A View on "Pharmacide"

A number of weeks ago, my professor (and, probably, my mentor as well) Grace Dillon had assigned for our Science Fiction class a weekly "dialog journal response," which is to say that we were expected to have actually read the material and have had an opinion about it or something pertaining to its general nature. She also opened the assignment up to more interpretation, however; If we were creators, we were allowed to create something every week to compensate for it. Of course, being a writer, I decided on that a story was in order. The result was Pharmacide.

The story itself is not finished, though I should have it completed shortly. I have a suspicion that I will want to submit this story and, seeing as how there are rights to publish and the like, I am not assured enough to know whether I can post the story in its entirety or not. Being as such, I have decided to put up the first two parts (mini-chapters, essentially) for your scrutiny. Please, comment on this story, reactions, ect. I am looking for feedback. Also, please note that there is more editing to be done with this story before it is in final draft, so some leeway will be appreciated.

Part I

The alarm clock buzzed; Dimitri had woken up late. Always fuckin' late he thought as he shot up, skipping a shower, and rushed down the hallway, disparately trying to get his black and brown slacks on both legs at the same time. The woman in the elevator found this show to be endlessly amusing.

As he stood in one of the long, single file lines to board the train that would take him across New Haven, Dimitri ceaselessly watched his state-issued watch, seeing the equisitely painted, bright red hands slowly inch towards the the larger, stationary ones that had been preset by the hospital to signify his appointed check-up time. The twenty-three year old both groaned and sighed at the same time, producing a sound that draw weary looks from his fellow line-waiters. To defuse the tension, he raised one hand, saying, “Don't worry, just a little stres-.”

There was a quick shuffle of people ahead as a man fell to the floor and started convulsing. While Dimitri watched, white foam began to come from the stricken man's mouth. Dimitri, looking at his watch, began counting to ten. It was said that no matter where you were in The Dome, the medics would get to you in ten seconds or less and this particular onlooker liked to test that theory, though he'd been disappointed to find it true thus far. Three, four, five he slowly sounded off in his mind. Looking around, he saw no one approaching and thought, with a slight giddiness, that today would be the day the record was broken. A quick look down told him there were only two seconds remaining when, as expected, three men in thick white suits and face-worn air purifiers calmly walked up, seemly in no particular hurry. Seeing this, Dimitri threw down his arm in disgust. He was annoyed they hadn't been late to help this man.

After the arrival of the medical personnel, the waiting line was reformed at a safe distance. Everyone observed the man's plight, though most were truly watching the medics, attempting to understand the enigma that lived behind the black goggles and masks. No one ever saw them when there wasn't someone to be tended to, so there was an almost angelic aura to their presence that few people found anything but enthralling (the few that did used this distraction to better their place in line). Soon, the man was placed on a litter and carried calmly to the exit by the three silent figures. They looked at each other every so often and bobbed their heads as though talking nonchalantly, yet no voice rang out.

Once they were out of earshot, the crowd was abuzz with rumors and gossip about the phantom medics, and even a little about the striken man. Most talk was of the workers' ability to be seemingly everywhere at once. “I hear they have teleporters, that's why they sometimes come out of those off-limits rooms!” said one women. Dimitri cringed at her wet and nasally voice as it smacked across his ears.

“No, they just use some sort of invisibility device. They're just always around, waiting. Hell, they're probably listening to us right now!” retorted an old, rough looking man in a suit.

The two began to argue, but Dimitri paid no attention. Like most, he was watching the four men off in the distance, now climbing the long staircase to the surface. He said a silent thanks, as they all did, to that man for boring the brunt so the rest of them may live.

That's how it worked in New Haven; you lived your life as well, and as clean, as possible. In the event that you were infected with illness, the medics came, scooped you up, and took you to the Medical Terminus, which remains as the largest hospital ever built. Once there, the disease was studied and anti-bodies and vaccines were produced. These were then added to the weekly injections given to the populace and the illness was stamped out. It was also well believed that the vaccine was then shipped out to the rest of the world and sold to protect those abroad. How else could AboMed afford to operate New Haven? As for the ill themselves, no one really knew. The rumors varied from them having their memories wiped and being assigned a new identity in another section of New Haven to drafting into the Security Corps and even to them receiving no treatment, dying, and their bodies being ground up and sold to the rebel communes in east Europe as animal feed.

Dimitri chuckled softly at the notion as he finally boarded his car. He slowly made his way to his seat, the same seat he sat in every week, and began staring out the same window. It wasn't so much that he particularly liked the seat or the view it afforded that he choose to sit there: the thing had his name written on it, as they all did. He didn't mind so much, however, as the conformity allowed his meal to arrive on time and to his specifications without having to deal with the hassle of ordering or any such nonsense.

