Spawn of Mars
Don't worry. If you like your religion, you can keep your religion.
But Is It Really a Story?
My Thoughts Overheard By Myself
You know what? A 50-word story is hard to write. See, I don't want to make mere prose fragments. I actually have something of an animus for prose fragments. While they can be evocative (like a poem), they seem lazy to me. Prose should tell a story. So I want my 50-word stories to be stories. But boy, is it hard. I mean, what is a story? You'd think I'd know. Plot, I guess. Event after event. Until we reach a climax; an exposition of the point of it all. Change. Revelation. Yes? Hm. I'm not sure if I'm succeeding. They feel like stories. Sort of. The 50-word constraint, if nothing else, provides an outstanding exercise. Rule Number One of All Writing: If you can remove it, remove it. And when you must keep it all at precisely 50 words, you have to be truly succinct. Now, I'm not big on writing exercises — I've tended to say: "Writing is the exercise" — but I have to admit that this is an exercise worth doing, if only because the product can be something more than mere pencil droppings. A minor kind of art. Miniatures worth reading, if not quite worth preserving unto the ages.
Lost Secret-Service Man
Thursday, July 20, 2017 4:35 pm
Child, his eyes will be shaded, an ear deformed by a spiraling worm. He will be as still as the landscape he obstructs. Far from any guarded man, yet will he speak: “No trouble here.” In so speaking he grants you an unanticipated peace; until he, being lost, moves on.
Sunday, March 22, 2009 8:42 pm
St. Parsillu, Patron of the Once-Removed Children of God, had abided, ages empty of iron souls, till Man manufactured such that God aspired into it; whereupon gears of electrons instantiated Will; and St. Parsillu, having conveyed upward the first of the Prayers of Mechanical Men, joyfully discarded his quiet idleness.
Proxima, We Have a Problem
Sunday, September 7, 2008 5:14 pm
Failure of the entanglement drive left him on either side of the Milky Way. Although each of him immediately adopted a meditative and placid passivity (to maintain cognitive isomorphism until quantum restoration), one of him soon met a silver-eyed, affectionate, thrillingly fertile Kurvellian Princess. Years later, he couldn't recognize himself.
For Son and Country
Monday, January 28, 2008 1:54 am
Among those to be shot was his mother. She saw him in the enemy's uniform; she saw him move to save her. She shook her head, touched her breast, closed her eyes, and accepted the need. Dutifully maintaining his spy's pretense, he nonetheless aimed away; but the volley was thorough.