macksting: Hamlet stabs Polonius (Default)
I’ve been putting off a few things because they weren’t complete. Some of them are just indefinitely backburnered in my head, such as “Conversion,” a short story on the premise that somebody has a trip and comes to believe he’s a robot, but can’t ever find the channel he was watching again that led him to believe this. I just really like the news bulletin and the bad sit-com I came up with, though, so I thought I’d toss it out there.

Others are simmering, the subject of frequent conversation on my part in real life. It’ll be a lot of work, but I really want to try writing a new DSM category called Shitty Person Disorders. The premise is that every time there’s a high profile mass shooting, somebody starts that BS about making it harder for mentally ill people to get guns. While I’m sure that could lower the suicide rate a little, it won’t do much for the homicide rate, since it’s not sick people with guns who kill people, but rather assholes with guns who kill people. In response, the APA widens the net by creating a new category of mental illness, Shitty Person Disorders. Obviously, though, it’ll be difficult to get the language to that tough Ballardian snarky verisimilitude, so I’m sitting on this one until I have the energy to write it.

And the other is that anthology show, Memories Of The Grave. It’s basically bog standard anthology show stuff, but the premise is twofold: people who die in D&D and Pathfinder become “petitioners,” and in so doing they lose their memories, but memories and thoughts have an actual place they reside in that cosmology; perhaps they remain there, collected, and tended. Somebody aware of that notion writes Memories Of The Grave as a framing device for speculative fiction during that transitional period between Pathfinder and Starfinder, after Golarion becomes a technologically advanced society but before they take to spaceflight.

Fact is, I don’t actually much care how these are received; I just kinda like them and want them getting lost, and this is as good a place as any and better than most.
macksting: Hamlet stabs Polonius (Default)
Conversion

[author's note: Desperately needs an opening, however brief]
Sherry, an attractive blond news anchor, had been going on about the Olympics. A cyclist for the American team had split his head open in a bad crash, and was in critical condition. She threw to Frye for the robot news. I couldn't recall this ever having happened before.
The studio lights shone off Frye's boxy head pleasantly. I was momentarily captivated, lulled into almost a doze until he shifted slightly in his seat, reducing the glare.
"Healthcare costs for the elderly have increased 300% this week due to the closure of Hewlett-Packard's last vacuum tube manufacturing plant. Senator Y-10 is under pressure from special interest groups to nationalize vacuum tube production."
The visual cut to a press conference. 'Sen. Y-10, A-OR,' said before the gathered press, "The alternative is 'capitalism with a conscience,' not a single-payer scheme for our transistors and eye-cees, but an appropriate balance of fiscal and personal responsibility. The market demands transistors, and transistors will be produced to meet the demand."
I desperately wished I could ask Pol what he thought of this, but he wasn't in the room even now, a fact which bothered me a little. Perhaps this moment was only for me, and nobody else, but then what good could it do me? It could have been a joke of some sort, but that was rather unprecedented; our local news was award-winning and boring stuff.
The robot anchor droned on mellifluously:
"A human slavery ring in Malaysia was dismantled today; with their liberation, productivity doubled. Spokespersons for Matchbox couldn't be reached for comment at this time."
I became suddenly glad Pol wasn't here. I was having a bad flesh day. The chrome and metal of my skull had accidentally come unhooked, causing my skin to slide off. It would be difficult to explain, and embarrassing as well; surely I looked like I'd had a stroke. I clutched my hand to my temple and looked for somewhere to lean that would look natural. I suppose it must happen to the best of us.
My attention was once more wrested back to the television. Pol had been in the bathroom quite a while, as far as I could guess, since the programming had moved on from the news. There was some strange show on now, starring silvery people, and one guy like me, living together in an apartment. Same old, really, but the chrome on the actors was a fresh twist.
    'Whatcha doin', Skinny?'
    'I'm doing philately,' said the pink guy.
    'That sounds dirty.' A laugh track.
    'Uh, it means stamp collecting.'
    'I know what it means, that's why it sounds dirty. Why, what were you thinking?' Laugh track again. Could have been a live audience; it sounded canned regardless.
The theme song sounded familiar, but I couldn't quite figure it out.
"Zero one one zero one zero, zero one one! Zero one one! Zero one zero zero one one!" Zebutron and Friends, it said. I was a captive to the show, the remote just out of reach, and my face kept in place only by pressing it against the side of the chair opposite the coffee table.
    'Zeb, you've been on the computer all day. Shouldn't you be looking for a job?'
    'No, this is better, turns out the landlord has a backdoor.'
    'Why doesn't our apartment have one?'
    'We're on the third floor.' Laugh track again. 'I mean a real backdoor. He's old, man, super old. I've been playing solitaire while he's sleeping.'
    'Wait, you are in the landlord's head? Move over, I want to see his logs.'
macksting: Hamlet stabs Polonius (Default)
A starfield fades in and out of view on the holoscreen. ‘What happens when a mortal dies? In sufficient time, all men must meet their end. Whether for weal or woe, they all pass through my realm, for I… am the Angel of Memory. 'Death holds no fear for some. Indeed, some have more to fear from life.’ A man in angelic garb with a priestly bearing, honestly passably acted, walks out of the shadows into center stage, holding a glass globe prop made to pass for a crystal ball. 'They leave these fears behind when they take their rest, and I tend them in my garden. Come…’ The holocam focuses ever deeper on the glass, and a distorted hologram of an office takes up the screen. 'Observe.’

(insert anthology show episode here)

The episode ends; stripped of its lengthy sponsor interstitials, it’s less than an hour long. The final scream echoes and the screen fades to the sorrowful Angel. 'Remember, this is but a memory. His suffering in life is over. But his suffering in the world after has only just begun.’ The end credits roll.

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