April 2012

SF/F Commentary

#NaPoWriMo Entry #7: “The Fish in a Cup of His Own Making”

/

Today’s poem was inspired by The Rainbow Fish by Marcus Pfister.  When I say inspired, I don’t necessarily mean “inspired by the story,” though one could certainly make the argument that my cursory knowledge of this rather famous children’s book did influence the writing of the poem below.  It’ll be interesting to hear what people think of what I’ve written… For the record:  I am behind by three poems.  No idea if I’ll catch up… Here goes: “The Fish in a Cup of His Own Making” There are no scales covering the skin of the god fish who floats downriver in a cup of his own making. His tail — a mangled twitching against the banshee howl of the wind turned hypersonic on its journey through the crags of a forgotten canyon. His mind — a quiet confusion, the pine-salt air in his lungs sustaining a body yet yearning for the deep solitude of water. Ah, but a solitude in the company of a community of confused beasts, whose shimmer-scales and whistling-furs remind the god fish of the days when he was master over all and his scales were quiet flashes in the honey flow of the Sun. The frayed snap-twig in fin, he rows towards the light — the candles of evening whisper, saying his name as the wind carries the dreams of ghosts. And in his dreams — a screech, the falcon’s jealous feather-gaze upon the multicolored shimmy shimmer of the god fish’s many scales; the grumble of the earth beasts, the tinfoil call of scaly walkers, the scruffy scrabble of the whispering ones and so many voices so the earth at once knows only one name: the god fish! the god fish! In the cup of his own making, his tears turn sour on bare flesh, glittering with dream stuff like echoes of faces in still water: hands and claws and talons ripping, pulling like unkempt wolf children at the multitude of magnified markers which the god fish dispells in salt. Oh, but the worst dream of all — the little cousins and sisters and brothers and friends who once knew the god fish by the smiles that graced their faces… Their bodies are now home to someone else’s skin. Up the river, pushing weak currents, the god fish holds his tongue against the roof of a mouth made sticky by too much trauma. Against the wet sting of his wounds his grief finds its voice in his silence.

SF/F Commentary

#NaPoWriMo Entry #6: “To a Taco Bell Employee”

/

Time for another poem for NaPo.  A good poem?  No.  But Adam wanted me to write something with rhymes, and so I did so while watching a strange argument at Taco Bell.  It should be clear from the poem what I thought of that argument (or I hope so, at least). Here you go: “To a Taco Bell Employee” The handiwork of a few tall men determines the flow of the streams upon which the nation boat sends its shadows of little folk dreams. The image of a scrimmage of beasts cackling over stories in need of context without which the watcher’s eyes only feast, wondering on whose back the Truth next speaks its heart murmur songs and communicates the fate of small souls whose narratives are but empty among the throngs of gestures; a hint of dejection lulls where rejection molds a whiplash injection upon the neck of the story-less employee who is tossed away before the public perception can broadcast the past through distance and glass and claim for the watcher — whose wandering eyes a lecher — the nature of Truth’s jubilee…

