EDITOR: I just naturally leave out words that people still use in this timeline. Arg. Frustrating waiting for everyone to catch their grammar up.

The 1st book however will be written as a stand-alone, not requiring you to read the others to find out what happens. Unless you want to.

Oh well. It’s done and I learned a lot about the process.

I did however, *cough* *cough* forget to upload a new version that doesn’t mention in the Author’s Notes that it’s free. *whoops*. *sheepish grin*

Apologies.

Will fix that in a few days when Amazon lets me change-out the file.

Well, now I know. Mission accomplished.

Back to the book and other short stories….

Balance (A Short Horror Story)

by

Lewis. A. Sellers III

Copyright ©2013 by Lewis A. Sellers

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book

or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and

incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used

fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locations,

organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely

coincidental.

For current information on upcoming stories and novel, visit

http://lewisasellers.com

###

BALANCE

 Stanislov had not eaten in weeks and was ravenous. He was barely conscious of the traffic lights as he passed through intersections, or of people yelling at him to get out of their way. Sometimes — as the others’ road-rage flared and they closed, to pour upon him the anger that had been building within them for days on end — they would see the sticky red dog-tag dangling around his neck. They would stumble to a stop and then back away. Apologizing. Or with a tremble rolling about in their throat give a faint “Go bro, go. Kill’em all.”

And that would be the last he’d see of them as they broke into a hurried walk, trying to put the corner of the nearest concrete building between them. On occasion they’d give a quick look back to check whether he was following them, but not usually. And sometimes he would follow after, if he remembered them landing a blow, but not often.

His meals had been lean and unsatisfying since he’d come across the border from Mexico. He would not have tried to board a plane for the States even if he could have afforded a coach ticket. And those men still with sufficient hidden caches of wealth had bought off enough unscrupulous people that hiding aboard a ship would only end in massed gun fire. By the crew if, when huddled together for safety, they felt a surge of bravery. Or by agents at a dock, if their courage fell from them at the last moment. It had been headline news across the world for weeks when any of his brothers or sisters in blood met their end that way. The public would rage. Crowds would form. Though it was illegal, sometimes one of them from the crowd would kill an agent in said state of rage. Those with practical sense and a stomach for it would in that instance make that final choice in their head. And the unfocused light in their eyes would change to a burning point. They would feast while the crowd about them recoiled at first, then slow chants and cheers making their way forward, building, falling over the new brother in a great wave. But his eyes would already be looking past the crowd at the narrow road ahead. His hearing would already be gone, deaf — with the blood churning in his ears, the blood dripping from his chin.

Splatter, splatter, mad as a hatter.

That was a common rhyme of children of the day. Not that they understood all the words. Not that any one did.

It had only been two lines snuck into a senate bill that ran over three thousand pages. No one important would have took the time to read the whole thing. The few staffers up all the night before that caught the lines were on the record saying they thought at first it was a subtle in-joke. Or that it somehow referred to the FDA’s further easing up on allowances of cattle to be fed ground-up livestock, which went on for incomprehensible page after page preceding. Several of the staffers were arrested after with no particular charge pending. And then lost to history.

The better part of a day passed before the darker implications became common knowledge and by then it became problematic changing the bill. Partly because it was a long and important bill, lined with lots of intricate pork barrel projects, but also because of an immediate issue, arising from it’s passage. To the point, the day after it passed the original bills’ primary author and proponent, the six-term and much hated Senator John M. Hathaway, was found half eaten in one of his many houses. A small private army of police had swarmed through the mansion minutes after the B&E alarms started screaming for help. The perp was calm, resting his bulging belly as he sat cross-legged across from his human pinata. There were streamers of bright red blood thrown against every surface in the room, and out on the patio through the wide-open second story door. His mouth was agape, blood matting the coils of his long beard, but he said no words. Did not respond to their “get the fuck on the ground” challenges. But held firm above his head a blood-stained printout of the pertinent page of the bill.

There was a large sensationalized mock argument in the news channels, threatening new laws and restrictions. But there was also a deep growing hate in the heart of many that still watched their lies, knowing nothing else to do. Rage found an outlet. Rage focused public chants and marches around the country. The first of Stanislov’s kind was released a week later. All charges dropped.

The process to amend the bill went through revisions and changed from compromise to comprise in back rooms scattered about the capital. But the congressmen quickly lost the will — and the people — to mount an effective defense. Like a wildfire, variants started showing up as proposals in other countries. In many it was stopped before becoming law. But after awhile it was assumed as a basic human right by many, no matter what was written on paper. In short order there were few people left with the authority to pass or rescind any such laws anyway.

Most of the fat cat bankers and their empires that pushed these things from behind the curtains were long since gone now as well. Nothing left but worthless paper stock bonds. And gristle.

Stanislov unslung a small back-bag and tossed it against the outer wall of an automated car-wash he was passing. He caught a drizzle of water in the pores of his face, washing out the grime of the last few days, then changed into fresh clothes from the bag. He tossed the old ones in a can and walked down the street on the way to a specific address he had been thinking of for months.

From a distance no one who glanced at him knew anything was out of order, as he methodically walked down the sidewalk like any one else. Then in gravel, as the street gave way to a country road. He had wondered if anyone else had paused and wondered about that road, it being just a few kilometers out from heavy downtown traffic.

He cut through the trees and shadowed along a private drive till he came to a stone fence-line topped with razor wire. Stanislov was dressed in loose fitting clothes that covered most his body. He pulled a hoodie over his face to deepen its shadows. There would be sensors. Wireless alarms. Dogs most likely. It didn’t matter. They gave him no pause. His main concern was he had eaten three days ago. He didn’t want to, but he had been getting weak. Too weak to do what he would need to do today. There would be many guards here, big men. He would need a good appetite before the day was through.

The man Stanislov climbed the surface of the well-kept stone wall. He was still in his thirties, still with some semblance of the strength of youth to squander if need be. Though it was difficult to tell with the scars across his face. His hair had grown long, like his frame. He had grown tired of unkempt hair. Maybe after this, maybe after today, he would cut it short, like others he saw did who had served their country. Their people, he corrected himself. Country had little to do with this.

Pulling himself a few centimeters over the lip of the soft sandstone, he let his eyes dash about in their sockets, seeing what they may. There was a short-cut grassy lawn stretching on into the distance. Good line of sight. Nothing of consequence moved, so he caught a foot against the top of the irregular sandstone blocks and pulled the rest of his body up. He was as slow as a slug cresting the wall. And made little more commotion as one would while he did so.

He lay there, the bright sun in his face, staring with intense bright dots for eyes at the large house in the distance. The building was at the center of a maze of short hedges, dominating over several smaller structures nearby. Car ports, and guest houses they seemed to be in the main. He warmed his back as the sun came and went out in sporadic fits from behind passing clouds. As he lay there hours passed. A few armed men made sweeps of the grounds. As the sun begun to tilt towards the west like a falling drunk, he could predict their paths well enough that he figured he could evade most of them. And those that he couldn’t he would time it so he’d encounter them alone, one on one, with time enough to do what was needed.

There was a stretch of shades trees that went far out from the main house to a small gazebo. A place the house owner and friends would hobble out to on lazy drunk summer afternoons, he had no doubt, and proceed to laugh and joke around till they were all face down in the immaculately kept grass. Beyond that the lawn dipped off towards a valley he knew was there, seeming to dip and drop off into an endless sky. Stanislov slid back off the wall, into the woods and the soft leaf-covered ground, and made his way around the wall till he figured he was close to the angle the gazebo would be on from the house.

The clouds had cleared off by then and above was a stark empty blue. It gave Stanislov a moment of vertigo as he stared into the vast empty ocean of a sky. It had a deepening tinge of darkness that seemed to vanish every time he tried to focus his eyes on it. The sun was going to drop down roughly on the far side of the house in just an hour or two. It was already getting hard to lower his brows enough to avoid looking into the sun altogether. But that meant he would be coming in through the long shadow lines of the trees along the gazebo path for most of his approach. It was as good as it would get, he thought.

He checked that his worn surgical knives were still concealed under the long-sleeved shirt he wore. There would be few moments as he made his way over the wall and beyond that a single glint from them against from the facing sun could betray everything.

Up he went, and inch-wormed against the two meter height of reinforced razor wire that ringed the top of the wall all around. He started pulling out the wire cutters he had tied against one leg under his baggy jeans when his eyes finished focusing on a little purple flower in front of him. It had grown out of a tiny crack in the sandstone that had accumulated dirt and debris from passing birds over the years. His eyes traced around the faint yellow spiral pattern, deep into its cone till it exploded with the mustard warmth of the sun. He paused, dug his shoes into stone crannies and wiggled away from the flower and, a few meters away, began cutting the fence. He was practiced and quick. After, he let the cutters fall with little sound into the woodlands dirt, while he took one last look at the house and grounds of Avery Millbrook, and rolled over the wall, dropping to the ground inside.

