Category: fiction

The Reality

Khalvin rolled out of his bed with a snort and dropped to the floor.

Something had awakened him.

Everything seemed normal.

He moved to the reveal and transparented it.

Starry skies held outside. The ship still moved. Moonlight lapped the dark sea. He pinged his Backhand for the ship’s location. Systems confirmed they remained over the California Sea. Airspeed was ninety. The outside temperature was eighty-four degrees. Their destination was forty-nine minutes away.

Ordering a water bulb, he plucked it out of the air as it arrived, massaged his head against lingering sleep, and considered what to do as he sucked up water. He didn’t know what had awakened him. A dream’s wreckage drifted through his consciousness. He’d dreamed he wasn’t himself, Khalvin, but another person. He didn’t know that name, and he didn’t look as he now looked, but he knew it was him.

He’d been somewhere he couldn’t fully perceive. It seemed like a shop. Others were there, but he didn’t know them and didn’t speak with them. Music he didn’t recognize played above burbling conversations and crisp clacking and clinking noises. His dream self barely noticed. Sitting and bent over a keyboard, he was busy thinking, typing and talking to himself.

The image lingered with him, powerfully real. Wondering it meant, he considered the California Sea and thought of the ruins purported to be under its surface. In many ways, being here on Earth, about to explore ruins, seemed more like a dream than the dream he’d just experienced.

He realized he’d been Human in the dream. He was a Cat. He’d always been a Cat. To be Human….

He smiled. That seemed like the strangest dream of all.

***

Sorry for the shaggy cat story. Blame it on my dreams. Cheers

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Last Night

I checked last night before going to bed: still a man. The three AM rise to pee told a different story.

I felt odder when I walked, a warning that I’d suffered the change again. I was supposedly awake and walking, going to pee, but was stumbling through a dream’s fading chaff. I wasn’t really thinking, moving in auto-mode. It wasn’t until I raised the toilet seat and lid and flicked on my Fitbit to give me light to piss that I discovered my missing pecker.

It always happens during the night, and people are always asleep. I’m black again, too, although not as black as one of the other times. I’ve been through this change enough to be angry, irritated, resigned and frustrated simultaneously. While sitting and peeing, I reflected on how long it had been since the last time (three weeks) so I had clean female clothing available. I don’t know why it makes a difference. Male and female clothing fit me differently and I feel ‘better’ wearing clothes appropriate for my sex.

Except shoes. I won’t wear heels. No way.

I have no cosmetic experience, so that’s always an interesting aspect. I go without make-up. Mom is a natural beauty and my sisters are gorgeous. I thought that gave me a chance, but no; I look like a female version of my father. My mustache and goatee automatically sheds during the change and my physical structure changes. I have a rack of floppy boobs and I’m busty as Mom. You’d think all these changes would wake you when it happens but it never wakes me.

By the way, Mom and my sisters look great as men, too. Some people have all the luck.

When I first read reports of it happening to Trump, I thought it was hilarious. That was the first I’d heard of it. It wasn’t so funny when it happened to others. There was nothing funny about it when it happened to me four days after it had happened to Trump. At least I wasn’t moved to kill myself. Many men do when they awake as a woman. The percentage of women killing themselves is much smaller than men after they suffer the change. Women seem to adjust better. The percentages of suicide drop as you experience more iterations. This is my eighth or ninth time, I think. I think. I don’t know.

No one is forthcoming about what started it. It might surprise you to know that the Internet has some theories. Some of it involves secret government activities. Some claim it’s the Russians, but female Putin vehemently denied that. Others blame Muslims, GMO food, witches, sorcerers and aliens. Some put the onus on an angry god.

I hate this erratic cycle of changes. I wish I’d stay either a man or a woman and one race or the other. It doesn’t comfort me at all that everyone in the world is going through this, no matter what age, race, culture or religion. I’m not a violent person but I swear, if I ever find those responsible, they will pay. How?

It’ll depend on whether I’m a man or a woman.

2

Hairy Now

It became a little hairy with my thinking today as I coped with chi-particles and now while writing the novel, ‘Long Summer’. 