SF/F Commentary

2012 Hugo Awards Nominations: Preliminary Thoughts

/

Last year, I ranted about the Hugo Awards (here and here) after they were announced.  This year, I’m switching things up to offer some preliminary thoughts before they are announced, and after.  If you’d like to put me in my place, the comments are yours.  These are preliminary thoughts, so I expect to be proven wrong on many counts. (Note:  Some categories will get a slight pass, as I don’t want to comment too much about areas about which I have little reading experience.  I will make guesses about winners based solely on what information I have in my arsenal, which means that most of my guesses are not educated whatsoever.) Here goes: Best Novel Among Others, Jo Walton (Tor) A Dance With Dragons, George R. R. Martin (Bantam Spectra) Deadline, Mira Grant (Orbit) Embassytown, China Miéville (Macmillan / Del Rey) Leviathan Wakes, James S. A. Corey (Orbit) I’m not terribly disappointed in these choices.  One of my professors has told me that Among Others is brilliant, and I’ve had a love affair with Mieville for a while now.  Martin is an obvious choice, what with his enormous fanbase.  I don’t know enough about James S. A. Corey or Leviathan Wakes to offer any opinions whatsoever, though one of my friends liked the book enough to give me a copy, so I suspect it’s not bad.  The Grant, sadly, doesn’t interest me at all, but if someone wants to send me both books in that series to prove me wrong, go for it. I would have preferred to see Of Bloody and Honey by Stina Leicht and Osama by Lavie Tidhar here, but that might be asking too much.  I am sad that no small press titles are on this list, though. Overall feeling:  *un-enthused, slightly disappointed shrug* Who will win?  Mieville Best Novella Countdown, Mira Grant (Orbit) “The Ice Owl”, Carolyn Ives Gilman (The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction) “Kiss Me Twice”, Mary Robinette Kowal (Asimov’s) “The Man Who Bridged the Mist”, Kij Johnson (Asimov’s) “The Man Who Ended History: A Documentary”, Ken Liu (Panverse 3) Silently and Very Fast, Catherynne M. Valente (WSFA) Note: 6 nominees due to tie for final position. Some of the same names again.  This could be a good thing, or it could be bad.  I am pleased to see Ken Liu on the list, though.  I’ve talked with him on Google+ and he seems like a nice guy.  But the Novella category is always one of those “hey, I haven’t read enough” categories. Overall feeling:  *okay* Who will win?  Kowal Best Novelette “The Copenhagen Interpretation”, Paul Cornell (Asimov’s) “Fields of Gold”, Rachel Swirsky (Eclipse Four) “Ray of Light”, Brad R. Torgersen (Analog) “Six Months, Three Days”, Charlie Jane Anders (Tor.com) “What We Found”, Geoff Ryman (The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction) Geoff Ryman is a genius.  Swirsky is pretty damned good too.  Haven’t read the others.  That is all. Overall feeling:  *hmm, interesting* Who will win?  Swirsky Best Short Story “The Cartographer Wasps and the Anarchist Bees”, E. Lily Yu (Clarkesworld) “The Homecoming”, Mike Resnick (Asimov’s) “Movement”, Nancy Fulda (Asimov’s) “The Paper Menagerie”, Ken Liu (The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction) “Shadow War of the Night Dragons: Book One: The Dead City: Prologue”, John Scalzi (Tor.com) Oh, hey, look, the same magazines over and over.  No Interzone selections?  No Weird Tales?  No *insert one of the dozen other pro and semi-pro mags with great stories in them here*? But the crown jewel of utter stupidity here is Scalzi’s April Fool’s joke.  Yeah, that story was written for April Fool’s Day last year.  Not serious.  If anything could destroy the credibility of this award, it is that fact.  Don’t get me wrong.  I like Scalzi.  He’s even a pretty good writer.  But this is a new low for the Hugos.  I will refer to them as the Joke Hugos from now on. Overall feeling:  *annoyed* Who will win?  Scalzi (because that would make the Joke Hugos perfectly Jokey, no?) Best Related Work The Encyclopedia of Science Fiction, Third Edition, edited by John Clute, David Langford, Peter Nicholls, and Graham Sleight (Gollancz) Jar Jar Binks Must Die…and other Observations about Science Fiction Movies, Daniel M. Kimmel (Fantastic Books) The Steampunk Bible: An Illustrated Guide to the World of Imaginary Airships, Corsets and Goggles, Mad Scientists, and Strange Literature, Jeff VanderMeer and S. J. Chambers (Abrams Image) Wicked Girls (CD), Seanan McGuire Writing Excuses, Season 6 (podcast series), Brandon Sanderson, Dan Wells, Howard Tayler, Mary Robinette Kowal, and Jordan Sanderson You know what?  There are some good choices here.  I suspect ESF (Clute) will take it, but I wouldn’t ignore The Steampunk Bible (I would marry VanderMeer’s editing side) or Writing Excuses here (a great podcast).  I don’t know much about the Kimmel, but it seems like an interesting book.  Award-worthy?  No idea. Overall feeling:  *okay* Who will win?  Clute (too perfectly historical for its own good) Best Graphic Story Digger, by Ursula Vernon (Sofawolf Press) Fables Vol 15: Rose Red, by Bill Willingham and Mark Buckingham (Vertigo) Locke & Key Volume 4: Keys To The Kingdom, written by Joe Hill, illustrated by Gabriel Rodriguez (IDW) Schlock Mercenary: Force Multiplication, written and illustrated by Howard Tayler, colors by Travis Walton (The Tayler Corporation) The Unwritten (Volume 4): Leviathan, created by Mike Carey and Peter Gross, written by Mike Carey, illustrated by Peter Gross (Vertigo) You know what?  I have no idea.  I don’t read graphic novels.  So I’ll let the folks in the comments handle this one. Overall feeling:  *umm, what?* Who will win?  No idea. Best Dramatic Presentation, Long Form Captain America: The First Avenger, screenplay by Christopher Markus and Stephan McFeely; directed by Joe Johnston (Marvel) Game of Thrones (Season 1), created by David Benioff and D. B. Weiss; written by David Benioff, D. B. Weiss, Bryan Cogman, Jane Espenson, and George R. R. Martin; directed by Brian Kirk, Daniel Minahan, Tim van Patten, and Alan Taylor (HBO) Harry Potter

