BLOGS

The people that contribute to Moorsgate Media in general, and I myself in particular, think a lot about world building. Be it the setting of rules for a role playing game, the types of magic and monsters that should lurk in the corners of Urban Fantasy, or the types of FTL technologies available to any one race. 

However, there are other considerations that always come up in the scope of world building. What, we wonder, is an author's or designer's obligation to his audience?

Is the writer of a Zombie Apocalypse story required to have his scrappy band of survivors represent, and represent well, every strip and strain of humanity. If he doesn't, has he committed some cardinal sin of fiction? Is a game designer's option to have her female character be a lesbian, mean that she is implicitly writing off the hetrosexual gaming population? Is the reverse true? Is a Gay Male hero saving his boyfriend a "damsel in distress" trope? If not, why? 

Recently, GRRM author of the widely successful Song of Fire and Ice series ( and TV Show under the Game of Thrones label) has come into some criticism for both the "ethnic" casting of certain characters, and his depictions of whole (made up, but historically analogous) regions. Anyone interested in the specifics of those arguments can find them on the intertubes. Similarly, feminist critic Anita Sarkeesian, and others, go into great detail the way that gender is construed in mainstream and indie video games.  Both sets of criticisms are valid and worth your time. However, there is an uncomfortable vagueness of concern that lurks at the core of the criticism. 

Obligation. 

What is the author's obligation. Is a straight, white male obligated to create "others" for the benefit of his audience? Do we want him to? Do we want positive role models for underrepresented peoples to be crafted by the over-represented? If a black lesbian writes a novel, is she obligated to have a positive portrayal of straight white men? Should she? 

This is not to say that there is an equivalence between those authors who trade is tropes and stereotypes and those who don't, but the question needs to be asked. Who is the arbitrator of your work?  If the market is, then the market decides if a story-line is a trope, or a re-invention. If it is society, then society should be able to produce enough voices that one successful GRRM is countered by other depictions of POC in a fantasy setting. 

If that's not the case, and I think any cursory reading of widely successful new IP in the sci-fi and fantasy space, says its not. Then we have to ask why? Where are the sweeping Tolkien-esq epics featuring POC characters? Where are the gripping video-games with all female-leads? Do the underrepresented have an obligation to create for themselves, as well as criticize. 

Check out my Review of One Nation# 1

One Nation # 1 Review

Sirius: 12th National Festival in Popular Astronomy

This is an excerpt from a Steamfunk story I'm going to publish on kindle...

On the island of Saint-Domingue, in the dead of night, thousands of slaves crept silently along the path through the trees and wiry brush to Bois Caïman. In the clearing the Houngan Dutty Boukman, a huge, self-educated slave with a fierce countenance, and Mambo Cecile Fatiman, a mulatto slave woman, waited to led them in ceremony. They petitioned the Loa for protection, for deliverance from slavery’s lash—calling upon the darkest spirits of their Ancestors to help them in their battle.

They prayed for freedom.

“Bon Dje nou an ki si bon, ki si jis, li ordone vanjans!” Dutty shouted. “Se li kap kondui branou pou nou ranpote la viktwa! Se li kap ba nou asistans. . .! Koute vwa la libète kap chante lan kè nou!”

“Our God, who is so good, so just, He orders us to revenge our wrongs! It’s He who will direct our arms and bring us the victory! It’s He who will assist us. . .! Listen to the voice for liberty that sings in all our hearts!”

There was a clap of thunder. . . lightning flashed in the dark sky. A swirling rush of wind stirred the trees.

Cecile's green eyes rolled back in her head. Enraptured she began to dance wildly. She’d been possessed by the Erzulie Seven Kout Kouto—the most deadly embodiment of the Loa, Erzulie Dantor. She sang and the slaves—beating upon the drums in rage—sang with her:

“Seven kout kouto, seven kout ponya

Prete mwen ganmèl lan pou mwen al vomi san

Prete mwen ganmèl lan pou mwen al vomi san

San mwen ape koule!”

“Seven stabbings of knives, seven stabbings of daggers

Lend me the ganmèl, so I can vomit blood

Lend me the ganmèl, so I can vomit blood

My blood is running!”

Seven days later Dutty led his people in revolt against their slave masters. . .burning plantations to the ground. For this rebellion, he was captured and beheaded by the French; his head was publicly displayed with a placard reading: “Boukman, Chef des Revolutions des Escalves,” Boukman, Chief of the Slaves Revolution. The French thought killing Dutty Boukman would frighten the Black slaves— thus halting the tide of revolution.

