Murdered Muse

I’m not sure who killed her.

nightmare fairy

the nightmare fairy

Yeah, this is some weird, death-fairy imagery I found in the bowels of the internet, but it illustrates a point as well as it can; my muse has been viciously, mercilessly murdered.

I can see her, staring up at me with blank and soulless eyes. Her mouth is open and there is some kind of milky fluid oozing out. The poor thing. She’s simply not responding and I know she’s dead. Someone killed her. It wasn’t me, and I have to find a way to revive her.

There’s the requisite listening of music, particularly something that stimulates neurotransmitters and the synapses that control them. There is of course, caffeine, which I am now consuming in massive quantities; I eagerly look over at the dead body of my muse to see if it’s helping but I see no movement. Let’s see, what other possible panacea can conjure up to revive this poor, pretty thing that is lying prostrate on the couch next to me?

She’s a pretty thing, my muse. All golden skin and sparkly hair, with a simple golden wrap that resembles something from a recent sci-fi fan fiction alternate universe that I wrote. Her hair is a shock of silver/blonde that makes me think of my original work and the transformation of a human being into something else entirely, when alien hosts who grant you the power over movement and conduction live in you without your even realizing it.

*Sigh. Her resurrection is penultimate in my ever-increasing list of priorities. There is nothing more important and not even my laundry list of dreams, hobbies and career goals can stand in the way!  ‘Course, if you get right down to it, without her none of those things can be attended to anyway.

Damn it.  I feel like Elliot Stabler, looking for a culprit who keeps eluding my grasp with inexhaustible skill and determination.

where are you, you heartless bastard?

where are you, you heartless bastard?

Yes… yes that resembles me now, as I gaze pensively out the slats of dusty window blinds, promising retribution with every little quirk at the corner of my mouth.  Minus the five-head – apologies Chris Meloni.

Meanwhile, manuscript(s) lay open on my desktop with no chance for the salvation of substance and form:  just neglected and pitiful files full of Microsoft Word’s off-white space.

There is, of course, that ever-present question. Who killed you, my precious muse? I will find him – or her, mind you. And I will destroy this person with all the pitiless violence of Sektor from Mortal Kombat.

Low Punch. Run. Run. Block.





Oh… oh, yes.  My caffeinated behind is squeeing with pre-teen delight, you sanguine-armored assassin, you.



(Elliot Stabler/Law & Order Image (C) NBC Studios)
(Sektor/Mortal Kombat 3 (C) Property of Midway Games, 1995)


To Boldy go where…. WTF?!?!

Because Star Trek is probably one of, if not THE most heavily referenced and culturally dominant forces in science fiction, I felt an overwhelming need to share this. Stolen and reblogged from drunkgeek.

Oh, and while I’m on the subject – go watch some Star Trek.  Your brain will thank you for it.  Even the Gorn episode.


This is an awesome mash-up of the crew of the Enterprise encountering Miley Cyrus’s most recent escapades. Take it all in and enjoy…

View original post


Why Giant Worms Can Be Sexy

Arrakeen. Sand worms. Gorgeous.

I had promised myself that I would occasionally post about authors who have inspired me with their prowess, characterization, world-building and narrative.  Frank Herbert is certainly high on this list (probably right after Joan Vinge), but because Giant Worms are sexy, we see here the third installment in the Dune Chronicles instead of the actual Dune itself.

Make no mistake; Dune is a masterpiece of space opera, a classic of science fiction and the quintessential bible of messianic heroism in the dark expanse of Space Hell.  Unfortunately, in order to read Children of Dune, one must already be familiar with the universe of Dune in the first place, otherwise I would recommend just reading Children of Dune before you do anything else by let’s say… Christmas of this year.

Let’s face the facts, though.  By this time in the Dune Universe, Paul Muad’Dib is an aging and elusive character who everyone thinks is dead and yet (like the spirit of Elvis) he is rumored to be wandering somewhere in the receding deserts of Planet Arrakis.  His children, and unfortunate sister Alia (a Spice addict with the worst case of possession in the known universe of literature), are looked on as saviors by the people of Arrakeen (capital city of Planet Arrakis and culture/spiritual center for the religion surrounding Paul Atreides and his conversion to Fremen spirituality.

It is here, in Children of Dune, where we truly see Herbert’s obvious distaste for the lemmings of the world, and how dangerously powerful a leader can become when followed blindly by his or her worshipers.  Paul’s children, his legal wife Princess Irulan and concubine Chani, all suffer from this blind following and Leto (Paul’s oldest son), begins to become so intent on returning to the roots of what Muad’Dib (his father) set out to accomplish that (without going into ridiculous amounts of detail and spoiling the story) he starts to actually become one of the giant worms that inhabit Arrakis and protect the Spice Melange.

