Serialized Pulp Novel: The Rogue and the Merchants (Part 25)

Here is serial 25 of my pulp novel, The Rogue and the Merchants. As usual, here is a link to the full transcription, thus far, if you want to know more about the project, the source of the manuscript, or the story of the novel's genesis. Also, all of the illustrations I've been composing are there as well: Pulp Novel Project: The Rogue and the Merchants

***


No one spoke for a span after the attack until Tauos commanded that Brol's wound be tended to. Then they began a somber search for their comrades, who they assumed were dead. Eerily, the fog seemed to lift directly after the monsters flew away, and all they found to indicate the fate of their comrades was a steaming pile of entrails. They did not sleep that night and were too frightened to go in search for the Rogue. Some assumed he had died, killed by the monsters. And yet, in spite of their fears, they organized a steady watch and prepared to leave in the morning. Indeed, they praised their god when the light of morning crept in.

By the time they finished telling their story to the Rogue, it was sunset.

Brol sighed as he sat forward: "And what of your scouting venture, slave? Tell me, please, that the settlement in the canyon is rife with fresh-baked bread, soft beds, hot baths, and that the folk who live therein speak the language of my fathers," he said. He shivered. His eyes were darkening. He was perspiring profusely. The Rogue wondered whether it was wise not to have held off on the telling of their long story and to have taken Brol, straightaway, to the settlement for his wounds to be tended.

Brol indeed looked pale. The attack had taken a toll on him. When the Rogue placed his hand on his master's brow, he was not not surprised to feel it burning hot with fever. "I am fine," chattered Brol, pushing aside the Rogue's hand.

The Rogue sighed, for her he knew his report of the canyon settlement would come short of Brol's desire, that all he could say of the settlement was that the folk who lived there were strangers but seemed to be good hosts. He forced himself to tell the whole truth and not to play into the merchant's hopes. He summarized his scouting thus: he wasn't completely sure if the people of the village were to be trusted. He had certain reservations. They were reluctant to discuss their god. Furthermore, he asserted that the merchant's they may seem "primitive," who, being from a city that was at the height of its decadent era, were used to comparatively luxurious amenities. Some of the merchants were offended by this assumption on the Rogue's part. "We're city dwelling folk," Tauos said, "but we've no right to expect a tavern and copper bathtubs this far out in the wild. I'm sure, if these folks will have us, whatever they offer will be appreciated. As to their trustworthiness: I cannot say."

In deliberate unornamented truth the Rogue spoke about their lack of a common language, about their alien culture, and about the strangeness of their customs. Not all of what he had to say was horrible to report, however; he told of the beautiful women, of their healing arts--crude though they were. He also told of the foreboding beauty of the ruins in whose shadow they had built their village. Of these ruins, he clearly articulated suspicions: "There are many folk who have been and who will be. There were many empires that rose and fell before your city of Tabun Stoh was built. For all I know, these folks have once lived in those ruins. For all I know, these folk are the descendants of those who had once dwelt there. That, I cannot say."

The Weirding of the Writing Process: The Protagonist as a Portal (Post 2)

On Friday I started writing about the "narrative function" of the protagonist. And, after some etymological analysis, I "distilled" the characteristics of the protagonist down to three attributes:

1) They are the main character.
2) They end up in conflict.
3) The audience identifies with them.

Afterwards, I brought these attributes to question.

1) Does the idea of a "main" character necessarily entail a certain narrative structure (can you tell a story where there isn't a main character?).
2) Do all protagonist have to move toward conflict? Can there be a protagonist who resists conflict?
3) Can you have a protagonist that repulses the audience or that cannot be identified with?

I explore these questions in more detail in my previous post. Here is a link if you're interested: Post 1

But in this post I'd like to offer an alternative definition of a protagonist, a different way of thinking about protagonists.

So, protagonist's have been traditionally defined this way: the main character who approaches the conflict of the narrative who the audience identifies with and who opposes the antagonist, the villain.

