We reached 7,000 hits this month!
Wow. All I can say is that I’m super happy and I never expected this level of support when I started consistently posting a few months back. Thanks to everyone!
And now a shameless viral video since it’s why half of you come here anyway …
Interesting: The Internet makes us smarter, futurist says
06/24/2009 By Leave a Comment
Who would have thought watching Keyboard Cat 100 times could make you a brighter person?
Not me. But hey, I’m not arguing.
Check out this interesting article posted in The Atlantic by futurist Jamais Cascio.
The premise is basically this: For centuries we’ve relied on Mother Nature to make us smarter, but now thanks to cool new information sharing tools like the Internet we’ve got more data at our fingertips than ever before. Many scientists are using this to jumpstart new scientific disciplines, develop new medicines and basically make us more awesome. And as Artificial Intelligence continues to develop, many believe it will eventually pair off with the hive mind of the Internet and usher in a new age of human illumination.
That’s the theory, anyway.
I still don’t understand how things like this are making me any smarter.
RELATED: Is Google Making Us Stupid?
Whatever: No Lunch!
06/24/2009 By Leave a Comment
Once again I ended up working through lunch today.
And lo and behold I’m fighting an incredible headache that I (unwisely) decided to combat with a can of Diet Coke. Ow.
I don’t know why I keep starving myself. Yeah, I’m busy, but I’m not that busy. And I like food and all, so that’s not an issue.
Maybe it’s some subconscious desire to be like Les Stroud. I’ve been watching a lot of Survivorman lately. Hmm … I’ll have to think about that.
Luckily my job only requires rapid finger movements, not, like, actual work … really. So I don’t think I’ll pass out or anything like that. I do feel pretty crappy though.
So here’s to eating more. Food is good. Now to get some lunch …
Flash Fiction: Dusty Cowboy!
06/23/2009 By Leave a Comment
Even by the river, the dust was incredible.
It got into everything. Your boots. The tip of your hat. The lapels of your coat.
The dust was a part of everything, but after a while, you just didn’t really notice it anymore. That was the Valley. And the dust was part of it. It was part of you. It was part of home.
****
Clarence brushed off his coat and along the Ake River bank. He’d worn two of his best Colts for the occasion, holstering them in the Smith-Worthington holster his Daddy got him when he turned 10 all them years ago.
Daddy’d been the one who’d taught Clarence how to shoot, but it was his mother who taught him how to steal. It was tough being a kid in the dustbowl. Sometimes you had to steal to survive and hope that the more fortunate would simply look the other way.
Clarence’s Momma didn’t like stealing, but sometimes it was just necessary, she’d say. A harsh reality of life, as it were.
So as a kid Clarence sometimes snuck onto old man Godfry’s farm and lifted a chicken or a few ears of corn. It was nothing major. His Momma needed it, after all.
But raising a child to steal can be a dangerous thing. And it didn’t take long for young Clarence to fall in with the wrong crowd.
***
Clarence spent three years with the self-proclaimed “Wild Boys” before his first duel. The Wild Boys were a rag-tag group, made up of a bunch of teenagers from the Valley who were just getting their first shadows of beards. They weren’t bad kids. In fact, some in the valley, called them heroes. It was the Wild Boys who weren’t afraid to rob a bustingl farm and give the spoils to a hungry family.
It didn’t take long for people around town to have an idea who’d done it. The crops would disappear at almost the same time every month (and always at night, after the dust settled) but most everyone just looked the other way. The harsh reality of the Valley was many did have it better than others. So why not share?
Besides, farming was a matter of dumb luck. Just because Mother Nature decided to throw Old Man Godfry a little extra rain meant that Clarence’s mother had to go hungry? Not likely.
***
Fadius Hiker moved into Godfry’s plot in May, after the old man finally died.
It didn’t take long for Hiker to develop an acute aversion to the Valley’s “Wild Boys.” Hiker was a stern man and a fastidious businessman who counted every last penny. But more importantly, he was an outsider.
And having come from New England, he wasn’t used to the dust.
“It gets everywhere,” he’d tell whoever would listen. “I just can’t get used to it. A man can’t even steal a yawn out in them fields without getting a mouthful.”
