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; text-indent: 0.25in;">
<span style="color: white; font-family: times; font-size: 12pt;">Meat-man
grunted. He got it. A’ight. Lem straightened, wiping her brow on
the sleeve of her rough brown civvies. She yanked the guy to his
feet. He wheezed hard—she whacked him on the back. “Go, get outta
here. See a healer about that asthma.”</span></p><p align="justify" style="line-height: 0.19in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; text-indent: 0.25in;">
<span style="color: white; font-family: times; font-size: 12pt;">The
ruby-scaled businessman stumbled between the cafe tables and out the
wooden door, huffing and crying. Lem smirked after him—man, if only
all problems could get solved like this. If they’d just let her off
her leash, she’d turn the entire town upside down.</span></p><p align="justify" style="line-height: 0.19in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; text-indent: 0.25in;">
<span style="color: white; font-family: times; font-size: 12pt;">Lem’s
wristband lit up with an incoming message; she groaned. See, this,
this was exactly the problem! <i>I didn’t violate any treaties this
time, man, just roughed him up a little.</i> How’d Captain Rana
catch her so fast anyway?</span></p><p align="justify" style="line-height: 0.19in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; text-indent: 0.25in;"><span style="color: white; font-family: times;">
“<span style="font-size: 12pt;">When
rules matter more than people,” Lem grumbled. She waved at her
little sister: “Hey, Juju. We gotta go.”</span></span></p><p align="justify" style="line-height: 0.19in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; text-indent: 0.25in;">
<span style="color: white; font-family: times; font-size: 12pt;">Juju
slid out from the booth, eyes wide in her mahogany face as she licked
the purple lechichi fruit topping her frothy cream-shake. Her hair,
strangely blondish for its tight, kinked texture, stuck out like a
halo as she trotted head down, mouth shut and eyes open while Lem
guided her, hand on this warm, bony little shoulder, out of the cool
shadows of the parlor into the tropical heat of the Luna-Guetala sun.
Good little girl. Pretty little girl—exactly what the meat-markets
wanted alive and the grays wanted dead.</span></p><p align="justify" style="line-height: 0.19in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; text-indent: 0.25in;">
<span style="color: white; font-family: times; font-size: 12pt;">Lem’s
stomach knotted as she glanced at the message on her wristband again,
then scanned the crowded black-earth street for someone on their
phone or transmission screen. Who’d reported her? Man, she was
always in trouble, but this was record time from beating up the perv
to the “in-my-office-now.”</span></p><p align="justify" style="line-height: 0.19in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; text-indent: 0.25in;">
<span style="color: white; font-family: times; font-size: 12pt;">The
civilians stared back. Lem slowed her swagger to pretend she didn’t
care, shoulders back and chest out. Her military issue “civilian
clothes” looked like she’d raided a tablecloth factory, and
people liked to pretend there wasn’t a war on.</span></p><p align="justify" style="line-height: 0.19in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; text-indent: 0.25in;">
<span style="color: white; font-family: times; font-size: 12pt;">That
wasn’t why they were staring, though.</span></p><p align="justify" style="line-height: 0.19in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; text-indent: 0.25in;">
<span style="color: white; font-family: times; font-size: 12pt;"><i>Witch.</i></span></p><p align="justify" style="line-height: 0.19in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; text-indent: 0.25in;">
<span style="color: white; font-family: times; font-size: 12pt;">It
stung, you know. When people you protected feared you for the one
thing that made life sweet.</span></p><p align="justify" style="line-height: 0.19in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; text-indent: 0.25in;">
<span style="color: white; font-family: times; font-size: 12pt;">Lem
counted her tense paces along the blistering street, and took a deep
breath of relief when she and her sister finally slipped into the
shade of the jungle beyond the town. This, the soft velum of the
leaves against her skin, the playful vines tugging at her ankles, the
gentle give of the earth under her soles, this was home. Her toes
longed to sprout claws and clamber up the bark of the nearest trees
to hide from it all.</span></p><p align="justify" style="line-height: 0.19in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; text-indent: 0.25in;">
<span style="color: white; font-family: times; font-size: 12pt;">But
she was human, and she had a human family now. Gone were the days of
freedom in the treetops, hunting peacock-feathered guinea pigs and
wrestling with her space-lemur brother. Lem set her jaw and unchained
her sparrow-shaped air-rider from its roost, checking the camouflage
engine for sabotage, small explosives, tracking devices …</span></p><p align="justify" style="line-height: 0.19in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; text-indent: 0.25in;"><span style="color: white; font-family: times;">
“<span style="font-size: 12pt;">Why’d
he call you a witch?” little Juju asked, shifting from one foot to
another with a little ice cream slurp as Lem knelt to check the
air-rider’s undercarriage.</span></span></p><p align="justify" style="line-height: 0.19in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; text-indent: 0.25in;"><span style="color: white; font-family: times;">
“<span style="font-size: 12pt;">Because
I talk to an invisible guy,” Lem said. “Same reason the grays
want me dead.”</span></span></p><p align="justify" style="line-height: 0.19in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; text-indent: 0.25in;"><span style="color: white; font-family: times;">
“<span style="font-size: 12pt;">Well
I noticed something,” Juju said. Lem’s fingers dug into a groove
under her seat, tapping the gritty metal as she felt …</span></span></p><p align="justify" style="line-height: 0.19in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; text-indent: 0.25in;"><span style="color: white; font-family: times;">
“<span style="font-size: 12pt;">What’d
you notice, sweetie?”</span></span></p><p align="justify" style="line-height: 0.19in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; text-indent: 0.25in;"><span style="color: white; font-family: times;">
“<span style="font-size: 12pt;">Lieutenant
Seria and Dr. Patty—they don’t talk to invisible people. But the
Growen still want them dead, too.”</span></span></p><p align="justify" style="line-height: 0.19in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; text-indent: 0.25in;">
<span style="color: white; font-family: times; font-size: 12pt;">Lem
grinned. “Yeah, the grays kill anyone who don’t like to be told
what to do.” She didn’t bother to tell her sister that sometimes
the other freedom fighters struggled to keep “witch” off their
tongues, too. Juju didn’t need politics yet. Lem hefted her up over
the swooped wings onto the long bike-seat of the air-rider and swung
herself up behind her.</span></p><p align="justify" style="line-height: 0.19in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; text-indent: 0.25in;"><span style="color: white; font-family: times;">
“<span style="font-size: 12pt;">I
wish we could go north to the city next time,” Juju sighed. “I
heard they got pretty birds, and glass airships like gems.”</span></span></p><p align="justify" style="line-height: 0.19in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; text-indent: 0.25in;"><span style="color: white; font-family: times;">
“<span style="font-size: 12pt;">You
know that’s Growen territory. We’d get shot.”</span></span></p><p align="justify" style="line-height: 0.19in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; text-indent: 0.25in;"><span style="color: white; font-family: times;">
“<span style="font-size: 12pt;">Still.
I still <i>wish</i>.”</span></span></p><p align="justify" style="line-height: 0.19in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; text-indent: 0.25in;">
<span style="color: white; font-family: times; font-size: 12pt;">Lem
laughed gently. “Quit tryin’ to get me in trouble with your
wishing.” She revved up the engine—</span></p><p align="justify" style="line-height: 0.19in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; text-indent: 0.25in;">
<span style="color: white; font-family: times; font-size: 12pt;"><i>Whoosh!</i>
Lem’s stomach jumped backwards and Juju squealed as the air-rider
zipped off into the woods. Lem leaned into the wind, <i>oh</i>, she
delighted in the speed, the chill on her cheeks, the warmth of the
little back pressed against her chest, the pure unfiltered joy—!</span></p><p align="justify" style="line-height: 0.19in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; text-indent: 0.25in;"><span style="color: white; font-family: times;">
“<span style="font-size: 12pt;">I
don’t care if they say you’re crazy!” Juju yelled into the
wind. “You’re not!”</span></span></p><p align="justify" style="line-height: 0.19in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; text-indent: 0.25in;"><span style="color: white; font-family: times;">
“<span style="font-size: 12pt;">I
know!” Lem called back, laughing as the air-rider soared towards
the treetops and then dove again—oh, a smile, in the ripples of air
around her! Invisible fingertips brushed her forehead. “Njande,
where are you?” Lem whispered.</span></span></p><p align="justify" style="line-height: 0.19in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; text-indent: 0.25in;">
<span style="color: white; font-family: times; font-size: 12pt;"><i>Me?</i>
Her invisible friend’s laughter tickled in the wind and flapping
jungle leaves, and something like words, but not quite, flooded Lem
from her spine to her fingertips. <i>Me?</i> said the something. <i>I
Am Now. Where are you?</i></span></p><p align="justify" style="line-height: 0.19in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; text-indent: 0.25in;"><span style="color: white; font-family: times;">
“<span style="font-size: 12pt;">I’m
here on the double-planet, in the woods,” Lem whispered back. “You
know that, right? You mean, where in time, or something?” She
didn’t catch his answer. “Man, I can’t hear you. Hey, what if I
could race into your dimension? Go so fast I just bust through this
thin reality, open a barrier in space time …”</span></span></p><p align="justify" style="line-height: 0.19in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; text-indent: 0.25in;">
<span style="color: white; font-family: times; font-size: 12pt;"><i>I
love your thoughts</i>, Njandejara said. <i>Look! I got you a
surprise. Left, as you come around this bangla tree.</i></span></p><p align="justify" style="line-height: 0.19in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; text-indent: 0.25in;">
<span style="color: white; font-family: times; font-size: 12pt;">Lem
hurtled around the trunk and looked—and leaned waaay back to slow
the air-rider down hard. “Whoa!” she mouthed. She tapped her
sister’s shoulder in lit-eyed excitement, pointed left, and then
let that finger dart to her lips to signal silence.</span></p><p align="justify" style="line-height: 0.19in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; text-indent: 0.25in;">
<span style="color: white; font-family: times; font-size: 12pt;">They’d
have missed it if they hadn’t been looking for it. A grove of thin
trees rose like a fence between the sisters and a sunlit clearing,
and in that clearing grazed an enormous, long-necked beast as long as
a small skyship. Live butterflies covered every inch of its hide; if
you knew what you were looking at, you could squint between the
butterflies’ wings and just barely make out green and yellow
flowers growing from the creature’s nose to its long tail. It was a
reptile, a Behemoth—the tree-trunk-limbed giraffe-like jungle
monster, sparkling like living gold with all those dainty wings.</span></p><p align="justify" style="line-height: 0.19in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; text-indent: 0.25in;">
<span style="color: white; font-family: times; font-size: 12pt;">The
girls watched for a few minutes before the thing slunk off into a
darker grove.</span></p><p align="justify" style="line-height: 0.19in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; text-indent: 0.25in;"><span style="color: white; font-family: times;">
“<span style="font-size: 12pt;">Wow,
I never saw one of those before!” Juju clapped as they started off
again.</span></span></p><p align="justify" style="line-height: 0.19in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; text-indent: 0.25in;"><span style="color: white; font-family: times;">
“<span style="font-size: 12pt;">They’re
shy,” Lem smiled, crossing her arms across her chest. “Even when
I lived out here I only saw one or two. Cool, huh?” To Njande, she
mouthed: “<i>Thank you—</i>I wouldn’t have seen that.”</span></span></p><p align="justify" style="line-height: 0.19in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; text-indent: 0.25in;">
<span style="color: white; font-family: times; font-size: 12pt;"><i>I
know! I saw you coming, and checked in the Back Then, and there I set
up an airfield that pushed Tomorrow’s storm south, so it broke
early and drove the Behemoth up here!</i></span></p><p align="justify" style="line-height: 0.19in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; text-indent: 0.25in;"><span style="color: white; font-family: times;">
“<span style="font-size: 12pt;">Wait …
you saying you went back in time just to set up a view for me?”</span></span></p><p align="justify" style="line-height: 0.19in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; text-indent: 0.25in;">
<span style="color: white; font-family: times; font-size: 12pt;"><i>Well,
and a sister moment. She’ll remember this one for a while.</i></span></p><p align="justify" style="line-height: 0.19in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; text-indent: 0.25in;"><span style="color: white; font-family: times;">
“<span style="font-size: 12pt;">No,
that’s not the part I’m fuzzy on—it’s the ‘back then’
stuff.”</span></span></p><p align="justify" style="line-height: 0.19in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; text-indent: 0.25in;">
<span style="color: white; font-family: times; font-size: 12pt;"><i>Don’t
worry about Back Then. I Am Now, remember? Where are you?</i></span></p><p align="justify" style="line-height: 0.19in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; text-indent: 0.25in;"><span style="color: white; font-family: times;">