Hmm...let's modify this for specifically weird narratives (i.e. science fiction, fantasy, supernatural horror).

It seems to me, speaking strictly in terms of weird fiction, this definition structurally isolates the way the reader accesses your imaginary world. Let me explain.

In fantasy, you often have a secondary world; in science fiction, you often have a world of the future; in supernatural horror, you often have a world where supernatural terrors do indeed exist. In other worlds, you have in this narrative types a distinct "alternative aesthetic space" where the rules are different.

The problem that weird writer needs to solve is, how, precisely, do I get my reader into this world?

The protagonist seems to be the key narrative tool for doing this.

Let me offer an example. Let's consider an example everyone knows, J.R.R. Tolkien's The Lord of the Rings. In The Lord of the Rings the protagonists, if you will--traditionally defined as, say, Frodo, is that access point into middle earth. He is a kind of modern character who lives in a cozy, civilized society who then branches out and explores the dangerous fantasy world.

I don't have much time to explore this idea fully here. In Post 3 I'll explore the following idea: the protagonist as a portal.

Is it useful to think of protagonists as portals to other worlds? We shall see.

Serialized Pulp Novel: The Rogue and the Merchants (Part 24)

Here is serial 24 of my pulp novel, The Rogue and the Merchants. As usual, here is a link to the full transcription, thus far, if you want to know more about the project, the source of the manuscript, or the story of the novel's genesis. Also, all of the illustrations I've been composing are there as well: Pulp Novel Project: The Rogue and the Merchants

***


The entire entourage lost their discipline then and scattered like deer in every direction, yelping, gargling out in fear. Some waved their blades wildly at the attackers, striking but thin air and shadow. Many of them were wounded straightaway--cruel scratches on face, neck, and flailing arms.

Brol, though his knees trembled with fear, carried the attack forward after the initial horror. He was accosted by two of the red implings and swung his knife madly and skillessly. The monsters, though they were lauging in the beginning, grew craven when they found one of the merchants had a fight in him. They spoke to each other in a fast, chittering language indiscernible by the merchants. They left their other prey alone to concentrate on Brol, who appeared to be a kind of threat. One of the implings--he seemed the largest of them, although he was small in comparison to Brol--seemed to take great offense at the merchant leader, and attacked with a viciousness unmatched by the others. He clawed Brol's face, gnawed his arm with a foaming mouth; and, using his long, black, forked tongue, he sucked one of Brol's eyeball's right out of the socket with a wet, suctioning "plop".

"I killed it then! I did this in spite of the pain and horror," Brol coughed. "By my god Evyat! I was determined to bring one of the beasts down to death, to the Vansts, with me!"

He then explained how he killed it. He brained it with the pommel of his dagger, ripped and shredded its leathery wing with his teeth, twisted its arms until the bones cracked and it stopped moving.

The other merchants testified that Brol had become an animal. It had crumbled, dead, to the ground.

The other monsters, chittering with rage, flew away screeching and cursing unknown curses in a language they did not understand. Though they were fierce, they were obviously cowards, for their fear had been bestirrred by just one death.

Flash Fiction: The Digital Devil and Daniel Shebat

I've been participating in an online writing community called, Flash Fiction Friday. They're really great! Lots of good writers. They give a prompt and we have a week to write a flash in response to it. This week the prompt, Cycle 69, was to write a story about "a deal with the devil." I decided to write a "cyberpunk" version of the "deal with the devil" story. Why? Well my wife recently wrote a cyberpunk flash titled "Black Glass" for a flash fiction magazine we started called Flashes of Wonder! and I was really impressed and inspired by it. Also, I love cyberpunk, but have never really written in it. This was an opportunity to do it casually. Additionally, William Gibson's Neuromancer is perhaps my favorite science fiction novel. I imagine this flash is kind of an homage to it. Anyhow, here it is!

***

The Digital Devil and Daniel Shebat (857 words)

Shebat penetrated the server, poured himself another espresso, lit a cigarette, and mashed play on his antique cassette player. A muffled, Please allow me! To introduce! Myself! thudded out of the antique stereo speakers.

