My first draft of this week's story was just over 1,200 words, and it was much better than this stripped-down version. (Except for the title: "Magic Bullet." My wife agrees on both counts.) I'll be revising and submitting that longer tale soon.
14 August 2009
Take Me Out to the Black
Tell 'em I ain't comin' back. Et cetera. (Also: "BAM," said the lady!)
My first draft of this week's story was just over 1,200 words, and it was much better than this stripped-down version. (Except for the title: "Magic Bullet." My wife agrees on both counts.) I'll be revising and submitting that longer tale soon.
My first draft of this week's story was just over 1,200 words, and it was much better than this stripped-down version. (Except for the title: "Magic Bullet." My wife agrees on both counts.) I'll be revising and submitting that longer tale soon.
07 August 2009
"Mutiny"
MUTINY
By Curtis C. Chen
The planet screamed, but nobody heard.
José felt the cable wobble in his grip as Master Histian clapped. Histian always preferred to watch the destruction wrought by his weapons from outside the ship. José supposed it was one of the few remaining thrills which the old man could experience firsthand, with his own eyes.
It would be so easy for José to simply release the cable. But that would not be justice.
Long minutes passed before Histian stopped cackling and spoke: "Bring me in, boy."
José hoped it had been long enough. He took his time reeling in the cable.
"Magnificent, wasn't it?" Histian said when they were both inside the airlock. "Such a glorious demise!"
"Yes, sir," José said, sealing the outer door.
"Why must you always be so glum?" Histian asked, scowling. "Would it kill you to smile once in a while?"
José split his face in a fake grin. "Is this better, sir?" he asked through clenched teeth.
Histian's scowl deepened. The inner airlock door hissed open. José followed Histian into the ship, where they both climbed out of their pressure suits and then returned to the bridge.
"Show me the spectrographic analysis," Histian said, settling into his throne—it was too ornate to be called a chair—on the central platform.
The main screen lit up with a glowing array of graphs. José scrolled the display in response to Histian's grunts and hand gestures.
"Interesting," Histian said. "An unexpected spike in the ultraviolet. And that appears to be plasma filamentation." He leaned forward and steepled his fingers. "Tell me, boy, does this mean anything to you, or is it all just pretty blinking lights?"
José curled the fingers of his left hand into a fist. "I'm very happy for your success, sir."
"Of course you are," Histian sneered. "You're going to sneak an extra portion of beefmeat while I'm enjoying my wine tonight."
José kept his back to the throne, hiding his face and biting his tongue.
"Did you think I wouldn't notice?" Histian continued. "Do you think I depend on you for everything?"
"No," José said, pressing a button. "Just enough."
The door on the opposite side of the chamber slid open, and eight armored commandos entered. The first fired a barrage of stun pellets at the back of Histian's throne, pinning him down. The second commando launched a police net. The rest surrounded Histian's platform with their weapons raised.
The police net landed on the throne, trapping Histian. The webbing contracted and dug into his pale skin. He cried out in pain. José allowed himself a genuine smile.
One of the commandos stepped onto the platform and said, "Histian Winterfield, you are under arrest for theft and conspiracy to transport illegal armaments across stellar boundaries—"
Histian ignored him and glared at José. "You did this? Why? Why betray your master?"
José walked up to the old man and looked down at him. "You're not my master," José said in a low, quiet voice. "And I don't like you."
By Curtis C. Chen
The planet screamed, but nobody heard.
José felt the cable wobble in his grip as Master Histian clapped. Histian always preferred to watch the destruction wrought by his weapons from outside the ship. José supposed it was one of the few remaining thrills which the old man could experience firsthand, with his own eyes.
It would be so easy for José to simply release the cable. But that would not be justice.
Long minutes passed before Histian stopped cackling and spoke: "Bring me in, boy."
José hoped it had been long enough. He took his time reeling in the cable.
"Magnificent, wasn't it?" Histian said when they were both inside the airlock. "Such a glorious demise!"
"Yes, sir," José said, sealing the outer door.
"Why must you always be so glum?" Histian asked, scowling. "Would it kill you to smile once in a while?"
José split his face in a fake grin. "Is this better, sir?" he asked through clenched teeth.
Histian's scowl deepened. The inner airlock door hissed open. José followed Histian into the ship, where they both climbed out of their pressure suits and then returned to the bridge.
"Show me the spectrographic analysis," Histian said, settling into his throne—it was too ornate to be called a chair—on the central platform.
The main screen lit up with a glowing array of graphs. José scrolled the display in response to Histian's grunts and hand gestures.
"Interesting," Histian said. "An unexpected spike in the ultraviolet. And that appears to be plasma filamentation." He leaned forward and steepled his fingers. "Tell me, boy, does this mean anything to you, or is it all just pretty blinking lights?"