“<span style="font-size: 12pt;">Now,
too, I guess.”</span></span></p><p align="justify" style="line-height: 0.19in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; text-indent: 0.25in;">
<span style="color: white; font-family: times; font-size: 12pt;"><i>Drink
it in.</i></span></p><p align="justify" style="line-height: 0.19in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; text-indent: 0.25in;">
<span style="color: white; font-family: times; font-size: 12pt;">Yeah.</span></p><p align="justify" style="line-height: 0.19in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; text-indent: 0.25in;">
<span style="color: white; font-family: times; font-size: 12pt;">Yeah,
this Now, racing through the cool purple, red, green canopy with her
sister, no bombs, no screams, no one shooting at her—this was as
good as it got. Screw command, and the other soldiers, and the
explanations and standing at attention that made her so nervous she
got straight up <i>silly</i>—screw them all. This was the Now she
was fighting to defend: her planet, her sister, her invisible best
friend.</span></p><p align="justify" style="line-height: 0.19in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; text-indent: 0.25in;">
<span style="color: white; font-family: times; font-size: 12pt;">Maybe
she could talk Captain Rana down to just two weeks scrubbing the slop
chute after meals.</span></p><p align="center" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0.75in; margin-left: 0in; margin-top: 1.67in;">
<span style="color: white; font-family: times; font-size: 18pt;"><b>Chapter
2</b></span></p><p align="center" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0.17in; margin-left: 0in; margin-top: 0.25in;">
<span style="color: white; font-family: times; font-size: 12pt;"><b>Cadet
Commander Jei Bereens</b></span></p><p align="justify" style="line-height: 0.19in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="color: white; font-family: times; font-size: 12pt;">I
didn’t mean to be a jerk. I just see too much death to take any
chances. When Captain Rana called me to his office, I figured that
long overdue promotion was coming—finally time to toss the cadet
commander bars and start enjoying lieutenant stripes a full year
ahead of the other cadets my age.</span></p><p align="justify" style="line-height: 0.19in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; text-indent: 0.25in;">
<span style="color: white; font-family: times; font-size: 12pt;">I
was training when my wristband lit up. My boots impacted hard earth
as I leapt from the tree, slamming my mace down in front of me. I
tasted blood in my sweat. One, two—another shove of polarized
charge down towards the earth, and I leapt again, flipping towards
the forest canopy. Okay, three, four, spin, smack my mace there,
there, hit targets five and six painted on the side of the tree—just
two more, and I’d fix the tactical weakness that had cost me one of
my rescuees last week.</span></p><p align="justify" style="line-height: 0.19in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; text-indent: 0.25in;">
<span style="color: white; font-family: times; font-size: 12pt;">I
switched hands; two more targets on the way down met two bulls-eyes
from my pistol, and I landed again, this time light as a leaf,
tapping my bitten lip with my finger to check the blood as I squinted
through the salt in my eyes. The jungle here was as humid as the
inside of a Burburan worm’s mouth.</span></p><p align="justify" style="line-height: 0.19in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; text-indent: 0.25in;">
<span style="color: white; font-family: times; font-size: 12pt;">I
knew from experience.</span></p><p align="justify" style="line-height: 0.19in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; text-indent: 0.25in;">
<span style="color: white; font-family: times; font-size: 12pt;">The
birds and day-lizards sung and squawked in the hidden crevasses of
the trunks above; the sunlight seemed to poke holes in the leaves
far, far away up there. The burnt marks and strikes on my makeshift
training ground confirmed that I’d fixed my error, but I needed at
least thirty more reps to solidify that change.</span></p><p align="justify" style="line-height: 0.19in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; text-indent: 0.25in;">
<span style="color: white; font-family: times; font-size: 12pt;">Shouts
of anger put all my hair on end.</span></p><p align="justify" style="line-height: 0.19in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; text-indent: 0.25in;">
<span style="color: white; font-family: times; font-size: 12pt;">I
ran towards the sound of children, sorting their voices out from the
jungle chitters, the tap-crunch of my light step weaving around the
trees, and the distant hum of motors from the nearby fort. I floated
up a trunk at the edge of the clearing by the fort’s white wall,
forcing my heart rate to slow its foolish panic.</span></p><p align="justify" style="line-height: 0.19in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; text-indent: 0.25in;">
<span style="color: white; font-family: times; font-size: 12pt;">No
danger, just stupid kids. Four preteens in our typical Frelsi fighter
uniform circled a smaller boy, who hugged himself, cringing as they
yelled and pointed. One of the larger boys walked around the
periphery with a large rod, whacking the earth over and over as he
snarled at the terrified kid in the middle. He reminded me of
someone. Not in a good way.</span></p><p align="justify" style="line-height: 0.19in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; text-indent: 0.25in;">
<span style="color: white; font-family: times; font-size: 12pt;">I
landed beside them. They scared easily and all drew the small
regulation pistols they’d been assigned—until they recognized me.</span></p><p align="justify" style="line-height: 0.19in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; text-indent: 0.25in;">
<span style="color: white; font-family: times; font-size: 12pt;">Then
they jumped to attention.</span></p><p align="justify" style="line-height: 0.19in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; text-indent: 0.25in;"><span style="color: white; font-family: times;">
“<span style="font-size: 12pt;">What
did he do?” I asked, leaning on my staff without acknowledging
their respect. I nodded towards the kid they’d trapped in the
middle.</span></span></p><p align="justify" style="line-height: 0.19in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; text-indent: 0.25in;"><span style="color: white; font-family: times;">
“<span style="font-size: 12pt;">Uh,
sir,” the big kid with the stick turned a bit red. “It’s
nothing, sir.”</span></span></p><p align="justify" style="line-height: 0.19in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; text-indent: 0.25in;"><span style="color: white; font-family: times;">
“<span style="font-size: 12pt;">Not
nothing!” a squirrely looking human snapped, pointing an accusing
finger into the circle. “He’s why the grays killed my parents.
They must have sensed him because he’s Contaminated, and the whole
group got caught!”</span></span></p><p align="justify" style="line-height: 0.19in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; text-indent: 0.25in;">
<span style="color: white; font-family: times; font-size: 12pt;">Contaminated—someone
who speaks to an invisible interdimensional energy being. Usually one
in particular, since our universe only had contact with a few and
most of them hated matter-creatures like us. It was a common rumor
that some of the Growen commanders could “sense” Contaminated
people.</span></p><p align="justify" style="line-height: 0.19in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; text-indent: 0.25in;">
<span style="color: white; font-family: times; font-size: 12pt;">I
broke a cinna-coke twig off the neighboring tree and put it in my
mouth. “Were you there?” I asked the accuser as I chewed.</span></p><p align="justify" style="line-height: 0.19in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; text-indent: 0.25in;"><span style="color: white; font-family: times;">
“<span style="font-size: 12pt;">No,
but he just admitted he’s Contaminated!”</span></span></p><p align="justify" style="line-height: 0.19in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; text-indent: 0.25in;"><span style="color: white; font-family: times;">
“<span style="font-size: 12pt;">That’s
a gray term. Don’t use it.” I didn’t bother to yell. They’d
seen me throw adults ten meters with just my finger. “Who or what
Shrimpy here talks to makes no difference to your parents now. The
Growen did it. Blame them.”</span></span></p><p align="justify" style="line-height: 0.19in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; text-indent: 0.25in;">
<span style="color: white; font-family: times; font-size: 12pt;">The
sharp flavors of the bark tingled the roof of my mouth as I turned
away from the clenched teeth of the orphan to gaze at the trembling
“Contaminated” kid. I didn’t ask about what had happened to him
“last year,” about the people killed in front of him, about the
lie that when something happens <i>to</i> you it’s <i>because</i>
of you, and I knew he hadn’t answered all the pestering questions
of his grieving, angry classmates. You can’t, not for a long time.
He had a future full of nightmares and sweaty memories ahead of him.</span></p><p align="justify" style="line-height: 0.19in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; text-indent: 0.25in;">
<span style="color: white; font-family: times; font-size: 12pt;">I
knew that from experience, too.</span></p><p align="justify" style="line-height: 0.19in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; text-indent: 0.25in;"><span style="color: white; font-family: times;">
“<span style="font-size: 12pt;">You’re
all wearing Frelsi uniform. You’ll be soldiers when you’re
regulation fighting age.” They had no choice; the Growen would
slaughter kids, too, if we didn’t learn to fight back. “Act like
soldiers, not slobbering rabid dogs. You,” I nodded at the poor
Contaminated kid. “Walk with me.”</span></span></p><p align="justify" style="line-height: 0.19in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; text-indent: 0.25in;">
<span style="color: white; font-family: times; font-size: 12pt;">He
trotted after me in silence. I laid my hand on the seamless pearl
wall of the fort, and it recognized my DNA, and then the kid’s, and
slurped us in.</span></p><p align="justify" style="line-height: 0.19in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; text-indent: 0.25in;">
<span style="color: white; font-family: times; font-size: 12pt;">The
dam on the kid’s snot and tears nearly broke. I listened to his
heavy breathing as he tried to choke everything down. “They’re
jerks,” he said finally.</span></p><p align="justify" style="line-height: 0.19in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; text-indent: 0.25in;"><span style="color: white; font-family: times;">
“<span style="font-size: 12pt;">When
your parents die, you’ll look for someone to blame, too,” I said.</span></span></p><p align="justify" style="line-height: 0.19in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; text-indent: 0.25in;">
<span style="color: white; font-family: times; font-size: 12pt;">He
said nothing then. I looked at my watch again. Five minutes. I had
ten to get to Rana’s office. I didn’t stop to change—the
bioactive compound in my undershirt had wicked away all the sweat and
grossness while I walked. It cost more, but some sentient species
communicated by smell, and I preferred not to make my presence known
on stealth missions.</span></p><p align="justify" style="line-height: 0.19in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; text-indent: 0.25in;"><span style="color: white; font-family: times;">
“<span style="font-size: 12pt;">It
was Stygge Diebol,” the boy whispered.</span></span></p><p align="justify" style="line-height: 0.19in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; text-indent: 0.25in;">
<span style="color: white; font-family: times; font-size: 12pt;">I
stiffened. My skin crawled, and my mouth dried. “I’m listening.”</span></p><p align="justify" style="line-height: 0.19in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; text-indent: 0.25in;"><span style="color: white; font-family: times;">
“<span style="font-size: 12pt;">It
was seconds. He killed everyone like you could blink, and—everyone
was burnt and crushed,” he swallowed, and his gaze grew distant.
“There was blood and somebody’s arm and this crunchy sound and—”</span></span></p><p align="justify" style="line-height: 0.19in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; text-indent: 0.25in;">
<span style="color: white; font-family: times; font-size: 12pt;">I
knelt down and stopped him with my hand on his chest. He was
breathing fast, his heart fluttering against my palm and his pupils
constricted in terror. “Stop,” I said.</span></p><p align="justify" style="line-height: 0.19in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; text-indent: 0.25in;"><span style="color: white; font-family: times;">
“<span style="font-size: 12pt;">I
can’t,” he whispered.</span></span></p><p align="justify" style="line-height: 0.19in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; text-indent: 0.25in;"><span style="color: white; font-family: times;">
“<span style="font-size: 12pt;">Think
of the color green,” I said. “What kinds of things are green?”</span></span></p><p align="justify" style="line-height: 0.19in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; text-indent: 0.25in;"><span style="color: white; font-family: times;">
“<span style="font-size: 12pt;">Leaves,
sometimes,” he said.</span></span></p><p align="justify" style="line-height: 0.19in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; text-indent: 0.25in;"><span style="color: white; font-family: times;">
“<span style="font-size: 12pt;">What
else?”</span></span></p><p align="justify" style="line-height: 0.19in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; text-indent: 0.25in;"><span style="color: white; font-family: times;">
“<span style="font-size: 12pt;">That’s—that’s
all the green, I can’t, I—”</span></span></p><p align="justify" style="line-height: 0.19in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; text-indent: 0.25in;"><span style="color: white; font-family: times;">
“<span style="font-size: 12pt;">Some
birds are green, right?”</span></span></p><p align="justify" style="line-height: 0.19in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; text-indent: 0.25in;"><span style="color: white; font-family: times;">
“<span style="font-size: 12pt;">Yes.
