Personally Public

Prose: The Hero's Flat

2011-06-27T02:14:00.002+08:00

“Good morning, New York! Today’s the first day of the year 2101, and you know what that means: a special edition of Self-Improvement 101 with Taylor Winfrey.”

Carl groaned and slammed his fist on the alarm clock radio. Just ten more hours, he thought, holding on to the fragments of his last dream—his wife was dancing in a beautiful red dress. But the moment of waking had been enough for the hangover to introduce itself. The fragments began to melt away. Needles of pressure wove through his head, followed by a throbbing that felt like several hammers were taken to his skull.

“Thanks for nothing. I’m up.” Carl noticed his tongue was dry and his lips were chapped. The temperature in the room chilled his bones.

He made a mental note using the part of his brain that was awake but besieged: hydrate, soon. The rest of his brain moved him through the morning routine: he struggled to get up and balance on two feet, turned on the PC through tangled cables, and refilled the fedora hat on the windowsill with birdseed—George the seagull would come squawking soon. Carl knew the other seagulls could not trick him into feeding them: George flew by every two days and had a telltale scar on his left wing.

The last of the birdseed fell into the hat. Carl flattened the box and smashed it into the cramped rubbish bin with his fists, releasing a pungent odor. He tried to remember what was in the bin, but it proved to be too difficult. Another mental note: clean, soon.

Carl entered his bathroom and splashed water on his face, but it did little to fill the crevasse in his head. Leaning over, he let the cool water run through his lips. He did not know how long he stayed there, drinking, but it was enough time for his consciousness to wander beyond the hangover.

Something was off in the morning’s routine: the flat was too quiet.

Emma, John, and Mindy should have already been up and about, holiday or not. Emma had a habit of turning up the TV too loud to make up for her hearing problem, which the flat decided was more psychological than physical; John’s exercise routine was usually heard from his room adjacent Carl’s—a lot of stomping was involved; and it was Mindy’s week to make breakfast with what little supplies were left. Were they even in the flat? Too bad: Mindy was the best cook.

Carl could not be bothered to remember all the details of the New Year celebration. It was a typical Times Square Count Down; that much was certain. Not that typical meant boring, but fundamentally, nothing had changed in the last hundred years save for holographic fireworks replacing regular ones out of concern for the environment. It had taken a while for people to get used to it, but the holograms eventually became so realistic that they may as well have been “real” to those with less traditional sentiments. Even the smell of gunpowder was simulated.

Typical meant a lot of noise and bottomless alcohol. Carl figured that he would not be surprised if the others had ended up sleeping in.

The water was starting to numb his lips. He shut off the tap and left his room for the kitchen. The flat was still dark. Carl saw that the curtains were drawn. On the refrigerator, a sheet of blue stationery was pinned under a heart-shaped magnet: “With family for the week. Take care, Carl.” It was in Mindy’s handwriting.

“Of course.” Carl opened the refrigerator and glanced through its contents. A can of Mountain Dew caught his attention—it was the last one.

As he reached for the can, Carl was startled when all the flat’s curtains were thrown open. Sunlight flooded the room. His eyes strained while searching for the cause. It could not have been the wind, for the windows were shut. The hangover thumped against his temple.

There was a subtle spark of recognition, as if a similar event had happened to him before, but in a distant memory of another life.

“Once more, Earth’s existential planes are threatened,” a woman said with a solemn air of wisdom. “The darkness has returned, more powerful than ever.”

Carl found the woman standing under his bedroom’s doorframe. She was clad in a suit of bronze armor that reflected the sunlight with intricate patterns, reminiscent of ancient Roman art. Her helmet bore tall wings in the shape of feathers, framing a young fair face with green eyes. Long blond hair spilled over her shoulder guards.

What the hell is going on? Carl initially wanted to ask. But a word came to mind when he had met her gaze: messenger. They knew each other, but Carl was not sure how.

It was just a feeling, like fragments of a lost dream.

“I have come to gather the chosen.” She said, extending her hand and taking a step forward. “On the elemental plane, we shall make our stand.”

“Go find someone else who can fight.”

“But you are one of the chosen.”

Carl was elsewhere, in a sea of fire.

“I’ve gotten used to living a normal life.” Carl said, moving toward his bedroom.

The messenger let him pass. She removed her helmet.

“Your fellow chosen will be disappointed to hear of your refusal.”

Carl pretended not to listen. He busied himself with fixing his bed. He noticed that the alarm clock radio had finally broken.

“For how long do you intend on living alone, Carl?” She asked.

Carl knew that messengers never addressed the chosen by their real names.

He turned to the door. She was gone.

The sounds of traffic rose from the city, through an open window.

Who the hell cares? Carl thought, sinking into what his late wife used to call his “thinking couch”. The couch had always been comfortable, but threadbare. Its wooden bones under faded red velvet creaked under his weight.

