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You can see which six I chose to answer– or more interestingly, which I avoided — and make your own diagnosis. It’s at
ambasadora.livejournal.com/149044.html
has that cool goatee thing going, but trust me, I’ve been to conventions, most of the SF revolution should not be televised. Wait, what was I talking about? Oh yeah, Agua-Cero…) 
The August issue of Asimov’s is out now, with “Dead Horse Point” in there somewhere. Tangent Online called it “a poignant tale of love and desperation.” Full Review.
(I’m just stoked to be on the same cover as Bruce Sterling, Rudy Rucker — my hero — and good friend Jack Skillingstead. It doesn’t get any more fun than that.)
Gabriel McKee has an interesting discussion of the story in SF Gospel, his blog focused on “explorations of religion in science ficiton and popular culture.” He raises the point that concept of space-time in the story is similar to Augustinian eternalism. I would have mentioned eternalism in the story, except I didn’t know about it until I read McKee’s blog. I should really read the reviews commentary before I write the story—that would save time and make me look smarter.
Otherwise known as “Second Person, Present Tense” in German — now appearing in Pandora #1, the “dem neuen SF/Fantasy-Magazin” . It is to have mind blown!
Here’s the opening:
Daryl Gregory
Zweite Person Gegenwart
Wenn ihr denkt: “Ich atme”, so ist das “Ich” ein Zusatz. Es gibt kein Du, das “Ich” sagen könnte. Was wir Ich nennen, ist nichts als eine Drehtür, die sich bewegt, wenn wir ein- und ausatmen.
—Shunryu Suzuki
Ich hielt das Gehirn für das wichtigste Organ im Körper, bis mir klar wurde, wer mir das eingab.
—Emo Phillips
Als ich das Büro betrete, lehnt Dr. S am Schreibtisch und redet eindringlich mit den Eltern des toten Mädchens. Er ist nicht froh, aber als er aufschaut, legt er ein Lächeln für mich auf. “Und hier ist sie”, sagt er, wie ein Spielshow-Moderator, der den grossen Preis enthüllt. Die Leute in den Sesseln drehen sich um, und Dr. Subramaniam gibt mir einen persönlichen, ermutigenden Wink.
Der Vater fällt mir zuerst auf, ein fleckiger, quadratgesichtiger Mann mit einem straffen Bauch, den er wie einen Baseball trägt. Wie bei unseren vorherigen Besuchen blickt er nahezu finster, darum bemüht, seinen Gesichtsausdruck seinen Gefühlen anzupassen. Die Mutter dagegen ist schon am Weinen, und in ihrem Gesicht stehen wie in einem Buch: Freude, Angst, Hoffnung, Erleichterung. Es ist viel zu übertrieben.
“Oh, Therese,” sagt sie. “Kommst du nun nach Hause?”
The messiah delivered several sermons and performed at least one miracle before being impaled by a stingray at the age of 3 days.
“For my first miracle,” the precocious pup stated only 24 hours after his birth, “I shall turn my beloved handler, Dave [marine biology graduate student David Schumer] into chum.”
Word spread quickly, and attendance at the Henry Doorly Zoo in Nebraska, the shark’s home, skyrocketed.
“Blessed are the children,” the pup intoned during one of his sermons to the onlookers. “Especially the elementary school kids on field trips, the ones that knock on the glass even though there’s a sign that says, Do not knock on the glass? They shall be the first to know my righteousness.”
The appearance of the saw-toothed savior took many ich-theologists by surprise. “Frankly, the ancient scriptures and the spike in recent coastal attacks led us to expect the messiah to be born unto a family of great whites, or at least tiger sharks,” said Gunter Haas, a doctor of marine divinity at the University of Southern Florida. “I guess it’s like they say, the Shark God bites where you least expect it.”
The sudden death of the pup left many of his followers shocked and saddened. Some took solace in one of the messiah’s final sermons, in which he promised that after his death he would return to extend his watery kingdom over the face of the earth. “Yea, there shall be a reckoning, oh warm-blooded air-breathers, and the water shall churn with your frantic kicking. And on that day shall be a great frenzy.”
The stingray remains in custody.
INTERIOR, the Presidential Bedroom. THE PRESIDENT lays on top of the bed taking a nap. His shoes are off. A DEAD IRAQI INSURGENT lies next to him, on top of his arm. The dead man is dressed in brown polyester pants and a long-sleeved shirt perforated by several bloody holes.
PRESIDENT, yawning, tries to sit up, but his arm is trapped by corpse. He slides his arm free and gets out of bed. He picks up the phone.
PRESIDENT: Hey there, Luce! I’ve got an insurgent here. [He ties his shoes while cradling the handset.] Could you be a doll and send in the cleaning folks? Maybe some new sheets. Good deal.
[PRESIDENT hangs up and pulls on his jacket. He opens his door to reveal the CHIEF OF STAFF.]
CHIEF OF STAFF: Right on time, Mr. President! The Vice-President and the Press Secretary are waiting in the oval office. [They start walking.] Oh, and we’ve received some very encouraging news.
PRESIDENT: Yeah?
[SECRET SERVICE AGENT drags a DEAD IRAQI INSURGENT, about 12 years old, out of their way.]
CHIEF OF STAFF: We took down an insurgent stronghold this afternoon. The figures are just rolling in.
PRESIDENT: Hold up a sec, Ricardo. Did the First Lady call?
CHIEF OF STAFF: A half hour ago. She says she-watch the puddle, sir-she can’t make it back to the White House tonight. In fact, it may be a few weeks.
[They pick their way over the body of a DEAD IRAQI INSURGENT. The dead man is wearing the top half of a police uniform. The bottom half of the uniform is missing, along with the rest of the man.]
PRESIDENT: Oh my God, that’s awful.
