Intriguing military sci-fi that examines the result of a smart weapon becoming too clever. Some initially confusing pronoun use, but turns out not to be an affect, but germane to the story.
Here’s a sample of the writing:
“On the way back to camp, we wound between the birds’ crumpled bodies. I stepped on one by accident, and its bones made a noise under my boot like ice crust breaking. The sniper turned back to look at me, reproachful, either for the noise or for the trespass.
A little farther on, the sniper found an immaculate corpse. It had fallen with the others, but somehow its feathers were snow white, untouched by the smog. They crouched down and picked it up, turning it over in their hands, extending one delicate wing and then the other.”
My fourth short story, chosen at random, and I’ve yet to locate an American author. I’ll find one. You just wait. Tomorrow, a change of pace.
Back in the day, to avoid arduous writing tasks, as well as training for a marathon, I took a break to write up a brief history of the battle of Dien Bien Phu, it being March 13 and the anniversary of the opening salvos. Here is what I jotted down then:
Today marks the 52nd anniversary of the Viet Minh attack on the French garrison at Dien Bien Phu — a remote valley in northern Vietnam near the border with Laos. The Viet Minh were an umbrella group of Vietnamese nationalists under the leadership of communist Ho Chi Minh. They had been fighting the colonial French, and other Vietnamese nationalist groups, since 1946.
The French viewed their position in a flat valley surrounded by hills as an offensive base. From there they would venture out and cut the Viet Minh supply lines, preempting an attack on Laos. As a result of this outlook, the garrison never outposted the hills. They'd be attacking and, besides, it was impossible for the Vietnamese to haul any significantt artillery up there.
Unaware of French opinion, the Vietnameses went ahead and hauled heavy artillery up onto the hills along with daunting amounts of anti-aircraft guns. On March 13, they let loose a barrage, followed by a human wave attack that engulfed a French strongpoint manned by crack Foreign Legionnaires. The fight was on.
For the next several months, while peace talks droned on in Geneva, the Vietnamese strangled the French. All French supplies had to come by parachute. The planes—many flown by American contract pilots— braved intense flak dropping their cargo. As the garrison was compressed, the drop zone grew smaller. Food and ammunition ran short. Meanwhile, generous supplies from nearby communist China—including American ordinance captured in Korea— enabled the Viet Minh to bombard their opponents at will.
Despite horrendous casualties, the Viet Minh seized one French strongpoint after another. Finally, on May 7, 1954, it ended. The French surrendered. Over 10,000 men marched into captivity, many of whom died in Viet Minh prison camps. French colonial rule in Vietnam and Laos ended. In 1955, Vietnam was partitioned into a communist north and a non-communist south along the 17th parallel.
Now back to running and writing stuff.
Sixty-six years have now passed and the valley appears to be something of a tourist stop. For a better short summary of the battle, try here. And while I'm considering another marathon, much writing awaits my hand today. And yet, I repost. C'est la guerre.
Here’s a droll little tail from a quarterly webzine seeking “fantastic fiction infrequently published in English . . . described[ed] as irreal . . . resembl[ing] the work of writers such as Franz Kafka, Kobo Abe, Clarice Lispector and Jorge Luis Borges." A dead man looks back on his last day and realizes he’s not as unique as he thinks. Funny, fast, with a nice twist at the end. And it certainly lived up to “irreal.”
Here’s a sample of the writing:
“Patiently, I gathered all the possible data regarding fatal traffic accidents of the past five years. I investigated—with the help of an astronomer—the periodical variations of solar flares, eclipses, and the strontium levels found in fluvial precipitations. I consulted experts on ecology and numismatics. Finally, using a bell-curve graph—the result of my erudite and tedious investigations—I honed in on the N260 and N300 bus lines. From that moment onwards I felt more assured of accomplishing my goal: math was on my side.”
Continuing with yesterday’s offering of things happening in China—other than Wuhan virus and dissident beatings—comes this flash fiction piece from Pushcart Prize-winning author Su-Yee Lin. A magical realism tale of loss and memory, a young woman reacts to a sound that she shouldn’t be hearing. There may’ve been other deeper elements but, as usual, I missed them. Once again, a mother is involved. Here is a sample of the writing:
“And despite the chatter of everyday life, I can still hear the ocean. No one else seems to notice, or maybe they're just used to it. It's like the way you can get used to anything—having the ocean in your backyard, white hum of electricity in a room, an illness that comes and goes, a disappearance of a person you love. You get used to it all in time.”
Tomorrow, I’ll read a short story not involving China.
half-dozen regular readers of this blog. Today's offering hails from Clarkesworld: "Time Reveals the Heart" by Derek Kunsken. (His name contains an umlaut over the u, but I can't figure out how to add one.) Here's the opening paragraph of this science fiction tale: "Guo Lěi mounted the stairs to his mother’s apartment at seven in the morning. He hadn’t visited in two weeks; he never knew what he would find. It was early, but he had a launch today, maybe several, and no matter what, he tried to see his mother before every launch, just in case. When silence answered his knocks, he used his key." That's pretty nifty writing. You've got your foreshadowing, the knowledge that the protagonist's work is dangerous, and that his mother's health is an issue all bundled in the action of knocking on the door. It'd take me a page and half to get all that out. A story exploring time travel, addiction, the dangers of altered perception, and the worth of reality, this is a quick read, not too heavy on dialogue with nice descriptive touches such as "His voice sounded like falling drops of water, shapeless, wobbling in free fall, transparent." Weighing in at 5804 words, "Time Reveals the Heart" is available online and as a podcast at the Clarkesword site.