He looked out the window, shielding his eyes: the sun was rising in a cloudless sky.

Retrieving words from his dusty subconscious, Carl muttered a Recall spell and pulled out the last can of Mountain Dew from the kitchen. In his mind’s eye, he lost focus of the can in transit over the living room; he heard it fall on the wooden floor and burst open.

“Crap.”

George the seagull squawked in the distance.

Fragment #11: The Flat Notes

2011-06-27T02:14:00.000+08:00

· The Messenger arrives to gather the Chosen to defend Earth’s existential planes from an encroaching Darkness

Flat

Main character has been there the longest

Roommates changing every few months

Routine

Suddenly the annoying roommate doesn’t knock on main character’s door

George the seagull

Prose: Time and Childish Thoughts

2011-06-27T02:13:00.003+08:00

One of them looked particularly thoughtful.

Age crouched down and peered into the little girl's eyes. They were hazel, innocent, and uncertain.

"Youth, what are you wondering about?" Age asked.

"What’s it like to be all grown up? Will I be like mommy or sister?"

Age smiled and glowed with warmth. "You are your own person. Time will accompany you. Wonder, Youth. Wonder, and dream. Time will be what you make of it."

The Youth stared at Age as if she were mesmerized. He knew that she did not fully understand him. It was always the same, pure expression he received.

Age placed his large hand around the Youth's tiny shoulder. "Do not let Time leave you regrets." He said.

"I want to go to the magic kingdom of fairies!"

The Old God nodded as he chuckled. "And you shall, as you believe."

Reluctantly, Age lifted his hand from the Youth. He turned his back and wept.

"Why are you crying? Will you come with me?" She beamed and giggled.

Time then enveloped the Youth once more, without question. Without pity. Without hate.

Poetry: Within

2011-06-27T02:13:00.001+08:00

Looking outward for solace,
It’s so much easier to understand,
Compared to the closest thing,
Right here within me, all numb.

A complex of unknown sorts,
Irony in the knowing and presence,
I would rather not see myself,
The refusal is a sweet, sweet vice.

These imperfections cut deep,
As they valiantly do, day by day.
But have I gone so deep,
That I have learned to accept?

How these scars are to grow,
Have become considered,
To let them be as fate takes them,
Or consider them professionally.

This is no longer of chance,
As that is fueled by the necessity.
But there is no necessity,
I have it in my hands to move.

And we are often vague,
And see others as often vague,
For clarity and the brighter picture,
Experiences that sting forever.

They all come back inward,
This bloody cycle an eternity.

Poetry: Transparency

2011-06-27T02:12:00.003+08:00

Why this is so artificial,
I have grown tired of thinking,
Wondering if all pieces fit.

Why insignificance moves so,
In the relationship charade,
Wondering if I am myself.

By your side on trodden pathways,
My shadows never seem to fall,
On those merciless, piercing eyes.

Have a look through transparency.

Pieces to puzzles left unsolved,
Movingly shoved to petty tears,
Over such self-centered desire.

Realizations of fair truth.

Poetry: The Rush

2011-06-27T02:12:00.001+08:00

Stark, faded colors,
Painting me a picture,
The longing for shape,
Of ideas too great.

Tap, tap, tap,
Waiting is a killer,
Damn, get it moving,
We don’t have all day.

As I enter this rush,
The walls are blurred,
Only view is forward,
How many missed turns?

Wait.

Turning back, a chore,
Shame so daunting,
These seconds grow,
Too long, there is no return.

The longing for shape,
Of ideas too great,
Pictures starkly painted,
The colors have faded.

Behind was trampled,
Fueled by self reason,
That of great foolishness,
Wrought upon sorrow.

Losing everything,
Lost so more,
Bleeding by the night,
Gone is the end’s light.

Stepping blindly forward,
Meeting cold paths,
The darkness grows,
Over these crimson regrets.

Poetry: Our Road Ahead

2011-06-27T02:11:00.005+08:00

Wondered, have I, of our road ahead,

The nebulous dark of night upon thus.

Petty street lamps but light an obvious thread,

Of the final weave; what worth shall find us?

And that worth take form of many a thing,

Be it all for richer or for poorer?

I wonder which, upon us, the turns bring,

The intricate design of love’s furor?

But alas, why tarry, these thoughts to bear?

By the gentle touch of your eyes, move me.

Your hand clasped in mine do I take this dare,

Face Chronos himself and daunt even he.

For this be impenetrable darkness,

If no step be taken, in hope of bliss.

Poetry: Love, Cliché

2011-06-27T02:11:00.003+08:00

Intricacies of love so daunting,
A power to be reckoned with.

Call it fate, dancing on chance,
A colorful word in bleak reality.
It could have been, should have been,
Another day, in another trance,
I’d like to have this dance.

