Some time in the mid 1960s:

                                          Chapter 09

    Chicago, the Windy City.  Not because of the biting, damp cold winds of winter, that whipped around downtown skyscrapers and could force you into oncoming traffic in the street if you weren’t careful.  No, it was named so because of it’s colorful politicians.  One may read about the source of its nickname deriving from the Columbian Exposition or its rivalry with Cincinnati, but school children were taught that the nickname came about based on the “windy” nature of those who lived and ruled there.
    Regardless of the origins of the name, Chicago’s summers were notoriously hot and humid.  And the large garage that the four transplanted young men from North Carolina were calling their headquarters, was like an oven during the afternoons and evenings while they worked.
    By the time Christopher had arrived from his cross-country trip with Chuck, Riley and Peanut had most everything set up.  They had an electronics shop set up that would have done any manufacturing company proud.  And with Riley’s experience with building communications gear, he and Peanut were quite confident that whatever Christopher demanded, they would be able to deliver.
    When Christopher had brought everything he owned into the small apartment Chuck had secured for them, he had Chuck bring him to the shop nearby.  When Riley and Peanut saw Christopher and Chuck walk in the back door, they both gave a whoop and ran to greet them with slaps on the back and laughter.
    They paused to ask what was in the sack Christopher was carrying, and laughed when they saw the Philco clock/radio.
    “Hey man, we already have a hi-fi in the office.  We even have a couple of speakers hanging on the wall out here,” Peanut admonished.
    “That thing looks like it’s seen better days, my man,” added Riley.
    “Just hang on gents, you know it’s rude to drop in on friends and not bring gifts,” Christopher countered.  “Riley, get me an extension cord and Peanut, you and Chuck find some way to attached the guts of this thing to that steel beam over there by the wall.”
    “Get out!  You mean you and Chuck brought the...the, thing inside that?” Riley said, pointing.
    “Can you think of a better way to hide it?” said Chuck. “I almost threw it in the trash when we were packing everything into his trunk.”
    The four quickly cleared everything from around the beam.  Chuck and Peanut found four industrial clamps to bind the device’s base to the beam while Riley waited to plug the device in.
    “Okay, now I need some insulated gloves, thick rubber ones,” Christopher requested.
    “Is it dangerous?” asked Riley.
    “No, but I’ve never touched it without gloves.  I’m just being careful.”
    Christopher took the end of the extension cord and plugged his device in.  As he moved to the device, the other three took an involuntary step back, chuckling as they saw each other mimic the action.
    When Christopher flipped a switch on the device, there was a slight hum that quickly died out.  Then he turned a small dial.  The heavy beam rose silently into the air, and when it reached chest height on Christopher, he backed down on the knob leaving the beam to hover silently in the air.
    “I’ll be God damned!” cried Chuck.  “If that isn’t the God damnedest thing I’ve ever seen, I don’t know what the fuck is.”
    Riley was silent as he approached the beam.  He reached out and barely touched it, seeing if he could feel the energy holding it aloft.  After he determined that there was no static discharge or arcing display that could, or would kill him, he applied a little push to the bean and was rewarded with a slow movement away from him.
    “Did you feel anything?” Peanut asked.
    “Hell no, not even a little vibration,” Riley answered.
    “Man, I couldn’t even lift one end of that thing off the ground, Chris.  That shit is unbelievable!” said Chuck, not able to hide his astonishment.
    The garage went silent, with only the noise of the traffic out on the street penetrating the air.
    “So now you know how I felt when I first turned the thing on,” Christopher said quietly.
    “Brother, this is so fucking big!  If The Man ever finds out about this, we are so fucking dead.”

I came across this post and thought I'd share it with everyone:

22 Ways for Readers to Support Authors

I always get contacted by both authors and readers about how they can support authors or how authors can get support from fans. I don’t always have time to answer this accurately. However, I do have a method to my own madness. Therefore, I think that it is best share what I do in hopes that it will help both authors and readers connect.

There are many different ways to support the authors that you love to read. Although, authors reading this blog post may think, “Sheesh just buy a book already…” I believe that there are a number of ways to support authors that will ensure that the authors you love get the support that they need, the books you love get the exposure they deserve, and the authors get feedback on their work to create better work with each release.

I have been writing for about a decade. I currently have three children’s book releases out. However, with each book release my writing gets better. The reason for this is that I am not afraid to read critiques of my writing, and I depend on fans (mainly kids) to tell me what they enjoy about my work. The support and feedback allow me to push my own boundaries as a writer without fear. This way I can feel liberated to create work that inspires children to become creative, proactive, and adventurous. Below is some of the wisdom I accrued over the years of interacting with authors, readers, and fans about how to support authors.

22 Ways to Support Authors

 

1. Follow an author’s blog.
2. Buy one or all of the book releases by an author.
3. Write a one or two line review of the author’s book on a blog, Amazon, social networking site, shelfari, etc.
4. Follow your favorite author on social networking sites.
5. Go out to book signings.
6. Bring friends to the book signing with you.
7. Host authors on your campus, in your church or at meetings.
8. Recommend your favorite books to a friend.
9. Ask a reference librarian to order all of your favorite author’s books.
10. Host a theme night for your favorite book with your friends.
11. Take a picture with your favorite author and post on-line (facebook, MySpace, blogs)
12. Tweet an article about your favorite author’s interviews.
13. Make a YouTube video of your favorite books.
14. Start a blog about your favorite books.
15. Start a book club to discuss your favorite books.
16. Vote for your favorite author to win book awards.
17. Ask bookstores to order copies of your favorite books for their stores.
18. Host a literacy event and invite authors.
19. Skype with your favorite authors.
20. Host an on-line chat with your favorite authors.
21. Listen to interviews or call in when an author is being interviewed on blog talk radio.
22. Participate in contests held by authors.