So Hiker wasn’t here for the scenery, that was sure. He was here for the money. And while old man Godfry might have tolerated Clarence and the Wild Boys’ occassional thefts, Hiker did not.
The first time the Wild Boys hit the farm Hiker was in Sheriff Jenkin’s office the following morning, blazing mad.
“It’s them boys, it’s gotta be,” Hiker said. “What do you call em? Them Wild Boys! I tell you, I heard voices out in the fields last night. Laws, I shoulda know it was them! But here’s me half asleep and dreaming, thinking I’m hearing the ghost of old man Godfry or something like that. I didn’t pay it no heed. Then I wake up this morning and guess what? Three chickens gone missing! Whadda you say to that? That’s robbery, plain and simple. That’s what it is. Now you gonna see they get caught for this, right Sheriff? You gotta punish them boys, show ‘em what’s what!”
Of course Sheriff Jenkins wasn’t about to arrest the Wild Boys, the Boys were a mennace sure, but they were widely ignored. Heck, in some circles, they were even liked. But Hiker wouldn’t never understand. And Jenkins didn’t expect him to.
So he just kept nodding.
“Three chickens, you say? No! Well, we’ll take care of it, Fadius, don’t worry none.”
***
Next month Clarence and the Wild Boys snuck back on Hiker’s farm, lifting four corn stalks and three more chickens.
The following morning Hiker gave the same dog and pony show to Sheriff Jenkins, who greeted the man once again with the same smiling nod.
“We’ll take care of it, Fadius. Don’t worry.”
***
The following month Hiker was ready when the Wild Boys came. He’d has his gun at the ready, but of course that was more just for a scare. Hiker wasn’t no murderer. He wasn’t about to shoot anyone on site, but the thefts of Clarence and the others had gone to far.
Those were four of my best chickens! Hiker thought. Think of all the eggs I coulda had!
So Hiker made his stand. When the Wild Boys came he casually walked out, eyed Clarence and challenged the shocked young man to a duel.
“Bring your friends if you like, but I only challenge you. Old man Godfry may have turned his eyes away from your treachery, but I won’t. I don’t care who you’re stealing for, fact is you’re stealing. And that ain’t going to crackle. Meet me at the Ake riverbank, tomorrow, 1 o’clock.”
***
Clarence adjusted his Smith Worthington holster and walked down to the river. With a strong swat he kicked up some of the residual dust clinging to his poncho and gently scattered the arid cloud with his cold breath.
Hiker was waiting with his flask.
“A drink before it all, son?”
“No, thank you.”
“Right. Well then, let’s get to it, shall we?”
***
The other Wild Boys where there, but Clarence told them not to bring any weapons. If things went bad he didn’t want a war on his hands. Sure the Wild Boys stole when necessary, but they weren’t killers. Clarence told them they needed to remember that, no matter what happened.
***
The duelists met on the riverbank. Hiker was mumbling something about the dust, which was choking the cool breeze coming off of Ake.
Both men had agreed it should be Sheriff Jenkins who should call the draw. Clarence had known the sheriff for years and trusted him. Hiker was just happy Jenkins was finally helping to take care of the Wild Boys problem, like he’d always promised.
The Sheriff cleared his throat, tried one last time to talk them both out of it and when neither relented, reluctantly called the draw.
***
“On three boys …”
The dust stirred and Clarence suddenly felt an awarness of the entire valley creep into him.
“One!”
The mesas, the Ake River, old man Godfry, his mother, his home. The dust …
“…Two!”
Clarence sighed and thought of the Wild Boys. They’d done good work and he was sure they’d continue to do it. His thoughts turned back to flashes of his mother and then the Valley, his home …
“Three!”
Which he never saw again.
Even by the river, the dust was incredible.
Flash Fiction: I’m NOT on a boat
06/22/2009 By Leave a Comment
The three workers retreated to the factory’s upstairs level while the flood waters continued to rise.
They’d been lucky enough to move most of the smaller machines and woodworkings from the lower level the night before, but even then, spindles of clear river silt seeped in through the bay doors, ominously foreshadowing what was to come.