Connections that run deep,
Falling over my head,
The world so tangled in you,
Possibilities immeasurable.

I had taken the dare,
My mind wandered through the night,
“There are only possibilities,”
The voice resounded in my skull.

So I took those steps,
And let go, breathing heavily,
In hopes that we may be,
Is this feeling a vice?

It ties me in the moment,
And pulls in every direction,
Presenting the many paths,
Leading to your affection.

These intricacies stab at my thoughts,
Brewing subconsciously, flowing freely,
Straining my very soul, bent out of shape,
Almost threatening change.

Do pieces have to fit?
Conforming to uniformity;
The idea’s all too ordinary.

I believe in the challenge.

Let’s get bent out shape,
You and I,
Let’s fall out of this cliché.

Poetry: In Light and Silence

2011-06-27T02:11:00.001+08:00

Away from all the chaos
Of raucous laughter and drink

Silence

In the emptiness of streets
In the darkness of night

In the light of a new moon

Chasing ghosts and memories
Within each other's words

Hearts laced and intertwined

Poetry: A Tale of the Sea

2011-06-27T02:10:00.000+08:00

My story often told,
Meaning so fleeting.
Always a beginning,
Bathed in yellow and blue.

Sun over Sea scorches soothingly,
A testament to that often told:
I miss the touch of your lips,
The warmth of your skin,
Waves whisper wishfully.

Sight reaches over leagues,
So vast, pristine,
Yet hollows cannot be filled.
The Distance is set; no end in horizon,
I lose sight of your color,
Drained of me then,
Seeping over the great blue.

This which fools the eye,
As rustling, breathing plane.
When such steps be taken,
Drag to depths of greater consequence,
Than that of stone and soil.

And then I wonder,
If stories do have endings.

Prose: Following Demigods

2011-06-27T02:09:00.001+08:00

MY HEAVY COMBAT boots continue to pound rapidly against steel in pursuit of Derek Stills, the labyrinthine network of dim and narrow service corridors a turbulent peripheral torrent.

I hurdle over a set of tangled cables. Low-hanging valves whistle by, and frenzied exhaust pipes whip my hair in all directions, lashing long brown strands against burning cheekbones. A humming power box slams against my shoulder, nearly throwing me off balance. My feet regain their rhythm.

Miles’s voice crackles into my communicator: “Karin, I think you’re nearing the maintenance bay of Super Mall. He’s got nowhere else to run.” Police sirens wail on his end of the channel.

“Be sure and be there, MTU algorithms ready—just in case.” This is Derek’s third life in a cloned body.

The returning beat of footsteps rebound off wall panels. Emerging in another twisted path, my eyes struggle to follow Derek’s silhouette, navigating the course with the finesse of an acrobat. He shifts in response to my arrival.

A loud crack and burst of blue light sends a searing bolt of plasma over my head. I press against the wall for cover. Two more bolts streak past, showering sparks and twisting metal. I release my .45 from its holster and flip the safety off, but I lose sight of Derek as he turns at the end of the corridor.

I approach the corner, handgun raised. Derek’s footsteps fade into the thrumming of nearby fuel cells. My shoulder’s throbbing.

It’s the end of the road, and Derek Stills knows it. But he determines how this one ends, and how the next one begins. Death has become an inconvenience.

* * *

BRAIN MATTER STAINS the wall of Super Mall’s maintenance bay. It belonged to Subject One, also known as Derek Stills, now a bloodied and faceless heap in the shadows. Decomposing waste from an overturned trash bin fouls the sterilized air with an acidic flavor. Opposite the wall, barren-class planet Yamashita IV peeks through a tall window from space, surrounded by dead stars and unblinking save for the mining colonies that dot its brown and cratered landscape.

I replace the safety on my handgun, a remake of the centuries-old Colt M1911. One bullet to start the next chain of events in this gods damned clone chase. I wonder if it was less complicated back then.

Civilians are beginning to emerge from their routines to witness the apparent end of a stranger’s life. News reporters clamor for position to sensationalize and wrap up “The Pursuit on Yamashita Station IV.” And I can already imagine the conspiracy theorists in the audience, attempting to reconstruct Derek’s face to support the rumors of his existence as “The First Cloned Human.” They’d be right, if more people believed them.

Miles enters the scene pale and bewildered. He glances at me as he leans over Subject One’s husk, scanning it with his PDA. “What the hell, Karin? Another inch and you would’ve damaged the Memory Transfer Unit.”

I pull out my PDA from my leather jacket pocket. “Ten minutes till the transfer completes. Get to it.”

Nodding, Miles activates his device with rapid finger gestures and loads the tracking algorithms, synchronizing his screen and mine with an amalgamation of words and numbers and star charts of the solar system.

I enable “holographic manipulation” on my device and swipe through the swirling mass of data, the overflowing orbits of possibility, attempting to arrange the elements in a comprehensible way. Eyes straining, I massage my forehead.

