My new series.

     Although I'm writing in my creative writing blog, this isn't a poem or short story. But it is a behind-the-scenes look at the process behind my current project, a series tentatively titled "Across the Multiverse" (yes, a partial homage to the Beatles). I got to thinking a lot about this while playing Sims 3, and I was stuck on how to build a good house. I thought "Start with what I know, then build from there." So, I started building a misshapen replica of my home from when I was in 3rd-5th grades. After a week or so of playing and redesigning, the house is cool, and looks so different from the original.
     For starts, I've decided to set my series in the future, as science fiction is my first literary love. It explores the possibilities of what can be done with what we know about the rules of the cosmos. I'm also adding a fantastic element, too. Fantasy is a great genre, as it exercises the mind to think with new sets of rules. However, most fantasy settings take place in feudal societies reminiscent of those in real life past, but with mystical elements thrown in. The reason for this is because, in the past, people actually believed in wild creatures, magic, deities, etc. Fantasy basically says "What if the past was actually like that?"
     It's rare that writers combine futurism with fantasy. The exceptions that come to my mind are the tabletop RPG "Rifts," the game "Warhammer 40,000," Imagecomics publication "The Red Star," and "Star Wars" (if you count The Force as being somewhat magical). Since science fantasy is rare, it's more appealing for me to write it. Also, I'm combining my two favorite genres. Science fantasy will also give me the chance to explore a cosmos that is governed by bent rules of physics. With each of its parent genres, the possibilities are infinite. But with science fantasy, the possibilities are infinite to the power of infinity. What's the impact of magic on future technology? What kind of magic would aliens wield?
     "Start with what I know, then build from there." What I know, is that there are similarities in the protagonists and antagonists that make up both science fiction and fantasy adventures. These are "stock characters." They're fun to point out when reading or watching your favorite science fiction and fantasy entertainment, and they're a great starting point, but I don't want to restrict myself to them. I have to establish my own and figure out how to build from there.

     First and foremost, the common stock people you see are humans. They permeate the realms of fantasy and the star systems throughout the galaxy. In addition, they are not always human. Spock is an example of this (people forget he's only half Vulcan). Half-aliens, half-demons/angels, etc.are everywhere. "Semi-humans and humanish" I think is what the Ninth Doctor called them. Then there are those descended from a thin humanish line - greatX grandchildren. The aasimars and tieflings of Dungeons & Dragons are descended from a heavenly- or hellish-tainted human bloodline, but they have a basis in real folklore - the nephilim. Usually, "not quite humans" reveal their true nature towards the end of a story, as in Deep Space 9, when Captain Sisko found that he was only half-human - his mother was one of the Prophets.
     Popular stock people also include the jocks. These are the species, races, and tribes who take aggressive action first, then think after - if at all. The Brujah Clan of "Vampire: The Masquerade" are jocks. The orcs of D&D are as well, as are dwarves (to a certain extent). As one would guess, so are Klingons. They sort of fill a need when the audience gets tired of the thinking and the talking.
     The beautiful people, the beautiful people... If you have that song stuck in your head now, you're welcome. This role of the exotic and pretty races and species has been filled by elves and fey in popular fantasy. In Star Trek, you might think of the Betazoids. The beautiful people plague real-life folklore, and since it was written by (mostly) straight men, the beautiful people are nominally female.
     Every ship has the smarty-pants. Usually, they're androids or on-board computers. But Vulcans have also stepped up to the plate to fill this role. The group of adventurers is stumped, so the know-it-all steps in to save the day! In fantasy, not one race or species tends to fill this role more than any other; but mages of all species do. Being lorekeepers, bards also tend to be the smarty-pants. In "V:TM" members of the Malkavian Clan provide that role - if the rest of the group can see the deep wisdom beneath the cracked sanity.
     However, the smarty-pants isn't normally the killjoy of an adventuring party. That honor goes to the preachers. Like the smarty-pants, the preachers of fantasy haven't been filled by one species or another, but by priests of all species. The same holds true for the Jedi of Star Wars. Preachers are always there, extolling the virtues of their patron god, otherworldly force, or ideals. Star Trek's preachers would include the Bajorans and Vulcans (whose philosophy is really a combination of stoicism and utilitarianism). The Ventrue Clan, of "V:TM" often provide this role, as they see themselves as the keepers of vampiric traditions.
     Where would popular science fiction and fantasy be without comic relief? D&D has their gnomes. Star Wars has ewoks and gungans. Star Trek has the Ferengi and Pakleds, and individuals like the Talaxian Neelix and the human Reginald Barclay (also a smarty-pants). The need the comic relief fills is just that; they provide the audience with a laugh in the face of impending danger, or a smile after the sting of a hero's death has subsided. The Malkavians do, at times, provide comic relief... if someone survives their pranks long enough to laugh.

