Featured Posts (3427)

Sort by

Spectacular Weekend in Atlanta

What can I say?

Alien Encounters had great interviews and panel discussions at the Auburn Research Library, I met fellow BSFS'ers, listened to Avery Brooks break the science for those who did not know Paul Robeson, Samuel Delany and others, and finally got lots of pics of my folk doin' the costume thing a
t DragonCon.

I've posted the first series of pics on the Black Author Showcase fa
cebook page, so click and take a look ( I probably have a picture of you sideways).

Oh, and did I mention I have some great video snippets of Avery Brooks? I tried to get a brother to say my name, but that didn't work out.

So check back here and on the Black Author Showcase for the latest from this fantastic Labor Day weekend.
Read more…
Valjeanne's book Immortal is in competition on Goodreads this month! Tomorrow is the last day of voting, so If you haven't joined the Goodread's site yet, now would be a good time to do so. When you sign up you'll have to join the Sci Fi and Fantasy group in order to vote in the poll. Here's the link!

http://www.goodreads.com/group/show/1865.SciFi_and_Fantasy_Book_Club



Let's not leave a sista hangin'!!
Read more…

When people hear the term science fiction, it conjures up images of future settings and technology far beyond what can be imagined today. The homicidal robots of Battlestar Galactica and the vast spaceships of Star Trek are some of what typifies this type of entertainment. While sciencefiction is very visible and much of it is popularized, elements of itremain a niche genre. One of those elements is Afro-futurism.

What is that you may ask? Afro-futurism is the exploration of science fiction themes and how technological advances will affect the Black experience. Speculative fiction is the preferred name for it in writer’s circles. Much of it is in the literaryworld, and some proponents of the sub-genre trace it back to Ralph Ellison’s Invisible Man.

Mainstream science fiction takes inspiration from things that are going on in society, but often does not include the viewpoint of those in the African Diaspora. In the spirit of filling in this gap, the artists and writers in the Afro-futurist tradition seek to include us inthe future settings that we are often left out of.

Unfortunately, not a lot of this tradition is known. Having come across some of the literary people that I have in the past few years has been eye opening. I must admit that my familiarity with science fiction comes from the staples of the genre. Shows like Alien Nation, V, War of the Worlds, Lost in Space, the O.G. Battlestar Galactica, Star Wars, and countless others were my introduction to sci-fi as a young person concerned with the future and what it might hold.

Today, we have the works of people like Walter Mosley and Nalo Hopkinson, and a whole bunch of other authors I need to get caught up on. I am anxiously awaiting my copy of Dark Matter, the first in a series of anthologies of speculative fiction. What I would like to see is more of this type of writing in differentformats. I think it’s a shame that the work of Octavia Butler was neveradapted to film. There is a potential here to introduce people who arefans of science fiction to new concepts and delve into areas untapped bywhat is currently out there. District 9 was one of the betterscience fiction films of last year, and it came from outside theover-franchised Hollywood factory. In the era of Youtube and all theshort films that come from it, there is no reason this can’t happen. Aslong as we don’t get another Homeboys in Outer Space, we will do just fine.


Marc W. Polite

Read more…

Last Sun

Our world is a silent one. Not by choice, but by necessity.

There can be no waste, not a breath, not a sound, not an echo. We communicate with sound but our walls recollect that sonic energy, our clothing absorbs that energy and storing it for future use. Contemplation before speech; no rushing to communicate our thoughts. Telepathy is preferred.

Our world is a darkened one. Not by choice, but by necessity.

We use no light we do not need, so our eyes and ears are adapted to darkness. Tiny, light emitting matrices dot the walls of our living ships, providing light only while we pass and only when necessary. Every erg is cultivated from our environment. The long rays of dying stars, the short waves from our only source of nearby light, Sindin, red dwarf, last star for five thousand light years and from where we sit, the last living star we know of.

Our world is a nearly motionless one. Not by choice but by necessity. We are trained as children, that all of our lives will be filled with activity, energy and movement and not to waste it. Silent and still concentration drills are a fact of life for children, being trained to harness all of our bodies energy.

First we control the mental energy, marshalling our minds, our very thoughts, ordering them, structuring them into a crystalline lattice of logic and reason. Then our bodies, first in the physio-chambers that toned our muscles, enhanced our hearts, challenged our lungs, tempered our carbon-hardened skeletons, tightened our muscles until we were like polished onyx, smooth, cool and without flaw. We learned to control our very internal energy, raising and lowering it at will, our organs under our mental command, generating biles and fluids to regulate our life-force.

We are then injected with sehrwinzig that allow us to manipulate the very molecular energies at the very threshold of existence. We can harness those energies for limited feats of physical strength, speed or endurance far beyond our primitive ancestors of our distant homeworld. In homage to them, we have not changed our outer appearance, but our inner appearance would completely belie our origins. We had no choice.

We are grown in labs, without contact, and almost all aspects of our being has been changed to maximize our use, creation and dispersal of energy. Our skin is a photo-absorptive mesh, dark in hue, blue, purple, burgundy, black, dark brown are the choices that ensure maximum absorption from our wan sun.

We no longer have the luxury of gestation. We are now fully functioning and able to exist outside of the birthing chamber in less than three months. We are able to mature to the size of a five year old in three to six months. During that time, knowledge is encoded into our brains with programming that will allow us to develop our personality.

We develop that personality in simulacra, living virtual lives at a timescale that allows us to experience all the things we could as children in a world more conducive to happiness. Yes, it is virtual happiness, but it will likely be the only happiness we know.

There was a time when we did not allow this childhood period. Some deemed it an unnecessary expense in energy and resources. We lost far more than we saved for our efforts. More of our people choose death, far sooner than ever in our history. Childhood was reintroduced when too many quality minds were lost.

When the childhood phase of our lives ends, and we are aged toward puberty, that is the time of the first physical changing and linking that teach us how to harness our life-force both as a resource and as a weapon. We begin to live without the benefit of our simulated worlds of light and life and are acculturated to our real world. Our births are regulated, so no one is born unless someone chooses to die. Even in a community of near-immortals, the choice of death occurs more often than one would think.

The burden of living becomes more than even the most resolute spirits can carry. Some of us, who are weary but not to death, choose the rest chambers where we sleep a century or two until something new or interesting happens that meets our criteria before we entered sleep. Then we rise from our rest and carry on the search.

Our world recycles all of the energy that is created within it. There is no excess. There are no stars save the tiny red dwarf we circle. It is estimated that sixty trillion souls surround this tiny beacon of light. Sixty trillion beings huddled against the dying of the light in our Universe. We harvest and store every second of this light.

We are so desperate, that we harvest even the cooling husks of no longer lit stars, beaming long wave energy to receptors scattered throughout the galaxy. Storing that energy, it is periodically collected through the slow-motion gate system allowing for objects to be moved with the minimum amount of energy lost between gathering and movement.

In our way, we are returned to our primitive arboreal ancestors, gathering energy, everyday, hoping to have enough to feed everyone at the end of the day. Even with all our solar arrays, long-wave gathering, planetary compression systems (planets of immense size are crushed together using gravity and the resultant heat is absorbed) Magnetic field manipulations, kinetic draining systems, there is only one inescapable truth.