“Three of a thousand possible clone vat locations: Alien Protection Agency, Baby Space Care, Sheena’s Pleasure Den.”

Miles swears under his breath. “He’s playing with us. Again.”

The chiming of the space station’s announcement service interrupts us through invisible and omnipresent speakers. A female AI voice follows: “The Market District is currently locked down for the duration of the Yamashita System Police investigation. Please remain calm and cooperate with authorities. “

At least that’s a break for Miles and I. If the public were to find out we were government agents, we’d be more than just a spectacle on the InterNet. Bio-modification activists would have a reason to pitch their tents around the sector. Derek Stills deserves no more time in the spotlight, his reconstructed pearl blue eyes becoming the symbol for a volatile age of innovation after each death.

It’s the same scene, different time and place. Miles is hunched over Subject One—first life: government agent for a top-secret clone task force; second: rogue status, murder, and interplanetary narcotics and weapons smuggling; and third: murder, unmarked AI and human slave trading, and illegal chemicals and explosives trafficking.

I draw my attention to the crowd gathering at the entrance. The same crowd, different faces: men, women, young and old, a child on a father’s shoulder, police officers keeping them at bay before back up arrives—the inevitable infection of human curiosity, grinding productivity in its proximity to a halt. I catch a glimpse of humanoid aliens walking past the spectators; they only spare an appraising glance.

The holographic projections from my PDA flicker menacingly.

* * *

THE DIRECTOR OF the Interstellar Bureau of Investigation, Klacks Stone, points at me from across the briefing room table, releasing me from my musing. “Somewhere in that stubborn head of yours, I better be giving you hell in all its burning glory, because we’re running out of gods damned time.” He slams his fist on the table, jarring digital notepads and spilling a cup of coffee—my cup of coffee.

Stone lets out a long and exasperated breath, his finger dropping and fist loosening. “I know we’re all tired and frustrated, strung along like puppets in this clone tracking shit for weeks, receiving hate mail from the Council and postcards from Derek’s sunny vacations,” he looks over the dozens of agents in the briefing room: shoulders are slouched, dry lips pressed into grim lines, dark rims around bloodshot eyes, “and we don’t have demands to fill because he hasn’t demanded anything, no idea what he wants because he does whatever he wants—making lives miserable or rich or both—and he can’t rest in peace so long as those clone vats keep him from going into fucking heaven.”

A deep and heavy silence pervades the room, breaths held in anticipation of the speech’s silver lining—or had long gone since it began. Stone wipes sweat off his brows. He points at the screens behind him.

“So when such a creature, having received the gift of immortality, deliberately leaves one discernible lead for mortals to follow, you better damn well know it’s the new gospel, or we’re all part of the stage performance of the century. And I despise acting.”

The screens display the classified files of Derek Stills, smirking with pearl blue eyes, his personal biography a decaying litany. On one screen, his “Interests” are magnified and highlighted. Security logs show that Derek himself redacted the information an hour ago from a public terminal: “Cleaning up the surface of planet Yamashita IV with Karin Hallimere.”

Stone’s finger returns to me. “He’s calling for you. And I want to know what the hell he wants from humanity.”

“I found him!” The voice came out loud and clear from Miles, seated next to me with a tentative grin on his face.

A screen flickers and simmers with the façade of Sheena’s Pleasure Den in the Recreation District, luminous under the artificial night sky. The briefing room stirs from its stupor, eyes searching for the source of improbability.

“He’s got nowhere to run this time.” Miles continues.

No one is smiling.

* * *

A SPECTER LOOMS in the pleasure den, abandoned except for a smiling AI bartender and Derek Stills.

Red velvet hangs from the high ceiling, embracing crystal windows, brushing against polished marble flooring. Atmospheric string quartet melodies caress the pews of long leather couches arranged before a raised platform, its white synthetic wood machine-carved with laser-precise floral patterns. A whiff of alcohol and tobacco punctuates the Subject’s presence at the bar, surrounded by vacant tables—“Reserved” signs granting us the privilege of the private encounter.

As I approach the bar, Miles has his blaster trained on Derek—sharply dressed in a black suit, blowing smoke rings as he extinguishes the cigarette in an overbooked graveyard of charred stumps.

Derek swivels on his bar stool as we approach. He exaggerates a look of surprise, the pearl blue eyes at play. “Ah, once more, the long-awaited confrontation!” He gestures theatrically to an absent audience, relishing in the tungsten spotlight.

Deftly producing two glasses of red wine, he extends one to me, glancing at Miles. “None for the boy, I’m afraid. Too young, too eager.” I take the glass, playing my role in the production. Derek slowly raises his, and it catches the light, casting a shadow of blood. “To the government agents—my agents.”

I replace my glass on the bar top, against the director’s notes. An improvised expression of disappointment forms across Derek’s face.

