« Posts under Writing Practice

Scene 2

February 11, 2008 / posted in Writing Practice / 3 Comments

(“Previously”:http://juniorbird.com/archive/003625.html)
The grid of white Quonset huts and geodetic domes receded into a brown that matched Elon’s coveralls as the Lieutenant piloted his shuttle up – straight up – from the settlement; the lakes were last to go, slipping away as the planet turned and the shuttle lined up in front of the dark blue Corvette orbiting above. He sat in a reclined seat in a half-clear bubble suspended above the empty cylindrical hold, pushed a series of buttons, watched one after the next turn amber, then green; matched velocity, matched altitude, backed slowly into a short protruding cylinder on the front of the boxy orbiting ship. The green light that came from below showed a tight seal, and he climbed down, ducked his head through the hatch, and, three doors later, was in his ship.
Down the dark hall – no lights, and painted in the same blue as the exterior – and ducking through an airtight hatch, he was in his cabin. A buff-colored quarter-circle of a planet filled his window; the dull light outlined his body against the dark blue bulkhead. Under his bunk was a small table; against the wall opposite, a fold-down padded seat; and on the table, a screen showed nothing but a dim green list of ships’ names, dates in, dates out. The seat fastened down with a click and a slow stab at a button brought up a manifest, but no change in the slightly downturned lips. Another stab brought a high twitter from the console.
“Mister Gustavis.”
“Yes sir, Lieutenant.”
“This freight schedule, you’ve run it through the fleet computer.”
“No, sir. They wouldn’t give me time on it. But I think there’s no solution. You know, with so many small ships, regulations say hold them for convoy.”
“The fleet computer was waiting on the Home Squadron, as usual.”
“Yes, sir. But you know, back at Garrison, in training, they used to have us work out escort schedules for the traffic around Carrilon. I worked out a schedule on our computer using some shortcuts I learned; the elevator can easily handle the traffic if we have two runs a day and hold most traffic on the ground until we’re ready to go.”
“And then, Mr. Gustavis, half the time, our planets are undefended.”
“Yes, sir. But the transports can’t stand up to a heavy fighter, much less a Corvette like us.”
“And at Garrison, you modeled against the Imperial & Royal fleet, or maybe the Alliance fleet.”
“Yes sir. And non-human targets sir, although of course that’s just speculative.”
“It’s good training, but it’s fleet training. And we’re not in the fleet. No pirate’s blowing up the hyperspace elevator. The smugglers rely on that just as much as the traders. We’re probably one of five hyperspace-capable ships in the whole system, Mr. Gustavis. Don’t underestimate that.”
“Yes, sir. Five hyperspace-capable Confederation ships, sir.”
“And if you see those Imperial & Royal ships, you call me, Mr. Gustavis. We have LL 928 and LL 949 in this system; they seem to have left their miners on LL 929-A alone since before I came here. After Owen’s World, I’m as paranoid as the next guy, but this system is solidly blue on my map.”
“Yes, sir. So no convoying?”
“If I could get the traders out here to convoy, I would. But that’s why thery’re out here, not back on Carrilon or flying around Apus or Pavo. We work within what they’ll let us do. And we never, ever, leave the ore dumps unsupervised.”
“Yes, sir. But shouldn’t we be in geosynchronous orbit then? To keep a watch over the ore dumps?”
“And let the Imperial & Royal heavy fighters sneak up around the back of the planet? Not if you’re sure they’re here!”
“Yes, sir.”
“And tell the Prefect I’ll accept his dinner invitation tomorrow, on the condition that he accompanies me in an inspection of the defense squad. Gough out.”
The second high twitter brought silence, except for the thrum of the gravity drive and the hiss of the high-pressure water over his head, as the toilet flushed or the galley tap ran. The bunk’s shallow padding took him in as the red light from the sun above overflowed the buff shine from the planet below. The long, swept solar cells that stretched like wings from the Corvette caught the sun, the diagonal shadow cutting the narrow captain’s cabin. The missiles hung underneath played a movie in silhouette across the back wall, first the big anti-ship missile, then the two small anti-fighter ones, and then the blast slats closed over the window with a grind and the room turned cool and dark.