But the fires of liberation Dutty and Cecile ignited were not the first, nor would they be the last.

***

Monique, a tall, young woman with chocolate-colored skin, a long face, and slender build, made her way through the tall brass structures of Saint-Domingue, past red flowering Hibiscus blooms toward the fields. She was dressed in wrapped skirt and bustier, her braided hair wrapped in twisted beads atop her head. She wore a brass-handled musket on a holster about her waist. A grip of interwoven cloth and metal, encased her fingers and entire arm up to her shoulder to minify kickback from her pistol. She carried a water flask in one hand and her breakfast of a partially-eaten boiled plantain in the other. 

She stopped at a well on the outskirts of her township. Monique finished the last of the plantain in one bite, and dropped the peel in the cloth trash-bag beside the well: a conveyer belt made of cloth and woven wire. Half the belt lay above the soil; the rest, on her left and right, was buried underground. Monique knelt before the clunky machinery attached to two metal legs above the conveyor belt. She turned the crank, the belt jerked and scuttled forward: carrying copper vases full of water, screwed to caps on its underside. 

Monique twisted one of the vases off, filled her flask and turned it up her full lips: drinking deeply. She poured more water into the flask, and reattached the water vase back onto the belt. Refreshed and ready, the young woman made her way to the field on the edge of town. There she found thousands of men and women, aged sixteen to sixty, preparing for tomorrow.

When they would go to war with France.

Copyright Valjeanne Jeffers 2013 all rights reserved

Johannes Gutenberg University:
Protons hop from one water molecule to another given suitable energy conditions

Die Demon Die!

By Ronald T. Jones

The Vrondak have no concept of revenge. Highly charged emotions fuel revenge and the Vrondak are not motivated by emotion. They do however understand reaction. If someone Fs with you, you F with them back meaner and harder, so hard it deters. And if your opponent is not deterred, he’s at least crippled or dead.

            Contact told me how an occupied world under Vrondak rule launched a rebellion that resulted in little more than a thousand Vrondak casualties. Less than a third fatal. Well, the Vrondak reacted. They deployed their capitol ships above a randomly chosen continent and opened fire. When their bombardment ceased, the continent had been irradiated, and a half billion inhabitants (60 percent of the planet’s population) no longer existed. Message sent. Message received. That planet remains a passive, compliant member of the Vrondak’s star spanning domain to this day.

            A cold reaction can be as effective as hot vengeance. The only difference is, a cold reaction is stale, but vengeance is sweet. I happen to have a sweet tooth.

            The abandoned warehouse was nestled on the outskirts of Midtown’s industrial district. No street lights shone, but the presence of a full moon compensated, bathing the structure’s dilapidation in a powdery glow. I drove up to the warehouse, my headlights off, parked and waited. A minute later, another car pulled up stealthily beside mine. I got out of my car and grabbed a black suitcase from the trunk. Two women emerged from the other car. Each retrieved a similar suitcase from their vehicle.

            “Good to see you, Adeline, Felecia,” I greeted the women. “Thanks for coming.”

            Adeline Stevens, a stout ex-marine with a strong jaw regarded me with obvious sympathy. “No need to thank us, Darren. We’d be here whether you invited us or not.”

            Felecia Conway nodded in vigorous agreement. A SWAT officer and helicopter pilot, Felecia possessed a razor sharp mind wedded to a sharper wit…qualities that attracted me to her. We used to date, but that’s a tale for another day.

Smack! Jeff Brenner succumbed to my stinging slap like a collapsing house of cards. He toppled off the folding chair in spite of the fact that I didn’t really hit him that hard, and crumbled to the floor, whimpering like a wounded dog.

            I thought about propping him back on the chair, but quailed at the idea of touching him. Hell, I didn’t want to be in the same room with this derelict. He stank of alcohol, marijuana, crack and a sordid medley of mind-altering garbage.

            He lived in a studio apartment overrun with dirt and clutter. I didn’t know how he managed on his own given his ravenous zest for self medication.

            I gave him a solid kick to the gut.

            Jeff yelped in pain and curled into a twitching ball.

            “I’m just getting warmed up,” I reminded him coldly.

            “Please…I didn’t betray anyone!”

            Now that really set me off. Contact had identified Jeff Brenner as the person who informed the demons about a demon slayer meeting. Time, location, all the relevant details the demons needed to launch an assault that killed thirty of my comrades. Aiding an enemy of humanity was bad enough. Lying about it just added insult to injury as far as I was concerned.

            I took out my Shiva blade and placed its razor edge against his throat.

            Jeff’s eyes bulged with terror, his breathing coming out in rapid spurts.

