This Is It

I'm a guest on the Strange Love Live tech podcast tonight. Watch the streaming video starting at 10PM Pacific! And for the 512 podcast fans (both of you), there's a good chance I'll be reading something aloud.

"Why You Watch"

WHY YOU WATCH*
By Curtis C. Chen

I want to—no, actually, I need to tell you how I lost my virginity. I want you to understand why I do what I do.

He was an actor. I won't tell you his name, for oh so many reasons. My dad worked on his show, I had met him on set a few times, and—this part's not really important. The point is, he asked me out, and I thought I was the luckiest girl on the planet.

So he took me to dinner, and then we were supposed to attend a performance, but he said he didn't want any paparazzi to snap me, and did I just want to watch something in his hotel suite instead? Of course I said yes, because I was a stupid kid with stars in her eyes and I was crushing on him even harder for being so considerate.

Back at his hotel, he put on some music, we drank, we danced, he held me and kissed me—I know, it's all so clichéd, but back then, in the moment, it was like a dream. I was the princess, he was the prince, and he was So. Damn. Charming. I didn't have a chance.

He had a vid capture setup in the bedroom. He didn't ask me, just started recording. He didn't ask me a lot of things. He hurt me and he didn't stop, and I couldn't stop him. The look on his face—it was like I wasn't even a person to him, like I was just a prop.

The good news is, I spent those minutes figuring out how I could get away. And I noticed the blinking red light in the corner. So after he finished, when he let go of my arms and rolled off of me, I went straight for the capture to grab that disc.

His last bad decision of the night was to chase me across the room, yelling the whole time so I knew exactly where he was. I picked up the capture and swung it as hard as I could into the side of his head. Smashed the equipment and knocked him out cold. I took the disc and called Emergency. I was still crying when the medics showed up.

But I didn't destroy the disc. I kept it after the trial. The thing is, the vid itself isn't even that shocking. It's ugly and sickening, but it's ordinary. That was the worst part: realizing that something so horrible could be so mundane.

I have no illusions about what I do. I know it's all impulse-mapped and computer-enhanced, but I don't lie to my audience, and it's the best sex that some of them will ever experience. They need to know that sex can be enjoyable, even beautiful. Even if this is the only time they feel that, at least they can keep the memory of it.

That's why I do this. If you can't accept that, well, then you need to leave.

But I'd really prefer it if you stayed.



* With apologies to http://whyiwatch.com

Photo credits: "My eye" by Jean-Jacques MILAN; "Canon FD lens rear" by Matthew J. Brown; editing done in GIMP 2.6.3.

"Broken Morning"

BROKEN MORNING
By Curtis C. Chen

There's a unique color, the dark blue of distant mountains behind fog, that Helen has never seen in a city. It's not the most important reason she left, but it is the one she remembers every morning.

Today, there's noise. Percival's whinnies draw Helen out of the tent. She sees a bright orange dot in the sky, trailing a corkscrew of smoke. There's no chance it's natural.

"Well, Percy," she says, "we'd better make sure that doesn't burn."

No aviation alerts have appeared on the datalink. That either means nobody's noticed the falling star yet, or nobody wants to talk about it. She tweets her status to the nearest ranger station and rides into the forest.

Helen is surprised to see that none of the timber downed by the crash is burning. The pilot must have doused the engine fire before hitting the ground—which means a dead-stick landing. That's no mean feat.

She ties Percival to a tree about fifty yards from the wreckage, then checks the load on her revolver. The wolves get bolder all the time. Helen holsters the pistol and moves forward, stepping around debris.

This is no ordinary aircraft. The tail number isn't a civilian series, and the engine pods have no air intakes. The cabin hatch has been blown open. Helen's reaching for her penlight when a woman springs up on the other side of the fuselage.

"Stop right there!" the woman shouts. She's holding a shotgun and wearing combat fatigues.

Helen raises both hands and studies the face: sharp nose, pale skin, angry blue eyes, blond hair. Nothing like Helen, who is short, stocky, and dark.

"Who the hell are you?" the woman asks.

"Just passing through," Helen says. "I heard the crash and thought someone might need help."

The woman's eyes flick from side to side. "You a park ranger or something?"

"Nope," Helen says.

"That your horse back there?" the woman asks.

Helen shifts her weight slightly, feeling the ground. "I call him Percy."

"Well, me and 'Percy' are going for a little ride," the blond woman says. She starts walking backwards, limping.

"You need a doctor," Helen says.

"And I'm going to get one," the woman says. "Don't worry, I'm sure someone tracked me on the way down. They'll find you in a few hours."

Helen keeps her hands in the air and stands perfectly still.

Halfway to Percival, the blond woman turns and starts running. She probably figures she's gotten far enough away that Helen can't catch up. She didn't count on Helen having bullets.