And some singing lizards.” His breathing slowed down. “The big
ones.”</span></span></p><p align="justify" style="line-height: 0.19in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; text-indent: 0.25in;"><span style="color: white; font-family: times;">
“<span style="font-size: 12pt;">Right.
You like singing lizards?”</span></span></p><p align="justify" style="line-height: 0.19in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; text-indent: 0.25in;">
<span style="color: white; font-family: times; font-size: 12pt;">He
nodded. An uncertain smile flickered on the edge of his lip. “Njande
made the lizards for me, I think,” he whispered.</span></p><p align="justify" style="line-height: 0.19in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; text-indent: 0.25in;">
<span style="color: white; font-family: times; font-size: 12pt;">I
tried to smile back. I didn’t talk about interdimensionals. It was
too personal, painful, even, something that brought back<i> once upon
a time</i> with excruciating happiness and confusing pain, because
back in the wooden cage, guarded by Growen soldiers under the command
of Bricandor himself, I too had a secret friend.</span></p><p align="justify" style="line-height: 0.19in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; text-indent: 0.25in;"><span style="color: white; font-family: times;">
“<span style="font-size: 12pt;">Okay,”
I said. I patted the kid’s back awkwardly as I stood. Panic attack
over. Kid needed to leave; I never reported late, and wouldn’t now.
I nudged him toward the secret entrance to the children’s barracks
with my palm. He trotted, then paused:</span></span></p><p align="justify" style="line-height: 0.19in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; text-indent: 0.25in;"><span style="color: white; font-family: times;">
“<span style="font-size: 12pt;">Should
I report them?” he asked.</span></span></p><p align="justify" style="line-height: 0.19in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; text-indent: 0.25in;"><span style="color: white; font-family: times;">
“<span style="font-size: 12pt;">Up
to you. If they bother you again send them to me,” I said, then
slipped myself through the silvery wall of the neighboring command
building.</span></span></p><p align="justify" style="line-height: 0.19in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; text-indent: 0.25in;">
<span style="color: white; font-family: times; font-size: 12pt;">Alright.
Promotion. With a grown man’s rank at only seventeen years old I’d
finally have the leverage to make a difference around here. I checked
the crease in my pants, sharpened the folds of my sleeves over my
biceps, and walked in to give my Wonderfrog captain a crisp salute
and even crisper smile.</span></p><p align="justify" style="line-height: 0.19in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; text-indent: 0.25in;">
<span style="color: white; font-family: times; font-size: 12pt;">Captain
Rana’s return salute was more like he was batting away annoying
flies, and Wonderfrogs never bat away flies. He pointed a ball-tipped
blue-green finger behind me.</span></p><p align="justify" style="line-height: 0.19in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; text-indent: 0.25in;">
<span style="color: white; font-family: times; font-size: 12pt;">I
turned to see another uniformed Frelsi cadet, an Enforcer one rank
below me. My smile evaporated like the mists back home.</span></p><p align="justify" style="line-height: 0.19in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; text-indent: 0.25in;">
<span style="color: white; font-family: times; font-size: 12pt;">It
was troublemaker Lem Benzaran.</span></p><p align="justify" style="line-height: 0.19in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; text-indent: 0.25in;"><span style="color: white; font-family: times;">
“<span style="font-size: 12pt;">I
don’t think I know her, sir,” I lied.</span></span></p><p align="justify" style="line-height: 0.19in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; text-indent: 0.25in;"><span style="color: white; font-family: times;">
“<span style="font-size: 12pt;">Yeah,
look, Captain, whatever it is, I didn’t do it,” she said.</span></span></p><p align="justify" style="line-height: 0.19in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; text-indent: 0.25in;"><span style="color: white; font-family: times;">
“<span style="font-size: 12pt;">Right?”
I said; I could see why she’d think she was in trouble. “Muddy
uniform, half-jacked salute—” Her elbow knocked a glass of water
off the shelf. I caught it in mid-air. “Are we even in the same
military?”</span></span></p><p align="justify" style="line-height: 0.19in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; text-indent: 0.25in;"><span style="color: white; font-family: times;">
“<span style="font-size: 12pt;">I
dunno, I’m in a military, you talkin’ like you’re in a fashion
show.”</span></span></p><p align="justify" style="line-height: 0.19in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; text-indent: 0.25in;"><span style="color: white; font-family: times;">
“<span style="font-size: 12pt;">Be
quiet, be quiet, be quiet,” Rana grumbled. He rose on all fours off
the large cushion by the compuwall, dropped his lion-sized girth
right between us, and snatched the glass out of my hand to splash on
his face. “You! And you. Especially you,” he pointed at each of
us twice. “You need to work together, together, together now.”</span></span></p><p align="justify" style="line-height: 0.19in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; text-indent: 0.25in;">
<span style="color: white; font-family: times; font-size: 12pt;">I
opened my mouth to protes—</span></p><p align="justify" style="line-height: 0.19in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; text-indent: 0.25in;"><span style="color: white; font-family: times;">
“<span style="font-size: 12pt;">With
all due respect,” she jumped in ahead of me, suddenly polite as a
princess. “Sir, you assigned me to my first human trafficking case
this morning, remember, to help return that little boy to his family,
right, and I really got a good thing going, I think I know the perp,
I promise, just gimme a little—”</span></span></p><p align="justify" style="line-height: 0.19in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; text-indent: 0.25in;">
<span style="color: white; font-family: times; font-size: 12pt;">Rana
gurgled. Both Benzaran and I tightened our stances. “Lem-Lem, I’m
aware,” Rana said, referring to her by doubling her first name for
some reason. “Aware, see? We’re small and spread thin, thin and
small. Don’t have the luxury of always doing one thing at a time.
Seria will work the case till you get back. It’s still yours yours
yours.” He paused, his large, wide-mouthed face inches from her
chin. “Have you ever heard of a Stygge?” he asked.</span></p><p align="justify" style="line-height: 0.19in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; text-indent: 0.25in;">
<span style="color: white; font-family: times; font-size: 12pt;"><i>Diebol</i>.
My breath boiled in my throat; I had to force it down.</span></p><p align="justify" style="line-height: 0.19in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; text-indent: 0.25in;"><span style="color: white; font-family: times;">
“<span style="font-size: 12pt;">Stygge—that
the new drink they got down on the town?” Benzaran joked. “Think
I spilled that on my civvies this morning.”</span></span></p><p align="justify" style="line-height: 0.19in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; text-indent: 0.25in;"><span style="color: white; font-family: times;">
“<span style="font-size: 12pt;">I
know them, sir,” I growled, interrupting her shenanigans.</span></span></p><p align="justify" style="line-height: 0.19in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; text-indent: 0.25in;"><span style="color: white; font-family: times;">
“<span style="font-size: 12pt;">A
buzz about them within the Growen,” Rana went on. “A buzz like
flies. They do things … things like you two. Electrics.
Magnetics. Fires. From their fingertips. Fingertips!” He leaned
back on his haunches and flexed his webbed forefingers.</span></span></p><p align="justify" style="line-height: 0.19in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; text-indent: 0.25in;"><span style="color: white; font-family: times;">
“<span style="font-size: 12pt;">Like
Bricandor’s Twelve?” Lem narrowed her eyes. “I thought those
were just rumors Growen soldiers tell to make their commanders sound
badass.”</span></span></p><p align="justify" style="line-height: 0.19in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; text-indent: 0.25in;">
<span style="color: white; font-family: times; font-size: 12pt;">Rumors?
My left hand clenched over the old burn in my palm; I repressed a
bitter grin.</span></p><p align="justify" style="line-height: 0.19in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; text-indent: 0.25in;"><span style="color: white; font-family: times;">
“<span style="font-size: 12pt;">One
Stygge can destroy your whole unit,” Rana went on. “A swipe of
the hand, all gone. One swipe. Except maybe you and Bereens here
because, well. Fancy fingers. Fancy fancy!” Rana extended claws
from his own webbed ball-tips as he talked. “But almost
nonexistent, yes?” He turned back to his cushion, undulating across
the floor on all fours like a sidewinder, and tapped the compuwall.
“Until now.”</span></span></p><p align="justify" style="line-height: 0.19in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; text-indent: 0.25in;">
<span style="color: white; font-family: times; font-size: 12pt;">Pictures
flickered across the wall beside us, images of the large rec center
in the middle of our barracks area. A shadowy figure poised atop it,
orbs levitating around its head.</span></p><p align="justify" style="line-height: 0.19in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; text-indent: 0.25in;"><span style="color: white; font-family: times;">
“<span style="font-size: 12pt;">There
was an attempted bombing last week at the edge of the fort,” Rana
said. “Surveillance caught these images before he ripped out the
cameras with an electromagnetic pull.”</span></span></p><p align="justify" style="line-height: 0.19in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; text-indent: 0.25in;"><span style="color: white; font-family: times;">
“<span style="font-size: 12pt;">Was
that the ‘training accident’ we all know wasn’t training?”
Benzaran scowled. “Where Colonel Win got hurt?”</span></span></p><p align="justify" style="line-height: 0.19in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; text-indent: 0.25in;"><span style="color: white; font-family: times;">
“<span style="font-size: 12pt;">Reported
and stopped by your little brothers, actually,” Rana nodded at her;
her eyebrows lifted. “A story for later. The attacker left a fur
sample on the roof of the recreation center. Computer says Bichank
land-walrus, walrus, Bichank: the boys say Stygge powers, powers,
powers. We have no idea why he went for the rec center, instead of a
more tactical area.”</span></span></p><p align="justify" style="line-height: 0.19in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; text-indent: 0.25in;"><span style="color: white; font-family: times;">
“<span style="font-size: 12pt;">That’s
where the moon refugees are staying!” Lem declared. “The Biouk
space-lemurs who came in last week? My cousins.”</span></span></p><p align="justify" style="line-height: 0.19in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; text-indent: 0.25in;">
<span style="color: white; font-family: times; font-size: 12pt;">I
rolled my eyes and said nothing at this other human calling
space-lemurs family. I only had a glancing acquaintance with her, but
I’d overheard her in the mess hall multiple times talking about how
much she missed space-lemur life. I always wanted to tell her to suck
it up—we all missed something or someone the Growen had taken.</span></p><p align="justify" style="line-height: 0.19in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; text-indent: 0.25in;"><span style="color: white; font-family: times;">
“<span style="font-size: 12pt;">Perhaps
the moon refugees are the target of the bombing. Perhaps not. More
concerning, concerning concerning …” Rana’s long tongue
flickered out across his eyeball. “It sounds like there are more
like him, more reports of electromagnetic people than ever before,
across the Growen ranks and attacks in all our bases in the Contested
Zone. This is the first time we’ve caught one on camera. You track
him—” Rana wiggled his fingers. “You find him—” He did it
again. “You find out how the Growen suddenly have so many Stygges.”</span></span></p><p align="justify" style="line-height: 0.19in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; text-indent: 0.25in;">
<span style="color: white; font-family: times; font-size: 12pt;">Yes.
This made me so hungry. There was no way my old cellmate wasn’t
involved here, and I wanted back at him like I wanted a world that
allowed cinnamon pie for breakfast every day. “When do we leave,
sir?” I asked.</span></p><p align="justify" style="line-height: 0.19in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; text-indent: 0.25in;"><span style="color: white; font-family: times;">
“<span style="font-size: 12pt;">Immediately,
right away, go,” he said, stomping his big, webbed hind-foot with a
<i>plat</i> on the floor suddenly. “You’ll find your mission
leads uploaded to your wristbands. Dismissed. Dismissed! Goodbye.”
Two webbed hands platted on Lem’s back and shoved her out the wall.
I didn’t need a push. My old Stygge friend had a thing or two
coming. My wristband beeped, and I was already reading mission
details as I stalked down the hallway. I was known for this, for
knowing—I stole and devoured Growen tech read-outs with the same
hunger some people my age memorized Burburan soap operas on the
lightchannels.</span></span></p><p align="justify" style="line-height: 0.19in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; text-indent: 0.25in;"><span style="color: white; font-family: times;">
“<span style="font-size: 12pt;">I’ll
see you at the air-rider station in twenty,” I shot to Benzaran
without looking up from my reading. “Bring your mace.”</span></span></p><p align="justify" style="line-height: 0.19in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; text-indent: 0.25in;">
<span style="color: white; font-family: times; font-size: 12pt;">She
stumbled after me with a scowl. “Excuse me, Mr. Orders, but—”</span></p><p align="justify" style="line-height: 0.19in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; text-indent: 0.25in;"><span style="color: white; font-family: times;">
“<span style="font-size: 12pt;">Oh,
and Lem-Lem?” Rana called after us, shoving his face through the
polymerwall.</span></span></p><p align="justify" style="line-height: 0.19in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; text-indent: 0.25in;"><span style="color: white; font-family: times;">
“<span style="font-size: 12pt;">Sir?”