An Exercise in Fiction

January 13, 2008 / posted in Writing Practice / 7 Comments

It’s enjoyable enough to write essay-style stuff here, but I do miss when I used to actually write fiction. So, in a new feature here, I’m going to write monthly entries on a continuing story. Now, this isn’t quite the way I usually write: no outlines, no character studies; in fact, I really know virtually nothing about this story other than what I’ve written already. So, you’ll learn it at the same time I do. Also, I’m not spending much time on editing, so quality may be, let’s say variable. So, without further ado: a bit of ongoing storytelling, in the sci-fi genre.
The road’s white cut stretched to the horizon in both directions, flat and straight as if to defy any curve the packed sun-browned soil might throw up. But the road’s gentle left-hand turn had been enough to spread this glittering metal in a cone, a wheel here, a wheel there, in a sharp triangle from the black scorch of the rover’s impact. Midafternoon sun in the cloudless blue sky made the debris too bright to look at, or all but the dark bits of the tires and console and bodies. The one in light blue-gray overalls pulled his cap’s bill down to cover his squint.
“That’s a mess.” said the one in light brown that almost disappeared into the endless terrain. His cap was already down to touch his ears, and dust caked in the sweat on his arms below his rolled-up sleeves made him even more a match for the terrain.
“Yep.” said the one in light blue-gray, holding out his hand for the water bottle. “And what’s that track running from right to left there?” The outstretched hand pointed to the track as he spoke.
“Well, that was here when we got here, Lieutenant. So we don’t figure they hit anything going along it, you know what I mean?” The one in blue nodded; he knew, or as much as anyone else. The young mining colony, and young mining colonists, were untroubled by the ancient tracks that ran across most of the mapped surface of the planet, zig-zagging every klick or less to dodge some long-absent obstacle.
“When I was an Ensign on Owen’s World, you know what we had? These little pyramids of rock all over. About waist-high, stacked ever so perfect, and a metal rod in the middle of each one. The damndest thing. And you know what they were?” asked the Lieutenant in blue-gray.
“Guess I don’t, sir.” Replied the one in brown, wiping his brow with the arm that held the water bottle, as the Lieutenant had brought his hands to his waist to talk.
“Absolutely nothing. Never did anything, not in a hundred and fifty years. They were just there.”
“Ain’t that something.”
“Ain’t it.” This time he took the water bottle.
“I figure these tracks are the same. Don’t go nowhere. Not anymore, anyway. Anyway, I’m sorry to bother you about this, but the Prefect said to call you, so I did. It’s just too fast, and the bump, and that’s it.”
“Spread his load of ore all over the horizon, didn’t he.”
“Yes he did.”
“Gonna be an empty seat at Ruby’s tonight, won’t there.”
“Yes indeed.”
“Wife? Kids?”
“No, ain’t but the three families that came here last year, and of course old Mrs. Hawkshaw, still says her husband and son’ll be back any day, if you want to count that. And that ain’t him.”
“Kim, esquire, deceased.”
“That’s about it.”
“So there’s no-one to tell.”
“Not except for someone waiting to upgrade their claim. If his was any good. Can’t say I remember.”
“Well, thanks, Elon. Tell the Prefect I’ll mention the lost rover in my next report. Maybe the late-year supply ship will bring a replacement.”
“Much obliged.” It could’ve been for the rover, or because the Lieutenant handed him back the water bottle. They walked back to the Lieutenant’s shuttle. As they climbed, the packed-dirt road became nothing but a too-straight white line in the brown soil, cutting to the horizon, then splitting into a Y and beyond that a grid, as first one and then two lakes emerged as the horizon grew. And the line of the ancient track juked willy-nilly except to miss the foothills on the left; to the right, five such lines came together, a star radiating out in some forgotten intersection. Beyond were the mesas, steep peaks cut off at the top; and finally the mountains, topped with a sparse snow.
(“Next”:http://juniorbird.com/archive/003652.html)















Blues

February 18, 2007 / posted in Otherwise Uncategorized, Writing Practice / 7 Comments

