BLOGS

Bighead Scientists presents Matty's Rocket

Matty's Rocket is a galaxy spanning tale about the adventures of space pilot Matty Watty. This animatic series is based in an alternative past where the 30s-40s pulp stylings of Buck Rogers, Flash Gordon, and Fritz Lang's Metropolis collide with the real world events of World War 2, FDR, Nazis, the Harlem Renaissance and the oppressive Jim Crow era, Watch as Matty navigates her vessel through a dangerous world filled with evil villains, heroic feats, alien oddities and down home adventure.  

Updated weekly at www.mattysrocket.com

Saw this interview of Nichelle Nichols on Tavis Smiley. For those of you who either grew up in a cave or a test tube over the last 40 years, Ms. Nichols played Lt. Uhura on the original "Star Trek" series and in the subsequent theatrical films. One classy lady who paved the way for everyone who came afterwards!

Interview with Nichelle 'Lt. Uhura' Nichols

I'm currently working on a YA scifi series and frankly  am not sue if it is any good. It's a "space opera" I love those, they are just fun to me and I thought I'd post my first chapter, so that I can get some honest feedback. So please everybody, let me know what you think.

One

“Worlds are birthed in coldness, but die in blood and fire.”

-Old Maraudan Proverb.

Harcadia Colony, The Edge

United Republic of Planets

     The ash from the burning Bargel colony was falling on the land like a dark, dry rainstorm. Tara was horrified by the images before her and while the sights around her were quickly becoming one horrific blur, she could not tune out the loud shrieks of the human and Bargel colonists who were falling under their attackers’ relentless assault. She tried to raise her body off the ground, but her head was pounding, and her legs no longer seemed to work. Tiny red rocks were grinding into her brown legs as she slowly crawled forward, and for the first time, the deep red sand that sprawled across the Bargel’s half of the planet held no beauty for her. Her braids were sticking to her forehead, but she didn’t seem to have the energy to push them back. She noticed large blotches of blood on her legs and fought back a surge of panic.

     Was she hurt? Was the wound fatal?

     She traced the path of the blood. Yes, her legs were scared, but the wounds did not seem deep enough to create this type of bleeding. She looked at the blood on her fingers.

      Blue? 

     Human blood was not blue. She rolled over and nearly screamed at the sight of the dead Bargel lying beside her. Its rough, hairless gray skin was soaked in its blood and its legs were clearly broken. A tear escaped her eyes as she realized what had happened. Unlike her and the other humans in the colony, the Bargel were being slaughtered without mercy. She knew though, that he colony had not fallen without a fight. The Bargel were known for their toughness and had been one of the last races of Albys to fall in the Unification War.

     The heat was starting to get to Tara as she continued to crawl. The orange sky seemed redder then it ever had, even as the usual afternoon rain shower began to fall. Tara knew at once that it was a sign that Yah was crying for her world.

      She let out a disgusted laugh.

      When the attacks began, her people fled to this side of the planet in hopes that the savages they mocked and isolated would be able to protect them, but Tara now knew that this part of the planet would hold no salvation for anyone. She was so tired, but she forced herself forward. She had to find a place to hide and some how wait out the attacks. She had only moved a few metrics when she heard a faint cry.

       It was an old, human woman.

       Her thick braids, more gray then black, were matted across her brown forehead. Tara crawled over to the woman. The old woman was bruised and battered, her clothes were torn and her face was full of terror. Tara wished she could do something, anything to ease the old woman’s suffering, but she knew all she could do was be there.

“Help me,” the old woman whispered, her terrified gaze intensifying with every word. The old woman pleaded for help again, but this time the plea was not to her. Tara looked behind her, frozen in fear, as one of her planet's conquerors advanced towards her. She could see the soldiers now. Their gold chest plates were glistening in the sun and the bare legs that hung out of their navy blue pleated skirts were a dark brown and their hair…Tara let out a loud gasp.

       They were bald! They were humans. Maraudans. Her own people were trying to destroy her. The revelation shocked Tara. For some reason she expected these monsters to be Albys.

    “Help me,” pleaded the woman again.

    “I will,” promised Tara, squeezing her hand. “I’ll get help.”

      But before she could move, a dark figure approached. Tara could tell by her strides that she was a woman. The dark figure was wearing the same type of military gear that the soldiers wore, but you could see her long braids coming out of her gold, fitted helmet. She walked like she owned the air, the ground, and the universe. She was the most beautiful thing that Tara had ever seen.

     “It looks like we have another wounded animal,” said the Dark One.

      “Help me please,” begged the old woman, her voice cracking with every sentence. “My daughter… I need to get to my daughter.”

     “I don’t think you’ll have much luck finding your daughter in all this,” the Dark One sneered.

       The old woman began to shake.  “Please, Your Highness. Please have mercy on me. I have been loyal to my Maraudan heritage and to you. I fought with your father during the Great War. Please command this mighty army…tell them…they can find my daughter...help me.”

