|I decided to take the plunge this year and attempt to write a novel (50,000 words) in the 30 days of November. After all, it IS National Novel Writing Month. Click the image above for all of the details. If it goes well, I might decide to post each days writings. The whole object of it is to just do it -- Quantity, not Quality. Worrying about the quality is THE main reason people never attempt to write that novel that they've always wanted to write. If I cross the finish line with 50,000 words on November the 30th, then I can always go back and do a rewrite -- but by God I'll have written a novel!|
November 1 -- It begins now!
|It's official! I have actually written an entire novel in thirty days. It's been a goal for years, but I just never seemed to be able to get past the first paragrah. Well, now it's done! -- Actually, it's not quite done. After I reached 50,000 words, I wrapped it up rather quickly. Now I will finish it properly, and then comes the rewrites. But that should be cake compared to the grueling hours of work that went into writing it. ("May I have more gruel, Sir?")|
November 30 -- It's done!
|My Winner's Certificate is here|
|** Important Note **|
|Just to let anyone new know, the first two chapters are pretty rough. I had a tough time getting started, but I seemed to have really caught my stride starting in Chapter Three. I will rewrite the first two chapters in December as well as polish up the rest.|
Mr. Peavy leaned his frail, 100 pound frame back into his reading chair and rubbed his tired, steel grey eyes under his wire-rimmed glasses. He was excited; it felt like watching a lightning storm from an open doorway.
He had discovered that he could will himself into any book. No, that's not quite right, he thought. He willed himself into the reality that the author had created. And now, so close to his retirement, he had a Grand Idea.
He had always wanted to be a hero but had instead become head librarian at the Library of Congress. Now he could be all heroes.
When the assistant librarian showed up for work the next morning, she was puzzled. In all of the fifteen years that she had worked with Mr. Peavy, he had never failed to open the library on time. Now here it was nine-fifteen, and the library doors were still locked. As she fumbled in her purse for her keys, she sighed, "What a funny old man."
"Oh, Mr. Pee-vee!" she called as she looked through the empty offices for him. When she came to the micro-film vault, she saw that the door was ajar.
As she peered through the open door, she saw several boxes of micro-film open on the counter, and there was a note lying next to them with three words on it. When she read it, she just shook her head and said to herself, "What a funny, funny old man!" The note said:
Moving without moving; that was how the Immovable Object travelled. It brought another sheet of *space_time/universe* to itself, and transpierced the fabric as a spike through an infinitely thick sheet of paper as it had done for *infinite/ all_time*. It tasted of the *space_time*, and found what it had always found: Nothing. It sloughed off the sheet and attracted the next one in the *always_more* *space_time/universe* ream. It tasted and found ... something.
* * * *
In the beginning, there was only forever in all directions. The Irresistible Force *remained_stationary/moved* with no resistance. It didn't *move* in the literal sense; it more manipulated the space around it than anything else, but there was no way to really tell because there were no reference points. Everything was nothing. Smooth in the ultimate sense of the word. No time.
"I'm coming for you," the Irresistible Force sent as it had sent since it first became aware of the mote. "I'll be there soon," it crooned as it had for *infinite_time*. It hated the mote. The mote destroyed the perfection of the *all/none* that had been. That's why it had travelled *infinite/null* distance for all time to meet the mote. Throughout *infinite/all_time*, nothing had stood in the way of the Irresistible Force. It was invincible. "Soon ..."
The Immovable Object knew that the Irresistible Force was coming, as it had always known. "I am waiting," it sent softly, "I am/have always waiting/waited for you." The Immovable Object gave meaning to the word "all". The Immovable Object started time; it was THE reference point in forever. Patience was its real power; it had waited for *infinite/all_time*. Space moved around it, but it remained steadfast. It was the ultimate. It was All. And it was waiting. "Come, come ..."
The Irresistible Force was close; for one negligible instant, the space separating them was non-existent, but they weren't actually touching. The Irresistible Force wasn't to be denied though, and continued on, while the Immovable Object, equally as determined, stood its ground.
Chaos was born the exact instant that the Irresistible Force touched the Immovable Object. The Immovable Object appeared to disintegrate into micro-dust. *space_time* fabric shredded into swirling whorls and fabulous vortexes. Implosions and explosions shook the very corners of *infinite/distance*; one after another, geometric patterns blossomed and evolved to the nth degree, only to be the parents of new and faster evolving patterns. Hot spots developed which tended to suck space in from the out direction.