CHIEF OF STAFF: Yes, sir, I apologize. I’ll get the crew-
PRESIDENT: She hates hotel rooms. So where am I eating tonight? I thought we could order in, maybe some Chinese. I like those little short ribs, with the duck sauce. What kind of sauce is that?
CHIEF OF STAFF: Unfortunately, sir, you’re flying out to Arizona right after this meeting. Two fundraising stops, then tonight you’re scheduled to dine with the governor of Arizona and the president of Venezuela.
PRESIDENT: Venezuela? Huh. Too bad it’s not the Chinese!
CHIEF OF STAFF: Maybe for lunch tomorrow, sir?
PRESIDENT: Good thinking, Ricko! [Claps the man on the back.]
[The hallway to the oval office is log-jammed with 40 or 50 DEAD IRAQI INSURGENTS. The landscaping staff, a five-person crew of happy, hardworking Mexican-Americans, is quickly clearing the obstruction.]
PRESIDENT: Que Pasa, Mary? Bobby, how’s that new baby?
[The men and women smile and nod, but their arms are full. They haul the bodies out of the clump and stack them along the walls. In no time they clear a path.]
INTERIOR: The Oval Office. 20-25 DEAD IRAQI INSURGENTS are scattered around the room. Approximately 60% are women and children.
PRESIDENT: [Entering] Sorry I’m late, boys. Hope you didn’t start without me.
[VICE-PRESIDENT and PRESS SECRETARY laugh good-naturedly.]
PRESIDENT: Rikki Tikki Tavi here tells me we’ve taken down a stronghold.
VICE-PRESIDENT: At least fifty insurgents killed. Some of them high up in the organization. Very high up.
PRESIDENT: Boo-yah!
PRESS SEC.: [He pushes a DEAD IRAQI INSURGENT from his chair and sits down] We’re getting some squawk from Congress again. Evidently they feel the latest figures are pretty hard to ignore.
PRESIDENT: What figures?
PRESS SEC.: Several conference rooms are filled, and they’ve had to stop meeting in the senate chamber, which I don’t have to tell you, looks bad on C-SPAN.
VICE-PRESIDENT: Nobody watches C-SPAN.
[VICE-PRESIDENT leans back in his chair and rests his feet on the body of a DEAD IRAQI INSURGENT wrapped in a black burka.]
Tell ‘em to put down a tarp and get back to work. Cry-babies.
PRESS SEC.: I think we need a strong statement.
VICE-PRESIDENT: Fuck ‘em.
PRESIDENT: [Chuckling] Not that strong!
[PRESIDENT lapses into thought.]
PRESS SEC.: Sir?
PRESIDENT: Citrus.
PRESS SEC.: Citrus…
PRESIDENT: Something orange-y in it, I think. That duck sauce is pretty tangy.
CHIEF OF STAFF: [Flipping open cell phone.] I’m looking into it, sir.
PRESIDENT: Here’s the deal. It’s very simple. It’s a simple idea. We double our efforts.
VICE-PRESIDENT: Double down!
PRESIDENT: The problem, see, isn’t too many dead insurgents. That’s not the problem. The problem is that we don’t have enough of them. We can’t rest until we get every last insurgent. America will not be safe until we’ve filled every hallway, every bedroom-
VICE-PRESIDENT: A corpse in every living room. It’s proof that we’re winning.
PRESIDENT: Like that shampoo commercial. The one with the tingling. That’s how you know it’s working.
PRESS SEC.: Okay, I’m liking this. I can sell this.
CHIEF OF STAFF: Mr. President, I’m afraid we’re out of time. The helicopter is waiting.
PRESIDENT: Nice work today, gents.
INTERIOR, the hallway. The sound of chainsaws in the background. PRESIDENT and CHIEF OF STAFF stop in front of elevator. THE CHIEF OF STAFF pushes the elevator button, and then his cell phone rings. He puts the phone to his ear.
PRESIDENT: I think that went well, Rocky. We’re getting somewhere.
CHIEF OF STAFF: [Talking into phone.] Yes, I’m with him now… Yes. How many? Oh my. Oh dear god.
PRESIDENT: So was I right? Is there citrus in it?
CHIEF OF STAFF: [Looking pale.] Sir, we need to talk about Darfur.
[The elevator dings, and the door opens. The cabin is crammed floor to ceiling with DEAD AFRICAN REFUGEES.]
PRESIDENT: I’ll wait for the next one.
No, no no.
But the one thing I like about blogging software is that it makes it easy for people to add comments, and for other people to comment on the comments. That’s cool. It’s like hosting a dinner party in which most of the people are saying interesting things, and the rest sneak in anonymously to insult the host and argue with the other guests. That’s internet fun, people.
Wait, there’s a second thing: blogging has become so common that people understand the interface. The weird, reverse-chronological posts; the ubiquitous “blogroll” and “archives” sections; the obsessive-compulsive linking to other web pages that substitutes for actual content. People get that instinctually. And by “people” I mean “geeks under 30.”
Stop. One more thing. The blogosphere runs on irony. The fact that I’m starting a blog by complaining about blogs is not just in the spirt of blogging, it’s cliché.
So here we are.
If the rest of my website is a sandbox, then this is the 6-foot radius around the sandbox in the backyard where sand and dirt become a nameless third substance and Matchbox cars go to die.
So, for my next post—which you’ve already read, if you’re following this blog in the standard, reverse-chronological order—is a one-act play about how George W. is the antichrist.
Enjoy.
| S | M | T | W | T | F | S |
|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|
| 1 | 2 | 3 | ||||
| 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 |
| 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 |
| 18 | 19 | 20 | 21 | 22 | 23 | 24 |
| 25 | 26 | 27 | 28 | 29 | 30 |