 

I hope that this blog was helpful.

 

Tiffany A. Flowers is a reviewer, literacy advocate, the literary director foronixlink.com, and the author of three children’s books. You can find out more about her work by logging on to www.goldenbutterflypublishing.com or following her blog atwww.authortiffanyaflowers.wordpress.com.

http://black-authors-books.blogspot.com/2011/05/22-ways-for-readers-to-support-authors.html

Sometimes fans might not know how to support authors they like besides the usual ways--buy the book and tell a friend (which are still great ways to show support)--and I think this is a good list of ways to support.

Take care.

Hey Y'all!

This is a heads up: Next week I'll be at ISEA Istanbul presenting my paper titled,

Cybism and Decoding the Letter: Countering Mass Culture’s Reductional Breakdown Through Afro-futuristic Forms of Representation and Emergent Game Platforms

Basically, I'm overlaying my research into urbanized forms of Afrofuturism, as conceptualized by modern graffiti pioneers Rammellzee, Futura (formerly 2000), Kase 2/Case 2 and others.  These forms have influenced new media such as Graffiti Analysis.  Read more about it HERE and HERE.

Wish me luck!

The fate of dozens of worlds hangs on the words of two young commandos and the choices they must make.

"Don't you die on me!" 

Her breathing was shallow and slowed. I wasn't sure whether the patch would hold. The round had gone clean through but the bleeding was terrible. 
  
We were fifteen miles behind the Henrenkai lines. Our dropship was shot down and we were hauling the Henrenkai hive pupae in our ruck-sacks. Our orbital bombardments had worn this world down, but there were still too many worlds that we had lost to the Henrenkai and this was a vulnerability we could not lose. They only spawned once every two hundred years on a tiny number of their inhabited worlds. 
  
Intelligence reports gained through psychic torture revealed which worlds were spawning and how soon. In an act of desperation, Command bombed five of the six worlds and destroyed them completely, kill untold billions of humans and Henrenkai. On this one, they planted us. An extraction team, trained for infiltration.  
  
There were ten of us. We were creche-raised, five males, five females. Genetically created from the best DNA humanity had to offer, we were stronger, faster, smarter and trained as commandos. We were given psychic gifts to bind us together. We could sense the presence of each other over vast distances, we could read each other's thoughts, when allowed. It multiplied our fighting prowess by coordinating our attacks. We had the firepower of a regiment; perfectly attuned. But it also made it so we could never touch each other without protective clothing. The fusion of our minds could destroy us both. 
  
We were raised together, Califer and I, and I loved her more than anything. But she could never know. It was forbidden. Creche-commandos were allowed to intermingle with any other military forces except other commandos. This was for our own protection. 
  
In all other ways we were as close as two people could be. We trained together, worked together, and have been on nearly twenty sorties without any incident. Our team was one of the most highly decorated commando units in Creche-Command history. Now except for me, High Sergeant, Doro Vanimen and High Sergeant, Califer Prin, our tactical squad is dead. We had never infiltrated a Henrenkai hiveworld before. Our intel was simply insufficient to the task. 
  
"Calli, you have got to get up. We can't stay here. There is another LZ thirteen miles from here, but they are shelling to keep our pursuit down. You have got to get up." Her eyes are flickering. She must be glanding a dopamine derivative. 
  
"Ugh. Pupae?" 
  
"Got 'em."  
  
"How much time?" 
  
"About twelve minutes." 
  
"There is no way, I can make it like this. You have to complete the mission." 
  
"I am not leaving without you Calli." I was trying to sound casual. 
  
She looks at me with those beautiful green eyes and I knew I would do whatever it took. If I had to carry her myself. We are getting off this rock. "Set the pace." She picks up her maser, and stumbles. 
  
"Leave it." If it comes to us having to fight again, we're done, anyway." She drops it, relieved. I set a brisk pace and I can hear the status reports in my earbud. They are about to begin shelling again. She is keeping up, but her pace has lost the light step I loved so much about her. 
  
When we were young, she was always the best of our battle-sisters in fighting and dancing and I knew right then, there would never be anyone else for me. We would train in our nightsuit armor, skin tight and I marveled at her perfection, her essence and her ability to totally kick my ass, even though I outweighed her by thirty kilos. When we were done, we would sit back to back and rest and talk, her hair tickling my neck, smelling of sweat, and nothing was ever better than that. 
  
Her nightsuit had sealed up around her wound and pressure sealed the injury. It was a railgun round, so fast it simply overwhelmed our bulletproof nightsuits. We got hit by one of their skyships and we lost Carlto, and Marina then. Multiple hits tore them apart. She got hit as we jumped the last wall and then ran to the first drop point. I covered her when the wreckage of the dropship fell down around us. 
  
"Calli, I have something I want to tell you." I could feel the larvae moving around in my pack. It distracted me and I almost lost my nerve. 
  
"Not now. Have to focus on running." Her temperature was elevated. Her body was going to go into shock. She is running on pure will. 
  
I have to tell her now. "There has never been anyone else for me but you. Do you understand that?" 
  
"And you know that's forbidden. It is the only rule we have never broken. I have had others, haven't you?"  
  
"No. Never." She seemed almost shocked at my words. 
  