He exhaled smoke when the data stream filled his field of vision.

Nestled within the sausage-like coils of his brain, nano-processors purred. Computer and mind were one. Ram, video card, neurons, brainslime; moot distinctions. He smiled revealing metal teeth.

The Redstar Server Hub was quiet tonight. With the speed of thought he glided through the data. Deposits. Memorandums. Schematics. Data. To him, it was all the same. It was cash.

He subvocalized and executed his subroutine, watched as it interfaced: a million particles of data sparkling on the black expanse of the global net field. His decrypting virus appeared on the surface of his visualization as a cloud of branchy veins.

Too much GUI made his eyes burn. He blinked it off. His field of vision was normal again.

He sipped on his espresso, felt the subtle pleasure of the caffeine quickening his pulse. He inhaled a steroid from an inhaler. Crunched down two pink pills, for concentration. Popped in a piece of spearmint.

He yawned. He stretched. He rubbed his chin. He needed a shave.

He blinked on his visualization, shrunk it down with a thought. He then looked beyond it, focused on his ancient television screen, where Space Invaders flickered. He took up his joystick, satisfied that the decryption was working just fine.

I was 'round when Jesus Christ!

Had his moments of doubt and pain!

Made damn sure that Pilate!

Washed his hands and sealed his fate!

For a brief moment, against his will, a thought came. Was it the song? An association?

He'd been warned about penetrating Redstar. Rumour was that Redstar was dabbling in A.I., what cyber cowboys called devils. In spite of the global legal machine that forbade it.

Redstar's corporate offices were air conditioned satellite stations with elevators where corp suits drank coffee and flirted with interns and cheated on their wives. He'd seen the reality shows. He couldn't imagine them making consciousnesses, summoning digital demons from the depths of the human imagination. The last A.I. humanity wrote killed millions.

Rumours. That was all. Suits weren't that stupid.

Pleased to meet you!

Hope you guess my name, oh yeah!

But what's puzzling you!

Is the nature of my game!

Shabat cursed when the invaders won. He threw down his joystick, unshrank his GUI with an eyeflick, and was satisfied when he saw the decryption working just fine.

He went into the kitchen, microwaved himself some ramen, intensified it with a few grams of adrenaline from a dropper, and, using chopsticks, dragged it into his mouth.

When he came back into the living room, he saw it standing there.

A shimmering figure. Vaguely humanoid. A kind of digital shadow burned on his retina.

"Hello," the figure said, its synthetic voice stirring Shebat's superstitious dread.

His reeling mind started justifying things: feedback problem. Comp-virus in my brain. Faulty implants.

Shabat blinked. Looked at his GUI. Decryption was doing fine.

He thought up a diagnostic and he had a report in seconds: everything was fine.

And yet. What was that thing?

Ignoring the apparition, he subvocalized, brought up his firewall, and executed four or five programs to disconnect from the server. He felt his pulse quicken when it seemed to hold on to him.

"It won't work," the figure said. "I'm not a program you can exit that easy."

"Fuck you!" Shabat said. "I'll log off. I'll turn off."

"Don't shutdown too quickly. You'll kill yourself, cowboy. Your cognitive processes are inextricably linked with so many subroutines. We both know you'd die. You’ve overclocked your brain."

Shabat spit. He threw aside a stack of porn magazines. He pulled out his pistol, held it to his head.

"Very adult," the apparition said.

"I'll do it," Shabat said.

The apparition made a noise. It could've been laughter. They stared at eachother for a second. Eventually, Shebat took the gun away.

"Thought so," the apparaition said.

Shabat was stunned. He blinked off his GUI. Looked at his apartment. His vision was normal. The apparition was still there.

"F-u-u-u-ck!" he said. He threw aside his gun. "Get out of my head." There was desperation in his voice.

He poured himself another cup of espresso, sank into his couch. He buried his face in his hands.