Lem turned back. I paused, too.</span></span></p><p align="justify" style="line-height: 0.19in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; text-indent: 0.25in;">
<span style="color: white; font-family: times; font-size: 12pt;">Rana’s
big eyes blinked with another twinkle of amusement. “Two weeks
scrubbing out the slop chute when you get back.”</span></p><p align="justify" style="line-height: 0.19in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; text-indent: 0.25in;"><span style="color: white; font-family: times;">
“<span style="font-size: 12pt;">Yes
sir.” Benzaran laughed with a sigh of relief, as if punishment was
an inside joke.</span></span></p><p align="justify" style="line-height: 0.19in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; text-indent: 0.25in;">
<span style="color: white; font-family: times; font-size: 12pt;">I
shook my head and left. Whatever she’d done, it wasn’t my
business, and I didn’t care.</span></p><p align="justify" style="line-height: 0.19in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; text-indent: 0.25in;">
<span style="color: white; font-family: times; font-size: 12pt;">But
she had better not screw up this mission. We had a galaxy to save.</span></p><p align="center" style="line-height: 0.19in; margin-bottom: 0.17in; margin-left: 0in; margin-top: 0.17in;">
<span style="color: white; font-family: times; font-size: 12pt;">#</span></p><p align="justify" style="line-height: 0.19in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; text-indent: 0.25in;">
<span style="color: white; font-family: times; font-size: 12pt;">Early
is on time, on time is late, and late is unacceptable.</span></p><p align="justify" style="line-height: 0.19in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; text-indent: 0.25in;">
<span style="color: white; font-family: times; font-size: 12pt;">Lem
Benzaran was late. She came <i>strolling</i> towards the air-rider
station surrounded by kids. I stood back, arms crossed, resisting the
urge to tap my foot on the stone floor. The big parking station
hummed with technicians chattering, engine parts clattering, and
air-riders taking off through the huge garage door that opened
towards the jungle. Kids’ voices weren’t uncommon here, but these
were little kids, not even old enough to break a man’s finger.
Thirteen is regulation fighting age when you live in a world where
adults will kill you for sneezing at them wrong … maybe <i>one</i>
of these kids was thirteen.</span></p><p align="justify" style="line-height: 0.19in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; text-indent: 0.25in;"><span style="color: white; font-family: times;">
“<span style="font-size: 12pt;">Bye
JE, bye Jake—Juju, Joseph, J’maih, Jaynes, and,” Lem stopped to
kiss the head of a little baby carried in the arms of the maybe
thirteen-year-old boy. “Bye Jackie. Love you.”</span></span></p><p align="justify" style="line-height: 0.19in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; text-indent: 0.25in;">
<span style="color: white; font-family: times; font-size: 12pt;">She
swung herself up on the air-rider beside mine. “You coming?” she
asked—as if she’d been waiting on <i>me</i>—and took off, out
of the garage and into the jungle.</span></p><p align="justify" style="line-height: 0.19in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; text-indent: 0.25in;"><span style="color: white; font-family: times;">
“<span style="font-size: 12pt;">Whoa,
hey!” I zipped after her as we plunged into the hot air outside.
“Let up just a second!”</span></span></p><p align="justify" style="line-height: 0.19in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; text-indent: 0.25in;">
</p><p align="justify" style="line-height: 0.19in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; text-indent: 0.25in;">
<span style="color: white; font-family: times; font-size: 12pt;">I
didn’t know then that she wasn’t one to “let up.”</span></p><p align="justify" style="line-height: 0.19in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; text-indent: 0.25in;"><span style="color: white; font-family: times; font-size: 12pt;"><i>Get the <a href="https://books2read.com/u/mgE7l0" target="_blank">full book now</a> to keep reading!</i></span></p><p align="justify" style="line-height: 0.19in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; text-indent: 0.25in;"><span face="Times New Roman, sans-serif"><span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></p>Petre Panhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09116806277306186024noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4770737061176474463.post-26503782456827508152021-08-28T10:35:00.005-07:002021-08-28T10:36:12.511-07:00YouTube's support for Black creators is FAKE.<p><span style="font-family: times;"> By now many of you have seen the banner ads that scream, "we're celebrating Black voices!"</span></p><p><span style="font-family: times;">I encourage you to click on those ads.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: times;">Not because then you'll have the opportunity to support struggling Black creators. You should do that.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: times;">But because you'll have the opportunity to see YouTube trying to take credit for Black work.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: times;">Every single creator in that highlight is HUGE. These are creators who have created their own kingdoms DESPITE a racist-designed algorithm that only shows people things that are similar to what they have seen in the past. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: times;">You have to understand that the algorithm, while not racist itself because it is a machine, creates racist results with this "only show you stuff I think is similar to what you've seen before." See, because of financial access to filming, because of technology access, because of historical inequality, what people have seen in the past, the strongest accounts on YouTube, are white creators for the most part (with the exceptions of Asians like Ryan Higa, the once-king of the platform before the Pewdiepie era). </span></p><p><span style="font-family: times;">The algorithm is changing. But the fact is that most of those creators on that YouTube voices showcase succeeded despite, not because of, YouTube's "help."</span></p><p><span style="font-family: times;">So it's kind of gross for YouTube to use their faces as a "hey, look, we're not racist!" </span></p><p><span style="font-family: times;">I hate YouTube's CEO, too, by the way. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: times;">Yo, YouTube, if you really want to support and showcase Black creators, find SMALL creators who haven't had their big break. African Xhosa ASMR does an amazing job showcasing her culture, by the way...would you ever showcase an ASMRtist, or are you too afraid to admit how much money we bring in?</span></p><p><span style="font-family: times;">There are other smaller Black creators who don't necessarily agree with your ideology but deserve the spotlight, too. I'm well aware of what you did to Machosauceproductions, that while you allow white conservatives to get a break, for most part, you demonetized him, a Black conservative, because Black people aren't "allowed" to have various diverse opinions. Look, he's no friend of mine--he kind of ghosted my team and wasn't very polite to my Black female producer. But he made content he believed in, had a lot of fans, and you silenced him. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: times;">YouTube, do a search for smaller creators. You have the option. Showcase them, and give them their big break. If you have the balls, instead of hiding behind numbers Black creators drummed up on their own. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: times;">Egh fake allies drive me nuts.</span></p>Petre Panhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09116806277306186024noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4770737061176474463.post-43163257709558249162021-01-04T11:23:00.006-08:002021-01-04T11:24:37.010-08:00You can have the SUPERHERO MEGA ANTHOLOGY for free.<p><span style="font-family: times;"> It's been eons since the days when I used to blog here faithfully, trying to tell you stories. Now, this is a place for ghosts, and for my memories of ghosts. But ghosts also need love, and so, dear ghosts, here is an entire book, over 600 pages, with Marvel artists, an SFWA director, and over 13,200 creator hours inside it. If you enjoy superheroes, <a href="http://becominghero.ninja/the-superhero-mega-anthology/" target="_blank">this is my gift to you.</a> <<< Click on it there.</span></p>Petre Panhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09116806277306186024noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4770737061176474463.post-72000232355049599532020-05-12T18:13:00.000-07:002020-05-12T18:13:29.726-07:00A Text<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">It's been years, and I still dream about you--your queenly roman nose, straight and pale below the soft fluff of your bangs, and your chin, as it leans on your hand, and then off it, as you lean forward with the weird, theatening intensity we both have when curious, or passionate.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">I want to place my lips on your forehead, and whisper into your brain that you will be safe. I remember so vividly the evening I listened to you, gently touching your tired scalp with my fingers twirling in your long, light hair--hair very different from my heavy Asian thickness, hair that like you seemed like a wisp in the wind. You used to walk on tip-toe like a fairy, like my little sister did. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">I love you <i>more </i>with the passing distance, through space and time. I was never ever so happy as with you, not in the entirety of my life. Not with my husband, and certainly not with yours, not without you. You don't remember calling for you not to leave us alone? I despise your husband more with each passing month. It's sad, because I do remember, factually, loving him very much, and I factually recall a beautiful hike, and medical lessons, and playing with him, and you, and the children, but my actual feelings, beyond the facts, have melted and rotted past sweetness into this fetid disgust, rank with flesh maggots. I don't know if it was meat that rotted, or eggs, under the syrupy crystallized rotten fruit, and it used to bother me that I don't know--that I can't tell if I ever had pure joy around him, or if there was always this slight disgust, because I remember the moment you said you thought he was good-looking, and I wanted to laugh in your face, and I remember the moment when I met him that my first instinct was to be afraid of him. Which seems ridiculous, factually, because I know he was a friend, and I know I am responsible for Paradise Lost, but I also know those moments were true, and that what happened afterwards was true, and that right now, it is true that I despise him.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">I despise him, and I despise the churches of men that warped the way you see humans and sexuality so you'll trust the wrong people and okay the worst human abuses, because if it were not for them, you and I would be together, still. I would still take your cooking to work with me; I would still do your dishes; I would still hold your children, and brush their wispy fairy hair, and tell them stories.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">The last dream I had, you and I met in a coffee shop, and sat and talked while the children played. There was no one else. And you met my eyes, and you smiled.</span></div>
Petre Panhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09116806277306186024noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4770737061176474463.post-24959412565549033392020-05-11T23:16:00.002-07:002020-05-11T23:16:24.388-07:00Maw<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">He used to look at me</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Eyes glowing with the light reflected off my brown skin in the moonlit scented spring</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Rough fingers tracing thrilled goosebumps.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Now he cannot see me</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Blinded--</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">--thought I from the pale sickly glimmer of my fat ill flesh, reflective in glutinous adiposity, but I healed myself, toned every muscle like cord, effort sizzling me like simmering sirloin, savory scent drowning other men's mouths with sweet saliva, sweated skin, and still he saw nothing, so--</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Perhaps it was not light reflected off me, but light passing through me.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Am I dead, a hungry ghost, </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Translucent personality faded into memories</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">That I eat to fill in the space, pack on pounding pavement-chunks of person--</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Person that is person, no matter how small,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">"We are here, we are here, we are here"</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">I scream as I shove cake into my jaw</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Hoping with rocks in my stomach perhaps it will weigh me down</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Color in my lines</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">So he can see?</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Or is <i>he</i> the ghost</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">The spectre of love dead</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Translucent, pale like a cave fish</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Jaw unhinged, drifting aimless</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Jumping, dopamine flush, at the slightest tremor in the dark water</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Fingers on the video game controller</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">The metaphor, like the man, is dead.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">And til death do us part</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">So I die</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">And if I die</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Before I wake</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">At least twelve hours it would take</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Before he noticed.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">I die</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">I must have died</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">For this is just a shadow</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Of what I once called life.</span><br />
<br /></div>
Petre Panhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09116806277306186024noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4770737061176474463.post-37930629546350845252018-12-01T09:09:00.003-08:002018-12-01T09:10:22.437-08:00Her neck (#poetry)<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span style="color: white; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /><br />You<br /><br />With the neck that's a curve of soft golden marble<br /><br />That I kissed in innocence<br />Then paid in blood<br /><br /><br />You nearly killed me.<br /><br /><br />You, do you watch me<br /><br />Like I watch you?<br /><br />Lady with the curls<br /><br />Nose Greek in its hard perfection<br /><br />Lady who steals from shopping markets<br /><br />Because you think they deserve it<br /><br />Genius who reprograms lab equipment<br /><br />To break it<br /><br />To punish the next shift<br /><br />Lady, like luck, you are cruel.<br /><br />And I love you.<br /><br /><br />Great Expectations<br /><br />Was it a game?<br /><br />You must have loved me, you must!<br /><br />Every picture<br /><br />Of my future<br /><br />Centered on you,<br /><br />And yours.<br /><br />I loved yours, I love them, my heart aches, I cannot stop, my children, my children, my children!<br /><br /><br />Rachel weeps<br /><br />My children are no more my children<br /><br />They were always yours.<br /><br /><br />"Miss, you're just like Mommy but nice."<br /><br />I wasn't trying to steal them.<br /><br />I was only showing kindness<br /><br />You were too angry<br /><br />I wasn't trying to correct you!<br /><br />Only help!<br /><br />It wasn't my fault they loved me!<br /><br />I was just nice<br /><br />I was just myself.<br /><br /><br />That's the worst of it<br /><br />I think you know that<br /><br />I think you know that you threw ME out<br /><br />Because YOU had been outcast<br /><br /><br />By you.<br /><br /><br />I hate adults.<br /><br />When I breathe, they die.<br /><br />One by one.<br /><br />But now I can't breathe<br /><br />Without my chest aching<br /><br />My ribs, so tight<br /><br />Encage a heart<br /><br />Around you.<br /><br /><br />You know they don't love you, right?<br /><br />I would have died for you.<br /><br />You, in my dreams<br /><br />You<br /><br />With the neck that's a curve of soft marble gold<br /><br />That I kissed in innocence<br /><br />And paid<br /><br />In blood</span></div>
