Writers Parasite [Contains Adult Language & Situations]

[Lester Curtis]

Alrighty then. First, in answer to your question Lester, the best I've read of this story so far was the previous three scenes. For me it was your best as the first scene flowed into the second into the third, thus it all fit as one.

In chapter 6, or 5? Have you read 6 yet?

Now, I believe in honesty and it usually gets me into trouble but at least I sleep well at night, so here I go. I'm starting to hate Leeta. I really hate Leeta and why? Not because of your writing. Not because of anything other than the little bastard is getting on my nerves.

Wow, you think he's bad now, EVERYBODY is gonna hate him when he hits puberty and discovers (a) his penis, and (b) gratuitous overuse of bad language (in a couple dozen languages and dialects).

Just FYI, everyone else who's reviewed this stuff likes him, but then, they've all gotten their exposure in a discontinuous fashion, with chapters a month or more apart.

Do I like him? That may not be relevant. I want the reader to like him. I like the adult he'll become, but he's not there yet and the story is about how he changes in response to his circumstances.

Let me know if you want to take a break from this. I just accepted a Firefox update and now it's refusing to accept cookies from anyone.

[Lipinski]

Hi Lester. I've read it all, over three times as the first never does any writing true justice.

My favorite chapter is 5, 6 is like I said yesterday and the story does flow well. As for my dislike of Leeta you must keep in mind that I'm not a normal reader or person. I find pleasure in what others despise and despise what others 'like'.

Now that you said "EVERYBODY" is gonna hate him in the 'future' THAT's when I'll fall in love with the character...See?

You've touched on a point about writers, 'everyones that's reviewed like him..." 1. Are they just telling you this to make you feel good? ie.lying? 2. Did they really read it or just filling your mind with what you want to hear? 3. Are they your friends or total strangers like me, a strange man who loves to read and write?...Many variables but that is meaningless as no matter what the story is or who the author is, in the mind is where the story is liked or disliked, the characters embraced or rejected.

Interesting way of answering if you like Leeta, you 'like' what he'll become, which is the answer to your whole story. Liking the story and wanting the readers to like the story, the goal of most every writer. This is where normal writers and I are vastly different: I could give a shit about what people think of my writing and many of the stories I write along with their characters, I hate. Hate. Love. Love. Hate. It's the story that's important, the story that must have it's own life and not just what the 'life' of the author wants...

Absolutely not Lester, I really enjoy reading your work and anyone's work for that matter. I feel honored that you have chosen to engage with me and discuss stories and writing, afterall, we're all in this together as writers in a cruel, cruel, cruel world of words. Bring on more Leeta, and now I'm curious to read about his puberty, are there zits involved?

[Lester Curtis]

Now that you said "EVERYBODY" is gonna hate him in the 'future' THAT's when I'll fall in love with the character...See?

HAHAHAHA! Okay, you got me there. Point is, I INTEND to make him obnoxious, but you're not "everybody."

You've touched on a point about writers, 'everyones that's reviewed like him..." 1. Are they just telling you this to make you feel good? ie.lying? 2. Did they really read it or just filling your mind with what you want to hear? 3. Are they your friends or total strangers like me, a strange man who loves to read and write?

I get my crits at Critique.org *because* the people trading crits there are strangers and thus free of personal bias. No, they don't try to make each other feel good (though we're carefully instructed on how not to make other writers feel *bad*); yes, they do read the material. Sometimes a writer will get a useless or even hostile crit, but it's rare; on the whole, the crits I've gotten have been mature and insightful. It's information I can *use,* and I've gotten a lot of it.

I'm curious to read about his puberty, are there zits involved?

Interesting question, but I don't think so. Have you ever seen a fur-bearing animal with zits? How would you know unless you caught him picking at them?

He'll have other problems—serious. His species goes through the whole of their puberty in about a year and a half, so all the shit we go through over eight or ten years is compressed. Some of them die from hormone toxicity (rare), and there are suicides. Worst are events where they'll just fall down shaking or maybe take off running and crash into something. Uncontrolled emotional outbursts of every kind and severe muscle cramps and occasional joint dislocations from accelerated growth are common and to be expected.

These people mature at a quicker rate than we do; they typically reach full adulthood by age ten (in their years, which are longer than ours). This is something I've had to explain to a lot of reviewers who've said, "He doesn't talk/act like a five-year-old."

Anyway, here's the next one.
______________________________

Seven


Leeta looked up from his data-pad. "Good morning, Doc." He was sitting in the chair, room lights on, and had managed to get his arm-sling in place.

Doc walked in, swinging the scanner idly back and forth in his hand. "Good morning, Leeta. I didn't expect you to be up so soon."

Leeta glanced at the window. "It's light out. I'm used to being up before this."

"Did you sleep well? Any discomfort from the arm?"

He twisted his mouth and lowered an ear. "The arm didn't bother me much, but I had some weird dreams."

Doc nodded. "Well, that's not surprising, after the day you had. Let me check you out, here . . . " He moved his scanner slowly over Leeta's cast, and then over the top of his head. "Couldn't ask for better. You're healing quickly. It helps that you're young, of course."

"You did a good job on me, then?"

Doc grinned. "I had to. I have a reputation to maintain. Are you ready for breakfast?"

"Yeah!" Leeta got up and put the 'pad in his satchel, and they headed for the cafeteria. "Can I have real coffee today?"

Doc laughed. "Not yet. And I'd like you to stay away from it for another week. Will you do that?"

"Do I have to?"

"You should. It'd be better for you. Just for a week."

"Okay."

Their footsteps echoed slightly in the empty hallway, Leeta's toenails clicking on the hard floor, Doc's rubber-soled shoes squeaking softly. "Doc—?"

"Hm?"

"Will I get to see Mr. Griffin again before I leave?"

"I don't know yet. Why do you ask?"

"I think I owe him—for everybody taking care of me, and for the translator, and the spaceship ride. I looked those things up, and I don't know much about money, but I think they cost a lot, and—I was wondering if there was something I could do to pay for at least some of it . . . "

"Don't worry about it. No one is going to ask an injured little boy to pay for things he needs. Besides, Tom doesn't do things like this to get paid. He does them because he cares about people."

"But—"

The doctor slowed to a stop and stooped down look him in the eyes. "Leeta . . . a wiser man than I am once asked me a question: 'How much did you pay for your first breath?' "

"Huh—?" The question jolted Leeta out of his line of thought. It couldn't be answered; it seemed meaningless, even, but it somehow made a kind of sense to him, too. It pointed to another view of life, one of natural events, and of acts of will, that couldn't be measured or compared—or earned or paid for. Things like seeing the Milky Way on a clear night, or watching a chick peck its way out of its shell. Things that Carlos would have called 'acts of God.'

Doc said, "All you can give him right now is your thanks, but that'll be more than enough for him." He straightened up and took out his phone, thumbed the screen. "June?"

"Yes, Doctor?"

"I'm taking Leeta to the cafeteria for breakfast, but he'd like to speak with Mr. Griffin in person."

"I've posted the request, Doctor—wait—Mr. Griffin says he'll join you for lunch in the admin building at noon."

"Thank you." Doc pocketed the phone and asked, "What would you like to do until lunch?"

"Could you show me more of what's here?"

"Of course."

~~~~~

The cafeteria in the admin building looked exactly like the one in the hospital, except for the view out the windows, and that it wasn't deserted. Half a dozen people sat together at the only table left in the room, none of them Tom.

Doc opened the door and held it for Leeta, and all the people at the table stopped talking and eating, and looked. They sat motionless for a moment, then one stood, and then the others, as Doc and Leeta approached. There was a flurry of greetings and introductions, then a couple of them pulled out chairs. Leeta put his satchel on the table while Doc took off his hooded raincoat and hung it over the back of a chair.

Leeta's fur was still damp, and he enjoyed the lingering scent of rainwater and cool outdoor air that clung to him. A young woman across from him said, "What were you doing out in the rain? You're all wet."

Doc laughed. "You should have seen him before he shook himself off. I think he was carrying half his body weight in rainwater. He wanted to go out, though; he wanted to see the big mining ship in its cradle out there."

"I like being outside. And it was so amazing, seeing the ship . . . I wanted to get up close to it, but we weren't allowed, but Doc got live camera feeds of it on my data-pad—and we got to see it take off! Oh, it just—floated away!"

"You should have seen his eyes light up." Doc looked up at the wall clock. "Well, it's after twelve now. Let's go get our lunch."

"Shouldn't we wait for Tom?"

"He's taking care of unplanned things, and may not be able to keep to his schedule, but he's told all of us to stay to ours. Don't worry, he'll be along."

Leeta slid off his chair and followed the doctor, wondering what other unplanned things were happening here besides himself. He hoped it wasn't serious.

The kitchen was deserted, which made sense, as the appliances and cookware were mostly gone, but there was a microwave oven and one large stasis cabinet, which had a number of items still in it. No trays, and the only dishes and tableware were disposables. No cold drinks, but there were cases of bottled water—stacked next to the freshly refilled coffee machine.

Leeta took up a bottle of water and a noseful of coffee vapor, and noticed a large carton on the opposite side of the stasis machine. "Doc, what are ration bars?"

The doctor laughed. "Something nobody wants to eat. They're emergency food; they mostly taste like—sawdust, mixed with vitamin tablets. You could try one, but you probably won't like it. There's good food in here—better, at least—here, pick something."

Leeta looked through the glass for a moment and pointed. "What's that one?"

"Tuna-noodle casserole, with vegetables. That's good. Do you want to try that?"

"Okay."

Leeta was still learning about stasis cabinets; evidently, you couldn't reach into one. Doc had to push buttons to make the item move down to the corner, and it got pushed out through a rotating door onto an outside ledge. He put the bowl into the microwave and pressed the 'Auto' button, then got a chicken salad for himself. "Why don't you take your water and go sit down, and I'll bring this when it's done. Here, get a couple spoons and forks, too."

"I could carry mine."

"No, it'll be too hot when it comes out—"

"No, look—" Leeta picked up a stiff paper bowl from a stack. "It'll fit in here, won't it?"

"Uh, I think so—"

Leeta put a couple paper napkins into the bowl. "Put that bowl in here; it'll keep the heat in. And I can put the water bottle in my arm sling."

Doc blinked at him. "Huh. Well—" The microwave chirped and shut off. "Practice it first. Get your water bottle in place and try it with the empty bowl. Here, wait—" He stepped back and picked up another bottle of water and put it in the practice bowl.

After a couple false starts, Leeta was able to get the bowl off the counter and back on with only a little wobble, so Doc loaded him up, saying, "You know, I could have carried it over there for you a lot quicker."

Leeta smiled up at him. "I know. Thank you."

~~~~~

Leeta's fur was dry by the time he had finished his lunch, and he got up to dispose of his tableware, then brushed himself as best he could one-handed.

All the while, people came and went, new arrivals introducing themselves as they sat down. Many of those who were leaving came over to shake hands and wish him luck. The women, especially, seemed to like to touch his fur; they all smiled, and some of them said that it was soft, or nice. It made him feel good, in a way, but it didn't mean a lot to him; he was more used to being complimented for having done something. Besides, they may have just been trying to make him feel good; he knew he looked a mess, with his head all plastered up.

It was almost one o'clock when the last of them left, and Tom still hadn't shown up. Just for something to keep himself busy with, he told Doc he'd like to work with his translator for a while.

"If you're in the mood to study language, there's a very important one you'll need soon."

"What's that—?"

"Collective Standard. It's a business language made up by all the space people, so they can trade with each other. It's in your new data-pad. Your ID card is printed in Collective Formal, which is nearly the same."

