found_drama

Via B^2:

[tag]Philip Sandifer[/tag] is a graduate student in U. Fla’s English program, and keeps a personal creative writing journal called “[tag]Pulp Decameron[/tag],” where he posts very [tag]short stories[/tag] in the styles of various pulp genres. The stories are released under a [tag]Creative Commons[/tag] license. One story, I am Ready to Serve My Country, is a first person-account of a murderer who executes two victims before applying to the military.

On May 12, detective Sanders of the University of Florida police left him a voicemail asking him to contact her. This began a series of meetings and calls with the University Police in which detectives repeatedly pressured him to allow them to fingerprint him, so that they could compare his prints to evidence from unsolved murders. They cited his publication of the horror fiction as the reason.

Pretty soon we won’t even be able to [tag]dream[/tag] without having papers served re: [tag]probable cause[/tag].

Via [tag]Creative Commons[/tag]: The [tag]Wombat[/tag] Speaks: Mia Wombat speaks about all things CC in a [tag]Second Life[/tag] event. What snagged me was the image in their article:

This scene is exactly how I always pictured Hiro’s final [tag]Metaverse[/tag] scene in [tag]Snow Crash[/tag].

currently playing: David “Delta/Beta”

“Fall Down Six Times” is a series of short-shorts by [tag]Ran Prieur[/tag] that are essentially meditations on [tag]apocalyptic[/tag] collapses. Or a “Ridiculous Best Case Scenario”. Most of these have elements that remind me of conversations I’ve had recently with friends about “what we’ll do when the economy collapses.” It’s reassuring that I’m not the only one worrying about this.

A sample ([tag]Creative Commons[/tag] licensed, no less):

Spring, 2006. The attack on Iran is canceled when the UAE, stung on the port deal, refuses to offer their territory as a staging ground. Tony Blair, after being given a huge dose of ecstacy by Russian agents, reveals that he supported the Iraq war because the Bush administration blackmailed him with disturbing sex photos. Hundreds of other blackmailees come forward, and suddenly the American elite have no leverage. The rest of the world pulls the rug out from under our economy, and we can no longer afford to occupy the colonies or import anything.

This disaster cuts deep enough that most Americans pass right through indignation and outrage, into humility and cooperation to help each other get through it. The neocons fade away, the Republicans become a minority party of religious fundamentalists, and Howard Dean survives three assassination attempts to be elected president in 2008.

A couple weeks ago, I posted the first 503 words of my story. For anyone interested in another taste (from chapter two):

When the call came in, I was flat on my back, floating in a warm, viscous solution. I was defined by relaxation and perfectly content to dwell on the visions of sugared fullerenes dancing in my head. No one was supposed to know I was here, soaking. As a matter of fact, I’d gone to great lengths to ensure that not one of my business associates had the first clue where I’d gone or what my current agenda was. I thought it only natural to let the call drop to my message service — this was time I was paying for, after all. Rejuve time. Time to float in fluids thick with lipids and rich with proteins and let the spa folks make me a new man. I dropped the second call right to my messages, too. For all intents and purposes I was the picture of pursuant perfection — weightless and wonderful at 21 Celsius. If I hadn’t been as serene as the moon, I might have thought better of answering the third call. Instead, I allowed myself a moment of weakness and glanced at the beacon to see the friendly UDI and the grinning headers of a trusted network. I thought to myself What the hell, whoever this is, they went to a shitload of trouble to find me…

It should not have been a surprise then that my optic nerve snapped out of Tranquility Grey Mesh and came to life with such a familiar face.

Tucked away in some deepest fold of some obscurest corner of the world, a stern Russian brow frowned at me over pensive Japanese eyes. Yuri’s androgynous face was tight across high but wide cheekbones and trailed by an equally androgynous but twice as tight ponytail. The mouth was straight and severe, a scale for measuring out equal parts of patience and impatience.

“You are sometimes a very difficult man to find, Grey.”

I rocked back and forth in the solution, my first muscle twitch in weeks. It felt good to move but not good enough to desire escape. “That was the whole idea. You know, when you can’t sleep, you need to find some other way to unwind.” My lips moved out of habit even though speech was impossible during a soak like this.

“I’m guessing I should be glad I don’t have your problems, no?”

“Exactly. Do you have any idea how much a few weeks at one of these spas costs? Any idea how many thousands of GC just to book the tank? How much the premium is on an anonymous registration? What’s so important that you need to interrupt my protein therapy session?”

Yuri’s disembodied head looked at me like I should already know the answer to that question. “You know I would not have called if I did not find myself without alternative.”

“Weighty words, Yuri. Why do I get the feeling you’re about to tell me I’m going to lose my deposit?”

Thin lips beamed, heavy eyebrows got lighter, and a bold chin softened.

Once again: Not the whole chapter but I hope it’s enough to pique some interest…

The above excerpt is protected by a [tag]Creative Commons[/tag] Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs License. Please respect my creative efforts.

Almost two weeks ago, I announced that I’d completed the first draft of the novel I’d been working on over the past year. I had a few folks query me about the download for the complete PDF. To those: Thanks! To everyone else, here’s the first 503 words:

The fires in the Port Calvert Asylum burn the greenish-yellow that the mind paints on the word sick. You can see them burning in the refugee camps scattered just inside the perimeter fence — green-yellow tongues singing their songs to the sky and stars, anthems and laments both carried in the thinnest, whitest smoke. The sick green-yellow flames were produced by a log that was essentially a giant, arm-sized bean that the branch of the ICCC running the Port Calvert Asylum had had genetically engineered to provide ample heat and light while producing a minimum of ash, smoke, and other waste. We knew this because it was our co-op that grew those beans.

Getting in to the Port Calvert Asylum was the easy part. Getting in unnoticed was only slightly more challenging. Getting in without revealing ourselves to our pursuers however was the challenge with which we were faced.

Gregor and I had gone at each other’s throats during the flight from the Capitol Wastes over whether to stick to the original rendezvous or flee for the Port Calvert Asylum. Crewism dictated we head for the refugee quarters at Port Calvert, regroup, and figure out some fail over plan. I didn’t like the idea in the slightest but bit down for crewism’s sake and pushed harder on the wiser battle to split up while we figured out how to get inside. Gregor fought back hard on that plan saying we should keep tight and unified but ultimately backed down after the second close call with that trailing layvee. That near miss almost cost us all and we all knew it.

I took Viktor with me as we marched the last three kilometers to the south west gate while Gregor and the rest doubled back to hide wherever they could. We all knew that there wasn’t much cover but they had a better chance fleeing in the open than getting jammed up at one of the Port Calvert gates. The general feeling in the crew was we were two hairs from fucked whichever way we went. Viktor confided in me during the march that he was beginning to think the whole thing was hopelessly blown to shit once we got spotted. Not even 200 meters from the snatch, he kept saying, drawing himself tighter and tighter into the coarse brown cloak.

I was not sure if I could believe him or if I just did not want to believe him. It was naïve to think that we could have gotten away clean. A Soy Guild crew up against a troop from Pacifica? That was challenge enough but our stakes were so much higher and we knew that going in. None of us had had any illusions about that and Papa Ivan had sat us all down and given us each the option to back out with no shame. Maybe it was crewism that kept each of us looking in the faces of the others choosing to say it loud — Count Me In.

Not the whole first chapter but I hope with that to garner a bit more interest…

The above excerpt is protected by a [tag]Creative Commons[/tag] Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs License. Please respect my creative efforts.