SF/F Commentary

#NaPoWriMo Entry #5: “To an Un-American”

/

Technically this should have gone up yesterday, but I’m now two poem behind.  Haikus, here I come! I don’t think there was a single piece of inspiration for this piece.  It is political, which means that Adam Callaway should not read it.  It also has some bad language, which means anyone who is easily offended by slurs and the like shouldn’t read past this sentence.  Hopefully my intent will become clear in the reading. Here goes: No idea who took/made this picture, but I would like to credit said person… “To an Un-American” You should see yourself in the mirror when you talk about your country. Think of all the nasty things you say: “We’re a warmongering, woman-hating, minority-beating, liberty-raping, stinking center of rectal excretion in the shape of a nation.” “If only things could be better,” you say. “But they’re not.” Only, you never quite say it like that (even though you do). So your colleges no longer teach American history (even though they do) and you believe religious people shouldn’t be allowed in public (even though you do). You want Iran to win the war (that isn’t actually happening (yet)). You want terrorists to eat our babies and kill mothers with bombs made with tiny nail factories inside to usher in the age of blood-thirsty, soul-crushing radical secularism with a side of socialism… If only you’d agree with those who love America (who haven’t read a proper history book since high school (though you have)) and who believe the return of Christ is just another way of saying “America is great,” because the second coming will happen in Kansas… Maybe you’d be a real American then… Not that you know what any of that means. After all, you say the Founding Fathers were treacherous, slave-owning sexists who saw God as a personal pursuit, not a life to be lived in His light and shoved into one’s brain with an Acme Hammer like Wiley Coyote and common sense. “That’s all, folks!” you say, “No offense.  We’re all on the same side. We want the same thing.”  Except you don’t. So, you heathenous, religion-estroying, baby-murdering, freedom-raping, children-brainwashing, education-fucking, socialist, fascist, communist pigdog whore-basket fecal smear… You waste the air we breathe when you talk about a better future and jobs and rights for niggers, chinks, towel-heads, cholos, coolies, homos and the little sex objects that need to be at home tending to our needs… You love the poor too much, and your country too little. If you only knew how un-American you are. Maybe you might try to be a better person…

SF/F Commentary

WIP Snippet: “Great is the History of the Many-Skilled Artistes”