Our universe is dying. And we are dying with it. From where we sit, our Universe is dark, no stars remain, one trillion years after the birth of our Universe, it is ending; not with a bang but with a whisper.

The ruddy light of Sindin Prime was home to sixty trillion lives. Circling in a variety of close orbits, mega-constructions with superconductive surfaces struggled to pull in the vital energy from this, one of the last dying stars in the galaxy. As the stars have waned, multiple intelligent races have come together to harvest what energies remain from the Last Suns of our galaxy. Around Sindin Prime, there have been over three hundred separate species sharing space above the worlds.

Several factions of the government are losing control of their people. Predation from the Outer Dark has increased as Entities, life forms who have adapted to the darkness, but still hunger for light have begun to circle Sindin Prime, in ever closing orbits.

They once attacked every few centuries, now decades separate their stronger and stronger attacks. They destroyed an orbital construction above Sindin Prime, killing two billion sentients. There is very little energy to spare on defensive technology because we are so energy poor.

Recent computations indicate they will be making another pass in a decade or two, so plans to slowly accelerate asteroids toward their likely entry points to the system should kill an estimated thirty to forty-two percent of the approaching attackers and hopefully low energy point defense systems will do the rest.

I am Judira Corm Hex-aka and I am charged with creating a technology that will likely murder fifty trillion sentients, eighty percent of all the known life left in our galaxy for a chance for ten trillion to have a life in a statistical possibility, a parallel universe. This technology is called a dimensional emission array. My fathers and mothers have spent hundreds of standard years working on this project with the permission of some of the collective governments.

Time is growing short. Sindin Prime's energy output is diminishing and we will need to utilize it as the primary power source for the dimensional bridging array. This will exhaust the last of the nuclear potential of the red dwarf leaving only an burning cinder when we are finished.

If we fail, we will all die. Not quickly. No we will struggle against the coming darkness. We will expand our technology to harvest the dark stars final wavelengths of energy, extending our reach and our lives, such as they are, for another two hundred millennia.

A last gasp after the lights go out.

Thaddeus Howze © 2011

Read more…

The Complete ebook...

Ok,I dropped the price of my novel from $4.95 to .99, shifting my marketing focus back to my original intention of exposure over revenue. The novel is now in over a dozen or more "free ebook" directory websites. I even sent a review submission to RAW Sistaz!

Here's the download link for the novel from my website's book page in PDF format:


http://www.larrywinfield.com/BStrings_ebook.pdf

If you have a device that needs the book in a different format, click this link from ManyBooks:


http://manybooks.net/titles/winfieldlother10Banjo_Strings.html


Now that the book is released, I'm hoping to see some reader reviews, perhaps by Labor Day.

Read more…
SPECULATIVE LITERATURE FOUNDATION ACCEPTING APPLICATIONS FOR THE
GULLIVER TRAVEL GRANT

For Immediate Release: July 22, 2010

The Speculative Literature Foundation (SLF) is accepting proposals for the Gulliver Travel Research Grant from July 1st 2010 until September 30th 2010.

SLF travel grants are awarded to assist writers of speculative fiction (poetry, drama, creative nonfiction) in their research. They are not currently available for academic research. We are currently offering one $800 travel grant annually, to be used to cover airfare, lodging, and/or other travel expenses.

PLEASE NOTE: This grant, as with all SLF grants, is intended to help writers working with speculative literature. If you're not sure what areas that term encompasses, we recommend referencing our FAQ (question #2) on the web site.

Travel Grant Application Procedures

Send the following three items to travel@speculativeliterature.org as attached .doc or .rtf files in one e-mail:

1. A writing sample in the proposed genre (up to 10 pages of poetry, 10 pages of drama, or 5000 words of fiction or creative nonfiction)

2. A bibliography of previously-published work by the author (no more than one page, typed); applicants need not have previous publications to apply

3. A one-page written description of the project in question (maximum 500 words). Please include: Where you intend to visit (be as specific as you can), when you intend to travel (including the completion date), and what you will gain from field rather than desk research via a library or the internet

If awarded the grant, the recipient agrees to write a brief report of their research experience (500-1000 words) for our files, and for possible public dissemination on our website.

Travel may take place from any country to any country, or internally within a country; the grants are unrestricted. Funds will be disbursed in U.S. currency (but can be sent through PayPal if that is more convenient for international recipients).

The grant recipient will be announced by October 15th. All applicants will be notified of the status of their application by that date.

----------------

The Speculative Literature Foundation is a volunteer-run, non-profit organization dedicated to promoting the interests of readers, writers, editors and publishers in the speculative literature community.

"Speculative literature" is a catch-all term meant to inclusively span the breadth of fantastic literature, encompassing literature ranging from hard and soft science fiction to epic fantasy to ghost stories to
folk and fairy tales to slipstream to magical realism to modern mythmaking–any literature containing a fabulist or speculative element.

More information about the Speculative Literature Foundation is available from its web site: http://www.speclit.org/


SPECULATIVE LITERATURE FOUNDATION
PO Box 1693
Dubuque, IA 52004-1693
http://www.speclit.org
Read more…

Note* There are eight great points to consider in the body of this blog when publishing; whether self or through mainstream. I hope this is helpful to everyone who is trying to take their work to a universal and commercial level. This is really great for those that have already self-published. Write on! ~Moses

==================================

Copyright Barnes & Noble, Inc. 2010


Each year, we review more than 100,000 submissions from publishers of every size and background. Our buyers review publishers’ catalogues,
marketing materials and galleys or sample copies to help them make their
decisions. Most of these books are added to our book database and a
small order is placed for our warehouse. This makes a title available
for sale on our Web site and for order through our stores.

If you would like your title to be considered by our buyers, please submit a finished copy (no manuscripts please) of the book along with
marketing and promotion plans, trade reviews, and a note describing how
the book meets the competition (what makes it unique) to:


The Small Press Department
Barnes & Noble
122 Fifth Avenue
New York, NY 10011


Please include your phone number and e-mail address.

The information must include the ISBN and the suggested retail price. The review process takes about six weeks. The Small Press Department
responds to all submissions in writing.

All books will be considered for store placement based on subject matter and salability. Please consider the following points when
publishing and presenting your book.

Points to Consider

  1. Does your book have an International Standard Book Number (ISBN)?
  2. Does your book have a bar code?
  3. What sort of binding (saddle stitch, staple, perfect, plastic comb, ring) does your book have?
  4. Is your book available through a wholesaler?
  5. Is your book priced competitively with other titles of a similar topic and quality?
  6. Has your book met compliance certification?
  7. Why should Barnes & Noble place your title on its shelves?
  8. Where can you find more information on the topic of book writing, publishing, and marketing?

Does your book have an International Standard Book Number (ISBN)?

We use the ISBN to track inventory and sales information. An ISBN is a 10-digit number that specifically identifies your title. ISBNs are
furnished by:


ISBN Agency
630 Central Avenue
New Providence, NJ 07974
(877)310-7333
(908)219-0188 (fax)
www.isbn.org


Processing takes 10 working days. An extra fee brings 72-hourpriority handling. If your book has already been printed, you can
sticker your book with the ISBN once it is assigned. The ISBN and price
should appear on the back cover of the book.