"Oh. I didn't know about it." Leeta took the 'pad from his satchel. "Show me?"

Doc came around the table and leaned over next to him. He opened the tutorial and showed Leeta how to find it again, then said, "Start here," pointing to the Introduction.

Leeta wanted to go back to being useful, and this would help. He smiled up at Doc. "Thank you."

Doc patted him on the back, gathered up his dishes and utensils, and headed for the kitchen as Leeta began to read.



The Collective languages were invented to bypass the often touchy problems found in interpreting and translating natural languages, a job best done by dedicated AIs. The spoken sounds are those that almost any species can make, and if some sound is too hard for a person to learn, there are versions of the Collective languages in hand-signs.


The number of words that a person needs to memorize is quite small, because very few objects and actions have their own names. Instead, a word or a whole sentence is built from short lists of object and action types and modifiers. Also, each sentence is given a prefix that tells if it is, for example, a question.



Leeta was about to tap the 'Tutorial' button in the sidebar when Doc sat down across from him with two cups and slid one toward him. "Here."

Coffee. Only about a third full, but it was real coffee. Leeta looked at it for a moment. "Has it been a week already?"

Doc laughed. "That much won't bother you. Besides, you might have a hard time finding any off Earth. There are only a couple other species who like it, so we don't export much. What you do find out there might not be very good."

Leeta picked up the cup. "That's okay. The coffee I'm used to wasn't as good as this." He blew into the cup and took a sip. "Thanks, Doc."

He was about to take another when his ear swiveled toward the cafeteria door. He set the cup down and turned to look. "They're here."

As before, Tom Griffin entered first, eyeing the room while holding the door.

The next person to come in was so unusual that it took Leeta a moment to be sure it was a female human instead of some other new species. She was at least half a head taller than Tom, and more slender than he would have thought possible, with the blackest skin he'd ever seen on a human being, and very short hair. She had high cheekbones and a long, narrow nose, and was wearing a close-fitting light blue uniform.

He wondered if she might be a Martian; there was a colony that didn't use artificial gravity. But no, her posture and gait were normal. She was just—long everywhere.

No, not everywhere; arms and legs, mostly.

There was another person, a man in a suit, with a longish face. He had a soft-looking package tucked under his arm and a small black bag in hand. Leeta slid off his chair as the three approached.

Tom came to him first and squatted down to eye level. "Leeta, I'm sorry I'm so late. I've been working with the Collective and a whole bunch of offworld officials, trying to find a new home for you, but—nothing yet. See, since you're a Collective protectorate, they'd like to have you on a Collective world, which would make it a little easier for them to take care of you. Jettison hasn't quite met the requirements yet, but while we're waiting for a decision, I'm sending you there."

He gestured toward the man and woman standing next to him. "That's what these two people are here for—this fine lady is Commander Janice Okeke; she'll be your pilot. And since Dr. Mabrey is staying on Earth, I've got another doctor for you. He's our hospital's assistant director, Doctor Hubert Kobler."

The two bent over to shake hands; both of them told him to use their first names. Hubert was nervous and barely made eye contact. Janice seemed to bend down from such a great height that Leeta wondered how she did it without falling over. Her long feet must have had something to do with that. She had a huge, easy smile and a rich, mellow voice.

Tom stayed crouched, resting his arms across his thighs. "Now, what was it you wanted to talk with me about?"

"Oh—I—just wanted to thank you—for everything you've done for me . . . "

"I'm just glad I was able to help. Now, would you like to do something for me?"

The words were almost magical. "Could I—?"

"Sure!" Tom looked up over his shoulder. "Take care of Hubert for me. He's not happy; he doesn't like flying, and it's a long trip, so maybe you could help him keep his mind off it."

"How?"

Tom shrugged. "Walk him around the ship and keep him exercised . . . do your animal sounds for him—tell him stories. Better yet, have him tell you stories. He's got some good ones. Will you do that?"

"Yes! Thank you!"

"Now, keep studying. You can ask him questions; he knows a lot."

"Oh, good—I need to know a lot, too."

"You will." Tom stuck his hand out and they shook, then he stood up. "It's time to go; looks like you've got everything—oh, wait, I almost forgot—" He slung his data-pad in front of him and worked it for a few seconds. "I'm sending you some contacts; mine, Goden's, and Greg's. Didn't want to forget that."

"I can talk to Greg—?"

"Uh-huh. Now, I'm going directly to Jettison, but you three are on a different route than I am, so it'll take a little longer. You'll ride the shuttle to Mars first and then take a freighter the rest of the way." Tom gestured at Leeta's possessions on the table. "Get your gear together; your flight's waiting."

This was it, then; the last minutes of his last day on Earth, and no knowing if he'd ever be back. And no time to spend thinking about it right now. He loaded the data-pad into his satchel and double-checked its contents carefully. All there. He cinched it shut and was about to turn away from the table, but saw the cup. "Oh—wait—"

He drank his coffee as quickly as he could while still enjoying the taste of it. When he put the cup down, Tom and Doc were grinning. "Ready."

Tom said, "I'll see you on Jettison. Safe skies to you, Leeta."
___________________________________________

[Lipinski]

Hi Lester, of course I read the latest and so along with 5,6 and now this, the story is growing roots. This brings up a common ground that all writers share, getting a story in line.

From my perspective, (and being brutally honest) if I had been reading your story from front to back after seeing it left behind in the seat in front of me while flying, I would have started to read it, and say, "Not for me, " and then proceed to check out the vomit bag and wonder what kind of perfume the fat lady next to me is wearing.

Now that I'm getting into the meat the story it has gotten my attention, especially now of the prospect of a furry alien getting acne... (just kidding)

I see this problem with most, if not all writers to include me. 'How to start a story so well that if choosing sex over reading more, the book wins'. Of course sex wins every time but at least an attempt to divert attention has been made.

So, while I find your story now to be one of interest and entertaining to the mind, I of course need to finish the book.

This leaves one question now on my mind. How could Lester make those chapters (the ones where the parasite could no longer stand the main character and blew his body apart) The answer is: Not for me to do as I refuse to alter other writers heart and soul. Of course suggestions...

In the first chapter I first viewed Leeta as an evolved form of canine. And why? Choppy words such as a primate with sign language does today in the lab, plus the mention of chickens and doghouses, so this altered the story for me right away.

How could you have attracted a reader like me, causing me to forgo sex and finish the book in one sitting? Maybe leave Leeta out of the first chapter? Maybe have something 'memorial' and so fucking new and strange that the reader would think, "Oh bat shit, wow, cool."

That would attract me but I'm definitely not your target audience. I say this because so much modern day science fiction and fantasy are geared for minds of mush or those intellectual idiots who relish fancy words and surreal settings that only a true nerd with a pedigree can understand. Of all the chapters in a story, the first is the most important, the one needed to hook, to seduce the readers mind. And now, another question? Do you think the first chapter would hook you if I had written it? Or if another writer had written it? And in your 'heart' do you think the first chapter is the best work you ever done?

Yes, the story flows now and I'm enjoying it. Also, as a side note, the prelude to today's chapter was good writing, and you know why? It is who you are, what you are, it was you. Your latest in the story is starting to show the same life, with the characters having their own personalities. Anyway, looking forward to the next.

[Lester Curtis]

Bear with me; I might be a little incoherent. I'm getting flu symptoms and treating them with brandy.

From my perspective, (and being brutally honest) if I had been reading your story from front to back after seeing it left behind in the seat in front of me while flying, I would have started to read it, and say, "Not for me, " and then proceed to check out the vomit bag and wonder what kind of perfume the fat lady next to me is wearing.

Oh, you wanna check out the barf bag? Man, have I got a chapter for you! (Sorry, no perfume.)

So, while I find your story now to be one of interest and entertaining to the mind, I of course need to finish the book.

Uh-oh. Does that mean *I* should have finished it before I started letting you read it? No taking that one back now, though I might be able to find some other parts of older work on it to keep you amused.

Of all the chapters in a story, the first is the most important, the one needed to hook, to seduce the readers mind. And now, another question? Do you think the first chapter would hook you if I had written it? Or if another writer had written it? And in your 'heart' do you think the first chapter is the best work you ever done?

First chapter, yes , of course it's the most important—often, the first *phrase* is the most important. I recall being captivated in my teens by such opening lines as: "It was a spore, microscopic in size." Haven't seen that story in over fifty years, but that opening line still sticks. Or (and I'm likely misspelling the name): "On and on Couerl prowled." Some bastard beating on an old Underwood snagged me FOR LIFE with FIVE fucking words.

Of course I had to try to do that trick myself.

It didn't always work. The first scene of the first chapter of this book *used* to be:

Leeta was two years old when he began to understand that he wasn't, and never would be, a human being -- a man.

Nor would he be a dog.

It was easy to get confused; some things about him were manlike; he walked upright. He had hands, although the men couldn't explain why they needed more fingers. He talked like men. Men had words for everything; for a lot of things, they had more than one word. Some of their words -- like fuk -- didn't seem to mean anything, but they used them a lot anyway.

Like dogs, he had fur -- even longer than the dogs had -- and a tail, and doglike feet. He had pointed, upright ears that could turn toward sounds, and he had a doglike snout, but the nose and mouth were different. He didn't wear clothes or shoes. He didn't understand why the men needed those things, either.

Men did things differently from animals, and didn't talk much to them. The men talked to Leeta, though, a lot, and he wasn't a man. Did that mean he was an animal? He knew he wasn't a horse, or a cat, or a goat -- or a dog -- but he wasn't a man.

See, I *knew* that was wrong, in just about every way conceivable, but it wasn't a *conscious* knowing, just this little fucking itch in the back of my brain. It didn't *fit.* And I'd put some serious work into that.

There is one close friend I send this stuff to, and she didn't say too much about that scene—until I rewrote it—THEN she said, "That earlier opening didn't sound like *you.*" Damned if she wasn't right about that, but how do you get any further with definitions and whys and wherefor's? I take the revelation and just try to hang on to it.

Yeah, that first chapter would have hooked me if you'd written it—how could it not? But do I think it's the best I've ever written? I have no way to examine that. If you write an abstract poem, how do you know it's good? Sure as fuck no one ELSE can tell; it's so off into the subjective realm there's nothing anyone but you can say about it. This is why I so seldom comment on poetry; like, damn, that punctuation looks wrong, but how can I tell it wasn't intentional?

Brandy gone, and I'm fading. Here, have a barf bag.
___________________________________________
Eight


As near as Leeta could tell, it was the same shuttle he'd been in the day before, but that wasn't important now. Janice put his satchel in the overhead, and as she was buckling him in, he asked, "How soon 'til I can move around?"

"Soon as we clear atmo. Something you need?"

"My data-pad. I want to talk to Greg."

"Greg—?"

"Greg Stanton. He's one of the men who raised me—"

Janice nodded. "Just watch the sign above the cockpit door. When the light goes out, you can get up." She tugged at Leeta's seatbelt, gave him a smile and a pat on the shoulder, and headed for the cockpit.

Leeta stretched forward, trying to fold down the screen in front of him. Hubert stopped his arm with a light touch. "You should wait until we're in the air."

"But Mazey did it for me yesterday—"

"Well, I don't think you're supposed to."

"Oh." He sat back and looked around a little, then remembered he had a job. He looked at Hubert, thinking to ask him for a story, but maybe this wasn't the time for that. Hubert's mouth was down a little at the corners and he was staring straight ahead.

Leeta thought for a moment. "Why don't you like flying?"

Hubert glanced over at him, then ahead again, and wrinkled his nose. "Null-space jumping. It's horrible."

"What's horrible about it?"