For his part, Mike Reed just hoped the factory would survive.
He’d worked there for the past 15 years, taking over as owner three years back after Kip Dalanger died.
Mike was a tough worker — Kip always said so — and he never shied away from putting in extra hours to make sure the job got done right. For five years Mike apprenticed under Kip and the crusty old man had shown him everything he’d known.
Now, as the three men sat staring out at the pale reflection of the moon in the rising flood waters, Mike found himself thinking of Kip.
What would the old man have done in this situation? Would he have gone down with the ship? Risking his own life and the life of his men to save some of the few furniture pieces on the first floor?
Probably, Mike thought.
“Man, oh. It sure it getting dicey out there,” Guy Fogel said. “Them’s water’s just keep on coming. Lords yes!”
Mike liked Guy. In many ways he treated him like Kip had treated him many years ago. Guy was a hard worker. Not the sharpest tool in the shed, but he was loyal and a boarderline genius when it came to woodworking. He’d produced nearly 500 chairs in the past year, nearly double his closest rival.
So it wasn’t terribly surprising that Guy was the first man to volunteer for flood preparations when last week’s weather report revealed not one, but two severe hurricanes coming to hit the state in the coming week.
“We should be fine as long as we stay up here” Mike told Guy. “Besides, it’s too dangerous to leave now. The water is still rising, and it must be at least 10 feet deep all around here. I ain’t never seen nothing quite like this.”
The water was indeed something. After the first appearance of leaks under the doors last night it had only taken 30 minutes for the entire lower floor to be covered in muddy, ankle deep water. They’d been fortunate enough to remove most of the finished woodpieces and hastily deposit them upstairs, but some of the exposed electrical wiring and heavier, more expensibe machinary was going to eat it for sure. The three of them simply didn’t have the time, nor the manpower to save em’.
In under three hours the water was at all of their shoulders. And when Mike saw Guy struggling to keep his head above the brown filth as he hauled an antique desk above his head he decided it was time to call it quits. The three men made their way up the stairs, closing the door and hoping for the best. They were going to have to rife this one out.
They waited for the entire night.
The rain kept coming.
At dawn the downpour broke for several hours, but the percipitation remained constant. The water levels had risen to a few inches below the second floor windows and the trio was seriously beginning to wonder if they would be forced to evacuate to the roof.
But their shared silent reveire was then interrupted by a distant sound.
Closer and closer the sound apporached, before eventually distinguishing itself as the sound of an apporaching motorboat, the Fire Dept’s old shanty, by the sound of it.
The men pressed their faces to the window and sure enough it was the fire department. Gus Farks at the helm stroking his beard absently as he scanned around the factory for any survivors.
Mike threw open the window. “Hey! Gus! We’re over here! Gus! Hey!”
Gus turned, startled, and threw the throttle of his boat forward. Eventually coming to a quiet rest a few inches below the men perched out of the factory’s second story window.
“Well I’ll be damned! If it ain’t Mike and his crazy crew. How are you boys doing? We better getcha outta there. Flood waters are continuing to rise. Fifteen homes have up and disappeared already. Nobody knows where old man Jenkins is, neither. It’s bad Mikey, real bad.”
“Well, where’s that rope, anyway?” Guy asked
Gus tossed the thick line out …………….
Books: Friday Roundup
06/19/2009 By Leave a Comment
I finally finished reading The Stand, that not-so-little book by Stephen King.
And I liked it.
I’ll say up front that this was my first King novel ever, so going in I wasn’t quite sure what to expect. But I’d read On Writing and loved it, so I figured I’d dive in at the deep end of the pool and tackle this 1,000-plus page behemoth all in one gulp. Happily it went down with no real hiccups.
For those not familiar with The Stand, it basically runs like this: a government-funded virus gets loose, killing 99% of humanity and setting the stage for a post-apocalyptic battle between the forces of good and evil. We’ve got the devil in Las Vegas and a ragtag band of survivors united under a 106 year old black woman in Boulder, Colorado.