He was still as stone for long minutes. Pressed down into the recent cut grass, he watched for anyone that had noticed him. From the shredded piles of green vegetation wafted a pungent odor tempting him to sneeze out in the otherwise quiet country afternoon. But no one came out to look for him and he overpowered the momentary desires of his body. He was quiet as he moved through the low shadows with a minimum of motion, pausing now and then only long enough to satisfy himself that no was creeping up on him through the shadows, that there was no sudden flurry of activity anywhere in the distance.

It was a good thousand yards and more, but he made it past the lawn paths and hedges at a speed not much less than an average man’s sweaty sprint. Beyond the hedge-work, interspaced between a wide blacktop drive that meandered about drunkenly, there were several small buildings littering the clearing before him, but they kept the focus of the eye only a moment if at all. The main house loomed overhead, imported English marble and other stone work. Someone had gone to great expense to disassemble an old English manor, transport it over the oceans, and then rebuild it here with a modern flair. He knew that someone was Millbrook. The paper and stone trail was one of the ways he finally tracked down where the man called home. Avery Millbrook was an Engineer by training. Electrical Engineering. Specializing in the aeronautics fields. One of his companies built and sold some of the most advanced tactical drone systems in the world. Not that that fact was well known outside of the circles he ran in.

He waited several minutes for a patrol that he was expecting to make their way around a corner of the house. But they never came. He leaned further back in the shadows of the hedge he had stopped beside. And waited. He watched the corners of all the buildings for movement. He strained to see momentary reflections or shadows of motion through any of the dozens of windows of the main house or the outbuildings near him. Nothing stirred or changed. Not even, as the sun finally started to dip below the crest of the big house, electric lights being flicked on. The interiors seemed to remain dark.

Stanislov’s thoughts remained clear. Having fasted for days now, there were no foreign stimulants swimming through his brain to cloud his judgment. Avery knew he was here. He had been spotted after all. That seemed fairly evident now and the only reason that made sense as to why the entirety of the man’s personal guard seemed to have fallen back into the main house to wait for him in the dark.

This would be more difficult than he had planned on.

Still….

Stanislov made his way to the house using whatever shadow or cover presented itself, mainly now only trying to conceal the exact moment and place he would enter into Avery’s home.

He expected to have to fling himself to the ground and roll to some kind of cover to avoid a wall of gun fire tearing through the doorway as he entered. But it was quiet in the loading pantry beyond a small servants’ side door he had spotted. Stanislov saw footprints over the ruin of a canister of flour that had recently been knocked from one of several counters. The counter was overflowing with boxes of baking ingredients, enough that it indicated a small army of people had been eating at the house. The smudged prints led away, into the depths of the house. He moved with no further hesitation to the blind spot behind the inner door that probably lead on to the main kitchen. He waited for the shuffle of shoes, and a tentative look into the pantry from a crack opening in the door. But that never came.

Stanislov was experiencing a sensation he had all but forgotten about. It had become only a word to him, carrying no more meaning at first than the ninos in Chiapas running up to him droning tengo dinero? As his unease spread and revealed itself, his moment of confusion passed. He began to understand it as it turned in his thoughts, much as he had began to under the kids in Mexico were only wanting money, asking over and over again. He was becoming annoyed now, as he had been then.

A tinge of rage seeped up into the back of his throat, waiting. His face remained neutral, dispassionate, eyes slow-scanning any direction he heard the faintest semblance of movement. But the color flowing from his cheeks and eye wells betrayed him.

He wasn’t in control now, he knew. Avery was laying out the path he had to choose, orchestrating his movements. His only choice now was the timing. Stanislov had been having daydreams of how this moment would play out for almost ten long years now. If he had ever dreamed it this way, it was something he had forgotten after waking abruptly, tossing himself away from the wet ground he had lain on. Long, long ago, back when he still dreamed.

He made his way into the next room with as much stealth as he could manage. All the overhead lighting in the clean white room was burning bright. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust. Glinting steel knives hung neatly with copper pots and pans from the many floor racks in the kitchen. There were fading tracks of flour on the floor heading out into a long hall. A puddle of blood on the floor near one of the butcher tables, caught his attention, then the light spray of the stuff over all the furniture and cooking utensils nearby by. Drag marks through the puddle led out of the kitchen down the long hall. Stanislov noticed the trail stopped in a few places, vital fluids draining out in irregular shaped pools as someone unaccustomed to dragging off bodies had rested. He knew the pattern on the floor well, and could guesstimate the others’ overall fitness. They paused, yes, but the pools there were never large. Perhaps they stopped only to consider different grips for dragging a body. That was something that most never fully considered until the moment they had to. Under the armpits was generally best, unless you were trying to keep the body off of you to preserve your clothing.

“Stanislov.” The voice was Avery. It echoed through several rooms from a hidden intercom system. There would be an automatic video surveillance system throughout the house and its grounds, with optics too small to easily spot. They tagged on motion and pattern recognition, so stealth and numbing patience could beat them most days. Though not this one.

Down the hall in the next room Stanislov saw a man standing up from a long wooden dining table and made his way towards him. He was a bit older than Stanislov, in full business suit attire except for the blood-stained ballistic vest he wore. The last couple side clasps on the vest dangled free from where he had yet to clip them in.

As Stanislov walked ahead, frosty white stone tile gave way, under a vaulted archway framed in dark mahogany wood, to the moderate sized room. The walls were all speckled plum-color marble that ran upwards the height of three men, blooming outward into an intricate white marble dome. The chandelier hanging from it’s central gilded pattern, burned with diffuse but intense electric lights. The lighting was pleasant — it reminded him of the bright summer day that was coming to a close outside. The ceiling-high windows at either side of the room let in the last of the deepening blue sky, as the sun slipped away into memory.

Stanislov made no apologies for the blood he tracked onto the old English carpet as he walked into the room. There was no need. One of Avery’s guards lay stretched out across the elegant old dining table, candles and placemats pushed aside. The young man had been gutted. Avery stood across the table from him with a strange rapid motion in his eyes, as he seemed to replay something in his memory over and over. A red-mouthed smile of triumph flickered back and forth with what perhaps might have been a look of confusion. Stanislov had become practiced at reading other’s emotional tells over the years, but right now with Avery….

“Come in,” Avery said smiling, acknowledging the other’s presence at last with an exaggerated flourish of his hands. One of the flailing hands still held the nine-inch combat knife that had carved through his man. “I know who you are of course,” he said and made a glance at a magazine-sized tablet laying at one end of the dining table. The display had Stanislov’s old Ukrainian ID photograph up and what looked like a tracking history. “But what I’m … curious about is, why me? Surely there are still a few others left out there that would be,” he said trying to grasp another word out the air with his hands, always in motion, “well, less trouble to get at than me. To be pointed.” Avery looked across the almost empty space between them. “Than I am usually, anyway. Your appearance has me thinking … interesting thoughts, I must say.”

“Does that not say where I’m from?” Stanislov said, nudging his shoulder in the direction of the tablet, but never unlocking his eyes from Avery’s.

Avery’s eyes darted about a moment, looking at nothing in the room in particular. Then he glanced down at the tablet, as if to check his memory. “Donetsk?” Something woke in Avery’s eyes. A sparkle. “Were you in Mariupol?”

“No. Pryo, to the North.” Just to the west of Pryo as he recalled. In a yellow field that seemed to stretch on to the horizon. “Visiting my girlfriend. But we were close enough.” His last coherent memories of that place were of the fields bursting into flame. And fading screams.

Outwardly Avery seemed to slip into an easy, relaxed mood, going as far as pushing a seat back from the table, which he promptly began to sit down on. “Ah… Revenge. But of course.” He laughed openly, and kept laughing as if he found the idea intensely amusing. “The world has been such a mad little place of late that I had almost forgot people still killed for such … archaic reasons.” On the table before Avery, the cracked open chest of his former bodyguard oozed and permanently ruined the table settings. “But I suppose all of this has been about a sort of revenge hasn’t it?” He got up, still in thought. “Just not the personal kind that usually burns in the hearts of men like ourselves. Simple. One on one.”

“Yes,” said Stanislov clear and slow, as if he were pouring out his entire being into those words. His teeth clenched, and his hands so very, very slowly moved down to rest on his hips, turned up in the direction of the knives under his shirt.

Avery seemed to become aware they were having a conversation with a dead man on the table between them. For a moment there was an awkward silence. “I never really liked him. I should have fired him months ago, but it’s so hard to find new men when you’re always in hiding — and he was such a very competent marksman. Too trusting though.” He looked down knowing there was blood on his mouth and then wiped some of it off in his hand. He stared into a trickle of it a moment as if it would reveal to him some great secret. “So this is what it is like to be you. Killing with no consequences. I think I might like this.”