Next to him was Ron, the pudgy nerd who was already asleep, giving off soft snores. He always used the four hour ride to catch up on sleep that he missed while in the simulators, or so was the story he had told a few months back when Dimitri struck up a conversation before Ron could get to his nap. He wasn't a terribly interesting man and quite cranky on that occasion, so Dimitri found it best to just leave him alone.

Sitting across the aisle and facing them was Jesse, a cute girl of fourteen. Today, however, her face was scrunched up in a heart-broken depression and the reason was apparent. The seat next to her, which belonged to her mother, Sharon, was vacant and the name plaque had been removed. She had obviously been stricken in the last week and hauled off, never to been seen from by her family again. Seeing this, Dimitri reached across and squeezed the young woman's knee. When she looked up, a new tear blazing another trail down her cheek, he smiled in a most reassuring way and said, “Don't worry, it's going to be alright. I'm sure where ever she is, she's happy.”

The statement had the intended effect and Jesse weakly smiled back and leaned over, giving him a hug. Of course, Dimitri doubted any would be okay and was sure Sharon was already either dead or doing hard labor somewhere, but he didn't let the poor girl know anything but confidence.

Part II

Phillip “Flip” Anderson hated his job, though it wasn't so much the work itself as all it stood for. As Medical Officer #361, he was tasked, as were the others of his profession, with moving the soon to be dead corpses of victims of a society they remembered nothing of; the tragedy that made modern medicine possible for the rest of the world.

“Flip, are you listening to me or not?” buzzed the voice of his group leader through the dilapidated speaker that had probably been put into these goggles when The Dome was first built. The most profitable business in the world, eh? he thought, absentmindedly replying, “Yes, Scott, I'm with you,” in the dullest groan he could muster.

“Hey, people's lives are at stake here! Don't you even care?” Scott Peters replied. Of course, he wasn't referring to the man who was currently vomiting all over his girlfriend's bedroom floor; like most nearing the end of their tenure, Scott saw this person as nothing but an active culture to harvest antibodies and vaccines from (not to mention the odd gene and organ). Instead, he was talking about the billions of people on the outside who relied on the medicines produced from this place for their daily survival from vicious diseases that mutated into new strains on a weekly basis.

Philip gave a smirk, though the facial purifier (or “mouth can” as they called them) protected him from another tongue lashing. “Let's just stabilize this one and get him out of here so the shrink can get on with her,” he said while nodding towards the victim's girlfriend who was, at this moment, having a severe panic attack due to being covered by her lover's bloody vomit.

“Yeah, I'm working on it.” Scott had tranquillized the man and stopped the puking and was now readying the rehydration bag that would be injected once Philip found the vein, a task which was apparently exceedingly difficult. After thirty seconds of waiting, Scott finally grabbed the needle and shoved him aside. “God, how many months have you been here now? You should still be practicing on dead fucking cadavers, Flip,” roared the captain as he plunged the thing deep into his arm.

Stepping back, Phillip rolled his eyes at the gruff man, much to the amusement of the third in the team, Claude, whose light chuckles draw a sharp glance from his leader. Scott was preparing the stricken to be taken to the hospital by rolling him onto a litter. Phillip realized as he took two of the handles that he knew little about either man with whom he worked twelve hours a day; they didn't live in the same structures and didn't spend any of their precious free time together. Of course, Flip only knew either on a first name basis, as was standard practice for The Dome's medical workers, though few truly understood what the intention of such a rule was. Flip cared little, however, and preferred to not question authority, a trait handed down by overbearing parents.

The three men marched off towards the stairs, the dying man's head slowly lolling to one side in rhythm with the steps. As they passed through the door from the apartment, a middle-aged woman with a subdued blouse and skirt swept past them and into the room, her eyes preoccupied in a folder. Like clockwork thought Philip and they began to descend the stairs on their way to the vehicle that would return them to the Medical Terminus. He only let himself look at the man once, depression washing over him. How could anyone choose to live like this?

Let me know what you think.