The novel tackles some pretty heavy and epic stuff, but King never gets lost in the book’s wide breath. In fact, the tons of details and well-written characters ultimately turn out to be The Stand‘s greatest strength.
For all it’s perks, however, the book suffered from a few problems. Namely, the ending, which i felt was over in a flash and didn’t really serve to justify the 1,000+ pages of character and plot buildup. It’s not like it was a bad ending by any means, just a quick one. But I suppose any wrap-up would seem shortchanged after 1,000 pages of buildup …
The bottom line is that The Stand is a book that’s worth your time. It’s a great summer read and a must for anyone interested in post-apocalyptic fiction.
The Stand, by Stephen King: B+
Flash Fiction: Something about a robot
06/19/2009 By Leave a Comment
Flash Fiction: 6/19/09
The little robot waddled up to the microphone, pantomimed a few deep breaths and calmly addressed the hordes of reporters and cameramen.
“My name is Krispin. The first fully-autonomous home assistance unit capable of logical, complex thought. I will now entertain your questions.”
The little guy couldn’t have been more than three-feet tall, but the commotion he caused was towering.
There was a brief, maybe two-second window of wide-eyed wonder on the part of the reporters, all of whom were struggling to internalize just what this little guy had just said. The Robo-Corp’s newest invention was said to be “huge,” but none of them had ever expected it to be this game-changing. This was one of those rare cases were the PR hacks weren’t lying. This was big. Really big.
Krispin floundered under uncomfortable silence moving to adjust himself despite the fact that his red carapace was devoid of any clothes. He anxiously waited for the silence to break and mercifully, after what seemed an eternity, a camera flashed. Followed by another. And another. Reporters began shouting questions and their inquiries gradually rose into an incomprehensible din of confusion and excitement.
Krispin switched his audio inputs, gathering all voices at once and processing their questions to analyze which he would answer first.
He could have answered them all simultaneously, of course, but his programming told him the ensuing cacophony of 36 simultaneous answers might unnerve the reporters. Besides, they wouldn’t understand it, so what was the point?
He picked a question at random, pointed to the reporter and waited for her to repeat it so the others could hear.
***
Stephen sat watching the press conference on the 11’0clock news in something on an unbeliving fugue.
This was it. This was the day he’d dreamed about since he was a little kid. Your very own robot, and one that could think, no less. Sure it was the price of a small house, but right then Stephen knew he had to have a Krispin unit. He just needed one.
So he started saving his money. He took extra shifts at the Stay-N-Shop and even got to volunteering for the weekend and night shifts to earn a little extra cash.
After 3 years he’d saved up enough money to buy one of the little guys, which were now in their third-iteration of firmware. That pesky bug responsible for the Bender’s Creek incident was totally ironed out now. Krispin units were failproof.
He cut his check, dropped the order form in the mailbox and set to waiting.
The ensuing week was one of the longest of his life, but eventually the day came when the Krispin package arrived at his door and he opened the box with a kind of anxious delight he hadn’t felt since Christmas with his father over 25 years ago.
Initial setup of the Krispin unit went well, despite the hiccup with the Korean langauge outputs (he’d had to call a friend to come over and set the guy back to English). But after three hours the little guy was up and about, introducing himself and running down a laundry list of functions.
“Best investment I ever made,” Stephen whispered as he knelt in front of display projected from the robot’s hidden holographic projetor. “Look at all these options!”
Stephen had no children. He had no family. So naturally Krispin filled that void. At times a son, at times a daughter, or a father, mother and brother, Krispin was there to fulfill a variety of unexpected roles. He could converse just as easily about Jesuit philospohy as he could about the Sox’s pitching rotation and Stephen never tired of putting the little guy through the ringer of conversational topics …………………………
Flash Fiction: A Challenge to My Readers
06/18/2009 By Leave a Comment
Okay, so I’m changing the “micro fiction” project around a little bit.
Yeah, it’s been a fun experiment for the past week, but I’m finding that all the arbitary rules (forcing themes, setting time limits, etc.) makes for some … well it makes for some bad writing. And since all of the microfiction thus far has been my own, I can say that without sounding like a huge ass.
