Old Ish – Fandroid Blurbs

Old Ish – Fandroid Blurbs

I felt like posting an old story, my first foray into Fanfiction, I wanted to repost,  after reading a Blavity.com article herehttps://blavity.com/7-times-science-inspired-black-art

Science can spur art, which spurs dorks like me to write about that art. 

The fastest way to describe the concept is that it centers around Cindi Mayweather, the android who fell in love with a human, Anthony Greendown, and as such is sentenced to disassembly.  Anyway, I was listening to the album Metropolis (first in the concept series) and one of the interludes begins a chase scene, I felt like writing about it.

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Neon Valley Blue

Faster.  I tumble through Neon Valley Street with my wires in wild disarray.  Faster.  How many now?  Eight? Nine?  I am a product of the man,  I’m built of numbers and born of steel, but when they’re all nipping away at you in the dark with electro daggers and chainsaws you lose count of how many bounty hunters are on your tail.  Faster.  You’ve got to go, out the window  Anthony told me, less than twelve minutes ago before they burst through the apartment door on the fourth floor. 

Come on ‘droid fiiiive seven eight two one! Let’s have some fun!” One of them cat calls from the black behind me, bringing me back to the moment.  I had a name, Cindi Mayweather. They’d given me a name, The Electric Lady.   I run faster.   From Anthony’s arms and toward arrogant cyber boys and girls.   It wasn’t fair, they picked the pieces of us they thought exotic, but just enough to keep them as the one and not the other. 

I cut through an alley before my run is stopped. The whurrr of chainsaw is cascaded in the laughter of a bounty hunter who crashes in front of me.  If phasers were warranted I’d have been disassembled by now, but they aren’t.  They wanted a show.  The other bounty hunters had to be close, but the whole chainsaw-weilding-borg-boy-standing-in-front-of-me thing took precedent over their approach.  He lunges at me.  As much of us as the cyborgs have they still move like humans, and while I’m no Soldroid, I still have the upper hand.  My optical processors read through the paltry of potential disassembly methods.  I bear my steel weight on my knee coils and leap over before he can cause any damage.  I was off.  Slightly, but I was off, and the bow tie at my neck is grazed just enough to fall to shreds. 

Faster. 

When you’re bold enough to reach for love be mindful of those who profit in fear, in keeping the labels lively and want you to sell your circuits to the system.  When you’re bold enough to reach for love, no matter what form it takes, you have to stay faster than the rest of them, the ones who chase, not the ones that follow. 

Neon Valley Street, they say it’s where the Arachnoid angel with the Dandridge stare first glitched.  Running through these dramatic streets I wonder if they’re right, if all I am now is a product of some misplaced wire or fried motherboard.  Faster.  I think of Anthony, and ev-ev-ev-everything gets muddled, but it’s OK, because it reminds me they’re all wrong.  So they want an Arachnoid? I’ll give them one, I’ll give them an apocalypse to dance to and everything they love.  So I keep running, with a shock-filled smile because I know what they’ll learn; a chainsaw can break a bot, but not before my voice shatters their world.

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To Making Sure We Stay Great

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Where do we begin now?  Do we remind them, tired rhapsody it’s becoming…?

That Black lives matter?

That LGBTQ lives matter?

That Latino/a lives matter?

That Muslim lives matter?

That..

 

Standing on the street in my cyanide skin, I see a white man wail that we’ve made America great again!

We’ve made you remember the pecking order, again.

You have no name in the street, again.

Give us your soul, give us your sanity, give us the glory and we’ll give you a bible, again.

In his breast pocket is the picture of a child who will one day bear witness to the deplorable, to the fire forged finger tips, snatching and grabbing pussy.

Telling her to smile.

Telling her did you hear me?

Telling her you should have just listened to me.

Telling her, now clean yourself up.

And it’s OK, because the man on the street is celebrating that it’s OK.

It’s OK, though he called her princess and precious, because he voted that it’s OK.

I don’t know what to tell you.  I’ve been, like many with a pen and a predatory skin complexion, going to the new wave water cooler.  The tweets, where we tell a story of 140 characters, that feel like a hundred and forty matches trying to spark flame in the belly of a snow man.

This is though, I try to remind myself, not an end but a chance at beginning.  So milk your bones, for the walking for the marching.  Build your bodies, and gain the strength to carry one another.  Shut off the box, and feed your mind not of the tragedy on the screen, but the words.  The ones that are there for the taking, even if they try to tell you different.

Don’t forget, it’s now about building the tinder and torch, for the fire next time.

What it’s about, is taking your green so they see your black, your brown, your everything they tell you isn’t worth the time, it doesn’t inflate their pockets.

Stop buying for more bruises, stop spending for more sour.

We now become more.

This weekend though? Imma go on and eat my Chipotle fried Chipotle

Sip some wine and smoke my cigs.

I say goodbye though after, to the things that tatter and wear, because sitting is now the option for the one, but not the other.

Panic ain’t a Disco : Work

 

Thunder between the ribs that trembles throughout, numbing every inch.  I need air.  You’re halfway through the desert, the next break taunting you from ninety minutes away.  breathe.

 

I’m going to die at work. No you’re not.

I’m going to die, and crap my pants and that will be my legacy in this office, Chuck the pants crapper

Don’t panic.

Be like water, or a blue jazz night, or an overused meme.  Don’t.  Fucking.  Panic.

 

You’re panicking.  You’re panicking about panicking about nothing.  You don’t deserve to panic, there are a million things in this world that can burn you, this? This you can put out.

 

I think the customer has given me their account twice already,  I can only blame my computer so many times.  I’m going to get fired, if I don’t pass out, if I don’t die.