José curled the fingers of his left hand into a fist. "I'm very happy for your success, sir."
"Of course you are," Histian sneered. "You're going to sneak an extra portion of beefmeat while I'm enjoying my wine tonight."
José kept his back to the throne, hiding his face and biting his tongue.
"Did you think I wouldn't notice?" Histian continued. "Do you think I depend on you for everything?"
"No," José said, pressing a button. "Just enough."
The door on the opposite side of the chamber slid open, and eight armored commandos entered. The first fired a barrage of stun pellets at the back of Histian's throne, pinning him down. The second commando launched a police net. The rest surrounded Histian's platform with their weapons raised.
The police net landed on the throne, trapping Histian. The webbing contracted and dug into his pale skin. He cried out in pain. José allowed himself a genuine smile.
One of the commandos stepped onto the platform and said, "Histian Winterfield, you are under arrest for theft and conspiracy to transport illegal armaments across stellar boundaries—"
Histian ignored him and glared at José. "You did this? Why? Why betray your master?"
José walked up to the old man and looked down at him. "You're not my master," José said in a low, quiet voice. "And I don't like you."
Audio: "Mutiny"
Man, that British accent was all over the damn map. Sorry about that. But hey, when you people start paying me for this, I'll start trying a little harder.
And yes, CHRISTIAN - CR = HISTIAN. Because the various ways of representing line breaks are the most visible skirmishes in the religious wars between operating systems.
Music: Vox stems from "When You Go" by Jonathan Coulton, licensed under Creative Commons.
An Ode to RaceFail2009
In haiku form:
What racial tension?
Friend, all I see around here
are people like me.
Thank you! I'll be here all week. Tip your servers, they're working real hard.
(Just in case you don't know what I'm talking about...)
What racial tension?
Friend, all I see around here
are people like me.
Thank you! I'll be here all week. Tip your servers, they're working real hard.
(Just in case you don't know what I'm talking about...)
31 July 2009
Sponsor me in the Clarion West Write-a-thon 2009!
I'm one of the writers participating in the sixth annual Clarion West Write-a-thon, in which you (a generous sponsor) donate whatever amount suits your budget to support this fine writers workshop whose graduates include:
Regardless of whether you decide to donate, you can follow my progress from now through July 31st on LiveJournal. I'm shooting for an average of 1,024 words a day or more.
* Post-dated from 21 Jun 2009 to stay at top of blog.
UPDATE (8/2): I made it to 102% of my word count goal. Thanks to all my sponsors for their generosity and support!
- David Levine
- Mary Anne Mohanraj
- Gordon Van Gelder (publisher, F&SF)
- Cat Rambo (editor, Fantasy Magazine)
- ...and more!
Regardless of whether you decide to donate, you can follow my progress from now through July 31st on LiveJournal. I'm shooting for an average of 1,024 words a day or more.
* Post-dated from 21 Jun 2009 to stay at top of blog.
UPDATE (8/2): I made it to 102% of my word count goal. Thanks to all my sponsors for their generosity and support!
"At the End of the Day"
AT THE END OF THE DAY
By Curtis C. Chen
Sherman had to admit, three witches carrying cast-iron kettles was the last thing he ever expected to see coming through the spaceport.
He watched them limp toward his station with their heavy cauldrons, green skin, tattered black outfits, and pointy hats. They seemed ready to stroll right past security. Sherman stepped off his stool and stood in the way of the lead witch. She stopped and squinted up at him.
"Morning, ladies," Sherman said. "Boarding pass and ID, please."
"Eh?" the first witch said.
"I need to see your boarding pass and a valid form of government-issued identification."
"I am called Double," the first witch said. "These are my sisters, Toil and Trouble."
"That's nice," Sherman said. "I still need to see some ID."
"How dare you impede us!"
"I don't make the rules, ma'am."
A deep voice came from behind Sherman. "Problem here?"
Sherman turned and saw his father standing by the podium. Sherman frowned. He wasn't supposed to be here. "These ladies are refusing to show their papers."
Sherman's father looked over the three witches. "Are you sure you're not in the wrong place, girls?"
"We go when we are called," the first witch said.
"Why don't you step over here, girls," Sherman's father said, gesturing toward one side of the corridor, "and we'll figure out how to get you to your destination."
The witches grumbled and shuffled off, following Sherman's father. Sherman sat back down and watched them. His father wasn't supposed to be here, but he couldn't remember why.
"Sherman?"
He looked up and saw a very attractive woman holding out a boarding pass and a blue Solar Union passport. Her brown hair and blue eyes seemed very familiar.
Sherman took the papers and ran them under his scanner. He didn't recognize her name. He handed back the papers. "Thank you, miss."