For more info click on this link:
http://www.barnesandnobleinc.com/for_authors/how_to_work_with_bn/how_to_work_with_bn.html

Read more…
SCRIPT MAN: THE BEGINNING

BY,


MOSES T. CLARK JR.

FADE IN:

INT. COFFEE SHOP - DAY


The shop is packed with a bunch of motivated working people. A room full of sugar-grubbing coffee addicts.

A Black man, CLARK (27) is sitting at a table,typing away on his laptop. His physic is cut, with short wavy-brown hair, and strong hands like that of a working man's hands. He continues to type like he is isolated in his own world.

An attractiveCaucasian/Asian woman SANDY (29) petite figure, with long auburn hair, sophisticated glasses, pretty blue eyes, and a scarlet casual outfit
that matches her lips, walks by sipping on a cup of coffee.

SANDY
Is that a script you're working on?

CLARK
Yeah, a revision I'm fixin' up...I got a
meeting at the Writers Hall tomorrow.

Sandy gives a solemn smirk.

SANDY
Oh' yeah! Maybe I should throw up a
prayer to the Script god for your
success.

CLARK
I'd appreciate that.

Sandy gave a goodbye smile and walked towards the exit. For a second, Clark thought that there was something peculiar about her, and then he nodded his head, forgetting that thought.

INT.WRITERS HALL, LOBBY - DAY

The lobby is crowded with a bunch ofno name writers, sitting down quietly -- looking like cattle going to the slaughter.

A female RECEPTIONIST sits at her deskchewing on gum...every three seconds she manages to give an annoying POP.

Clark is posted in an uncomfortable chair, waitingpatiently.

He notices a MAN come out of the door upstairs. Theman looks like an odd poindexter, and he is also walking funny-wiping his slimy mouth-burping.

This makes Clark feel moreuncomfortable. He now has a concerned look on his face.

RECEPTIONIST
Clark! You're up next!

The Receptionist hit a button that caused the main door to re-open. Clark slowly went up the stairs and through the door...

INT. WRITERS HALL, CORRIDOR -CONTINUOUS

...While he is walking down the corridor hallway,there is a horrid smell that makes him gag.

The further he walksdown the hallway, the more the area starts to deform. It now looks like an underworld, an abyss -- with torches on the walls, and statues of ancient creatures.

INT. WRITERS HALL, MAIN OFFICE - CONTINUOUS

Whenhe finally gets inside the room, he is sickened to see a line of
writers -- people of all races and genders, sucking huge white cocks.

SCRIPTGOD (200) approaches him with his long dark hair, silver eyes and a
pale face that probably has not seen light since 1862.

CLARK
What the hell is this place? I thought
this was suppose to be the Writers Hall?!

Script god touches his own pale chin with his long ivory nails and gives a seductive smile.

SCRIPT GOD
Calm down, you're in the right place.
This is the Writers Hall.

Clark is aggravated by the sucking sound in the background.

CLARK
But there's nothing here, but a bunch
of...

SCRIPT GOD
Cocksuckers. Is that what you think they
are? My dear lad you must be mistaking...
for these are Hollywood's finest
contributors.

CLARK
You're insane!

SCRIPT GOD
And you my dear friend are talented...
think about this clearly before you
judge. We all have to suck cock at some
point in our miserable lives. Look at
Halle Berry, she hadto suck Billy Bob
Thortons cock to win an Oscar. Everyone
needs to taste humility sometimes.

Clark holds his hand over his mouth coughing in disgust.

SCRIPT GOD
So be wise Clark, suck my cock, and I
can promise you a very fruitful career.

Clark has a deep frown, and walks closer towards the Script god. He tightens his fist, and punches the demon in his ashen-face, causing him to fall to the floor.

Clark dashesfor the exit.

SCRIPT GOD
Kill him! Before he exposes us!

A group of agents rush towards Clark, chasing him down the hallway.

With all his might, Clark kicks open the door...

INT. WRITERS HALL, LOBBY - CONTINUOUS

...moreagents thrust forth with guns aimed at Clark. The writers in the lobby
all run outside terrified.

Clark finds himself surrounded andthen...Sandy the lady from the coffee shop storms in, exposing the truth that she is...

CLARK
Script Girl?

Clark's eyes widen in disbelieve. The agents become furious and try to attack
Script Girl.

Ten agents rush in and she does a kick that sendsfive flying back to the floor unconscious.

The other Five try toget physical and she breaks one of their arms, jabs another in the chest causing him to spit up blood, knocking two out with the palm of her knuckles, and this leaves the last agent who cowardly tries to shoot at her.

The bullet shoots out in slow motion, Script Girl dodges thebullet, and it grazes her cape -- she finishes with an uppercut to the jaw before the agent could get another shot.

SCRIPT GIRL
let's go before that freak sends more
agents!

Clark doesn't hesitate, he follows her out the door.

INT. DRIVING - LATER THAT DAY

Script Girl is driving her cherry red convertible-- her hair is blowing in the wind. Clark sits in the passenger seat, still trying to cope with everything that just went on.

SCRIPT GIRL
I respect you for not selling out Clark.

CLARK
You know me?

SCRIPT GIRL
Hell yeah! I read your stuff on Helium...
I can help you if you let me. My job is
to stop the tyranny of the blank page,
but you...you can be much more.

The scene closes in on Clark's confused eyes.

TO BE CONT'D



Read more…

Black SCI-FI Film in Production

About this project:

The reason I write and produce stories featuring black characters is because their are very little heroes in mainstream media that look like african americans. So I am creating a film called "The Flying Bullet: Peril of the Phoenix Planet" which will be a SCI-FI adventure film dealing with a Tuskegee Airman being transported millions of mile away from Earth in 1943. This film is a 100% science fiction story. I took the rich history of african americans and combined it with the science fiction genre. The story deals with the struggles of african americans to be counted as full citizens of the United States in defense of their country during WWII. Curt Master soons discovers that the planet Earth is entangled in a bigger intergalactic struggle to remain free from a nefarious Warlord.

My screenplay is already complete. I plan to begin shooting in June of 2010. I have enlisted aid from other african american actors, illustrators and visual effects personnel. The film will be
shot in a studio using green screen technology, on location in Hunstville, Alabama for outdoor scenes and at the U.S Space and Rocket Center in Huntsville, Alabama for interior sci-fi scenes. The film should be complete by February 2010. I plan on entering it in the the Atlanta Film Festival in April of 2011 in Atlanta, Georgia for its premiere. Also I will premiere it at the Boys and Girls Club of Huntsville, Alabama for free to all the kids. Then the film will go on sale for the public in June 2011.

Special bonus features will include upcoming projects and a "making of/ director commentary."

The cost will cover studio time, CGI work, fees, software. I have several actors involved in the project doing it for free. They are doing it because they love sci-fi and want to see a project like this so all kids and adults can enjoy. But I would like to have something left over in order to pay them a nominal fee.
Heroes Like Me Entertainment wil produce original, low-budget, short films in the action, adventure and sci-fi genre starring african americans. I'm not asking for a hand-out but an opportunity to market the films to cable companies like TV-One, BET, SCI-FI Channel, Nickelodeon, and others networks.
Check out my website at heroeslikeme.com where you can see my other published work and content. If you have any further questions plesase email me at chris@heroeslikeme.com

I believe that everyone deserves heroes that look like them.