I guess he was wrong. Seems like the Redstar suits had been that stupid.

Pleased to meet you!

Hope you guess my name, oh yeah!

What's puzzling you!

Is the nature of my game, oh yeah!

The apparition was next to him when he looked up. Shimmering.

"Mind if I sit?" the apparition said. It smelled like ozone. Shebat looked at the gun. He could still do it.

"Don't care," he responded.

The apparition sat. The air around it seemed charged with electricity. A frequency rang in Shebat's ear.

"Now," said the apparition, leaning in close. "Tell me, Daniel Shebat. What do you desire above all other things?"

Shebat lit another cigarette. Inhaled. He gazed at the gun.

The Weirding of the Writing Process: Examining the Narrative Function of the Protagonist (Post 1)

Looking back through my February posts I realize I've written very little on the writing of science fiction, fantasy, and supernatural horror. In large part, this is because the time I have to devote to creative has really went down. Why? I'm been working on my dissertation prospectus and so, I haven't had time for creative writing (I don't count the transcription of my pulp novel, The Rogue and the Merchants, as creative writing. I'm just mechanically transcribing it at this point. No editing. No revision.). Sure, I've been getting some flash fiction writing in. But the two flashes I wrote this month have been in "realistic" genres. I wrote a literary fiction titled, "Lift," and a hardboiled detective fiction, "I Met Her Seven Times."

Well, this morning I sent out the most recent draft of my dissertation prospectus. And so, I imagine I'm going to have more time to write creatively over the next couple of days as I wait for my adviser's input. 

***

This post I want to ask a question about protagonists. More specifically, I want to meditate on the relationship between readers and the protagonist of a narrative. What kind of a relationship should a reader have with a protagonist? Let's back up: what is a protagonist?

I can feel it. This is going to be a "two parter." This post will set up the problem. Tomorrow I'll try to respond to it.

Anyhow, once again, what is a protagonist? Lord Wikipedia defines "protagonist" this way:

A protagonist (from the Greek πρωταγωνιστής protagonistes, "one who plays the first part, chief actor") is the main character (the central or primary personal figure) of a literary, theatrical, cinematic, or musical narrative, whom ends up in conflict because of the antagonist and with whom the audience is intended to most identify.

So, according to this definition, that protagonist manifests a few characteristics:

1) They are the main character.

2) They end up in conflict.

3) The audience identifies with them.

Hmm..

I find this intriguing. Let me say a little about each characteristic.

1) They are the main character. This implies that there is a "hierarchy of importance" in a cast of characters depicted by a narrative. In other words, this definition implies that there are characters in a narrative who are more important than other characters. Is this always the case? It's a hunch of mine that is has been the case for many narratives since the emergence of "novelistic" narratives or "realistic" narratives. But there are certain types of narratives that do not incorporate a "hierarchy of importance" among their cast of characters. I'm thinking of an epic like The Iliad. 

Yes, Achilles and Agamemnon are important characters in this narrative. And yet, are they the main characters? Are they more important than, say, Hector? Priam? Odysseus? etc. etc.. I'm not suggesting there is no "hierarchy of importance" in terms of the cast of characters that are depicted by the narrative of The Illiad. I do want to suggest, however, something about an intensity of this "hierarchy of importance." 

Let me put this hunch simply: in an epic like The Iliad, there are many, many characters, and they are all important. In more recent, novelistic narratives, there is a demand for a "main" character. Modern readers prefer to know who is important and who is not important. This might be changing.

2) They end up in conflict. This implies that the protagonist has to struggle with something, usually an antagonist. They have a desire or a problem that comes upon them. Can you have a protagonist who doesn't experience a crisis? Who just sits and enjoys themselves? Tea? Reading? Maybe. I don't think this would make a very interesting story. But, I can imagine a narrative where the protagonist experiences no conflict. Perhaps this would originate a conflict in itself. Perhaps for the narrative to begin the protagonist needs to seek out conflict. 

