Author Archives: James Pyles

Diversity Training: Tales From The Dystopia

mind control

Image: activistpost.com

The technicians carefully positioned the electrodes at specific locations of Ronnie’s freshly shaved head. The adhesive paste was cold like the room and she started to shiver.

It wasn’t just the temperature, though. Ronnie was terrified. She struggled against the straps restraining her to the chair.

“Now Ms. Pierson. This will go easier for you if you don’t resist.” Dr. Williams, head of the University’s Department of Diversity Instruction stood directly in front of Ronnie, her arms crossed. “This really is for your own good as well as for the sake of the other students here at Libra U.”

“When I came in here this morning…I thought you said this was going to be a workshop.” In spite of herself, in spite of not wanting to give in to these bastards, Ronnie was close to tears.

“It’s much more efficient to provide the corrective programming digitally, through direct cognitive induction, rather than have you attend a series of classes.” Williams leaned slightly toward Ronnie. “Externally presented materials can be ignored or minimized. When we introduce the correction electrically, it will become a part of you.”

Mind control. Ronnie had heard rumors, but she didn’t believe them…well, not until now.

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If Aesir Should Find You In The Snow

frozen forest

Image: eskipaper.com

If you are brave enough to leave behind everything familiar and comforting, which can be anything from your house to bitter, old resentments, and set out on a truth-seeking journey, either externally or internally, and if you are truly willing to regard everything that happens to you on that journey as a clue and if you accept everyone you meet along the way as a teacher and if you are prepared, most of all, to face and forgive some very difficult realities about yourself, then the truth will not be withheld from you.

–Elizabeth Gilbert

The snow muffled everything around Gary, making it seem as if the world around him were slowly disappearing, becoming inaudible and invisible, except for the white.

He hadn’t planned on walking this far away from the road. He’d driven up to the mountains on an impulse. Bored and disgusted with the “sameness” of each day of his life, he craved something different. He saw the online weather report about snow in the mountains, just a short drive from where he worked, got up and left.

His co-workers will get along fine without him for an afternoon. It’s not like he really adds very much to the team. Probably not even his boss will miss him.

Fortunately, he had a pair of snow boots and a heavy coat in the trunk of his car. The snow on the ground was already up to his ankles and getting deeper. It was like walking on magic. He didn’t even notice the effort it took to move one foot ahead of the other.

The trees were getting more numerous, but their natural flocking rendered them silent sentinels in a land of snow and ice, like ancient Frost Giants. Now all he needed was Aesir, beautiful, naked Aesir, the Frost Giant’s daughter, for a companion.

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Book Review of Echo Volume 1: Approaching Shatter

approaching shatter

Kent Wayne’s “Echo: Approaching Shatter”

Wait! What?

I just finished reading Kent Wayne’s novel Echo Volume 1: Approaching Shatter. I knew it ended on a cliffhanger, but I didn’t realize it would be so abrupt. It was like slamming into a brick wall at sixty miles an hour.

I’ve been reading it on my Kindle Fire and the thing said I’d finished something like 86% of the book. When I swiped to turn the page at the end of a chapter, I was confronted with a message stating it was the end of the story and if I liked it, to write an Amazon review. The rest of the book is a preview of Volume 2: The Taste of Ashes.

Somewhere in the creation of my blog and writing stories, Kent Wayne took notice of some of the things I’d authored by “liking” them, and so I checked out and eventually followed his blog Dirty Sci-Fi Buddha. That’s how I became aware of his Echo series.

My understanding is that “Kent Wayne” is a pen name (Clark Kent, Bruce Wayne), and I recall reading one bio on him saying he had military experience but preferred not to give out details, making Wayne and what he did in the service a bit of a mystery. That may seem irrelevant, but I do have a point to make.

He does go more into his history on his blog’s About page, and Echo: Approaching Shatter definitely gives the impression that Wayne is mining his own professional experience.

I had a tough time getting into the novel. It’s not like I’m opposed to military based science fiction. I’ve read and thoroughly enjoyed Joe Haldeman’s The Forever War and Timothy Zahn’s Cobra, but that was decades ago. For about the first half of the book, I kept struggling for a handle or a hook and couldn’t find it. I didn’t know whether to even like the protagonist Atriya (and mentally, I kept pronouncing his name as “Attila”).

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Adorable

reading

Image: boomerhighway.org

On a perfect morning when I have to take my grandkids to daycare, I have everything set up before they’re awake.

My son makes Landon’s green smoothie and Dani’s bottle before he leaves for work, so I don’t have to worry about forgetting to put probiotics or whatever in their breakfast.

Landon is easy. He’s seven-years-old and all I have to do is wake him up and make sure he’s rolling. Dani’s just 13-months-old and needs a lot more attention.

After I get Landon up and make sure he’s out of bed, I go to Dani’s bedroom. Most of the time, she wakes up and she’s crying to be let out of prison…uh, her crib. She looks so pathetic and adorable with tears in her eyes, even after I pick her up.

Sometimes, she’s still asleep and I have to gently wake her up by rubbing her back. Even when she wakes and starts crying, it takes her ten or fifteen minutes to become completely alert.