I need new clothes for the new season coming up. To be frank, I needed new clothes for the last season, but, in true LA fashion, summer seems to have come already and obviated the need for sweaters and layering. Nonetheless, I need new clothes for the new season. And I’d like it if some weren’t blue, although most often that’s the color I end up wearing.
It’s really just that I look good in blue. It brings out my eyes, and the chicks (almost) always dig that. Plus, blue includes both the default casual look of denim and the default business casual look of blue oxford and khakis. So, it’s kind of an invaluable color for a guy. Nonetheless, I’m not the biggest fan of the color. That’s kind of illegal for a guy to say, but there it is — blue is nothing special to me.
My room as a child was painted in a nice gender-neutral yellow, not a stereotypical light blue, robbing me of that obivous association. I can’t remember the first blue clothes I had, but I do remember hating the first blue clothes that I could remember. They were my gym clothes in elementary school, and they were the worst thing in the world. First of all, being a geek, I hated gym. Second of all, “gym class didn’t always go the best for me”:http://juniorbird.com/archive/001811.html. Third of all, this outfit had truly disastrous shorts. Not only were they short, as was the style at the time, but they were poofy. Gathered at the waist by a tight elastic band, they flared out by a full inch in every direction as soon as that band terminated. This look only enhanced the stick-like-ness of my legs, which admittedly were scrawny, just like the rest of me. It also made me look like some 19th-centrury matron. I was not a fan.
Instead, I loved the color red. This was the color of my special blanket, a woolen red tartan. It was also the color of my first sportcoat, which also sported a jaunty tartan.[1] Heck, even my first cat[2] was red. But I was never brave enough to wear my red Michael Jackson-style mesh t-shirt.[3]
I also liked green. I had this pen set with this really awesome emerald green that I’d draw with all the time. At the time, I had an imaginary country[4] named Wadeland and it had a green flag with three triangles on it. Later, when I was in fifth grade, I coveted the “red”:http://www.toyarchive.com/Macross/AlphaRed8inch1.html Robotech Alpha fighter but instead got the “green”:http://www.toyarchive.com/Macross/AlphaGreen8inch1.html.[5]
I thought I hit the jackpot in 9th grade when I got a shirt that was olive-green on the outside and red on the inside. I felt rugged in the lined sailcloth, but, somehow, the girls just didn’t dig that look.
I have a lot of blue in my house now. Some, like my carpet, is unintentional. I have a blue Ikea chair that I sit on a lot, but I do wish that Ikea made it easy for me to change the cushions on it, because blue is just not an inviting furniture color. And I’ve learned that inviting is key in furniture.
But still I look good in blue. Better, even, than in green, and blue is also more verstaile. It’s a tough world I live in. Maybe if I wait yet another season to buy new clothes I can put off making any color-related decisions for a few months.[6]
fn1. My parents liked to dress me in my lederhosen and red plaid sportcoat, probably something of a first in looks for a Jew.
fn2. Oh, he was a mean cat; he used to sleep under the covers in my bed and bite my toes all night long.
fn3. I’m shocked I can’t find a picture of a shirt like this online, but adding in the word “Michael Jackson” gives me a selection of snarky t-shirts about child molestation. What I’m talking about, and what was all the rage when the Great Gloved One was bigger than Oprah is now (and V: The Final Battle ruled primetime), is a red t-shirt, the front of which had a layer of black mesh on top of the shirt. Said shirt was also available in black with red mesh. Of course, the day after I got my black-on-red shirt, Matt showed up with his red-on-black shirt and stole my thunder.
fn4. Of course I had an imaginary country, I needed friends ==*somewhere*==
fn5. This is one of those toys that I had that would probably be worth something these days. The other was the original Transformers Jetfire character; Jetfire was a rebranded Robotech Macross VF-1 and I got, totally unintentionally, one of the original series that literally was a repainted VF-1, with Macross insigina and all. eBay has a “buy it now” price of $75, not bad if I still had the thing.
fn6. Except insofar as I need to design a Web site and collateral for my company. But these will contain — get this — green! Yay! Victory at last.