            “I’m not in the mood for lies. I have it on good authority that you tipped a demon off. Who did you inform and where can I find him?”

            There comes that critical moment in one’s life when everything hinges on a single choice. I could almost see those rusted gears working in Jeff’s head as he calculated the costs and benefits of the choices before him.

            I let my Shiva bite just enough into his flesh to encourage him in the right direction.

            He flinched. “All right…I…I’ll talk…”

            I drew the knife away and stepped back.

            Jeff rose to a sitting position. With a delicate finger, he dabbed at the minor scrape my blade left on his neck. “Baal.”

            I leaned forward, squinting. “What?”

            “Baal…that’s the demon I spoke to. I told him what I knew.”

            My gaze narrowed in contempt at this pathetic excuse for a human being. Jeff could shoot off at the mouth because his cousin, Ray, was a demon slayer. Unfortunately, Ray made the mistake of telling Jeff what he did on the side. As slayers, we’re not supposed to divulge our activities to anyone, not even close relatives. Now, as a result of Ray’s flawed decision, he and well over two dozen slayers were dead. The tragedy of it made my head swim.

            “Baal,” I mouthed skeptically. “The Baal?”

            Jeff nodded. “That’s him.”

            “The Babylonian deity? The one children were sacrificed to?”

            “The one and only.”

            Wow. He was real. I shook off my fascination and focused on the interrogation. “How long were you feeding information to…Baal?”

            Jeff shrugged. “Three weeks…a month maybe. Whatever Ray told me about missions, other slayers…stuff like that…I passed on to Baal.”

            “Let me guess,” I said, a fresh wave of anger building up inside me. “Baal didn’t act on anything you fed him until you told him about the meeting, right? That’s where he seized on an opportunity to eliminate a gathering of slayers.”

            At that point, Jeff dropped his eyes. The magnitude of what he’d done clearly, heavily dawned on him. The massive guilt I suspected he felt manifested itself in a cascade of tears.

            I watched his convulsions unmoved. “How did you get in contact with Baal?”

            “Through…his agent on Earth…” Jeff managed between sobs. “A guy named Ricker…he’s one of those devil worshipers…he works at a bar on Lake Street called the Rose Petal.”

            I committed this Ricker’s name and location to memory. “In exchange for your betrayal what did Baal offer you?”

            Jeff quieted down. He looked up at me through a tear stained gaze. “I didn’t want to do this…I mean Ray was trying to help me…he was trying to get me off this…stuff, recruit me…he wanted me to be a slayer…he figured it would end my addiction.”

            “What did Baal offer you?” I repeated. I wasn’t interested in hearing this man’s contrite rambling.

            Fresh tears ran down his face. “Any drug of choice.”

            I tightened my grip on my Shiva. It was a reflex motion. Slitting this snake’s throat would have been a nice follow-up on that reflex. “So that’s how much the lives of good men and women are worth to you, a fix.”

            Jeff looked away. “Ricker has one of those Hell portal things. I saw him use it once to bring Baal over to this side.”

            My eyes narrowed at that extra tidbit of information. It was potentially useful.

            “Are you going to kill me?” The addict asked in a low, pleading voice.

            I glared at him. “I don’t know.”

            I left Jeff’s apartment building ten minutes later, pausing to call an ambulance. The poor fellow was overdosing. He might have lived. He might have died. Part of me hoped he pulled through so he could be tortured by guilt.

            Later that evening I took a trip to the Rose Petal bar…

******

            The ladies and I ducked inside the warehouse. We opened our suitcases and removed our combat gear. Flexible, temperature-controlled armor, thinner than silk, harder than carbon.  Multi-spectrum optical masks, and diverse-terrain traction shoes. All rounded off by feather light flak vests made of a durable reactive material to supplement the armor.

            My scanner doubled as a beacon. I adjusted it accordingly and placed it on the floor. We were about to go to Hell. The beacon’s signal was our tether to home. Without it…well the idea of being stranded in Hell almost gave me pause.

            Contact opposed this mission. Despite being a renegade among his people, he still thought like them. He considered any operation conducted out of vengeance to be a wasteful exercise. I didn’t play down the vengeance part, but I convinced him that taking out a top demon was an opportunity that we simply could not pass up. It would deny the enemy leadership and foment disarray in his ranks. Any damage to a demon fell within mission parameters. Contact relented. After all, he couldn’t deny the logic.

            I took a red, crystalline device out of the suitcase and hooked it to my ordnance belt. It was a Hell portal activator. Its previous owner had disappeared. I estimate it’ll be a few years before his body is discovered. I’m thorough like that.