"I can't get used to it. Makes me want to throw up."

"Isn't there any medicine for it?"

"No."

"Well—how do pilots fly, then?"

"They're luckier than I am. They get used to it. They have to, or they can't fly. Some people aren't much bothered at all."

"Do you think I might be one of those people?"

Hubert kept his face forward. "You'll find out soon."

Janice's voice came over the speaker: "We're on ship's gravity. In the air in one."

It didn't look like Leeta was going to get much more out of Hubert. He was tense, with his neck pulled down and jaw tight. Maybe he'd respond to something different. "Do you want to hear me do some bird sounds?"

"No. Thanks."

"Why not? They all liked it on the G'Kuhru."

That got a reaction. Hubert turned quickly, looking surprised. "You were on the G'Kuhru?"

Leeta nodded. "Yesterday. I met space people, and Goden gave me my new data-pad, and this—" He fingered his ID card. "Doc—Doctor Mabrey, told me that Goden likes me. And then we went to Kashikoi and I got a new translator. I thought you knew."

"I've—been too busy getting my office moved."

"To Jettison?"

"Yes."

Hubert went back to staring ahead. Leeta had thought this job was going to be easy and fun. It was turning out to be one of the ones that wasn't. He glanced up to see the seatbelt light still on. "What's Jettison like? Have you been there?"

"I haven't been there; I don't know much about it. I hear it's hot. I might not like it."

"If you won't like it, why are you going?"

"To get away from Earth."

"Because of the crazy people in the government?"

Hubert snorted, and grinned for about one whole second. "Yes." His mouth turned down again. "Heat's easier to put up with."

"What about Mars? Have you been there?"

"Once."

"What's it like?"

"Everything's indoors. Not very interesting, at least where I was. I only went to the one station, though, and it's not one of the ones that's popular with tourists."

"Where's that?"

"Oxo. It's where Griffin's branch office is; same place we're going."

"Oxo?"

"I'll show you." He took out his phone and brought up a map of Mars on the screen. "See these lines? They're latitude and longitude measurements. Do you know what degrees are?"

"Mm, a little . . . "

"Well, this station is at zero degrees latitude and zero degrees longitude. You'd say that, 'zero by zero.' So the short way to write it is just oh ex oh. It had another name, but nobody uses it any more." He glanced up and gestured with his head toward the front. "We can get up now."

Leeta turned to see the now-unlit seatbelt sign, then freed himself and stepped out into the aisle. "Would you get my bag for me, please? I can't reach it."

Hubert nodded, rose, and handed down the bag. "Here you are."

"Thank you." Leeta sat down again and got the data-pad out of his bag. Hubert took a package from the overhead and walked toward the back.

Leeta tapped the 'pad on and looked for 'Contacts,' selected Greg Stanton and pressed 'Call.'

A little box appeared, said Connecting, then Connected, then Awaiting response. It brightened and dimmed, brightened and dimmed . . . nothing else happened, and nothing else kept on happening for the longest time before the message changed to No response. Would you like to leave a message? Leeta tapped Yes.

His own image appeared in another box, with the word Recording under it in red. He saw that his ears were down and he tried to get them upright, tried to look at least a little more cheerful. He couldn't do anything about the bandage-gunk on his head. "Hi Greg. Uh, I'm on my way to Mars, and from there I'll be going to Jettison until they find someplace else for me. Uh—oh, I got a new translator, and this new data-pad, and I'm okay. Say hi to Carlos and Walter and Jake for me. Thanks. Bye."

He pressed Send and sagged into the chair, staring at the meaningless goings-on that followed.

"No answer?"

Leeta turned to see Hubert seated across the aisle, one row behind him, now wearing old jeans and a sweatshirt. "No . . . "

"They probably just left it on the charger while they went to work. What do they do?"

"It's a farm."

"Yep. They'll call back; just find something to occupy yourself with."

He was probably right. Almost certainly, in fact.
___________________________________________

[Lester Curtis]

Oops. Damn, I can't keep track of my own chapter content, so no barf bag yet. I'm reminded of your earlier remark about so many names: I forget too much of my own universe if I don't keep reminders, so I've got Leeta's extended family tree, I've got a concise timeline of events, I've got a chart showing all the species with their most obvious physical characteristics ... and once in a while I get to thinking I really should make up a list of ALL the character names—in full, maybe with a few words about each.

Anyway, in last night's post I was heading for something and forgot it, and it is: Write with sincerity.

Barf bag coming up.

[Lester Curtis]

Launching oh-niner.
_____________________
Nine


Leeta had set out intending to learn about Jettison, but along the way, he wound up learning about the Fringe first.

The Fringe was easy to define; it was "unregulated space," "regulated space" being any territory of the Interworlds Market Collective. The Collective established trade routes, policies, a common currency, and an information exchange for science and culture. Member territories were listed as whole solar systems and the trade routes that connected them. The Collective had no police or military of its own, but hired these services from its members.

A map of Collective space didn't look like much more than a lot of holes bounded by strings and beads. The Fringe wasn't just at the outer edges, either, but also in largish open areas between the territories, some of them spanning hundreds of light-years.

These spaces were not altogether empty; there were lunar colonies, fuel depots, orbital habitats and mining stations, and even some habitable worlds. Most were more or less peaceful; they had simply chosen not to take membership in the Collective.

The Fringe was also where his mother had to have come from. The part of it beyond the outer edges of Collective territory was poorly explored; maybe it was out there.

It would stay put. Someone had found it; if he worked hard and learned how, he might find it too, but for now he needed to prepare for the next step.

He had almost found Jettison when the seatbelt light came on and Janice's voice came over the speakers. "Five minutes to jump; make secure and have a bag ready. These will be close together."

Leeta shut the 'pad off and put it in his satchel. He was fitting the satchel under the seat in front of him when Hubert came over with some kind of flat paper package in his hand. He handed it to Leeta and fastened his seatbelt for him.

"What's this?"

"That's the bag she was talking about. If you get sick, you hold this over your mouth and throw up into it. Here, can you press these two sides toward each other?"

"Uh—" Leeta tried one-handed, but it was just a little too wide.

Hubert helped him get it open and made sure he could hold it that way. "Keep this ready until you're certain you don't need it. There will be four jumps, and each time it happens, you'll have some strange sensations. You'll probably feel like you're falling or spinning, maybe both. You might see or hear things that aren't real. Take slow, deep breaths, keep your eyes open, and don't put the bag over your nose."

"Why four?"

"In once and out again for the first jump, then the ship has to change course for the second one." With that, Hubert turned and buckled in across the aisle and got his own bag ready.

~~~~~

For the space of a few heartbeats there were strange voices shouting and singing in some unknown language, and Leeta felt wax in his mouth that tasted like pine needles. The cabin stretched out ahead so far that the cockpit door disappeared and then it all came back, but flat, like a drawing on paper that was so close it almost touched his nose. Something brushed the back of his head and he was upside-down, but he didn't know how he knew that, because he couldn't feel his body at all. And then it was over.

He breathed, blinked at the bag in his hand. There was some dizziness and his ears were ringing, and then that stopped too. His fur was all on end, and he shook it down.

He looked across at Hubert. The man looked like he was dying; his face was drained of color, his hand shook holding the bag, and sweat dripped from his nose and chin. Between shallow breaths he said, "Are you . . . all right . . . ?"

"I think so. I feel okay now."

Janice's voice came back, "Hold onto your lunch, gentlemen. Dropout in three seconds . . . two . . . one . . . "

Leeta leaned back in his chair and turned to look forward just as everything went utterly silent and the front wall of the cabin rushed him. The whole universe flattened into two dimensions: ship, chairs, lights—himself. He smelled burning sugar and felt two of himself pasted back to back, like mirror-image pictures printed on both sides of a sheet of paper. The lights turned into knife blades and cut the paper universe into pie slices, but he felt nothing. It all froze that way for so long he got bored with it, except to notice that he wasn't breathing and couldn't remember when he last had.

Then he heard sounds again: soft, normal ship-sounds, a muffled, pleasant chiming—and retching. A breath, an eyeblink, and the universe was restored to normal appearance, but he found himself wondering if it was as real as he'd always thought.

The air was sour with the smell of vomit. Leeta looked over to see Hubert hunched over his bulging bag, hair plastered to his head with sweat.

The chiming was still going on, and he located its source—under the seat in front of him. In his satchel. Probably his data-pad, though he'd never heard it make that sound before.

"Second jump in two minutes."

The chiming stopped. Whatever it was would have to wait.

~~~~~

Leeta waited for the hollow thumping to stop and take with it the impression that the walls of the cabin were moving in and out. He didn't like not being able to trust his senses, and he had made up his mind that the world as he'd always known it really was real, and he liked it better. Finally, everything, including the noise, shimmered once and it all quit. He shook his fur down again, for the fourth time in—how long had it been?

He looked at Hubert. His shirt was mostly soaked. Could a man sweat that much in just a few minutes? Maybe . . . life with farm animals had taught him that even a few seconds can be a very long time. The jumps felt like it.

The seatbelt light went off and Janice called back, "We have about an hour 'til final approach. You two all right back there?"

Hubert was still gasping and dripping. Leeta said, "I'm okay, I guess, but Dr. Kobler doesn't look so good. Wait, he's nodding his head a little—I think."

"I'll be back there shortly; got a few things to do here first. Meantime, go in the back and get him a bottle of water. It's all the way back, on your left as you face the rear cabin door. Careful getting out of your chair, okay?"

"Yes, Captain." Leeta put the unused paper bag down, unbuckled, and eased himself slowly off the seat. He held on to the chair arm until he knew he actually was all right, then fetched the water. There were other things to eat and drink there, but he really wasn't interested.

When he returned, Hubert was holding onto the seatback in front of him, leaning his head on his arms. Leeta held the bottle where he could see it. "Here."

Hubert got a hand around it and said, "Thanks." He flopped back into his chair and wiped a sleeve over his face before twisting the cap off and taking a long drink. "Don't worry. No one's ever died just from going through a null-space jump." He took a long look at Leeta. "This hardly bothered you at all?"

"It bothered me plenty; I didn't like it. It just didn't make me sick, and I only got dizzy the first time."

"One of the lucky ones. What was it like for you?"

"Mm . . . it was—like dreaming, I guess. Weird stuff that didn't make sense; a little scary. It was different each time."

"Lucky. Maybe more than that, though . . . "

"What do you mean?"

"I'm guessing your mother went through some jumps before you were born."

"What would that do?"

Hubert sighed and sat up a little. "There've been some stories about this. Pregnant mother goes through jumps, and then later, her child doesn't suffer as much from it." He shook his head slightly. "We don't know for sure. They're mostly stories, not much science." He waved a hand. "I'll be all right, just go do what you were doing."

"Okay."

Leeta dug out his satchel and hopped into his chair with the data-pad, tapped it on. New Message was flashing, and he opened it without even looking at the source.

It wasn't from Greg.

It was a text, with the Griffin company logo at the top:



31 Jan 2133

Subject:
Relocation of AI 'June'
Transfer of vital documents


Leeta,

This is to inform you that, due to our Company's relocation to Jettison, the resident Administrative AI known as 'June' will go offline from our World Headquarters in Midland, Michigan, CanAmerica, Earth, effective today, 31 January 2133, at 21:59 local time. The AI system and its files will be relocated to the new Headquarters facility at that time. The Company's mail and private telecomm services will remain active.

You are not listed as having an access account with this system, so you should not be affected in any way by this action.

Still, in the interest of security, we've attached copies of all files pertaining to you on the system; treat these as backup copies of your vital information. We have other backups in secure locations.