“No,” said Stanislov quietly. “You won’t like this at all,” and he was across the table, kicking into a high half-turn somersault that brought him down facing Avery’s back before the other realized he was just thrusting his combat knife into empty air. Avery flung himself against the ground trying to roll out of reach, but it was too late. Stanislov was thrusting a knife up under Avery’s Kevlar the moment his feet had hit. His other knife made a wild raking where Avery’s exposed neck would have been with all the muscle-mass Stanislov’s shoulder could call upon.

The gash spurted erratically from Avery’s neck, in large ejaculations of blood. “God fucking –” he yelled, staring unbelieving at his hand as he pulled it wet from his neck. Then at Stanislov still on his feet, stashing away a knife, heading towards him with determination in eyes. Avery, sitting on the floor, tried to peddle away from the man approaching him, with fumbling feet. Then turned to grasp at anything to pull away with his one free arm.

As the other was about to drop his full weight down on him with a knife clenched in one hand, Avery turned back around to Stanislov and fired. The old Glock he carried in a belt holster under his Kevlar held fifteen rounds, all of which he tried to fire into Stanislov’s chest. He got off three in frenetic succession before Stanislov pushed his body’s shock out of mind, and fell upon Avery, his single knife grasped between white knuckles of both hands, killing him.

Stanislov watched Avery try to say something, but the other’s lungs rioted and seized. A tremble rolled up into his face, forcing him to spit blood before succumbing to the quiet, still floor. Stanislov had never been interested before, but this time he stared as the other’s eyes lost focus on him and tried to escape to somewhere very far away.

A sickening flush of noise like a distant ocean churning brought Stanislov’s mind back into focus. One last thing, he thought. He had almost slipped under the waves, pounding fainter and fainter, and forgot. He felt so weak and the knife so large and cumbersome, but he dug out Avery’s eyes and ate them.

He was not a murderer. His conscious was clean.

 ###

Afterword

 Why is this short story free?

That’s a question that comes up. So why is it? To build an audience. That’s the simple answer. In advance of my first novel I’ll be releasing three short stories within different genres as not only an experiment for my own-self, but to both reach out to get feedback about my written style from a much wider audience, and hopefully attract a few future readers down the road.

So, enjoy the free stories, and feel free contact me, if you feel the desire welling up within you.

— L. A. Sellers, May 2013

Considering I haven’t done art in … I can’t remember exactly. Years. Decades. Life times ago. Considering all that, it’s not bad. Not exactly what I planned though. Wanting it to have more of a …. colored cardboard cutout feel. Much more abstract looking. Hmm…

And I have to stop myself and focus on the work I was doing… :)

Misanthropy:
The conclusion that humanity as a whole is too immoral for your own sensibilities.
But as one among them you can not wipe them from the face of the earth.

Funny new world we are making.

But which with slow realization you lower your high gaze and see it with clarity for the first time in your life.

…and when you become aware it has been staring back at you without your notice the whole time.

Waiting.

And the arms escalation is more fun to me than playing mmo’s or action games. :) lol.

I suppose that’s how you tell who’s a geek. ;)
#spam

I’m still wondering whether it was his wife or the typewriter that really liked his stories.

I suppose I really should consider wandering off the reservation into the horror novel genre this considered then…. :->

That kind of creeps me out some days actually, to be honest.

burning brightly

threatening to set the woods on fire

copyright (c) oct 1 2011

Think about it. If someone built a modern SSD with say 4 – 12GB specifically designed for very high random 4K read/writes on a SATA III(II) interface they would make excellent little add-ons for most any desktop out there.

Older drives that could serve that purpose do exist, but 1) they generally are of an older, slower generation and 2) they do not market them for that purpose.

Buying a new desktop computer is something expensive that people put off for many years at a time. Buying an “add-on” for US$30-40 that speeds up their computer is something most any layman can get behind and be persuaded to do.

Note: A dedicated paging drive could in fact consist of a block of  a few GB of DDR5 memory and a tiny SSD or CMOS to hold basic file structure so as to be multi-os compatible. Generally you want paging data to be wiped on shutdown/reboot anyway as well as being fast as possible. This gives us both those criteria. It does however completely confound and confuse all those layman out there that couldn’t figure out the difference between RAM memory and a hard drive up till now. (Laughs at the embarrassed tech geeks the first time a layman corrects them that their paging hard drive actually is “memory”.)

Just a few hundred million or so of them.

[Did I mention I'm slightly misanthropic? Oh. Well, now you know. *wink*]

I do.

I wonder if that’s a cause for concern. Hmm.

Imagine: You have an app on your android device that shows you the video from it’s back camera as you hold it up — but overlayed with the names of everyone in the room you’re in as you scan it around. Including all collected information, c.f. age, place of residence, marital status, what movies or music they like. The names of all the books they’ve read recently … what they’ve been twittering about lately. Their criminal history.

All in real time.

With otherwise complete strangers.

Imagine doing that as you walk along in an amusement park amidst a throng of people, or in a sports stadium seating 100,000+ fans.

I’m not sure if I’m excited by the possibility or would have an urge to start smashing all the smartphones I saw.

Either way, it’s buildable right now.

Not that I’m trying to make you paranoid of strangers pointing their cell phone cameras at you. *smirk*

Sometimes I feel like I’ve been waiting so very long for an age, for a state of mind that may never come.

And I feel exhausted.

[And elated.]

READYBOOST HAS NOTHING TO DO WITH HOW MUCH MEMORY YOU HAVE IN YOUR COMPUTER. There. I said it. Well, it uses RAM, just as any piece of software uses RAM, but it, and it’s big brother SuperFetch, will not “add RAM” in any sense to your computer.

What do they do? They make your old mechanical hard drives seem faster, less laggy, by using solid-state USB memory as a cache of the often used files on your mechanical hard drive. This is precisely what so called “hybrid” drives such as the Seagate Momentus do, except it’s using an internal 4GB solid-state drive instead of a USB memory stick. Note: A modern SSD is typically faster than any memory used in solid-state USB devices, but it is the same over-all idea.

So, if you have a slow mechanical hard drive and buy a fast USB memory stick for use as a ReadyBoost device, you may notice (after you have used your computer a while and Windows has had time to figure out what files you use most and copy them to the ReadyBoost drive) that your computer boots faster, apps start faster, and there is less lag while playing games (especially big games like MMOs).

If on the other hand you have a fairly fast modern mechanical hard drive or your USB memory is just average speed, the boost, if any at all, will most likely be below human perception.

If you have an SSD (solid-state drive) as your boot drive, then ReadyBoost is of no use to you at all, as the SSD will be far faster than your USB Memory stick or most any mechanical hard drive you probably own.

Got it? Good.

And as for superfetch? It also attempts to make accessing files on your mechanical hard drive seem faster by preemptively loading ones you often use into any free RAM you might have. It also tries to keep any files or applications you have used in this free RAM cache. That is, if there are a couple applications you use a lot on your machine, superfetch will try to load them into a special cache in your free memory ASAP and keep them there as long as your machine is on. You can exit and restart these applications often and not worry too much about how slow they will be to start up when you click on them again, because they will be copied directly from your fast memory cache, not from the slow hard drive.

Thus if you have a slow hard drive and a lot of extra RAM, superfetch should help you refrain from throwing things against wall because your apps take forever to load.

So, to recap:
1) Slow hard drive and lots of RAM? SuperFetch is your friend.
2) Slow hard drive and a fast USB memory stick? ReadyBoost is your friend.
3) You have a Solid-State Hard Drive (SSD)? Why then the SSD is your friend. And your helpful pals ReadyBoost and SuperFetch will just sit in the corner in sulk because they have nothing to do.

*motions towards you*

Hurry though before some one sees.

GOOGLE+ INVITES ===V

https://plus.google.com/_/notifications/ngemlink?path=%2F%3Fgpinv%3Dqsk2FnmDVOs%3A4fHXyMSTXWI

*The directions were off by 3 miles anyway, as usual. You’d just set fire to a fish hatchery.**

**Ok, that’s actually where Google thinks I live, but you get the idea.

Now put it back.

thx

So, let’s just skip past the entire dying bit. Who wants to watch that anyway? Once it’s buried and the new spring-time of the rendered word comes, what do we see? What remains?

There probably will always be quality hard-bound books. But they will be made-on-demand or in short runs that will cover projected yearly demands. Some works, such as the classics — Shakespeare, Poe, Plato, The Christian Bible, and so on — will always have people who want them physically sitting on their books shelves so they can occasionally touch them, and thumb through their favorite passages. Or more likely so that visitors to their homes can see and admire them.

