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September 10, 2007
I'm Sure I'll Regret This
So, I think I've been pretty open, if not in this forum, then in other more personal ones, about my darker aspects, and the skeletons in my closet. But I've patted myself on the back too much, because recently, I realized there are a few things I've kept under wraps.
A month or two ago, at my twentieth high school reunion, I was standing in a group of alumni, feeling more confident and together than I'd anticipated, when a guy named Jeff said, "Hey, didn't you end up writing an episode for XXXX XXXX?"
Except, of course, what actually happened was he said the name of the show, not "XXXX XXXX", and i was a bit embarassed, not only at the sudden, guerilla-attack reminder of my once and continuing geekiness, but for my failure to have actually followed through on one of the best shots at success as a writer that I might have ever had.
In 1991, I was in a class called Astronomy and Science Fiction. It was in UT's astronomy department, but served as a writing component.
It was not a fluff class. In the seminars, we learned primarily about astrophysics, at a fairly advanced level. We also, however, had reading assignments that were science fiction stories. Our grade came from a combination of exams covering the science, and three science fiction stories that we had to write.
The professor was extremely tough. My first writing assignment was a severe and unprecedented blow - I got a 70, and it was one of the higher grades given.
The professor also made one thing clear from day one: his very keen and comprehensive disdain for a very popular science fiction franchise, that at the time, I was a tremendous fan of. OK, I still am. In fact, he as much as assured an immediate failing grade on anything written in that particular fictional universe.
After his shredding of my first story, I was fuming mad, and also bewildered. That bewilderment turned to resignation, which happened to coincide with an idea for a story. Unfortunately, the story worked perfectly in the universe of the Hated Franchise of Certain Academic Death. The deadline loomed. The story grew. I tried to avoid it, but then it was the night before it was due. I pulled an all-nighter, and in seven or eight hours, chucked out a 40 page piece. Of something.
It's mainly embarassing. It's juvenile, blatantly sentimental, and, um, reveals without a doubt my true geek form. But there's bits in it, and it's good for reminsicing and hopefully, light entertainment.
Incidentally, he gave it a 98 due to a handful of uncharacteristic spelling errors, he shared it with another UT professor who was a leader in the field of the certain variety of supernovae featured in the story, and he strongly encouraged me to publish it.
I made calls, and was finally rewarded with a packet of information from Paramount, with instructions on submitting scripts. There was the rub - at that point, the show didn't take story treatments or prose versions of stories, just properly done scripts.
I made a few attempts to convert the thing to a script format, but I was uncertain, distracted, and undisciplined, and it never happened.
For my third story, I had another story idea, admittedly a rip-off, but it scored a 99.
So, the the first story is in the archaic, defunct Ami Pro format. I'm in process of converting it to a usable file. But I have the third one here, so that's what you're getting first, in serialized form that will only prolong your suffering and my embarassment. Holly, however, insisted I put it up, because she runs out of blog reading material at somoe early point in the day, apaprently long before Oprah comes on. If everyone and my last shred of faux dignity survives this one, I'll put the first story up, too.
So, anyway, there it is, and here we go. Part One of "My Soul to Keep"
for God's sake, i was 20 or so... I was a tremendous geek! I didn't drink... was still a virgin... I wrote it in one night! ok, here...
The station was silent. It was the "nightshift," and aside from the pair of techs keeping vigil in the control room and one scientist working late, the 439 other residents of Research Station Wheeler were in their quarters, sprawled across beds, curled up between the sheets, warm and safe. It was a night of quiet slumber for the sleepers.
It was also a good night for the dreamers.
Misty hazes of remembrance, flights of fancy, dreams of love.
Fields of flowers.
A friend long forgotten.
And there were nightmares.
Crowded corridors of faceless monsters in frozen screams.
Running in vain from shadows down ancient urban mazes.
And deeper nightmares that would never be told, that would be covered over by a protective subconscious, as an oyster does a grain of sand, smoothing it, disguising it.
But not all were asleep, and not all the nightmares were dreams.
The images and words began to flicker and dance, and Susana McLeod rubbed her eyes. The harpsichord piece playing softly had seemed to drop out a few times now. It was late. If the answer was in the data, it would still be there in the morning. And if not... well, if black holes ever died, she'd never live to see it. She ordered the computer off halfway through a yawn, and had to repeat the command more clearly. The music died abruptly, and the screen went blank, leaving her in darkness.