"What do you expect me to say?" She stumbles and falls to the ground. "That I am happy that you love me? That I am willing to die for you and I to be together?" She gasped in pain. 
  
I reach down to help her to her feet. She slaps my hand away at first.  
  
Then she takes it and I heave her to her feet. She throws her arm around my back and I put my arm around her waist. We start running again. The sound of the shelling has begun and is slowly creeping up behind us. The explosions echo around the strange rock formations common on this world.  
  
I look back over my shoulder and my optical enhancer detects movement about three miles behind us closing fast. The shelling is slowing them but they are not stopping. I think they know what we are carrying. Their larval Queen. The fate of their Race. The only Ransom that they will respect. 
  
"We have to move, Sergeant. Dammit, run for all you're worth. We can fight about this when we get home." 
  
"Okay." 
  
And for six long minutes we are running. She has let me go and seems to have found a second wind. For a few seconds, I am struggling to keep up with her. We are getting close to the dropship coordinates. Less than two miles.  
  
Ten thousand steps; we're going to make it.  
  
Then I hear the buzzing. Their skyships, giant insects with forty foot wingspans, carrying two of them on their backs. They are using their chemical weapons and splashes of acid rain down around us. 
  
I look back for a second and I can still see them coming. Its half a regiment now, and a shell destroys thirty or so, but they do not stop to care for the dead. They are here for their Queen. 
  
"Bravo Six, we are nearing the extraction point." 
  
"Understood, we are inbound in two minutes. The area is hot, we will not be landing." 
  
She looks at me. And then looks around. "You have to go. I can't do a hot pickup." 
  
"I'll carry you." I was past pride. I pleaded. 
  
"All of the Human Worlds rest on your back now. What's more important, me or them?" 
  
"I would let them all burn for you." I meant it. 
  
"Well, I won't let you." She snatches my maser from my arm and kisses me on the lips.  

"GO!" Her telepathic command blasts through my mental shields like they weren't there. She was my entire universe in that infinitely long second. All that she was, all that should could be was inside of me. 
  
She ran to a rock for cover and I turned and ran faster than I had ever run, tears flowing down my face. I could hear the maser, one of the fliers goes down. She was decimating them. Then it fades. And soon after stops. 
  
I see my dropship coming in dragging a line and it's gunners shooting in every direction. I have to time this just right. They will not be able to come back. They are being pursued in the air. Acid rains down around me but all I can do is see her face. The dropship pulls up to avoid a missile and the line leaves the ground. I leap and I feel her directing my movement, arching me. 
  
I hit the line, grab on and the dropship rises fast, speeding away from the planet's surface, nearly tearing my arms from their sockets. They don't dare shoot us down now. 
  
I am tempted to hurl the pack from the ship as we pull away. She stops me. 
  
Save them. You can save them all. 
  
But I couldn't save the only thing that matter to me, you. 
  
I will always be here with you. 
  
As our ship streaked away into the armada, I looked at the planet. The final resting place of all that I loved, my family. My creche. My Calli.  
  
I wept.

Runners © Thaddeus Howze 2011. All Rights Reserved

“Don't wear white after Labor Day” the old folks always said.

I didn't understand why when I was younger, but now, oh, I get it. Because I loved to stroll out at night, hang out with my boys, you know? But you see, white made you stand out like a beacon, and when the hungry ones would come, if they saw you all shining bright in white, they figured you were the sacrifice of the hour, and got you. They couldn't help it during a new moon. Especially if you were a kid, but it didn't really matter.

Now, when I was a kid, the old folks said it without explaining why we had to avoid that color after Labor Day. It was said, and everybody listened. Nobody wore white for months after that day. Well, I do remember a couple of older people who wore it, just as bold as you please, but not at night. No, buddy, not at night. Especially not with a new moon, man! Except for Trinni and Elder, who thought they were big and bad one night, and strolled outside, smoking cigs and talking junk, daring the hungry ones to come.

Trinni was never seen again, but one of his white high tops were, splashed with deep red and stinking of something like a garbage dump full of dead bodies and doodoo. Elder, well, he went nutso, speaking in that funny Jamaican sounding language about “it got him, mon, oh, god, de eyes!” Crying like a baby. They put him away, and then all we heard for years was don't wear white, and remember what happened to Trinni and Elder.

Ok, so I kinda took it all as legend as I got older, well, until I was twenty years old, and there was an incident, totally true. There were some girls, some kind of church function, where the kids had to wear white outfits for a play, and two of them were walking home after...I don't know. I know it was the night of the new moon, and they wore white and called themselves walking home, giggling and laughing over how nervous they were in the program, and what boy was watching them, and what boy they wish was there watching them.

Too bad they didn't take seriously what was really watching them that night.

But anyway, everytime I hear “Don't wear white after Labor Day,” every time, I feel a twinge in me. Not like it was when I was a child, but still.

Have I ever seen the hungry ones? Well, let me tell you a story, also totally true.

It was like this. My childhood friend Eric and I were headed to a party, totally ignoring the unwritten Rule of White. All I was thinking about was going to the club, to celebrate one of our other friend's birthday, and the white shirt Eric wore didn't even cross my mind.

We were twenty one, so you know we weren't thinking about my grandfather asking Eric before we left my house earlier that evening, if he was going to the party in that shirt. Eric, always cocky, was like, “Yeah, why not? Don't you like it?” Pleased with himself.