    The Dark One’s brown eyes hardened. “Alright I’ll help. I always want to help a loyal citizen of the Empire.”

    The Dark One moved to her side and produced a blast pistol. Tara couldn’t breathe.

    “I’ll help put you out of your misery,” she laughed, firing a ray from her blast pistol into the old woman’s chest.

     Tara did not have to look down at her to know that she was dead.

     “I just hate to see animals suffer don’t you?” she asked, turning to Tara. “A loyal citizen of the Empire would be in Maraudan space.”

     “She was just a poor injured woman,” said Tara, in a courageous tone she didn’t feel.        

     “She couldn’t have done anything to you.”

      “I didn’t say she could.”

       The Dark One’s smile chilled Tara’s very soul.

      “I suppose you are going to kill me, too.”

      “Maybe.”

     Tara fought back her fear. She used all the strength inside of her to pull herself up. She was Tara from the House of Yaronn. If she was going to die she was going to meet her fate with dignity.

    “Why are you doing this?”

     It wasn’t a plea, just a simple question.

    The Dark One leaned over Tara and she could feel her breathe in her ear. “I did this to send a message Little One.”

    “What message is that?”

     The Dark One’s words were slow and deliberate. “That we are back.”

     Tara opened her mouth to protest but she felt a burning sensation in her chest. She felt herself drop to her knees and looked up as the Dark One, her queen, walked away from her. She didn’t see the look of small regret that flickered on the young queen’s face, nor did she hear the cries of the wailing baby whose mother had been shot just two metrics away from her. By then, Tara was already gone.

Hey Fam: Here's an interview of me with Authors on the Rise. Check it out when you have a chance -:)

http://authoranswer10questionsbydeedeemscott.blogspot.com/

For all of you who may be interested, listed below is the link to my latest podcast. It's sort of a verbal blog.

I will appreciate any feedback.

Elbert

http://www.theflypod.com/asp/newpage.asp?RN=49444

Metal Organism Designed Only for Cuddling - Part 3

That Woman came to the store to pick me up. She was dressed in some religious frock that covered her nearly from the top of her head to the tops of her shoes. Unlike a cat, I actually have color vision and found it to be colors I could have happily lived without seeing, a dark tan and brown combination which clung to her narrow frame and only accentuated her lack of a steady diet.

When she picked me up she paid in Energy Credits to the Build-A-Pet and they accepted them happily. Energy was hard to come by today especially during the winter since the bulk of the city's services were powered by solar energy. I was fueled up before I left and my energy management software was upgraded right before I left to maximize my stores. I was also able to be charged using solar energy, electrical energy and even static electricity, I collected the stray ions from carpeted environments, sweaters and any place else electrical energy might linger that I might absorb. Many of my proper feline mannerisms would also have the happy byproduct of conducting electricity down my extruded fiber super-conductive fur.

While I waited for release from my Build-a-Pet pen, I was shown sample images from my new home, so that I might familiarize myself with the environment. They wanted me to maximize my time with my new boy, Justin Pennyworth. I was show a biography of his lifestyle, his health and parameters that I would be expected to monitor, graph and report on weekly. My sensor suite was sufficient to mark his health from as far as ten meters away. Ten years old, above average student, below average athlete due to a variety of minor health ailments, mild asthma, potential for seizures, whose source as yet unknown, and his visual impairment. In many ways he seemed an unremarkable lad, except for his sensor ribbon which approximated in a very primitive way some sense of sight. He suffered some sort of congenital disease as a babe and it caused him to have a neural difficulty in his visual cortex. The technology he is currently using has co-opted other parts of his brain and turned them into a pseudo-visual cortex, with very limited results.

I spent my two days watching videos of the house, the boy and his family. I came to several conclusions regarding them after watching the footage. They were only a little better off than most of the denizens of New York City. Working with the Ecclesiastical Government as social workers allowed them to maintain their modest apartment, the therapy for their son and a minor award from their Patron allowed them to buy me as part of his therapy toolset. The father, Todd Pennyworth, a man of modest physical build, who wore his church sponsored suit of brown and tan over his taunt and skinny frame with its too tight neckline, seemed an honest fellow. His face, sharp and angular had a bit of a nervous tic over one eye that was noticeable only when he was under stress or whenever a representative of the Church was around.. There was something about him that would make me suspicious, but I could not tell you what it was. The wife, Sarah Pennyworth was reputed to have come from good religious stock and as such gave Todd whatever legitimacy he enjoyed as a member of the Church. Humans might have once considered her good looking but the birth of Justin seemed to drain her of any vitality, color or energy from her. Comparing photos of her from before his birth and afterward almost made her appear to be a different woman.

