This is the beginning of a sci-fi concept about the "before-life"...look for more parts to come in Writer's Corner.
All the souls were aware of the great Existence above them. They had no eyes to see, but sensed something greater and more complex than one another.
Some of the souls moved at the speed of light; some much faster. Each danced and swayed to a unique rhythm. One was pale pink while another was azure. Some many colors at once, while others switched at random. None knew where they came from or what was to come. In fact the sense of time hadn’t been instilled in them yet.
The Soul called Hollis was orange and red, all the illuminating shades of existence. This soul was no more special than the others. It vibrated and swayed, as did the others, on its own accord.
The Soul found itself alone. Its colors continued to burn amber, lemon and rose. The Soul was curious but not unsettled by being alone with the great Existence.
The Soul waited for a long time in the company of the Existence. The Soul took comfort in the Existence.
The Existence did not shine with colors but with a boldness. The Soul knew that whatever happened next would be because of the Existence.
For the first time the Soul was aware of itself. And the Soul looked at the great Existence.
The Soul chose to put its attention on the Existence, asking it, "What has transpired."
The boldness of the Existence grew as it acknowledged the Soul's question. After a long time Existence responded.
"You have become a Soul."
The Soul knew this to be true. The Existence communicated further. There was a spark of infinite energy. As it grew, the spark began to take shades of brightness. After a while the shades became more distinct. Then they broke off of their own accord. They were of the same, but distinct.
Now that the Soul knew where it came from, it wanted to know what was next.
"This is what I will. I want to be the brightest of light among the sparks."
After a while the Existence acknowledged the Soul's will. And the Soul communicated again. "This is what I will: to add to the wonder of the sparks.
Then the Existence spoke, and time was born for the Soul:
"Your will has been created, and it shall be followed."
to be continued...
Showing posts with label sci-fi. Show all posts
Showing posts with label sci-fi. Show all posts
August 02, 2012
July 27, 2012
Writer's Corner: short story: the Portal Exploration part 1
Scout Miller was a man of banal ways, uncelebrated means, and incredibly normal appearance. Yet Scout was a lucky man, being married to one of the most wonderful women this side of heaven. Gina was a quietly beautiful wife who volunteered in her community weekly and gave herself to her family life. Because of her efforts, and despite his, Scout was gifted with two compassionate children, Sam and Vicki. Scout's everyday existence was spent trying to appreciate the incredible life he'd been given, and to some day become worthy of it.
Sadly, Scout's family was killed on a Saturday morning in November. Scout's kids were accompanying Gina to a doctor's appointment when Gina was mugged at gunpoint. Vicki screamed as the man in an oversized winter coat rasped, "get on your knees, kids." "Do what he says," Gina said courageously. The man threw Gina's purse to the ground and wrapped his snowmobile gloves around her neck. As her face purpled, Sam jumped at the man but fell with a shot. Vicki looked with shock into the man's face before she, too was shot in the chest and fell to the cement with her mom and brother.
The news hit Scout with a crushing blow. For a week he sat numbly on his wide couch where his family watched movies together, eating endless bags of greasy chips with high-calorie dips and putting away cheap beer by the six-pack. His second week of mourning Scout dropped the chips and upped his drinking to mostly liquor. He would think about the times in college he and Gina would drink White Russians at the pool hall. In painful nostalgia he stumbled to a hall downtown where he drank whisky sours and played horrible pool. He quickly became a laughing stock and willingly excepted bets from sharks, but the owner put a stop to it after Scout had lost $150.
To be continued...
Sadly, Scout's family was killed on a Saturday morning in November. Scout's kids were accompanying Gina to a doctor's appointment when Gina was mugged at gunpoint. Vicki screamed as the man in an oversized winter coat rasped, "get on your knees, kids." "Do what he says," Gina said courageously. The man threw Gina's purse to the ground and wrapped his snowmobile gloves around her neck. As her face purpled, Sam jumped at the man but fell with a shot. Vicki looked with shock into the man's face before she, too was shot in the chest and fell to the cement with her mom and brother.
The news hit Scout with a crushing blow. For a week he sat numbly on his wide couch where his family watched movies together, eating endless bags of greasy chips with high-calorie dips and putting away cheap beer by the six-pack. His second week of mourning Scout dropped the chips and upped his drinking to mostly liquor. He would think about the times in college he and Gina would drink White Russians at the pool hall. In painful nostalgia he stumbled to a hall downtown where he drank whisky sours and played horrible pool. He quickly became a laughing stock and willingly excepted bets from sharks, but the owner put a stop to it after Scout had lost $150.