            Felecia stared at the activator. “You sure you know how to use that thing?”

            I hefted my combat assault blaster, peering through its sight to test the targeter. “I’ve had experience.”

            “But have you used one?” Felicia always did know when I was being evasive.

            “I studied a demonstration model,” I admitted somewhat meekly.

            Adeline cut an amused eye my way as she attached a blaster pistol to her hip harness.

            “Your faith in me is endearing,” I scoffed. “Stand back.” I tapped a sequence on the activator. Seconds later a beautiful blue glow pushed back the surrounding darkness like the parting of a curtain.

            The three of us stood before that glow until Adeline nudged me with her elbow and extended a hand toward the portal. “Gentlemen first.”

            I nodded, swallowed my trepidation and stepped forward.

******

            I didn’t know what to expect when we stepped through the portal. The popular view of Hell is a sweltering vista roiling with lakes of fire and brimstone, punctuated by the screams of ill fortuned souls destined to burn for all eternity.

            We actually found ourselves in what looked like the interior of a castle. It was a vast space with a polished marble floor and spiral etched columns supporting a high ceiling. Images covered the walls of this strange room. Ghoulish, frightening images straight out of human nightmares but undoubtedly suited to demon tastes. We walked past column after column until we entered another room, this one smaller, its walls covered with less terrifying motifs, mostly geometric shapes. I saw a few pentagrams embedded in the patterns.

            Yeah, I probably didn’t expect the fire and the suffering, but I definitely had not anticipated a place so antiseptic, so prosaic.

We strolled cautiously through the room, entering another room of approximately the same size with similar wall art. Except this room had a window with a view overlooking an immaculate garden. Trees and bushes lined pebbled walkways. Flowers of more varieties and colors than could be found on Earth highlighted sections of the garden.

            “Flowers in Hell?” Felecia muttered incredulously.

            “Must have bad been flowers,” I joked.

            No one laughed.

            The spirals of a distant city stretched across an orange-red horizon. A demon city. That was as much of an eye opener as being inside a demon castle.

            “Where do we even begin to look for Baal in this place?” Adeline wondered.

            As if in answer to her question, a procession of forty demons dressed in long white robes filed down one of the wider paths leading to an entrance into the castle. By my estimate, we were four floors up. We needed to get to the first level.

            I waved us toward the room’s exit. “Come on.”

            I was certain beyond a doubt that Baal was nearby. The portal wouldn’t have brought us to a place where he was out of reach.

            From the looks of that procession, the discipline of its formation, the in sync rhythm of its march, I had a feeling…

            We double-timed it through room after room until we came across a spiral staircase with gold colored steps. We dashed down the stairs, reaching a first floor that was considerably less cavernous than the upper levels. Shorter wider columns filled the first level. An arch-like opening fifty feet from our position led to the outside.

            The demon procession marched through that arch. I hid behind a column. Adeline and Felecia hid behind one across from me and we waited until the procession passed by us. We followed the demons, keeping out of sight, until they stopped before a pair of massive metal doors covered with pentagram engravings.

            Adeline detached a star shaped frag detonator from her belt. I knew what she had in mind.

            The doors opened up slowly with a low rumble that echoed through the room like a beastly growl.

            When the procession entered the room, the doors closed.

            “Your call,” Felecia said, pinning me with a steady gaze. “Do you think Baal is in there?”

            “What do you think?” I queried back.

            Felecia shook her head. “I have no friggin’ clue!”

            I shrugged. “Same here. Either way, we’ll be killing those creatures on their own turf.”

            Adeline held up her frag detonator. “Guess that’s my que.” The ex-Marine dashed from her cover. She slapped the detonator on the left door and scrambled for the nearest column.

            Within five seconds a bubble of flame, smoke and debris filled the entrance, leaving a gaping hole that the three of us rapidly exploited.

            High-pitched demon howls of pain and rage issued forth in the explosion’s wake.

            From her proximity, Adeline was first through the breached entrance. I followed close on her heels, leaping into a smoke filled chamber nearly the size of a basketball court.

            Demon bodies littered the floor and for a second, I thought the blast alone had debilitated everyone present. But just as many demons were either on their feet or rising. There must have been a good five hundred or more in the room.

            I flicked my assault blaster to auto, and sprayed neutron bursts wherever I saw a demon standing.

            Felecia and Adeline’s weapons spat death and the three of us inundated the chamber in a directed energy storm, riddling demons to shreds. I lowered my blaster and began targeting the wounded, pumping energy bolts into the dead and the living.