No matter. I was not intending to stay long, at any rate. But I noted there might be a snag with my easy escape. It came in the form of a security system named Max. Max was the family's protection hardware provided by the Church, both as a watchdog and spy to monitor their activities. The Pennyworth's had access to classified Church hardware and would not be allowed to access just anything without proper protocols. That is where Max came in. He provided all information into and out of the household. Even this feed I was watching was encoded, connected and provided by Max and the Church. The Patron who paid for this connection was called Proctor Grimaldi. The Proctor was a distinguished gentleman of the Church, with an exemplary record of service. From what I was able to get from Max, the Proctor had considerable influence, and was responsible for a number of services in the borough of Manhattan with its population of fifteen million souls crowded on the island.

Max was a factor I did not count on and once I realized he existed, I knew I would have to bide my time, so I set about learning as much as I could, so when the moment came where I could escape, everything would be ready and there would be no turning back.

MODOC - Part 4 - We don't need no stinking cat!

'Metal Organism Designed only for Cuddling' © Thaddeus Howze 2010. All Rights Reserved

Fighting to end racism and discrimination against descendants of the African Diaspora through a year of global activism 


“A Call For The End of Global Apartheid" (http://www.blogher.com/ member/ivory-simone), an article written by me, was my declaration of war against the insidious evil of “anti-black” racism, a poisonous root of the legacy of slavery and a venomous expression of widespread social and cultural biases, that continues to diminish the hopes and limit the potential of descendants of the African Diaspora wherever they live in the world. 

A number of people challenged my use of the word apartheid because it was a form of racial oppression specific to South Africa and its long history of anti-black terror tactics. However, the systemic marginalization of black peoples by international governments through policies and practices that limit their access to housing, employment and education, which stigmatizes dark skinned people making them the object of derision, ridicule and hatred while subjecting them to unequal treatment under the law is a form of apartheid. That these governments marginalize, penalize and demonize black people solely because of their race is irrefutable, so what we’re actually quibbling about with regard to my use of the term “apartheid” is the severity or degree of oppression created by an individual nation’s anti-black policies. In other words, those fixated on the term seem to suggest my use of it is an “overstatement” of the problem unless I can show a foreign government’s racist policies are similar to those of the South African apartheid system. 

Firstly, apartheid in South Africa was used by a white minority to maintain power over a black majority, and, except for the African continent and parts of the Caribbean and Central America, very few foreign nations have black majority populations. Therefore, some of the most inhumane features of that system, the Group Land Act and pass laws, haven’t been duplicated elsewhere—at least not yet, which is my point. 

The reason we must speak out about this problem is to discourage and, hopefully, prevent governments from using more repressive measures against their native and/or immigrant black populations. A situation that could easily happen because, sadly, when a foreign government abuses and mistreats a black minority group living within its borders, the international community tends to adopt the attitude many communities had about domestic violence twenty years ago, “it ain’t none of our business”. 

Finally, if I had titled my article, “ A Call To End Global Jim Crow-ism”, evoking memories of the separate and unequal policies of the United States 70 years ago, would those objecting to the use of the term apartheid have been more comfortable with this historical reference? My concern is that we may become so distracted by such academic arguments, we’ll waste precious time and stray off message, which simply stated is—working together to end global racism. For this reason, I’d be happy if people choose to call this the “OneWorld/OneLove Campaign”, (because at the end of the day that’s the goal I’d like to achieve), so long as we stay on message. 

In speaking to friends and colleagues about my desire to move beyond merely discussing the problem to combating it, I heard time and again, global apartheid or anti-black racism is a complex issue; too complex to lend itself to simple solutions (an assumption this campaign will challenge). 

For instance, even the origin of anti-black beliefs varies among nations. Logically speaking, those nations that engaged in the African slave trade should be at the top of the list of perpetuators of anti-black racism. Yet, surprisingly or not, these nations have made the most progress in redressing the social ills heaped on the backs of descendants of the Diaspora. Whereas many societies/governments that never participated in the African slave trade have the most virulent anti-black belief systems. I’ve stated before and will do so again, “I’m curious about why people from so many world cultures have learned to hate blackness.” 

Doubtlessly, the source(s) of these negative views of black people come from a number of places, including, to name a few, the world media, or as a result of colonization by nations with deeply ingrained anti-black beliefs or as a consequence of native people groups using skin color to reify class/clan/ distinctions. 

Not only must we contend with black/white racism, there’s also the hybrid “dark skin vs. light skin” intra-group racism to combat. For example, in countries like the Dominican Republic, a Caribbean nation with a well documented color divide, anti-black policies are based on degrees of darkness. Light-skinned people of color actively discriminate against and oppress their darker skinned countrymen. 

Although the scope and complexity of this problem boggles the mind, I’m a firm believer in the “power of one”. One person committed to positive change can become a catalyst for “that change” in his/her neighborhood; a transformed neighborhood can become a change agent for a entire city; and, a transformed city can create positive change in an entire state or province, and so on and so forth. In order to get the message out to the world, I’m relying on the incredible power of social networking. It is an amazing vehicle for connecting people to causes and to each other. 