Granddad said to Eric, calmly but seriously, lighting a pipe, “You should change, boy. Not good to wear white after Labor Day,” and then fixed a stare on me, that I will admit hit a place in my gut, like ice. “New moon tonight,” he finished. I was like, “Well, he'll be inside most of the night, so...” kinda joking, not looking at him, picking and brushing imaginary lint off my own shirt.

He didn't say anything else, and when I glanced back at him, he was just sitting. Just staring at me, his bald head shining and thick gold hoop earring glinting. Staring, like I wasn't twenty one, grown, and in control, I thought. I told him that I would see him later and I left.

Eric and I had stopped by the store, just to get some snacks, so we wouldn't eat like pigs, and mess up that cool image we thought we had, and some mints - you know, for the ladies. Who was going to hang with us if we smelled? I was hoping to hook up with some sweet, innocent – or not so innocent – lady for the night, so I had to be at my best!

So driving along, it was pretty dark, and the club where our friend was having the party was out a ways, in the deep country, so it seemed. Around about eleven, I started to feel something inside, like forboding, a funny feeling of dread. I figured I was nervous, you know, I mean, it was the party of the year, and I was excited.

I tried to keep up with the conversation Eric and I were having as I drove, but that funny feeling was all over me and I kept looking all around the night engulfing us outside. Eric made a comment about me watching the road, a couple times, asked if I wanted him to drive. I started getting angry at him a little, because I was grown, and could drive and get us to a party without his help. However, I rolled down the window for some air.

I was starting to get the shakes and the sweats, though. So I asked Eric to pass me a bag of peanut M&Ms. I figured the sugar rush would help me, keep the shakes at bay. I could maybe get a drink once at the party to relax me. But the M&Ms didn't really help; I had to pull over. Eric got real serious, and asked me if I was ok. I told him I felt funny, and had to stop.

He made a comment about the country animal smell outside, and offered to take me home, and for a second I did want to go home, because this was getting really out of hand. But miss out on the party, all that flesh? I figured if I sat for a few more minutes, let the M&Ms do their thing...

Eric and I got out of the car to switch places, because there was no way I could drive. The smell got worse, like something real nasty. “Heck is that?” Eric asked, covering his nose with his arm. “I know, man,” I said, trying to hurry to the other side of the car. It was pretty dark, and I glanced up at the clear sky, the image of the black new moon.

And then...I didn't see anything at first; it was like a dream. I could smell them, along with the scent of blood, but everything else was unreal. Eric was screaming, yelling, calling me, crying. Then, as the smell of blood and guts got stronger, I very briefly saw a glint of gold and eyes the color of the new moon.

I only heard Eric for a few seconds, but all I could think about was that screaming, as I drove away.

Granddad walked in the house not long after I got home. He didn't say a word as he looked at my naked chest, the blood all over my skin. He just stopped, then watched me, my eyes. I felt calm, full of understanding, but sadness, too. My best friend had died tonight.

Granddad didn't speak for a while, and as I looked at him, at his gold earring and cold black eyes, I asked him, “Why him, Granddad? We were like brothers. I was trying to hold out for the party. I couldn't.” My grandfather said, “No, you couldn't. New moon tonight. And he knew not to wear white. Just as the girls you got last year did.”

My grandfather came to me, standing a few feet away, so the blood on his own body would not mix, despite all of it being Eric's. “They were warned, son. They knew not to wear white.” He paused. “Never liked that boy anyway,” he said, and headed upstairs to clean up.

I followed with a sigh, no longer hungry, wondering how my grandfather could be so cold.

So don't think you can just do what you want. When they say not to wear white after Labor Day, especially on a night of the new moon, they mean it. I can tell you for sure, those old folks know what they are talking about.

I met Nicole Sconiers at OnyxCon 3 in Atlanta. I immediately downloaded the Beckyville short stories and dug-in. I couldn’t stop reading them. The stories push the envelope of issues that pertain to African-American women such as issues surrounding hair, attitude, rage, and injustice. These stories are not for the faint of heart. Sconiers uses speculative fiction to share those internalized emotions and feelings that some Black women have towards being victimized and treated as if they are racially inferior but it’s done in a snarky, satirical manner. I especially love the stories that expose issues surrounding Black women’s hair. I know I am always asked about my Sisterlocks. LOL!

I had to interview Nicole after reading Escape from Beckyville and she graciously agreed to answer my questions. Please read her interview. Nicole, thanks for writing the Escape from Beckyville series and agreeing to interview with me. To read the rest of the interview, try this link:

http://www.aliciamccalla.com/blog/48-interview-with-author-nicole-sconiers-beckyville-has-the-snarky-racial-humor-of-undercover-brother-but-with-the-sophistication-of-the-invisible-man-

or visit www.aliciamccalla.com

It's a longer interview but really good.

Innsmouth Free Press has Historical Lovecraft anthology on sale:

http://www.innsmouthfreepress.com/?page_id=10930. My story, "City of Witches" is in this anthology. Enjoy!

Wanuri Kahiu (director of the Kenyan science fiction short Pumzi and the Who Fears Death movie) discusses African Science Fiction:

Also, you can purchase Pumzi here. It is also streaming on Netflix.