            An object zipped past my head, hit the wall and exploded. I ducked and spotted three more objects, long and arrow like sailing through the aperture from outside. Two of the arrows exploded against the wall like the first one. The third arrow hit Adeline in her gun arm. The subsequent blast sent her reeling head over foot a good twenty yards, where she crashed on her back.

            “We’ve got a response!” Felecia announced with admirable calm.

            A growing number of demons, some armed with bows, ran toward the room. The archers released combustible Hell arrows…the same arrows used in the attack on my fellow slayers. A biting sulfurous odor from arrow explosions filled the room. My mask’s filtration worked in overdrive to filter out most but not the entire stench.

            I ran to Adeline’s aid while Felecia fired on the demon archers. The ex-Marine barely stirred, testifying to the power of the Hell arrow that hit her.

            Something gripped my ankle, tripping me up. I torpedoed to the ground, but twisted about in time to see a huge demon looming over me. The thing bore a visage more bull like than serpentine. It was massively muscled with mottled gray leathery skin. Three horns, black as obsidian protruded from the sides and front of its head like twelve-inch sabers. Its small deep-set eyes emitted a dull red glow. The creature’s wide mouth stretched open in a snarl, made all the more frightful by teeth that looked like a hedge of daggers.

            “Baal!” I uttered, recognizing the demon from the description Jeff gave me.

            The demon moved in an eyeblink, swatting away my blaster before I could level it on him.

            “In the flesh, human!”

            Baal stomped hard on my midsection. Even through flak vest and armor, I felt that blow.

            The demon unsheathed a double-pronged sword, each blade longer and wider than my arm.

            I jumped to my feet, but was unable to avoid the bite of Baal’s sword as it came blurring in a downward arch. My left chest burned where double hell-forged blades actually penetrated the armor, cutting the flesh beneath. The sword’s impact threw me back to the floor as if a wrecking ball had hit me.

            Baal came at me again, sword raised high.

            I rolled just as his sword struck the spot I just occupied.

            By this time, a horde of demon reinforcements poured into the room.

            Felecia was mowing them down, but she couldn’t kill them fast enough. They just kept coming, surging over the bodies of their fallen brethren with savage, undisciplined fury.

            Baal swung his sword and I reared back. A blade tip nicked an area just below my neck.

            I leapt forward, my Shiva in hand. I meant to deliver a backhand slash, opening the demon’s throat. But Baal proved too damned quick. He crouched and instead my blade sheared through his left horn.

            Enraged, Baal blasted out an ear splitting roar. “You will suffer, human filth!”

            Suddenly he doubled over as an energy beam speared him in the gut. I turned to see Adeline rising, her blaster aimed at the demon leader. She managed a second shot, striking Baal in the chest. The demon stumbled backwards, losing his balance and falling.

            A mob of demons unscathed by our entry blast swarmed Adeline. She was clearly in bad shape. No way was she going to fend off that many attackers in her condition.

            I scooped up my assault blaster and pumped a spread of bolts into Baal’s body. Afterward, I ran toward Adeline, firing into a mass of demons surrounding her. Dozens dropped.

            “Felecia!” I called out. “Let’s go! I’m opening a portal!”

            Felecia back peddled toward me while maintaining a steady rate of fire in front of her. Hell arrows exploded at her feet or whisked past her. A few she shot out of the air.

            Every demon she targeted fell with sizzling fist sized holes in their heads and bodies.

I tapped my Hell portal activator and a familiar blue glow materialized behind us.

 Felecia unclipped a grenade and hurled it at the rushing demon wave. I did the same. Almost instantly a pair of fiery blasts shook the room. Demon bodies and body parts arched outward from the blasts in grisly spouts.

I grabbed Adeline, hauled her to her feet and headed for the portal. Felecia covered our withdrawal with deadly accurate shooting.

            I glanced back, thought I saw a larger than average demon with two horns coming to his feet amid a heaving throng of his fellows. But that couldn’t have been possible. I was sure I killed him!

            Too late to remedy the situation. The three of us had already fled into the portal.

******

            Felecia, Adeline and I recuperated in my house the next day. Adeline had suffered from a broken arm, shattered ribs and a mild concussion. I had a ragged incision across my chest. I tended Adeline’s injuries with a Vrondak medical kit. She was fully healed within three hours. A nanite rich salve closed my cut. After a few minutes I’d forgotten I had the wound.

            One thing I couldn’t forget…didn’t want to forget was failure. Baal was still alive. Of that I was certain. I failed to finish him off.