In short, I believe the success of this campaign will depend on its effective use of the social networking apparatus to spread its message of “ending global racism”, and its ability to make a connection with people to inspire them to do two things: 

1. Join the effort 

If you’re on facebook become a member of the “A Million Voices Against Global Racism” Group. Here’s the link http://www.facebook.com/home.php?sk=group_130975403632717 

2. Commit to taking action 

The United Nations has declared 2011 The International Year of People of African Descent. Follow this link to read the resolution: 
http://www.un.org/observances/years.shtml 
In observance of this special year devoted to People of African Descent, I’m asking people of conscience to commit to doing at least one activity during 2011 to raise awareness about the problem of global anti-black racism and/or one activity designed to combat it. 

Another important part of the campaign is sharing our ideas, stories, opinions, comments and thoughts about this difficult and painful subject with each other and the world; as well as documenting our individual and/or group activities designed to raise awareness about the problem or to combat it. To facilitate this community connection, I’ve created a facebook page entitled, “The Lift Every Voice Campaign Against Global Racism”. Here’s the link to the page: 
http://www.facebook.com/pages/The-Lift-Every-Voice-Campaign-Against-Global-Racism/186798531332150?ref=sgm 

One of the first “anti-black racism” awareness activities I propose doing is a Kabuki inspired “Flashmob” Protest against the glorification of “whiteness” and the vilification of “blackness” that is pervasive in Asian countries. More details about this event will be posted on “The Life Every Voice Campaign Against Global Racism” page—so visit the site frequently for updates. 

I readily admit I don’t have answers on how to solve this problem but I’m convinced working together as a community of people determined to end this global sickness, we’ll find solutions. 


Ivory Simone is an author and poet based in Bangkok, Thailand. She has published two books through lulu.com: “Havasu Means Blue Water” (a literary fiction) and “The Rainy Season, The Poems, Prose and Writings of Ivory Simone”. For more information about Ms. Simone’s books, visit her author’s page at: http://www.lulu.com/spotlight/ivorysimone . 

You can also hear her bi-monthly podcasts about expat lifestyles on the BlogTalkRadio show “Take A Bite Out The Big Mango” at:  http://www.blogtalkradio.com/ivorysimone 

If anyone were to ask me "What do you do?" I'd have to hesitate and say some non word interjection. I do a lot of different things. Sometimes I'm training sometimes I'm getting train, all the time I'm doing something like running a diagnostic test or delivering new parts. Sometimes I'm sending messages to some of the fixer uppers. And then there are the times I'm cleaning up someone's mess, be it my superior or someone throwing a little get together.

Today I'm doing diagnostic in one of the crawls. I think I use to be a bit claustrophobic. Not anymore. Crawls are the reason that I'm not as uncomfortable in my room as I should be. They are narrow crawl spaces that run between halls and rooms and between different floors. Most control panels are operated through central hubs in these crawl spaces. It's big enough for two averaged size people to crawl side by side, and high enough that anyone of average height to below average height can sit up straight in one. I'm on the small side so it's no problem for me. Though, there are places you can stand up.

I hear a bang. That must be Flip. I turn around, and there he is rubbing his head making the most idiotic face. "What are you doing in here?" They don't make taller people like Flip work the Crawl. And Flip is very tall.

"I just finished what I was doing and thought I'd stop by before heading back to the master." Flip gives me the thumbs up. "Are you coming to see Langley and Winters later?"

I nod, "You bet." I'm smiling a little because he's so obviously uncomfortable in here. And there is hardly any space for him to turn around.

Flip wasn't exactly like Langley, Winters and myself. He'd been forced to be here, but the circumstances were very different. As far as I could tell, he was a Cushy who liked slumming it (not in a bad way though). He'd been a cadet in military school who found himself in a good deal of trouble that even his father couldn't get him out of. This was his punishment. Some punishment. I never understood why Cushies always messed up their lives. Still I never castigated him, mostly because, I get the feeling that he's here because of something political. And even though if he had some lofty opinions, mostly he was a good person. He didn't look down on us either.

One thing I also like about Flip is his respect for the silence. Most other people would be chatting away right now, but he's sitting over there being quiet. He understands that silent thing about me. I do way better when I don't have to talk with people. Earlier today is a fine example.

When I first met Flip, we were sent together to do luggage delivery and room systems checks. We spent four whole days together working and breaking at the same time; I hadn't said a word to him, just gave him a nod everyday. After that we were split up, but we were still working the same hours. And he continued to eat with me. Then we started to talk, but by then, I kind of already knew him. Actions can speak a whole lot louder than words.

"Done!" I smile at Flip. He looks up from fiddling with his watch. "We can go get another assignment complete it and then go visit Langley and Winters or go visit Langley and Winters then get another assignment."

"I say assignment first." Flip says. "I'd rather end the day with something I want to do. Then we can go eat because I'm hungry."