“I have lived thrice, and yet you know nothing about me.” He launches into a dance of despair, accompanied by the string quartet: he gulps down the wine and lights another cigarette, pouring himself another glass, exhaling smoke screens, draining the wine, and tossing the glass haphazardly over his shoulder. It shatters in splendor, and Derek bounds for the white wood stage. Miles tracks him with the blaster, the camera of a civilized age.

Derek continues: “But my identity does not matter in the end—or the future. I chose you because you can listen, Karin. You will understand my actions.”

I sink into a leather couch in the front row. Before me is the fourth revision of Subject One. Bemused, I watch as he reaches into his pockets, a magician on stage.

Derek unveils a small and battered notebook. He lifts it up to the light, scratched leather glistening, and smiles. “My partner, Subject Two, used to keep a diary. Do you remember, Karin? You were there to assist us on our last assignment.”

He turns the diary’s yellowed pages as if he were reading through them. “Before your superiors deactivated my partner’s clone vat, he wrote about his wife and kids. He also wrote about whom we killed for the Human Government, and why we did. Your superiors never approved of such records. They thought we were expendable, never to exist on paper so long as they held the switch.”

A slender black device with a red cap falls from one of the pages, glinting in the air as it lands on Derek’s palm.

“Speaking of records, did your partner ever track down my shipments? Or was he too busy to look at the bigger picture?”

Miles raises an eyebrow at me, lowering then raising his weapon. I can see sweat running down his face.

Derek twirls the device between his fingers. “This detonator has already damned hundreds of souls for the government. Millions more will be needed before the diary is filled.” He depresses the red cap, pointing the device beyond the pleasure den’s windows, at the scarred face of Yamashita IV. Lights dance upon the planet’s surface in synchronized steps.

“Distant explosions in the vacuum of space, sparking the desire for true equality and stability in the galaxy. True democracy.”

Derek pockets the diary.

And pulls out a plasma blaster.

“You and I are the Human Government, Karin. We see to it that we uphold her values. Don’t you see what she has given us through the wonders of human cloning?”

A sound escapes Miles’s lips. He takes a step forward, onto the white wood stage. “Do something, Karin!”

Derek lifts the weapon and aims at Miles.

The crack of blue light.

I sink deeper into the leather couch. My vision grows dim as a knot forms in the pit of my stomach. Derek bows deeply from his pedestal, shadow curtains ending the act.

“When everyone clamors for their right to immortal souls, heaven and hell can seal their gates.”

Fragment #10: Clone Tracking Notes

2011-06-27T02:08:00.001+08:00

Who: Karin Hallimere, Miles (Clone, unknown to Karin and himself), Derek Stills (Clone).

What: Sci-fi action, a low-key manhunt, cloning technology, government conspiracy.

Space travel is only a few centuries old, but it is a time of great innovation. In light of First Contact, cloning research has slowly but painfully been accepted as a part of society alongside human augmentation, though the technology is still far from perfect: it is predicted that, if the Human Government were to ever allow the cloning of entire human beings, too much brain matter would be lost in a memory transfer, thereby quelling widespread rumors of illegally cloned humans. (There are people who are paranoid about clones.)

The Human Government heavily regulates human augmentation and cloning. Today, there are still many activist groups that are against augmentation and cloning in any form.

On the record of human cloning, only human body parts have been cloned in support of medical science, as well as for the controversial HAP (Human Augmentation Project), a privately owned mega-corporation closely monitored by the Human Government. People speculate that the Government’s “support” of HAP is a response to the growing black market for modified HAP augmentations outside the limits of the Bio-Modification Act.

Unbeknownst to the public, the Human Government has a top secret project to “weaponize” cloning technology by developing an “immortal” covert task force to fulfill highly dangerous missions outside Known Space (therefore outside human jurisdiction), and there have already been three “voluntary” subjects: the first, a former Special Forces soldier, vanished into the Fringe Systems after dying once; the second, a former Technology Specialist of the GIA (Galactic Intelligence Agency), is being hunted down by the IBI (Interstellar Bureau of Investigation) after “going rogue” and relocating the clone vats (having been tipped off by Subject One after their failed mission); the third, an IBI agent hidden from Subject One and Two as a contingency plan, had his memory modified by the Human Government to have no recollection of his clone status and has been assigned to the Subject Two manhunt. (Subject One is presumed to be dead, for Unknown Space is volatile, though Subject Two may have reactivated his clone vats in the relocation.)

When and Where: In the far future, Yamashita Solar System, primarily in the public space station anchored in the orbit of barren-class planet Yamashita IV, where mining operations are conducted.

Why: Karin is made to question her sense of justice and purpose as a government agent, as well as the innate nature of humankind in the face of imminent immortality. (What if?) In the loss of life’s value with the coming of great power, as if it has become a game and a source of cynical entertainment, the reader may react to the portrayal of Derek Stills and be led to reevaluate the one life we have in the real world.