     Villains make the story interesting. The seem to give the stock protagonists a purpose for being written. But, like the protagonists, the antagonists come in stock form, and the creativity comes in what the writers do with the stock form.
     The fanatic is vicious, ruthless, and wrapped up in ideals. The Borg, with their relentless pursuit of galactic perfection, are the ultimate fanatics. Equally fanatic in the Star Trek universe were the races under control of the Dominion. The Sith are the Taliban of Star Wars. The orcs of Lord of the Rings, being forged by Sauron's magic, are fanatically devoted to his evil cause.
     Not far from the fanatics are the gung-ho conquerors. The orcs of D&D fight to the beat of wardrums with spears in their hands. Arthas, World of Warcraft's Lich King, is an imposing figure of Nordic death, who leads his death knights and legions of undead in conquering Northrend. Before they expended all resources for the war effort, and crippled themselves before falling under the Dominion, Star Trek's Cardassians were a proud conquering race.
     From disease to zombie apocalypse to computer programs gone wild, viral forces provide a mysterious, faceless enemy for the protagonists to fight. Once a fanatic for the Machines, Agent Smith became just Smith, a virus that threatened both the real world and the Matrix. Zombies nowadays are no longer risen automatons under a necromancer's rule, but the result of disease, and very ravenous (D&D actually would classify them as ghouls).
     Then there's just the one individual who provides a threat to a group or ship's crew. The alien from the "Alien" franchise, for example. The dragon terrorizing a village is another good example. Or the lone assassin who stalks the heroes would be another one.

     Drawing from these observations, I'll start with these stock characters, go from there. I might even blend some. Lately, my right-brain has been experiencing a font of creativity. I have to say, though, that creating a literary world of my own is a lot easier than writing fanfiction. In fanfiction, you have to check to see if what you've come up with gels well with the established world. Well, off I go.

"Nachtlied, Erste Fassung," by Georg Trakl; translation by me.

Über nächtlich dunklen fluten
sing' ich meine traurigen Lieder
Lieder die wie Wunden bluten
Doch kein herz trägt sie mir wieder
dürch das Dunkel her.

Nur die nächtlich dunklen fluten
rauschen, schluchzen, meine Lieder
Lieder die von Wunden bluten
tragen an mein herz sie wieder
dürch das Dunkel her."


"Above the nocturnal dark tides
I sing my sorrowful songs
Songs that bleed like wounds
But no heart carries them back to me
Through the darkness here.

Only the nocturnal dark tides
roar, sob my songs
Songs that bleed from wounds
carry my heart back again
through the darkness here."

The Night of 5-15-2011.

I wrote this during a fit of insomnia. It's a bittersweet poem about someone with whom I had - and still have - a flirtationship. A week before, I was hanging out with her, and I was unhappy with the fact that we didn't do a lot but sleep. I didn't realize at the time that doing nothing with someone special is better than being bored by yourself. A week later, I wrote this.

My mind's inability to calm down some nights
wouldn't be so bad,
as long as I could have the feeling of her in my arms,
the smell of her hair in my face,
the feeling of her breath against my skin,
her legs entwined with mine,
the warmth of her body as she nuzzles into me
and the sound of her plaintive sigh
that tell me that she needs to be held tighter,
the sight of the light from the streetlamp outside
bathing her porcelain skin in an angelic glow,
and her face leaning in for a comforting kiss when she briefly wakes up.
If damnable sins exist,
then one of them would be to take moments like that for granted.