Project location: Huntsville, AL

Read more…

The Division: Part Four

Time travel is not a right. It is a privilege, one reserved for academics and policy makers. Formerly, history could be accessed only through the weathered pages of texts. Quite often those texts were marred by the tendencies of the authors to embellish and mythologize. Time travel, when it transcended the boundary dividing theory and application, offered an opportunity to bypass the texts to get a first hand view of some of the most monumental events in the history of humankind.


A nostalgic warmth settled over Kameron as he regarded the commendation plaque hanging over the entrance to his bedroom. The operative had spent the better part of a day in his quarters, immersed in thought. Dr. Win had given sound advice, sound options. Take less stressful assignments or take time off. Either option made perfect sense. The problem was, neither option was a solution to resolving the burning conflict raging inside Kameron. When Kameron gazed upon the plaque, however, his disquiet dimmed and memories of a less complicated, clearer cut side of him bubbled to the fore. He was honored with the plaque for saving a young Mohandas Gandhi from a hit squad of temporal renegade assassins.
Kameron’s mood took a downward turn, however, when he remembered being sent back on a later mission, to the same time frame to prevent another gang of renegades from saving the Indian nationalist from his appointed date with death on January 30, 1948.
Yes. Some time off would do him a wealth of good.
The comm unit in the main room chirped, abruptly pulling Kameron out of his reverie. An automated voice followed: “Operative Childers, the Director summons you.”
Kameron was tempted to ignore the summons. After a moment of further reflection he forced himself into motion.


The Director’s image was a black cutout on the display screen, pasted onto a white field. His voice was modified to a low pitch drone, further masking his identity.
Every time Kameron stepped into this featureless, antiseptic audience chamber, every time he gazed upon the talking silhouette on the screen, he could not shake the eerie sensation that he was some bygone acolyte communing with his god.
“Good work at Hastings,” the Director praised. The silhouetted head moved slightly forward in a most minimal of nods.
“Thank you, sir.”
“You’ve barely been back for more than a day. Yet, a crisis has surfaced and we have, yet again, a need for your invaluable service.”
Kameron raised a hand in polite interruption. “Sir, before you say more, I’m putting in for a leave. I would really appreciate it if you assigned someone else to this crisis.”
“There is no one else I trust more to get us out of the tight spots than you, Kameron. You have more than earned your leave time, a year’s worth if you ask me. But I need you…no, I’m requesting that you postpone your leave for the short duration of this mission. At least hear me out before you make a decision.”
By all rights Kameron could have turned down the Director’s request. After all, wasn’t he, as Dr. Win suggested, burning out? Hadn’t years of successive missions with little or no extended down time in between conferred oppressive scabs of wear and tear on his mind and body? A written medical authorization from Win herself would have added professional weight to Kameron’s rejection.
It’s funny how something inside Kameron responded to the prospect of a new mission like a drug addict craving a fix.
“I’m listening, sir.”
“EVNTL: 1968,” the Director began. “There were two renegade attempts to prevent the assassination of Historical Subject: Dr. Martin Luther King. First attempt was an orchestration of King’s arrest by the local authorities in Memphis, Tennessee, four hours before his scheduled termination. In the second attempt, renegades arranged for King to be checked into a different hotel, putting him out of the effective reach of his assassin. Two teams of operatives succeeded in restoring the Baseline in both episodes. However, Timeline Watch has picked up convincingly actionable chatter indicating that King’s assassin is being targeted for death. There may be a half dozen or more renegades involved in the conspiracy. If they are on the ground that means the assassin is in very imminent jeopardy.”
Kameron could not see what the Director was thinking, but he could feel currents of anticipation radiating hotly from the silhouetted image.
The fix of a new assignment clawed at the operative with equal urgency. After a moment of internal debate, Kameron succumbed to his urge. “I’ll need a complete brief.”
“Already compiled,” said the Director with a smile in his voice.


Joy, turmoil, despair, ecstasy, good, evil, apathy, concern, progress, stagnation, fanaticism, moderation. History is a landscape of opposites. There is the good and the bad. There are also the gray areas, where complexity thrives and ambiguity is nurtured. The best-intentioned renegades seek to purge the bad from history. They want to end suffering. They may prevent a catastrophic event from occurring, but all too often, the result of their interference unleashes a chain of events that directly or indirectly lead to dire consequences elsewhere. What has their intervention gained them other than reinforcing the ironclad fact that utopia cannot be imposed upon history.


EVNTL: 1968. Kameron appeared just outside the rooming house across from the Lorraine Hotel in Memphis, Tennessee. It was pitch black, the surrounding street bathed in empty silence. Kameron tapped into his optic implant and tried to scan a section of the house overlooking the hotel’s second floor balcony. His implant was on X ray mode with an infra setting. Yet, Kameron’s visual reading of the room where the assassin was supposed to be lurking came up fuzzy. Someone was using a device that most definitely was not 20th century tech to scramble the operative’s attempt at surveillance.
Kameron tensed briefly before a salve of calm cooled his rising adrenaline to a level he could manage. Temporal renegades were on site. For all he knew they may have already been inside the building. There was only one way to find out. Kameron tightened his focus, pulled out his darter pistol and proceeded with the highest vigilance toward the rooming house entrance.
Kameron paused. King’s assassin may have already been dead. The operative shot a glance toward the motel balcony where the civil rights leader’s room was located. The next day, King was going to die and this unassuming motel would be immortalized in history. Kameron resumed his approach to the entrance, uncertainty a heavy drag on his pace. Then he stopped five feet from the door. No. Kameron shook his head. What the hell was he thinking accepting this mission? All he had to do was follow the doc’s advice. He didn’t know if he could do this anymore…
A bare scratch of movement on the other side of the door graced Kameron’s keen ear like a butterfly’s whisper. Instinct seized hold of the operative. He dropped to the ground a second before a stream of neutronium glazed flechettes ripped through the door, turning solid wood into heated splinters.
Kameron rolled away from the doorway, nimbly enough to avoid being mulched, but not quickly enough to evade a hit. A flechete grazed his bicep, but Kameron didn’t feel it. He opened up on the unseen shooters before he completed his tumble. Kameron’s darter flared ferocity. He sent thirty round per second bursts chattering through the shredded remnant of the door. An answering scream came from inside.
One down.
Kameron ceased fire, jumped to his feet and crouched toward the door. Footfalls from behind. Kameron unclipped an anti-personnel charge from his belt before turning his gun on the danger to his rear. A figure with an assault weapon opened fire on him. Kameron responded, loosing a ten round ripple of metal that gouged bloody divots out of the aggressor’s center mass, sending the latter’s shots arcing wide into the night.
Kameron’s next action occurred in almost the same motion. He tossed the charge through the door’s aperture and turned his head away from the muted blast. A billow of smoke and debris ejected through entrance, incinerating what was left of the door. Kameron dove into the rooming house on the heels of the blast. Something sharp and hot bit into his leg. Kameron disregarded the pain, caught a dance of movement ten feet to his right and put a brace of flechettes through yet another body. The assailant stumbled backward, clutching a ruined area just below his throat.
Kameron leapt behind the mutilated remains of a couch. He swiftly detached a spent ammo clip from his darter and slapped in a full clip.
“Kameron!”
Kameron’s head jerked up. Someone was calling his name. Impossible. There was no way a temporal renegade could know his name. The voice did sound oddly familiar.
“Kameron Childers.”
The operative sidled closer to the couch, taking some comfort in its illusory utility as a cover. He was morbidly aware, however, that this tattered piece of furnishing was not going to protect him from a full fusillade of flechettes. He didn’t know what game these renegades were playing by repeatedly shouting his name, but Kameron was not about to indulge them with a response.
“Kameron, it’s me, Jimmy.”