· ACTION: The chase and the showdown with Subject Two, Derek Stills, in a service hallway of the Yamashita IV Station Market District. After Derek is gunned down, Karin and Miles once again fail to track down the data stream of Derek’s MTU (Memory Transfer Unit).

· BACKGROUND/DEVELOPMENT: The return to IBI (Interstellar Bureau of Investigation) headquarters for a briefing under Klacks Stone, director of IBI Yamashita. Karin’s team is working overtime. She tells Miles to rest with his family to prepare for the coming days.

· BACKGROUND/DEVELOPMENT: The investigation of leads in the underbelly of Yamashita IV Station. (Incomplete freighter records suggesting another clone vat relocation.) Derek’s previous two lives were immersed in the criminal underworld as part of his undercover assignments with Subject One. He was especially known in the smuggling ring for his digital forgery skills. A group of armed smugglers wait in ambush, obviously tipped off by Derek. Karin and Miles barely make it out of the district alive.

· CONFLICT/CLIMAX/ENDING: A lethal toxin smuggled in and mixed with the fuel of high-exhaust vehicles has killed all the people in the mining colonies of Yamashita IV. People on the news “wish the innocent had a second chance with cloning”. Views have been shifted. The theatrical performance of Derek Stills in a high-class bar, the “final showdown” and the murder of Miles who is revealed to be Subject Three, all compound on Karin’s probable resignation from not only her job but from her faith in the Human Government.

Docking in Yamashita Station. Karin returning from another system after failing Subject Eight.

Miles was unpredictable. But he is the best Clone Tracker in the system.

“Time’s ticking, rookie.”

Five’s memories will be downloaded into a new clone, possibly within the same solar system. But deaths after the first did not guarantee a full transfer rate, with a greater loss of memory in each subsequent death.

“Just keeping you on your toes, rookie.”

A crowd is beginning

Those blue eyes.

The force of the explosion slams against my body, throwing me to the pavement.

The Yamashita VI Market District erupts with life, streams of habitation modules and rivers of

“We gave Nine a second chance. Do we really want to give him a third? A fourth?”

Miles dies, but Karin discovers that he comes back as a clone. YSP is adopting the controversial technology to combat criminal clones. The balance of justice and life is shifting. It always shifts. The sheriff and the stranger become one.

Karin: “I quit.” Undocking from Yamashita Station. Wet cheeks, she does not feel herself crying. Returning home, finding solace in endless space.

The sun does not set in space. Where does this leave humanity?

I CAN’T LOOK at my uncle in the eyes during briefing sessions, even if he’s speaking as the Yamashita director of the Interstellar Bureau of Investigation.

Klacks Stone slams a fist on the glass surface and points at me across the table. “I know that, somewhere in that stubborn head of yours, I am giving you hell in all its burning glory, and that’s enough for me at this point because we’re running out of gods damned time.”

On top of human cloning being publicly illegal, my team was informed that the technology was far from perfect, that subsequent deaths after the first did not guarantee a full memory transfer rate. But Subject Two’s methods haven’t been deterred.

Fragment #9: Barangay Diego

2011-06-27T02:07:00.003+08:00

Everyday, the children of Barangay Diego enjoy playing in the sun. But everyday, they are exposed to the pollution on the streets and in the air, left unchecked because of the lack of initiative, knowledge, and manpower. In one year, four out of five of these children will develop symptoms of respiratory diseases that will carry on into adulthood. One out of five will not live to see the sun the next day.

Bantay Kalikasan, a non-profit non-government organization, asks for your support in improving the well being of hundreds of neglected communities throughout the Philippines.

Fragment #8: Political Speech

2011-06-27T02:07:00.001+08:00

The Journey of the Filipino Meal

Faith is not just our devotion to God or Allah or Reason.

Faith is the grain that is harvested at the price of blood and sweat.

Faith is the chaff that is separated, the sacrifice made for the people.

Faith is the rice that we come have with our salted fish and fresh caviar.

Faith is the nourishment that binds a country and keeps it healthy.

In these decades, many people have lost faith in the country, in the government.

Honest people refuse to run for office because faith has wavered.

And dutiful citizens refuse to vote because honest people refuse to run for office.

Because faith has wavered, besieged by popularity contests and poisonous cynicism.

With faith comes trust, and trust is a two-way road.

The cycle must come to an end, for it has become a spiral of shackles.

Have trust in each other, have trust in your country.

Renew the faith that has sustained our Republic in her passionate history.

Fragment #7: Hidden Metaphor Exercise

2011-06-27T02:06:00.001+08:00

The split second decided everything in the face-off: the squinting of the subject’s characteristic blue eyes and the way his lips pressed into a half smile as the muscles in his arm and wrist began to tighten around the revolver’s grip were enough for me to squeeze the trigger and end the Subject’s life for the third time.