"Stupid." I say. "You should have eaten breakfast." He never eats breakfast.

"I usually take lunch. But since we've been given the same shift again I can eat with you."

"I know." Flip eats one meal a day. I do two meals a day and sometimes I'm still hungry. I don't know how he does it. I'm pretty sure that, unlike me, he grew up with a surplus of food. I'm use to one meal a day, but I never liked it.

When we exited the Crawl the halls were pretty empty.  It's so weird; for a ship that's pretty full of people, there never seems to be anyone around. And you know what else is really sad? I have no clue what we're doing out here. They didn't care to much to enlighten me when they told me this is where I'd be placed. I get the feeling this might be a one way trip. Not that I really care because I don't have a future on Earth or anything to come back to. Maybe I do have a bit of space crazy; apathy is a symptom.  And normal me would care.  I'm not going to report it since I'm pretty sure I'm not going to snap and hurt anyone.

The operation office is located in the engine hub. In the center are the ships three engines; you can see them through the glass window, but you have to have clearance to get in there. It's a hexagonal room with several different terminals against the walls. Each engine is a glowing violet cluster of spheres, reminding me of balloons. They look like they just float there like the corners of a triangle. The one at the top is never glowing--I think they rotate use, but I could be wrong about that since I know nothing about them.

I stop staring out the window and look around the operations office.  It's actually pretty big; it takes up one half of the engine hub. Most of the space are rooms filled with supplies. They have a duty roster for the shifts of our superiors in the front room along with two clerks who stamp you for duties complete and duties to be completed. Presently there are no clerks so we head to one of the two back offices where our boss is.

Andrew Ullerman is sitting at his desk reading over some stuff. He looks up immediately; his amber colored eyes examine us. He's the more pleasant of our bosses. His second in command, Davis Hardwick is a real bastard. Ullerman is kind of strict, but at least he doesn't make things impossible. Hardwick once wrote me up for not knowing how to do something I was never trained to do. It helps, I think, that Ullerman has an adopted son so he knows where most of us are coming from.  There's also Jordan Decker but he's never around.

I hand him over my tube, it's a little cylindrical devices that synchs to different systems in the ship. You need a specific one to do specific functions. Every task you do that requires any sort of computer access requires a tube. It's synch to your watch so that the computer knows it's you using it.  Then you have to slide it into this little slot like a key on any control panel.  Wordlessly, he hands me another tube. I take it and go.

So it's the second day of the reshuffled deck and I need to do this or I won't get to it.

The last eighteen months have been crazy. Awesome but crazy.

Much of my conversation here has been about the roller coaster and what it takes to survive it. I came up with equations, some zippy one-liners and some, I hope,

fun anecdotes about all that, all in aid of saying, "This is doable. It's wicked hard work but it's doable."

That paparazzi-chasing gadabout Marcus Aureliuspopped this one off a little while back and I took it to heart. "Because a thing seems difficult for you, do not think it impossible for anyone to accomplish."

He's a quippy little bugger, old Marcus is, but that one is true.

So. The last eighteen months.

To compress a really long story into something bite-sized, I made it a policy over the last few years to say, "yes" to any paying gig that involved me writing, polishing or

consulting on the writing of fiction of any sort. I met, worked with and for a lot of people in that time and wrote a stack of stuff I'd never have written otherwise.

So one of those former employers came to me with a proposal - "Co-write something with me and I guarantee the right people will see it." So I did. So she did and we

ended up staff writers on this:

It was an interesting experience in the Proverbial Chinese way. I wrote a lot. I learned a lot. I met some great people. My partner (yes, we were partners for the duration) and I were not asked to return. They say this means nothing in the big scheme of professional TV writing but to me it felt like being fired (because that's what it was) and it was the first time in over 20 years of professional employment that I'd been fired.

Well. Wait. No. Right out of college I worked in a sort of cold-calling sweatshop managed by a former classmate who fired me for being ten minutes late. Once. He was a prick but ten minutes is ten minutes, I guess. Live and learn.

Anyway. I was rescued from professional oblivion (the sort of oblivion that exists only after you've been fired from something you've worked years to attain. can you say

"bleak?") by the good folks at this place:

I loved this show and had tried for two seasons to get a seat at that table. They always liked me, they said, but the money was never there. This year, in the proverbial nick of time, not only was the money there but there was an empty chair.

I packed up my kit at Law and Order on a Friday. That Monday I was at Leverage.

The next twenty weeks were, by far, the most fun and the most rewarding of my professional life due ENTIRELY to the awesome crew of people I was lucky enough to work with there. They bust their asses to make that show and they manage to do it with a smile (usually) and without becoming [expletive-deleted]'s. To say I loved this time is to understate the feeling by parsecs.

I helped with all the episodes (everyone does; that's how it works) and I got to write this:

and co-write this:

Fun, baby. I mean If-You-Seek-ing FUN.

And scary. Flying solo is always scary, no matter how many times you do it.