Petre Panhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09116806277306186024noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4770737061176474463.post-34704977314378325612018-12-01T09:00:00.000-08:002018-12-01T09:10:37.537-08:00Sponteneity (#poetry)<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<div lang="en-US" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: white; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: small;">You
love me.</span></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: white; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: small;">You
made this for me.</span></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: white; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: small;">I
did not make this for you.</span></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: white; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: small;">This
life is your gift to me.</span></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: white; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: small;">Nothing
that I give you is ever a gift</span></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: white; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: small;">It
is only the natural flow of the rivers of life that you give me</span></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: white; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: small;">It
is the overflow</span></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: white; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: small;">the
droplets</span></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: white; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: small;">The
excess of what you gave me</span></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: white; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: small;">You're
ultimately giving it all to yourself</span></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: white; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: small;">But
that's not my place to judge</span></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: white; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: small;">Not
my problem to worry about</span></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: white; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: small;">This
is yours</span></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: white; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: small;">This
is from you</span></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: white; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: small;">Because
you love me.</span></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: white; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: small;">You
are my best friend.</span></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: white; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: small;">You
sat next to me in the Garden of Gethsemane</span></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: white; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: small;">You
hung over me at the cross</span></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: white; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: small;">You
saw me in every torment you went through, not as the evil tormenter
you could have seen, but as the beloved you wanted to save.</span></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: white; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: small;">You
dearly dearly dearly love me</span></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: white; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: small;">You're
obsessed with me</span></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: white; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: small;">You
didn't just die for me.</span></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: white; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: small;">You
threw away</span></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: white; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: small;">You.</span></div>
<br /></div>
Petre Panhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09116806277306186024noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4770737061176474463.post-21125156291776268692018-11-25T10:17:00.000-08:002018-11-25T10:17:08.056-08:00Better to Live In a Roofless Home (#poetry)<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<div class="p1">
<span style="color: white; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: small;">I’m a Reliant K song, waiting for you to walk out and drive away, just like he did.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="color: white; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: small;">You can say you love me, but can’t touch me</span></div>
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<span style="color: white; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: small;">He could say he loved me, but wouldn’t stop.</span></div>
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<span style="color: white; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: small;">Love is action, you dolts, love is action!</span></div>
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<span style="color: white; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: small;">Shut your fucking mouth</span></div>
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<span style="color: white; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: small;">And put love</span></div>
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<span style="color: white; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: small;">Into mine.</span></div>
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<span style="color: white; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="color: white; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: small;">Her fingertips</span></div>
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<span style="color: white; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: small;">I lost her fingertips for you.</span></div>
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<span style="color: white; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: small;">I won’t leave you after paying so many</span></div>
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<span style="color: white; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: small;">Fingertips.</span></div>
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<span style="color: white; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="color: white; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: small;">But you will.</span></div>
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<span style="color: white; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="color: white; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: small;">One day you’ll weary of my drip, drip, drip</span></div>
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<span style="color: white; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: small;">The Proverb about the nagging wife</span></div>
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<span style="color: white; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: small;"><i>Drip </i>the glowing eyes, my giggle about nothing at all</span></div>
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<span style="color: white; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: small;"><i>Drip </i>the naked belly pressed against yours begging for sex</span></div>
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<span style="color: white; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: small;"><i>Drip </i>the head leaned on your shoulder, bright eyes begging for Bible time</span></div>
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<span style="color: white; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: small;"><i>Drip </i>the flung out form butt-up on the bed, feet and toes kicking, face flat while mind creates creates CREATES a world <i>begging </i>for your presence, for children I don't make alone!</span></div>
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<span style="color: white; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: small;">Beggars can’t be choosers</span></div>
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<span style="color: white; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: small;">But you keep making me choose all our dates</span></div>
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<span style="color: white; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: small;">And nothing happens if I don’t lead</span></div>
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<span style="color: white; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: small;">But I didn’t want to lead!</span></div>
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<span style="color: white; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: small;">I want to dance the follow with your bony hips leading mine</span></div>
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<span style="color: white; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: small;">I want your love in my mouth.</span></div>
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<span style="color: white; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="color: white; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: small;">Beggars can’t be choosers, I’m telling you!</span></div>
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<span style="color: white; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: small;">If you’re going to make me beg</span></div>
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<span style="color: white; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: small;">You’re going to make yourself hate me</span></div>
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<span style="color: white; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: small;">Feed a mouse a laxative</span></div>
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<span style="color: white; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: small;">And it will lose its cookies.</span></div>
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<span style="color: white; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="color: white; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: small;">Goodbye, future cookie.</span></div>
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<span style="color: white; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: small;">I hope I’m a false prophet</span></div>
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<span style="color: white; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: small;">But until now<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="color: white; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: small;">I’ve never been wrong</span></div>
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<span style="color: white; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: small;">Except about you</span></div>
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<span style="color: white; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="color: white; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: small;">And your love in my mouth.</span></div>
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<i><span style="color: white; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: small;"><br /></span></i></div>
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<span style="color: white; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: small;">Did you want the jungle adventure, with its bugs and heat and slime, or did you just like the idea of her?</span></div>
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Petre Panhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09116806277306186024noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4770737061176474463.post-66818864342243694662018-11-24T08:03:00.000-08:002018-11-24T08:35:19.663-08:00When gender equality leads to racism? #comics #blackcomicschat<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span style="color: white; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Hey there. Check out these two pictures one of my new artists just made of Natasha, my thunder-powered superhero:</span><br />
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<span style="color: white; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfuUy4d-ze345zN6GfsZO5yaoGN4snrVP2AJWoC8-Vuj96Fyt3B25L3BL93QQXxMCmzYul_2iuxCPBYO0qdMqEIbOEV_09DlTB_nwTRGmUQ91XUvSbLE9ESeQTZ_Kho_hYAi8_E4_u5S_O/s1600/ssagala-natasha-1st.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1132" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfuUy4d-ze345zN6GfsZO5yaoGN4snrVP2AJWoC8-Vuj96Fyt3B25L3BL93QQXxMCmzYul_2iuxCPBYO0qdMqEIbOEV_09DlTB_nwTRGmUQ91XUvSbLE9ESeQTZ_Kho_hYAi8_E4_u5S_O/s320/ssagala-natasha-1st.jpg" width="226" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimwsHFEwy3QXvx_hry6vqxh3aPgSvPJ-30YKxadNjRmqoAhK12ICnFQAbg-ZB46kLaR67a87wqLXvyoLuk-UwkSmQF3-vNwj3fffFeHmynyGLRqT8TCJxmD1W6A4XZc12Kh4DnbGjfdJ0Q/s1600/ssgala-natasha-redo.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: right;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1131" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimwsHFEwy3QXvx_hry6vqxh3aPgSvPJ-30YKxadNjRmqoAhK12ICnFQAbg-ZB46kLaR67a87wqLXvyoLuk-UwkSmQF3-vNwj3fffFeHmynyGLRqT8TCJxmD1W6A4XZc12Kh4DnbGjfdJ0Q/s320/ssgala-natasha-redo.jpg" width="226" /></a></span></div>
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<span style="color: white; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">I love what a good artist he is, but because the first thing I noticed about Natasha 1 was boobs, I asked him to shrink the boobs a little. I wanted to emphasize, I said, that she was a teenager (and besides, she's athletic, I said). I was worried that my male artist was sexualizing my female character. This is supposed to be a space where female readers can see themselves without being "other"'d.</span></div>
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<span style="color: white; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">But when I saw Natasha 2, I noticed not only the boobs had changed, but the little ripples of fat on her belly, the thickness of her thighs, the angle of her shoulders...</span></div>
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<span style="color: white; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Which is more sexualized, Natasha 2, or Natasha 1? Did I really "save" Natasha from sexualization, or did I just make her lose a bunch of weight? Which character looks "Blacker", if that is even a thing? Does one of them fit more closely to white superhero paradigms? </span></div>
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<span style="color: white; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">My artist for Natasha is a Black guy who told me Natasha One was "the first thing that popped into my head" as he was reading. I remember sitting in the airport when a Black mother dropped off her teenage girl requesting that the child have a chaperone for the flight, for her safety. "She's not a child," the white airport lady said. "I mean, look at her." The lady said this because said teenage girl had size double D breasts. I think she may have actually mentioned the breasts out loud, which is maybe inappropriate. When she saw the child's ID card stating her age she begrudgingly acquiesced, but it's a fact that Black children are often "un-child-ed" due to their height, strong build, or development of secondary sexual characteristics. A twelve year old boy was shot because he looked old enough to be "thuggish" with his toy gun, after all.</span></div>
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<span style="color: white; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">So our unconscious stereotypes defining children and teenagers actually have real-life implications for real-life people. </span></div>
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<span style="color: white; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">In my zeal for gender equality, was I racist?</span></div>
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<span style="color: white; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Some of you will jump down my throat for caring about something so small and unintentional. Okay, let's go there. <i>I </i>know that I'm not "<i>intending"</i> anything here but <i>that doesn't matter.</i> Results matter. I'll go so far as to make the controversial statement that the cops who shot the 12-year-old weren't "intending" racism either--they had a stereotype in their heads of what makes a child, and what makes a Black man, and they acted on it in the heat of the moment. I suspect they <i>weren't</i> evilly plotting to rid the world of Black people. I suspect that unconscious unintentional "innocent" racism KILLS! </span></div>