Brain matter stains the rusted steel wall of the poorly lit service hallway. The brain belonged to Subject Nine, also known as Derek Stills, who’s now a bloodied and faceless heap in the shadows. Decomposing waste from an overturned trash bin fouls the sterilized air with an acidic flavor. Opposite the wall, barren-class planet Yamashita III peeks through the tall window from space, unblinking save for the few mining colonies that dot its brown and cratered landscape.

I flip the safety on my handgun—a beautiful remake of the historical Colt M1911—the barrel still warm and smoking. Briefly admiring the heft and polish and expressiveness of the work of art, I replace it in its cowhide shoulder holster. Like those Wild West films in museums.

My new partner Miles enters the spectacle, a pale and bewildered puppy run ragged from the earlier chase through the Market District. His curly black hair is matted to his forehead, shirt and tie damp with sweat. “What the hell? What the hell, Karin? You almost hit his MTU.” Miles faces me with wide brown eyes as he tentatively approaches S-9’s corpse, his left wrist computer responding to rapid finger gestures and illuminating the hallway with a jumble of letters and numbers. Meeting his stare, I’m not sure whether he’s angry with me, in awe of my marksmanship, or simply frustrated at the difficulty of tracking a hacked Memory Transfer Unit for the third time in a week. He probably felt all three.

Yamashita Station’s announcement service crackles to life with the familiar voice of a woman, deep and rehearsed: “Market District Sector Two is currently locked down for the duration of the Yamashita System Police investigation. Please remain calm and do not attempt to leave the sector.” I roll up my leather jacket’s right sleeve and start the timer on my wrist computer. The holographic countdown is projected in mid-air: nine minutes.

The same scene, different time and place. Miles is hunched over the husk of S-9—first life: interplanetary smuggling; second: double homicide; and now third: slave trading, attempted murder. But Derek Stills was no longer here with us on the station. In eight more minutes, he’ll be waking up in another clone vat within the same solar system. Subsequent deaths after the first did not guarantee a full memory transfer rate, but that did not stop S-9 and those before him. In fact, it made the cases more complicated: what if the accused did not remember any of their crimes?

I wave my hand over the timer, a knot in the pit of my stomach, and draw my attention to the crowd gathering at the mouth of the hallway. The same crowd, different faces: men, women, young and old, a child on a father’s shoulder, market security guards keeping them at a distance before back up arrives—the unnecessary but inevitable infection of curiosity. Without looking at Miles, my mind elsewhere, I call out to him: “Time’s ticking, rookie.” He does not reply. I know he is well aware of what is at stake, the importance of tracking down where S-9’s data is being transferred, the need, the desire, to make Derek Stills pay for his crimes.

Five minutes. I realize the importance of the split second, the inch of my aim, capable of dispensing an entirely different notion of peace and order. My thoughts return to the faded and frayed Wild West films in Yamashita Station’s Culture District.

Fragment #6: Dialogue Exercises

2011-06-27T02:05:00.003+08:00

A dialogue scene that reveals character and character relationships. Giveaway physical context (time, place, atmosphere) in the physicality of the scene.

The red brick façade of the university dormitory stretched across a Sunlight danced upon red and gold leaves waving in the wind, prickling. Blue and white banners hung from windowpanes, underlining students at their desks or in the common room.

Fallen leaves crunched under Stefan’s sneakers as he approached the building, shifting the weight of his messenger bag. He found Cassie in her navy blue beanie, sitting on a wooden bench in the shade of a wide oak tree.

“How do you like it?”

“It’s really cool, Stefan. Keeps my head warm. Thanks.”

A monologue scene. One character has most of the spoken lines, the other character is shown mostly in reaction shots. Use the landscape around the characters (via metaphor) to show the growing understanding the reacting character is coming to.

“Now all we can do is wait.

Klacks reached across Milinia and opened the glove compartment. Inside, a manila envelope was wrapped around the barrel of a gun.

A scene of quiet conflict between two major characters. It highlights either a parting of the ways between them, or results in a new understanding.

The underground NeoSteel bunker shuddered in the wake of distant explosions. White light panels flickered along the low ceiling.

Nikolai

“I had no choice, Nikolai.” Adam

“You should have thought about that before you

“The weapons

“So that’s it then?” Adam inhaled the cigarette dry and looked at the surveillance monitors: the landscape was scorched and buildings were razed. Rebel sentries stood vigil on smoldering ruins. “You’ll go back to your quiet little farm on Earth and pray this insignificant war out.” Smoke trailed Adam’s words as ashes fell over shell casings.

“God takes no side.” Nikolai replied

“You’ll pray this war out and when somebody comes out on top

A heightened sense of real, deep conflict. This goes to the heart of the story. It may contain a revelatory moment. When writing this, turn down the treble and up the bass.