To be continued...
July 25, 2012
Author Bio: Lovecraft in Unexpected Places
Sometimes a name fits a person or object like a glove. Take for instance the German word for team, as in soccer team. To my foreign ears, Mannschaft connotes a group of men banding together to perform an operation of great violence or skill; overhauling a submarine, for instance. Fitting, right?
For a few years now I’ve associated the name “Lovecraft” with one of the classical names of early science fiction. I mistakenly categorized HP Lovecraft into the company of the visionary HG Wells, the prophetic Jules Verne, the ground-breaking Isaac Asimov. But not only was Lovecraft American born, unlike these three writers, he was more eclectic in his fiction writing.
Because I first heard the name mentioned in a college course studying 19th century ghost stories, I ought to have taken the hint Lovecraft was in the business of writing horror. But to me the name spoke of a grand voyage taken by fantastical creatures to a rainbow galaxy, so how was I to suspect otherwise?
I finally took the hint on a visit last weekend to Barnes and Noble, when waiting for me in the atrium was a collection of HP Lovecraft of Hebrew Scriptural proportions. Having no shame when it comes to public displays of affection with a codex, with two hands I tenderly took the book from its place on the quick-sell rack and flipped its pages lovingly. Only then did I understand this book was a collection of horror fiction. Rainbow galaxy indeed.
But nobody had to know of my little blunder, did they? So I entered the store with my head held high, taking in the wonder of books and living in the endorphin rush. HP Lovecraft was no longer a writer of the cosmic but of corpses, which explained my inability to find him at our giant used Books and CDs store in the science fiction section, no matter how often I walked the genre aisle.
As you've probably guessed by now, or perhaps already know, Lovecraft writes horror as well as science fiction, and--what's this?--fantasy to boot. What a loveable craft this man was blessed with.
And so, at the book store, I moved on to fondling other merchandise, namely the two last books of a certain American essayist my wife and I lack for our collection. At first I couldn’t locate an aisle named "essays," mistakenly scouring the generously stocked World War II history section twice over. The self-search computer was jammed as luck would have it, so this English major swallowed his pride once again and lined up at the customer help desk, where out of the corner of my eye was the missing aisle. Patiently awaiting my audience by the conveniently placed steps to the coffee bar.
For a fascinating discourse on Lovecraft's life and mythos:
http://www.crackle.com/c/Lovecraft_Fear_Of_The_Unknown
For a few years now I’ve associated the name “Lovecraft” with one of the classical names of early science fiction. I mistakenly categorized HP Lovecraft into the company of the visionary HG Wells, the prophetic Jules Verne, the ground-breaking Isaac Asimov. But not only was Lovecraft American born, unlike these three writers, he was more eclectic in his fiction writing.
Because I first heard the name mentioned in a college course studying 19th century ghost stories, I ought to have taken the hint Lovecraft was in the business of writing horror. But to me the name spoke of a grand voyage taken by fantastical creatures to a rainbow galaxy, so how was I to suspect otherwise?
I finally took the hint on a visit last weekend to Barnes and Noble, when waiting for me in the atrium was a collection of HP Lovecraft of Hebrew Scriptural proportions. Having no shame when it comes to public displays of affection with a codex, with two hands I tenderly took the book from its place on the quick-sell rack and flipped its pages lovingly. Only then did I understand this book was a collection of horror fiction. Rainbow galaxy indeed.
But nobody had to know of my little blunder, did they? So I entered the store with my head held high, taking in the wonder of books and living in the endorphin rush. HP Lovecraft was no longer a writer of the cosmic but of corpses, which explained my inability to find him at our giant used Books and CDs store in the science fiction section, no matter how often I walked the genre aisle.
As you've probably guessed by now, or perhaps already know, Lovecraft writes horror as well as science fiction, and--what's this?--fantasy to boot. What a loveable craft this man was blessed with.