Files for download:

Leeta: 29 Jan 2133 to 31 Jan 2133; Griffin HQ
Folders: Medical; Legal; Miscellaneous


Download files? Yes No



There were some strange notes about verification and file integrity. He wasn't sure what it meant or what he should do about it. He looked across the aisle, but Hubert had gone somewhere, most likely the toilet.

He read it a second time, afraid to touch anything. Then the cockpit door opened and Janice stepped through.

"Oh—Captain—could you look at this for me? I'm not sure what to do."

"Sure." She came and squatted in the aisle next to his chair. "What's your question?"

"This. I don't know what to do with it."

"Oh, everybody gets those. You should download it." She directed him to drag the file to the screen and delete the mail. "Okay, now, do you want me to help you look at some of this? I'm sure there's something important in Legal, and you might have questions about it."

"Okay."

She got into the Legal folder and looked at the first item. "See, I knew they were going to do this. This one says that you're part of a group filing suit against the Terran government for unlawful deprivation of citizenship and forced endangerment . . . they ask for restoration of rights, and—whoa—compensation for relocation expenses and emotional trauma. Not sure if that will happen; it might bankrupt the planet.

"This next one offers proof of your citizenship; there's sworn testimony from—oh—Retired Captain Gregory Stanton, TSF, and three other men—did you know Greg was in the Forces?"

"Not really. He never talked about it, but the—the other day, when he was taking me to Griffin, he was wearing an outfit, all dark blue, with stripes on the sleeve."

"Uh-huh. You might want to look up his records; see what he did." She looked back to the screen. "Some other evidence here; video recordings."

Janice flicked to the next page. "Okay, this one identifies Greg as your legal guardian of record, and—" she opened the next one, "—here's an updated copy of his will . . . you could be a landowner someday."

"What do you mean?"

"He wants to leave you an inheritance, when he dies; part of his farm . . . northwest ten-acre parcel, plus an access easement."

"The northwest pasture . . . that's where my mother's buried."

"Ah . . . well, that explains this other clause; he's got a restriction on that part of the property: no development allowed. And there's an instruction that it's to be kept clear of overgrowth, too."

Leeta stared at the confusing script on the screen for a moment, then looked at Janice. "Do you think I'll ever see him again?"

She reached over and brushed her fingers across the side of his neck. "I'm sure you will. I know this hurts, and it's a big awful mess, but it'll get straightened out again. And someone will get in touch with you when it is." She pointed at the screen. "Now, do you have any questions about any of this?"

He sighed and straightened up a little. "I don't think so."

"Okay. Let's find a place for this and lock it." She guided him through the process of securing the file with a retina scan. When that was all done, she looked at him and asked, "You didn't get sick, from the jumps?"

"No."

Janice turned her head to look back the aisle. "I'll bet Dr. Kobler wishes he were you."

Leeta looked around the edge of the seat-back to see Hubert coming up the aisle, groomed and wearing his suit again, with the package under his arm. He shook his head. "Only in that respect."

Janice stood up and grinned at him. "You wouldn't want to be young again? Good-looking?"

"Sounds tempting, but I'll stick with what I have. There's always that careful-what-you-wish-for angle to watch out for."

"That's true. Well, I have to get back to work, or we could all be having unfulfilled wishes."
_________________________________

[Lipinski]

Eight and Nine, and how did I know there would be a vomit bag? Purely a coincidence on my part;)

You raise a good point Lester, about keeping characters in their timed sequence. Though, many readers minds are mush so you could write, robin, robbin, mobin, gobin, or fred, and many readers wouldn't know the difference.

Now, enjoyed the flow as it continues the story.

As a suggestion for you on your finish of the story, I suggest writing three. Three totally different endings, even more different than what you think you know is coming. Why? Because the way you are showing Leeta is starting to show what you want Leeta to become. Even by your own statements of, 'what's coming' etc...go ahead, surprise yourself so you go (censored, that's cool!) If you want you can PM me and I can help pick one out because you don't want to spoil the story. I often become bored because the writer is so good at the story line the ending becomes obvious.

Of course, you're not even close to the end but I thought I'd throw that out as the best stories I've ever read have endings that really twist the mind, leaving a 'memory' (memories are good)

Also, I have to go back to the first chapter. Have you considered opening your story with a poem? You obviously have a talent for writing so now that you know your story would you please write a short poem, the first that comes to your mind, and post it here? I'll give an example, and trust me, it's a shoot-from-the-hip. Some of the better stories I've ever read have started with poetry, as it fills the readers mind in preparation for the story.

Far star, third from the left of Orian's shadow
Mother buried beyond limb of earthen tree
a child bound to fur and fang
fury comes, this mortal reign

and then come up with some fantastic first page of the first chapter.

Lets go back to the first paragraph of the story:

Leeta squatted on his haunches atop Mitzi's flat-roofed doghouse, holding a large chicken in his arms and watching the sun go down. The sky seemed to change slowly, but if he looked away he'd miss some of the colors, and he didn't want to, there were so many. It had been cloudy for so many days, and day turned to night by the sky just getting darker grey until it was black. That was all right; it was how things were this time of year. This was just better.

Okay Lester, time to make you squirm. Leeta- nice name, original, sounding female. squatted- female. his haunches-animal, deer, meat, and for many readers, a word many are not familiar with, thus confusion could be translated, 'she sat on his haunches, ie , dick, balls, arm... Mitzi's-Italian name or pizza joint. flat-roofed doghouse-next to a pizza joint, are you fucking kidding me? Holding a large chicken in his arms and watching the sun go down- a pervert with a chicken fetish waiting to do some 'plucking'. The sky seemed to change slowly, but if he looked away he'd miss some of the colors-Who is 'he' Leeta was formed as a woman in the readers mind, Leetar would sound more masculine, and what is the sky changing? Sheets? Oh, you mean clouds or the stratosphere. Then the rest is okay until the last sentence- this was just better. What? darker grey until it was black? Cloudy for so many days?

Sorry Lester, playing the part of an asshole, which is easy for me to do. What I'm trying to point out is the inconsistency of the first and most important part of your story. To introduce the main character and make the reader say, "Damnnnn..."

I had to wait to see a few chapters and get into the meat of the story and to see you reveal your inner writer, which is good. Now, call me a dick, an asshole, a whatever, but, your story has great potential and I'm enjoying it. If you're like me you'd tell me to go fuck myself, (with a smile on your face of course.)

One thing I've learned as a writer, never, ever, tell another writer what to write. Especially regarding poetry.

I tell you what I tell you because you don't need to hear, "Oh, Lester, I love it! Will you have my baby?"

I also phrase the way I'm crit'ting your story to inspire you to say, "Oh yeah, well choke on this," and then show us what you really are made of.

But, truly, if you wouldn't mind, since the story is yours and you know it better than your bellybutton, please write an opening poem and let us all see it. I think you could surprise us all...

[Lester Curtis]

What the fuck, I'm not planning much for today, so ...

You raise a good point Lester, about keeping characters in their timed sequence. Though, many readers minds are mush so you could write, robin, robbin, mobin, gobin, or fred, and many readers wouldn't know the difference.

Back up a bit—you lost me ...

As a suggestion for you on your finish of the story, I suggest writing three.

Once upon a time, I decided to jump ahead and do the end, mostly because I'd been thinking about it and got such a strong visualization that I felt compelled ... partly, also, because I got stuck in the early part leading up to the middle.

This turned into a pretty substantial chunk, though I never took it *all* the way to the end, and I'm still not satisfied with the ending I saw for it. That ending strongly implies a sequel, which I have no intention of writing.

Anyway, a quick summary of the whole story:

* Leeta on Earth

* Leeta in space
..... leaving Earth, he doesn't get where he (and everyone else) thought he'd be. Details TBD, but he eventually ends up running a little trade route as a solo pilot, mostly in the Fringe. He gets creative in dealing with pirates.
SIDE NOTE: Trade Route is a working title; it fit well with the scope of the story when I first began playing with it, but now it no longer fits the whole thing. I'm thinking of something like Almost Home, but I'm up for suggestions.
..... Early on, he discovers that he is a linguistic prodigy. He develops a talent for negotiation, but there isn't much paid work for this.

* He gets injured in a conflict with some nasties who are running a shipload of Eesah as slaves. Slaves rescued, nasties killed. Meets some of his own species face-to-face, likely for the first time in his life. Fallout from this incident is the discovery of the location of his homeworld.
..... Also during this time, the TFT has been overthrown and the Terran gov't has reestablished membership in the Collective.

* After his recovery, he finally gets to go home. All he wants now is a normal life (cue sarcastic laughter).

IMPORTANT NOTE: When he finally gets home, he thinks he can finally settle down and do what he has THOUGHT for his whole life he wanted to do: have a farm; return to the life he was born into. This ties the end of the story to its beginning, but he can't have what he wants. He's forced to admit that, for one, his circumstances (being a career spacer, being new to his homeworld (read: a foreigner), and being more familiar with outside species than his own) make that impossible. He even tries, but when he goes to visit a farm, he finds it awful—and he's forced to realize that he is not the person he thought he wanted to be, and worse—he doesn't even LIKE the life he thought he wanted.

..... While he's recovering, the Collective steps in to aid in breaking up the slaving operation and they establish trade with Sayet (Leeta's homeworld). The G'Kuhru moves into orbit above Sayet, still with Goden as the Interlocutor.
..... Leeta begins looking for his family and finds them.
..... Finds a job, makes friends.
..... Meets a girl (named Hapahyen) and they fall in love. Petite girl with beautiful long, shiny black fur (you've seen this already). People look askance, since she's a foreigner, injured, from a poor background. "Smart girl," her father tells him, but until Leeta begins supporting her more comfortably, no one knew her potential, and she turns out to be a math and physics prodigy, though she'd shown some signs, like being able to mentally do tide tables for their world, which has three moons.
..... Of course, they have kids.
..... Hapahyen solves an old physics problem which allows for the development of a new, faster method of FTL travel.
..... The next day, she gets killed. Leeta becomes a bit of a zombie for a while, hiding in his job. The Sayet gov't begins working with the Collective to develop a new ship based on what is called the Hapahyen Drive. While he (pointedly) wasn't looking, his own children began trying to help with the project; they want very much to go into space.
..... Eventually, his family confronts him about his doldrums and he decides to put his grief away. He's under pressure to find a new mate, because his kits need a mother and he needs to find happiness again. He accepts the offer of an executive post in the ship project.
..... He engages the search for a mate, but can't seem to get satisfied with any of the candidates, though he slowly begins to find himself attracted to an Eesah officer serving on the G'Kuhru. He's conflicted over her appearance, maybe due to some past incidents with tall blondes. Besides, she hasn't listed herself as available. Meanwhile, a prototype test vessel checked out fine and construction begins on an exploration vessel that Leeta and his children are offered berths on.
..... guess ...
..... They all fly off to explore the galaxy for three months.
______________________________________________________
If you want, I might be willing to send you the whole shebang, but I'd have to make a couple of blanket edits to avoid *some* confusion—the plotline is now partly obsolete.

Anyway, I have no ambition to write three different endings. I've already done at *least* three beginnings, and I'm tired of major reconstruction. I might very likely have to change the ending anyway by the time I get there again (hopefully a step ahead of the fucking grim reaper).

Have you considered opening your story with a poem?

Well, I've thought about it; decided not to. I've read some that do this; one stuck with me for the longest time; likely The Ballad of Beta-2 by Sam Delaney ... the whole story built around some kind of student trying to unravel the meaning of an old ballad, and I'm not sure it opened with the poem. It was marvelous, but I don't plan that well.