-Kendle "I'm Almost Done With a Story!" Kelley

Ego-risking Step of Faith

From time to time I will post things I am writing, have written, abandoned mid-sentence, or just generally never believe will see the inside of a publisher's mailbox. I am posting these things to be able to point out the flaws that I see and, once (/if) I get readers, what they see so that others and I can avoid these problems in the future. These, as are all my posts, fully open to criticism and disrespect as long as there is no malicious intent (if there is, I doubt it will even bother me; I'll probably just mentally label you ignorant and continue on), so comment away

This is a story I wrote up this morning just as the sun was peeking out over the rooftops. My first critique is that any idea or writing done under such circumstances is essentially doomed from it's inception. I'm also frustrated by the fact that I began this with a clear idea that had entered my head (and, quickly, my story journal that I record such plot sparks in) about the reactions to the impending Water Crisis that one might see. I quickly decided that I would like to do things differently this time and, instead of neutering all the foul language one might expect, I let it flow from the mouth of a character not dissimilar to the previously aforementioned Maddox. What resulted ended up being the character taking out my frustrations about the "Gaia Solicitors" around campus on a character that was (unsurprisingly) quite similar to them. I doubt I'll ever be able to shape this story to it's original premise, so I don't intend to expand upon it farther unless something really pulls me to do so. So here, in it's entirety, are the first few paragraphs of my story of water crisis that never was:

“So, what you're telling me is that you don't care at all?” said the young woman, a look of astonishment on her face. Jack was happy to find that his position still shocked these people.

“Look, the world's fucked no matter what we do, okay? You can't wave some optimistic bullshit in the air at me and tell me that giving my money to you will somehow benefit me. I'm not some fuckin' drone that's just going to do what you tell me, okay?” he replied, forcing an angry snarl to his features. He wasn't really upset; in fact, he enjoyed these little arguments and their ability to piss of the Purifiers.

“But, studies show-” she tried to get in, but he had her on the ropes and wasn't letting up.

“What the fuck are you going to do? Huh? You going to go join those idiots up on Red Death? You think you're fucked here, try living with terraforming. That's a real death sentence, not like our fucking water.” Jack's face became redder and redder as he bellowed at the solicitor. He was sure that by now she had lost all hope of getting anything from him, yet she didn't shy away. If she hated herself enough to not only do this job, but care enough about it to be his verbal punching bag, then Jack wasn't going to let her go.

“So, what? What are you going to do? Nothing, and you know it. Dammit, don't you people ever even research the bullshit you're selling? We can't do shit, and all the research proves it, yet here you are, with your little fucking clipboard and sandals, trying to extort me out of my money that I could use on hookers or some shit that will actually make me happy. Fuck, maybe I can buy some real water with it, not your bullshit 'water deed.' Why the fuck would I want to buy a patch of polluted water? That's just the dumbest shit anyone could have ever come up with. So, fuck you, and your fucking clipboard.,” he snatched the thing out of her hands as she tried to use it as a shield against his perceived attack.

It wasn't even a clipboard this time; it was some sort of binder with a tablet device that was probably built in the country that caused the Purifiers to have something else to complain about. He didn't care; it had an even more gratifying effect when he slung it against a nearby wall, all of it's tiny electronic components bursting out like plastic shrapnel. He opened his mouth to speak again, but, seeing the terrified look from her and all those around him, he decided that was a good enough exit. He threw one last look at everyone around him and marched off, leaving a scene an emotional vandal.

-Kendle "Hey, At Least I'm Writing" Kelley

So, Content!

How does one start getting into the writing business? By writing, of course! And I'm finding out that writing is a difficult thing to accomplish more often then, say, every month or so. The best way to make yourself write, it seems, is reading, which is something that any writer is going to have to do constantly. There really is no excuse to write if you're not reading something. It doesn't even matter if you're reading something completely unrelated (I'm reading Killing Pablo and Dictionary of Bullshit right now, and they're both non-fiction!), as reading excellent writing will only stand to improve your own craft. I've even heard some people say that they stop reading when they're writing because either: 1. they just don't like anything but their own writings anymore (which is either an outright lie or just completely pretentious) or 2. they don't want to "poison" their work with someone else's muddled thoughts (as if their writings are not inspired by anything else already). These excuses are utterly ridiculous; one must read.

I'm also finding that materials about the act of writing are also very good motivators. A book I recommend (although, at times, it seems highly outdated) is Writing And Selling Science Fiction. It was published in 1976, so much of the practical information about selling information is a bit dated, but the concepts of the craft all seem to be sound and I've had a noticeable improvement in my work since I began reading it. Another book that I've been told to find is Steering the Craft by Portland SF author Ursula K. Le Guin, a massively prolific writer who has been hailed as "the greatest writer of our century." I believe I would be prone to apply anything she says.

Just to help those too lazy (or broke) to purchase these books, I'll list and summarize the top five tips for new writers from Writing and Selling Science Fiction, all of which I've already found helpful in my own writing. These are all listed in the introduction as written by C. L. Grant:

#1: READ (He says it a few more times): Yes, this is repetitive, but it is honestly the best thing a writer can do besides, of course, bringing pen to paper (or, in my case, fingers to keyboard).

#2: Set a schedule: Writing only when one feels like is not a sustainable method when money will eventually be on the line. Set a schedule and don't do anything but write from beginning to end. Any interruption will cause incalculable loss of quality to the piece and stack another barricade on the path to it's completion.

