Showing posts with label Isaac Asimov. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Isaac Asimov. Show all posts

Sunday, February 16, 2014

Science Fiction: Vehicle of Change


Long before I knew what the genre was called, an unalloyed sense of something deeper than awe always accompanied my views of any science fiction flick. The reason is not far-fetched cause the plot of a science fiction film 'looks like something that could happen' (advanced readers would call that plausible but my shoestring inventory couldn't afford such words at the time).

It is close to impossible reading or watching a movie or literature of the science fiction persuasion and not feeling the weight of urgency press down your pair of shoulders. No other genre drags you to the edge of your seat and sets your mind reeling off into forbidden places (were you to voice these in the dark ages, you’d be laughed out of court) that might be the future of the race of man. Science fiction is the one branch of literature that accepts the inevitability of change. Without the initial assumption that there will be change, there is no such thing as science fiction.*
Courtesy: guardian.co.uk
Once upon a memory, a post I had authored averred predictions were staples of the science fiction genre and a commenter on Reddit almost bit my head off for it. Obviously, it meant a lot to him (or her) that Sci-Fi and predictions be on bad terms. Well, here I am with a typically wholesome head and I still stand by that declaration. To boot, although I do believe a science fiction story shouldn't portray something that is going to happen, before it can be important, I do not totally agree science fiction can survive and thrive as a genre that suggests change without forays into the predictive. Besides, a good deal of the world's inventive genius has been the upshot of this invention-triggering genre. Films, books and art presented in a form that all but screams in your face; this could happen anytime soon even though much of what is portrayed may seem off-the-wall.

Individuals who have been inspired by science fiction run into hundreds, thousands by extension. People who read science fiction come, in time, to know that things will be different.* Beneath all the rise of the machines and alien invasion is a tour-de-force genre which appeals fiercely to the imaginative genius within us all. Science fiction tunes us up and opens up our hearts to perceive why things need to be different. Why techniques will change, why cultures will evolve and what we must prepare our minds to accept as inevitable. It is the preview of both the immediate future and the distant.

Science fiction foresees the different and alerts its fans to stretch the wings of intuitiveness and get hold of a spontaneous stimulation of sorts. It prepares the minds of people for technological advancements and real engineers and scientists are challenged to get productive. This is the function of science fiction; to incite a need—a deep-seated craving for the over-the-top—a desire to seek out unusual and out-of-the-way technique of finding answers to many of life’s problems. A need for change.

Keep your pen bleeding!

Akpan

*Asimov, The influence of Science Fiction



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Sunday, May 12, 2013

3 or 4 Processes That Lead to Novel Serialization


This one’s coming off an article by Isaac Asimov I read recently. Inspired by correspondence with a fan of his who wrote him about the prevalence of serial novels in recent times. ‘It can be frustrating…,’ she wrote.
Personally, I don’t take issues with continuity in a plot, which takes multiple volumes to unfold, do you? I could list a couple of books I would have appreciated as a series because I wanted to see more of the characters.

And now, the moment we have all been waiting for…
The reasons writers create sequels.

1. Publisher Pressure
J. R. R. Tolkien’s trilogy was originally intended as a single volume publication (Wikipedia still regards it as one book in its Bestselling Fiction List). But Tolkien’s publishers made him reconsider; paper cost was their major excuse.
       Asimov’s Foundation Trilogy was a compilation of separate pieces from Astounding Science Fiction between 1942 and 50. The stories were created at editorial insistence. And the fourth and fifth books in the series were dragged out him by his then publishers, Doubleday.

2. Reader Pressure
Arthur Conan Doyle is peculiar as an example of author victimization by his readers. Doyle who is credited for creating the most adapted character in the fiction universe made a grave ‘mistake’ and killed Sherlock Holmes. You think it wasn’t a mistake? A. Conan Doyle probably thought the same thing until fans expressed their indignation and demanded that Sherlock Holmes be resurrected.
The author was forced to put his fictional character back in action after the series was already concluded in Doyle’s mind.