Large wall-mounted or self-standing computing displays will probably be cheap and ubiquitous 20+ years out, as will portable pad-sized readers of various kinds. That is, both something as big as you can practically fit in a house and something you can conveniently carry around in your hand while you go about your daily business. It is unlikely for practical physical reasons that large-screen portable devices will be all that common outside artistic or engineering niche communities. Thus, large-sized photo-books may still be produced along-side hard-bound literature for the collectors. (Everyone else will just look at them on their large wall-mounted or table-top screens.)

Cheap pulp-books will probably not completely disappear for quite a while out on the fringes of modern civilization, partly because all the old print-books will be dumped there. But the day will come, and not far off,  that there will be the ebook equivalent of pulp books. Perhaps mere throw-away novelties, having no more use than the paper hats occasionally showing up on New Years eve. And then forgot. But cheap none-the-less, as close to free as makes no difference, and then the days of print are finally done.

Six hundred years is not a bad run.

At least you are if you hold to the many-worlds interpretation of quantum physics.

Consider for a moment that your actions, if we hold to the validity of that interpretation, do in fact precipitate a fully formed universe in-situ, complete with at least one world containing over six billion sentient (sort of) human beings. If that is not the act reserved to the domain of a God, by traditional definitions, then please tell me what is?

That nagging feeling you have about yourself when you walk down a road in a new zone and a horde of creatures 20 levels your senior come running out of the woods to take a bite out of you.

Example usage: “Be careful of the reds on the other side of that bridge as your cross it — you’re looking mighty tasty there.”

The box, as it turns out, was a birthday gift. A place to hide away a manuscript from the light of day when my wife was not working on it.

I mention this because … it is so very dark outside tonight. And that has me wondering now, wondering whether it was I who burned in the script I see on the side of box (for it was so very long ago now)… and what language is this script?

I ordered a new Wacom tablet. They’re good for me to have around ’cause otherwise I tend to doodle all over the walls. And occasionally people if you stand still for too long. :-)

And you know what one of my very first thoughts about it all was? We may have accidentally saved our “stupid selves”* from an impending ice age. Ice ages come and go. It’s part of a complex cycle of nature, magnified by various out-gassings and geographic-based weather patterns of the Earth, but driven mainly by the solar output of our local Sun. I remember reading a few decades back how we were overdue for an ice age and thinking what could we do to stop such a thing? Well….

Honestly, one of the first things that occurred to me was reflective mylar sheets in space — all the rage in fringe-science for a while in its day, especially among the Russians who actually put up a small one for testing at one point. A thousand kilometers of taut reflective foil over our heads, keeping us warm on chilly days might be a way to go, but its tricky to maintain these things, and more expensive than you want to think about to actually haul up into orbit in the first place.

But aside from that, Carl Sagan had talked extensively about the Greenhouse Effects on Venus around that time — dense gases on the planet have it baking at 700 degrees (Fahrenheit). So it wasn’t far to go to start wondering if the runaway atmospheric processes on Venus could be used for good purpose here on Earth — that is, to keep an Ice Age at bay —  if we could just convince the major nations of the world to pump enough of the the stuff into the air somehow. And then it all dawns on you … as such an irony.

Just remember, if you encounter any extraterrestrials in the next few decades and the subject of Global Warming comes up, just say we did it all on purpose. It looks so much more impressive to leave them thinking we came together as species and terra-formed our world in a bid to protect our Civilization than — well, the Truth.

*Note: I’m a long-time misanthrope. That means, as a person, you probably horribly disappoint me in some way. So, try to do better in the future ok? Thanks.

1) Removed the pesky captchas previously required for commenting — they don’t really work well (if at all) in this day and age anyway. And added in Facebook, Twitter, etc automatic login/verification options. So if you want to comment now, it shouldn’t be so much of a hassle.

2) Changed the url structure to something a little less cryptic and a little more search engine friendly. I’m happy about that. I am NOT happy that I just lost all my Facebook LIKEs and sharing counts (as the urls are different now). Grr. Well, it needed to be done. Re-LIKE any posts you feel like. ;-)

So another thought occurred to me — why not do both? at the same time. That is, have 1st and 2nd units shoot the main two hour or so theatrical movie (ie, the short form), but 3rd and 4th units also shooting two to four extra hours on the same sets, with the same principal actors similar to a miniseries (ie, the long form). The extra footage would of necessity consist largely of greatly expanded dialog and character interactions, with limited additional effects sequences… but the interesting thing is you could have two separate (but synced) screenplays and a second director and editor working on the long form of the film. It could be a strange experience, the long form not having “extended” scenes persay, as you might expect, but cut completely differently, entirely new sequences replacing expected parts of the short form of the film in places. Different camera angles used between the different forms. Different sound effects and soundtracks in places or throughout.

Would that work? Remember back to David Lynch’s film version of Dune in ’84, and now also the Sci-Fi Channel’s 2000 mini-series version of Dune. Now imagine that they were made at the same time as part of the same production, with many or most of the same actors. Something of how this might play out perhaps then begins to be illuminated.

It wasn’t that many years ago that doing this wouldn’t have been particularly financially viable, but in this growing age of ubiquitous home theaters and dedicated media consumption, selling six+ hour long film forms of a story is no different that selling a boxed set of a mini-series. That is, it’s already somewhat commonplace. It’s only the filming of the movie and the mini-series simultaneously that is perhaps somewhat novel.

I never actually met Fred, face to face, but there was something in the words he spoke in his stories that lingered, that stayed with me, a small spark that kindles a strange fire to this day…. So for me it would be good to one day see a serious adaption of his work set to film. Whatever the form may be.

We make a choice — and the energies of a thousand sextillion suns explode up from the void into a replicant universe we step into.

What is the nature of the underlying fabric of existence that this can be true? What hyper-laws of physics allow such boundless energies to roam about unseen by human senses? How evanescent are these energies, once seeming so searing, across the universe, now lighter and lighter, bending so close to the framing of nothingness — as that which is still something —  can be.

And I think I’ve joined every writing-related site on the net this week. LOL. It’s fun. And definitely much lighter feeling than in years.

After I do a bit more sorting (and setup a new forums) going to settle down with my writing netbook, some yummies from last.fm and a zombie. A blue zombie that is. My favorite rum-flavoured beverage.

*It waves at you as you look over at it, happy to have played its modest part*

Then it dies.

*sob*

This is the kind of scenario that has some folk jumping up from a fitful sleep in the middle of the night screaming “NO!”

So what do you do to prevent this modern tale of tragedy?

NEVER RELY ON JUST ONE HARD DRIVE to store your writings. Storage devices are getting better and more reliable to be sure. The SSD (solid-state devices) that will probably become ubiquitous within the next 5-10 years (relegating the older spinning magnetic devices to the category of cheap mass backup storage) are certainly more rugged. And the even more rugged optical solid-state devices lurking on the fringes of technology may surpass those one day.

For now though, just assume your hard drive is going to die sometime between right now (*hang* *cry* *cry*) and 5 plus years out. Flip some dice as to when that is going to occur. Sometimes you get lucky and you will get warnings that something’s wrong, but don’t count on it.

So THE BEST STRATEGY TO SAVE YOUR WRITINGS IS TO SPREAD MULTIPLE COPIES OF THEM FAR AND WIDE. If you have a relatively recent copy of all your WIPs (writing in progress) on every machine you own — and that your writing partner owns — then you can rest somewhat easier. It’s very unlikely the hard drives of all those machines will fail at the same time. [sans earthquakes, tsunamis, floods, forest-fires, nuclear wars, extinction-event asteroid strikes, etc etc of course]

That may sound like a lot of work though. Manually backing up everything. You’re going to forget for months at a time. Just admit it now and move on. So… you’re going to need to automate this seed-spreading activity. There’s a couple ways.

1) GET AN EXTERNAL BACKUP DRIVE. They’re not too expensive and usually just plug straight into the USB (or ESATA if you’re lucky). If you’re on a Mac, you’re good to go, as you have the Time Machine app (automatic file backup) as part of the Mac OS. If you’re on Windows or Ubuntu/Linux, you have tons of options for backup software, but usually whatever comes with your drive is best. Several of them have software that mimics how Mac’s Time Machine works. That is — it automatically backs up your files without you having to remember to tell it to. And the better ones keep all the different versions of the files you’ve created.

They still die unexpectedly though. More often than your main drive in fact, as they are usually in a cramped box with poor ventilation or just not rugged enough to be lugged around in a messenger bag for long.

So DO NOT USE THEM AS YOUR PRIMARY DRIVE. (*winks at someone named Gio.* ;)

2) SAVE IT ON THE INTERNET (or IN THE CLOUD). This is a good option. If your house is demolished early one morning by accident, don’t panic. All your precious text is saved … well, it’s somewhere out there on the ‘net supposedly anyway. As soon as you buy a new computer and login hopefully you can get a copy of it all back.

It’s also nice to just let someone else worry about backing up the data on redundant hard drive systems etc.