#3: Write, even when you have nothing to say: Any writing is better than nothing. No matter how terrible the product, every moment spent writing will improve your talent. Every successful writer has commented about writing ten or more pieces of rubbish for every decent story.

#4: Observe: Stories are supposed to be portholes into real, living worlds and that cannot happen if the writer doesn't even truly understand his or her own realm. Every person that you come in contact with can shape your characters, every overheard conversation could spark that winning idea. Take every advantage you have and gather all the raw information you can from those around you.

#5: You must want it: If one does not gain pleasure from writing, they will never make it. There has to be a drive, a motivation, to see that story through all of the writer's blocks, bad dialogue, and general frustration.

So, with that, I leave you. Find those books, devour them as I am, and maybe (just maybe) one of us will make it. I can only hope that it will be more than that.

-Kendle "I Wish I Could Indent" Kelley

Post Script: I apologize for the quality of this post; I've not slept all night and that seems to be affecting me. Luckily, I didn't play video games and started writing instead. :)

I Am Now That Which I Taunt

I loathe blogs for some reason or another. In fact, I actually tend to agree with the highly intelligent (yet woefully belligerent) Maddox on this issue, something which I'm not sure I'm really all that happy about. Either way, I am doing something that I have always taunted, so any defense against the title of "hypocrite" is forfeit.

I do, however, have good reason to have made this, which is why I have allowed myself to do so. Two reasons, actually, which I will describe here, as all blogs seem to do in their usually innocent first posts. These reasons are as follows:

1. To (hopefully) provide useful information to aspiring writers as I go along my own path to becoming a paid, full-time writer (more on this later).

2. To put additional pressure on myself to write since "the blog demands it."

It is by these excuses for this "blogging" that I feel I have full right to post here, unlike most blogs which seem to be concerned with the particular author's opinion on something they're not really all the qualified to talk about in the first place. Armchair anythings upset me greatly (though I do admit to being called an armchair historian, tactician, warrior, and scientist). This is not the intent here.

I will now, however, explain what the intent is and why I have said intent, in reverse order:

As is the title of this blog, I am now an unpaid, full-time writer. This changed from being a writing enthusiast to my current status last Sunday when I finished out my final day of being a "Computer Accessory Salesman," which is, of course, a fancy way of saying that I moved boxes and explained the finer points of corded and cordless devices to the unknowing. Anyways, I'm now unemployed in the traditional sense and have only one class to attend to (which is only a one-hour-a-day, two-days-a-week endeavor) for the next four weeks, leaving me with a stupidly large amount of free time. This free time is intended to be filled with writing and fun (in that order) in order to realize two of my life goals: having a career in writing and always enjoying life. Both of these goals are lofty, to be sure, but I suspect that was my hidden motive for creating them in the first place.

To clarify what I mean when I say the word 'writer' (which is honestly a terrible blanket statement I should never make, but do so often) in relation to myself, I will explain what kind of writing I do and am (in my dream of a perfect future) going to build a career out of. I write Science Fiction, which is another term which I am going to attempt to do away with using, but am finding very difficult to replace with the better term of 'Speculative Fiction' as it often confuses the laymen (and laywomen, let's not get sexist now) I talk with about such things. So, I suppose, from here on out, SF or Speculative Fiction are to be my titles of choice for what I write. So, back on that track, I write SF short fiction, which encompasses short stories and novellas mostly. I dream of someday writing a novel or many, but that is a long way off. I prefer short fiction anyways because it allows for the exploration of a single idea or problem without the threat of it becoming stale or muddled with the implications of others. Short fiction can, of course, span many different areas of interest, but it still retains that ability to be singular, which I enjoy.

Now, on to intent. Seeing as how my short term goal is to become a paid, full-time writer, I have a number of steps that I must take, many of which I currently know nothing about and am gathering all information and research I can. This journey from amateur writer to (hopefully) published author is going to be a difficult one, to be sure, but I feel as though all the toil I will go through will not be an exclusive experience. Much to the opposite, I think that I will be following in the footsteps of many of the most successful (and otherwise) in the field and that many will come after me, or with me, or whatever sort of time-based image you can put to that idea. So, there is good chance that everything I learn can be of use to others who dream of "sailing the craft" and actually getting paid to do it. It is to that end (and also of possible exposure and pressure to write) that I find myself willing to become that which I taunt: a blogger/bloggist/person with an opinion and a keyboard. Hopefully that which is useful will spill out here and, if not, any readers I may collect over time will hopefully tell me as such so I can avoid that pesky "hypocrite" title.

-Kendle "Blogger" Kelley