I especially would not open this story with a poem of the kind you've offered as an example, because it introduces the entire work from (a very strongly hinted) outside POV, thus casting the whole of the story into retrospect from the start. The reader is going to be slightly distracted through the whole thing waiting to find out who the fuck wrote that poem and why. This story isn't made to work that way. If it makes you feel better, there are song lyrics in the story now, and will be more later. There are also passages from the ancient myths of Leeta's people.

Okay Lester, time to make you squirm. Leeta- nice name, original, sounding female.

That didn't make me squirm; it just made me feel disappointed in you. I've gotten this comment from about three critters, and none of them had anything really substantive to offer in their crits; they also offered other comments which told me they were *not* reading for comprehension. Just be thankful I didn't name him XX'Tprf-dA or something. And then consider that Carrol, Evelyn, Joyce, and Beverly used to be masculine names right here in the good ol' You Ess Ay. Go overseas and you won't know who the fuck you're talking about at ALL.

Besides, go back and look at the FOURTH word in the paragraph. I think your parasite is due for another dose of Remington 870 medicine. Make it a double.

squatted- female.

Says whom?

That whole first paragraph was written to convey the state of Leeta's thought process as a two-year-old, so even though he is a little advanced for his age, it's still simplistic.

I tell you what I tell you because you don't need to hear, "Oh, Lester, I love it! Will you have my baby?"

No, I don't. Besides, I'm way beyond child-bearing age. You'll have better luck with your parasite.

All right, that's my afternoon shot to hell. Hope yours was better. Sorry, no poem.

Chapter 10 is still only a couple pages long, but if you want I could send what I have.

Enjoy that parasite stew. Just make sure you pick out all the buckshot.

[Lipinski]

Thanks for the reply Lester and I don' t mind you being disappointed in me as I disappoint myself daily.

When you said: I forget too much of my own universe if I don't keep reminders, so I've got Leeta's extended family tree, I've got a concise timeline of events, I've got a chart showing all the species with their most obvious physical characteristics ... and once in a while I get to thinking I really should make up a list of ALL the character names—in full, maybe with a few words about each.

you raised the point where often a writer 'forgets' I've seen this with names especially followed by timeline.
***

Your wrote: Anyway, I have no ambition to write three different endings. I've already done at *least* three beginnings, and I'm tired of major reconstruction. I might very likely have to change the ending anyway by the time I get there again (hopefully a step ahead of the fucking grim reaper).

I would say I'm now disappointed in you but instead will state that the above by you shows how a writer can become...tired. Some even get bored with their story. The reasons can be many. 1. Time spent working on a story. 2. Feedback contrary to what the writer expected, in your case you've already revealed that it has been 'critted' by others to include a lady who talked about the opening, as I have. 3. Age of writer nearing death. 4. Sex 5. Did I mention sex? 6. Overthinking a story -BIG way to get to the tired/frustrated part.

What I say regarding getting tired while writing a story is, the story is now out of the realm of being the writers. No writer should ever tire of the story, and if they do tire, they need to stop and never finish the story as the mood of the writer will show through. Simple and basic. No, 'taking a rest, a breather and then try again' shit. No. No. No. Start, write until passing out, write some more, drink, shit, and write until the fingers are bloody, the mind depleted, and the successful story, finished...

Every story a writer feels alive by writing it, so much so that they never want to stop writing the story, or they have so many idea's about the story they can't stop, sleep, eat, fuck, and even wear diapers so they can shit while still writing...Now THAT is what a story should do for a writer. And even if only the writer and one weird person out there in the world reads and likes it, it is a success. Thanks for bringing that topic to attention. Too many writers out there tire way to easy and they will fail as writers (in my humble opinion)

***
You raised a fair point by my critting your opening without offering something in return. So, I will write my opening paragraph as if I were writing your story. But first, I asked a couple of people, "what gender comes to mind when first hearing the following name, Leeta?" The response was instant and 100% the same, female. So even though you made sure to say 'him, he,' and showed all the masculinity to this point...the name is female, though, Robin is a female name mostly which must explain the lesbian side of me trapped in a man's body.

Okay, I could spend hours debating on what kind of ending, what kind of beginning, but to go along with my asshole crit of the opening, I will pretend I am you writing the beginning, the first and most important paragraph:

Leetar sniffed the coming coolness of night hunkered down on Mitzi's flat-roofed doghouse, in his furry immature arms he held a large hen, an animal known on Earth as chicken, together the two uttered strange sounds watching the terrain sun set. For many days the sky had been leaden in the heavy cover of water vapor, clouds bearing a damp mood foul enough to bore the being holding a now silent hen. but today, this moment, he saw a changing color spectrum his eyes understood as many subtle colors, all turning to match the black pupils of his eyes when the sun finally sank below the horizon.

As I said, I never like telling a writer what to writer but I just wanted to present something substantive in my crit.

Your way, of course, is yours. It is your story as it should be because you wrote it. I wrote the beginning my way as if it were my story and I wrote it. Which beginning is 'better'? Doesn't matter as it is the readers minds deciding and some will say, Lester, and some will say, Robin is a fucking nutcase.

To explain my beginning: Leetar-male, obvious characteristics of being an alien were 'sniffing' the coolness of night instead of the usual 'seeing'. I chose hunkered because hunkered is definitely a 'guy' thing. Furry immature arms are already alluding to the being being 'young'. the fucking chicken is a fucking chicken, yet both shared an alien form of communication in the primitive imprint of genetics. Not language mind you rather the natural muttering, clucking, or grunt inside all creature. And the rest is just say what you said but in a different way.

Also, I tried to paint in the readers mind an exotic feel to Leetar, that he was not of Earth, and speaking of Earth, I used terrain as it is a more exotic word to many readers than, earth. And the same word could also be used for other planets.
***

Completely understand about the poem and mine was only an example.
***

My parasite is one ugly bastard. To engage in sex with such a being would entail using a lot of preparation H, Tylenol, gasoline, KY jelly, chocolate, and strawberry jello...

Yes, I would enjoy reading what you have on 10. And, some advice, find a way to light the fire under your ass and taking this story by the balls and finish it with enthusiasm. Fuck what I and others say, it is your story. It should make you an emotional wreck. You should feel what your characters feel. Happy. Sad. Hungry. Full.

If only you find such fucking fantastic satisfaction about the story then you win, and no, it is not narcissism for a writer to feel truly satisfied with their story and if they're not satisfied than how the fuck can another reader find it so?

[Lester Curtis]

Robin,

you raised the point where often a writer 'forgets' I've seen this with names especially followed by timeline.

That's called continuity. Some of the better film producers have specialists who do nothing but that, making sure that little details track from scene to scene. Some book editors do that too. I'm a little obsessive about it, myself.

What I say regarding getting tired while writing a story is, the story is now out of the realm of being the writers. No writer should ever tire of the story, and if they do tire, they need to stop and never finish the story as the mood of the writer will show through. Simple and basic. No, 'taking a rest, a breather and then try again' shit. No. No. No. Start, write until passing out, write some more, drink, shit, and write until the fingers are bloody, the mind depleted, and the successful story, finished...

I have stopped work on this for various reasons, with occasional breaks being as much as a year long. I've also gotten away from writing the story in order to do tasks that support the story, such as the timelines. This is just my own relationship with my own story; it doesn't mean I intend to give up. I can't give up; this thing is too much a part of me and has been for about to a decade now. I'm using material from a previous story in this same universe that I did give up on; that one goes back a few years before I began this one. Everything about Griffin carried over, all the null-space travel stuff, quite a few of the alien species (though some of those have changed). I have music that I've written for the earlier one and it runs through my head about every day. That will show up here eventually.

What often stops me are plot problems, and they don't have to be big ones. For instance, Chapter 10 needs some kind of plausible plot event to get Leeta separated from his shepherds and out of their reach, and out of reach of his satchel, too. Somehow I have to get him off Mars on someone else's ship, and it can't be another abduction, nor can it be any action initiated by the Bad Guys (though it can be done by common thugs). I suppose I should just skip ahead and get some of the subsequent stuff written.

Leetar sniffed the coming coolness of night hunkered down on Mitzi's flat-roofed doghouse, in his furry immature arms he held a large hen, an animal known on Earth as chicken, together the two uttered strange sounds watching the terrain sun set. For many days the sky had been leaden in the heavy cover of water vapor, clouds bearing a damp mood foul enough to bore the being holding a now silent hen. but today, this moment, he saw a changing color spectrum his eyes understood as many subtle colors, all turning to match the black pupils of his eyes when the sun finally sank below the horizon.

The problem with this is similar to the problem with the poem you proposed: it takes the reader out of the character's POV and into a more distant narrative voice. As originally written, everything there is coming from inside his little furry head with its little fuzzy thoughts. He won't even take note of the fur on his arms, because it's a fixture of daily life. Do you ever think about the hair on your arms? Why would you? If you woke up with hair growing on the palms of your hands, you'd notice.

The use of "immature" is unnecessary here; we get his exact age in the very next paragraph.

It looks as if you're trying too hard to feed the reader information that they don't yet need. This way lie info-dumps (and I have the T-shirt). So many writers fall to this temptation that a meme has arisen to warn against it: RUE; that is, Resist the Urge to Explain. Best practice is to only give the reader as much information as they need to know right now.

You've misused "terrain;" that's a noun relating to the shape of the land. The term you wanted is "Terran," capitalized, but it isn't needed here either, because of the chapter subtitle.

I do want to thank you for making me think about this paragraph a little more; I've added four words to clarify the contrast between present weather conditions and the prevalent seasonal conditions.

And if you keep on objecting to Leeta's name, I'm just going to call him Pat.

http://www.nbc.com/saturday-night-live/ ... hop/n10083
______________________________________________________
Ten


Oxo stank, and it was uncomfortably loud.

It all hit at once, the second the airlock opened from the docking bay, people—all humans—as far as Leeta could see in every direction. That wasn't far, since they were all crowded together and all taller than him. He could hear them all, though; maybe hundreds, some shouting and a few crying, and the combined odor was so thick he could almost see that, too, the smell and noise kept close by the unusually low ceiling.

The loudness of the crowd wasn't as bad as the undertones of fear and nervousness and anger in the voices; the smell of their bodies was tainted with more of the same. His ears flattened back and his tail tucked almost at once.

Someone had been waiting for them, a young woman wearing a white uniform with the Collective logo on it. She said, "Stay together and follow me."

Janice and Hubert took up positions on either side of him, each with a hand on one of his shoulders, and their guide worked her way slowly through the crush of people, crosswise to the direction most of them seemed to be facing. Somewhere ahead of them someone had failed to get to a toilet in time; there was a smell of fresh urine, and the crowd pressed back away, voices raised in anger and disgust. Someone was yelling to be let through to clean up, but they didn't sound very close.

Their guide detoured them around the heightened commotion. Leeta could tell by the quality of the sounds that they were getting close to a wall, and a moment later they emerged from the swarm at a closed door labeled 'Authorized Personnel Only.'

The Collective woman brushed her ID card against the door and pulled it open, holding it and waving the rest of them through. Very close to the open door, someone yelled, "Hey, wait a minute—"

Leeta twisted around to look. Janice was in the doorway behind him, their guide was beyond her, and a man from the crowd was lunging toward them.

Janice took one step back out through the door, knocked the man off balance with a stiff arm to the face, pulled the Collective woman in, and slammed the door shut.

Most of the noise and stink were now on the other side of the door. The woman in the white uniform shook herself a little and looked at Janice. "Thanks." She held up a short plastic tube. "You saved me having to zap him." She tucked the item in a pocket and looked around. "Everybody okay? Good." She seemed nervous, but blew out her breath and grinned. "Nothing like a little excitement in the day. This way." She turned and began walking; they were in a long, narrow hallway with nothing but another door at the end.