The reason this can be sexy is because James McAvoy portrayed Leto in the BBC/Syfy Channel miniseries “Children of Dune” and even when he had worm skin I liked looking at him.  Bit skinny though.  But still hot.

But the sexier part?  Children of Dune is, at its heart, a well-crafted and well executed plot arc that warns humanity, even as far-reaching as this particular futuristic world is, that some things never change; that we should be as careful as we know how to be when glorification of mortal men (or women) becomes a model for existence.  Smoke and mirrors to our real reason for existing in the first place: to live and live life.

Dune Messiah does a pretty good job of exploring that, too, but when you get down to it Children of Dune is just more fun.  I’m sure someone out there disagrees with me.  But people drinking poisonous liquid and turning into giant sandworms is just sexy, no matter how you swing it.  Believe it or not when I write, I find myself drawing on Herbert’s sentiment without realizing it – minus the sand worms.

Read this book.  I mean, read Dune first but then read this book.  Do it.


Excerpt – Humanity Undeniable

“The Aura is the key to all Kinetics; it defines them, it comprises them. It is the unifying characteristic of all Kinetics, to exemplify our power and to use it in the most deferential way possible–to prove we are still human.” – From “Kinetic Stability and Aura: Meditations on Our Being” by: The Unifier

What follows is the prologue to “Kinetic”, a sci-fi novel that can be explored in the links above under “Extraction One: Original Works”.  I need to expand on that menu quite a bit, in order for readers to get a better sense of the little universe I’ve created here, but I think this prologue will help exemplify the world in which these characters will live.  It is a bit chaotic, and the people involved never appear again in the story (at least in person), but this is intentional.  But enough about that.  I’ll elaborate on the “Kinetics” in the links above more.  But know just a few things about them; on Sha’di 6 they are feared and banished from civilized society.  They are powerful, they are easily uncontrollable, but at their hearts are human beings with leaders who further the cause of integration and attempt, often at the cost of their own lives, to reintroduce themselves into society on a world where that very concept is often strange and foreign.

Please enjoy!



Central Solar Date 3034.5

The Acropolis, Arcon Solar System; Class ST Planet Sha’di 6

At the very least, he knew where he was.  The pink-purple sky of Sha’di was so recognizable now, that although the ringing in his ears drowned out all sound, although his body would not seem to respond to his constant barrage of commands to sit up, he at least knew that he was home.  He was still on Sha’di.  How he had ended up outside though, that was another quandary.

Slowly the ringing began to dissipate, and the silence that wound around him was unnerving.  It curled up over his slowly reviving limbs and stole any warmth from that invigorating process.  He lifted an arm; there, that seemed to work.  Then came the next arm so he could push himself up on his elbows and roll to one side.  Though cloudy, the scene around him began to come into focus.  The waves of blurry landscape flattened and he could see…  Oh, gods he could see–!

The rush of memory came back in a burst so overwhelming that he cried out.  His ears began to pound with the grinding sound of his voice as it echoed across the debris laden field in front of him.  Gods, the lab!  The lab, the facility, the compound—everything!  Everything was gone.  The breeze around him was comfortable, serene, but somehow full of an overwhelming and profound energy.  As chunks of flex-glass and fiber hurtled by him, he remembered.

“The explosion,” he croaked as tiny shards of metal nicked his palms.

He blinked.  The deep orange sand of Sector 4 was everywhere, covering the wreckage of the lab, the structures that were somehow still standing, and the bodies…  Oh, gods, the bodies!  But where was the specimen?  Where was he?

A distant keening, like that of a lost dog, echoed from across the debris field and over the bodies.  He lifted his chin toward the sound.  It was certainly human, that much was clear.  But was it one of the many victims surrounding him, or was it the specimen?  Surely, the young man would have been more resilient than the others inside the lab.

“Where are you!” he called to the voice.  The keening continued, rising steadily in volume until it became a steady wail.  How old was that male specimen now, he wondered?  Thirteen Earth years?  Fourteen?

He pushed himself painfully to his knees.  The shards of metal and fiber dug against his skin, through the torn ribbons of his trousers and into his legs.  He winced and planted one foot firmly on the ground so as to give himself proper leverage.  Albeit wobbly, he stood.

The wailing had stopped, but the silence that washed over the devastation around him was now punctuated by wrenching sobs.  The specimen was close—somewhere close.  He turned on his right foot and bobbed a bit as pain shot up through his leg.  He hissed and gripped a handful of the ruined fabric against his thigh.  Gods, there was a gash seven inches long there.