I was dealing with the side-effect suffered by intelligent, organic creatures when a now is forced into existence. I simply wanted to vet and standardize for myself what that side-effect meant. That vector of thought shot me back toward the chi-particle structure, earlier rudimentary chi-particle thinking about how it evolves and devolves, and the relationships established with Hawking’s three arrows of time.

So, weirdly, the chi-particle has imaginary mass and energy and gains real mass and energy as it slows down. Dropping to the speed of light, the chi-particles gain mass and energy and releases other wave/particles/energies that develop into the chemical elements of the known universes, but also deliver time and gravity, time occurring to create a now associated with a wave function collapse. When the collapse happens, then reality is formed through an intersection of the box with the three arrows of time – psychological, thermodynamic, and cosmological.

But – this is where it becomes hairy – I recognized that the chi-particle not only exists in a state of imaginary mass and energy, but also imaginary time. It seems like an ‘of course’sort of concept, but I struggle to keep it pinned in place in conjunction with the novel being written.

I’ve been trying to further understanding of how the chi-particle interacts with the known theories of relativity and matter. I’ve always (ha – I came up with this about nine months ago) theorized in this imaginary existence of this imaginary particle that travels faster than light that isotopes and variants exist. Chi-particles exist in everything in the a half state. Once they’ve achieved real mass and energy, they continue decaying. As they decay, they shift from real properties to negative imaginary properties. I haven’t evolved any theories about what this would mean to the box of now created during the wave function collapse at the intersection with the arrows of time.

But further, for there to be an awareness of now when the wave function collapses at the intersection with the arrows of time, a sufficient aggregation of chi-particles for a particle species – such as Humans, for example – must exist for them to have an awareness and knowledge of their own existence. It’s at that point, when the ‘Human’ chi-particles aggregate, that Humans can reach the point of, “I think, therefore, I am.” Yet, it’s fleeting. Humans can’t understand beyond these moments of time (with the associated arrows) because once the chi-particles decay to the point of negative imaginary mass, energy and time, Humans cease to be.

Meanwhile, playing with the periodical table of elements to establish how this all fits together, I realized that the table becomes a multi-dimensional matrix in order to accommodate the chi-particles.

I needed to write all this out to think it out, stabilize it and make it ‘real’ to me. I’ll tell you, I’ll be happy when I finish writing this novel. I look forward to returning to simpler thoughts and plots.

Now I’m done writing like crazy for today. It sure was crazy.

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Last Meal

For my last meal, I went all out. Prime rib with horseradish sauce, roasted new potatoes, roasted asparagus with a small spring salad. A blackberry cobbler with real vanilla ice cream. A nice pinot noir to drink with the meal was requested for the meal, with a Praeger tawny port to drink while smoking cigars after my meal. Although I’ve made friends and re-established three friendships with others who died and are here, I’m dining alone. I like being alone. The Caretakers weren’t surprised. About half the people request solitude for their last meal. The other half like being part of a big party.

As I understand it, and they made it clear in orientation, I’ve already died, killed in a car crash in my new Ferrari. I can’t believe my timing. I was just making it big. Now I’m dead.

At least I don’t need to worry about my heart and cancer any longer. Or my hair. I can’t gain weight or do anything to this body. I won’t have it tomorrow morning. I’ll die and be reborn, starting over.

Doing the stroll, I say good-byes to the world. Bright orange poppies proliferate in a sandy field. Birds wheel, collect and land. A comforting sea breeze chops up the ocean. Waves splash with sunshine. This place, Aition, is temporary. It reminds me of the central California coast, just south of Half Moon Bay, where I lived my life. Born and raised, a California native. I stayed there, except for Vietnam, marrying twice and divorcing the same, with five children resulting from these unions. Richard, one of my boys, had preceded me in death. He was the oldest and the brightest. I tried finding him here but he’d already left, they said. I would have like to see him again. His death in a plane crash gutted me.

These thoughts carry me to the Solarium. I sought a final glimpse of my new sun and planet. Looking at them, I still can’t accept the truth of what I’m being told. The sun is the size of an orange. My planet is like a blue, green and white pea.It’s already populated with eight billion humans. I’ll join them tomorrow.

I kept asking, “Is this a model?”

No; that’s the planet. Those are all planets and suns.

“How many?” I wonder aloud.

“Billions and billions,” they reply.