"What was all that?"

"Refugees," Janice said, "from Earth, getting their papers processed. Most of them will be moving on from here as soon as they can find somewhere else to live."

"What was that man doing?"

The Collective woman half-turned without slowing down. "Probably thought this was a short-cut. Now he just gets to go to the back of the line and wait longer."

They turned left through the next door onto a wide hallway with a higher ceiling and fresher air. There were people, including other species, but it wasn't crowded, and they seemed much more calm.

The walls of this hallway had a lot of open doors and large windows with colorful signs in them, many of the words in strange letters. They all had something written in English: Dusty Dan's Quick Eats, Best Boots on Mars, OXO #1 Sundries & Souvenirs, Shirtsleeve Sandbuggy Tours, Phobos Fashions and Accessories, Something for Everyone—All Species Cuisine.

It took Leeta a moment to make the connection that they were in a shopping district: one more thing he'd never experienced in person. He'd seen advertisements on the 'net; maybe he'd have time to actually look around inside one of these places. Not now, though; he was being taken somewhere else.

He could see people behind the windows, and some of them looked surprised when they saw him. A few pointed, some smiled and waved, as did some of the people walking in the hall. He smiled back at them; it seemed like the polite thing to do. Even though he didn't know just how he should act around large numbers of strangers, a pleasant smile never hurt anything.

From somewhere up ahead, he could hear faint music: people singing, and some kind of instruments; he couldn't make out the words, but it sounded cheerful.

He'd heard music back on the farm; various kinds, from his little data-pad, but this was so different. The beat was a little unsteady and some of the singers' notes were a little off, but he liked it. Like birdsong, it wasn't the same every time.

A little way further, they entered a space that spread out to the left; it was very large, with a very high ceiling—and trees, growing in enormous low-sided pots. They were spread out in an irregular half-circle near the far end of the room, and small tables and benches were scattered around the outside of the space, with listeners standing and sitting at random spots.

This was where the music was coming from; a group of people were on a small raised platform in front of the trees. At the front, a young woman was playing a guitar and singing, both at once, and this was so amazing that Leeta almost didn't notice what the others were doing behind her, but there was so much else to the song that he had to look.

There was a female katesh on the left, standing behind a long boxlike structure made of dark wood, striking the top of it with thin sticks; it made very low notes. Then a male shaktuuran, straddling a square box with a hole in it, slapping it with his hands to produce pops, booms and thumps.
_________________________________________________________

[Lipinski]

I think any name but Sue.

It has been constructive and enjoyable to read and comment on your work Lester. Points of view by both myself and yourself have been done in a way the reader/writer can now form their own opinions as that is what writing is supposed to do to the readers mind, debate what to accept and what to reject.

Even something so simple as to what is the correct way to hang toilet paper is debatable (inside or outside, I say just use the hand and soap, saves a tree). The end result of toilet paper use is still the same regardless of how the roll is hung, though I suspect the use of the hand alone would be rejected by most readers minds.

What you have written so far in 10 was good action, enough to paint a picture in my mind. The change in the flow was better for me in that you used fewer and more powerful 'words' saying more with less.

Speaking of less, only two question marks. One of the reasons I hate seeing a lot of question marks in any story is that my mind strays to find the various answers, and in my mind there are many ways to answer each and every question regardless if the writer gives the answer or not. This is one of the reasons I came to hate Leeta in the earlier chapters. In this last chapter the two questions fit the scene very well as it followed physical action.

Anyway, looking forward to reading about Leeta.
***

The Resurrection of Leeta
Written by: Mr. P

It had been days since the parasite had blown the alien, Leeta, into little pieces with bullets and shells from a M1 Abrams tank. The last sound we heard from Leeta had come from what little was left of the furry little head, a head now covered in maggots and feasting microbes. Now the sounds of fly's and approaching footsteps of the parasite could be heard.

All around the head were various rotting parts, soon there would be nothing left but bones.

"I'm off to see the wizard the wonderful wizard of oz!" the parasite was in good spirits and it had been a few days since his last feast. After blowing the alien up he had dined well on the remains of an elk hit on the highway by a logging truck. Now, the rumbling in his tummy let him know it was time to feed again, and remembering the dead fuzz ball, he thought the meat should now be ripe.

Taking a knife from one of the now moldy pieces of Leeta, the parasite started to peel off some of the larger chunks of flesh. Dripping with semi-dried gore, the maggots fell off the piece held by the long strands of decaying muscle.

"Mmm,, (oomph, munch, munch) mm, this is some good shit." The parasite was obviously very content as he cut and consumed many pieces, soon there was little left to munch on, so licking each one of his fingers the parasite belched a sound of satisfaction.

"I'm off to see the wizard the wonderful wizard of oz...oh, oh my." There was a stabbing pain in his tummy. This pain turned into a more severe pain...

"Ohhh...Shit! Damn, I don't feel good..."

Looking at the parasite it was obvious he was in great pain, it was also obvious that the body of the parasite was changing.

The parasite fell to the ground writhing in agony, his body contorting, his eyes bulging, and his bowels voided a black tar looking substance, a foul substance indeed.

Many minutes passed and you could hear every one of them being an uttered anguish.

Soon though, you could not recognize the parasite, he had changed. His body now looked like Leeta. The same shape, smell, even his voice was the same as he asked, "Where am I? Who am I? What's my name?"

In the background the music played, "And if I ever have a son, I think I'm gonna name him
Bill or George! Anything but Sue! I still hate that name!"

The new form of Leeta heard the music and smiled, "Sue? I like that name. My name is Sue, how do you do, now you're gonna die..."

[Lester Curtis]

Why, that's no parasite ... that's a fucking SCAVENGER!

I won't be available tomorrow; I have to do a crit for Critters or my point average will drop below 75. Gotta keep it up there in case I ever get another chapter done and want to post it.

While you wait, try this on: "A Scavenger Named Sue."

[Lipinski]

You should see what the parasite does to my mind especially when my mind is a bit, different.

As inspired by you: A Scavenger Named Sue

Sung Sue, a mercenary in the Ming Army of Tolgri'n. One who slayed dragons for Imperial gold coins balanced with the wine fermented from the berries of the high mountain ragur bushes.

The hunt for dragons once was an easy profession for the drunkards of the land as the wine flowed and the coin was heavy. Now, few beasts could be found and so the numbers of hunters dwindled and faded, as much as the wine soured and the gold tarnished.

"Hail come sun of the hidden course, come guide and slay, come to test the metal..." a prayer made by Sue, already sober after only an hour of drunken debauchery, his having his way with young boys in the brothel of maidens bringing little more than pleasure and depletion of precious treasure.

"Come boy, bring me my bag," a young man feminine in nature softly nodded his head doing as bid, bringing a bag almost as heavy as himself to the dragon slayer.

"Ah, a fine ass," and with a slap to the now tested flesh, the buttocks of the boy burned red. "Now, off with you." The young man silently departed to the room behind rooms.

It had been a long period of moments since the Lagisk had been seen, king of the clawed clan, so long few believed he existed. Lagisk, the protector, the one God himself forged from chaos, the one who now smashed a world, the one Sung Sue drew a sword and...
***

Not really interested at the moment in writing and yet the writing comes. It always comes and it always will. It is up to a writer to write and rise to the challenges even if the writer is not interested in writing at the moment.

So, Sung Sue, so many plots and ways to take such a simple story. Go ahead, take it reader, make it an epic dragon story done in a way much more interesting than the fucking mush people write for the masses, all in the name of greed, wine, and gold.

I could spend the next two weeks of continuous writing on where Sung Sue came from, where he is, and where he will go. But, fuck it, take it, there is now an interesting commercial on the television.

[Lester Curtis]

I could spend the next two weeks of continuous writing on where Sung Sue came from, where he is, and where he will go. But, fuck it, take it, there is now an interesting commercial on the television.

And this is why I don't watch TV. Without all that crap coming at me, I've attained an almost zen-like tranquility, without even trying. Too bad that doesn't help me get anything actually done.

Of course, there's fucking FB ... but I've also got AdBlock+ on my browsers, so all I see there is the usual trash. And I didn't even want that; the only reason I signed up for it is because the Aphelion staff uses it to communicate about 'zine matters. Too bad it's like crack.

Ya want some more? I've got LOTS. I was once up to about a quarter-million words, with just a beginning and part of the end—no middle. That was the worst: in that version, Leeta's mother lived. I think I've still got that version in some cursed hellhole of a file, though if I'd had any sense (sorry, I'm a writer) I'd have deleted it. Py-yuke. I'll blame the marijuana for it. It's amazing how much more sensible my writing has gotten since my pot connection died ... and since I got rid of the TV antenna ...

No, you're not seeing that part. If you ask for it, I'll send you something else instead. It's like a realllly long tutorial in how NOT to write, starring none other than Mary Sue herself.

So. Why DID you quit so soon with the Sung Sue story? The "gold tarnished"? Lemme guess—turned green, right? Those dragons couldn't have been much to worry about if they mostly all got killed off by drunks. Did the dragons all have their faces glued to FB all day? Crackpipe the Magic Dragon, lived by the sea/And sucked a glass dick every day 'til he couldn't even see ...

No. YOU started it. YOU finish it.

And chop that parasite's head off and use the rest for a condom. Just be sure to sew its asshole shut, or it'll leak.

See that? Who needs marijuana when you've got 75-proof brandy?

[Lipinski]

Ha! Excellent reply Lester.

You should see the story I want to write about the Mark (something or other) that founded that worthless entity called Facebook. "And today's picture is the one where my dog peed on the little stick..." or "Here my baby boy, the bestest boy in the world, the best thing ever born since the beginning of time, this is the 227th picture of him eating peanut butter for the first time..." (gag, puke, and gag some more.) I hate FB and only had to start an account because some guy impersonated me, but I never use it.
*
I don't care about Leeta's mother, post the story of where Leeta gets laid or tastes human flesh for the first time.
*
Okay, you win. You inspired me with posting your story here and so I will play with a story also. Since none of my shit will ever get published by those controlling the publishing world I'll publish a story here. This is one of the reasons I like Aphelion. I've enjoyed it ever since I first discovered it years ago.
*
I like this Sung Sue character, it intrigues me, so I will now start with the beginning and see where it goes.
***

King of the Claw

Written by: Some version of Robin B. Lipinski aka door maker, hermit, freak, toad, (and many more)

Prologue-

A beginning of creation was only the completion of the end. A snake chasing and consuming its tail. A God recreating itself and a moment of many moments within moments...In the beginning there was light. In the beginning there was darkness. In the beginning there was chaos.

God, the One and one and one of many Gods, created. A Body. A soul. Mother. Father. In the end of the last beginning there was a change, as in every beginning there was a change from the last ending.


Power, so much power contained in fusion of energy, matter changed from the blackness of nothing into the blinding light and energy of light. It was in this confusion, this perfection; planned completion and beginning of what only God could understand, understood the confusion.

World after world, created and destroyed by random chance and power of those God unleashed, the power held by beings so pure, so intelligent. These beings went by many names, names which of themselves were powerful enough to destroy worlds. It was through the destruction of billions of planets, galaxies, dimensions...It was this that rose to such stature that God itself was challenged, and God challenged makes war pale in comparison much like a meadowlark eating the solar sun of a planet called, Earth.

The mind of God is one where not even the beings could comprehend but their reign definitely felt the results as God scattered the beings to the many dimensions and moments of being...In words easy to understand, another part of Gods plan was now in play.