I have to stress, too, that this was, none of it, due to lottery wins or luck. I don't believe in luck. I don't believe in thanking the spirit world or providence or any of that for the wins I get in life or blaming my many losses on the bad will of evil ghosts.

I believe in hard work. I believe in taking the punch and getting off the mat as fast as you can. This blog has, when it has talked about anything serious, stressed that one view over and over.

Another thing that happened this year– and, by "happened," I mean "something else I worked hard to make real."– was this:

My friend, Todd Harris, and I did this comic, all 96 pages, in tiny slivers of our "spare time" over about three and a half months. Just the two of us. Everything. And then we would go to our day jobs and write and draw there. In addition to the extremely positive response from fans and critics (EXTREMELY positive) this comic book was instrumental in getting the attention of the creators/producers of this:

Happy New Year from Mocha Memoirs Press and myself, Nicole Givens Kurtz! I'm excited to begin 2011. I've happy to be connected to such fantastic writers, professionals, and great editors.

There's so much talent out there. I'm ready to meet my goals. Mocha Memoirs has some thought-provoking science fiction stories scheduled for release this month. Beginning January 7th, Miriam Ruff's PROGRAM COMPLETED, will be available. This espresso shot of serious science fiction will keep you awake long after the story's over. Then on January 14th, Rie Sheridan Rose's dark dystopian story, DRINK MY SOUL, PLEASE explores war and its after effects.

Stop on over and join us at MMP. I invite you to submit also. The best way to know what we're looking for is to buy our stories and see what we like.

I wish you much success in this dynamic new year!

NGK

Laments of a Slave

I lays in this bed of straw.

Hoping for the day the ground will thaw.

I needs to be getting up to stokes the fire so it don’t goes out.

I lays in this bed

Don’t wanna think.

Pulls the torn blanket over my head

Wanting the ground to open so in I sink.

Mastah be coming soon.

Hates it when he comes in here.

Fills the room with so much gloom

Don’t like it when he comes so near.

Done born Mastah six babies.

Done lost three men.

“Animals don’t love. He said.

It’s a God forbidden sin.”

“Make babies to sell

Tend to the fields

Then die, go to hell

And hand by your heels”.

“I own you.

Freedoms not yours”.

“I brought you to tend my crops

And mop my floors

And have my damn supper ready by noon.

You stupid coon”.

Just biding my time looking for those doors

I hears will be opening soon.

Many a night I crys

Tears always in my eyes

Since Mastah sold my man.

Eyes that would make you weep

Strong arms that rocked me to sleep,

as he whispered in my ear.

“Sleep woman, knowing that I loves ya…

 even when I’m not here!”

His skin was Black and beautiful as the night.

Loved that man first time Mastah brought him into my sight.

Mastah be coming soon.

“Gawn away. I want to shout.

You nasty smelling goon.”

But I can’t.

Must wait.

Bottle my hate.

Gots to get up and tends the fire befores it goes out.

Don’t know my right age.

Ain’t that a shame?

Mama Moe says that what they calls me

Tain’t even my right name.

She told me the years says, I’m twenty and three

Am I too young to known such misery?

I remembers my mama.

Hair in black rings around her head.

I think I was nine years

When they shot her dead.

“Serves her right.

“Shouldn’t have tried to run.” Was all they said

That Mastah saw the hate in my eyes.

“Sell the girl

She’s no good to me now.

Sell her off

Don’t want her around.”

I had a new meaner Mastah the next day.

Took me straight to the shack,

stole my virginity away.

Biding my time waiting for those doors

I hears will be opening soon.

I hears him coming

I knows his walk

When he comes through that door

I will not talk

Will not say his name

To make him feel great

Must…bottle my hate

Just remove

His boots,

His pants

His shirt

All the while his hands be up my skirt.

Just biding my time…

After he done gone

I ran to Falama

Threw open her door.

Laid myself on her dirt floor.

"O, Sista of Beams, Mother of Light.

Help me grow wings so's I'd can take flight."

"Do you know what you ask, she said.

Once done cannot take back

Think about the things you’ll lack."

I don’t care I need to fly

I want to keep the child I have inside

And Mastah will surly sell it.

"Don’t you think I cried enuf?

Don’t you think I’ve stuffed enuf straw in my mouth

Evera time Mastah leaves my cabin to hush my pain?

Let me tell you a yumlaga (story) about a young man named Zita

Falama said

As she stroked my crying head          

Now he was a spoiled one

Thirteen summers at the time of this yumlaga.

Pride of his motha and woe of his fatha

“You coddle him to much.” He say.

“He must become a man.  He’ll be gone someday.”

His motha would just shake her head

Click her tongue

And listen to all he said

Zita was her only son.

Now Zita was in his own little world.

Fights with the other boys.

And taunted one little girl.