Watch the debut episode of The Book Look here:

http://newsone.com/entertainment/books-entertainment/ccarneynunes/newsone-presents-the-book-look/

The Trans-Atlantic Fan Fund is looking for candidates for the 2012 Eastbound TAFF trip.  Candidates must be nominated by 5 SF fans known to the current TAFF administrators, John Coxon, Anne Gray, and Brian Gray. Three of those nominators must be resident in North America and two resident in Europe. In addition to their nominations, prospective candidates have to submit a written platform (not exceeding 101 words), a deposit of $20, and a pledge to take the TAFF trip in 2012 if they win. TAFF will send the winning delegate(s) to attend the 2012 Eastercon, Olympus, in London April 6 to April 9 (http://olympus2012.org/). TAFF delegates are also expected to write a trip report and administer TAFF for two years. The fan fund will pay for the trip and related expenses, as well as the publication of the completed trip report. Candidates will be voted on by interested fans from all over the world.

For more information, see www.taff.org.uk.  The North American TAFF administrators are Anne and Brian Gray; send nominations and other materials to them at 5006 Royene Ave NE, Albuquerque, NM 87110, USA or akg.netmouse@gmail.com. European nominators should send materials to John Coxon, either on john.coxon@gmail.com or by mail to 14 Chapel Lane, Peterborough, PE4 6RS, United Kingdom.

If you would like to take us up on this fantastic opportunity please find people to nominate you and let us know, since the deadline for nominations is September 31st! If you have any questions about what's required of you or how to acquire nominations, please feel free to get in touch with any of us and ask. We hope to see you running for TAFF soon!

A useful article for writers, authored by Mark Nichol.  Good guidance for freelance nonfiction articles as well as  fiction manuscripts.

My Warhammer 40k experience is coming along nicely. I have become inured to the blood and gore and now have one favorite that stands out, 'Daemonblood' by Ben Counter. The female character is fighting a lost battle along with an Ultramarine, and his soul is overtaken in front of her by Parmenides, Prince of Nurgle, Plague God. As Castus' soul was being devoured, he was struggling to stay connected to his memories as an Ultramarine, and I really loved how the author described the difficulties he experienced and his eventual failure. The woman, Aescarion, survives but spends the next twenty? years tracking this Ultramarine turned Daemon prince. He's been wreaking havoc as you can imagine. 

At the end, she meets Castus again and defeats him, but says to him, Look, dude, you will never be an Ultramarine again, but you have the chance to regain the light. And right before he dies, he confronts Parmenides and becomes once again Sergeant Castus of the Ultramarines. 

The story wasn't really about her, even though she took it as a personal affront, Castus' fall from grace, and made it her life's ambition to wipe him from the face of the galaxy. It was about him and his ability to regain himself, who he really was, right before the end. That was freaking awesome to me, and I was happy for him. 

"I managed to grind out an entire page of story Sunday night!", shouts the virgin writer. (Me. I have switched topics.) I was very proud of myself! My husband loved it, made me feel good. I know this sounds corny, but I felt something change inside, a tiny spark of confidence was born, perhaps? It felt good to see what I could do. It is slow going; I find that I analyze every word as it comes out on the paper. But, I don't care, because I was very proud of the results. 

Goatwater is updated every Tuesday!

If you don't dream any other day of the week, dream with me on Tuesdays.

Goatwater is written and illustrated by Tiffany Osedra Miller/aka Bassagirl.

Click here to read a transcript of this page: http://tiffanyosedramiller.com/goatwaterbook_-_page_22.html

Click here to read Goatwater from the beginning:http://tiffanyosedramiller.com/goatwaterbook_-_page_1.html

Click here to begin reading Goatwater from wherever you like: http://tiffanyosedramiller.com/goatwater_-_contents.html

Enjoy!

J.S. put me on the spot at ONYXCON today about not being on this site as much... so what I've been up to is shifting my focus slightly from virtual reality to Augmented Reality (AR).  

Augmented Reality (AR) technology has been in use since the 1990s, but a recognizable consumer market has only existed since 2009, driven by a growing demand for digital entertainment, smartphones and other mobile, camera-enabled devices such as iPads and handheld computers.  Mobile AR, which is only viewable through camera-enabled devices, overlays or adds graphics, sounds, other digital information and to the physical world.  Analysts predict that mobile AR will grow exponentially in the coming years, as more and more consumers purchase mobile devices and applications.  In fact, AR was listed as one of the top 10 emerging technologies in the MIT Technology Review.

So what I've been researching is the performative and visual languages of graffiti and breakdance (hip-hop) which abstracts and creates art from the urban experience.  Performance and motion capture, blended reality, and Wild Style abstraction reflects an evolving knowledge culture (graffiti, breakdancing, b-boying) that employs verbal, written, artistic, or performative representations of media in the body.  I'm comparing and contrasting this with capoeira.  Like capoeira, breakdancing or “breaking”  is known by quick and complex moves.  I discovered a cool article in Wire Tap magazine that compares and contrasts these similar art forms.

Bodies in motion effortlessly translate into symbolic, linguistic and spatial formulations. The performative language of graffiti – windup, tilt, float and freeze – generates dance poses and letters that are manipulated into recognizable forms. The wave (motion) becomes the letter S; arrows that are used to make letters aerodynamic are also gestures in dance routines, indicating directional or elemental forces in the environment.

Additionally, at the roots of these specialized forms, is African ritual and instrumentation.  Modern graffiti pioneers such as Rammellzee explored the futuristic, mythological and occult aspects of these art forms.  As the art makes its way into virtual and augmented game worlds or blended realities, it's important to explicate the ritual and language of these forms for younger generations.  Otherwise, they are consuming the basics, with no real substance or link to their histories.

I had to choose between burning eyelids/power nap and working on the short story while the guys were napping. I chose to soothe the burning eyelids first. However, I did manage to get some of the end-of-chapter exercises in my short story book done this morning. Baby #2 kept me company with his impromptu 6AM potty-training session. (Semi-successful session because he only pooped half of what he had in there. He laid in wait for his pull-up and then let out the rest).