The Sky I Was Born Under

January 28, 2007 / posted in True Life Stories, Writing Practice / No Comments

I am from Baltimore, a place where the blackness of the night is obscured and turned pink by the city lights. Some people bemoan our loss of the night stars — astronomers with the most justification — but this soft blanket of three quarters of a million people’s porch lights and bedside lamps and flickering tvs in the den is something that is particularly, authentically, of our era. It holds in the sirens and car engines and chattering neighbors that provide the background for our reality, reflects them back at us, confines and radiates the atmosphere of the city. Perhaps I love this sky because I was born under it, perhaps I love it because it enveloped me every night. But I do love it.
It’s not that I wanted for shimmering lights in the sky as I grew up. Spring brought yellow-green fireflies, blinking in and out in front of a backdrop of gray-at-night houses and yellow-white sodium streetlamps. While fireflies leave no constellations, we’d follow these blinking dancers, laughing, our arms outstretched, as surely as any ancient Greek seafarer looked to the Milky Way. And then we’d snatch our north stars down from the sky, trapping them in glass jars and watching them slowly blink out.
High School, perhaps, was when I learned that the pink blanket of the night sky could wrap just me as easily as it could wrap the whole city. I moved my bed directly under a window on the third floor of my house. Because the hill we lived on fell away towards the back of our block of rowhouses, our basements, underground in the front, opened directly on to our backyards; my perch towered four stories above the back alley, a dormer window looking over our roof and the roof of the apartments across the alley, even further downhill.
At night I lay in my bed, my window just to my right, and lifted the venetian blinds ever so slightly to peer out over the city. Of course there was a pink sky everywhere, turning pinker as it receded south, towards Downtown, the Harbor, the Beltway, “the Block”:http://jhunix.hcf.jhu.edu/~grau_c/block.html. Only the peak of the roof of a house up the alley, and the angular exhaust and air conditioning vents of the flat-roofed apartment across it, interrupted the pink blanket. This pink turned a sudden gray at a ridge of slate roofs that themselves fell off into a sea of rounded and lush treetops, running from University Boulevard, all across Homewood and Tudor Arms, and on to Hampden. It was from here that disembodied sirens and car horns raised themselves, settling into the soft night blanket and reflecting, just a little, into my room. Every sound was a potential story, air-mailed to me by the flat pink sky that didn’t permit its escape.
I was at home under this sky. It had known me since I was born under it, it had seen me grow under its smooth arc. Los Angeles’s night sky has its own soft gray glow, silhouetting palm trees, and its own moving, flickering lights — this time airplanes headed for LAX, shinng in the sky but remaining stubbornly out of reach. But the pink, enveloping sky of Baltimore is the sky I was born under and grew up under, it’s the sky that still touches my thoughts every evening as I drift off to sleep.















Days

January 23, 2007 / posted in Meta, Writing Practice / No Comments

I’ve been writing this thing for three and a half years now. I started blogging because everything I wrote sounded like a business memo, and that just wasn’t a good way to make date plans; now, I can write things that are occasionally amusing. And have long run-on sentences and snarky footnotes.[1] Yep, things are moving along.
But, as much as I’d like to complain about minor customer service errors and politics and threaten football team owners in every entry, it’s probably time I tried writing, you know, better. So here’s the plan. A friend gave me this thing, “_A Writer’s Book of Days_”:http://amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/1577311000/ref=nosim/wadearmstrong-20. This book has a thing to write about for every day, and I think it would be a good idea if I tried it out. You know, to get out of my comfort zone.
I’ll keep writing about things that particularly strike me, but you can expect a good 3 posts a week that are just from out of nowhere. So, consider this entry some kind of fair warning.[2]
fn1. And let’s not even talk about how many times I can use “and” in two senteces. Grammar, pshaw!
fn2. I actually wasn’t going to write an entry about how I was going to do this, but instead was just going to write today’s assignment. Today’s assignment was “write a love letter” and I figured I’d write one to Drew Barrymore, but that pretty quickly got weird and I figured I should explain what I was doing before both of my regular readers called the men in white coats on me.