Space was reallocated to occupy the non-space in between the particles that was the stuff of the Immovable Object. Each particle still made up the whole Object -- the space between them just *increased/was_reallocated*. "I move you," the Irresistible Force wailed.
"I am still here," the Immovable Object serenely replied. "You are too *close/far_away* to see me. I am still whole; if you take *all_nothing* from me, I remain. But look what we have created together."
The Irresistible Force did look; the Universe had shape and color. It had time, texture and depth. It had physics.
The Irresistible Force, though, is irresistible. It cannot be stopped. The Battle remains.
"I am your God. I have let you alone for too long." Everyone on Earth heard the voice from the sky. There was no panic; most people just stopped what they were doing and looked toward the heavens. Many fell to their knees, and not a few hid their faces. "Today will begin a new age for Mankind," God said. "There will be no more crimes against your fellow men. I have bitterly disappointed myself, hoping that you would learn compassion. When I created you, I gave you freedom. I now take that freedom from you. For one year, you will commit no crime against your brother, for if you do, you will pay your own price!" And then He was gone.
Mankind soon learned what God meant. In Harlem, a young drug dealer sold a bag of coke to a child. When the child returned to complain that he wasn't "getting off," he found the dealer slumped in a corner, dying of the child's overdose. In New York, a mugger shot his victim, only to die from his own bullet.
It was two days before God's words were understood: murderers died; thieves lost everything they owned; rapists became neutered; kidnappers were paralyzed. But finally the meaning grew clear.
Governments disbanded; soldiers and police became productive citizens; businessmen gained ethics; on-going world pollution stopped.
Mankind finally learned what it was to fully accept responsibility for its own actions.
And no one even noticed when the end of "God's Year" came.
The young man had quite a dilemma. He had rescued the senjen from the lagoon and now had to choose his wish. He had heard stories of wishes that hadn't worked out quite like the wisher had expected, and the senjen wasn't rumored to be too helpful.
He had heard stories like the man who had rescued a senjen from a desert. The man had wished for power and had been quickly struck by lightning. And there was the man that had rescued a senjen from a forest fire. He had wished for wealth and had found himself buried in an ancient king's tomb. There was the girl who had found a senjen throat-deep in quicksand who wished for the perfect man. She became a Nun.
The stories went on and on. He didn't really know how many if any were true. The one thing that he did know was that the rescuer HAD to make a wish. If he didn't, the senjen would take his soul.
As he sat on the beach looking at the little senjen, he thought about his life. His was a simple life on the island. He always had everything he could possibly want, because he wanted little. But there was so much hardship in the world. So many babies crying in the rain. Slowly he realized what would be the ideal wish. He said, "I wish that all of the pain and suffering in the world would end."
So the earth was no more.
He was immortal. When he first wished for immortality, he didn't realize what it meant to be immortal. For the first thousand years, he lived life to the fullest. For the second thousand years, he was bored. He started testing his immortality. He felt pain as any other man could feel pain, but his body healed any hurt that fell to him.
So he started trying new ways to die. He tried drowning, dismemberment, being squashed to a pulp by a bridge-pillar tamping piston, poisons of all kind, but no matter what he tried he always regained consciousness with his body whole. And life went on around him.
He didn't believe that his immortality rested in any single part of his body. It seemed that if even one little part of him was left, it would regenerate a whole new body for him. He finally decided to attempt to eliminate any chance of regeneration by throwing himself into a live volcano.
As he climbed the great mountain, he felt a calm fear. When he threw himself into the volcano, he believed that it was the end.
When he regained consciousness, he couldn't see or move any part of his body. He was trapped in hardened lava.
He lived on. His body didn't need food, air or sleep. He couldn't even go insane. After an eternity, he felt movement at the top of his head. It was the wind, blowing through his hair, eroding his prison away. He felt hope.
A thousand more years passed and light flooded his eyes. He wanted to scream "Let me out!", but his mouth was still locked in lava.
A million more years passed and he was free! He shouted out praises to the wind! He wanted to see people, and do things! But there were no people left. He walked for two hundred years and found no other life whatsoever. Only bare, scorched rock.
Then the sun exploded, and the earth exploded with it. When he regained consciousness, he was hurtling through space at a great speed toward the center of the galaxy. He wasn't bored any more. He now had eternity to explore infinity.
"You're dying, Mr. Harcourt," said Grimes, a dirty little man wlth horrendously bad breath.