Read more…

The Division: Part Three

The ability to remain objective is what separates a DTPI operative from a temporal renegade. Renegades perceive history as a malleable entity to be molded according to individual whims and passions. Such an approach is arrogant to the point of destructive. In the same way that preservationists seek to protect terrestrial environments from the deleterious effects of pollution or strive to save rare plants and animals from extinction, so the DTPI safeguards time. The operative is essential to the mission that defines the DTPI’s existence. There are occasions when he or she is called upon to engage in acts of Baseline restoration that may greatly compromise personal morality. An operative’s duty is paramount in relation to personal feelings. It must be so, because the alternative is temporal chaos, ultimately leading to the destruction of the overall Event Time Line…in short, the dissolution of history…


Kameron rejected the Doctor’s offer to sit down in the comfortable recliner situated in the middle of her office. Kameron rarely visited Dr. Win. On the few occasions he did, he never took a seat. He shunned the notion of relaxing. He wasn’t here to relax.
Dr. Alexi Win, resident psycho-analyst, observed the operative through a cool filter of professional detachment. She perched on the edge of her desk, waiting patiently for Kameron to gather whatever thoughts twirled through his head.
“I killed a man,” Kameron confessed. “I put an arrow through his head and called it a day.”
“Killing being an unpleasant but necessary aspect of your job, I assume that you accomplished your mission,” Dr. Win stated. The psycho-analyst wore the white slacks and matching collarless tunic of a medical practitioner.
Kameron replied to Win’s comment as if it were a question. “Yes I did. Another patch on the gaping wound of an Event Time Line.”
“You’ve saved another parcel of history.”
“At a cost as usual.”
“What cost?”
“Human cost.”
“Human cost? Who do you refer to when you use the term human?”
Kameron cut a sour eye at the doctor. He resented the question, because he knew the answer he provided would not accord with DTPI policy. Populations within timeframes are not human beings they are historical subjects. That was the first rule drilled into operative recruits at the beginning of their training. Perceiving historical subjects as human beings would only compromise an operative’s ability to carry out missions that required the taking of lives.
Event Time Line:1994, flittered across Kameron’s recollection. He was in a concealed location, within an airport’s line of sight, waiting for a plane to reach the end of a runway. When the plane was airborne, its wheels retracting into its metallic belly, Kameron propped the SAM launcher on his shoulder, targeted and fired. Seconds blinked by between launch and contact. The plane lurched from the missile’s explosive impact, before gliding groundward in a perilous smoke-churning descent. The resulting crash reverberated across a tiny, densely populated African nation. A president died in the plane’s demise. Up to a million Rwandans would soon join him in a gruesome orgy of machete-driven slaughter.
Temporal renegades had already prevented that tragic episode when they murdered the real individuals responsible for downing the plane. Kameron had been sent to that time frame to put history back on track.
Another Event Time Line. Kameron stood over the body of a temporal renegade whose neck he just snapped. The renegade was trying to assist Spartacus, the gladiator who led a slave revolt that terrorized the Roman Republic. With the weapons the renegade provided, Spartucus and his slave army would have won the war and eventually toppled the might of Rome. Again, Kameron disrupted a renegade network and returned the Baseline to the way it was suppose to be. Six thousand slaves with thwarted dreams of freedom were nailed to six thousand crosses for their efforts. A crowning achievement to a mission’s success. How burdensome that crown, now. How loathsome the achievement.
In the DTPI’s scheme of things, a bunch of doomed Rwandans and Roman slaves were only historical subjects. Nothing more. Their existences were secondary to the primary task of restoring events others had altered. There was a time when Kameron actually believed that. But one too many such restorations…one too many occasions of seeing the consequences of his missions measured in the blood and suffering of historical subjects…human beings.
“Kameron, you have not answered my question.” Dr. Win folded her arms, her expression mildly insistent.
“I suppose you want me to say that the only humans who count are the operatives lost in the line of duty.” Kameron’s tone teetered on sarcasm, but Win either did not notice or took no offense.
“Is that what you believe?” She asked, studying the operative closely.
“That’s what I’ve been taught to believe.”
“But have you taken that teaching to heart?”
“I wouldn’t be an operative if I hadn’t.”
“Some of the tasks you have been called to perform, however, still trouble you.”
Kameron paced to the far end of the office, his silence all but validating the psych-analyst’s suggestion.
Dr. Win dropped her arms and stood up. She had listened, now she took the opportunity to advise. “Why don’t you take a break or if that doesn’t suit you, perhaps you should put in for assignments that are less, shall we say, intensive. Assignments that do not involve violence. Either option should do you some good. You’ve been at this stressful pace continuously for a very long time. You’re becoming burned out.”
Kameron grunted. “Maybe that’s what it is. Maybe I do need a change of pace.” He let the idea sink in. “Maybe I do.”

Read more…

The Division: Part Two

Temporal Renegades, for a variety of reasons, attempt to alter Baseline History. Their motives are often lofty, ranging from political to religious. Although some temporal renegades have been known to tamper with history for no other reason than thrill seeking. A fewer still engage in such nefarious activity because it feeds their lust for power. Indeed, the ability to change an event, to send ripples of disruption coursing through the Event Timeline is a power like none other, a power despots through the ages would have envied.

Null Station was one square mile of interlocking rings and connecting conduits, housing offices, personal domiciles and training facilities. The construct existed in an endless gray soup, a place where time did not exist. What better location for an agency specializing in temporal matters to base its headquarters then in a realm beyond the barrier of time.
Kameron thought so. Null Station’s very location in the stasis void was a protection from active efforts by temporal renegades to destroy the Division of Temporal Preservation and Integrity. Wipe out Null Station, no more Division. The key was finding it and only the DTPI director knew the exact coordinates of the station. For security reasons the Director’s identity was concealed and he never left the station.
Kameron reappeared at Midpoint, located somewhere else in the stasis void. Midpoint was where field operatives were decontaminated and screened prior to teleporting to Null Station. Screening was the most important part of the process. It was not unheard of for temporal renegades to attempt to use a captured operative to infiltrate Null Station. Kameron knew the drill. He shed his gear, stepped into a closet size screening chamber, and stood straight with hands locked behind his head while a sensor beam bathed his body in an aura of light.
Screening analysis determined that Kameron was neither a clone nor a replicant AI. No presence of behavior-modifying chemicals or neural alterations. No mind control implants. No evidence of psych readjustments. No harboring of explosive devices. After passing muster with the screening, Kameron slipped into a comfortable civilian outfit and stepped onto a teleportation pad. Next and final stop: Null Station.