            “We struck him in the middle of his lair,” Felecia said as we sat on lawn chairs in my small backyard, drinking smoothies.  “We killed a bunch of his lackeys, shot him multiple times and don’t forget, you cut off his horn. You may not have iced him but you humiliated him. That’s payback.”

            “Not payback enough.” I appreciated Felecia’s efforts to show me a glass half full. But Baal’s continued existence clung to the back of my mind like a leech. I couldn’t let it go.

            Felecia leaned over and kissed me softly on the lips. All thoughts of Baal vanished instantly, displaced by the sight of a very attractive face. Needless to say Felecia had my full attention. “You need to stop punishing yourself. We just went to Hell, did some major damage and came back in one piece. That was our boldest strike. Celebrate it.”

            “You’re right,” I conceded, taking her hand and caressing it. “I’m doing too much moping. We should indeed be celebrating this victory.” I looked into her eyes, silently advertising what I had in mind.

            Felecia smiled, gently disengaged and stood. “Not that kind of celebration.”

“Come on,” I begged “For old times sake.”

“My flight leaves in two hours.”

“So does that mean that if you didn’t have a flight we’d spend quality time together?”

Felecia gave me a warm look, which didn’t answer my question. “It’s been good seeing you, Darren. Feel free to call us again when you need backup.”

             I watched her go into the house and sighed.

            Another failure. How much more could a man take?  I grinned and sipped my smoothie.

One of our crowd asked when they saw my dwelling designs, what kind of advanced beings could live there. I couldn't answer at that time, had no knowledge of the future. Seeing Darwin's theory as just that, there is no evolution except something effects the being enough to be imprinted in the DNA. Then the adjustment is moved along the DNA path. If there is other genetic support, then the weight of recessive or dominate mathematics play out. There are two over riding factors you have to consider. Just as cells split to produce a twin, higher forms reproduce after their own kind. If you cross or mix or mingle your genetic pools, then their is variation. Mutation is however a weakness in the outcome, like cancer. It is an abnormality.

Also if you manipulate the language so that the consciousness of the accepted normal thinking accepts abnormality as "another intelligent life form", even if the arrangement of structure is awkward to coexist with, then you understand why we are all so screwed up.

So having said all that, advancement of our species will only happen in our minds. The mind is the only place we haven't really embraced. We control the concept of mind via political, religious and intellectual content. We have in place taboos, prejudices, restrictions and fear. You can't open doors when fear says no.

The knowledge to those pathways are blocked, hidden in the misleading rights of passage business, mythic stories turned into literal religions and fear of the unknown, judgment, hell, madness, possession, death or horrific mutilation, and being outcast or killed by relatives. This is knowledge that is no longer shared or understood by community. Especially in today's social-political-religious construct.

The antidote is simply to change your mind, to repent. Hah! I thought you religious folks would jump! Relax, I been their 40 years, blinded by sincere faith with no knowledge. The cost of liberation is time and study to know history and facts. The ability to liberate is simple, change your mind. Because god becomes a concept and a construct and a prison if we are not taught correctly. We think our religion is worship and the ritual is worship, the awareness is the real worship. This brings out an acknowledgement and respect for the power and participation in that power. Don't get a tight head!

I know it is not as easy as it sounds. Our deep do do is in our DNA via our total immersion in this present living. BUT, a change in the thoughts is all it takes to begin the process. This is how revolution works. Not by sword or by might, but by my own spirit. A spirit that witnesses firsthand. This is why our ancient forefathers had initiation rights to channel a serious viewing of inner knowing. If you are not serious, you can not see.

An advanced being does not need a dwelling except to shield his physical form from adverse elements. It is to provide protection and security while in stasis (sleep), a place for the family cluster, a place to make and eat meals, store provisions and necessities, a place to muse and display trophies (be it game or handiwork). The form of the dwelling is reflective of the technology in common use and the knowledge of the builder to expand on that to meet real needs. We don't usually build our own dwellings, we rent, lease and buy used living spaces and adapt. The physical forms of homes evolve so slow and are not the mark of advancement.

Advancement is a state of mind. Always has been, always will be. It would be nice to live in a physical world as futuristically evolved as our dreams. Check out Paul Williams who in 1960 designed the theme building at Los Angeles International Airport. Ooh, a black guy designed that!?! Double ooh, his dreams were limited because the world was not ready for that, still not. We need to barrage the world with our futuristic visions to put it in their mind that retro is not helping us inspire to an evolved mind. The other world is into global destruction, not advancement. Who is your daddy/mommy now!

The idea of 'Meat' grown in a petri dish may sound unappetizing, but it may just be the answer for not only feeding the potential billions more of mouths to be born on this planet, but also the solution for animal protein in space.