3. Muse Pressure
The sequelization (as Asimov calls it) of a book can be the result of an idea that becomes too big for a single volume publication.
       Thomas Harris did it with his Hannibal set of novels; Tolkien with his Lord of the Rings, Silmarillion and the Hobbits. In some peculiar cases, different writers have continued other writer’s work with a different background and set of characters because the original holds them in everlasting appeal. One striking example is suspense writer, Dean Koontz with his Frankenstein series.
       Horror writer Stephen King explains this process in his book, On Writing:

“A thousand pages of Hobbits hasn’t been enough for three generations of fantasy fans. Hence Terry Brooks, Piers Anthony, Robert Jordan, and a half hundred others. The writers of these books are creating the hobbits they still love and pine for; they are trying to bring Frodo and Sam back from the Grey Havens because Tolkien is no longer around to do it for them.”
Stephen King,
On Writing, A Memoir of the Craft.

Bram Stoker and Stephen King have both published serial novels (not whole books with a continuity of plot and character but a single volume published in four or five batches). In Everything’s Eventual, a collection of short stories by King, he gives us his reason for serializing his books, The Green Mile and The Plant; 

“It’s about trying to see the act, art, and craft of writing in different ways, thereby refreshing the process and keeping the resulting artifacts-the stories, in other words-as bright as possible.”

I love it when a favorite character makes a comeback. If that’s the reason for serializing a work of fiction, I believe it’s a good and welcome enterprise.

Keep your pen bleeding.



Akpan


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Saturday, February 2, 2013

Asimov's 3 Rules For Plotting Novel Outlines

English: This image is a reproduction of an or...
Photo credit: Wikipedia

Isaac Asimov is without argument, one of the most prolific writers of all time. At the time of his passing in 1992, he'd penned way over five hundred (Wikipedia credits Asimov with 506) books and racked up virtually all of the awards a writer could hope to win.

While Asimov himself wasn't a big fan of writing outlines before commencement (or even towards the completion) of a book, he gave three invaluable pieces of advice that should settle every manner of issue within the individual writer.

When Asimov wrote his first novel, his publisher (Doubleday) had him write 70, 000 words. He managed to do it without an writing an outline. The time came around for him to do his second novel and he thought such an amazing coincidence (writing without an outline) was not likely to happen twice in a row, so he drew up an outline.

Asimov discovered two things:
One, an outline constricted him;
Two, he couldn't force his characters to adhere to the outline.

He never tried an outline again.

These 3 rules that follow are really going to help you make up your mind as far as outlines go. So do your best to keep them at your fingertips when you pick up your pen to write or when you pound on the keyboard of your computer.

I. If you are a structured and rigid person who likes everything under control, you will be uneasy without an outline.

II. If you are an undisciplined person with a tendency to wander all over the landscape, you will be better off with an outline even if you feel you wouldn't like one.

III. If you are quick-thinking and ingenious, but with a strong sense of the whole, you will be better off without an outline.

And Asimov explains something I feel would be on the edge of everyone reading these mind; "How would I know if an outline is right for me or not?"

To this question, Asimov replies:
"Well, try an outline, or try writing without one, and find out for yourself."

Always keep in mind that rules all have one thing in common; they can be broken. And this is especially so when it relates to the individual and his creativity.

And as Asimov said, "Stick to that which makes you comfortable."

That's the bottom line; let the guy on the inside decide.

Keep your pen bleeding.



Akpan






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Sunday, January 20, 2013

What's the Criteria for Classifying a SciFi Story?


Updated: June.15.2015

Science fiction is a genre of fiction based primarily on popular scientific principles and sometimes, on principles created especially for the story. Modern SciFi tales have witnessed a shift in the form of the genre and this change owes in large part to advancement in technology. Almost every story indulges in the application of complicated gadgets and sometimes exhibit science themes but these are not by classification science fiction stories.