This morning, when I went into her room, she was awake and standing, but not crying at all. It was like she was just waiting for me.

I usually pick her up and start talking to her. I walk through the kitchen, making sure Landon’s at the table with his breakfast, then take her to the windows facing the back yard. This time of year, it’s still low light between six and six-thirty, and it’s easy on her eyes as we greet the morning together.

Sometimes she smiles, I’m not sure at what, as she looks outside.

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Falling and Bouncing

flat ball

Image: printactivities.com

I recently submitted an original story (one that hasn’t appeared on this blog) to a website that publishes flash fiction of a thousand words or less. Wow! Less than a thousand words for an entire story. That was a challenge.

I took a creative writing class in high school (back at the dawn of time when dinosaurs ruled the Earth), and we called those kinds of stories “short shorts”. You start writing a story as close to the ending as possible.

Anyway, I cranked out my story and it came out to just a few words shy of a thousand in the final draft.

I’ve noticed that when I write something for (potential) publication on another person’s site, I really have to go over the story again and again to shake out all the flaws. I’m a tad more lax when I’m posting my wee tales here on “Robots,” probably because I’m impatient and hey — I’m the site owner. I just want to write and press the “Publish” button.

So, I went over “Killing Juliet” repeatedly until I thought I had it in really good shape. Then I followed the publication instructions laid out on the publishing site I had found and sent it in.

Part of the instructions said it would take up to thirty days for a response, so I figured I wouldn’t hear back from anyone until the end of August.

When I woke up this morning, I was surprised to see an email from the publisher. Basically it was “interesting concept but not a good fit for us.”

I clicked “Reply,” typed the one word response “thanks,” and hit “Send.”

But I couldn’t leave it alone.

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Sympathy for the Devil

ellis

Tom Ellis from the television show “Lucifer”

“Oh please, Dear Lord, release me from the bonds of sin, lift this burden from my soul, for I am such a miserable wretch.”

Father Douay was on his knees using his left hand to press and rub the hair shirt under his robe across his chest to increase his pain, and his right, clutching a short whip, to strike himself across the face and neck.

“Almighty Father, maker of Heaven and Earth, please allow my mortification to atone for my many sins, please provide me with forgiveness, even though I am totally unworthy. Oh dear Lord…”

“Just exactly what do you think you’re doing?”

Father Douay was startled and stopped beating himself in mid-prayer. Looking around his small cell, the room he chose to reside in during his retreat at the monastery, he saw that he was not alone, even though he had locked himself into his room hours ago.

“Who are you?” The Anatolian Priest was astonished, indignant, and more than a little embarrassed that his acts of penitence were being witnessed.

“Let’s just say I’m an interested observer,” the other fellow said. He was reclining on the Priest’s bed, one of the few pieces of furniture in the room, with his back propped up against the wall. He was startlingly attractive, brown eyes, dark hair, dressed in a simple suit, gray shirt unbuttoned to mid-chest, no tie.

“How did you get in here?” Father Douay tried unsuccessfully to hide the whip under the small desk to this left. “What do you want?” The Priest was now standing over his unwelcome guest.

“I already told you what I want. I want to know what you’re doing.” The dark man sat up a bit straighter but continued to give the impression of being completely relaxed and even a bit amused.

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The Alien

ellie

The first issue of Scaffolding Magazine

Not another infection. I can’t stand it.

I know I asked for this. I know I volunteered. But the doctors didn’t say it would be this bad. I knew I’d be giving up my life with the first injection, but they didn’t say anything about this kind of suffering.

Even when the symptoms seem to have subsided for a while, the slightest warning sign, such as a sneeze or a mild sore throat, drives my anxiety to dangerous levels.

The doctors say I need to stay calm, that emotional aggravation could make me feel even worse and endanger the success of my treatment. How can I stay calm when they’re doing this to me?

OK, I understand. Take deep breaths. What an odd sensation.

Let me go back to the beginning. Maybe it will help you, whoever you are reading this (they won’t let me post videos for obvious reasons), understand what I’m going through and why.

We are on the verge of exploring and investigating a new planet. The planet is dominated by a sentient species, which is the problem. So far, all of our monitoring has been passive and remote, listening to their communications broadcasts, observing video transmissions. Last year (their year based on a single, complete revolution of their planet around their star), we sent a shielded drone into orbit, undetectable through the specific bands of the EM spectrum they typically monitor.

But you can only learn so much that way.

This is the first part of my story published in the first issue of the new scifi and fantasy publication Scaffolding Magazine. To read the rest, click the link and purchase a copy. I promise, you won’t be sorry.

Writing for My Grandson

reading

Image: boomerhighway.org

Most of the stories (and proposed chapters for novels) I write for this blog aren’t really good reading for my seven-year-old grandson. That’s not to say that all have “adult” language or “adult” themes (i.e. sex), but just because the stories are too sophisticated to be interesting to a child, or some of the subject matter might be too violent.

However, when I was editing The Oppressed People: From the Chronicles of the Diluvian Kings, I thought about how a story about a dragon who loved children might be right up his alley.

Every other week, when my son has his kids, we have his kids, too. Every evening, my grandson needs to read one of us a book, and in turn, we read to him.