Here's an article discussing this new and innovative solution for growing 'meat' via cultured muscle tissues rather than harvesting an entire animal....

Lab Grown Meat

Don't forget about my book "Squirrels & Puppies: Dark Morality Tales"

SCI-FI SCHOOL by Odis Chenault

ep.3 Aliens pt.1

Hello and welcome to the third installment of Sci-fi School.

If you want to be a productive member of a good Sci-fi relationship, you have to know your aliens.

Aliens is definitely too big a topic to cover in one installment. This time, I’ll just try to identify some of the major types of aliens. Alien’s can be broken into three main categories, humanoid, non-humanoid or entity. Members of these categories can also overlap.

Humanoid aliens have a human body shape. The resemblance can end there. Humanoid aliens can have the right number of limbs, but other things like color, number of eyes, fingers, etc can vary. Humanoid aliens can also posess any number of powers and abilities  A humanoid alien can be a human from another world or basically anything else that has taken human form. A recurring theme in Sci-fi is that of non-humanoid aliens taking the form of the indigenous life form to blend in or adapt to the climate. It’s also a recurring theme that some unsuspecting earthling finds out that his parents were aliens or that he is special in some way.

Non-humanoids are basically your monsters. If a non-humanoid either arrived from space or resulted from mutation it is considered Sci-fi. If you find some hideous, undiscovered creature in a dark lagoon in Africa, that’s horror. By the way, supernatural themed stories are rarely Sci-fi. They’re mostly Paranormal, Occult or Fantasy. However, I have seen ghost stories set in space. Non-humanoid aliens can be microscopic.

Entity beings are usually shapeless creatures. These beings can have a lot of power. They can be single beings or community creatures. They can be in the form of gas, crystals or pure energy. They can even be liquid. Entity beings can attack one person at a time or be powerful enough to destroy a planet.

Aliens can be common species thought to have originated on Earth. Whales, Dolphins, mice, etc. I once read a story about ants being aliens that crashed on Earth and have been working hard ever since to rebuild their ship. So as you can see, aliens can be anywhere, anytime and in any form.

Good luck out there.

If you liked this story, there's more in "Squirrels & Puppies: Dark Morality Tales"

A Tel Aviv Univ. researcher has developed surprising tool to measure our changing climate.

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I am new to this forum and would like to introduce myself to the members\readers of BSFS. I am currently finishing a collection of 11 short stories entitled “When on Terra…” and am finally unveiling bits and pieces to the public.  Here is the first draft of the prologue from the volume that ties the stories into a unified whole.  I welcome any and all comments.   

 PROLOGUE

     A halo encircles the blue sphere; swirling white patterns and silhouettes of green and brown dapple its surface. Old Earth emerges from a curved horizon full of stars.   

    We decelerate.  We descend into the iridescent light.  

    A woman steps past me, the lace and crystal-bead embroidery of her dress flickers as she walks toward a man standing before the forward viewing glass. Her sensuous gait is enhanced by a mechanistic shudder, the carrier’s field generator shifts to acclimatize us to earth’s gravity.  Spinning around, the man returns the woman’s smile, and together they soak in the object of our journey.

    Bluish light streams into the concierge, drowning out any frivolity and muting the conversations of the multitude gathered on deck.  Terrae from all parts of the Fellowship, Na-Terrae of all shapes and sizes, Althumans, Mixegens, and other species both exotic and piercing in appearance - one by one they stop and look. The room feels silent; many are stunned by the reality of seeing earth for the very first time. 

    (None of us Terrae can imagine what life was like for our primeval ancestors who lived underneath gravity’s boot, who died without ever seeing their homeworld as it truly is in the heavens.  And yet, we are witnesses of what ancient stargazers, megalomaniacs, martyrs and imperialists only dreamt of).  

    I too, am overcome by the slow-motion vista before me.

   The opalescent halo darkens, becoming turquoise, dark blue, then violet, and finally pitch-black.  We’ve crossed over the terminator line.  The concierge-deck is plunged into anonymity as we pass from daylight into inky night.  Conversations resume, and the meaning of the words spoken have become indistinguishable again.  Radiant stars of all different sizes and colors, the great white milky-way, and the circling moon stare at us from the dark.    

    The earth’s cities, each separated by nocturnal space, rise in electric beauty to greet us. The dazzling shafts of light reveal street patterns of all shapes and length.  Some cities are covered with a vague backlit haze, while smaller points of light are immersed in the opacity of storm-clouds.   In the distance, bright flashes of orange then blue-white lightning arc from one cloud to another, illuminating terrain devoid of habitation. 

