I was inspired by a fan to start writing my fictional blog Xenobiology again. I've let it go for the past three months, and worse, my last post made it look like I was stopping. In fact, it is going to be a novel length story when it's done, and that will take years. I started it thinking it would be a continuous serial with no major climax, but now I have a definite epic journey in mind, and I want to finish it. (Though even then it will be open-ended. There's always room for sequels.)
Xenobiology is a science fiction story about an andriod xenobiolgy professor. He started out as property, and has gained his freedom. It is written in real-time, which means covering up a three month gap in writing forced me to alter the plot slightly. It is also interactive; it is literally the Professor's personal blog, and he will respond to comments. I've been in character for over a year.
The next step is to have him get out of the system he is in now, get some traveling companions, and begin the main adventure.
Showing posts with label fiction. Show all posts
Showing posts with label fiction. Show all posts
Monday, January 15, 2007
Wednesday, January 10, 2007
Funhouse Mirror
90. Write a self portrait in which some aspect of yourself is wildly exaggerated.
James woke up, almost, but he got up in any case. A string of drool briefly connected his mouth to the arm of the sofa as he rose.
It couldn't be very late, the party was still going strong. He was just out for a few minutes. He had been talking with someone on the couch, some woman, when he passed out. He could remember asking her if she was shaved, but he didn't know how the conversation went from there.
James staggered gently accross the room, as always keeping his focus firmly focussed on keeping his cup firmly level, never mind that it was empty. It was the principle of the thing, if he could keep his cup level, then he could justify filling it again, at least to himself.
James woke up, almost, but he got up in any case. A string of drool briefly connected his mouth to the arm of the sofa as he rose.
It couldn't be very late, the party was still going strong. He was just out for a few minutes. He had been talking with someone on the couch, some woman, when he passed out. He could remember asking her if she was shaved, but he didn't know how the conversation went from there.
James staggered gently accross the room, as always keeping his focus firmly focussed on keeping his cup firmly level, never mind that it was empty. It was the principle of the thing, if he could keep his cup level, then he could justify filling it again, at least to himself.
Tuesday, December 12, 2006
Deathbed Conversion
77. Write a short death scene in which the person dying changes his mind about something fundamental to the life that is about to be completed.
Albert sat up in bed writing furiously. It was late afternoon, he had spent the day working on the problem by the sunlight falling through the simple white curtains. The sun was lower and dimmer now, and it was almost too dark to work comfortably, but he hadn't turned on the lights yet. Reams of notes and diagrams were stacked on the large table beside his bed.
His nurse entered the room and turned on the light. Albert blinked, pausing only a moment to adjust to the bright white page. The nurse held out his cup for him, rather than placing it on the table, it was one of her ways of forcing him to engage with something other than his work. She saw little value in his scribblings, and knew that if he let himself be more active, he would be healthier for it. She was always looking for something that would draw him out and get him to live. If she only knew.
He kept on scribbling and she kept on holding out the cup. He knew she knew he saw, and knew her ways. When he finished the thought, when he decided to, he took the cup.
"When you are ready, Albert," She said striding confidently back out of the room, "Dinner will be downstairs."
He was distracted enough to watch her leave. She was much younger than him, but he wasn't too old for her. Even just a few years ago, he would have pursued her. The balance of his dual passions had always tilted toward the lovely, and somehow even the lovely and young had found him enthralling. Only since he learned how limited his time was had he focused so adamantly on his work. Now he was more driven by his desire to find an answer.
Still, no answer came.
Every system left something out, every model had some intractable failing. Albert sat and sipped his too hot tea, and stared at the clock. It was a large brass table clock with a fully exposed mechanism, he kept it close for inspiration. Time was such a fluid thing, and now the clock made him ponder the irony that he of all people was running out of it.
He set his tea and his papers on the table, and tossed the quilt to the foot of the bed. If he was to be content, he would have to be content without an answer. He pivoted his legs to the floor, put on his slippers, slowly stood, re-tied the belt of his robe, and never made it to the bottom of the stairs.
Albert sat up in bed writing furiously. It was late afternoon, he had spent the day working on the problem by the sunlight falling through the simple white curtains. The sun was lower and dimmer now, and it was almost too dark to work comfortably, but he hadn't turned on the lights yet. Reams of notes and diagrams were stacked on the large table beside his bed.
His nurse entered the room and turned on the light. Albert blinked, pausing only a moment to adjust to the bright white page. The nurse held out his cup for him, rather than placing it on the table, it was one of her ways of forcing him to engage with something other than his work. She saw little value in his scribblings, and knew that if he let himself be more active, he would be healthier for it. She was always looking for something that would draw him out and get him to live. If she only knew.
He kept on scribbling and she kept on holding out the cup. He knew she knew he saw, and knew her ways. When he finished the thought, when he decided to, he took the cup.
"When you are ready, Albert," She said striding confidently back out of the room, "Dinner will be downstairs."
He was distracted enough to watch her leave. She was much younger than him, but he wasn't too old for her. Even just a few years ago, he would have pursued her. The balance of his dual passions had always tilted toward the lovely, and somehow even the lovely and young had found him enthralling. Only since he learned how limited his time was had he focused so adamantly on his work. Now he was more driven by his desire to find an answer.
Still, no answer came.
Every system left something out, every model had some intractable failing. Albert sat and sipped his too hot tea, and stared at the clock. It was a large brass table clock with a fully exposed mechanism, he kept it close for inspiration. Time was such a fluid thing, and now the clock made him ponder the irony that he of all people was running out of it.
He set his tea and his papers on the table, and tossed the quilt to the foot of the bed. If he was to be content, he would have to be content without an answer. He pivoted his legs to the floor, put on his slippers, slowly stood, re-tied the belt of his robe, and never made it to the bottom of the stairs.
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