She stared at him. "Do you remember me?"
He wanted to. He really did. "I'm sorry, miss. I don't think we've met."
The woman looked like she might cry. She nodded and moved on.
Sherman's father came back and stood next to him. "Well, that was awkward."
Sherman didn't see the witches anywhere. "Where did they go?"
"To the right place."
"I don't understand."
Sherman's father shrugged. "Gets tricky out here, you know? Humans and aliens mingling together, different species, different beliefs. Sometimes a soul gets sent through the wrong passage." He patted Sherman on the back. "That's why you're here, isn't it?"
Sherman frowned. "What do you mean, 'soul?'"
"Well, nothing lives forever," Sherman's father said. "And when we die, we need guidance to get to the right afterlife. It got a whole lot more complicated when these aliens showed up. You think their bodies look strange? Half the time we can't even visualize their souls." He jerked his thumb over his shoulder. "I guess today's filter is Shakespeare."
"You're dead," Sherman said to his father.
"Of course I am." The old man looked sad. "Don't you remember, son?"
Sherman blinked tears from his eyes. "Am I dead?"
By Curtis C. Chen
Sherman had to admit, three witches carrying cast-iron kettles was the last thing he ever expected to see coming through the spaceport.
He watched them limp toward his station with their heavy cauldrons, green skin, tattered black outfits, and pointy hats. They seemed ready to stroll right past security. Sherman stepped off his stool and stood in the way of the lead witch. She stopped and squinted up at him.
"Morning, ladies," Sherman said. "Boarding pass and ID, please."
"Eh?" the first witch said.
"I need to see your boarding pass and a valid form of government-issued identification."
"I am called Double," the first witch said. "These are my sisters, Toil and Trouble."
"That's nice," Sherman said. "I still need to see some ID."
"How dare you impede us!"
"I don't make the rules, ma'am."
A deep voice came from behind Sherman. "Problem here?"
Sherman turned and saw his father standing by the podium. Sherman frowned. He wasn't supposed to be here. "These ladies are refusing to show their papers."
Sherman's father looked over the three witches. "Are you sure you're not in the wrong place, girls?"
"We go when we are called," the first witch said.
"Why don't you step over here, girls," Sherman's father said, gesturing toward one side of the corridor, "and we'll figure out how to get you to your destination."
The witches grumbled and shuffled off, following Sherman's father. Sherman sat back down and watched them. His father wasn't supposed to be here, but he couldn't remember why.
"Sherman?"
He looked up and saw a very attractive woman holding out a boarding pass and a blue Solar Union passport. Her brown hair and blue eyes seemed very familiar.
Sherman took the papers and ran them under his scanner. He didn't recognize her name. He handed back the papers. "Thank you, miss."
She stared at him. "Do you remember me?"
He wanted to. He really did. "I'm sorry, miss. I don't think we've met."
The woman looked like she might cry. She nodded and moved on.
Sherman's father came back and stood next to him. "Well, that was awkward."
Sherman didn't see the witches anywhere. "Where did they go?"
"To the right place."
"I don't understand."
Sherman's father shrugged. "Gets tricky out here, you know? Humans and aliens mingling together, different species, different beliefs. Sometimes a soul gets sent through the wrong passage." He patted Sherman on the back. "That's why you're here, isn't it?"
Sherman frowned. "What do you mean, 'soul?'"
"Well, nothing lives forever," Sherman's father said. "And when we die, we need guidance to get to the right afterlife. It got a whole lot more complicated when these aliens showed up. You think their bodies look strange? Half the time we can't even visualize their souls." He jerked his thumb over his shoulder. "I guess today's filter is Shakespeare."
"You're dead," Sherman said to his father.
"Of course I am." The old man looked sad. "Don't you remember, son?"
Sherman blinked tears from his eyes. "Am I dead?"
Audio: "At the End of the Day"
As you know, Bob, the expository lump is a long-standing (if often reviled) staple of science fiction. Sometimes you just gotta lay some pipe. And saying it in an interesting voice helps keep the listener interested. That's my theory, anyway.
Music: instrumental stems from "I Crush Everything" by Jonathan Coulton, licensed under Creative Commons.
One day nearer to dying
And now for something completely different...
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CxZoUARPsFc
Once again, I have the Plot-o-Matik to thank for this week's inspiration—even though I didn't use most of the suggested elements. All I needed was a little kick-start to get me out of the world of the novel I've been cranking on for the past four days.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CxZoUARPsFc
Once again, I have the Plot-o-Matik to thank for this week's inspiration—even though I didn't use most of the suggested elements. All I needed was a little kick-start to get me out of the world of the novel I've been cranking on for the past four days.
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