In teachings of primitive societies, the Sun is the focal point of power, the God resulting in god, in gods, in faith, in understanding. Primitive and predictable. Wrong in so many ways, but needed.

One planet contains multiple planets. One planet in a Universe within Universes. For those readers now confused beyond reason, they too are one, one within one in a Universe within Universes. For all, the chaos was perfect. In this beginning until the next beginning, it starts...

Chapter One: The Dragons

Dawn of nothing showed particles that once 'nothing' was indeed something, something indeed. Those minute particles were once combined into a chain of Sun's and planets numbering billions. Those particles were once a galaxy.

Drifting in and out of the ethereal mist flew a being, a powerful being once but now reduced greatly in stature as this being dared to defy its creator. This being was once the ruler, the creator, and the destroyer of life. Its name was known only to its creator and other beings one could call, brothers and sisters.

For trillions of years, this being drifted alone in the vastness of nothing. It was in this nothing that it found nothing. There was nothing to destroy or create, its creator saw to that. It could be debated that this was death for the being, or maybe a prison sentence imposed by the creator the being challenged. It was the end of a being ,and since it was still a being flying among nothing it was easy to become a part of the beginning.

In distance no mortal mind can come close to understanding, a dethroned being flew and crossed paths with another being. Call it male or female, brother or sister, call it was you will but it was called love.

Imagine mortal reader, one of flesh and blood. Imagine two beings so powerful that to even think of their name, not only would you be destroyed, but so too the world you live upon... Imagine two beings floating in nothing meeting.

The two merged and became One, it was in this moment that God smiled. There was a bright flash of Light and the Creation began. So much life and possibility. So much. It could be called that it is what it is, what it was, what it will be, but that would only confuse more readers even more.

Planet after planet formed and evolved. World after world, spun out of control and their deaths created more worlds of life. It was horror. It was beautiful. It was love.

Billions of years passed and life evolved into amazing possibilities. All around this Universe the Life changed and grew, all a part of what could only be considered to be so amazing, so wonderful, so, so, so...there are no words in your language to truly describe a very important part of your evolution.

Those many billions of years ago when your Universe was created by the merging of two beings, their union not only created a Universe but the released energy combined in amazing ways creating other creatures to fill dimensions beyond your imagination. Such creatures that primitive societies such as yours gave them names they could understand. Such names as elves, fairies, gnomes, unicorns...a many and varied lot of creatures, all powerful in their own right, all living in a world unknown by mankind or species with names as primitive as humans.

Of all the creatures the beings created, one of the most powerful and amazing creatures were the dragons. It was this way because God itself smiled as it touched one of the creatures the beings union spawned, God smiled as of all the creatures created only God could destroy the dragons. No being or beings could kill a dragon. There was no form of life or death which could harm the dragons. And God smiled, knowing that soon, the dragons would also challenge....

[Lester Curtis]

You should see the story I want to write about the Mark (something or other) that founded that worthless entity called Facebook. "And today's picture is the one where my dog peed on the little stick..." or "Here my baby boy, the bestest boy in the world, the best thing ever born since the beginning of time, this is the 227th picture of him eating peanut butter for the first time..." (gag, puke, and gag some more.) I hate FB and only had to start an account because some guy impersonated me, but I never use it.

I more or less predicted something like this about fifteen years ago or whenever it was that WHAT??! YOU DON'T HAVE YOUR OWN BLOG YET??! OH MY FUCKING GOD YOU HAVE TO GET ONE IT'S LIKE ALMOST MORE IMPORTANT THAN A DRIVER'S LICENSE AND THEY'RE FREE!!!!!

Oh, and that Mark guy ... his last name is, I think, SOLD YOUR DATA WITHOUT YOUR PERMISSION—AGAIN.

I don't care about Leeta's mother, post the story of where Leeta ... tastes human flesh for the first time.

Well, I don't have that, but I'll get you the reverse of it, as soon as I can do the formatting ... I tried to upload the thing—the 39,000+ word thing—in about five different formats and this goddam box wouldn't take ANY of 'em. Wait for it.

Oh, and that getting laid part will be along in its own time.

I'll react to your story later.

Bon appetit!

[Lipinski]

Ha! Correctomungo Lester.

***

Chapter Two: As Seen

Soon. Soon is such a fine word to describe that which comes in the not-too-distant future. And as soon as the event comes, it is soon over. This is what occurred once the dragons were formed. The worlds soon learned of them and soon learned the power of such creatures.

Creatures? Is this a good word to describe a noble beast of God? To primitives the answer is, “Yes,” which is why primitive cultures are described as such. So what is a dragon? A dragon is more than any child’s story or work of fiction, dragons are as real as you are, more so even as you don’t even know who you are. You, with your daily bodily functions and needs. You, with your cravings and desires. It is you that best fit the term, creature. You, you follow others and lead others, a herd of cattle trying your hand at intelligence and while there are brief sparks of hope, you are nothing more than a cud chewing cow.

Dragons are unique among all ever created or ever will be created. Even with evolution there will never come another species even coming close to them. As to what they appear as, they can ‘appear’ as they desire. Energy. Mass. They travel in ways beyond your imagination. They exist as they want to. They think as they want to.

Before the trouble soon in coming, they were the most special creature in the Universe and Universes within Universes. Invincible. Powerful. They were able to destroy the beings that aided in their creation. They answered to no one but God, and soon…

In the realm of dragons there was no hierarchy as each were blessed with knowledge of their creators, the beings now merged as One and living a plan. They also had been touched by the hand of God, not an insignificant point since that hand is a force of its own.

It is important to note the ignorance of the species on so many trillions of planets, the ignorance in the denial of God. Yes, the evolutionary process showed the minds belief in what the minds wanted to believe, and what a varied and endless choice of beliefs to choose from.

Religion. Science. Fiction. Facts. Nature. Emotions. So much to choose from and so easy to believe, but belief in the true God? Very few tried and of those trying even less could understand. Just as in this simple story many minds are already tired at just seeing the word, God, let alone hearing the word in their primitive mind, a mind trying to now find entertainment, mystery, a story, anything other than the mention of God. There is a reason for this but many cannot understand…

Soaring high towards the eye of God
Burning embers and flayed skin of wing
Tumbling
Falling
Splashed by tears of fire
Kiss of a smile.

(The following bit of writing is translated into English from the native tongue of dragon. It will sound a bit strange as no language of mortal man can come close. If you can understand, you are one of few, if you cannot, you are normal, if you become bored go to bed and dream of your primitive world)

“Cave hollow spiked top carved of snow. You. Why?” He was a male dragon, a young dragon only thousands of years old by earth standards.

“Kidner. Feast from the tree, sit.” She was a female dragon, an old dragon and hungry.

“Greet hello this farewell. Salute and know, praise this those. Time.”

“Why time when no? Ha! Ha! So, fish from water fly sky.” A good joke indeed!

The narrator must now describe in the English language what was going on. High above a planet there were many moons, moons covered with life and atmosphere. It was here two dragons met and conversed of the present moments. It was here that a courtship was taking place and when dragons seek other dragons it is a pretty amazing sight indeed.

Two dragons, both appearing as multiple legged animals with a large head covered in golden fur. On their legs there were small creatures, a form of parasite that fed off the dragon’s blood. They could be considered to be magical as their intelligence alone caused new life forms to be created in environments where no life had existed before.

“Kidner. Hail and then. Bow and thrust with late.” She was now frowning, and it is usually not wise to be around a dragon frowning.

“No. It placed above. Ragi say rain, blow wind far world…”

Some people have to say many words to get a point across and some need only give a look to speak volumes. For dragons it is not so much the spoken word but the pictures the minds of dragons impart to other dragons. Whatever occurred between the two standing high above a world and circling each other on one of the living moons, it could be considered war or love.

“Kidner!” She said.

“Kadur!” He said.

Rocks were smashed, their dust cast out into space along with budding vegetation, quickly freezing as the vacuum of space flash froze the flower and stem.

In a blur of motion, the many legs of the dragons crossed the other dragon’s, many parasites were dislodged and those that fell, quickly burrowed into the moon where later tree’s would soon grow.

With wide gaping mouths open the two took turns entering the others mouth, a grey bubbling foam grew and spewed from both mouths covering the bodies in a slippery form of slime.

For these two the blood color was blue and much blue flowed as each one had a spiked tail that thrashed and smashed into the other. This moment lasted for a long time as already small trees were starting to grow from the holes of the burrowed parasites.

Many seasons passed until finally, the dragons that had circled and parried, thrusting tail and mouth, they completed what was needed to be complete, and then each took on new meanings. Yes, it was not war the two dragons had engaged in, far from it as dragons have no need for war, no need for time or treasure or any need for anything those of primitive minds seek. What they need is freedom and the means to be what they are. What were these two dragons engaged in for so long that now the trees coming from the holes the parasites dug were now towering as giant Redwoods? It was love. Yes, dragons mate and love, and ‘no’ they do not lay eggs, chickens and birds lay eggs, dragons form…

[Lester Curtis]

Okay, I got to thinking about this BIG-assed file and wondering if this board software would actually even swallow that much at one gulp and I doubt it. So, I'm just going to send it as an email attachment. Watch your inbox.

I'll get to yours in a bit—a bit sooner than if I'd spent all night reformatting the chunk I'm sending.

[Lipinski]

Lester, got the file... BIG-assed is correct. I'll wade through it though and let you know.
***
Chapter Three: Suns of the Dragon

Three, a very important number in many ways and for the dragons it is even more so. Why the reason is so means nothing to most creatures, and so it is.

When the beings became One and created the Universe and Universes with Universes, they created the dragons. Where the dragons were created was a very special place, one unique in all the Universes and one that could be considered the Womb of One.

One sun was called, Vires. It was the sun of Light, of brightness and joy.
The second sun was called, Ti’ii. It was the sun of Colors, of possibilities and chance.
The third sun was nameless…It was black and the pupil of God. It was and is only visible to those needing to see.

Three suns combined in the triangle of three to form the Sun(s). Massive is not even a word coming close to how the three combined appeared to the dragons. It was here the fires of Life formed the magnificent ‘creatures’, the dragons.

*

Nodules, much in design as the hives honeycombs on some planets formed in geometric precision by the industry of insects commonly called, bees, formed a spiraling matrix hanging in the center of the Sun(s). The whole mass blurred into and out of dimensions, each with its own version of reality. From one nodule emerged a new dragon, one white in appearance and the first of such color to ever appear.

Most dragons were either colorless, a testament to the Black Sun(s), or of an endless color choice, a testament to Ti’ii, the Sun(s) of Color. Never before had a white dragon been created but created it was, and it was there in the beginning.

Dragons have names, for some just the mention of their name wields power and for others, a name used to play jokes on those they choose to fool. Yes, dragons have a sly wit, a form of humor that for some species would be considered horror.

When the white dragon was created it took the name, Lagisk. It was a wonderful creation and one that as soon as it was free from its creator, spread waves of energy and soared at a speed greater than any light and headed off on a mission only the dragon knew, and God.

For time unknown, dragons were created here at the space of Sun(s). Some stayed tending the process, some died for reasons needed. Some played endless games, games resulting in further creation of the Universe, and some played at the destruction of Universes. Even today the evidence of their play can be seen in the birth of planets and the death of galaxies.

From whatever planet you hail from, just standing beneath the night sky of your world reveals the presence of dragons, their shadows touching everything. Even on your world there is the battle of shadows, the battle between light and dark.

Yes, battle. Dragons had no need for war. They were so powerful they needed nothing. There was no power that could destroy them other than God, and they had respect for their creator, the One. But…

But- a word used to show the absolutes are not the absolutes at all. It is a word used to give an excuse, a reason for or against. Usually those of low intellect resort to using the word as those speaking absolute truth have no need for such words.