    Does every Terran on deck see the same planet as me? Do they feel the same sense of awe that I do?  We hail from so many different worlds of life. (Each of us has an agenda as to why we have come here).

    A voice directs us to take our seats… the rich tone of the command snatches me away from my reverie. 

    The creation before me is as much a tangible place as it is a tabula rasa.  The images that float inside our skulls, rife with the conceits and personal experiences of their creators, acclimatize our collective gaze upon this dazzling world.  My curiosity and hopes are intertwined with these fabricated images.  By design, the wanderlust beating within my heart is captivated by the imagery. 

    In my mind’s eye, earth is associated with pristine scenery, cities of unusual appeal and historic sites and idiosyncratic enclaves. Every type of architecture, entertainment and taste-bud tingling cuisine one could possibly dream of finds its literal translation here.  The innumerable attractions and sightseeing opportunities are near limitless.  It’s a living, breathing paradise that offers something for everyone. 

    Earth denotes much more than an ancient homeland – it signifies tolerance, a free-spirit ambience, an atmosphere of peaceful coexistence.  It is a magical place that celebrates diversity.  Of course, only the flavor of a blinding array of cultures and lifestyles can be presented on such a small scale.  But, it’s a tourist’s dream, the proof I need to know that all Terrae belong to a single community based on a shared descent from earth.

   Reality has set in… I must find a way of alienating my eyes from my preconceptions.  

   The changing colors outside the carrier are stunning… black to various shades of gray, dark blue, then light blue followed by a thin white line; finally orange and yellow blending to red at the horizon line. The moon sets like a succubus beckoning her prey.  We pass over the terminator line again, emerging from darkness into the light.

    The carrier descends through the atmosphere.   A bright light that exudes a wraithlike euphoria floods the concierge-deck.   We flow over a panorama of clouds, brilliant deep blue oceans, phytoplankton blooms and islands; brilliant colonies of blue green coral strut their sinuous forms before our eyes.  (A group of Terraphiles raise their glasses in celebration.  I find their antiquarianism distasteful.  They seem to be running away from their puerile sins).  I wonder how many passengers realize that earth is a park otherwise known as Terra-Prime, an artifact of historical conservation, a landmark, a world of strangers and even stranger conventions.

    The carrier assumes its place amongst a procession of transports en route for various termini.  I can feel the world change as mountains,  anticlinal fold structures and the dark circular patches of salt domes mar Terra-Prime’s perfection.  Irony abounds here – we come to earth yearning for a golden age of lost innocence, yet we have settled in areas that resemble our homelands located amidst the stars.  Even now, I can see pretentious architecture that defies gravity, structural fantasies animated by quantum singularities, facades that imitate archaic and exotic motives, and the abstract colors of bio-favelas.  There are places here that you don’t want to visit. 

    But Terra-Prime has it all: frenetic public markets, antiquarian interests, sensuous circuses, sybaritic luxury, off-center eugenic policies, a swag of fun-filled festivals and religious celebrations, covert sex industries, ravenous blood-sucking insects, genomeological gardens, outlandish home-makeovers,  fringe science parades, overzealous bodyguards, and propagandists of temporal happiness. Anything, any experience, perhaps even any being, can be had on Terra for the right price. 

   The carrier makes a series of S-shaped, banking turns to slow its descent speed as it begins its final approach to the runway.  I can see the starport; it’s huge and garish with dozens of terminals built in a variety of architectural styles. Contrary to popular mythology, there are no formulas here.   

   Each passenger will go to a different city – seeing, hearing, tasting, feeling, and connecting with it, imbuing it with clashing intentions: dirty little secrets and not-so-subtle malice, the heat of unquenched passions, unsolicited restraints, olfactory paranoia, hidden  teardrops, joyful renunciations, solipsistic conformity, a landscape of old hatreds and new misunderstandings, skanky liaisons, and financial success.  All of this fascinates me, like the spray of golden pixie dust during a spring festival, like the smell of blood after a hooligan bash.   Now I know why I’ve come here.

   We disembark.  As I join the throng passing through this enormous growth of metal and stone and glass, I realize what I am.  In the ancient tongue, I would be called a flâneur, a passionate onlooker of the millions of stories walking next to me, shoving me, bumping me out of their paths.  We walk through the port towards the light of Terra-Prime, the park that no longer resides within our dreams, but in its hallucinatory resemblance to our heterogeneity.

   The sign overhead flashes ‘Welcome to Terra-Prime.’

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