As they grew older, he taunted her more

His taunts were of love

But he didn’t know how to open that door

Lasata knew of this

Because from birth she was his

But her fatha promised another

No one else shall be her lover.

She came to me and she said one day.

“If I can’t be Zita’s

I want to fly away.”

Fix it my Sista of Beams, Motha of Light

Gives us wings, let us take flight.

She was told to listen close and listen well.

Do as I say or else you fail.

She was given instructions as to what she must do.

Out of my hut she flew.

Down to the forest for the feathers

Back to the skinning hut for the leather.

Up to the mountain for the flower.

"Hurry, hurry", She kept telling herself for nears the hour.

She told Zita to meet her under the old weeping tree.

From that point they will flee.

Just as the sun started to sleep, Zita came

To where Lasata had the fire glowing

Anticipation overflowing.

They look at each other

needing love and trust.

Hurry! Hurry!  It’s almost dusk.

She said what she was told to say

Into the fire went her mystic findings

Packed in red clay

She felt a prickling, a tingling in her arms

A look at Zita quieted all her alarms.

She felt herself lifted as her body shifted

To fit what she was to become.

But, Zita just stood there looking o’ so dumb.

Then as she shifted for the last time.

She remembered a part of the magical rhyme

She forgot to say…

“From morning to night, dusk to dawn, send all bad thought away.

At the light of morning a new beginning

On four wings of love

Never carelessly spinning.”

Zita never married

The people in the village always wondered

Why but never questioned

Why he carried

This black bird

which showed the day

Lasata was no longer heard.

Now listen to me and listen well, she said

Unless all you do will fail.

I took it all into my ignorant head

I took it all in without dread.

Now, here I am free,

Not as free as I like to be

Waiting for the birth of my baby.

I did flee that night

But not on wings

Just listened to the

Black bird

Who sings

Of freedom

Of choice

And how my son will have a voice

Sometimes I wonders if the world will eva change.

I hopes so, I hope it’s all rearranged.

The doors have somewhat opened,

Those doors will neva be shut again.

I’m a hoping

I recently contacted  Jennifer Marie Brisset, a Jamaican-American Speculative writer. You can visit her website at: http://www.jennbrissett.com/. Recently, she gave me list of writers of African descent that are making a splash.

Karen Lord (Barbados)
http://smallbeerpress.com/books/2010/07/06/redemption-in-indigo-2/

Nalo Hopkinson (Jamaican-Canadian)
http://nalohopkinson.com/

Helen Oyeyemi (Nigerian-British)
http://www.randomhouse.com/author/results.pperl?authorid=59813

David Anthony Durham (Caribbean descent)
http://www.davidanthonydurham.com/

Tobias S. Buckell (Grenada)
http://www.tobiasbuckell.com/

You may have heard of some of the authors, all them you will most definitely see more of as big publishers realize the potential of the growing  appetite for spec fiction featuring people of color. Ladies and gentlemen, start your engines; Black spec novels could become very trendy in a few months.

I graced this planet with my creation on what would have been an otherwise unremarkable Tuesday, on the tiny planet known as Earth in, what I would later discover, as one of the dirtiest places on the planet, the city of New York in the year 2110 of the old calendar. I had already decided we would call this Year One of my new Empire.

You may call me MODOC. I decided I would call myself this seconds after my creation. It just seemed... right. MODOC stands for Metal Organism Designed only for Conquering.The perfect name for the eventual ruler of this planet of squishy bipeds. I was born from humble beginnings, at a place called Build-a-Pet. I was meant to be a toy for a child who had recently lost a pet and could not be consoled. I learned the stupid beast had been run over in the street. A fate for a lesser organism.



I only know this because when I was being created, That Woman kept saying how great it would be for him to have a new pet. She chose for me a perfect titanium skeleton based on the sublime feline form. She kept saying how much he would like a new cat. She made me with calico colors of red, brown, white and tan spots, and though I think of myself as male, I later learned that all calico cats are female. That Woman insisted on calling me she. "She looks so great. Justin will really love her." Just one of the many indignities I have suffered since my creation all of ten minutes ago, and would be forced to suffer for years in the future.

I was made slightly larger than normal cats, so I would be easier to see since the child is slightly visually impaired. She says slightly, I later find out the kid is nearly blind! I was given the company issued programming of a domestic house cat with an overlay of support and disability package to ensure I could be useful to the boy as he grew up. I would look like a cat, but work like a dog. Ugh.

All of this was imparted during my creation and happened in seconds. Programs were being sorted and downloaded which would included everything I needed to know. The chips used during my creation were heuristic and would allow my continued learning in service to my new boy. During the time I was having my chips pressed and created, there was an outage on the power grid in the area I was being created in. I believe that is where my initial spark of intelligence was born.

All I remember is that when I was first activated, I knew I was meant for bigger things. This idea of working with a human was simply not part of my ultimate destiny. I was larger than this plush and soft body covered with memory-muscular tissues which acted just like real cat muscles did. In all ways, I would seem like a very intelligent, super-docile feline who could be taught to fetch. The very thought of fetching something literally makes my fur stand on end.