Don’t rely on it though. There have been more than a few reports lately of people doing just that only to find out their online backup provider had all their “stuff” sitting on a single hard drive. Which failed. And they hadn’t ever backed the data up. *Oops*.

I use scrivener for writing. If you’re serious about writing (and own a computer) you probably know what that is. Now a very popular option among scrivener users is a bit of software called dropbox, and for good reason. Dropbox automatically syncs (backs up) a folder on your computer to the dropbox servers. Better still, if you install dropbox on every computer you own (and use the same dropbox account on them) then every computer you own will auto-magically get everything in that folder copied to all these other computers. (Note: They do have to be turned on course.)

This is great, because I can work on a story outside on my netbook — I keep all my writing in the magic dropbox folder and edit it there — and it will automatically be copied to my desktop computer. [TIP: If you just turned your desktop on after coming in, give it a minute or two to download the changes from the dropbox servers, else frustration will ensue. ;]

3) INSTALL BACKUP SOFTWARE. And have it spit copies of your work out to every dark cranny you’re connected to. By that I mean, you should embrace the strategy of having copies of your work on multiple hard drives by having backup software make a copy of your writing folder to everyone of those said hard drives. Even if they are on different machines. Preferably a full zipped-up copy. And once a day. Backing it up to a 2nd hard drive in your computer is good. Backing it up (across the lan) to a hard drive on your spouses, siblings, and/or house-mates computers are even better.

I’ve tried several backup softwares and the one I ended up using was Cobian Backup. It just annoyed me the least of any of the others, is why.

PRO TIP: If you’re on a netbook/laptop, buy a SDHC card (they’re the little memory sticks mostly used by cameras these days). 16GB or better (plenty of room). Class 10 or better (that means it’s fast enough to record full HD video). Take this SDHC card, put it in your netbook/laptop and just leave it there. Have your backup software do daily backups to it.

I do this, and the thing I like about this tactic is that I’ve always got a recent physical duplicate of my writing I can grab and stick in a new netbook if my old one suddenly dies. And also the tiny SDHC cards aren’t a hassle to carry around like an external hard drive would be.

Well, hope this ends up helping you one dark, scary day. ;)

(Yes, I’m post-mac. And happy about it.)

I’m aiming to publish it as an ebook in June. (Print is being chased up the steps to the guillotine as you read this, ya know. Welcome to 2011.)

While it’s out having the final draft critiqued I plan on spending a couple days to film/edit an appropriate book trailer to accompany it, assuming sufficient cos-players/friends/people-who-stand-in-one-place-too-long and locales can be found. I may have as much fun doing the After Effects visuals for it as writing the book in the first place. ;-)

But another curious thought is, what if this brane is currently moving away from us? What if it is bounding away now, after an earlier collision which incited the event we know as “The Big Bang”? Interesting to think about.

Is dark matter simply the gravitational influence of other branes? That would explain so much… and also imply we are coupled with several branes whose “matter” distribution pattern may be roughly similar because of the entangled dragging.

Take the concept of dimensions in space-time. You do realize there really isn’t any such thing as 3 dimensional space? Look around you — there are no X, Y and Z coordinates there. No perfect vector lines stretching out into infinity, or planes deformed by n-sum masses traveling along other vectors. It is convenient to predict or explain — but none of it actually exists. Not in that form anyway.

The true nature of reality, if you strip away all of the mathematics and concepts, looking at it naked, as it is, no symbols, no words, no colors, no sounds, only pure motion, action, connection — but with all the collected experience and knowledge from long ages of struggle you possess — What is there if you look? That is the question you should ask yourself. And answer honestly and without bias, the best that you can.

There is a danger in living too much in mathematics (and by extension the classic scientific method) and that is of course that it blinds you to the truth, what is real. Advances in knowledge can come about working with symbolic models to help pull us through areas we do not yet understand, but true leaps often will occur only when one steps back, pushes the models off to the side and truly tries to understand a thing for what it is. Or that is, to borrow a word old now, _Grok_ it.

Meanwhile. High above the real world. Many minds mull. And conceive, of beautiful, perfect, interlocking spheres….

Once, a long time ago now, I considered myself a Christian, and a Republican. But that was simply me learning from the environment around me. I was always good at that. I felt like a chameleon sometimes, picking up others accents and mannerisms after a while.

But that was long ago, I’ve tried on many different religions and ways of thought. For a time I would have even called myself an atheist. That is to say, I whole-mindedly believed the concept of a God or Gods, as the various religions that wander through the world depict, were one of the most ridiculous things we near-apes could believe in. And easily explainable away as a by-product of our biology shaping societal conventions, and limited minds dogmatically elevating them to a comforting truth, reinforced by the masses — all to shield our awareness from the absolute horror of the total undeluded awareness of our solitary existence.

Now, I just don’t care about anything that calls its self a Religion. For Religion is an old thing to me. And, as presented by any society, should be dismissed out of hand entirely as it only clouds the Truth.

So… I’m relieved to be beyond most of it, finally, creeping along under the waves… peering up at a distant distorted sun. And waiting, just waiting, for a passing ship … and a chance to leap so very high.

I don’t recall one of God’s 10 Commandments making any mention of homosexuals, and I also don’t recall Jesus having a sermon on the mount decrying the evils of gay folk. So if God didn’t think it was an important enough issue to have Moses carve it in stone, and Jesus didn’t feel like it was important enough to dedicate a sermon or a parable to, then that does seem to indicate that, if God/Jesus themselves don’t condone being gay, then it’s more of a misdemeanor offense than a felony.

Which is why I don’t get it when some religious people want to kill or harm other people because they’re gay. The killing part is definitely mentioned in the 10 Commandments as something God says you shouldn’t do. And the hating part is definitely against the message that Jesus preached. So, while being gay may or may not be slightly offensive to God/Jesus, the killing them is definitely going against God/Jesus and is a damnable act.

Not that I’m Gay or even Religious, persay. Or, being a misanthrope as I am, particularly care or find it shocking. But it is something you just have to stand back and throw your hands up about….

One thing I’ve learned about writing is that I tend to be too much a perfectionist. Endlessly revising and editing and changing, and contemplating every sentence and it’s relation to everything that has ever been written or said or thought. Which is fine once the first rough draft is done, but before then it tends to weigh down the rushing wheel-barrel of thought, grinding it down into the dirt till the entire thing threatens to flip over, spilling the cargo across the ground, pages carried off into the wind.

So I’m doing something different this time. An experiment. I’m doing the rough in a semi-screenplay format. I tend to think in visual/emotional scenes anyway. In this way, I can put down the scenes that play out in my head more rapidly and flesh them out into proper word sequences later on.

There’s also another reason I’m doing it that way. We’re gearing up to make indie scifi/horror films and those require screenplays. We’re close to finalizing the screenplay of first 10m-ish short horror film. And we got an aiptek h5 for shooting test 1080p video to run through adobe after effects/premiere cs5. We’re most likely getting an eos 7d for the actual shoot as it seems to be able to shoot some very high-quality color 24p hd in low light situations (which we’re going to have in abundance).

During the next month, aside from the novel, I’m going to switch out and spend a little time finishing the rough screenplay of a short sci-fi/horror film (it will be the 2nd film we do).

And contemplating various aspects of theoretical science that will show up in the stories. See, all these things do tie into each other: writing novels, screenplays and contemplations of science.

So we got really lost the other weekend and ended up driving to Maryland. (10 hours away — hey, I don’t like to stop and ask for directions you know?) On the otherside of a field we found ourselves driving through, we spotted a renaissance festival so decided to stop for a day or two and get a few drinks. We needed them by then.

Any place you and everyone else can wander around at totally wasted all day while people come up and try to entertain you … well, that ain’t so bad eh?

Fortunately some kind knights eventually road up towards us, sensing our somewhat mild by that time distress over being lost in unknown lands, and offered to ride with us a while till we were pointed in the right direction home.

Knoxville Horror Film Festival

So, we saw Colin last night (Saturday) at the Knoxville Horror Film Festival (Year 2). Not a bad showing at the festival btw, at it’s peak the place was threating to become … “crowded”. Anyway, Colin … it’s a $70 Indie UK movie from the perspective of a zombie.  (There was a Zombie Walk previous/during the film festival btw, so a smattering of zombies would occasionally shamble through the open door of the festival, usually during the more gory bits on the screen — a little surreal.)

But as to the movie itself, there were several long sections that where quite good, where you’d forget it was a no budget movie by people who had never made a feature movie before. The actor playing Colin essentially carried the movie with his body language and facial expressions.