And so, at the book store, I moved on to fondling other merchandise, namely the two last books of a certain American essayist my wife and I lack for our collection. At first I couldn’t locate an aisle named "essays," mistakenly scouring the generously stocked World War II history section twice over. The self-search computer was jammed as luck would have it, so this English major swallowed his pride once again and lined up at the customer help desk, where out of the corner of my eye was the missing aisle. Patiently awaiting my audience by the conveniently placed steps to the coffee bar.
For a fascinating discourse on Lovecraft's life and mythos:
http://www.crackle.com/c/Lovecraft_Fear_Of_The_Unknown
July 23, 2012
Current Events: Sally Ride, a nonfictional Bright Knight
Americans lost one of our great heroines today, Sally Ride, to pancreatic cancer at the cradle-robbing age of 61. My Senior year of high school I proudly wore a vintage t-shirt which proclaimed, "Girl scouts can do anything." Because of women like Sally Ride, young women accross America--and not girl scouts only--believed they could do anything, too.
When combining the frontier of space and fiction you usually come up with science fiction, a genre for which I have a tragically poor understanding, especially considering the abundance of hackneyed premises I'm able to produce without even trying.
If I were teaching a literature class at the local Community College and could impart whatever I wanted so long as it sounded plausible, I would describe the key convention of science fiction something like this:
a story taking place in a universe held together with consistent but unfamiliar rules, whose hero alters the course of that universe's destiny.
Now, in the company of such an ignorant statement, aren't we glad to have wikipedia to save us?
"Science fiction includes such a wide range of themes and subgenres that it is notoriously difficult to define."
Well, I guess we're all grasping when it comes to this fascinating genre.
While reading the many attempts over eighty years to nail down the nuance of science fiction, I realized one reason that accounted for the variety of definitions. Science fiction not only reinvents itself as a genre by varying its best themes. It also feeds off the desires and moods of culture.
Take the Dark Knight film series that has been so popular for the last five years. I haven't seen Dark Knight Rising, but nonetheless I remember how Dark Knight ended. The Joker's philosophy is turned on its head as the citizens choose not to destroy each other, but to relinquish their fate to the gods insted of saving their own necks. The police begin to search for Batman, convinced this man who hides his face must be the cause of the city's trouble. Therefore it's Batman's plight not only to save the helpless masses, but to embody our guilt and twistedness (shouldn't they be chasing the guy who uses blood for lipstick?).
The writers of Dark Knight got it right when they presumed movie-goers would appreciate the mystery of a superhero scapegoat. Something struck home with us when Batman was unjustly accused.
Things were different in the 80s, when to inspire others you had to have the charisma of a Sally Ride. I look forward to watching the future develope, and I'm thankful for people like Ms. Ride who encourage us to be what we desire so desperately to be.
When combining the frontier of space and fiction you usually come up with science fiction, a genre for which I have a tragically poor understanding, especially considering the abundance of hackneyed premises I'm able to produce without even trying.
If I were teaching a literature class at the local Community College and could impart whatever I wanted so long as it sounded plausible, I would describe the key convention of science fiction something like this:
a story taking place in a universe held together with consistent but unfamiliar rules, whose hero alters the course of that universe's destiny.
Now, in the company of such an ignorant statement, aren't we glad to have wikipedia to save us?
"Science fiction includes such a wide range of themes and subgenres that it is notoriously difficult to define."
Well, I guess we're all grasping when it comes to this fascinating genre.
While reading the many attempts over eighty years to nail down the nuance of science fiction, I realized one reason that accounted for the variety of definitions. Science fiction not only reinvents itself as a genre by varying its best themes. It also feeds off the desires and moods of culture.
Take the Dark Knight film series that has been so popular for the last five years. I haven't seen Dark Knight Rising, but nonetheless I remember how Dark Knight ended. The Joker's philosophy is turned on its head as the citizens choose not to destroy each other, but to relinquish their fate to the gods insted of saving their own necks. The police begin to search for Batman, convinced this man who hides his face must be the cause of the city's trouble. Therefore it's Batman's plight not only to save the helpless masses, but to embody our guilt and twistedness (shouldn't they be chasing the guy who uses blood for lipstick?).
The writers of Dark Knight got it right when they presumed movie-goers would appreciate the mystery of a superhero scapegoat. Something struck home with us when Batman was unjustly accused.
Things were different in the 80s, when to inspire others you had to have the charisma of a Sally Ride. I look forward to watching the future develope, and I'm thankful for people like Ms. Ride who encourage us to be what we desire so desperately to be.
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