Jimmy Maldone greeted Kameron on Reception Deck 12. Kameron smiled upon seeing his colleague and friend. He couldn’t help it. Maldone’s effervescent personality was infectious. His enthusiasm for his work remained a bright spot that Kameron tried to draw from to illuminate his own dimming morale.
“It’s good to see you’re in one piece,” said Jimmy, tugging at Kameron’s arm as if to make sure it was still attached.
Kameron pulled his arm away, giving Jimmy a playful shove in return. “Did you expect any less?”
Jimmy threw a hand up in a show of concession. “I suppose not. But those medieval time frames can be a real bastard.”
“And then some,” added Kameron. “On the other hand, you don’t have to worry about stray bullets.”
The operatives strolled down a wide corridor leading to the rec wing. Personnel in various one-piece uniforms walked by. The color of a person’s uniform identified the department he or she worked for. Blue for Data Anaylsis. Green for Technical. Orange for Engineering. Brown for Internal Security. Black for Time Watch, DTPI’s intelligence arm. Operatives alone had the privilege of wearing whatever they liked, at least on the station.
“If I recall correctly, you were doing a 20th century time frame op,” said Kameron. “You’re back early.”
“Nothing to it.” One corner of Jimmy’s mouth tilted upward, his signature expression of unapologetic cockiness. “Renegades tried to take Stalin out before his time. They did manage to save Trotsky. So, I sent a detail to cover Uncle Joe. Then I took a trip to Mexico and restored the Baseline there.”
Kameron marveled at the clinical choice of term for murder that fell so easily off the tongues of Division operatives. Stabbing a man in the skull with an ice axe was not an act of brazen, barbaric brutality in this particular context. It became a justified and necessary means for maintaining timeline stability. Perhaps even more disquieting to Kameron was how bloody minded his former protégé’ had become in so short a time. Three years as an operative Jimmy had restored more Baselines than the majority of five-year veterans. He was quick to volunteer for the more violent assignments: EVNTL ( Event Timeline) 1914, Assassinating the Archduke of Austria. EVNTL 1982: leading a massacre of civilians at a Palestinian refugee camp. EVNTL 1572: precipitating the killing of Protestants in France…It was a lengthy record of success. If asked, Jimmy would have proudly credited Kameron for molding him into a top tier operative. Kameron, an eleven-year veteran, was on a fast track to legendary status within the Division. Who better to emulate than the best?
“What say we swing by the café before you debrief?” The agents stopped at a junction in the corridor.
Kameron rubbed the back of his neck, tempted. “Sure thing…but not right now. I need to clear my head.”
“You’re going to the doc’s office?”
Kameron flashed a dry look Jimmy’s way. “I didn’t say that.”
“It’s not what you said, it’s what I read.” The urge to pat himself on the back for that clever arrangement of words could not have been more obvious on Jimmy’s face.
Kameron rolled his eyes. “I’ll meet you in a half hour, maybe less. Try not to monopolize our female colleagues.”
Jimmy donned an expression of pure innocence. “I’ll do my best…but if you take too long…” Jimmy let the sentence trail off, then he grew serious. “Kameron, is everything all right?”
“I’m fine. I just to need to unload about a few things. You know how it is after a mission.”
“Well, uh, not really.”
Shaking his head, Kameron let out an amused sigh. “Of course you wouldn’t know. I’ll see you in a few.”

Read more…

The Division: Part One

The Division

By Ronald T. Jones



Baseline History refers to past events as presented in historical texts. For example, it is common knowledge that the Normans won the Battle of Hastings in 1066. The proof of a Norman victory is validated by those who witnessed the event and those who recorded such recollections for posterity, hence the Bayeux Tapestry…


Kameron Childers crouched behind his obscurement field at a far enough distance to avoid danger, but close enough to get a fairly good view of the battlefield. Armored Normans on horseback struggled to cut their way through stubborn knots of longhaired, ax wielding Saxon foot soldiers. The Housecarls, King Harold Godwinson’s elite troops, swung their long heavy axes with a savage ease that lethally advertised individual strength and expertise. An ax sank into a horse’s gut. The mortally wounded animal reared up in a mournful cry, spilling its rider. The weight of the Norman’s heavy armor accelerated his fall, adding extra pounds to what was certainly a crunching impact with the ground. The hapless Norman’s headfirst descent probably knocked him out cold, perhaps even killed him. Either fate would have been a small mercy. It would have spared him the terror and the agony of being hacked to pieces in a shredder of Saxon axes.

Kameron accessed his enhanced optic. The implant just behind his right eye shimmied to life. He zoomed in on the seething bloodbath, ignoring the melee between horsemen and foot soldiers to get a close up of a single individual.
There he was. The powerful king of the Saxons, on horseback, surrounded by his bodyguards, in the thick of the fight. King Harold’s arm worked like a piston, each sword stroke a death blow as he continuously cut through Norman defenses to find vulnerable points in their armor.
Kameron allowed himself a hair breadth strand of admiration for the king’s tireless efforts. The Saxon king had just defeated the Vikings in one part of the isle and force-marched his army to another part to deal with yet another incursion.
Baseline History states that Harold died on this day.
But someone was not adhering to the parameters laid out by Baseline History. Someone wanted King Harold to win this battle. Someone wanted King Harold to share the stage of legend with the likes of Alexander, Caesar and Genghis. Two victories against two enemy armies would have achieved just that.
In fact King Harold did achieve that feat. Temporal Renegades had struck again, tampered with the Event Time Line and effected an outcome where the Norman Duke William was killed and his army routed instead of the other way around.
Baseline History had been violated. That was why Kameron Childers, Field Operative, Division of Temporal Preservation and Integrity, was here. Kameron snuffed out his admiration for Harold, replacing it with a cool objectivity drilled into him by training.
He picked up the bow lying next to his foot, pulled an arrow out of a pouch tied to his thigh and notched it. The weapon was a product of Kameron’s time, 42nd second century technology. But it was finely crafted to resemble an 11th century Norman bow and arrow. The difference was the bow was made of a flexible alloy 700 times denser than any metal in this era. There was nothing unusual about the arrow’s construction in the material context of this time frame. Except for the miniature single-stage booster unit attached to the arrow’s shaft, designed to facilitate an extended flight.
Kameron rose from behind his obscurement field so that the top half of his body was visible. The field operative was almost black skinned, with pronounced African features. He wore a mottled black and brown jumpsuit with black calf high all-terrain boots, gray light flak vest and ultra thin utility gloves. The way he looked and the cut of his garb were not common characteristics in 11th century Britain. But Kameron had not been sent to this time frame to blend in. He was sent here for his exceptional skill as a shooter. Whatever the projectile weapon, Kameron was very good at hitting his mark.
Kameron pulled back the taut string of the bow, leveled it, and locked on his target. In his mind it was a slow, methodical action. In real time, less than three seconds passed between notching and aiming. At the third second, Kameron released. The arrow zipped away, whistling over a thousand yards. A gleaming pulse of propulsion shooting from the booster unit, kept the projectile aloft for an additional 500 yards. The arrow sliced through gaps in the slaughter to find its mark in King Harold’s eye.
The Saxon king’s head snapped back as the force of the arrow’s flight drove the razor sharp head deep into the socket, lodging in the skull. Just like in the history books. Life departed Harold in an instant. His body slid limply off his mount. The king’s horse, oblivious to its human master’s demise, stamped frantically without direction through a bloody slush.
Kameron ducked behind his field. He knew his aim was true. He didn’t bother to stick around to see the reaction of both sides to King Harold’s death. Kameron’s mission was a success. Baseline History had been restored. He pulled an extractor from his pocket, tapped out a coordinate on the round palm size device’s touch screen and waited. A warble of time displacement fell over Kameron. The operative vanished.

