On Titles

I would have come up with a wittier title for this week's story, but not a lot of English words rhyme with "Zenda," and none of them means "orbit."

I grudgingly admit that this idea was inspired by the end of the otherwise craptastic X-Men 3: The Last Stand. (If you haven't seen it yet, Spoiler Alert: IT SUCKS.) During the climax, when Wolverine staggers toward Dark Phoenix to kill her, you can briefly see his adamantium skeleton as his flesh is burned away and then regenerated by his mutant healing factor. Very little else works in the scene, but that one image is pretty powerful.

And yes, I basically stole the fourth paragraph from Con Air. Sue me. Cusack really sells it in the trailer, even though the movie itself is bloated and nonsensical.

Finally, as you may have guessed, I am a huge fan of The Prisoner with Patrick McGoohan. I'm not sure why AMC thinks it's a good idea to remake it. I'll reserve judgment until I see the finished product, but why not come up with a new idea? Or, as shown above, remix some existing pieces to create something that at least seems fresh?

D and I will be at OryCon this weekend. If you're in the Portland area, feel free to give us a call:

Audio: "Prisoner"

Music: "Decaying Orbit" by Fireproof_Babies, licensed under Creative Commons from ccMixter.

Hey kids, it's a monologue!

I remember back in high school, when I really fell in love with drama, I found a used copy of a book containing monologues by famous playwrights. Some of them were pretty odd--like the priest counseling a married couple who breaks into an impersonation of sizzling bacon--but they all challenged me to understand and interpret different personalities. And, on the other side of the coin, it helped me start to see how a writer could create a character through carefully chosen words.

http://512words.blogspot.com

"Prisoner"

PRISONER
By Curtis C. Chen

Here comes the sun.

For a few seconds, as the blinding light thaws my body, it's bearable. Almost comfortable. Then I'm on fire for the next forty-five minutes, boiling hot until I fall back into the shadow of the planet.

I don't even know the name of this world. I was already drunk when I stumbled off my freighter, celebrating the end of a long cargo haul. I don't know the name of the bar. I don't remember the woman's name.

I do remember the name of her jealous boyfriend, the guy who couldn't throw a punch, the man I killed without even trying. I heard his name plenty during the trial. His father, the Planetary Defense Minister, publicly called for my head. He got what he wanted.

I wish I could forget what they did to me. First they replaced my blood with healer nanites. Then they cut out my lungs and stomach. They didn't use anesthetic. I felt every cut and slice and staple into my flesh. That I remember too clearly.

There are no prisons here. All the convicts get thrown into space. They turn us into cyborgs, able to survive on sunlight alone, and they put us in stable, isolated, high orbits. Every ninety minutes we circle the planet, alternately burning and freezing, all the time wishing they'd just kill us.

I can feel every pinprick of cold and blister of heat on my skin. The nanites work fast, repairing my nerve endings first so I'll feel the stinging as they regenerate tissue. They also collect the solar energy that powers my body, now that I don't breathe or eat. I don't know where the water comes from. A lot of it probably gets recycled inside my mechanical belly.

I tried to enjoy the view for the first few months. I've never spacewalked, and it was breathtaking despite the pain. But it just added to the torture.

It took me a long time to figure out how to turn around. There's nothing to push against up here. But what am I now, if not a man-sized spacecraft? And how do spacecraft maneuver in vacuum?

I rotated myself by spitting to one side. Now I'm facing away from that beautiful planet, looking out into the black.

My body's basic functions haven't changed. It's now using sunlight instead of food, but what it does with that energy is the same as before.

When my nails grow long enough, I chew them off and spit the ends out into the infinite darkness. The rest of the time, I just spit. It's not a lot of reaction mass, but it'll add up.

Sometimes I imagine I can feel friction heat on my back, but it's just sunlight. It'll take years for these tiny bits of fingernail and saliva to push me down into the atmosphere. I don't know if the nanites will keep me alive through re-entry. Probably not.

What's the saying? The first duty of every prisoner is to escape.

Besides, I don't have anything better to do.

Three Months Early

Happy Valentine's Day!

"Love Lucy" was my last story published on 365 tomorrows. I haven't changed it much for this reprint; maybe added a sentence or two. See my HotSheet post from May 2007 for notes on the inspiration and writing process for this piece.