There were two big issues with the film though. 1) The gratuitous gore. Mainly the big zombie crowd sequence in the house that seems to go on for 10 minutes. It was ridiculous that they weren’t killed within the first 10 seconds in a room wall-to-wall with zombies. “This is boring and it’s giving me a headache” was a sentiment I shared with my wife. I can see why the film makers would want it in their debut zombie movie. I can see why they would think that it’s even required to have the scene, and to try to push it to the point it becomes the classic reference scene that would show up everytime someone mentions “zombie mobs” in the media from now on. But honestly, once it goes to mainstream release it would play much better if 3/4th of the scene was cut out (mostly the beginning parts), and simply moved to the DVD extras as a treat for hardcore zombie fans. As is, it drops me out of the movie at this point. Which isn’t a good thing at all. One of the hardest things for film makers (and authors of any kind) to come to grips with is the need to remove scenes they may have spent a lot of time and effort on because it harms the movie as a whole.

The other issue 2) is large parts of the movie are too bloody dark to see anything. They might as well have just turned off the projector through these bits for all the difference it made. This may have been artistic, may have been an issue with the projection system at KHFF… but I’m guessing the low budget camera the photographer of the movie was complaining about is the culprit. It probably just couldn’t handle low light situations very well at all.

Zombie movie? Where?

The thought was, what happens if you think about wave-particle duality with the assumption that what you witness is not an entity of some sort existing in space-time, but space-time itself. That is, to be more clear, think not of a point (particle) or a wave, but a funnel shaped distortion in space-time. [Are you racing ahead of what I'm saying already? Good. But for those of you who haven't had a gestalt moment...]

The constricted end of the funnel will act effectively like a point/particle in regards to it’s interactions. The other end, the wide opening, will act across a wider area of space-time, effectively acting like a wave ripple.

So there is no classic “duality” per-say, but what is being observed is more akin to the problem of trying to “see” a tesseract (a 4-dimensional object) when one is limited to 3-dimensional perceptions.

More about this later, and some of the ramifications including musings on monopolar light and space-time.

Mountains of Madness, er, Mountain Madness Film Festival

So the wife and I are planning on making a low-budget short horror film. Wait, come back. I meant a good little horror film, not the grade B- stuff you normally think about when someone says something like that.

Wife’s written a screenplay. Doing some more drafts, fleshing out some story boards. Bought a cheap 1080p camera to do test shots with. Scouting scenes, etc. Should be fun.

Curiously enough, the 1st annual Mountain Madness Film Festival (http://www.mmfilmfestival.com/) was held in Gatlinburg this weekend. So we went up to check it out and see what other film-making folk in the area might be doing. Between conflicting schedules, horrendous tourist traffic and half starving (because of the aforementioned traffic) we didn’t get to see as much as we’d hoped, but it was fun never-the-less.

Next time we’re going local and plotting out the back roads in advance though. :P

Aside from observations on the blog, working on a short sci-fi/horror story and a book (sci-fi of course, somewhat in the vein of Arthur C. Clarke et al.)

… And I still only have one. Must work on that.

And the truth?

1. WE EXIST

The knee-jerk reaction many people will have (if they’ve thought about it before) is to go into listing all the possible other ways we could exist beyond the most apparent one, i.e. that we are only someone else’s’ dream, that the world is an illusion, and so forth.

None of that matters, and it misses the point.

The details of how we exist and the form are irrelevant. The one undeniable truth is simply that we exist. Period.

You can argue against it all you want, but if your mind is open you will eventually relent to that truth.

As a species we seem to be so incapable of disembodied, but informed objective rational thought most of the time.

c.g. any thread that mentions wanting to remotely admin linux with a GUI instead of a CLI

This presents the opportunity for a lead character to mention a stargate trifecta (consisting of alternate realty, alternate dimension and time travel), on one hand referring to events occurring in-story, while surreptitiously breaking the third wall and humorously referencing the series itself.

This is not something that could be done easily (or with any regularity) in properties such as Star Trek or Star Wars. For obvious reasons.

You would think that after all this time has passed since it’s conception that people would by now be constructing poems which, of themselves originally, may have not had any real meaning, but were built with fertile imagery and cross-movement style sufficient enough that random passing readers would find some deep hidden meaning in them. That said meaning was not the foundation of the poem and only a shaped reflection of the readers own searchings being the point of course.

But there seems very little available in this regard.

Strange…

2009 nov 16

This should be fun. Should have done this years ago.

(And FYI, yes, tennesseefolk.com is my domain. Basically the wife and I are using it to host various misc personal/community related items these days.)

They’re just so very cool.

This is “Koo”. He’s a red Betta. His name comes from the classic Russian science fiction film http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kin-dza-dza!. (As to what the word “koo” actually means … well, that’s a long story. And it would rather much ruin the film if I just told you.)

His tank-mate (Scrubby) is a scared orange bottom feeder that mostly hides in his hollowed out coconut I gave him. (From which he stares at me with one eye day and night and day … and night … It gets creepy after a while.)

(I’m actually just looking across the road up into a cave out front of our local artisans/hillbilly-potters.)

We went out of our way (by several hundred miles) to try to catch the Pluto Express as it was launched from Kennedy. No luck though. Delays. Naturally of course, as these things will always happen, it finally got off the ground just about the time we pulled out on the road heading back to Tennessee. :)

A povray 3.1 model of a blue cat condo.

My cats made me put their favorite objects up here: The catcondo with fully articulated carpeting is a favorite as it took several hours to work out the math to mesh all the carpet fibers around the object. And yes, the fibers are all seperate objects.

Code:

///catcondo.pov
// 1024×768 AA 0.3 for computer speed comparisons
//susy’s cat condo 1998
// lsellers@usit.net http://www.public.usit.net/~lsellers http://www.intrafoundation.com
// 2001 nov. tweaked slightly under povray 3.5beta7

#declare highquality=1; //0=fast low quality, 1=realistic computational expensive model/lighting (slow)

//
#declare T_LightWood =
texture {
pigment {
wood
color_map {
[0.0 color rgb<.85, .65, .51>]
[0.9 color rgb<.75, .50, .45>]
[1.0 color rgb<.55, .36, .34>]
}
turbulence 0.12
octaves 3
scale <0.05, .05, 1>
rotate <4,3,0>
}
finish {
diffuse 0.9
brilliance 1
specular .5
roughness .5
}
}
#declare T_BlueCarpet =
texture {
pigment {
color rgb<.5,.5,1>
}
normal {
quilted 1
turbulence 0.4
}
normal {
granite .1
turbulence 0
}
finish {
diffuse 0.9
brilliance .5
}
scale .1
}

camera {
location  <0,2.5,-2.5>
//    look_at   <0,1,0>
look_at   <.5,1,0>
angle 60
}

light_source { <4,5,-6> color rgb<1,1,1> }

#if (highquality=1)
media { scattering { 3 rgb<.1,.1,.1> }}
#end

plane {
y, 0
pigment { checker pigment{ rgb<1,1,1>}, pigment{ rgb<0,0,0>} }
scale .5
finish { reflection 0 }
hollow
}
plane {
z, 4
pigment { checker pigment{ rgb<1,1,1>}, pigment{ rgb<0,0,0>} }
scale .5
finish { reflection 0 }
hollow
}

//catcondo 1.2d 1.9h .9hole
//susy’s cat condo by lewis sellers 1.2d 1.9h .9hole
#declare catcondo = union {
difference {
cylinder {<0,0,0>,<0,1.9,0>, .6}

cylinder {<0,1.8,0>,<0,1.91,0>, .5} //top
cylinder {<0,.2,0>,<0,1.7,0>, .5 texture{T_LightWood}} //cavity
cylinder {<0,-.01,0>,<0,.1,0>, .5 texture{T_LightWood}} //bottom

cylinder {<0,.55,-2>,<0,.55,0>, .325} //bottom hole
cylinder {<0,1.35,-2>,<0,1.35,0>, .325} //upper hole
}
intersection { //make ledge
box {<-1,.9,-1>,<1,1.0,0>}
cylinder {<0,.2,0>,<0,1.7,0>, .5} //cavity
}

#if (highquality=1)
//start seed
#declare s=seed(131);

// the main exterior minus cat holes. dist=sqr( (x1-x0)2 + (y1-y0)2 )
#declare obs=0;
#while (obs <= pi*2)

//speed optimization by cache
#declare cx=cos(obs)*.6;
#declare cz=sin(obs)*.6;
#declare cx2=cos(obs)*.63;
#declare cz2=sin(obs)*.63;

#declare oby=0;
#while (oby <= 1.9)

#declare justdoit=1;

#if (oby>.225 & oby<.875)
#declare l=vlength(<cx,oby-.55,cz-(-.6)>);
#if(l<.325)
#declare justdoit=0;
#end
#end

#if (oby>1.025 & oby<1.675)
#declare l=vlength(<cx,oby-1.35,cz-(-.6)>);
#if(l<.325)
#declare justdoit=0;
#end
#end