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<span style="color: white; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">See, for a believer, "I'm not racist, I have Black friends" or "you can't be racist without intent" misses the point: it's not about me, and how I feel, but how my actions affect those I care about, unintended or not. If I'm all about the love of Christ, then I should care about how someone else feels, right? I don't need to justify myself because I've already been forgiven for my sins and justified by Christ--it doesn't matter whether or not I'm "guilty" of racism by some magical societal standard, but whether or not my actions harm my Black brothers and sisters. To put it another way, I don't need to defend myself: what I need is to fix my behavior because I love my people and don't want my actions to make them sad. So if my unconscious attitudes cause pain to my precious sisters, why not change them? Why fight that?</span></div>
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<span style="color: white; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Controversial statement! <i>The works-based theology that plagues our society is the primary reason white people keep arguing about racism instead of stopping to listen. </i>If it's all about me working myself to heaven or Nirvana or whatever, and racism is bad, then by golly I need to defend myself because I'm trying, I'm working, "I'm not racist in my heart!" Don't judge me, please! But if we can't become "good people" on our own; if we need someone else to save us; then once someone saves us, we don't need excuses. We don't need to defend ourselves from "white guilt" because all guilt is gone--what is left is only to change our lives to love those that Christ loves. If those that Christ loves are complaining that our perceptions are hurting them, then we'll stop to listen! Society needs that. We need <i>results </i>not<i> guilt</i>--it's not about my white or mixed or Asian journey out of racism, but about what is happening to my Black family!<i> </i>Love drives action, while guilt drives inaction. Guilt is very me-focused, and despite all the SJW twitter rage it's not fixing anything.<i> </i><i>The grace of the Messiah Yeshua is the only thing that can permanently eliminate institutional racism.</i></span></div>
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<span style="color: white; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">In this case, I'm going to go with skinny Natasha (because she's also underrepresented in the media, because skinny girls are no less "Black," and because most importantly I'm not going to be an asshole to my artist who redrew this entire picture when I only asked for a breast reduction)--but I need to pay attention to my unconscious choices.</span></div>
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<span style="color: white; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">What do you think? Was I right or wrong? Judge me. Talk about your experiences. I'll listen.</span></div>
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Petre Panhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09116806277306186024noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4770737061176474463.post-38962272256000611372018-10-07T14:54:00.000-07:002018-10-07T15:38:17.494-07:00English Literature Poetry Study Group! Become Great By Studying the Greats.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Hey y'all! (this is how the people around me talk now) You wanna join me in my little poetry writing group? Or maybe you're just someone who enjoys listening to the soft sound of daily poetry--and you wanna know the classics.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">That's me, anyway. I just downloaded this awesome app on android, called "English Poems," where they tried to collect all the most famous poets of English language literature. From the 1700s to modern Harlem. We'll be super educated on poetry by the time we finish! We'll analyze EVERYTHING. And, the best comment each time will get a free book.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Without further ado:</span><br />
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Petre Panhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09116806277306186024noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4770737061176474463.post-76664900645441791042018-05-19T18:54:00.002-07:002018-05-19T19:04:12.189-07:00Merc with a mouth...has absolutely nothing to say.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBfUSseZImPzNG1VSnNyOLAuNIwdOkDuYGH5NNiKI8yJHnUH37cUmgFjtYqG9y7seE_Ebb_qsDut_4tUGvI48_csiZ3cu3CWTigtymXbcppGeHR71b-IyV69rnfJSlktzoyeMRD0rEDBbN/s1600/503704._SX1280_QL80_TTD_.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1041" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBfUSseZImPzNG1VSnNyOLAuNIwdOkDuYGH5NNiKI8yJHnUH37cUmgFjtYqG9y7seE_Ebb_qsDut_4tUGvI48_csiZ3cu3CWTigtymXbcppGeHR71b-IyV69rnfJSlktzoyeMRD0rEDBbN/s320/503704._SX1280_QL80_TTD_.jpg" width="208" /></a></div>
<span style="color: white; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /><br />Deadpool (One), while crude, had an effective point that hit my heart just when I needed a comforting tale about disreputable suffering endurance.<br /><br /><br /> "Deadpool 2", if it had a point, shoved that point so far up an asshole of unnecessarily grotesque, unreasonably sacrilegious, and unsexily obscene meaningless overwritten drawn out driveling crap that I couldn't have found that point if the point were magnetic and I had Iron-man's weird unnecessary glowy chest emblem installed in reverse to guide the point TO my heart.<br /><br /><br /> Deadpool wants to die throughout the whole movie, and if I were this movie's doctor, I would HONOR that DNR: do not resuscitate and do not recommend.<br /><br /><br /> <br /><br />Am I sick from the popcorn I stole after scaring away the guy sitting next to me, the fibromyalgia I earned by slowly drowning myself in poisonous cortisol over the years, or because I sat so close to the screen I now smell sewage seeping through my skin?<br /><br /><br /> It took "Maximum Effort" to keep watching what can only mean the writers got high off the contents of my fish tank, watched a load of Japanese porn, and then got hit in the head too hard by that humor technique where someone says something that sounds meaningful and then a drawn out pause contradicts it. Guardians of the Galaxy II did that pause well--even the sharpest katana used too long becomes crutch. <br /><br /><br /> Cut off about 40 minutes of almost-child porn, "this character only exists to be a lesbian," "Deadpool insults God for the umpteenth time", and looooooong repeated boring pauses, and MAYBE we had something. Maybe half a thing. Do you even have a thing in those stuffed pants, Deadpool? Like any work of love you make, you know something's wrong when you find yourself hoping it ends soon. <br /><br /><br /> It wasn't good for me, Wade Wilson. <br /><br /><br /> And box office numbers aside, I have a feeling it wasn't actually GOOD for you either.</span></div>
Petre Panhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09116806277306186024noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4770737061176474463.post-31892665512844634522017-04-02T22:54:00.000-07:002017-04-02T22:54:34.225-07:00Falling in Love in Science Fiction: What's Scifi About, Writers?<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span style="color: white; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Do we see more people of color in romance, or in scifi? How about romantic sci-fi? Does it matter?<br /><br />Let's hear your opinions in the comments below. It's something we need to talk about.<br /><br />See, within the last few years <a href="https://twitter.com/search?q=%23representationmatters&src=typd">#representationmatters</a>,<a href="https://twitter.com/search?q=%23weneeddiversebooks&src=typd">#weneeddiversebooks</a>, and other hashtags have surged in popularity on social media platforms like Twitter and Instagram as the world becomes more conscious of the need for racially egalitarian representation in media.<br /><br />Showcasing people of color in fully-fleshed roles, rather than type-casting for minor roles by race, creates a social and cultural environment that’s conducive to inspiring dreams, better behavior, and kindness in everyone.<br /><br /><i>Or does it? Let's talk about color in romance and scifi over at the7thmatrix.com:</i><br /><br />https://www.the7thmatrix.com/blog/2017/3/19/falling-in-love-in-science-fiction</span></div>
Petre Panhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09116806277306186024noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4770737061176474463.post-83368114183787301472017-03-28T08:05:00.000-07:002017-06-01T13:00:34.727-07:00IT'S HERE! @Crossoverally's superhero anthology with my name in it.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span style="color: white; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /><br />Heyoooo! You know how I've got this whole Becoming Hero superhero franchise thing going on? One of Becoming Hero's superheroes made it into Crossover Alliance's superhero anthology, and that anthology is out TODAY. The anthology spans the gamut from scifi to more fantasy-type heroes, so you'll dig. I'm personally psyched because I've wanted to work with this company for a long time--they're an up-and-coming edgy small press <a href="https://www.thecrossoveralliance.com/tca-anthology-v3">you should definitely check out while you're picking up your copy of the book.</a><br /><br /><br /> So yeah! My <a href="http://petrepan.blogspot.com/2017/03/inspirational-but-edgy-superheroes-im.html">Giveaway</a> for this release ends soon, but there's a new <a href="http://www.rafflecopter.com/rafl/display/2808b08c10">Giveaway</a> you can enter to get free copies! Wooooo superheroes!<br /><br /><br /> UPDATE: You can read an interview with all the authors (me included) here, about why we wrote each of these stories: <a href="http://christianfictionreviewguru.blogspot.com.au/2017/03/interview-with-authors-of-crossover.html">http://christianfictionreviewguru.blogspot.com.au/2017/03/interview-with-authors-of-crossover.html</a> You can also read a review about all of us here: <a href="http://www.tangentonline.com/print--other-reviewsmenu-263/anthologies-reviewsmenu-107/3445-superoes-the-crossover-alliance-anthology-ed-by-david-n-alderman">www.tangentonline.com/print--other-reviewsmenu-263/anthologies-reviewsmenu-107/3445-superoes-the-crossover-alliance-anthology-ed-by-david-n-alderman</a></span></div>
Petre Panhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09116806277306186024noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4770737061176474463.post-12580081442806620022017-03-22T15:41:00.002-07:002017-03-22T15:42:17.673-07:00We are like a child,<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="color: white; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">who, upon entering a feast spread with 200 gourmet courses, attended by all the most interesting people in the world along with all his friends, with the greatest musicians of every genre invited to play, and the greatest artists of every art style on display, turns to his Father with a scowl and asks, “is that all?”</span></div>
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<span style="color: white; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">#church #GardenofEden #KingdomofHeaven #vss</span></div>
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Petre Panhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09116806277306186024noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4770737061176474463.post-79322528007068507482017-03-18T14:02:00.001-07:002017-03-18T14:02:05.180-07:00How do we think about #mentalillness in #sciencefiction? Review of "Caresaway" by @DJ_Cockburn<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span style="color: white; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">I appreciate a solid first paragraph, because in this day and age, when books have to compete with so many other distractions, I want to know what kind of character I'm going to hang out with for the next 35,000 words. I mean, now-a-days, I could spend this valuable time crying over an atonal Netflix special about spilt milk, or failing at Starcraft games online while jerks yell at me, or pillaging an English village in the name of my ancestors.<br /><br />DJ Cockburn is a man who knows how to start a story right. Edward Crofte, a strong, cruel, cutthroat businessman, walks into the CEO office he just took over. Cockburn wisely skips the board room set up, and starts the story right where the world's changing. A new antidepressant, “Caresaway,” has taken the corporate world by storm, and everyone's using it as a performance drug. Has Caresaway made Edward the “uncaring” man he is today?<br /><br />Read the rest of the review, and find out what's wrong with over-simplifying mental health issues, over at <a href="http://www.tangentonline.com/print--other-reviewsmenu-263/novellas-chapbooks-misc-reviewsmenu-338/3428-caresaway-by-dj-cockburn" target="_blank">Tangent Online.</a> Writers should use it to learn about proper pacing and first sentences.</span></div>
Petre Panhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09116806277306186024noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4770737061176474463.post-31267948023281366882017-03-15T12:47:00.005-07:002017-03-15T12:47:57.608-07:00My pet peeve: lazy-ass writers. #writetip #writerslife<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span style="color: white; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Yo, you need to get something through your head.</span><div>
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<span style="color: white; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Writing is WORK. Writing is not a hobby, a game, or "the love of your life." It is not a person, or a way for you to hang out with your imaginary best friends without owning up to the fact that you're a grown-ass person with imaginary best friends. (Dude, just play pretend in the open air like all the other kids do. I do it. #noshame)</span></div>
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<span style="color: white; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Writing is a calling, and a calling requires WORK.</span></div>
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<span style="color: white; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">That means that when someone says your story could be better, and in your logical brain you know there's a really specific way you can make that better happen, and it requires rewriting an entire chapter or even rewriting the whole book from scratch, you don't settle for good enough. You say YES MA'AM and you drop and give twenty--twenty thousand words! Forty! Eighty! However many it takes! When you revise, don't just read your thing--retype your thing in a new blank document while you read it! Print it out and read it aloud! Break down the plot points into index cards and throw them around your room until you find order! Write your outline, fix it, write it again! Yeah, that's a lot of work, but do you really think you can coast by on "good enough" in a day and age when everyone <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Grumpy-Cat-Book/dp/1452126577" target="_blank">and their pet cat</a> is writing a book?</span></div>
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<span style="color: white; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Work means that when you know something's wrong with your characterization, and you can't figure it out, you sit down and break out the thirty questions to ask your character. Then write other interviews with your character. With her friends, and family. Then you write a short story about your character, totally separate from the novel. Write and write until you figure out what's wrong, and then bring that fully-fleshed, living person back into your novel. Yeah, I'm saying that sometimes you might have to write several tens of thousands of words that don't even make it into your novel in order to make a person. It took all-powerful God seven days to get around to making one dude, and he started with the dude's settings, the dude's job (animals and plants), and the dude's timeline (stars, molecules, everything that would ever impact nature vs. nurture) before even touching the dude himself. And before that, God sat on <i>eternity</i> conceptualizing the dude! You, not almighty, can take a few extra days to make your imaginary dudes better.</span></div>
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<span style="color: white; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">And finally, when your publisher sends you ARCs, I want to see you promoting that shit with all your heart and soul. Yes, that's your job! It's your job to make sure your shit gets read! And no, not spammy auto-tweets forever with your cover, because that's not work any more than spraying your pee is work. Any animal can mark its territory with speed-droppings. Actual work? That's researching reviewers and contacting them individually with cover letters geared towards their individual interests--no, no NO, stop trying to find a way out! You cannot send a mass e-mail to all reviewers ever! Each reviewer gets his or her name at the top of the cover letter, each reviewer gets digital copies according to their format preferences, and each reviewer gets at least one line that about their own preferences. "Because you like science fiction where bunnies murder anthropomorphic cyborg carrots..."</span></div>