For Science fiction nerds who deserve a hiatus from this confusing trend in fiction, it seems necessary to draw a  line indicating the limit or extent of the SciFi genre. I have listed five peculiarities which most stories that fall under this genre exhibit. But rules are rules and creativity has been known to break them.
This is how you can identify a science fiction plot:


1. If it is Governed by the Laws of Science
There are exceptions as you will find out in 5. If the plot is in line with the laws governing the execution of scientific experiments, it is most definitely science fiction. If the plot of a story is driven by and depends solely on the limits and boundaries of set science laws then it is scifi.

2. If Conflicts Are Resolved Via Scientific Principles
In contrast to magic or sorcery in fantasy, the plots of a scifi tale must prove and uphold the power of science. Not of sorcery or religious belief or basically, the human emotion. If it must prove anything else it must have its root from a scientific viewpoint.

3. If the Plot Explores Science-Oriented Issues
There is a world of difference between a story with a science theme and a plot that explores scientific issues with intent to resolve it. The plots of scifi burrow deep into science and are only resolved when the scientific riddle has been solved. That's different from say a James Bond movie which only involves complicated technological gadgets but lack the drive for scientific research.

4. If there's No Trace of Supernatural Elements
I believe this one explains itself, effectively. Unless you're writing sword and sorcery or a religious book, science fiction plots do not explore the supernatural or things that cannot be solved with chemical formulas. Of course, there may be traces of religion in a scifi story, characters in the story may profess faith but the overall theme of the story is always explorations in science.

5. If it is Predictive in Structure
Because scifi delves into the unexplored realms of science, the structure of the genre is particularly predictive. When people use phones in movies today it is not so spectacular. But back when phones were still items of speculation, an author writing about a time when these gadgets would become available to everybody could be said to make predictions. Thus, predictions in science fiction is different from that of sorcery or divination.
Prediction in scifi is simply another way of saying speculation.

This discussion is open to debates why, it's science fiction, the literature of ideas. And there's definitely, other methods of identifying this genre besides these five. But if it works for any of you out there, my mission is accomplished.

Keep your pen bleeding!



Akpan




Friday, November 23, 2012

Why Science Fiction Continues to Stun the World

photo: fantasyartdesign.com
Really, predictions about man’s future adventures have been the stock-in-trade of this literary genre.

Embracing works as far back as the Sumerian Epic of Gilgamesh to Aristophanes’ The Clouds and The Birds and tales of the ambitious Icarus. Shakespeare’s work, The Tempest has been cited as science fiction because it deals with the subject of the prototype mad scientist.

It gives the impression that all works of literature which, takes a dystopian/utopian futuristic look at the ways of man can be classified under the genre.

Science fiction explores themes such as time travel, interplanetary warfare, futuristic inventions, intergalactic travel (which may include life on other planets), robot themes and so on. The plots often exploit the human condition in present time but from the point of view that looks back from the future or looks forward from the past. Trying for how the present affects the future or how the past set the present on its course.

One element, which seems pervasive in many science fiction stories, is its predictive disposition. The genre’s dispassionate focus on the shape of things to come; its concern with technological and scientific advancement even when sometimes, such theories may be unrealistic. But how exactly does one presume to explain what is realistic and what is impossible or absurd when several hundreds of the predictions made by sci-fi authors have come to pass?

Ray Bradbury predicted the NASA’s Curiosity rover landing on Mars. In matter of fact, the spot where Curiosity touched down on Mars was named after Bradbury. Sci-fi writer, Isaac Asimov, coined words like robotics and positronics, which have since become a feature of everyday vocabulary. Actually, robotics is now the standard name for “The branch of technology that deals with the design, construction, operation, and application of robots. – Google dictionary.

Deadline,” a Cleve Cartmill short story about a fictional atomic bomb project prompted the FBI to visit the offices of Astounding Science Fiction.
– Wikipedia.

Besides these examples, several predictions made by science fiction writers have come to pass, some of these with eerie accuracy–the iPad, cellular phones, the atomic bomb, fighter jets, space travel and more.

Gradually and with stunning precision, sci-fi has taken its rightful spot as fiction’s crystal ball. It continues to stun readers everywhere with its trademark predictions.
It’s no wonder Stephen King said, “Fiction is the truth inside the lie!”