Our internet provider was NOT on the ball with the internet connection today. To quote my husband, “Comcast can go eat a dick."  I am actually composing this blog post offline in preparation for when my Internet is once again functional. I have a list of about ten things to get done today. Work stuff, domestic stuff, all tasks I planned to complete online. As I peruse the list, only one of the items can be accomplished offline without making about fifty phone calls and burning up gallons of gas. 

Last week my eight hour electrical failure worked in my favor. This week my Internet failure is simply pissing me off. BUT, I did manage to sweat out FIVE whole sentences! No Internet connection needed.

 Chapter Four - The Gentle Art

Sitting in his personal tower, the Rex looked out over his wife's domain and for a moment, smiled. A smile filled with sharp teeth and massive jaws, his wife's favorite feature. The scent of wild life was rich and abundant and for a moment, he felt the urge to leap from the tower and stalk a wild surbuck, just for the thrill of it. 

He turned his back from the open window hesitantly, regretfully before making his way into the keep. Smelling the hyper-oxygenated air of Galtan II, one of the twenty Gaian super-moons of the Toranor System, the sting of bitter ozone reminded him, while this was where he now resides, it was not home.

It was the primary enclave of the Pan-humanity and Sjurani governments. It is also home-world to the Beteans, a plant and animal symbiosis, strange even by galactic standards. On this world of forests, whose great trees rivaled the skyscrapers of modern worlds, both in  size and complexity, the ambassador to the Imperium contemplated leaving home again under less than ideal conditions. 

While not exactly family-oriented, he had promised the Queen-mother once he had been awarded his genetic viability rating, he would have children to help perpetuate his beleaguered species. Entering deeply into the lair of the duchess, the hot air was still and smoky. This, of course, was the desired effect. One's home should reflect the nature of the revered Homeworld's beautiful tropical forest. 

Insect life flew abundantly through the air and were fed upon by the various primitive house lizards, which occasionally became a snack for one of the children in the middle of the night if there were no adults nearby. The Rex moved though the household, which had the appearance of an old-world Sjurani castle estate made with the most modern equipment. And while it looked primitive, the security systems of the building were state of the art. The Rex marveled at how well organized the household appeared to be; almost military in its precision. 

The lights of the audience chamber were kept at a low level allowing the eyes of the Family to maintain their hunting sharpness at night. The air was redolent with musks and other scents from dangerous animals of the local forest near the ducal estate of Shishe and the House Su-xing-qu. The Duchess insisted the surrounding countryside retain some of its wild nature and forced her hunt squads to travel deep into the nearby forest for prey. 

She sat amid a variety of cushions covered of various silks from the Qiandong Human province on the continent of Chen. The silks from the region were some of the finest in the quadrant and even though mechanically created silks seemed as good in quality, all Sjurani preferred the organic nature of true silk to anything created by machine. The claim was an awareness of the true nature of silk to their enhanced senses. The silk trade was one of the great businesses of the the House of Su-xian-qu. 

The walls were covered with a variety of wooden reliefs painstakingly carved from the dense hardwoods of distant forests and each window was shuttered with doors of exotic corals from the deep seas. The house was arranged with an artist's eye, with each element enhancing everything around it. A perfect balance of space, dimension, color, and art. The eye of the Duchess ensured the natural energies of her estate flowed freely enhancing reproductive fecundity. The household boasted three clutches in fifteen years, an extraordinary number considering the state of Sjurani reproductive politics. 

There was a quiet hum of activity until Essver entered the chamber and stood awaiting the attention of the Duchess. As he strode into the room, the lesser males quieted the children they were attending and retreated backward into the room. As he approached, Duchess Su-xian-qu spoke and the room grew silent. "Greeting beloved, I understand you are making plans to depart the system. But I say to you, nay I implore you to reconsider your plans. Your duties lie here, my mate. Your clutch is barely three standard years of age. They need thy strong influence for them to imprint properly. Thoomas can take care of himself. Your days of constantly gating all over the galaxy are over. I regret being the one to say these things to you. I know you value your freedom and I have done all I can to allow it." 

With a smile on his face and a light tone, Essver looked at the duchess, deeply into her terrible green eyes. "I say to you, dear Duchess, these tiny hellions can take care of themselves. The Nine Devils pray daily none die before they are able to evacuate the Seven Hells for these beasts to roam free in. Imprint on me? They are more likely to feast on me whilst I slept." 

Undeterred by his commentary on the strength and beauty of his children, she continued, "We have a duty, Dream-Singer, our people have been devastated by plague, war and now a pestilence of our own devising. Your genome is strong and produces healthy and viable offspring. There are too few Rex remaining who are able to do that in these days. The Gene Council has begun to consider taking samples of our clutches for gene bank profiles. The time for saving the galaxy one world at a time is over. You must save our people too." When she finishes her statement, one of the second husbands brings a youngster to the Duchess and she gives the child some meat from a nearby platter. The child, beautifully formed with scales of a glittering greenish gold, hungrily stuffs the food into his mouth and chews noisily. 