“Where are you, Number Twelve!” he called again, to assure the specimen that he would aid him however possible; to make sure the subject knew who he was.  There was no answer, and the sobbing had ceased.  Silence crept back over the devastated landscape, and none of the other bodies moved, jerked or even moaned.  It might have been reassuring, he thought, to at least hear someone else…  Someone else!

“Gods,” he said, and his face crumpled into agony.  “Gods, where are you–?!”


The voice came at him from his blind left side, where he realized with a stunning tempo that blood had obscured part of his vision.  Number Twelve was there, lab clothes torn and hanging from his adolescent body in a macabre dance with the wind.  Remarkably, not a scratch appeared on his pale skin.

He sighed once with relief and felt a rattling in his chest.  That would be a punctured lung, surely.  Any doctor like him would know that.  The specimen’s hand shot out for the doctor’s neck, but their skin did not touch.  The doctor gave pause, and realized that although the specimen did not touch him, he was indeed choking him.

“The—Audmium!!  I can help you!”  The doctor croaked.  The disembodied grip on his neck tightened, and the specimen’s eyes filled with tears.  He snarled:  a haunting and distressful sound.

“Make it stop,” Number Twelve said.  No other action would do.

The doctor flailed wildly against the ghostly hands that blocked his airways, and realized that his feet were now dangling in the air.  He gazed down at Number Twelve and marveled at the incandescent rings of purple light that haloed the specimen’s hands.  He had only seen those once before.  Before—the—?

“I can stop it!” the doctor hissed, grasping out at the hands that held him, yet did not.  The purple light grew deeper and brighter all at once.  “I can stop the Audmium!  But you must let me–!”

“No.”  This time, the voice was different, he thought.  Number Twelve’s grip intensified, and his mind reached out for the doctor.  “No,” he said again.  The voice was not that of an adolescent boy, but something far more menacing.  Something more powerful.

“You can’t stop us anymore.  But I can stop you.”

The doctor stopped struggling then, and his eyes widened to saucers until all he could see was purple light.  Number Twelve’s voice erupted into a cry that drowned out even the vortex of air and energy around him.  On and on it went until the tattered remains of their clothes disintegrated, dragged outward and upward against the kinetic energy of Number Twelve’s aura.  The blood continued down the side of the doctor’s face and yet he could see–?  He could see that Number Twelve’s body was still unharmed; it was pure like the Audmium gem lodged near the base of his neck.

“Please…”  The doctor managed.  But all was lost, he could see that now.  Number Twelve glared back at him with eyes as blue as the oceans near the Cloud City of Sing-ha, and his outcry stopped.  The purple light around his hands pulsed, traveled up his arms and into the Audmium against his neck.

A sonic boom.

Then blackness.


The Grand Ol’ Space Opry – “The Snow Queen” by Joan D. Vinge

Although one can read my review of “The Snow Queen”, by consummate authoress Joan D. Vinge on the link here, I can only elaborate on the praise from here. This book inspired me to continue writing science fiction at an adult/professional level. At the tender age of 18, while perusing the shelves of a used book store in Estes Park, Colorado, I found an old copy of this book (then out of print).  I had seen it in once, amongst the piles and piles of old books kept in boxes down in my parents’ cellar, and was curious to read it on my own (since first having seen it, I was sure they had donated or gotten rid of the books). It is the kind of story that stays with you long after you’ve read it.  Ms. Vinge has the ability to connect with her readers in a way I’ve never yet been able to understand.  She is my role model, her writing has inspired me to become a better author, and her deep connections to her characters are a model that any author should aspire to.  The ‘thing’ about science fiction as I’ve ranted about before is the ability to let your readers relate to the characters, despite their complete “other-ness” and often “inhuman” nature.

Who would have watched Star Trek if, deep down in your heart of hearts, you couldn’t relate to the seemingly emotionless Vulcan, Mr. Spock?  Leonard Nimoy, along with the writers of the series, was able to convey this empathy through his acting and through the direction of the series creators.

Ms. Vinge is such a “director”.  Her characters are alive in and of themselves, and come alive through her incredibly personal, deeply emotional dialogue and prose.

I believe she now occasionally teaches classes and seminars/workshops in California, and were I more financially able, I would attend in a heartbeat.  I recommend her books to anyone who can tear the heart out of a story and appreciate the effort it took on the part of the author to compel you to do so.

If we cannot relate to our art, as it imitates life, then what in the hell can we relate to?

Discovery and innovation are our soul, as one human race.  Ms. Vinge exemplifies this with such grace that it is difficult to disagree.  Read her.