Expanding my scope of seeing, I look up, down and across from the overhang where I stand. It looks like billions and billions.

I’ve compared my new Earth to the Earth that I left. It’s several suns over. They look pretty much the same.

We never cease, they told me. We just leave one place and go to another. This stop is a sop to us because we’re always wondering what happens when we die. It’s not a good sop. It opens up as many questions as it answers, and then, I’ll die here, be reborn elsewhere, and have most of my knowledge gone.

“How do I get a job here?” I asked a couple of the Caretakers. They’re all beautiful, perfect people and seem serene and happy. Why not? They’re living the perfect life. “Who do I see?”

“You can’t do anything to get here,” they all answer. “You’re born to here,” Juarez said. “Just like you’re born to other worlds.”

It seems capricious, arbitrary and unfair, just like the world I just left.

Time to eat. See you all later.

I suppose.

0

The Spot

My long haired beast’s fur was matting again. Letting him sprawl on my lap, I began cutting, sorting, combing and unknotting lumps of fur. Working down his belly toward his tiny pecker, I discovered a black thing.

I could not tell what it was. It wasn’t a tick nor anything else I’d ever seen. It seemed almost like a dimple, yet something black stuck out, and the immediate area around it was discolored.

Calling to my wife, I requested the magnifying glass as Quinn waited and purred. I continued examining the space. There was something there. The horrible fear that wracks pet owners was swelling in me. Cancer. Disease. Not again! Not another! Not little Quinn.

My wife handed me the magnifying glass. She’d also brought a flashlight. Together we bent over and looked.

“What is that?” she asked.

I couldn’t answer. I couldn’t say what I was thinking. I was thinking, it looks like a small spacecraft has crashed into my cat’s belly. 

I know, I know, it must be something else.

1

The End

He liked to start his mornings with the paper.

Flipping open the pages, he hurried to the comics to satisfy his intellectual curiosity. Folding the section open flat on the American Maple table, he hummed a song he couldn’t name and dashed into the kitchen. From sound and habit, he knew Mr. Coffee had finished his task. A cup was poured. Half & Half paled its color. Two teaspoons of sugar were splashed in. It was gently stirred so as not to splash.

Next was cereal. “Always after my Lucky Charms,” he said, filling a bowl. Filled bowl, coffee, spoon and napkin were carried in to the waiting folded paper. He returned for to the kitchen for the milk. He used to carry them all in at the same time but that one time – he refrained from thinking about it. The milk had been hell to clean up. The imagined smell of souring, spilled milk took weeks to skulk away. Never again.

Seated, he took a sip of coffee. “Perfect.” He poured his milk over his cereal until it the bobbing cereal was at the bowl’s brim. Perfect.” Raising his spoon —

They found him with his face down in a bowl of warm, sour milk on mushy cereal. It looked like natural causes. Perhaps that would have been the end.

Except one person noticed the newspaper’s date said nineteen seventy. That discovery made everyone looked more closely at the interior decor.

It was just the beginning.

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Final Post

This may be my final post; I don’t know.

I lost the argument. We’re moving out tomorrow. Going north. I don’t think it’s a smart idea and argued against it. Obviously, I lost. Yes, I already wrote that, didn’t I? I should edit it but it doesn’t matter, does it?

So, we’re going. One of our community’s rules is that we’ll stay together. We all agreed to the rules in the beginning. I argued that we need to adhere to them even if we don’t like their employment. We have safety and strength in numbers and are more likely to die if there are less of us, IMO.

We’re moving because the majority are afraid and Jeremy is persuasive. Water is low, food, all that, and it’s getting hellaciously hot. Last night, it never dipped below eighty-four. What do you expect? The world is hellaciously hot – and dry – but they think that it might be cooler and wetter up north. Nobody has come through in weeks, since those two young couples trying to get to Mexico. Jeremy and Buck believe it’s because it’s nicer up there so nobody is coming down here into the hot, dry land. Maybe they’re right. I think nobody is coming down here because they can’t or they’re dead. I mean, all that smoke that filled the valley was from fires, wasn’t it?