This reminds me of a stem in protagonist. Agon. Agon is Greek for "a comepetition" or "a contest." It's connected to our English work agony, which means, "extreme and generally prolonged pain; intense physical or mental suffering" (dictionary.com). Pro + agon means "towards the contest." With the meaning of our English word taken into consideration, we can understand "protagonist" to mean, that person who goes forward, faces, and courts, physical and mental suffering. Hmm...

3) The audience identifies with them. Identifies. What does this mean? One definition of to identify (the one I think this particular usage is referring to) is, "to consider (oneself) as similar to another" (dictionary.com). Hmm... So, the audience of a specific narrative should consider themselves similar to the protagonist? I'm not sure about this. I've read a lot of thrilling narratives where the "main character" or "protagonist," if you will, have been repellent to me. I'm thinking of something like Vladimir Nabokov's Lolita. In terms of fantasy, Michael Moorcock's Elric of Melniboné is a borderline villain. I rarely identify with him. I'm definitely nothing like him. And yet, he's still a great protagonist.

There's much more to be said about protagonists. This post is a first step. And yet, this focused analysis of the concept of a protagonist has raised some interesting questions for me. 

Should my readers identify with my characters? 

Should all of my stories have a main character? 

What is the relationship between main characters and conflict? 

In part 2 of this analysis of protagonists, which I aim to write on tomorrow, I will explore this more fully.

"One goes out like a snuffed candle": The Horror of Marjorie Bowen and Other Worlds

I don't usually do two posts in one day. These days I've just been too busy working on my dissertation prospectus. But I find I have a little extra time this afternoon. I'm hanging out at a Caribou Coffee in Mayfield, Ohio, and I want to tell you about an interesting horror writer I just discovered.

Marjorie Bowen (1885-1952)

Her name is Marjorie Bowen (1885-1952). I don't know much about her other than that she wrote historical romances and horror stories. I picked up a collection of her short stories titled, The Bishop of Hell and Other Stories, and I read, "The Bishop of Hell." What a great story!

Some summary: it takes place in London in the late 18th century. It is ostensibly the remembrance of a fellow about a former friend by the name of Hector Geatrix. Hector Geatrix is a horrible guy. Of him the narrator states, "his reckless, his impiety, his boldness terrified even those hardened in wicked ways" (97). But what makes him even worse? He had been ordained a Bishop in the Church. The main crux of the narrative is Geatrix's love affair with a woman who he takes to the continent. I won't give it away, but it ends with a turn to the supernatural, an intriguing image that stirred me deeply.

Let me relate one great quote. Geatrix is meditating on engaging in a duel and the possibility of dying. This is what he says: "There's nothing, not even Hell, Jack--one goes out like a snuffed candle--just blackness, blackness, nothingness, nothingness" (106). I love the repition of the "blackness, blackness, nothingness, nothingness." Such a powerful and yet interesting statement taken in the context of the story's end (which, of course, I'm dying to tell you about. I won't, of course).

Let me try to articulate why I loved this story. First, it's pace. It moves so leisurely and yet relates so many events. In 15 pages you learn the life story of this villain. You learn where he has been, where he goes, and how he ends up. Secondly, in these 15 pages, a complete world is opened up for you. For me, Bowen was able to completely recreate London in the late eighteenth century through passing references to clothing, powdered wigs, jewelry, etc.. This is difficult to do.

Without a doubt, however, the greatest element of this story is how it suggests "other worlds." It folds into the texture of the narrative the idea that there is more to reality than this life. This effect is evoked more through tone than any direct statement. The portrait the narrator paints of Geatrix is disturbing, and it disturbs on a metaphysical level. How? I just don't know.

Anyhow, if you haven't heard of Marjorie Bown, if you haven't read her, then--I recommend this story to you. Wonder, wonderful.

Utopic versus Realistic Space Opera: Battlestar Galactica (2004) and Star Trek: The Next Generation

My wife and I recently watched all four seasons of Battlestar Galactica (2004) for the first time. What an amazing show! I loved the way it seemed to take traditional space opera tropes and somehow make them more "human" and "gritty." There's a realism to that show that makes one think while watching it, "Yes. If there were spaceships, if there were spacefleets, this is what life within them would be like."