 

When you come out of this, I want you to remember how much of a wuss you are.

How much of this was under your control.  Maybe if you stuck to that whole not smoking thing, maybe if you didn’t chug your double black coffee like a dickweed, maybe if you scheduled a doctors appointment you could have avoided this.

 

Swallow the fire, finish the call, and get some air.  This ends like it all ends, when you push through.

Writing Prompt 

I decided it’d be good to get out of my manuscript editing and clear my head with a prompt, so here’s one I scribbled 🙂  Since we’re about to hit October I decided I a little horror, hope it’s engaging.  

Prompt : Something Wrapped
    We wait for them to fall; for what we’ve done, for what they’re owed. Daddy says we don’t owe em nothin. Daddy says they shiftless and they tired. Daddy ain’t really say too much more about them since the first one fell.
   Use to be a day that they ain’t make much noise. They just hang there like strange fruit unplucked while we ate smacky sandwitches and sung about glory as they swayed back and forth, back and forth. We’d wrap the hands, not everyone do that but we ain’t like Randy Portson and his dumb-head daddy, if you ain’t smart enough to wrap a nigger’s hands you ain’t got no business wrapping up his neck. He’ll just toss about, try to claw his way out of it and you’ll end up shooting him dead before the picnic even begin.

           The first time it happened it was so fast. The fallen was dead as dust for an hour or so and his tater brown skin sagged like dewy shit paper. We danced. I think Johnny Carey woulda asked me out that day if he got the chance. Daddy woulda had a fit. What type of boy has two first names’ he’d say. 

Then the fall.
The sound of the snapping rope whipped all our tention’ round. He growled. He wasn’t a man anymore. Not that we gave him much of a chance to be one in the first place. He was strong, stronger than Johnny, Daddy or any other man tried to stop him. He was hungry, and bit at em, at their necks and face and anything else good lord gave shine to. He had a picnic of his own and bit through seven of us before we gunned it down.
It’s been happening all over. Daddy, me and the other five that got bit ain’t been feeling so hot this past week but ahm sure we fine. Everything is going to be just fine.

On Time 

So I’ve touched on it before, but there aren’t enough hours in the day…
Correction, I don’t effectively use the hours I have in the day. In a couple of months I hope to be hanging with other writerly types in LA, but before I get there I need to have a finished product. Okay, I don’t really have to have anything finished, I could go just for the hell of it, but that defeats the whole purpose of making it a goal at all. It’s a time limit, it give me a deadline to get off my ass and focus on finishing this thing.
I need to get my shit together. I have, as of writing this post (9/14/2015) I’ve not worked on editing my novel in over two weeks.  
This is unacceptable. 
A little backstory? I’m a pretty lazy S.O.B. I use to think this was part of my endearing charm but it’s just what adds to the widened gyre between me and everyone else who busts their ass to get what they want. I’ve recently tried to change this particular aspect of my character. I found that seeking out and taking opportunities to write professionally adds something to my day to day reflection of myself I hadn’t realized I needed.  
Currently I am helping as a content creator and editor for a start up, going to school part time (currently 6 semester hours) online, trying to maintain a blog with…kind of constant updates, taking up a freelance job for a different start up company that needs some advert writing done, working 40 hours a week, and trying to edit a book for beta readers by the end of October. It wouldn’t be so bad if each of these tasks weren’t so self contained, but they are, and as stated I’m a lazy man trying to play otherwise.  
I’ve recently tried something that seems to be helping a lot, and just wanted to throw it out there, even if it’s a little basic. 
The biggest issue I’ve noticed is just how much energy I have at the end of the day. My job involves a headset and sitting for most of the day, and while that doesn’t seem very taxing by the end of my shift I’m nearly spent. Prior to this post I’ve been saving all my work for the evening and either half assing or not getting through any of it at all.  

What I’ve done is categorized my weekly and daily tasks by level of energy cost. As much as I hate getting up I can’t deny that I’m more productive creatively and professionally in the morning, so I assign those high energy costs to that time. Things like editing my novel at a minimum of 10 pgs. a day and composing new items for the startup that I’m working with. If I handle those before my 9-5 job I’ve taken care of my more draining tasks at the beggining of the day before I’m too warped to even approach them.  
Medium energy cost tasks like research for class and other projects I can actually do while I’m at work. Is it encouraged? Hell no, but as long as it doesn’t effect my performance and I stay ahead of schedule on all my tasks I can utilize break time appropriately and get studying and research out of the way.  
After I get home I try to work out. In my early twenties I to had delusions of being that guy who ate lima beans for breakfast and sneezed whey powder. Reaching 30 this year has taught me I’m just not going to be him, and that’s OK, but excersice is still i 

mportant if I want to stay on task. After staring at numbers and talking to entitled detail oriented individuals all day, I’m usually unable to function on a mentl level, unless I work out.  
Of course by work out I mean flail miserably, but still something about it acts as a reset button, which seems silly as working out is tiring, but I feel refreshed after a good hour of leaping around my house in an attempt to do everything Shaun T promises m I can.  
After i work out the low energy tasks are pretty easy to get through, those are mostly set up. For instance I have to compose at least 3 tweets a day for the startup I’m working with, and edit my wordpress blogs, and get things setup for th following day. These things are annoying, but not hard, so I can make my way through them relatively easy, and if I have any energy left I use it to have a life.
This is hopefully going to work out well, but while my schedule seems a little packed to me, I’m sure there are those of you out there with even more on your plate. I just wanted to post this to show while I originally thought finding time for writing and editing was going to be impossible, wwwith a step back and a deep breath I found something that may just work out .