Well, at least the fires are out and the air is clear today. No smoke! Yes! That’s something positive. We talked about it this morning and decided it’s been at least three months since we didn’t have smoke in the valley. We still have coffee beans, too, if you want something else that’s positive, and only three died this week, with Meghan being the last.  We’ve packed up the vans, cars and RVs, and we’re taking the solar panels. You know I’m taking my computer, so you might hear from me again.

I think Meghan’s death really changed the argument. I won’t say this to anyone else, but I think they may have poisoned her for just that reason. She didn’t appear sick and her death was a surprise. But, most people don’t appear sick before dying. Someone might be poisoning all of us, for all I know. That would help the food last longer.

Wish I could hear something posted back from one of you out there.

Wish I had an internet connection and could actually post this on the Internet.

I wish…I wish…there are so many things to wish for now.

I’d begin with hope.

____

This was a writing exercise prompted by another’s post, what would you write for your last post. I needed a reason to write such a post, so I imagined a situation and let it flow. I honestly struggle with the idea that I’d no longer post. Writing helps me think, and posting boosts my sense of being connected to others. I plan to continue writing and posting for as long as I have the physical and mental means.

Cheers

8

What Was Said

“That’s not what I said,” he said, and she retorted in a shot, “Yes, it is.”

Both asserted it with concrete insistence, reminding him of a conversation they’d had earlier, where the roles were reversed, and she was claiming, “That’s not what I said,” and he was retorting, “Yes, it is.”

It made him wonder and want a time machine, just something small, to wind back the seconds so he could see and hear.

Maybe then, he’d understand.

0

Protocol Three

Pram has declared Protocol Three. You know what that means: the sierra is encountering the rotating blades.

Meanwhile, Handley and company have found their target. Fermenting in my brain cells for several weeks, I’m looking forward to writing these scenes; their plans are going disastrously awry, and they’re ignorant of what is about to happen. Love writing my characters into disasters and confrontations. Some, like Tang’s confrontation with Pram, I never see coming. Such surprising encounters are engaging, especially when they organically develop from just letting the characters carry the scene and be themselves. And then, what happened next astonished me but made absolute sense from the characters’ POV. Very cool.

After this is written, it’s back to Forus Ker, Seth Nor and the Humans, where they’ve been killing Brett, and Philea and the Wrinkle, where she’s meeting Forus Ker and Seth Nor. I can see and hear these scenes so clearly, I’m impatient to write them, but I don’t want to be hasty. Relax, I order myself; they’ll be written.

The common rule of thumb for movies is that one page equals one minute of screen time. That’s what I learned but The Working Screenwriter says, “Not so,” and gives specifics of movie scripts and running times. Anyway, I’ve noticed that scenes and dialogue take place in my head very quickly. I’ll visualize and realize them in thirty to ninety seconds.

Great, right? So they all pile on, scene after scene after scene. But writing these thirty to ninety second one bites takes a few days of writing and editing, and typically require two or three days. One, I’ll often write to capture the essence. Then I return to pad it with relevant details. In parallel, I’m editing and revising for pacing, grammar, sentence structure, et cetera. Then, I also find that something realized during the writing of such scenes trigger an impact on another scene. Sometimes that scene is already written and needs revision to add the tidbit.

The other scenes then must be held in my head or scribbled onto a notebook page, or have a brief entry typed up in a doc. All those paths fortunately work for me. Sometimes one of them stumbles but I find that with a little work, they start making sense again.

So much to write, so little time. Three…two…one. Time to write like crazy, at least one more time.

5

National Book Critics Circle Awards Nominees

I was pleased to see the Vulture headline for the NBCCAs in my inbox:

Michael Chabon and Zadie Smith Are Among the Finalists for the National Book Critics Circle Awards

Great, I enjoy their writing. But then I read the list and was dismayed that they’d not mentioned several favorites in their headline. What, no love to Louise Erdrich for ‘LaRosa’? Or Jane Mayer for ‘Dark Money’? A few headlines mentioned Ann Pratchett but I saw no mention of the excellent Mayer and Erdrich. Then, scanning the list, I saw that Margaret Atwood was winning the Ivan Sandrof Lifetime Achievement Award. That’s marvelous, as she remains a lifelong favorite for me, but again, she’s not in the headlines.

It’s an excellent list of nominees. I need to read more books.

 

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