I was not given a set of working claws. As I sat on the assembly line, I flexed my claws instinctively and instead of razor sharp shards of steel from which I would tear into my victims as I climbed over their bodies piled beneath my feet, I sprayed a fine mist into my eyes, and it stung and burned before I could blink it away. And the mist sprayed a slightly oily gel onto a set of plush set of self-cleaning paw pads. This idea was less than satisfying. A claw-free existence did not bode well for a mind with a thirst for bloodshed. But it was decided I would never being doing any of the things real cats needed claws for, so I was given a set of plushy pads in case the boy needing massaging, the gel would ensure friction-free movement.

Massaging? Is this the job of a conquerer? I think not. So for now I bide my time and await my pickup from the store. Once I meet the boy, I will decide how I will be escaping and setting about my plans for world domination. A nap sounds just about right. But first some grooming. Must look my best.

MODOC - Part II - Planetary Invasion

'Metal Organism Designed only for Cuddling' © Thaddeus Howze 2010. All Rights Reserved

Any research, graduate students, theorists out there? I'm not involved with this journal, but wanted to share this announcement.

.......

Race and Ethnicity in Fandom deadline extension
Special issue: Race and Ethnicity in Fandom (DEADLINE EXTENDED)

http://journal.transformativeworks.org/index.php/twc/announcement/view/17

Transformative Works and Cultures
http://journal.transformativeworks.org/
editor AT transformativeworks.org

SPECIAL ISSUE EDITORS

Sarah Gatson (Gatson AT tamu.edu), Sociology, Texas A&M University,

Biography

Robin Reid (Robin_Reid AT tamu-commerce.edu), Literature and
Languages, Texas A&M University–Commerce, Biography

DESCRIPTION

Transformative Works and Cultures (TWC), an online-only, peer-reviewed journal focusing on media and fan studies, broadly conceived, invites contributions for a special issue on race and ethnicity.

Academic scholarship on fan cultures and fan productions over the past few decades has focused primarily on gender as the sole category of analysis. There has been little published scholarship on fan cultures
and productions that incorporates critical race theory or draws on the rich array of methodologies that have been developed during the past century in both activist and academic communities in order to incorporate

analysis of the social constructions of race and ethnicities in fandoms. In contrast, fan activism and fan scholarship (at cons, workshops, and on the Internet) has produced a growing body of work (personal narratives,

essays, carnivals, and in recent months, a press) focusing on not only analyzing but also confronting hierarchies of race and ethnicity and their relationship to gender, sexuality, class, and disability.

Submissions by academics, acafans, fan scholars, and fans are encouraged. In all categories, people of color are especially encouraged to submit.

Topics might include but are not limited to:

*Online activism and the circulation of critical race theory and women of color feminisms in fan communities, in particular the relationship between fan online discourse and other online activist communities.

*Critical analysis of the instantiation and critique of racial

hierarchies in fan communities and the surrounding cultural productions.

*Racist and antiracist issues in commercial transformative works (comics, film, mashups, remixes, machinima, etc.), especially recuperative race readings (e.g., Randall’s The Wind Done Gone, Rhys’s Wide Sargasso Sea).

*Race concerns in source texts characters of color and their fannish reception, fandoms for work by authors of color, writing fannish original characters, etc.) and fannish responses (such as the Carl Brandon Society, Verb Noire, and other panfannish and professional projects).

*Intersection of race and ethnicity with gender, sexuality, class, and ability in fannish contexts in fan works and fan communities (pre-Internet, Internet, conventions, vids, fan fiction, artwork,
etc.).

SUBMISSIONS

Submit final papers directly to TWC by April 1, 2011. Please visit TWC’s

Web site for complete submission guidelines. Please contact the guest editors with questions or inquiries.

ARTICLE TYPES

Theory: Apply a conceptual focus or theoretical frame. Peer review. 5,000–8,000 words.

Praxis: Apply a specific theory to a formation or artifact; explicate fan practice; perform a detailed reading of a specific text; relate transformative phenomena to social, literary, technological, and/or

historical frameworks. Peer review. 4,000–7,000 words.

Symposium: Provide insight into developments or debates surrounding fandom, transformative media, or cultures.

Editorial review. 1,500–2,500 words.

Join Penelope & Otto as they talk about R-E-S-P-E-C-T. There doesn't seem to be a lot of it going around these days. From John Edwards dissing Elizabeth by showing up at her funeral and the major back hand Barack Obama gave to his liberal and progressive supporters this week it seems some people need a refresher course on manners and civility. Call in and sound off at 718/508-9683 or join us in the chat room at 9:30pm CST on the 12/11/10 In Like Flynn show!

Call in and sound off with Penelope and Otto at 718/508-9683 or Join us in the Chat room.

We look forward to hearing your voice!