So I chose last Sunday evening to read him “The Oppressed People.” He liked it. He seemed captivated by the story. He couldn’t say he had a favorite part, though. But it was such a thrill to actually read him a story I wrote, something I created out of my own imagination, a story he couldn’t have accessed any place else.

The opportunity for me to read to him again occurred last night, so I chose the only other tale I thought would be appropriate: The Last Warrior. It’s another fantasy tale that again, is an allegory for modern social and political issues. Of course, he didn’t get the allegory (though his Dad would), but he still enjoyed the surface details.

I was a tad surprised when he said he liked it, because there’s really no “action” as such, at least the kind of action that I thought would be attractive to a seven-year-old. In fact, he was so interested, he asked if he could read my stories on his Kindle when he’s at his Mom’s. Maybe I can send him the links via email.

I briefly toyed with the idea of reading him Walking in Glass Slippers since it’s definitely a fairy tale (along with being another allegory commenting on social issues), but it has some suggestive language, including Ella’s “enchanted lingerie,” and I didn’t want to have to explain that part to him.

I try to write a short bit of fiction every day, and not everything I write is good content for children, but hopefully, now that I’ve had this experience, I can occasionally tailor some of what I produce for him, and as she gets older, his sister.

Anyone else out there have any experience writing for children?

Walking in Glass Slippers

glass slippers

Image: commons.wikimedia.org

“Hillel would say, Do not judge your fellow until you have stood in his place.”

-Pirkei Avot 2:4

“Don’t judge a man until you have walked two moons in his moccasins.”

-Native American proverb

“Ouch! I’ll never get these on.” Prince Richard complained painfully as his father tried once again to push his right foot into the glass slipper. “Stop it, Father. The shoe is too small, and it’s made of glass. Do you want to cut me?”

“Stop complaining, my son.” King Stellen was running out of patience, which is not a good quality in a father or a King. “If you ever hope to find Ella, let alone understand her, you must step into her shoes.”

“Maybe I don’t want to understand her.” He yanked his foot back and examined the newly formed bruises. “Maybe I’d like to understand a woman with larger feet and who wears more sensible footwear. What sort of woman wears glass slippers, even to a formal event?”

“I don’t know, Richard. But if you want to find out, you’ll have to try again.”

The young Prince hesitated, and then grimaced as he again offered his foot to his father. “Be gentle, please.”

“Here, perhaps a little butter applied in the right places will help.”

King Stellen took some butter from the small dish he had earlier placed on the night stand next to him and rubbed it generously on his son’s right foot.

“That actually feels pretty good.” Richard closed his eyes and recalled the sensuous beauty Ella exuded when she first walked into the grand ballroom the night before. All eyes were on her, and every man, from the lowliest Duke, to Richard the Prince himself, desired a dance with the wondrous stranger (actually, the old King felt a similar desire…one not experienced for many years, but Queen Sophie used her ceremonial fan to smack the King a good one on the shoulder, derailing such thoughts).

It was while in this mood, this altered state of thought, that Richard felt a strange sensation at the ends of his legs, and opening his eyes, he saw something startling.

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Ascending Sparks

sparksThis experience, to give life, to watch it grow, to be torn apart by it, to receive pleasure from it, and to give life again—for this the soul descended from its ethereal heights.

And when it shall return to there, enveloped in these memories, it will finally know their depth. And with them travel ever higher and higher.

“Life’s Memories”
-Rabbi Tzvi Freeman
Based on the wisdom of the Lubavitcher Rebbe, of righteous memory
Chabad.org

I’m so tired. I can’t remember when I didn’t feel exhausted. I wake up exhausted. I barely have the strength to lift a spoonful of soup to my mouth. My bladder only can hold on so long anymore before I either make it to a toilet or embarrass myself. I have a hard time remembering what I did last week or even yesterday.

I am so old.

But I do remember many things before yesterday and last week.

I remember watching “Gunsmoke” when I was five, and trying to outdraw Marshall Dillon with my toy six-shooter (I never could).

My Dad was in the Air Force and we lived in Spain near Seville when I was little. Instead of Santa Claus, one of the Three Kings from the Bible (well, not a real one) would ride the streets of our neighborhood in a horse-drawn wagon. I got my picture taken with him once.

My Dad pointed up to a shiny thing in the night sky and told me it was called “Sputnik”. I didn’t find out until decades later that the satellite couldn’t be seen by the unaided eye and what we were looking at was one of its rocket boosters tumbling end-over-end in low orbit.

I remember when we had vinyl 45s and to play them on a record player, you had to put this funny disk thing in the big hole in the middle so it could fit on whatever the little stem sticking up in the middle of the turntable was called.

I remember the one-eyed, one-horned blind purple people eater.

I remember my Dad growing roses in our yard when we lived in Spain.

I remember getting sick on the airplane when we flew back to America.

I remember getting lost after my first day in first grade when we lived in Omaha. My Dad came and found me. I was so scared. I was only six.

I remember always getting picked last for sports during recess at school because I couldn’t run very fast and I was lousy at throwing and catching.

I had a crush on a girl when I was in the second grade. I got teased about it a lot.

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