Keep your pen bleeding.


Akpan



Friday, December 30, 2011

The Room


                             Last night when I pasted my ear to the wind
And tasted the spice of eternity on my lips
I had really turned my mind away into fear.
                                                       Kalu Uka,
                                                       Fear




            “Room 33 became a terror zone; something kicked in when you got close. Alien telepathy was one. You could hear a person’s thought process in there. It clanged with an audible urgency like a machine that’d gone on for a while without oil. Sometimes, the sensation lingered for seconds after you left the Room. And once, it devolved into a screaming Capgras Syndrome. You know what that is, don’t you?” I stopped long enough to watch Hannah nod her reply and then proceeded.
            “What happened was Dimi; the stud who diddles with gadgets was in Room 33. He and one of our programmers, I can’t remember who . . . must have been Kustley . . . yeah, ‘twas him alright, Kustley. Suddenly, they started on each other. When we watched the recording from the surveillance cameras afterwards, it was like living in a nightmare.

            “Who the hell are you, Dumbbell?” Dimi said, starting towards Kustley. He was an average mammoth.
            “Who you call Dumbbell, Pinhead? And what you doing in here?”
            “It doesn’t matter,” Dimi said. “I asked first. Who are you?”

            “Kustley made to call security and Dimi came at him holding up his Phillips screwdriver like a Zulu warrior running to battle. Kustley swerved just in time. Dimi buried the tool in his shoulder blade driving it all the way to the handle. Kustley yawped and stumbled forward, blood, deep-red and syrupy spouted from the puncture in raging rivulets. Dimi pounced on him and worked at recovering the screwdriver from its position. Kustley’s hands flailed over his head, feeling for Dimi’s shirt, as he tried to get Dimi off his back. Dimi retrieved the tool, evoking a deep-throated squeal from Kustley. He reached high over his head with that thing and came down hard.”

            “Ruth Benemesia Opiah!"[I] Hannah yelled. She’d been doing a good job keeping it together. Now, she just let it fly.

            “The top of Kustley’s skull splintered and spat up a spray of blood where metal met flesh. His eyes bulged and rolled over to whites as his bladder let go. He trundled like an old horse that stumbles and nods half asleep as it stalks then, crumpled to the floor in a heap. He lay there with one hand shooting out, clenched into a fist as if he had died trying to play superman. Dimi - you would think that by now sanity would have reasserted itself - put both hands to his eyes like he was wiping tears off his face. He began to claw at his face. He cried as he did it. Suddenly, he clawed his own eyes out and popped ‘em in his mouth like peanuts and then, Dimi ate his own eyeballs. We had to peel the fellow off the circuit breaker when we got back in Room 33. He fried his hide.

            “Tell me what actually went down,” something flickered beneath Hannah’s calm as we accessed her kitchen. “All of it. As much as you can recall.”
            A sense of homecoming rushed at me like a bullet train and pushed me into the hugs of common lilac fragrance that marked every room in Hannah’s apartment. “What may I tell you? What reveal?,” I said quoting ‘Hanging Day[II].
            “Picking off from the last rung would be a start.”
I made for the sofa in the living room before Hannah said, ‘Com’ on over to the kitchen and grab a cool cup of limeade, first.’ She was already squeezing lime with the reamer when I came into the kitchen. I took the seat by the head of the dining and immediately regretted my decision. Hannah looked at me and a knowing passed between us and following on its heels, the pangs of memory.
            “Your father would have been proud of the man you turned out to be,” she said. No more or the tears would come. “Go on, grab a tumbler off the buffet and come taste the sweetest homemade limeade.” She smiled but I could see a glint of sadness in her eyes. I did as told. Her limeade was as good as ever.