#if (justdoit=1)
cylinder { <cx,oby,cz>, <cx2+(rand(s)*.01),oby+(rand(s)*.025),cz2+(rand(s)*.01)>, .01 }
#end

#declare oby=oby+.0125;
#end

#declare obs=obs+pi/128;
#end

// inner flat top
#declare obx=0;
#declare obs_i=0;
#declare cc=0;
#while (obx <= .5)
#declare obs=0;
#declare cc=cc+1;
#declare obs_i=obs_i+1; //variable density
#while (obs <= pi*2)
cylinder { <cos(obs)*obx,1.8,sin(obs)*obx>, <cos(obs)*obx+(rand(s)*.01),1.83,sin(obs)*obx+(rand(s)*.01)>, .01 }
#declare obs=obs+pi/obs_i;
#end
#declare obx=obx+.0125;
#end

// outer flat top
#declare obx=.5;
#while (obx <= .6)
#declare obs=0;
#while (obs <= pi*2)
cylinder { <cos(obs)*obx,1.9,sin(obs)*obx>, <cos(obs)*obx+(rand(s)*.01),1.93,sin(obs)*obx+(rand(s)*.01)>, .01 }
#declare obs=obs+pi/128;
#end
#declare obx=obx+.0125;
#end

// top inner horiz ring
#declare oby=1.8;
#while (oby <= 1.9)
#declare obs=0;
#while (obs <= pi*2)
cylinder { <cos(obs)*.5,oby,sin(obs)*.5>, <cos(obs)*.47+(rand(s)*.01),oby+(rand(s)*.025),sin(obs)*.47+(rand(s)*.01)>, .01 }
#declare obs=obs+pi/128;
#end
#declare oby=oby+.0125;
#end

// ledge
#declare obx=0;
#declare obs_i=0;
#declare cc=0;
#while (obx <= .5)
#declare obs=pi;
#declare cc=cc+1;
#declare obs_i=obs_i+1; //variable density
#while (obs <= pi*2)
cylinder { <cos(obs)*obx,1,sin(obs)*obx>, <cos(obs)*obx+(rand(s)*.01),1.03,sin(obs)*obx+(rand(s)*.01)>, .01 }
#declare obs=obs+pi/obs_i;
#end
#declare obx=obx+.0125;
#end

// bottom cat hole <0,.55,-.6> .325
#declare obs=0;
#while (obs <= pi*2)
#declare obz=-.60;

#declare cx=cos(obs)*.325; //cache x base
#declare cy=sin(obs)*.325+0.55; //cache y base
#declare cx2=cos(obs)*.295; //cache x2 base
#declare cy2=sin(obs)*.295+0.55; //cache y2 base

#while (obz <= -.50)
#declare obz_m=obz+abs(cos(obs)*.1)+.001; //cutting the cat hole into a cylinder doesn’t give a perfect ring. must mod depth
#declare obz=obz+.0125;
cylinder { <cx, cy, obz_m>, <cx2+(rand(s)*.01), cy2+(rand(s)*.01), obz_m+(rand(s)*.025)>, .01}
#end

#declare obs=obs+pi/128;
#end

// top cat hole <0,1.35,-.6> .325
#declare obs=0;
#while (obs <= pi*2)
#declare obz=-.60;

//speed optimization by caching
#declare cx=cos(obs)*.325; //cache x base
#declare cy=sin(obs)*.325+1.35; //cache y base
#declare cx2=cos(obs)*.295; //cache x2 base
#declare cy2=sin(obs)*.295+1.35; //cache y2 base

#while (obz <= -.50)
#declare obz_m=obz+abs(cos(obs)*.1)+.001; //cutting the cat hole into a cylinder doesn’t give a perfect ring. must mod depth
#declare obz=obz+.0125;
cylinder { <cx, cy, obz_m>, <cx2+(rand(s)*.01), cy2+(rand(s)*.01), obz_m+(rand(s)*.025)>, .01}
#end

#declare obs=obs+pi/128;
#end
#end

texture {T_BlueCarpet}
}

object{catcondo rotate<0,0,0> translate<0,0,0> }

/*
#declare c=0
#declare py=-10
#while (py < 10)
#declare px=-10
#while (px < 10)
object{catcondo rotate<0,degrees(cos(c)),0> translate<px,0,py> }
#declare c=c+pi/10
#declare px=px+2
#end
#declare py=py+2
#end
*/

Date: October 12 1998 09:12 PM

// cat tail rocker by Lewis Sellers, 1998.
// lsellers@usit.net http://www.public.usit.net/~lsellers http://www.intrafoundation.com

#declare highquality=1; //0=fast low quality, 1=realistic computational expensive model/lighting (slow)

// define textures
#declare T_HardWood =
texture {
pigment {
wood
color_map {
[0.0 color rgb<.75, .55, .41>]
[0.9 color rgb<.65, .40, .35>]
[1.0 color rgb<.45, .26, .24>]
}
turbulence 0.3
octaves 3
scale <0.05,.05,1>
rotate <8,4,2>
}
finish {
diffuse 0.9
reflection 0.1
brilliance 1
specular .5
roughness .5
}
}

#declare T_OakWood =
texture {
pigment {
wood
color_map {
[0.0 color rgb<.85, .65, .51>]
[0.9 color rgb<.75, .50, .45>]
[1.0 color rgb<.55, .36, .34>]
}
turbulence 0.12
octaves 3
scale <0.05, .05, 1>
rotate <4,3,0>
}
finish {
diffuse 0.9
//reflection 0.1
brilliance 1
specular .5
roughness .5
}
}

#declare T_SmoothOakWood =
texture {
pigment {
wood
color_map {
[0.0 color rgb<.85,  .65, .51>]
[0.9 color rgb<.75,  .50, .45>]
[1.0 color rgb<.55, .36, .34>]
}
turbulence 0.12
octaves 3
scale <0.05, .05, 1>
rotate <4,3,0>
}
finish {
diffuse 1.0
reflection 0.2
brilliance 1
specular .6
roughness .1
}
}

#declare T_Stucco =
texture {
pigment {
wrinkles
color_map {
[0.0 color rgb<.7,.7,.7>]
[0.9 color rgb<.6,.6,.6>]
[1.0 color rgb<.4,.4,.4>]
}
turbulence 0.3
octaves 3
scale <1,1,1>
rotate <8,4,2>
}
finish {
diffuse 0.9
}
}

//the simple room
//floor
box {<-10,-1,-10>,<5,0,4> texture {T_HardWood} }
//the walls
box {<-11,-1,3>,<5,8,4> texture {T_Stucco} }
box {<-10,-1,3>,<-11,8,-17> texture {T_Stucco} }

//rocking chair. all struts are .05w slats are .2w
#declare rc_rearpost = lathe {
linear_spline
9,
<0,0>, <.05,0>, <.1,.5>, <.1,4.7>, <.05,4.8>, <.1,4.9>, <.1,5.1>, <.05,5.15>, <0,5.2>
texture{T_OakWood rotate<90,90,0>}
}
#declare rc_forepost = lathe {
linear_spline
6,
<0,0>, <.05,0>, <.1,.5>, <.1,2.25>, <.05,2.5>, <0,2.5>
texture{T_OakWood rotate<90,90,0>}
}
#declare rc_slat =
box { //slat n
<-.1,2.2,.97>,<.1,4.0,1.03>
texture{T_OakWood rotate<90,90,0>}
}
#declare rc_seatslat =
difference {
box {<-.09,0,-.93>,<.09,.1,.93>}
box {<-.1,0,0>,<.1,.1,.5> rotate<-15,0,0> translate<0,0,-.93>}
texture{T_SmoothOakWood}
}

#declare rc_leftarm = union {
difference {
box {<-.2,0,0>,<.1,.1,2.4>}
box {<-.21,-.1,1>,<-.1,.2,2.6>}
cylinder {<-.15,-.11,1>,<-.15,.11,1>,.05}
}
cylinder {<-.05,0,0>,<-.05,.1,0>,.15}
texture{T_SmoothOakWood}
}
#declare rc_rightarm = union {
difference {
box {<.2,0,0>,<-.1,.1,2.4>}
box {<.21,-.1,1>,<.1,.2,2.6>}
cylinder {<.15,-.11,1>,<.15,.11,1>,.05}
}
cylinder {<.05,0,0>,<.05,.1,0>,.15}
texture{T_SmoothOakWood}
}
#declare rc_roundbrace =
intersection {
difference {
cylinder {<0,0,-.05>,<0,0,.05>,2.1}
cylinder {<0,0,-.06>,<0,0,.06>,2.0}
translate<0,2.1,0>
}
box {<-1,-1,-.2>,<1,1,.2> rotate<0,0,45>}
}
#declare rc_rocker = union {
intersection {
difference {
cylinder {<0,0,-.05>,<0,0,.05>,2.1}
cylinder {<0,0,-.06>,<0,0,.06>,2.0}
translate<0,2.1,0>
}
box {<-1.75,-1.75,-.2>,<1.75,1.75,.2> rotate<0,0,45>}
}
rotate<0,90,0>
}
#declare rockingchair = union {
union {
//rear
object {rc_rearpost translate<-.9,0,1>}
object {rc_rearpost translate<.9,0,1>}