“The Psychosis of Duquesne Ja’Rad”

I joined a writing group on nearly two years ago and managed to meet some quite lovely people there.  During each meetup, the group would offer a prompt and then you would write for a set period of time (for the life of me I can’t rightly remember how long it was now…).  You could choose to use this prompt as a basis for whatever you were writing, or you could choose not to.  I chose this particular prompt from 11/29/2011, because it fit perfectly for a character study I was performing on the main antagonist in my most recent original sci-fi work, tentatively titled “Kinetic”.  The prompt was “So, tell me about your childhood…”  A FINE prompt for this Psychology major who never wanted to deal with other peoples’ problems and chose never to go to grad school for such things.  ^_~

The antagonist, or villain as some would call him, is a product of his environment.  Duquesne Ja’Rad is a member of a powerful political family who is unwilling to relinquish the possibility of a despotic role in his society.  Planet Sha’di 6, his home, has been ruled by the same benevolent political family for nearly 15 Earth Years – about 4 Sha’di years, and highly unusual given that the political climate on Sha’di is by nature very unstable, being a young colony of only about 170 Earth Years.  House Ja’Rad is a radically right-wing political force.  They value purity and the right of purity to make decisions for those who are NOT pure above all other things.  The current ruling family oppose this and consider themselves the mediators between politicians like House Ja’Rad, and other radical groups.  Most have acquiesced to this mediation, but House Ja’Rad is an old and mysterious family, and it is evident to the reader even after a few interactions with Duquesne (referred to by his closest friends and family as ‘Kane’) that is he is not what one might think.

His unfounded hatred of a certain group of people called “Kinetics” – I will delve into this once I figure out this bloody blog page structure lol and create a page for those original works and their summaries – could perhaps be explained by his upbringing, but he has an off-balance from the other characters, and even his inner monologue is often disjointed and random.  Kane instead chooses to chase his mind wherever it may go at any particular time, whether he has willed it there or not.  Here, I’ll include this mock “psychoanalysis” I created.  I’ve discovered that Kane is a most interesting person, through my own research of him.  I often fall in love with my antagonists and try to make them sympathetic.  Although, I’m not sure about Kane’s ability to force a reader’s empathy.  We’ll see.  ^_^


“So, tell me about your childhood…”

Kane is reclined on my couch, his long legs draped over either side as though he were straddling a very short horse.  He takes a deep and sudden breath.

“I… don’t really have one.  Or, I didn’t have one,” he says gently.  His answer is not uncommon.  The grammatical confusion stops me for a moment, though.

“Well,” I say, “at least tell me about the memories you have from that time.  Or tell me why your experience would lead you to say this–?”

“No,” he interrupts me, “you don’t seem to understand.  I have no childhood.  Whatever I would have, should have remembered: it isn’t there.”

This is indeed curious.  Although self-induced amnesia is not impossible, it is a rare and interesting phenomenon.

“So,” I venture, “you can’t remember, or you won’t remember?”

Duquesne Ja’Rad sighs irritably.  His eyes roll back into his skull for a brief moment, and he places a hand behind his full head of curly hair.  One would almost believe him a child.  He exhales so forcefully from the “o” of his lips, that a long black curl blows back from his forehead.

“No,” he says again.  “I’ve told you; the childhood you speak of, it isn’t there.”

“I see.”  My response seems so frail.  But I’ve seen this kind of stubbornness before in patients, so I press on.

“What, then, is the first thing you remember?”

There is a pause this time.  Ah!  I’ve got him, I think.  his narcissistic psychosis won’t allow him to ignore such an open-ended question about his life.

“I remember moving to Sing-ha,” he says.  I find this odd, since, in his initial interview he had mentioned moving to that mysterious city in the clouds east of Karsus at the age of eighteen.  “Yes,” he continues, “I remember the crashing waves against the cliffs there by the sea.  The steep, steep cliffs.”

“But Kane,” I say to him, “you were eighteen.  There is nothing before that?”

His eyes open slowly, and he lolls his head to the side to look at me.  His brown-black eyes are faintly, psychotically amused.

“I’ve told you, no.  For a therapist you seem quite stupid.”  There is a hint of joy in his condescension.  “I remember Sing-ha, and  I remember that my brother was dead.  That is all.”

“Yes,” I reply suddenly, elated at this admission.  I’d been aiming at this all along.  “Yes, tell me about your brother.”  I urge.

“There is nothing to tell,” he says.  “I remember that he was dead by that time.”

“Yes, but how?  Your parents must have told you how.”

“They told me he was dead.”  Kane’s voice has changed now, and it is full of an emotion that, even for a seasoned therapist, is difficult to name.  This time he continues without prompt.