Essver watching this bonding ritual is only mildly repulsed and continues, "This is not about Thoomas, my lady, this is about our contractual obligations to the Imperium. We would be poor citizens if we did not employ our capabilities to the benefit our families as well as the Triune Council. My Queen-mother, three starred general, though departed, would be unhappy to know her son turned completely away from the Gentle Art before his two hundredth birthday. Would you be the cause of such personal shame for me?" Essver paused for a second, before making the next pronouncement. "I will consider turning fully toward the First Trade upon the completion of this assignment." Essver was actually very good in the First Trade, and had made several fortunes even as he performed his work in the Gentle Art, or working with Thomas Wilks and his human interpretation of the Gentle Art. 

A look of deep sorrow crossed the reptilian face of the Duchess and looked as if she wanted to say something that would sooth her mighty Rex but knew no words for what must come next. The Duchess raised her arm and several distant doors opened and some shadowed forms had begun to move into the room. Their scent and their movement indicated their youth. The glinting of their scales reinforced that supposition. 

Strong forms in a variety of colors, golden, red, green and teal scales approached him and he recognized them as they came into the light. They are all dressed in ceremonial armor and weapons. Essver knew this was his first clutch with the duchess. These were the survivors. Of the original twelve, seven survived to adulthood, the others lost to disease, weakness, carelessness or put down by the Duchess herself, if they were unfit. 

They were approximately fifteen cycles and ready for their final adulthood rites. Several of the middle clutch and almost all of the youngest were upset as the seven surrounded their Rex in the center of the audience chamber.They would be forced to watch as their siblings became adults. "They need you, my Rex," she began, with her voice louder and more angry, "today you are here for their blooding and passage into adulthood, but your next brood will need you again. You cannot risk being lost before they are adult. They will need you to provide for their genetic stabilization and their social status. We are slaves to our genetics. Without you, your children may not be able to become parents themselves, should they survive." 

The children moved gracefully as they gathered their weapons together. Sword, spear, axe, ranthip, each chose weapons according to their body types, mental prowess and physical power. They were all graceful killing machines, trained since they were five to be the best warriors the next generation of Sjurani could want. 

Ten years of vigorous and aggressive combat, tactics and military education was their birthright. Essver was proud of his children as they surrounded him and prepared to show him their fighting skills. He would try his best to kill as many as possible. It was the Sjurani way. Only a fight, where they believed they might die would galvanize their genetic potential into actuality. 

As he dropped into a combat stance, he activated his force shield and flex sword and whispered while the blood-fury filled his veins "Show me, my children, your Gentle Art." 

* * * 

When Essver received his summons, he had already said his goodbyes to his mate, her lesser husbands, and his clutch and was already at the spaceport making the final preparations and checking the dossiers of new Pilots recently released from the Universitas Magistrorum et Humanitas. 

He had a slight limp from a deep cut his first son had made in his leg. It was a minor inconvenience he would heal on his way to the Lorissi system. He had a number of other smaller, less challenging injuries. A day of bacterial cellular regrowth and he would be fine. Four of his first clutch would be able to become parents. Their injuries were serious, however, and would require weeks in regeneration chambers. But the genetic activation took place. Two died and one would become a sterile male. This group was considered wildly successful by Sjurani standards. The Duchess was already considering to which families they would become affiliated with.  

The University was the final training facility for homo sapiens conscientia, mechanical sentients of the highest order capable of being created by the combined sciences of the Triune governments of Pan-Humanity, the Sjurani and the Beteans who initially inhabited Galtan II. These mechanical humanoids work with soldiers of the Resurrection Corps and using modern psychometric tools maintain their humanity after the rigors and trauma of dying, potentially repeatedly in their line of work. These mechanical sentients function as Pilots, technologists, scientists and companions to their Soldier. Fully aware of themselves and their work in the Imperium, the Conscientia are highly paid and highly regarded in their own right and have made significant advances to the program during their long term study, analysis and support of the Corps.  

There were several promising Pilots but only a few would be ready in time and none would have been assigned a ship in time for this trip. Essver did not let this deter him and had several ships of his own to draw from during his time as a mercenary. All had been kept fit and ready in case of need, so he would use the most heavily armed of them, Glorious, as a base while he and Thomas sought the stolen Frame. It could also be refit to mount the Frame facilities in less than a day. He made several calls and the Glorious would be ready in time to transit to the fleet. He also made a request to the University's dean to have several of the more promising students prepared, reviewed and the best of them made ready in a week to send to Lorissi, once issues had been settled there.  

The communique arrived by an Council messenger while he was checking the Glorious and the messenger was officious and upon delivery retreated without much pomp, but surprising all the same, since Council messengers were rarely seen at the space docks of Rekein. His wardrobe had already been delivered to the Glorious and he chose his most impressive uniform, which was festooned with medals from his time as a leader of both a Sjurani ground assault team and as a mercenary commander in the employ of the Sjurani Council. Armed with his tribal weaponry, as effective as their modern equivalents but covered with more ornate and beautiful constructions, he arrived at the Council headquarters in the center of the Triune City of Rekein at the required time.  

Led into the council and announced it was a long time since he had heard his full title: Triune Ambassador to the Imperium, Essver Dream-Singer, of the People of the Sjurani, son of Minru, son of Daor the Terrible, warrior-poet of Galtan II, Sjurani Rex, mated to the nugongjué, the Glorious Pielienhis (pe-le-en-hiss) seeking the audience of the Phoenix and the Triune Council.  