//fore
object {rc_forepost translate<-.9,0,-1>}
object {rc_forepost translate<.9,0,-1>}

//struts
cylinder {<-.9,.5,-1>,<.9,.5,-1>,.05} //low fore
cylinder {<-.9,1.5,-1>,<.9,1.5,-1>,.05} //high fore
cylinder {<-.9,1,1>,<-.9,1,-1>,.05} //left
cylinder {<.9,1,1>,<.9,1,-1>,.05} //right

//seat
//box {<-.9,1.6,-1>,<.9,1.7,1>}
object {rc_seatslat rotate<0,0,-20> translate<-.8,1.6+.20,0>}
object {rc_seatslat rotate<0,0,-15> translate<-.6,1.6+.13,0>}
object {rc_seatslat rotate<0,0,-10> translate<-.4,1.6+.07,0>}
object {rc_seatslat rotate<0,0,-5> translate<-.2,1.6+.05,0>}
object {rc_seatslat rotate<0,0,0> translate<0,1.6+0,0>}
object {rc_seatslat rotate<0,0,5> translate<.2,1.6+.05,0>}
object {rc_seatslat rotate<0,0,10> translate<.4,1.6+.07,0>}
object {rc_seatslat rotate<0,0,15> translate<.6,1.6+.13,0>}
object {rc_seatslat rotate<0,0,20> translate<.8,1.6+.20,0>}

//back lattice
box {<-.8,4.0,.95>,<.8,4.1,1.05>} //top
object {rc_slat translate<-.5,0,0>}
object {rc_slat translate<-.2,0,0>}
object {rc_slat translate<.2,0,0>}
object {rc_slat translate<.5,0,0>}
box {<-.8,2.1,.95>,<.8,2.2,1.05>} //bottom

//back head board
difference {
cylinder {<-.8,4.5,1>,<.8,4.5,1>,.2}
box {<-.85,4.2,.9>,<.85,4.8,.7>}
box {<-.85,4.2,1.1>,<.85,4.8,1.3>}
}

//left arm
object {rc_leftarm translate<-.9,2.5,-1.5>}

//right arm
object {rc_rightarm translate<.9,2.5,-1.5>}

//back brace
object {rc_roundbrace translate<0,1.5,-.9>}

//fore brace
object {rc_roundbrace translate<0,1.5,.9>}

rotate<0,0,0>
translate<0,.3,0>
}
//rockers
object {rc_rocker translate<-.9,0,0>}
object {rc_rocker translate<.9,0,0>}

texture {T_OakWood}
}

//ok. put the chairs on the floor
object{rockingchair rotate<0,0,0> translate<0,0,0> }
object{rockingchair rotate<0,-42,0> translate<-5,0,0> }
//object{rockingchair rotate<-90,45,0> translate<-2,1,-2> }
//object{rockingchair rotate<0,-45,0> translate<3,0,0>}

//our lighting…. we have two choices

//this renders quickly
#if (highquality=0)
light_source { <5,5,-5> color rgb<1,1,1> fade_distance 5}
#end

//this renders slowly, but looks much better
#if (highquality=1)
light_source { <10,10,-9.5>, color rgb<1,.99,.9> area_light x*6,y*6,3,3 jitter fade_distance 5}
//media { scattering { 3 rgb<.1,.1,.1> }}
#end

camera {
//    location <2,4,-1>
//    look_at  <0,2.5,-1>

//    location <2,4,-1>
//    look_at  <0,2.5,0>

//    location <.5,3,-1>
//    look_at  <0,2.5,0>

location  <3, 4, -6>
look_at   <-.5, 2.5, 0>

//location  <11, 11, -6>
//look_at   <-.5, 2.5, 0>
}

There was no plot. There was no plan. Faces waiting stared out in stillness from the long drawn darkness.
“What is wind?” someone asked.
“A cool essence, invisible, that caresses me when I’m alone,” was the sweet exuberant response.
“Oh,” someone replied, with a hushed of-course-I-should-have-known-that tone.
There was wind.
“Thank you,” the soft voice whispered, melting like liquid into faint furling echoes of the sweeping, nearly silent wind.
“You are welcome!” he smiled, basking in the wind. “And, by the way – you are not alone.”
After a while, however, the constant wind began to chill him. By then he knew he was quite alone.

Copyright © 1991, Lewis A. Sellers. All Rights Reserved.

[A short story by Lewis A. Sellers Sept 11 1991 4-6pm]

When he rose again, he stretched his mouth wide as if to both laugh and, perhaps at the same time, tear savagely into that heavy darkness draped over all things. No where in the twilight shrouded forest stirred any living thing. No noise wound through the vine-tangled trees but the occasional hysterical wind — a wind that carried no sounds he wanted to hear, a wind that betrayed him with every wistful turn.

Come dawn he descended into the valley, sure now he was heading south again. The last Cong he?d encountered had been a full two days and sixty clips back. Or something like that it seemed. Not that it mattered. Just keep going south, and someday ?

Crawling quickly on forearms from tree to tree, he stopped to hole-up down near a clearing that gave a good unobstructed view cross the valley. No camp smoke. No bomb-blasted dead lands. Naw, he smiled, scratching his burly beard, naw, wouldn’t fall for it again. There’d be machine-gun mounts at the top of the hill — ten thousand Cong dug into the hillside too, far underground, just waiting for him. He knew it. There always was. They couldn’t really think they’d trip him up again. No. Ardently he shook his head in satisfaction at that sentiment, and wrung his rusty tags in sweat.

Silently his weapon slid from a makeshift holder on his back. Twenty-two rounds for his M16 he quietly counted. Just keep going south and someday he?d hear the sweet swishing of the chopper coming to bring him home again.  Someday, he mouthed,  someday, and crawled quietly cross the valley floor as other mouths stretched wide to smile. ]]> http://lewisasellers.com/5/the-abandonment/feed/ 0 http://lewisasellers.com/1/hello-world/ http://lewisasellers.com/1/hello-world/#comments Fri, 06 Sep 1991 15:16:27 +0000 Lewis A. Sellers http://lasellers.tennesseefolk.com/?p=1 [A short story by Lewis A. Sellers (Sept 6 1991 10:16am)]

And as the sun rolled over the mountains of the Earth, she fell asleep at last. Katherine’s hair flowed through the fields with the whispering winds that blew out from the trees on the far mountain’s edge.

“What are you doing?” asked the grass that frolicked at her naked feet. But she did not answer. The sun shone down too warmly upon her soft cheeks. Katherine could but linger while the coming warmth stirred the morning air.

“Katherine, what are you doing?” softly spoke the blue skies. Her eyes awoke to see their beauty, but the sky was seen to be obstructed. Dressed in the morning’s darkness, a man knelt, eyes of fire, moving his hands softly over hers. And under. And embraced them more.

“Silly girl, what are you doing?” His voice was kind laughter. There was no malice save she could not see into his mind. He did not rise always as the sun, only sometimes, or much too often. His eyes did not always flow down, but more than occasionally up to the farthest skies, where of he would speak of things she could not see . . . though she tried . . . and sometimes taunted him from on high even as he struggled.

No, he was a mystery, but rarely harsh, at least to her — on occasion though, far off the townsfolk of the mountains cried when he would visit them again. And sometimes linger on for many days.

Still, the sun came up, and he came back and told her always it would be so. So Katherine sleeps below her sun at night, and bids the winds to blow.

Run away, run away, to the silent shores
             of the stillpoint we shall go
And in the forests and in the fields
          and burn them while the blind hand kills
men and mountain, God and whore
       the bloody swords we held high
           shall fall forever more
                  into the silence of the deep
        The mountains cry
           the winds will weep
       and we shall to the stillpoint flow
         and men shall laugh
                 and gods shall go . . .
             into the stillness of the night.

Copyright © 1991, Lewis A. Sellers. All Rights Reserved.

In the cold September air
while tree trunks glistened fair
none did hear the autumn come
none did fear the winter -- none
but sweet children in their eyes
looked and were quite surprised
as the leaves blew through and round
laughing in the languid sun
and color pouring everywhere
whereso their eyes did gaze
where then their hands did touch
and trembled only in the midst of all
enamored, enraptured in the rending fall.

Copyright © 1990, Lewis A. Sellers. All Rights Reserved.

Copyright © 1990, Lewis A. Sellers. All Rights Reserved.

Copyright © 1990, Lewis A. Sellers. All Rights Reserved.