“They did not tell me how.  I did ask though, you know.”

“And what did they say?”

“They said, ‘your brother was very sick, Kane.  He could not have lived as we do.'”

“As we do?”

“I’m sure they were referring to his infirmity,” Kane says in reply.  He looks away from me again, shuts his eyes, and shifts only slightly on the couch.  I can see the walls going back up again, so I change the subject.

“If you–had no childhood, as you say, then tell me about… Now.  Tell me about your memories in the recent past.”

His eyelids slide open slowly.  I may have touched a vein this time.  But I cannot tell if it is a mere vessel or a throbbing artery.  To my shock, his mouth quirks into a half-smile.  His handsome face seems to twist into something else, even as he stares into a distant vision behind his eyes that only he can see.

“You want to know about her, do you?” he asks.

Without my meaning it to, my jaw falls open until I am sure he can see.

“It’s alright.  Everyone does.”  His reply is not at all what I’d expected.  The recent death of a loved one is, for anyone, a difficult hurdle to mount.  This is especially true if the death was sudden, or in his case, well…

I shake my head a bit and close my open mouth.

“You don’t have to go there yet, Kane.  Not if you don’t want to,” I tell him.  The quirky smile on his lips begins to grow unexpectedly.

For a moment I think, God, have I unleashed the monster that easily?  Could he really be as mad as it is believed?  But no, I am a doctor, a scientist.  There is reason deep inside every human being and I have seen it drawn out of the most unlikely case, the most desperate character.

But perhaps Duquesne is here to prove me wrong.  The smile is bigger now, and he is chuckling.  The sound sends a chill down my spine, and all the way into the tips of my fingers.  It grows until he is laughing quite heartily.  His head of thick curls lolls over toward me again.  The sound of his laughter is now filling the room.  My whole body is shuddering.

“You…”  he can barely speak over the guffawing.  “You speak as if I’d lost a–a person of great importance to me.  Perhaps even a–a dog or a beloved horse!”  He laughs more and puts one hand on his forehead as if to stifle the maniac living inside it.

“No…” he sighs after the word.  “No.” He laughs more softly now.  “It’s as though I’ve finally stomped on a roach I was chasing through the kitchen.”  A pause, and another chuckle.  “Or perhaps, as though I were myself a hound, and I’ve finally caught up to the fox, and gutted it.”  His hand lifts and clenches into a fist.

My insides twist.  I can feel sweat breaking out on my lower back.

“So you’ve–you’ve come to terms with it, have you?” I say; is it really a question?

“‘To terms?'”  He repeats the words as though they are disgusting to him.  He chuckles once again, aloud, and rests his head back on the couch, on top of his long fingers.

“That bitch was not human.  She had become something entirely monstrous  Her death was not just my obligation.  It was my pleasure.” Between my gasps for air, I can hear him say, “her death made me a messiah.”

Is there anyone out there, and why does it matter?

People ask me why I write science fiction.  No, really they do.

Science fiction is the fabric of human imagination; I am absolutely convinced of this fact.  I’m not convinced of it because I feel it’s better than any other type of fiction, or because it somehow trumps the conventional tropes of modern literature or that people who write other types of fiction are somehow less creative than sci-fi.

The reason I’m convinced that it is the fabric of human imagination is because, although it is not better to read or superior to other genres, I find that sci-fi (and fantasy) are the more difficult genres to create as an author.

Think about this; when an author creates sci-fi, or fantasy, there has to be enough reality intertwined in the fabric of your non-reality for it to be sympathetic to your audience.  The audience needs to relate to your non-reality enough so that for them, it’s interesting and dynamic and they WANT to be a part of it.

Science fiction is, at its heart, the exploratory spirit of humanity.  We want to know what’s out there…  We want to know if there are other planets that sustain life, and we want to know how many of them are like us, or sort of like us, or peaceful, hostile, ugly, beautiful–!  I could go on.  Not only that, but as a writer who has been telling stories since the 7th grade and before I knew really what aliens were, this genre creates an entire platform on which to create something never created before, even if it doesn’t involve extra-terrestrials.  We build on the ideas of others and use the inspiration of past science fiction authors as a basis for the story we want to tell; the possibilities become so endless that, for a story-teller it is as vast as the universe itself.  Infinite.

Science Fiction matters because, as a single people, we want to discover.  We need to discover, and that is the single most important element in human society since the beginning of time.

I hope I can explore that sentiment in this blog.  I want to explore the story I’m currently working on, as well as works by other amazing authors of science fiction.

Join me~~~!  ^_^