The room was ornate, as is the habit of the Sjurani, covered with a variety of artworks, metalcraft, stonework reliefs reflecting ancient heroes of legend, of every caste and every race. The chamber had been held on one of the Greatships of the Sjurani fleet that landed here and was over twenty thousand years old. It had been moved to this location as the center of government for the Sjurani, Pan-Human and Betean Councils. The Phoenix stood and her august plumage was in full release with her arms outstretched. Her coloring was brilliant and each feather a work of natural art and genetic manipulation blended perfectly. Her proportions were strong and even indicating her supreme heritage and likelihood of descent from the greatest heroes of the Phoenix line, the Flame King and the Summer Queen, the first of the Line of the Phoenix. While she was a Phoenix and he a Rex, he felt some level of attraction at a subconscious level. He could also feel her powerful operant psychic presence even though his psychic potential was limited to physical expressions of power.  

The Phoenix was small in comparison to Essver, but it did not stop her from being physically imposing. Her two Raptors, armed with dual pulse pistols, flex-swords and the highest quality flex-field armor stood vigilant even though they were actually more ornamentation than true defense. The courtroom, was liberally sprinkled with a variety of defensive technologies, mechanical sentience, and a good portion of the Sjurani council were capable and armed warriors themselves. She stood nearby as she paced in front of Essver who was in a supplication position on one knee in the center of the council chambers.  

As he had entered she had been speaking about the Corvan government and their recent loss of a squadron of Resurrection soldiers and their support troops due to poor intelligence. It was bad enough to have been using them against the Dalrothi on the edge of the Imperium, but to irrevocably lose nineteen to the True Death was unthinkable. Now they wanted to take the one survivor, who had lived for two years in completely inhospitable surroundings and through over twenty deaths without a Pilot and accuse him of treason?  

This soldier, Wilks and his Frame were a treasure trove of data that simply must be recovered. He was sent to Bel-ha to allow his suit's information to be downloaded and for him to experience psychological support of the type the Bel-ha's superior technology could provide. He was the perfect example of the superiority of this program and why we must be allowed to continue to develop it further. The Imperium was the primary client of the Resurrection Corps, but the technologies created allowed this group to manufacture something of lasting value to the Imperium and take their rightful place as quality sentients in the eyes of the elder galactic races, who considered Pan-humanity to be upstart races at best and vulger abominations at worst.  

She turned her sharp eyes toward Essver and he could feel her psychic might pressing against him. "You must recover that Frame, there is no alternative. Use all means at your disposal to discover what has happened to the technology. We sent a recovery team to Brennan 326 and nothing remained of Those That Served. In the proper procedure, Majoris Wilks disposed of any remains that survived the crash, and the normal automated self-destruct procedures. We must continue to maintain our patents and you will see to this, Ambassador."

She paused, considered a data-tablet handed to her by a minor functionary and continued. "On another note, since you are making a trip to the Bel-ha Collective's main planets, we would like you to establish a connection to the planet and see if it will be possible for us to establish a more solid trade arrangement. We already get many of our nanite programming from their world but the distance simply makes it difficult for us to maintain our relationships. We would like to establish one of their facilities, complete with scientists, on Galtan II near the Resurrection facility. That mission is both a cover and a secondary objective. Recover that soldier and that Frame."  

She stopped for a moment and shuddered, her feathers fluffing and spreading. "I understand he is your friend as well," she began, "I am happy to hear he has survived his ordeal and I have reviewed your service records together and find that you have both been extremely successful and fruitful as agents of Pan-Humanity and the Sujurani. We are at your disposal. What would you ask of us?"  

Essver considered himself and then raised his eyes. "Your greatness, the Corvan Fleet is leaving today and will arrive in four days in Bel-ha space. The Corva are going to expend a considerable amount of energy to make the jump in that short a time. The fleet commander, Admiral Lolikai has requested an opportunity to speak with me, in regard to our people and continued good will between the Imperium and our tiny piece of the Empire."  

Making eye contact with the Phoenix, he declared, "I believe the Imperium values the durability, accessibility, and resourcefulness of our agents. I do not think this Admiral will want to do anything that will risk that relationship considering the quality of the success of our operations in Imperium Space. I have all that I need, save a new Pilot. One will be selected, outfitted and sent to Lorissi in less than a week. Thank you for your generosity and I will return with our technology and our Soldier. You have my word."

Allegedly, scientists have recently received transmissions from what may be an alternative future Earth. So far the only proof, besides the strange radio waves that have entered our atmosphere, is a Science Fiction Novel called Renpet.

Although, many of the transmissions have already been collected and published as a Sci-Fi novel, there have been many more transmissions. Transmissions from a town called Khenset...in our near possible future.

LIVE FROM KHENSET - In Georgia there is town called Khenset. Two neighborhoods are always in a constant struggle with one another.

I added the 'baby' part because I am a dork. Two things happened today that were good. 

1. The electricity went out in my apartment for EIGHT hours today, allowing me to pick up my short story research material and get to reading uninterrrupted. If you are having a hard time keeping away from the internet, distractions and whatnot, I suggest you try losing the electricity. It really worked because I had no other choice! 

2. My husband gave me "Let the Galaxy Burn" today for inspiration, a collection of science fiction short stories. Warhammer 40,000 series. He is a huge fan, the bookcase is full of these things. Seriously, a lot of reading to do.

I am researching so much because this will be my first work of fiction, ever. I come from the romance genre, sue me, so this is way out in left field for me. But it is a challenge, and I do like those. Wish me luck.

Did anyone feel that little nip in the air this evening? It was delicious! I am on the East coast, so I've been enjoying the swamp that is DC for the last month. The little chill brought back so many summer evening memories...

I digress.

I guess my tip for the day is (from the novice, I know): Send your ideas to the gym until they look like Lou Ferrigno. Night!