/

Folks following me on Twitter will know that I have been working on a short story entitled “Great is the History of the Many-Skilled Artistes” (a working title).  The story was inspired by one of my graduate school classes this semester.  I’m still working on it, and expect it to be completed next month (once finals are done and over with). The following is the first of four sections in the story.  Do let me know what you think in the comments! Here goes: I.  Tears in the Womb of Unture“Never trust the snake who wears another man’s clothes.They are prone to theft and death follows them at the tail.”–Avaganze Proverb, from The Thirty-third Book of Unturekamo, Date Unknown The man in the bowl hat wanted to eat their mythology, he said.  Nothing could have shocked the Avaganze more, since their mythology was everything to them.  They had cultivated it for generations, built their culture around it with stunning clarity.  They believed they were gifted by Unture, Queen of the Divine Realm, to live among the stars singular and alone.  But then the bowl hat man had come, stepping huge footprints onto their tiny world, demanding a sacrifice like Unture herself.  But he was not Unture.  He could not be.  No.  Unture’s breasts hung low on her chest, because they were full of milk for the children of the universe, and her hips always swayed to an unknown rhythm in the sky.  And yet the bowler hat man had arrived and eaten away those few myths the Avaganze had let drift in the wind, including the divine nature of their existence.  Already, they were hurting.  The bowl hat man smiled, licking his pearly teeth with a pink tongue glistening in the blazing afternoon sun.  His blue eyes struck dissonant notes in the air as he stared at the collective before him.  He dusted off his black waistcoat and the pleats of his black pants; he did not clean the tan-brown mess from his shoes, as if aware that to do so would be pointless.  His blonde hair fluttered in the wind, shining like gold beneath a brow drenched in sparkling sweat, jettisoning off a sagging frog chin.  His face bore the mark of a thousand ages, but the scars had long since healed, living his skin the color of lilies.  He spoke again with his authoritarian voice, pulling from the gut and pushing tooth-filled words into the air, which swam down among the little people before him and nibbled at their heels:  “You will feed me your myths, or your children will have no history.”  They were so much tinier than the bowl hat man, but only because he had consumed so much already.  His gut protruded from his fine clothes, exposing the hairy, jiggling blob beneath.  Yet his slovenly appearance gave way to gentility in the shiny bracelets and trinkets that adorned his neck, wrists, and belt.   The little people gathered their strength, and finally Rohirre—which in the tongue of Avaganze meant “speaker of convincing words”—stepped forward.  “How are you called?” he said, peering several feet up into the hungry eyes of the bowler hat man, who licked his lips and giggled from his belly.  A little butterfly fluttered from his belly button, nibbling at the air with its curled protrusion before dispersing in the wind as ashes.  “Ah, so the Avaganze speak, with such fine, simple words.”  He sucked his teeth effect.  “You may call me Mogron.”  An audible hiss filled the air as the Avaganze reeled away.  “Yes, I like that name.  It rests well on the tongue, does it not?  Oh, and how strongly it translates.  ‘He Who Plagues Unture’s Feet.’  How wonderful you have become.  How creative!  Oh, I will feast well here.  I will feast well indeed.”  “What compels Mogron to our shores?”  Mogron bowed low, bringing his eyes level with Rohirre’s, some three feet from the ground; Rohirre was the tallest of his kind with a projecting voice—he had earned his name.  “I have come to eat.  Your mythology compels me.  It demands eating, for the many in the sky who I serve.”  The Avaganze hissed again, some even cursing.  Rohirre stiffened, his jaw set against emotion, but revealing the fear lingering in his heart.  “The Ongrorre sent you to us?”  Mogron laughed.  His voice vibrated in the sand beneath his feet.  “Is that what you call the sky beings?  Dwellers in the City?  Oh, how fascinating!”  He licked his lips, tasting the air with a long, pink tongue covered in warts the size of Rohirre’s fingertips.  “I will eat well here.”  “You will go now, Mogron.  You will go back to the Ongrorre and tell them that you may not eat here.”  “And why would I do that, little one?”  “Because the lands of the Avaganze are for the Avaganze, to be tilled by the Avaganze, to be the haven for the bodies of the Avaganze.  You are not Avaganze.  You are one of the Ongrorre.  Unture’s bane.  Unture’s torturer.  And you belong in Ongrorre.  Now go.”   Rohirre lifted his chin, proud of his accomplishment, proud of waves of emotion emanating from the dozens of Avaganze standing behind him.  He did not glance back, but he could see them in the back of his mind holding hands tight, faces determined and strong.  Once more, he had fulfilled his namesake.  Mogron brought himself to his full height, sucking in a deep breath.  And then he laughed, not unkindly.  His belly jiggled, the hairs standing on end with excitement.  The pearly whites in his mouth glistened with spittle as the roar of joy spilled from his gut, emitting serpentine wisps of air that slithered through the air and around the feet of the Avaganze.  Then Mogron lifted his right arm, pointing a finger in such a way that only an elder would to a child, and in one great cry of pain, Rohirre disintegrated into dust.  Mogron sniffed Rohirre into his lungs, licking his

SF/F Commentary

Weekly Roundup #7: The Skiffy and Fanty Show / Duke and Zink Do America

/

I’m back with some updates!  This week is entirely about podcast-ery stuff, which you should all listen to if you are so inclined.  Interviews, politics, and lots of SF/F!  Good times… Enough with my introductions… First: Over at SandF, Jen and I have released the actual interview with Stina Leicht, author of And Blue Skies From Pain.  We discuss everything from the themes of the novel, issues of nationalism, Irish identity, and much more.  If you haven’t read the book, you really should; it’s bloody brilliant. You can listen/download the episode here (or on iTunes). And second: DZDA has officially released five episodes.  This doesn’t sound like much of a milestone to most podcasters, but Jen and I are pretty happy about it.  Plus, we’re still having fun! Episode Five’s Agenda:  The KKK learns how to use the interwebz, pro-lifers don’t actually like life, the supreme court OKs strippin’ granny, China’s chomping at the bit, plus other random stuff we feel like talking about. Plus other random stuff we feel like talking about! You can listen or download the episode here (or on iTunes). We’ve also posted a question for everyone to answer:  “Where do you get your news from?”  You’ll find our news sources in that post, but we also really want to hear from listeners.  Maybe we’ll find something new to listen to! And that’s that… —————————————————— What have you been up to lately?  Let me know in the comments.

Scroll to Top