More recently, D and I watched The Notorious Bettie Page, and I was reminded of it while recording this week's audio post. I have no idea how accurately the movie depicts the circumstances of Bettie Page's life, but I thought the most interesting thing was how they presented her as an innocent. She never really understands why people get upset over her "smutty" photos; she describes them to others as "just silliness." To her, it's simply dressing up and playing in front of the camera. Bettie doesn't understand why some men might find these pictures so arousing, and she's not concerned about what they do behind closed doors. This, of course, is the polar opposite of Lucy, who can't stop thinking about it.

Incidentally, I'm in Los Angeles this weekend doing The Sitcom Room. After I get back, I may have some 'splainin' to do.

Audio: "Love Lucy"

Music: "At a Loss" by Fireproof_Babies, licensed under Creative Commons from ccMixter.

I think I've figured out my recording setup now. Please feel free to comment if you have any issues, suggestions, or other feedback.

(And yes, I was trying for a Blade Runner feel with the music.)

http://512words.blogspot.com

"Love Lucy"

LOVE LUCY
By Curtis C. Chen

Lucy's hand shook as she traced the stylus over the text of the contract. Her agent had assured her that this was a good deal, but she had to make sure there were no surprises in the fine print.

The house paid very well, much better than temping, and even offered an advance. After a year of not getting work as an actress, Lucy needed the money.

She finished reading and signed at the bottom of the tablet. The paralegal came back into the room. She wondered if he'd been watching the whole time. His plastic smile was not reassuring.

The first room was the hardest.

Lucy sat on the exam table, alone, for a long time after she had changed into the gown. She didn't want to put her feet in the stirrups. She couldn't refuse; she knew that. The contract with her signature was binding.

And it was so much money.

Lucy was glad to see that the gynecologist was a woman. The exam didn't take long. The sensor ring around Lucy's waist hummed while the doctor picked up the speculum and aimed it between Lucy's legs.

"Try to relax," the doctor said in a tired voice.

Lucy bit her tongue. The metal instrument sliding into her had been warmed, but it still felt cold.

Next came the imaging chamber, where Lucy removed her gown and put her bare feet inside the outlines on the floor. Her knees felt weak, but she willed herself to stay standing while the blue scanning beams crawled over every inch of her naked body.

In the last room, Lucy sat, fully dressed, in front of a brightly lit mirror. Glowing words appeared on the mirror, one after the other, and she made a face to match each word while hidden cameras recorded her expressions.

It was like an audition. A creepy, weird, impersonal audition.

The first faces came easily: SCARED. TIRED. ANGRY.

The later ones were more work: BIRTHDAY. GRATEFUL. ORGASM.

Two hours after she'd walked in, she was done.

Lucy went straight to the bank to deposit her advance check. She felt numb as she stared at the receipt.

It was a lot of money. And there would be more, after the house built the androids: royalties based on how often they were used by the house's clients.

This was good, Lucy told herself. She wouldn't have to worry about paying the bills anymore. She could really focus on her acting.

And she wouldn't have to know what those clients were doing with the androids that looked like her, thousands of miles away--the contract stipulated that her likeness would only be used overseas. Those men wouldn't be touching Lucy. Each android would have her face and body, but it was only a machine. Not Lucy.

Just a picture of her. That's all. Just a stupid doll. Nothing more.

Lucy went home and took a shower. She scrubbed herself until her skin was raw and the hot water had run out, but she still didn't feel clean.

NaNoWriMo

"Guns, Shooting Velociraptors Out Of" was inspired by a rather silly thread of the same name in the nanowrimo.org forums.

I did not make up any of the dinosaur names. I got them from the educational web site Zoom Dinosaurs©. My favorite is the Masiakasaurus, which was named knopfleri because the paleontologists were listening to Dire Straits when they dug it up.

The product model numbers are a tribute to H.G. Wells' classic The Time Machine (published in 1895) and Stephen Baxter's sequel, The Time Ships (published in 1995).

I suppose the overall tone of the piece is an homage to John Scalzi's BrainPal™ brochure in Old Man's War. Like they say, steal from the best.

And, as always, I owe a debt of gratitude to Ray Bradbury (but NOT Peter Hyams).

Audio: "Guns, Shooting Velociraptors Out Of"

Music: "Schrodinger's Cat Paradox" by cjacks, licensed under Creative Commons from ccMixter.

I think this more or less speaks for itself.