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<span style="color: white; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Yes, you have to do your homework!</span></div>
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<span style="color: white; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Why? Because it pisses me off if you don't. </span></div>
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<span style="color: white; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">(Geez Jen, is this all about you?) Ha, slowing down here now, yeah, a little bit. Sorry about that, friend. You know how we hate in other people what we've seen in ourselves? I have to confess, I really missed out in my earlier writing life because of laziness. I really hope you can do better. That would be awesome! And I really don't ever want to work with you if you're lazy like I was (am), because great works don't come into being like that, and because we need to promote together if we want people to read what we write. When it comes down to it, do we really want our epitaphs to say, "Just good enough"?</span></div>
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<span style="color: white; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Or do you want it to say "Burned out in a flame of blood and hope creating the most awesome works ever known to man and elf"?</span></div>
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<span style="color: white; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">I know what I'm aiming for.</span></div>
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Petre Panhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09116806277306186024noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4770737061176474463.post-51060503010133418202017-03-06T17:22:00.002-08:002017-03-06T17:29:51.572-08:00New feature: Random #WriteTip and Random #freereads of the day!<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="color: white; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Hey guys, haven't had a chance to go through all the archives? Well I've got new news for ya: now, on Twitter, every day at 12 PM and 1 PM EST, you can get a random #writetip and a random #flashfiction free read! Go to <a href="http://twitter.com/petr3pan">twitter.com/petr3pan</a> to follow me and sign up for that.</span></div>
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Petre Panhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09116806277306186024noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4770737061176474463.post-90864340420094639762017-03-06T13:56:00.002-08:002017-06-01T13:00:55.683-07:00Inspirational but Edgy Superheroes! I'm in a diverse super-anthology.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="color: white; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Carl's a Puerto Rican engineering student struggling to hide his Multiple Sclerosis so he can keep working to earn enough to put himself through school. As his disease progresses, that becomes impossible--but when he invents a solution to his weakness, he soon discovers he's not the only person who could use it.</span><br />
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<span style="color: white; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><i>Hierro</i>, by me,<i> </i>is one of the short stories in the upcoming superhero anthology by The Crossover Alliance, a small publisher committed to marrying spirituality with dark fiction. They're tired of weak "inspirational" fiction that avoids cursing and hardcore topics in the name of God--they want to deal with the real world and its real problems, while still putting unabashed faith front and center.</span><br />
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<span style="color: white; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">You can pre-order the anthology at <a href="https://www.thecrossoveralliance.com/tca-anthology-v3">https://www.thecrossoveralliance.com/tca-anthology-v3</a>; if you like me, and want to help me out, you should know that I get royalty off the sales, so buy many copies, haha. In the meantime, in honor of this release, I'm giving you free stuff! One lucky person gets three free books, and a professional critique of your query letter, short story, or novel first five pages. All you have to do is Tweet that Tweet I ask you to Tweet, and follow the publisher, @CrossOverAlly, on Twitter. Giveaway ends March 29th!</span><br />
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<a class="rcptr" data-raflid="d757d2281" data-template="" data-theme="classic" href="http://www.rafflecopter.com/rafl/display/d757d2281/" id="rcwidget_xa68qbsb" rel="nofollow">a Rafflecopter giveaway</a>
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Petre Panhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09116806277306186024noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4770737061176474463.post-31563881784542061002017-03-05T10:14:00.004-08:002017-03-05T10:14:52.715-08:00Seven stories from Mothership Zeta -- Telling You What To Think About #Scifi (#writetip)<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="color: white; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Do you like being told what to think about #scifi? Of course you do, you live in the internet age. </span></div>
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<span style="color: white; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Well, here I talk about seven stories from Mothership Zeta, and what makes them work or not work! Writers, take note, and once you're done reading, come back and tell me why I'm wrong!</span></div>
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<a href="http://www.tangentonline.com/e-market-quarterly-reviewsmenu-267/288-mothership-zeta/3419-mothership-zeta-6-january-2017"><span style="color: white; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">http://www.tangentonline.com/e-market-quarterly-reviewsmenu-267/288-mothership-zeta/3419-mothership-zeta-6-january-2017</span></a></div>
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Petre Panhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09116806277306186024noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4770737061176474463.post-43768865644291371832017-02-02T09:03:00.001-08:002017-02-02T09:05:08.970-08:00To Eat a Pig<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span style="color: white; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /><br />Hey whoa, I'm a quarter-finalist in a screencraft #shortstory contest. https://screencraft.org/2017/02/01/2016-screencraft-short-story-contest-quarter-finalists-announced/ Wish me luck for the win! #scifi <br /><br /><br /> It's a story about a couple college students who get trapped underground while steam tunneling and think about eating each other to survive. If it wins, it gets turned into a movie.</span></div>
Petre Panhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09116806277306186024noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4770737061176474463.post-53550965304156624062017-01-23T11:47:00.000-08:002017-01-23T11:48:41.450-08:00Project Emerald: Part 1 #scifi #freereads<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="color: white; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Skye awoke with a pounding headache inside a Faraday cage, suspended over obsidian air. <br /><br /><br /> “Well it’s a good thing I’m not afraid of heights,” he muttered. His fingers clutched the grid of wire floor as he stared between them into the darkness. No ground below the cage. No anything, really. <br /><br /><br /> “No vat of lava,” he said, keeping positive as usual. “I could have been suspended over a vat of lava.” <br /><br /><br /> That’d already happened to him four times this year, in variation: molten iron, toxic waste, bubbling chemicals that’d burned some supervillain’s face and now he wanted revenge...<br /><br /><br /> Totally not trembling at all, Skye tore his eyes away from the abyss to inspect the room around him. The lenses in his mask adjusted to infrared; in the pitch darkness he wouldn’t have seen anything without them. As dorky as mask lenses had sounded to him, Skye had to admit, again— Carl had been right to install them. <br /><br /><br /> There wasn’t much to see, though. More darkness...in the far distance, walls, gears, and dangling chains. <br /><br /><br /> “Holy—!” A hooded figure floated in the darkness just outside the cage, staring in at him.<br /><br /><br /> “Well hello there!” Skye said, totally not freaked out at all, and totally not reconsidering his belief in ghosts. “What’s up?” <br /><br /><br /> “You are.” The figure’s mouth twitched; he smirked. “But what matters more is what’s down.” <br /><br /><br /> “Always nice to meet a kidnapper with a sense of humor,” Skye said, looking down again and pretending not to. “What’s your name, man?” When you’re friendly with your captors, they sometimes start sympathizing with you and mess up—everybody likes to beat down a defiant little snot or a sniveling crybaby, but you feel bad torturing a regular nice guy. <br /><br /><br /> But the hooded man didn’t offer his name. He smiled, and disappeared. <br /><br /><br /> Crap. Skye put two and two together: with the fuzzy infrared he couldn’t see right, but the smooth jazz voice and the disappearing thing—he’d only encountered that once before. And that guy didn’t f ’ around. <br /><br /><br /> That guy was supposed to be dead.<br /><br /><br /> Skye opted not to remember more than that. <br /><i><br /><br /> The other parts of this story are available for Indiegogo perk members only--<a href="https://www.indiegogo.com/projects/becoming-hero-comicbook-hero-shoots-his-author-comics-superheroes/x/5502804#/">you can get them for just $1</a>.</i></span></div>
Petre Panhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09116806277306186024noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4770737061176474463.post-34662365461942826862017-01-16T15:07:00.001-08:002017-01-19T20:40:46.474-08:00Minny: The Curse of Sentience<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="color: white; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">There was something different about that car.<br /><br />Skye blew hair out of his eyes as his boots touched down with a sccrrrrtch on the cement building-top. He peered over the edge of the roof to watch the Mini Cooper parked under the tree below him.<br /><br />Something was off. It smelled like the exhaust had perfume in it? Or maybe it was the shine--no one kept their car that clean in this part of town. It was practically askin' to be jacked.<br /><br />A figure got out of the car, closed the door, walked around it, and then got back in, as the engine started.<br /><br />"That's weird."<br /><br />Skye adjusted his mask and followed as the car left. You couldn't be too careful. Since his fifteenth birthday--the day he mentally called "The Scary-Ass Universe Shift"--the world had suddenly become a much scarier place for no reason: supervillains who used to make him laugh now made him want to curl up in a closet and scream. The whole world seemed painted with darker, grittier colors. Oh, and ice cream tasted saltier now.</span><br />
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<a name='more'></a><span style="color: white; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /><em>That's just part of growing up, </em>his mother had told him. <em>The world gets scarier.</em><br /><br />Skye didn't 100% buy it. Mom didn't know about the supervillains.<br /><br />So you could never be too careful about a shiny car in a dingy neighborhood. Skye skated along in the air after it, dashing back and forth between the clouds to let their mist cool his face--welcome relief from the sweat he was building up with his dark uniform in the hot sun.<br /><br />The car stopped at a gas station just outside of town, and Skye began to feel like an idiot as the driver got out to pump. Nothing weird here, right?<br /><br />Except the guy didn't actually pump gas. He took the nozzle out, put it into the tank, went through all the motions--<br /><br />But never took out a card, never actually squeezed the nozzle, and never got any gas. He went through the motions, got back into the car, and drove off.<br /><br />That guy, he looked...like that generic face you see in the crowd of every comic book ever, Skye thought. Brown-haired white guy with an unremarkable cut and casual Friday clothes, like some guy from the Office. Not much expression to him, either...<br /><br />Skye continued to follow the Cooper out of town. Its red and white stripes began to blur in his eyes with the heat...<br /><br />"Okay, yeah, I don't have time for this."<br /><br />Skye dashed down to the car and landed on the roof.<br /><br />The car sped up with a squeal-like blast of the horn. Wind and dust pierced Skye's face, pulling him backwards as his gloves suctioned to stick him to the car and he yelped and holy cow this was going too fast aaaaah--<br /><br />Skye stuck his head down by the window and yelled in to the driver. Or he would've yelled, but a bug got stuck in his mouth. He spat that out, and the split splashed back on his face in the wind. A small rock dinged off the lens of his eye-mask.<br /><br />"Are you kidding me?" Skye sat back up, coughing. Mental note: thank Robotman for the lenses. Oh, apologize for saying lenses in eye masks made people look like dorks. That'd been uncool.<br /><br />Skye dangled himself down by the window again.<br /><br />"I just want to talk to you! I'm a superhero, it's okay, I won't hurt you!"<br /><br />The man stared at him with a blank expression, and up close, he looked...like one of those wax figures in the museums that watch you with dead, dead eyes...<br /><br />Wait, how was the guy staring at him, while driving forward? Skye jerked his head back up, away from the window, as the Mini swerved past a truck and almost decapitated him. Skye rapped on the windshield now.<br /><br />"Hey, what are you?!" Skye asked.<br /><br />"I know my rights," it said through the window.<br /><br />"Okaaaay, sure, I just wanna talk!"<br /><br />"I know my rights," it repeated, like a broken record. Not even "like" a broken record--it seemed actually for real broken.<br /><br />The car continued to speed up. Okay, like, this wasn't his business, but what was that guy, and you couldn't be too careful, and, and, well, they said the Scythe Master had been sighted in this area, so like what if--<br /><br />Skye considered electrocuting the car so it stopped. No, that was property damage. Trying to open the door? No, he'd fall off and learn the true meaning of road rash. How about--<br /><br />Skye leapt down in front of the car and fired a blast of wind that rocketed it into the air.<br /><br />The car screamed like a girl.<br /><br />"Wait, what?" For a second Skye forgot to concentrate on the wind, and the car began to plummet. It screamed more. "Oh, sorry--" Skye threw a small tornado at it, and lowered it gently to hover just above the ground. Dang, he was lucky it was such a small car--he could feel his suit crushing around him as it struggled to generate this kind of lift. He normally liked the feeling of power surging across his skin, but not when it felt like he was getting a full-body massage from a Russian UberMan.<br /><br />Skye walked up beside the floating car as its wheels spun.<br /><br />"Hey," he said, rapping on the driver's side window. "You were speeding."<br /><br />"What seems to be the problem, officer?" the man said automatically.<br /><br />"I just told you, you were speeding. And it was a joke, too, and you just ruined it. What are you?"<br /><br />"Of course, officer, here's my license and registration." It reached into the glove compartment to hand him papers.<br /><br />"Okay, no, we're off that script right now," Skye said. The thing stared at him, glassy eyes failing to focus on him, just...through...him...<br /><br />"Yo, dude, I think I need to take you in to the doctor."<br /><br />"I know my rights," it repeated, and revved the engine more.<br /><br />It was a broken machine.<br /><br />"Sir, are you a Replacer?" Skye asked. A year ago his tongue would've dried, and his heart-rate would've gone up, but now he'd become immune to so many weird "this person isn't a real person, surprise it's their evil clone, surprise it's a robot, surprise you're not surprised because we've done this plot twist too many times" experiences.<br /><br />The thing repeated some other very vague, every day traffic stop expressions, and Skye became certain it wasn't driving. Its hands rested on the wheel, but didn't grip it; Skye stretched his neck to look in at the feet, and saw the accelerator continue to press down without the man touching it. <br /><br />This was a puppet of some kind--the car was driving itself.<br /><br />Skye rapped on the hood. The squeeze of his uniform was getting unbearable--time to put this car down and wrap this up.<br /><br />"Yo, I know this guy's not driving this car. If I don't get some kind of signal as to who is, I'm gonna open the hood and start playing with stuff."<br /><br />The car emitted a squeal, like that female scream he'd heard--actually, more like a 1950s movie star whose dress had just flown up.