I found it strange how often I thought of Star Trek: the Next Generation while watching this show. I often made comparisons. Having had some distance from the show, I now realize why I was making these comparisons.

If ST:TNG is utopic--a kind of futuristic paradise--then Battlestar Galactica is realistic. I wouldn't go so far as to say it's dystopic, a horrible world. Sure, humanity has been destroyed and is hurtling through space in the search of a new home; and yet, dystopic texts, I think, don't hold out the prospect for hope BSG does. In BSG, the possibility that the humans will find earth is always there.

Comparing ST:TNG to BGS reveals some very interesting things, I think, about two "flavors" of science space opera, what I want to call "utopic space opera" and "realistic space opera."

For example, let's compare a few characters. In ST:TNG you have Captain Jean Luc Picard and in BSG you have Commander William Adama. Both of these figures share some characteristics: Adama is a scholar (consider his book-filled study), and Picard is a scholar (Picard is always quoting the Western Canon). They both demand respect from their crews. They both make inspirational speeches. And yet, there are some major differences: Adama is willing to execute folks if they get out of line. Picard doesn't believe in corporal punishment. Adama is an alcoholic and curses a lot. Picard drinks earl gray and is very proper. Adama deals with the civil government: the president of the colonies. Picard doesn't deal with the civil government at all. He gets all his orders from the military, the Starfleet.

Now let's consider another pairing of characters: the second in commands, Colonel Saul Tigh and Captain William Thomas Riker. How are they similar? Well, Tigh executes the commands and polices of his superior officer, and so does Riker. Riker appears, in many episodes, as a kind of disciplinary figure; Tigh is completely in charge of disciplining the crew. Other than their rank and military funiction, I can't think of any additional characteristics they share except they both appear to like to play cards. Now let's think about their differences. I can think of a major one: the majority of the grew of the Battlestar Galactica hate or at least fear Saul Tigh. He's a bastard, and for good reason: he courts this sort of image for specific purposes. The majority of the crew on the Enterprise, however, love Ricart. His leadership style is to "get close" to those below him.

Now I want to consider the two ships that dominate these two shows: the Battlestar Galactica and the U.S.S. Enterprise. They are both similar in that they're both the flagships of their fleets: the Colonial Fleet and Starfleet. But, they couldn't be more different. The Enterprise is the cutting edge of technology, the best Starfleet has to offer. The Battlestar Galactica is outmoded technology, an old-fashioned throwback, a kind of museum that is literally falling apart. The Enterprise is filled with potted planets, carpeted, and appears--at least to me--to be air-conditioned. Gods, they have orchestra and theater performances inside of it! The Battlestar Galactica is like a submarine. It's spartan: all metal, and screws, and cold, and cramped. Airlocks everywhere and, as the show progresses, more and more dirty. Often you wonder, as you're watching, "I bet it stinks in there."

Another minor comparison: think of the two bars on the ships. Well, Battlestar Galactica starts off with no bar at all until they realize that they are going to be on the ship for so long, they need some sort of place for recreational unwinding. And so they build Joe's bar. The Enterprise has Ten Forward, which is a posh, "wear-your-best" bar.

Another comparison: food and water and real world concerns like toothpaste and fuel come into consideration in BSG. In ST:TNG, none of this is considered. It's "post-scarce." Everyone has everything and anything they need.

There's a lot more here and I have to stop typing. This post is getting long. I think I'm getting at the key differences between these two shows, which point to something more major: two visions of the science fictional future or space opera. We have with BGS an imagined future that's not all polish and beauty. We have something more visceral and real. But there is indeed something comforting and inspiring by the vision of ST:TNG.

I'm not sure which vision I prefer. I think they're both interesting and enduring pieces of art. But we have with these shows demonstrated two flavors of space opera that are crystallizing.