Helen draws, breathes, and fires two rounds into the blond woman's back. The woman stumbles and falls. Her shotgun topples into the dirt.

Percy is still braying when Helen reaches him. "Hush," she says. "I wasn't going to shoot you."

The blond woman groans. "You... bitch..."

Helen looks down. "Don't worry. I tagged you with tranquilizer pellets. The authorities will be here long before you wake up. Maybe they'll even bring a doctor."

The woman swipes at the air and closes her eyes.



Photo credits: "Mount Hood seen from OHSU" by Cacophony; "Texas cowboys 2" by Pschemp; editing done with GIMP 2.6.0

"The Wren and the Hen and the Men in the Pen"

THE WREN AND THE HEN AND THE MEN IN THE PEN
By Curtis C. Chen

Every morning, the wren descended from the baron's airship to visit with the hen in the barnyard. The hen neither desired or encouraged these conversations, but, confined as she was within her coop, could do little to prevent their occurrence.

On this morning, the wren shouted from far across the barnyard, "They're here! Can you see them? They're almost here!"

"Go away," said the hen, delivering her customary greeting.

The wren hit the ground and tumbled into the wire barrier around the chicken coop. "The baron's getting at least a hundred interns! They came by rail but the baron had to send trucks to bring them from the station to the north pasture!"

"I suppose that explains all the construction," the hen muttered. The humans had been running their machines day and night, building fences and towers and inexplicable metal things. "What are 'interns?'"

The wren said, "I don't know. But they're humans! I think they're like visitors. They're going to stay here in the baron's care!"

"Great," said the hen. She could hear the rumble of engines approaching. "More mouths to feed."

The farmer emerged from his house carrying an empty basket and stomped over to the coop.

"Morning, Rosie," he said. The hen ignored him.

"We're getting interns!" the wren shouted.

"None of my business," said the farmer, opening the chute at the bottom of the coop. "A little light today, Rosie?"

"Winter's coming," said the hen.

"You let me know if anyone starts shutting down for the season," the farmer said. "We just fenced off some new ground in the north pasture. Girls might enjoy the outdoors if they're not producing."

The hen knew Thirteen and Twenty-Two hadn't laid in almost a week. But no hens ever came back after being relocated.

"I'll let you know," said the hen.

The farmer turned and walked back into the house.

"You're not laying anymore!" the wren said to the hen.

"Shut up," said the hen.

"You could relocate with the other hens—"

"I said shut up!"

The hen snapped her beak. The wren hopped backward and cowered.

A caravan of trucks rolled up to the edge of the fence at the north pasture. The hen could see most of the enclosure behind the edge of the barn.

The baron's guards prodded a line of thin, bald men into the enclosure. The bald men all wore gray, and there were human symbols painted on their clothes and foreheads.

One of the bald men staggered and fell. The nearest guard ran up and began kicking him. The other bald men did nothing. They didn't even try.

The hen watched and wondered when the baron had decided to treat these men more like animals than humans. She also wondered how long it would be before the baron decided that even animals should be treated like property.

"How far can you fly?" the hen asked the wren.

The wren puffed out his chest with pride. "I've flown all the way to the ocean!"

The hen braced herself and said, "Tell me about it."

Prime Time on the Interwebs

On Friday, October 23rd at 10PM Pacific, I will be a guest on Strange Love Live, a weekly online show featuring "the movers and shakers of the social web" (an earlier episode of which I rebroadcast from this very blog).

More details over at CKL's HotSheet.

"I'll Sleep When I'm Dead"

I'LL SLEEP WHEN I'M DEAD
By Curtis C. Chen

The woman in the black jacket hesitated before opening the container. The man in the blue suit stared at her. She had seen many different expressions cross his square-jawed face over the years, but now she saw something new: desperation.

"I'm going to ask you one more time," she said. "Don't do this."

He gave her the thinnest of smiles, and she remembered the first time they'd met and the fleeting thought of romance she'd entertained. But he was never interested in her. He had never wanted anyone except Lois.

"I appreciate your concern," he said, his voice steady and comforting, as if the woman in the black jacket was the one who needed reassuring. But she did, didn't she? If something went wrong—if he died here—she would have to live with it. She would be the woman who killed Earth's greatest hero.

"You understand that the change will be permanent," she said.

He nodded. "You mean, until the next time the universe is reshaped by events beyond our control? Yes. I understand."

She knew he wasn't talking about some cataclysmic battle against supervillains or extraterrestrial conquerors. He was talking about losing his wife in something as mundane as a traffic accident. There had been no warning, no evil plot, no significance to it. If she hadn't been his wife, few people would even have noticed.

The woman in the black jacket couldn't leave it alone. "We all feel powerless sometimes," she said. "But even you can't save everyone. Nobody can. It's not meant to be."