But after three months of staying up nights working she was comfortable moving around the station in the dark. The door slid open, and she walked down the corridor. She listened as she walked, closed her eyes against the soft amber glow that met her as she stepped out of the lab into the coridor. She walked, eyes still closed, tempting sleep as she trailed her fingers along the wall to her right, feeling the coarse sensation of the fabric wall coverings, hearing the soft crush of carpet under her soft-soled feet. And something else, just out of time with her step. She drew up short for a moment, opened her eyes and looked around.
But now there was only the barely audible whisper of the environmental systems.
She looked both ways down the corridor, then stepped into the lift that had opened before her.
"Level 7, please."
Nothing happened.
She didn't remember yawning that time. "Computer, level 7."
There was no beep, no cool synthesized response, and, dammit, no motion.
Then the lights went out.
"Aw, hell. Computer!"
She heard the doors open again, saw the shadow haloed in amber move in swiftly from the corridor, heard the doors close, felt the cold blade tear into her larynx. She heard the rasp of air escaping, the hypo in the back of her neck, felt her lungs sinking, the blood warm on her throat, trickling down, felt her body from the neck down fade away. She thought she was dying, but Death was patient, waiting farther into the night.
A man rolled over, disturbed by a dream.
A woman mumbled in her sleep.
A turbolift finally moved.
And thousands of miles below, the black hole tugged at the sleeping souls above, nothingness surrounded with the frozen death of light.
Posted by Rob at 11:11 AM | Comments (0)
September 05, 2007
Cubicle Etiquette
Sorry, this is old, but I don't think I've had it on here before, and someone just made me think of it...
With the help of the cubicle, the grand visions of the more efficient business future have finally and truly been realized. Across the world, vast indoor fields of tiny fabric-walled pens are enabling industry to continue on its mighty, faceless march across humanity. This great movement sprang from Nature's own Bosom, from Her examples of the super-efficient beehive, to the entirely natural Concentrated Animal Feeding Facilities pioneered by the pork and poultry industries, which are not capitalized here because they are already well-capitalized.
Unfortunately, the nuances of the human worker animal require a new set of rules for the modern-day Concentrated Human Worker Facility. Like swine and pullet hens, people are going to be annoying, and people will complain, regardless of attempts at politeness. In these potentially ugly situations, its often more effective to be David Banner than Miss Manners. A few helpful tips:
Respect for cube space is important, and communication is key. A thin, almost invisible strand of piano wire strung across your cube entrance will leave a clean but nasty cut across the windpipe, and will send a clear message regarding your personal boundaries.
"Good fences make good neighbors," but an open display of personal armament only improves the situation. Like maintaining a mutual nuclear deterrent, the credible threat of immediate and effective violence, together with the credible threat of swift and equally effective retribution, will stave off many a cubicle quibble. Flashing a bit of gunmetal when you say "Good Morning," will often insure at least several hours of peaceful coexistence.
For those lingering loiterers, I remind you that no one likes to hang out where there's a strong, foul, organic odor. You figure out the rest.
Know your audio. It's instinctive for us to deal with our neighbor's questionable musical choices by turning up our own selection du jour, but first, take a moment to calm down, gather yourself, and consider what you're about to do. Are you fighting Creed with Puddle of Mudd? Indistinguishable, it'll never work. Reba with Alan Jackson? Neither of you deserve to live, much less win your stupid little battle. You must always take taste as well as aural physics into account. Nothing says "screw you" to a Barry Manilow-playing neighbor than a selection from Ice-T's magnum opus, "Body Count."
Finally, while innovation is required by our changing environment, don't forget some of the old stand-by's: tire slashing, planting gay porn, prank calls, email bombs, and urinating in plants. Someday, Big Business will find ways to sort of safely and legally remove our higher brain functions, solving these problems once and for all, and insuring peace and productivity for all proles and plebes. But until then, with a little thought and effort, and a little help from the innumerable, voices in your head that keep getting louder and louder and won't stop talking about the kittens, the horrible, horrible kittens of doom, oh God make it stop, we can all find a way to live and work together in mutual harmony and respect on a firm foundation of fear.
Regards,
The Man
Posted by Rob at 09:26 AM | Comments (0)