Fragment #5: Archetypal Characters 2

2011-06-27T02:05:00.001+08:00

Overlaying archetypes in one character

Here before me is the fifth version of Derek Stills. Bemused, I watch as he reaches into his pocket, a magician on stage. I sink deeper into the leather couch. My firearm rests on the table.

Derek produces a small battered and yellowed notebook. He lifts it up to the light, scratched leather glistening, and smiles. “I used to keep a diary,” he says. “Writing—can you believe it?”

He gently places the notebook on the table, beside the handgun.

“I wrote about my wife, my three kids, my dog. I also wrote about who I killed, and how I did it.”

I sink even deeper. My thoughts yearn to latch onto something else, but I urge them to listen, to understand the person, the immortal clone, sitting across me.

Fragment #4: Archetypal Characters 1

2011-06-27T02:04:00.002+08:00

Anti-hero: Karin Hallimere

Shape shifter: Derek Stills

Eternal child: Miles

A specter looms in the cantina, empty except for the bartender and Subject Nine. Red velvet hangs from the high ceiling, embracing crystal windows and meeting the marble floor.

Derek Stills, hearing the echoes of our footsteps, turns from his bar stool. He exaggerates a look of surprise, the Stills Smirk at play. “Ah, once again, the confrontation!” He gestures theatrically to an absent audience, relishing in the tungsten spotlight. Deftly producing two glasses of red wine, he extends one to me as Miles and I approach. Miles has his firearm trained on the Subject. “None for the young boy, I’m afraid.”

“To the officers—my officers.” Derek raises his glass, slowly, deliberately, and it catches the light, casting a blood red shadow.

Fragment #3: Adapting Source Material

2011-06-27T02:04:00.000+08:00

Mum told me to never take the bus to school.

So I decided to take the number thirty bus to central London instead. If Kathy were to tell on me, I’d explain the specifics. But we knew Mum: she hates smart-asses.

I was just playing with my Nintendo DS when I was thrown out of the bus. My headphones were on full blast because Kathy kept pulling at my jacket and threatening me with convincing imitations of Mum. It was her idea to get home early before the next episode of Avatar.

I didn’t even know it was a bomb until I woke up in the hospital. On the pavement, I didn’t know what the bloody hell was going on. I knew I was scratched up and my arm felt wet but I didn’t know or feel or understand all the screaming and the sirens and the sobbing. I saw Kathy lying beside me. Her eyes were closed and she wasn’t moving. I remember holding her hand so tightly and feeling sorry and stupid and I kept telling myself I’d never let go.

And then there was a person above me—it looked like the girl on the news, I think—and she told me that she was a doctor and that everything would be okay. I believed her. And at that moment I could hear Kathy saying she was sorry.

Fragment #2: Notes on Historical Writing

2011-06-27T02:02:00.000+08:00

Think of questions

Thematic

Historical event/character/personal experience

Point of view: what? Who?

Human understanding, pity

Something that’s been bothering you

Why would someone do something?

Maybe start with an image

Background you must do

Go beyond

STARTING POINT

Look for something unusual

Factual

Emotional

Psychological

Fragment #1: Notes on Poetry

2011-06-27T02:00:00.000+08:00

3 phases of a rite of passage

1. Separation (divestiture)

2. Transition (liminality) The borderlands—betwixt

3. Incorporation

In the liminal phase a person is “temporarily undefined”, “stripped of status” and “beyond normative social structure”. They are neither here nor there. (Turner)

A person is ambiguous… Danger or potential?

Relationship to dominant narrative

· Liminal entities need to transform, transition & invest into the laws, customs, conventions and ceremonies of a social hierarchy.

· People who can not completely or refuse to do this (conscientious objectors, colonized ethnicities) isolate or communally express the idea of anti-structure.

· In spatial terms people are inside (invested), in between (liminal), on the edge (marginal), beneath (inferior—you are denied privileged entry into a social system), outside (don’t accept the social hierarchy & narrative—step outside it).

Minimalism Kinetic Typography Poem

Superhero—A Visual Poem

Fluxus Poetry

From the Latin word meaning “to flow”. Artists blend different artistic media and disciplines—intermedia.

velveteenrabbi.blog.com

Letter to liminal places

Fluxus Manifesto

Fluxus Poetry Blog

Have you used Wordle?

Shane Koyczan

Black Ice

Performance poetry: Thirsty Dog, K’Rd

James George’s Blog

Phantom Billstickers Blog

Art & Peotry by Tracey Tawhiao (Kete Aranui)

Leaving a trail…

Fishes of the fifth blind finger (folding book pages)

Computer visualizations of poetry texts

5 Binary Poems by Ladislav Nebesky

Off the page

Michelle Leggot and Helen Sword

nzepc

Fragments

2011-06-27T01:58:00.000+08:00