"Get you're stinking hands off of my desk and out of my office!" Harcourt roared as he pushed himself further back Into his over-stuffed leather chair, trying to escape the foul stench which seemed to'be oozing from every pore In this nasty person's body. "How the hell did you get in here, anyway? We're closed for the night!"
"Never mind that, you fool; I'm trying to save your life!" Harcourt sat, staring at this decrepit old man. What he first saw was a street person: dirty clothes; greasy hair; filthy, wrinkled skin; and the yellowest teeth he had ever seen. But when he looked at the man's eyes, (My God), he thought, (what's wrong with his eyes? Red and yellow, yellow and red.) He lowered his gaze to his desk top and began studying the shiny surface as if he had never seen it before.
"What does my life mean to you, Mr., ah ..."
"Grimes, Mr. Harcourt." He was smiling now, a not too pleasant smile. "Your life means nothing to me. Your money does." Before Harcourt could object, he hurried on, "I knew before you went to the doctor. I knew when the first cells went insane with the disease. You see, Mr. Harcourt I can smell cancer. I smelled you as we passed in the street almost a year ago. It's such a sweet smell, new cancer. It reminds me of the aroma of fresh-baked bread. Quite unmistakable."
Harcourt was feeling sick; his head was spinning. (Sweet bread. Dark, sweet bread. This man's making me crazy; why can't I throw him out?) He knew, though. The cancer had spread throughout his entire body; it was eating him alive in increasingly bigger and bigger bites. The doctors were done with him; God had failed him; he was ripe to try anything. (Ripe for the picking, eh, Harcourt, o1' buddy o1' pal?) He said out loud, "So what's your game, Grimes?"
The old man straightened himself with an effort. "My 'game', as I said, is money. Big bucks. For one hundred thousand dollars, I can give you life. Immortality, Mr. Harcourt. Life everlasting!" His voice started to crack, but there was no insanity in those insane eyes as he held up a clear glass vial filled with an amber colored fluid.
Harcourt's gaze fell to the vial. "How can I trust you? What 'if you're a fraud?" He was almost crying now, but he knew he was sold. (Live forever? Live? Forever? Wlll my eyes turn red and yellow and yellow and...) He shook his head trying to clear his mlnd. "All rlght, Grimes, how's it work?"
"You give me a post-dated check, and I give you thls." He held the tiny bottle slx inches from Harcourt's face, "Then, I leave and you drlnk. If you aren't completely cured of every and any disease you now have, you just stop payment on the check." That weird, sly smlle was back on hls face, then gone an lnstant later.
"Done!" he cried as he grabbed for the bottle.
"Now, now, Mr. Harcourt. FIrst things first." The vial disappeared from his hand before Harcourt could see where it had gone.
Finally, Grlmes left wlth the check, and Harcourt sat at hls desk behlnd the locked offlce door. His hands shook so badly that he couldn't get the bottle open at first. Success greeted hls second try. Before he had time to think about lt, he downed the contents.
Immediately he felt the cancer leave his body. Just as suddenly, he knew he couldn't move. He fell wlth a crash out of hls leather chalr, gashlng his head open on the desk. As he lay on the floor, he felt the cut healng. He also felt something else. (I can't breathe! Help me, please, anyone...I don't want to live forever 1ike this!)
|But there was no help for poor Mr. Harcourt.|
Tyler was ready to try out his new theory on skepticism. Stated simply: How do we know that what we see and experience is real? Argument for: The man in the insane asylum that sees and feels the bugs that are crawling on him that no one else sees. Argument against: What a stupid concept.
Tyler was going to find out. He had hired a hypnotist for his experiment. "Now remember, Dr. Reardon, when I'm under, I want you to tell me to wake up in the REAL world and not to perceive any stimulus that my mind has manufactured," Tyler said.
"I understand, but I think that you are wasting your time," Reardon said gravely as he began the procedure.
Tyler was floating somewhere in space. He couldn't feel his body at all; he was afraid to open his eyes. From somewhere nearby and far away he could hear noises. Machine noises, he thought to himself. Then he heard a loud and very near noise, like an alarm or siren. There was red light splashing on his closed eyes, coming from somewhere above his head. He thrust open his eyes and looked ... and screamed. And kept screaming.
He was floating in a large tank of water with just his head breaking the surface. The tank was in a vast, sterile-white hall. A voice was booming over a loudspeaker, "We have a waker. Repeat, one of the organics is awake. Initiate re-sleep sequence immediately!"
|"We just want to be sure that you understand the charges against you, Mr. Peréz," the strange looking man
told him. Júlio Peréz sat in a small, sparsely decorated and even more sparsely furnished room with four other men. Two
stood behind him, the speaker sat facing him, and the forth stood behind the speaker.