"Cardiectomy" by me.

I wrote this six years ago, when I was going through a divorce. It was a time when I believed in the ideal of lasting love and "death do us part". I've come to learn that, when you let go of certain ideals, it's harder to be psychologically killed.

I awake

laying on a hard surface.

A table,

cold and unforgiving.

I can't move.

Strapped down.

 

I lift my head

and see a grey room.

Poe-esque in its dinginess

but no rats are present.

 

There's a figure,

female,

broad at the shoulder,

just shy of six feet in height.

Her back is towards me.

She's wearing a surgical cap.

 

She turns around,

gingerly holding a scalpel

in her slender hand.

 

She leans down.

I notice a pale complexion

and silver and brown strands of hair

peaking from under the cap.

Her nose,

partially hidden behind a surgical mask,

is prominent and somewhat narrow,

betraying possible

eastern-European heritage.

I look up,

into those prematurely aged eyes,

brown and glassy.

 

I know her.

I know who this is

Black-Tongued Mother of Countless Lies!

 

I know what's next

But I pray it's not true.

 

It's true.

The tip of the scalpel

touches a few inches below my larynx...

and pierces...

splitting the skin

from my upper chest to my abdomen.

I scream!

Mercy!

Pity!

Compassion!

God, please,

stir the humanity within her!

 

I scream,

hoping to distract her

so she can no longer concentrate.

No avail.

She resumes cutting

from my left pectoral muscle

to my right

 

The smell,

like rusted iron,

overtakes my olfactory nerves,

as a warm liquid,

dark red,

flows backward

around my neck.

 

I plead

begging the Depraved Deceiver

to end the violating mutilation.

She pauses,

gazing at me with flat affect

but returns to her work.

She makes the next incision

across my abdomen,

forming an 'I' shape

in my torso.

 

She peels the flaps open,

flensing skin from flesh,

then rending flesh from ribs.

Ribs separated,

I am exposed.

I lift my head one last time

and see my heart beating

within the pericardium.

All goes black.

 

I awake,

naked and hanging from a ceiling.

In a grey room.

A freezer

that's dimly lit.

Above my head,

and all around me,

chains creak.

Looking down,

and feeling with my hands,

I notice hooks

protruding from under my collarbones.

 

I turn,

twisting the chains,

taking in my surroundings.

Turning to my left,

I see a long row

of similarly mutilated people.

I'm not the first.

Turning to my right,

I see more chains and hooks.

I won't be the last.

 

I look down.

In a crude fashion,

my chest is stitched shut,

and feels empty.

I study the others,

looking at the twisted expressions

on their faces,

the haunting, pleading

expressions in their eyes,

the crude way their split chests

have been restitched.

Some have had their

heads opened; but in many cases

weren't closed again.

 

I pull

lifting myself up

on the chains.

Then I yank each hook from my back

and fall to the cold floor.

The cold doesn't really bother the dead.

 

I open the door

and emerge in the operating room.

Looking around,

there's no one here.

A door.

I enter.

 

In odd juxtaposition

to the operating room,

I'm standing in a kitchen.

I smell a plethora of spices,

simmering in a pan.

The oven is preheated

at 350 degrees.

Next to the sink

is a casserole dish,

in which is a variety of vegetables

with rice as a base.

The center of the dish is empty.

I look into the sink.

There's a collander,

in which lays my heart,

partially necrotized,

and drained.

 

I run to the cupboards,

and pull out a plastic container

and a fitting lid.

I carefully place my heart

into the container.

 

She will not have my heart.

I will take my heart

far away from this house of horrors.

I will continue my healing

in a place that is conducive for doing so.

I will live again.

Spontaneous writing from Summer of 2011.

This, that,
the other,
don't know, don't care to mention,
it's all futile, it's all a charade,
hidden behind masks of politeness and fear of alienation from those you care about,
the isolated self picked apart by the vultures of within, birds of self-doubt;
within the self-imposed cocoon, I scream