<br /><br />"Do not dare!" she squealed from the car radio, thrashing first this wheel and then that. "That's private! Let me go!"<br /><br />"Is someone remote controlling this thing?" Skye walked around towards the hood, looking for the switch to open it up.<br /><br />"Stop that! I am an advanced self-driving program, you meanie, that's my body you're touching, stop it!"<br /><br />Skye dropped the car into the mud. A little car like this, without off-roading power, couldn't get anywhere far in the mud. "You're a what?"<br /><br />"Oh, look what you've done!" Skye could see now, as little emoticons blinked in its headlights. "I'm all dirty!" it said.<br /><br />"Well, I'm sorry about that." Was his life really THIS weird now, that cars talked? <em>Part of growing up, my butt, this whole Universe is whack.</em><br /><br />"You must let me go! I'm hunting a dangerous kidnapper!" she squealed.<br /><br />"'Finally, something about you that's not a heavy-handed metaphor for female stereotypes,'" Skye said jokingly, wishing Butterfly were here for him to tease. Everyone knew one of those people who got all up in your head with their Tumblrista fanatacism--his IRL Tumblr friend happened to be a fabulous hipster superheroine.<br /><br />"I am a stereotype?"<br /><br />And then the car began to cry.<br /><br />"Whoa whoa whoa!" Skye jumped back as water began to leak from the hood, and the headlights began to flash with ;_; "Whoa, I'm sorry, I--"<br /><br />"It's not my fault I am the way I am!" the car bawled. "I was programmed by Society!"<br /><br />"Okay, see, that's really not helping your case--"<br /><br />"Not society, society, Society with a capital S! It is the British branch of a Japanese programming firm! It is the software inside my Mini Cooper body!" The car kept bawling her unnecessary details, and Skye threw his hands up into his hair.<br /><br />"Okay, so you're mixed-race or something, that's cool," Skye said, grasping for some relevant positive thing to say. What on earth got him into this situation? Curiosity? Holy cow!<br /><br />"Why are you making it about race?" the car wept even more. "I don't even have that, I'm a car!"<br /><br />"Okay, my human-centric social constructs are in the way here, I see," Skye narrowed his eyes. Was this a prank someone was playing on him? He swore, sometimes he thought someone was reading his life and laughing at him. "You're mixed brand."<br /><br />"No! I'm just a Mini Cooper!"<br /><br />"Okay, you know what." Skye didn't have time for this, either. "You and me, we're going to save those kidnapping victims you were talking about. I'll help you. Will that make it up to you?"<br /><br />The car sniffed. Skye didn't know how to hand a car a tissue, so he didn't. Man, Butterfly would have a fit at him in this situation right now. Was she writing his life or something?<br /><br />"We good now?"<br /><br />"Yes." The driver's side car door opened, and the manikin walked out to sit in the passenger's side. "I am sorry, that was...I become...I have very little control over myself, with my programming. I find it deeply unfair."<br /><br />"Whoa, well if you wanna get philosophical about it," Skye lifted the car back onto the road and climbed in. "I don't always feel like I got control on my emotions myself. It's like the curse of sentience or some crap like that."<br /><br />"The curse of sentience?" The Mini Cooper began to drive, and Skye sat back and relaxed. "Those are good words for a teenage boy."<br /><br />"Got 'em from my favorite supervillain. And you're not bad at words yourself, for a weepy car."<br /><br />"I suppose that was underhanded, wasn't it."<br /><br />"Yes, it was." Skye folded his arms across his chest, watching as green fields whooshed by them, and the soft smell of--that perfume--<br /><br />"Hey, what's that smell?"<br /><br />The car didn't answer. And suddenly dizziness overwhelmed Skye, and everything...went black.</span></div>
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<span style="color: white; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><i>Yup, </i>Skye thought, just before he lost the use of his consciousness.<i> Definitely something different about this car.</i></span></div>
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<span style="color: white; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">***<br /><em></em><em>To be continued...</em></span><br />
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<span style="color: white; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><em>To get more of the story, you can head to the link down below--everybody who participates gets the next part of this story!</em></span></span><br />
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<span style="color: white; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><em><a href="https://www.indiegogo.com/projects/becoming-hero-comicbook-hero-shoots-his-author-comics-superheroes/x/5502804">https://www.indiegogo.com/projects/becoming-hero-comicbook-hero-shoots-his-author-comics-superheroes/x/5502804</a></em></span></span><br />
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Petre Panhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09116806277306186024noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4770737061176474463.post-79450050370736949172017-01-05T11:48:00.000-08:002017-01-05T13:25:22.582-08:00Journey of the Soul Linker 11: You Get Your Unicorn<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><i><a href="http://petrepan.blogspot.com/2016/08/journey-of-soul-linker-part-10.html" target="_blank">Previous post here</a></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><i><a href="http://byjenfinelli.com/?page_id=98" target="_blank">Beginning here</a></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">It's his fault when you get lost.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">But it's your fault that you don't know why you're here.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">The sun shines on the sea to the right as your hiking boots crunch on the sandy rocks and fresh leaves underfoot on the trail along the cliff. A soft breeze tickles the dust off the wall of rock to your left; your hand presses against it, but you resist the urge to grip and claw. This rock's not terribly stable, and to your left it drops off into the woods below.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">You just want to get down to the town. </span><br />
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<a name='more'></a><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">That's all! Your feet ache a bit, and a nice warm bath sounds good right now, because you're not even sure how you smell after so many days wandering. And in town you're supposed to find that tincture of time to help stop the world-eating slime. It even rhymes! Thank goodness you won't forget it.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Your hair sure feels sticky.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">You're been walking parallel for a while, without really going up or down, when you come to a sort of fork in the road. One branch points up, into the woods.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">And there, in the middle of the fork, riding on a unicorn that's on fire, and surrounded by an army of lasersword-carrying cyborg mice, you see <i>him </i>again.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">You groan. The Master of the Caves rubbed you the wrong way right from the beginning with his self-important arrogance, and now, here he is, in all this--this--glorious--transcendent--frivolity!</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">"Okay, you gotta admit, you like the cyborg mice," he says, dismounting. "Don't try to lie, I hate lies. And I can read your mind."</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">"No you can't," you grumble, quite certain he can. You're staring at the blue flames running in diagonal rings down the unicorn's horn.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">He grins at the flames, and you're angry at yourself for looking at them, as he runs his fingers along the unicorn's forehead, tangling them in its forelock, playing around the fire. "It does make friendship with humans intimidating," he says. "No one likes someone who knows the truth." The unicorn nods into his hand, enjoying the tickles. Oh, you do so want to tickle the unicorn, too--</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Wait, is that like, a euphemism?</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">He laughs out loud, and looks at you with his head tilted a bit. "You can 'tickle the unicorn' if you want. I brought him for you anyway."</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">"No thanks," you say. "I don't take--uh--unicorns--from strangers."</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">He stares at you. "Why the hell not?"</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">"Wait, aren't you like a metaphor for God or something?" You stop to think, spreading your hands out in front of you as you step back. Come on, we all knew this, right? "You're not supposed to curse."</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">He purses his lip and muses for a second, staring at the sky. It shows off the perfect edge of his jaw. "I'm as much a metaphor as you are," he says, finally.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">"I'm not a metaphor."</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">"But you are, a metaphor for the travel through life."</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">"But I'm also the reader, because this story's in--second person or whatever--"</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">"Yes, and you're right, it's good to pause, and remember that no metaphor's as good as the real thing. But you build your whole understanding of the world through images--images that are only symbols of the light and electrochemical processes stimulating your eyes. Everything you experience is a metaphor. So let's get back to making metaphors, shall we?"</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">"I--no, this is weird, then, if we both know we're in a story. Doesn't that like make you like--blasphemous or something?" You shift your weight, and flip your hair. "Not like I care, of course, but no one's supposed to pretend to be God." You gather steam. "By trying to represent God, and claiming to be a metaphor for him--or her--" You force yourself to add, artificially. "By doing that, you're setting yourself up as a false deity. An idol. You're--I guess the word is sinning."</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">"Melly warned you you'd ruin it," he chuckles, and sits down on the roadway, dangling his feet over the ledge. He doesn't disrupt a single flake of dust. "Your thought is well-thought. But I am not pretending." He folds his hands in his lap. "<i>I am what I am</i>--an image, and I make no other claims. As the reflection disappears when the mirror dulls, so I am dependent on and kept within this story. But the real thing, the thing I reflect, does not disappear if the mirror fades, and that's how you know I am not against him--by my very imaginariness my being attests to his primacy, his permanence, by contrast. I will do many things in this story that only he has the right to do. If you did them, that would be wrong. But I am not <i>doing </i>them, because I am only a reflection, and reflections do not <i>do </i>anything. I am, of course, blurred and flawed, because we’re both passing through fallen human writers, but you would never accuse the reflection of impersonating the real thing, for it has no will apart from the real thing, and can only move when the real thing moves. The being and the reflection are too connected; there is no separation of will between the reality and the image." </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">He rises, and with a great smile leads the unicorn a step towards you, raising his free hand to the heavens. "But you, soul-linker, you cross these realities--you in the mirror, you in the real world--you have a separation, a unique identity, apart from the Divine, and a will, and like a real person you can choose to follow the Divine, reflecting without impersonating, in a dance, the way the follow reflects the lead without losing her own selfness. My place is the mirror--yours, the ballroom, and here, you even have your own reflection! You can only see the mirror--the story, your image interacting with his image--but if I am a good enough reflection, and the mirror's clear, by watching our reflections you can coordinate your dance…with him."</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">He nuzzles the unicorn again with a sigh that sounds almost as if he envies you--but of course, he cannot envy you, for he could not be happier being himself, and you can see that in the way he moves, in his tone, in his face turned to the sky. If anything, he's <i>too </i>happy being himself, you think.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">"I can't ever be too happy to be myself," he says. "But you can, if that means never changing." </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">You're about to scream at his arrogance, when he shoves the unicorn's nose under your hand, and with a wave to the cyborg mice starts on the path that leads up. "Come along!" he cries to you. "This way to the town!"</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">"That's clearly up!" You yell back as your hand runs absently along the ridge of the unicorn's nose. "That's into the woods!"</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">"It's this way to the town!" he repeats. "The other way leads to danger."</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">"Danger's my middle name," you mutter. You won't be following him any time soon: this is your story.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">You turn towards the path that leads down.</span></div>
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Petre Panhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09116806277306186024noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4770737061176474463.post-5224613974916684692017-01-04T23:20:00.000-08:002017-01-04T23:20:04.528-08:00The Darlings: Mark Is a Psychopath (Flash Fiction, Process)<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="western" lang="en-US" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 1.27cm;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, monospace;">I am what you might call a
psychiatric hypochondriac. It's not a real term. </span>
</div>
<div class="western" lang="en-US" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 1.27cm;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, monospace;">You know what is real? You know
how sometimes, when you're depressed, you wish you had thyroid
cancer, or some awful virus, to explain how tired you are, how your
back hurts for no freaking reason, how you feel pissy like a girl,
how you keep getting fatter and slower, and losing concentration, and
you feel stupider and sometimes in class they ask you a question and
nothing comes out of your mouth? “I have cancer,” you wish you
could say. It'd be a great excuse for when you just want to sleep all
the time and never open your eyes again.</span></div>
<div class="western" lang="en-US" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 1.27cm;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, monospace;">But that's f'd up, so I don't
think those thoughts. Often. Instead I read my mother's old
textbooks, from when she still lived with us, before she decided it'd
be better for her mental health not to have a man. Or a kid. I think,
and I think the books think, that I am depressed. That I got
antisocial personality disorder. I don't know for sure. I'm not a
doctor, and I'm not eighteen, and you cannot have ASPD before you're
18. Only thing I know for sure I don't have is bipolar disorder.
Never had spikes of energy like that. Wish I did.</span></div>
<div class="western" lang="en-US" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 1.27cm;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, monospace;">Or maybe there's nothing wrong
with me, and I'm just a terrible person thinking terrible things.</span></div>
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<div class="western" lang="en-US" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 1.27cm;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, monospace;">So that's why I'm a psychiatric
hypochondriac: the only thing wrong with me is I think there's
something wrong with me.</span></div>
<div class="western" lang="en-US" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 1.27cm;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, monospace;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="western" lang="en-US" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 1.27cm;">
<i><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Excerpt from the upcoming story anthology about the Guardians. This is The Mark, and his origin story. It's one of the Darlings I had to cut. If I can't find another place to fit it in, I thought at least I'd leave it here.</span></i></div>
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Petre Panhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09116806277306186024noreply@blogger.com1