Dragons, so beautiful, so musical, so poetic, so wonderful, so and so and so… ‘but’, chaos is also a word powerful in and of itself.

On so many worlds, how is it possible for purity to be corrupted? Even God, surrounded by legions of Angels, even God saw the chaos of corruption as Angel battled Angel. Good. Evil. For dragons, there was no good or evil, and yet? Chaos played with begets Chaos, and dragons love to play...

Everything, and ‘thing’ is susceptible to corruption. Gold, diamonds, silver, wood, stone, sun, planets, Universes, all fail and corrupt, dissolving into energy or matter, and yes, even the dragons fell prey to the unthinkable.

He was an old dragon, one there since the beginning. His job was to polish the flow of time. You could say he was the keeper of history and the future. He knew the past as he knew the potential of the future, as that is all the future is, potential.

His name was, Tempus. As far as dragons go he was as playful as the others and he had traveled to every corner of every corner of every corner of all the Universes and Universes within the Universes. He had fathered many forms of dragons on many forms of dimensions, and yet he was always tending to the flow of time.

“Sack. This/there, away with (no translation available) Kadar.” Imagine a whirlpool so immense entire galaxies swirled and blended, only to disappear. This was where Tempus stood, at the rim of the whirlpool waving a form of power some would call magic while others would say, prayer. Whatever you would call it, it was almost too much to think of.

Speaking to another being, one neither a dragon or a creation of One, Tempur spoke, “Zmo, where? No. I, impossible. Go!” The being, one looking like a cross between an asteroid and a dying comet, spun out of control and crashed into the eye of God.

What is pain? You are just a lowly creature consisting of electrical impulses called nerves and a brain of electrochemical reactions. To you pain hurts, to the eye of God, it caused an eruption of tears.

It was a calling of arms. A declaration if you will and what the dragons were willed to do was to gather…

[Lester Curtis]

Okay, just a quick comment to start the thought process about your story—very general ...

... in a Yahoo group I subscribe to, one of the members opened a new topic called "Reader expectations," and she talked about a literary conference she was at where she heard about a 'reader's contract.' This was aimed at short stories but applies to any length work: the opening of your story establishes a contract of sorts between you and the reader. You teach the reader how to read the story, establishing voice, POV, style, setting, etc., and for a short story they say this all happens in the first three paragraphs, ending with the theme.

For novels, I've seen endless repeats of formulae for the first page: introduce your main character (hopefully by name), his goal and/or conflict, maybe some hint at the antagonist, blah blah, yadda shitknickers.

Of course, all this advice is aimed at the poor schlubs who actually intend to try to get noticed by a traditional publisher. This is infinitely sad, because the chance anyone has of that are about equal to them simultaneously winning the Powerball while being struck by lightning and attacked by sharks in Death Valley. Worse yet, trying to tick off all the checkboxes (and I actually do have a First-Page Checklist somewhere) only makes your story look that much more like everyone else's. Anyway ...

I'm no prescriptivist when it comes to story structure or grammar rules or any of that, but I really believe in this, at least in general terms. It goes on at an unconscious level, but it's there. At least, it should be there, but I'm having the worst luck trying to find much of it in this dragon tale. Okay, POV, yeah, 3rd omnicient, I guess.

I'm looking for a main character, but can't find one. You name some characters, but I have no idea yet who's The One To Watch. Conflict? I'm lost ...

Think of it this way: think of how people tell stories around campfires, because that's really about all the fuck we're doing with all these damned words. Campfire stories. 'This person wanted that thing but he couldn't have it because ... and here's what he did to try and get it anyway.' Every really good story tells us a lesson about how to survive; storytelling is a flat-out Darwinian survival trait.

I'll give you the benefit of the doubt that this is all a first draft, but so far, I'm at a loss to know who wants what or how they're going to try to get it in spite of a particular problem. And I HOPE that's not actually the reader reaction you're after.
_________________________

The BIG-ASSED file ... I got carried away with detail and lost focus. There are a small handful of characters who are important to the real story (Leeta's): Tayu and Melah, on top of that short list. Kobler/Neiderlander is mostly just a vehicle for those two, along with Eames (who's interesting enough that I'll use him again if I get as far as writing a second novel). The thing has other problems, possibly including a huge plot hole. Just keep all that in mind.

Hope that didn't hurt much; there are a few turns of phrase in your work that I liked a lot.

Bedtime.

LC

[Lipinski]

Exactly Lester, already this story is successful for 'me', and why? Because the human mind is a primitive structure filled with so much potential, very little of what it can do is done. Lost is a good word to describe many things - confusion, denial...the mind is so comfortable to follow the herd mentality, to seek satisfaction with the basic flow. What is so far seen is just a glimpse into what cannot be seen by mortal eyes.

Trust me when I say that if I were to write this 'story' in its true format there is not one human alive that would even come close to understanding. So, therein is the conundrum, to entertain or be true to what is. This story is a primitive combination of both. It is what it is and for me, something no publisher would touch with a ten foot, or even twenty foot pole. This is a story that only a few people will even come close to understanding, and this is good.

I feel that the masses of the general population have had it their way for so long it is time to write for those few who find extreme boredom with the status quo. While few will even come close to enjoying what I write there are some that will, some that crave what is not seen or known. This alone brings great satisfaction.

Writers should never let what's inside remain inside, it should be released. As for this story, I will not say it will make sense or even be all that entertaining for others and as usual I could give (pick any swear word existing) this is one of the great reasons to write.

Damn, it's nice outside today. Gotta go do some tractor work and think about chapter four. (and Lester, I really had to chuckle at the word 'HOPE', oh, if you only knew...)

[Lester Curtis]

Trust me when I say that if I were to write this 'story' in its true format there is not one human alive that would even come close to understanding.

Well, a human being isn't required for the creation of that kind of work, and it can still be comprised of ordinary words: just couple a random-number generator to a dictionary and add a little punctuation and some sentence- and paragraph-breaks now and then. So, what makes you want to produce a thing that's of no use to anyone? Seems to me the whole point of writing is to communicate something to other human beings.

Or is there something else I'm missing?

Let me know if you'd like to see more of my stuff.

LC

[Lester Curtis]

Hey, check this out—your pal could be making you a little extra pocket cash:

http://www.nytimes.com/2016/06/19/magaz ... share&_r=0

[Lipinski]

Tried the link Lester and nothing happened. Tried the copy/paste route and got, no page found. Did have a nice talk with a Nigerian scam artist as he took control of my computer though... (just kidding, he was Chinese)

Nope, not missing but you have pointed out the excellent point that a reader needs the proper frame of mind to understand a story. If the story is written in Chinese and the reader only reads English the story is obviously meaningless. And after listening to the Wind today it was pointed out very clearly not to proceed with the story as it already was written a very long time ago for an audience very much ready for such a silly story. I've run into this many, many times and you'd think I'd learn, but I'm one bullheaded bastard, that's for sure...

I'm going to spend some time going over your story you sent and email a response.
***

"So Robin, can't get it up? A bit afraid of writing your fucking stupid story about god knows what? Ha! What a loser."

Yes, absolutely, whatever you say parasite, whatever you say.

"Uh, you're not mad that I'm thrashing you?"

Of course not, it was a story written a long time ago and not relevant to this uber modern and very intelligent and sophisticated society.

"Really? So I can get away with calling you an asshole?"

(splat, bash, crash, and burn)

Nope. You can't do that, just as this world really is missing something...but it will find out, one day, just not today...

Oh, and parasite?

(groaning and in pieces) "Yes?"

Are you ever going to learn?

"No."

[Lester Curtis]

That link works from here for me ... if you've got a cookie-blocker in play, that might be the problem.

Looking forward to your comments.

[Lipinski]

Got it to work by opening it in a new link. Very interesting article, one which enforces that there is good in bad (just as there is bad in good).

Waste from yeasts (a form of shit) yields alcohol. Parasites can kill yet as the article shows, improve the life of a sick individual.

Of course the parasite in my mind is just a useless bastard...

"Hey, I heard that. If it weren't for me Robin, you'd just be a seventy year old negro/chinese wannabe..."

Go back to your cave parasite, this morning is a nice morning, too nice to resort to violence.

"Before I go, you want that I check out your hemorrhoids first? Maybe your fat gut?"

Sigh, as you wish for violence... (smash, splash, gash, and gore)

"Yeah, that's better, that's the Robin I know." (could it be the parasite is a glutton for pain?)

Ha, you don't know me at all, not one little bit.

[Lipinski]

"So...whatcha gonna write tonight Robin, more crap?"

No, wasn't gonna write anything tonight but what the heck, haven't wrote a poem in awhile.

"A poem? Is that what you call that shit?"

Call it what you will, doesn't matter in the least, but parasite?

"Yes."

I have something for you tonight...

"Really? What, another tortured way to kill me?"

No. Come over here.

"Here? Is this close enough?"

No, a little closer. Closer. A little more...

(smooch)

"Arggh! Yuck! Are you crazy! I'm outa here. Phooey, (spit, gag, puke)

Amazing how a kiss can fuck with a parasite, next time I'll tickle it with a feather and offer marshmallows.
***

Dark Cloud

Bellowed blow to show hot embers
Stirred in space and time; swirling; tortured dance bright flame.

Wooden soul, heart filled with dry rot, soaking up the heat
and burnt.

Eastern Moon to Western Sea, master none and smothered still
beneath
burning flame.

Announce.
Announce this static moment, far off the Southern sky builds blackened ships
North, to set sail.

Coming fast, filled with roar of thunder, sparking lance and embers meet.
Fire
Higher
Higher until torrential waters greet.

River meandering below eye and wing
Hovering unseen

Another log added to the fire
watching comet and star in flight
in prayer
an empty seat.

[Lester Curtis]

Not bad for somebody with a chronic infestation. Ya want a challenge?

I want a song lyric for my chapter-in-progress (yes, I'm still adding words to it! Sometimes more than one a day!). I started to write one, but it came out sounding like hippy protest music, and I don't want to spoil Leeta's first experience with live music (or sound too preachy).

So, I'd like one full verse, four short lines, with some kind of rhyme scheme. No religion or politics, just something cheerful, maybe celebratory. A closing/title line would be a nice extra.

Yes, of course you'll get credit. If I ever get it published, you might even get paid *cough*in free ebooks*cough*.

Just keep you-know-who away from it.

[Lipinski]

It would be an honor to scribble a lyric Lester. I read the new chapter you sent and see you're tapping into the artistic vein, I like it. I will be writing you three to choose from and if you use one, all three, or none, it will have been enjoyable to try and help in your endeavor. As for credit I need none want none and it would be a gift to you from me to do with as you will.

Before I write what's already in my head I have a poem that must be written first as it is what it is and humorous to see the today.
***

Voice of the Geese

Doctor of sight - seen and unseen - smiling to see
I remained
Among the bramble the briar the serene
flowing sound of babble
a creek.

Words rowed against and for even in the handshake while hounds watched in silence
Winds row of breeze
rustle in the leaves.

Garden full and green where apples lay upon the ground
Mule of the movies saved from howling beast
and chickens...ah yes, the hens that lay,
Egyptian, Rhode Island, Black, all with names.

It was not his eyes for shaded but still...
seen.
It was not the manner, the words, the touch, nothing of this world, of sound,
neither hound or human or beast
it was the geese, the three.

Ha! The fire's ash spoke of figures of stars of time
while in the language the gander spoke silent
to me.

This is the world known full well, full well the well that flows over
World full and true
with the period of the steel cauldron up -side-down, waiting,
it was nice day.