Read more…
Lots going on these days but this review was special to me in that I doubt any book published by DAW has ever been reviewed in Ebony Magazine. That's just changed and I love the idea that I had something to do with that. I hope I'm the first of many.

Here's the review. See it for yourself in stores now. :-). It's the issue with Prince on the cover.

Ebony Magazine
Page 48, July 2010
Editor's Pick
This Month's "Out-Of-The-Box" Read:

"In WHO FEARS DEATH, by Nnedi Okorafor, the setting is a post-apocalyptic Sudan in which tattered computers, a strict caste-by-race system and desert-roaming nomads coexist. In this sandy landscape, the Okeke people are slaughtered by the Nuru and a child is born from a violent rape. This child, Onyesonwu, whose name means “who fears death,” leads a mystical life in which she is both shunned and admired for her biracial heritage and the elusive magic bestowed upon her as a result of it. This magic jumps out of Onyesonwu, sometimes against her bidding. Harnessed correctly, it could help stem the ongoing genocide. The book is an untraditional fantasy novel; it actually features Black people in an alternate reality that is set in the Motherland. It also skews more toward the Octavia Butler end of the fantastical spectrum with believable, nuanced characters of color and an unbiased view of an Africa full of technology, mysticism, culture clashes and true love."
Read more…
Welcome To Black Science Fiction Society!!! It has long been a goal of mine to create an online community with a focus on Black Science Fiction. Not simply a group or magazine, but a interactive site where consumers as well as developers of Black science fiction can communicate together. My company TheDigitalBrothers.com is a multimedia company that develops various media from websites and graphics design to animation, video and DVD creation. I look forward to collaborations with those willing to work with us not only to be a great website but a hub of talent and development.
Read more…
*Always like combining speculative fiction & politics--two of my favorite things. Wrote this review/analysis originally back in 2007, but since there's word they're making a sequel for 300 (why gods!?! why?!?), thought it'd be relevant anyway...