Reading a book the other day and channel surfing. I found myself alternating between the first John Wick and the film version of The Equalizer. Both films featured protagonists who were widowers with awesome killing skills battling cruel Russian foes who are heavily tattooed. As a general note: if your loved one is a cruel, heavily-tattooed Russian mobster, encourage him to avoid widowers. You just never know.
As a story-telling rule, Russian mobsters are way past their diabolical shelf-life. What's wrong with exploring vicious Chinese Communists as villains? Ah, that's right. Hollywood simply won't bite the hand that feeds them, no matter how many dissident organs are harvested. That's show biz.
They wait, these eBooks, for eyes to fall upon the words within. Let them be your eyes. What's it cost? Nothing but the time spent reading, always time well spent. That's how Smashwords rolls with their March Read an eBook promotion. Least you think this some manner of public service announcement, my books and essays are also available. (For free, until Saturday, that is.)
Oh, fine, all the books in this Smashword promotion are not free. Some are steeply discounted, others less so. But that is the way of commerce.
Also, you don't have to wear high heels to avail yourself of the service. This just happened to be the last unused promotional banner. Let your footwear reflect you as you indulge your reading tastes at crazy old Smashwords Read an eBook extravaganza.
FREE eBOOKS THIS WEEK! FREE FOR YOU, I SAY!!
(OR DISCOUNTED DOWN TO PLEASING LEVELS. EXCEPT FOR MY BOOKS . . . FREE UNTIL SATURDAY!)
नो बुक्स अरे अवेलेबल इन थिस
(None of my books below are available in the above language.)
Three of my eBooks will be free along with many others not to mention discounts galore. Starting this Sunday to next Saturday, glut yourself on the electronic word. Read on your phone, your Kindle or Nook, your tablet or laptop. But read, read, I say.
First off, excellent seven mile-run this afternoon on the bridal trails that encircle the golf course. Relaxed, practicing my various chi running focuses, finished strong. Then I begin my post-run stretches.
To better understand matters, there is a grassy area where I was stretching. Then a low concrete rail fence. Beyond that, the dirt bridle trail. Then a six-foot chain-link fence. On the other side of the chain-link fence is the golf course.
Golf balls occasionally drop into the grassy area. Not often, but occasionally, a golfer will ask you if you could bring over his ball. A polite request always results in a returned ball.
Today, there was a golf ball behind me as I lengthened various muscle groups. Something told me to kick it into the ivy. "What nonsense," I thought.
So on I stretched, working this muscle group and that. A voice sounded behind me from the golf course. "There it is. Behind that guy. Hey! Hey, you." Then "Hell-ooo" with a mocking lilt. "Right behind you. Get my ball."
Wow. It's like I was this guy's caddy. (He lost me on the 'hell-ooo.') But before I could brush him off, he erupted into non-stop profanity, cursing me for not quickly fetching his golf ball. My back was to Foul Mouth Duffer and I continued stretching, tossing off a curse or two of my own.
Back he came with his golfing partner. They hailed a woman walking past on the bridlepath. She was asked—politely I might add—to retrieve the cursed ball. Throughout, Foul Mouth Duffer stayed on his side of the chain-link fence and kept up a barrage of bile toward me involving the sexual act, the sexual act with my mother, me being fat and old, and, after I hoped he didn't have a heart attack, wished me death by heart attack while running.
At one point, he stormed over to his golf cart and threatened me with a golf club. When I didn't run, he grabbed his putter and stomped off, still cursing and swearing. I've known a few rageaholics in my day—been one myself a time or two—and realized this guy was in his own special land.
As soon as he was out-of-sight, I left. The whole incident reminded me of the that scene in Werner Herzog's documentary Grizzly Man in which subject Timothy Treadwell erupted in a fiery rant against absent Fish and Wildlife agents. I'll let Werner Herzog take it from here.
Note: Thu. Feb. 20: I'm not normally so serene in the face of provocation. But after running over an hour and twenty minutes, my body was awash in yummy endorphins. Stretching out provided more. Were I paying my taxes, it might've been me chasing the feral golfer with a club.
Well, not so private. I'm posting on the Web. But given my traffic, it's nearly exclusive. If you skimmed my original kanban post, you'll recall me bemoaning my sloth in not taking a picture. Now I have.
Note My SEO-Free Heading!
Strange to loath search engine optimization when it attracts viewers. I must have a desire to failure, though it comes wrapped in fantasies of wild success. Still, my board lists the immediate, which consists heavily of updating all my old books, garnering reviews, new artwork, etc. Each day, I strive to write at least one page of a short story and a longer work that may end up a novella. Progress, consistency, and a visual record of achievement.
In the right of frame, you'll note a section of my running/exercise calendar. Last month on top and current month on the bottom for comparison. As of now, I'm doing better with running than writing, but that's only because writing is more difficult, especially when mixed with the many marketing chores facing the indie author. You can write what you like, but then it's up to you to sell it.