"I know that," he said. "But I can do more."

"You'll die sooner," she said. "Maybe that means only hundreds of years instead of thousands, but you don't know when the world will need you most—"

"Last Tuesday morning," said the man in the blue suit. "Twelve minutes after eight. And I wasn't there."

"It wasn't your fault!" she said. "You can't save everyone, Clark!"

"I don't want to save everyone," he said. "But if I can save one more life because of this—prevent one more family's suffering—it will be worth it."

She couldn't think of another argument, so she just said, "Please."

He smiled at her. Not condescending, just—compassionate. He was always so damn nice. He put a hand on her shoulder.

"I'm ready," he said.

She nodded and opened the container. A white glow emanated from its interior. He leaned forward, and reflections danced over his eyes. She wondered if he was trying to see through the relic, or using his microscopic vision to inspect its surface.

It wouldn't work. His powers were useless against magic. That was why he had come to her.

"What do I do?" he asked.

"Put your hand into the mist," she said. "The relic will do the rest."

The man in the blue suit raised his hand, then looked up at her. "Thank you, Zee," he said. "Whatever happens—thank you."

The woman in the black jacket shook her head. "I just hope you'll forgive me tomorrow."

He reached into the mist.

Ch-ch-changes

This week's story, the first of 512 Words or Fewer: Year Two, introduces a new feature to replace the audio podcast: illustrations!

As mentioned previously, I've loved comics for a long time. When I was younger, I drew my own comic strips and books, featuring anthropomorphized animals as the main characters because I had trouble drawing human faces. I could tell you about the Star Trek parody with Garfield as Doctor McCoy and--on second thought, I've probably said too much already.

Thankfully, my drawing skills matured in high school, and I did NOT turn to the dark side.

I dropped out of the comic scene in college, mostly because there was no convenient way for me to hit a comic shop every week. Also, I had by then slogged through several massive, multi-title, continuity-altering, universe-changing crossover Events^TM, and I'd grown a bit weary of the mainstream publishers' storytelling excesses.

The world of comics has grown up considerably in recent years, and there's some excellent, weird, amazing stuff out there. I started reconnecting while doing "research" for the Justice Unlimited Game, and I'm glad I did; otherwise, I might not have found Fables, Y: The Last Man, PS238, or Queen & Country. And my life would be all the poorer for it.

This week's illustration is just a pencil sketch. My drawing skills are a little rusty, but I hope to move up to finished inks and colors and maybe some other, more experimental stuff before the end of 512 Words or Fewer: Year Two. Watch this space, true believers!

Happy Birthday to Us

Today is my actual birthday,* and this Saturday will mark the one-year anniversary of the launch of 512 Words or Fewer.

As we sail into the second year of this project, I thought it would be fun to review some statistics from the first 52 weeks. I've never really trusted web analytics, because it's impossible to infer intent from raw hit counts, but it's fun to look at the numbers every now and then:

Current feed subscribers: 104
Reach, last 30 days: 9**
Average reach, all time: 6

Percentage of traffic from Direct links: 25.50
Percentage of traffic from Referring Sites: 51.83
Percentage of traffic from Search Engines: 22.55

Most unusual repeated search keywords:
gangsta words
beautiful descriptions
im super thanks for asking
funny voices
audio about the earth
feghoot
how do you say robot in french
laura barson
words that rhythm with open
words that stay the same

Top Ten Referring Sites:

1. facebook.com
2. friendfeed.com
3. twitter.com
4. boingboing.net
5. staticzombie.com
6. ccmixter.org
7. blog.nella.org
8. linkedin.com
9. playdash.org
10. blog.stephenharred.com

Most popular stories, by hit count:

1. "The Incredible Machine"
2. "Martian Standard Time"
3. "Better"
4. "Ghosts of Earth"
5. "Bad Boy of the Spelling Bee"
6. "Finale"
7. "The Coronation Will Not Be Televised"
8. "Bachelor of Science"
9. "Sam Spayed"
10. "Universal Language"

Most popular podcasts (based on FeedBurner "item use"):

"The Incredible Machine"
"Kangaroo's First Day with the Eye"
"Martian Standard Time"
"Ghost Machine"
"What You Should Know About Water Rites"
"True Story"
"The More Things Change"
"Bad Boy of the Spelling Bee"
"Getaway"
"Sam Spayed"

Thanks for reading, and if you enjoy these stories, please tell your friends! (That's what the SHARE button at the bottom of each post is for.)



* I am now 2*2*3*3 years old. Or, if you prefer, 100100₂.

** Yeah, I'm not real happy with these "reach" numbers, but I imagine I'd be more upset if I understood what they actually meant and trusted the calculation method. For now, I'm just going to shrug and move on.