So here’s what I’m challenging myself (and you, dear reader, if you so choose) to do: Write at least 600 words each day. Yes, it may come out horrible (God knows you’ll see that below), but it doesn’t matter. Just write something, anything. Get words down on the screen.
Forget time limits. Forget outlines. Just write something and see where it takes you.
And most of all, forget worrying about if it comes out like total shit. This is for fun! It’s flash fiction freewriting aimed at improving your skills.
I’ll continue to file something at least five days a week. I’m hoping I’ll get better and I’m excited to see where this journey takes me. I’d love it if you came along for the ride.
Flash Fiction 6/18/09
Julian pushed his way to the crowd’s front just as his mother prepared to give herself to the gallows.
The execution was a lot of things, but it wasn’t dramatic. Simon Baxter, town minister, led Julian’s mother up the steps and looked on impatiently as a hooded man looped rope around her neck. Simon didn’t relish the executions, but he had the look of a man who’d come to accept them in due course. He didn’t want to be here, but he was, so he might as well make the most of it. Regardless of how badly he wanted it to be all over.
Julian listened attentively as Simon read out the charges. One count of illict substance abuse and two counts of stealing thirty rubics from Tom Conlin’s corner tavern.
“Does the accused have any statement she would like to make,” Simon asked.
Silence.
It was kind of what Julian was hoping for. He didn’t want to hear his mother’s voice again. They’d made their peace last night. When Julian cried and asked her why the ‘bad man’ was going to string her up.
“I’ve betrayed him, Jules,” she said. “He gave me, he gave you life and I betrayed that. We all know the rules living here. If you don’t abide by ‘em, you die by ‘em. That’s rule one. You know that. It’s okay. Everything’s gonna be just okay, don’t you worry baby.”
Julian still
over her set face and badidn’t even flinch when the floor ripped out from underneath her legs, leaving her hanging, lifeless.
The whole thing was over in less than 2 minutes. At 13 Julian understood death, but as he lookd at his mother’s vacant eyes and lifeless features he wondered what it had all been for. Had her sacrifce been for him? Had it been worth it?
Of course, the town of Castle River didn’t need a reason for an execution. In this case, however, they had one – Julian’s mother had relations out of wedlock. The fact that it was nearly 14 years ago was immaterial. She’d been found and she was still a criminal Simon said. And criminals got puinished.
For the past several years Julian was aware of his mother’s death warrant. He had been the reason for it, after all. But Julian’s mother was a caring woman. Always eager to help her son in anyway possible – be it skinning the rabbits they ate on the road or helping her son learn how to read and write.
They’d been on the road for as long as Julian could remember, Castle Rock, of course, was the only civilized settlement this side of the Rockies, but there was a lot of land out West, his mother used to say. And they intended to see all of it.
Still Julian was lonely. He often inquired about visiting the city of his birthplace, knowing selfishly his mother would scoff at the idea.
She must have known what fate awaited her had the village found out. That was, of course, why she fled. Why she raised Julian on the road for these past 12 years. Spending all her waking hours with the boy — helping him along as he learned to walk and ultimately teaching him how to read and write.
R-I-V-E-R, that spells ‘River’ Julian thought. C-A-S-T-L-E that spell’s ‘Castle.’ Castle River, the town where I was born.
Julian’s mother had to sneak back to Castle River to have her son. There were people sympathetic to her. People who understood how hard it was not to get pregnant in a small dustbowl village where the males outnumbered the young ladies 3 to 1. She’d had help delivering the child. And when Julian was born the couple simply disappeared.
Eight long years of exile. They’d traveled all over, setting down in burnt out hotels, abandoned campsites, long-emptied schoolhouses. All relics of time past. They travelled freely, but in the past six months Julian began to question when whether they would ever settle down.
“I want friends mommy, like the ones I read about in the Tom Sawyer books. When am I gonna get a Huck Finn to pal around with, huh?”
And that settled that. They’d return to Castle Rock. Julian would have his friends. In a few years maybe he’d even have a wife. She’d be a lucky woman. Momma didn’t raise no cheater, Julian would stick with her. Protect her. They’d raise a family together. They’d have love. They’d have each other ……………