"Ah, chingao!" Júlio cursed. "I don't know who you dudes are, o qué quiéren con mígo." He looked to be about sixteen, dark Hispanic complexion, and totally scared.
The man who seemed to be in charge spoke up, "As to your first inquiry, I am Op Len Seven Six, and these are my assistants. I represent the Temporal Integrity League." He impatiently swept his hand at the other three odd looking men. They were all at least six and a half feet tall, but the heaviest of them, Op Len, couldn't have weighed more than sixty pounds. Also, their eyes bugged out like a stomped on bullfrog's. "As to your second remark, what we want with you is justice!" he spat through clenched teeth. Júlio glared back. "You are accused of murder with malice and afore thought!"
"Ere loco -- crazy. I didn't kill anyone, and what the hell is the Temporal Integrity League?" But Júlio was beginning to suspect why they wanted him. Two weeks ago he had found a small, funny looking box with buttons and blinking, colored lights on it in an abandoned warehouse. Just by the purest of luck, the first button he'd hit was the instructions button. It was a time machine.
"Do you deny that you purposely went back in time to avoid getting your girlfriend pregnant? Do you deny that you were successful?" Op Len accused tersely.
"No! I don't deny that. I believe that is the one incident that totally screwed up any chance I ever had at being someone. All I wanted was a second chance." Júlio meant it.
"But what about your daughter?" Op Len asked. He pulled a small device from his pocket and pressed a button. An image appeared between them of a little girl, maybe four years old, swinging in a swing. She was being pushed by an Hispanic man who, except for being several years older, bore a striking resemblance to Júlio. "This innocent, beautiful little girl no longer exists in an infinite number of timelines." The scene switched to one of a still, empty swing and then disappeared.
"But she still exists in an equally infinite number of timelines if I understand what the machine was talking about," Júlio countered.
"What do YOU know about the concept?"
"Well, I listened to that machine explain it many times. According to it, there are an infinite number of what it called "timelines." Every time someone has to make any kind of decision, there are an infinite amount of possible outcomes or consequences. And each one of those possible outcomes is a valid timeline. In other words, everything that can happen, has happened, and our decisions just steer our individual conscious awareness' into that outcome, or timeline." Júlio stopped and took a deep breath. Op Len just sat, suddenly stoney faced.
"So you've done your homework. That doesn't alter the fact that you've interfered with countless timelines and murdered countless four-year-old girls."
"But I didn't murder ANYONE! She never existed in those timelines," Júlio said, his voice shaking and climbing higher.
"But she doesn't exist in those timelines because of you!" Op Len shouted. His voice, too, was shaking but with rage, not fear. He took from his pocket what looked like a nasty weapon. "You are condemned by your own words, young man," he said as he pointed the device at Júlio.
"Espera, espera! Wait!" Júlio pleaded. Suddenly he got an inspiration. "Wait! You are making a mistake, and I can prove it!"
The weapon's rise faltered slightly and then lowered. "Continue, Mr. Peréz." Op Len Seven Six's voice was ice.
"Think about this before you kill me. Those infinite timelines where Conchita was never born existed before I ever found that damn time machine. If everything that can happen already has, then I am just a pawn in the timeline scheme of things." Op Len's glare lessoned. Júlio hurried on, "I am as innocent as the very fabric of the timelines themselves!"
"Or as guilty." Op Len reduced Júlio to ashes in less than a second.
Immediately the room began to glow and the temperature began climbing. A giant voice boomed from everywhere, "Op Len Seven Six, you stand judged by the Court of Timeline Non-Divergence of the crime of murder. You have lead your cohorts to doom!" The four remaining in the room were instantly incinerated.
And on, and on.
|( top )|
|Home - Back to the Org|
|Initial Inertia Dilemma - A new science fiction novel I wrote last year for NaNoWriMo|
|Surf Fest '07 - My performance at the Clarkston Surf Fest '07|
|Techno Babble - Original heavy, instrumental, high-energy, streaming rock music|
|Don Knotts Interview - My interview with Don Knotts for PlanetX Magazine|
|Monsters - A tribute to the old sci fi and monster movies|
|Fractals - An Illustrated and Orchestrated SF Short Story|
|Risk - Help Sugarat.org take over the world!|
|The Org Recommends:|
It makes Broadband load even faster
FastCounter by bCentral