written March 2007So I saw 300 last week. Driven by action, the movie had enough blood and battle to dazzle the senses and up testosterone levels. As cinematography it was a visual CGI masterpiece—though one might ask when and where reliance on computer generated imagery enhances or devalues a movie. The acting was tolerable—not like Ghostrider where I wanted to gnaw off my left leg rather than sit through the excruciating dialogue. As plots go, it was mediocre— not bad but not exactly filled with complex intrigue. Syriana or Babel this movie was not. Noble Greeks fight scary Persians to Alamo type finish. Freedom. Honor. Glory. The End. But my anticipation of 300 was only partly based on my expectations of it as a film.300 is based on the Frank Miller graphic novel of the same name, and is a retelling of the Battle of Thermopylae between Spartan Greeks and the Persian Empire in the 5th Century BC. I read the comic back in 1998, and found it fascinating—yet discomforting. The story itself is a surreal fantasy. And though the film's director Zack Snyder makes the grandiose claims that "the events are 90 percent accurate," I hardly expected it to be factual. So that these Spartans fight bare-chested with CGI enhanced abdomens straight out of Chippendales, instead of in breastplates as would have been common, wasn't really of consequence to me. I took it for Hollywood cosmetic to sell tickets—and maybe even reach that coveted gay male audience. I was more concerned with the changes to the movie—and before that the comic—that had deeper meaning, and give us an interesting mirror into the society we live in.The SpartansIn 300 there is much celebration of Sparta—the Greek city-state known well for its warrior cult, who pose as the heroes of the film. But these are not the Spartans of history; they are instead, something else. For instance, though it's alluded that Spartans were known for killing infants who may have been born with defects or bad omens (this might be a physical deformity or a birth mark), this ritual infanticide is toned down to ambiguity. While the harsh life of a Spartan male, who endures years of brutality to become a warrior, is portrayed, it too is softened and made noble—in its own way. In the movie Spartan boys are forced out into the wild and must face fierce animals, not becoming a true warrior until they kill one. In reality however, Spartan youths didn't go out and kill animals to prove their worth. They actually had to go out and kill a slave—a Helot, fellow Greeks of nearby Lakonia and Messenia conquered and reduced to bondage by Sparta's "free" militaristic elite.Perhaps because this sounds too much like a modern gang initiation rite (and the comparison certainly fits), it is altered for the viewing audience. As told by the film, slavery is absent in Spartan society—and is something only their enemies practice. This sanitizing of Spartan history may be because in 300, there is much made about Sparta being a land of "freedom." In fact, this is the central theme of the story—the entire reason for the war against Persia. These Spartans are even mildly homophobic, laughingly scoffing at homosexuality among their fellow Athenian Greeks. This is ironic, as ritualized homosexual liaisons among Spartan boys in training was both common and obligatory at the time. In the film Spartan women are not altogether equal, but gender relations have an air of egalitarianism hard to find in the historical record.The reality, that Sparta was actually a slave society that conquered fellow Greeks, practiced state sponsored eugenics, and was run by a patriarchal male-dominated military oligarchy who maintained their power through force and violence, is radically altered—as it would no doubt clash with the cries for liberty and the "new era of freedom" Spartans boast of repeatedly throughout the film. Altogether, Spartan culture is re-arranged to fit modern (mostly American) ideas on democracy, masculinity, sexuality and gender. And this is necessary not merely to glorify Sparta, but to make certain they were seen as different from their enemies as ever.The PersiansOne of the first things I noticed when I read Frank Miller's 300, was the main villain of his story—the Persian King Xerxes. He was black—a towering bald giant with earrings in his ears and face and nose, like a brown-skinned Michael Clarke Duncan merged with Dennis Rodman. More than a few of Xerxes soldiers and generals were also black. I found that odd, because the historical Xerxes was Persian—modern day Iran. While the Persian Empire was certainly massive and assimilated all sorts of people, its black population was probably nowhere near that pronounced. And there are enough depictions of Xerxes to not mistake him for the average brother. So why make Xerxes a black giant?Frank Miller's version of the Battle of Thermopylae took its cue from age-old western notions of Orientalism—a Western perception of the East as alien, inferior and yet menacing. The Persia of 300 is the opposite of the Greeks, the opposite of the Occidental West: a fantastical imagining of the mysterious East, both exotic and frightening, with bizarre peoples and customs, ruled by superstition and tyrants. Most of all the "Orient" is dangerous, and holds the power to destroy the West if it isn't controlled or beaten back. For Miller, Xerxes as a Persian wasn't enough to embody this dark symbolism. He had to be transformed into a more threatening figure—one that only blackness seemed able to conjure up. The movie version changed this somewhat. Xerxes is no longer black. He is however still a giant, garbed in a speedo and decked out in about two tons of bling—from earrings to body chains. As opposed to the hyper-masculine Spartans of the film, Xerxes is effeminate, foppish and a gender-bending sexual deviant. His army is either dark and faceless, or horribly monstrous—and, as we are told, all slaves whipped into the service of their tyrannical god-king.But like Sparta, this depiction of Xerxes and the Persian Empire has more to do with modern western—and especially American—imagination than reality. The actual Xerxes of history probably dressed little different than many of his Greek enemies, though much better—in velvet robes or tunics, as Persia was an opulent kingdom. As far as his rule went, while he was probably not someone you'd elect to the local city council, for a monarch of an Empire of his time, he and the other Achaemenid kings of Persia were not precisely the tyrants of Hollywood depiction. They actually instituted what some have called one of the earliest declarations of Human Rights, detailing religious tolerance and (albeit limited) expressions of personal freedom. They even debated the merits of democracy, though choosing against it. Now don't get me wrong. Kings like Xerxes were undoubtedly conquerors, and were no nominees for the Nobel Peace Prize. By our standards, his empire would be unilateralist, rapaciously imperialist and ignore many aspects of international law. But Persian rulers also allowed their territories to have limited independence, demanding only tribute and conscript soldiers. And in what is probably one of the greatest ironies that the movie manages to reverse, under the Achaemenids, for religious reasons, slavery was nominally opposed—though by no means non-existent. This is at least a step-up from Sparta, where the enslavement of fellow Greeks was not a topic up for debate. In the end Xerxes and his fellow rulers were not saints, but neither were they the bloodthirsty tyrants of 300.The Battle of ThermopylaeCentered on the famed Battle of Thermopylae, 300 depicts fantastic fight scenes—as endless hordes of Persians bash themselves against Spartan soldiers who skillfully hold them off. For Frank Miller's graphic novel and the movie, 300 Spartans led by their king Leonidas hold off 1 million Persians. In reality, the Persians probably numbered between 60,000 to 120,000. The Greeks were actually a force of 7,000—some 4,000 of which were killed—whose success was based mostly on better bronze weapons and a tactical strategy of utilizing the natural landscape. While it's true that fellow Greeks abandoned the Spartans in the final battle, some 700 remained and also fought to the end. As for the Athenian navy who kept Persia occupied at sea and unable to deploy their full might, these Greeks are wholly absent from 300. The movie instead is certain to give the full glory only to the 300 super-manly Spartan soldiers (not those wimpy "gay" Athenian sailor boys), who in death achieve a cinematic display of quasi-Judeo-Christian sainthood. The undignified beheading of Leonidas and the eventual burning of Athens with the Greeks scurrying away in fright before the Persian forces, is erased from Hollywood-created history, to be sure our Spartan heroes are able to keep their manliness intact.Just a Movie?So in the end, what's the point of all this? 300 is just a movie after all, and before that a comic book. It's not history—even if it's director tries to pass it off as such to his audience. It's a story. And it doesn't have to follow the facts. If we're looking for historical accuracy, we'd be better off sticking to a classroom. Films are sold to us as entertainment, not lessons. But at the same time, like any work of art, we would be remiss to leave it at that. Films reflect our culture, our values, our perceptions, what we think of as normal or perverse, right or wrong, good or bad. And they can reinforce larger societal thoughts we take for granted. That Hollywood alters history isn't particularly surprising or even relevant. But how that history is altered, what history is altered and why the altering takes place can reveal a great deal.The Battle of Thermopylae has long been more than just an ancient event, a comic book or a movie, in modern western imagination. European colonisers and conquerors often portrayed themselves similar to the Spartans, facing hordes of usually darker-skinned enemies—be they Native American Sioux, East Indians or Afghans. In 1964, using the Battle of Thermopylae as partial inspiration, the popular movie Zulu depicted several British soldiers who make a last stand against hordes of fierce African warriors. (Curiously, no one seemed to catch the irony that these latter-day Europeans, unlike the Spartans, were the invaders.) In this way, an ancient battle was changed to not only support European colonialism and the "white man's burden," but also the claimed physical and moral superiority of western civilization, as opposed to the savage multitudes of the East.Some have accused 300 of being intentional propaganda, portraying the modern West (embodied by the Spartans) as noble freedom fighters and Iran (Xerxes and the Persians) as dangerous threats to freedom and democracy. The film even comes equipped with a local Spartan anti-war movement, who in the end are corrupted or weak and ineffectual. In Iran, the movie has caused an uproar—with protests against what are seen as negative and even racist portrayals of their beloved ancient Persia. Many Iranians even charge 300 is a precursor to a US invasion. Paranoia? Certainly. But given current US threats against Iran, coupled with daily images of US bombs caving in homes in next-door Iraq, those fears aren't merely plucked out of thin air.Still, I don't think that's the case. I doubt Frank Miller or this movie rendition has anything to do with current US foreign policy maneuvers. This isn't 24—where Jack Bauer's torture acts were literally tied to the Bush White House. And the average American may not even know Persia is one-in-the-same with modern Iran—though hordes of veiled and monstrous enemies from "that" part of the world might serve the purpose just as equally. Rather, what 300 portray are common images of ourselves—or how we would like to see ourselves—with themes of masculinity, whiteness, freedom and moral virtue. And in order to create that image, a foil is needed—darker in both skin and deed, threatening and powerful, but at the same time able to be overcome if we just show the courage to do so. It is Orientalism—part of a long history of western perceptions of the "other," made exotic to fit our ideas of how different "they" are from "us." On some level these perceptions help define "us"—as it previously helped generations of conquerors and colonizers—by defining "them." In that sense Frank Miller's 300 is not dangerous new propaganda. Rather, it's the same old propaganda—just more entertaining.
Read more…

Calculating the rise and fall of science fiction books, television shows, and movies, I've determined the obvious. Science fiction is no longer dismissed easily as distractions for geeky misfits or as fanciful tales for children, and that may be because the world's observed science fiction over the years become science fact.


Photo from Flickr, by kodiax


So, here I am at 50, a Star-Trek-Twilight-Zone-Outer-Limits-Lost-in-Space-fed child of the 1960s. When I finished high school in the 70s, universities anxiously pitched computer science to graduates with the right test scores, hoping potentials could be drafted to the future. My generation may be part of the reason television's pushing out science fiction shows -- the retired Lost; Fox'sFringe; CBS's FlashForward, which has been cancelled; and the return of V and Battlestar Galactica. The last on the list has given birth to a prequel, Caprica.

My generation grew up on television, pressed the on-buttons of the first personal computers, made playing video games the cool thing to do as we nursed our Pac-Man addictions, and passed our growing dependence on technology onto our children who flock to movie theaters jonesing for special effects and silver screen spectacles that make them believe not only can Superman fly, but so can they. And they dream it into their visual arts, dance, music, and want so much more.

My daughter, 29, is working on a novel about a female general in a matriarchal society, and I am working on a novel about humans in peril on another planet. She and I had a discussion a few months ago about technology. I said ... Please read more of this post at BlogHer.com.

Read more…