            “On June 9, 2007, I rooted for Barcelona[III] FC at a Suya[IV] spot just around my street corner – that’s Barça for fans. I kinda love it where it’s crowded. On a different level, there’s some dick to elbow if the God of soccer’s taking a nap on your team’s Hail Marys,” I said, easing into my story.
            “Barça was thirty minutes into the game and a goal down when a Zambrotta cross sent the ball into the opponent’s danger zone. Messi[V], well positioned for the rare advantage launched himself at the ball. He missed but, connected with a fist instead, to steer the ball past the Chelsea [VI]goalie. The God of soccer winked at the referee and just like that Barça had an equalizer. There was a lot of bickering from Chelsea fans. I don’t need to draw you a picture, do I?
            “ ‘It’s not cheating if you don’t get caught,’ someone said. ‘Besides, it’s Magical Messi. You can’t penalize the God of Soccer’s son.

            “The owner of the voice wore a black three piece suit and sat in a corner in Zibo’s Suya Spot. His eyes smiled when they met mine and he said, ‘Hello, Kumar.’ Hearing my name from this stranger’s lips made me feel like an artist viewing a portrait of himself as a toddler for the very first time.
            “Nobody called me Kumar besides my parents. And they were dead. Besides, how could he have known any of my names when we never met? Dr. Iback had his hand extended when I got to his table. I took it. His handshake was firm and totally disarming.
            ‘That game proves God not only plays dice, Mr. Kumar,’ Iback said. ‘He also sometimes throws the dice where they cannot be seen. Sit with me, please?’ He got up and pulled out the seat opposite his.”

Hannah took off her chapeau and dropped it on the large oak table in her kitchen. She grabbed a bowl filled with citrus fruit and reached for a goblet on the buffet. “Iback gave you the bottom line of his offer, I suppose?” She said, back towards me as she worked at ridding the citrus of their juice.
            “I guess he hinted on it when he said, ‘I love Messi. He knows fair and he knows foul. I love a player who knows when to sneak one in.’ ”
            “I want you on my team,” he said, stroking his hand-to-ball spotted-tie. “A creative genius like you ought to be working for the Touchpad Corporation, the big wheel in Touch Pad technology.”
            “Any fool can peel the apple,” I said. “It takes a real man to eat the core.”
And he cracked up and said, “It takes a genius to make people laugh. Laughter brings many benefits, such as increased lung capacity and the ability to tolerate idiots.[VII] You’ll do just fine with ‘DATSET’.

            “DATSET,” said Hannah. “What’s that?”
            “That’s short for, ‘Dactylic Touch-Sensing Technology[VIII]’. TouchCorp’s fingerprint-sensing innovation for PCs; laptops, tablet PCs, iPhones and the iPad. Our gig was to invent a fingerprint-sensing program.
            “TouchCorp managed a labyrinth-like building complex called ‘Data Base’, in the Peninsula. ‘DATSET’ was confined entirely to the left wing of Data Base. Day and night we fed data into XT3 - the Mainframe at Data Base, a 65000-processor positronic supercomputer responsible for The Project. Whoever designed that babe gave her all the features of intelligent life form.”
            “Any sufficiently advanced technology,” Hannah said. “Is indistinguishable from magic.”
I took a sip of my juice, I was tensed up ‘cause I was reaching for the raw nerve.
            “So, tell me, what went wrong?” She asked.
            “Most of us had retired to our quarters for the evening when the entire structure lit up with a horrendous scream, shuddering, growling and moaning, filling up the hush of the night. It came from Room 33, where XT3 was housed. B-Mack, security working the nightshift got there ahead of us. He said, ‘I wasn’t quite ten paces from Room 33 when a blast of infrared spectrum blew out the screen door and almost immediately, some influence sucked the explosion right back in there in one big whump.’ The door to Room 33 was blackened, as if a blast of heat had charred it.”

            “Anybody turned up dead?” Hannah dumped the dehydrated limes in the basket, grabbed her goblet and waltzed toward the table.
            “I once read about a man who was chewed up by his laundry machine. Nobody figured out how he got his butt stuck in there or how the machine performed the stunt. Here’s the real whopper, we searched for Niamey who’d been in for his shift in that room, there wasn’t much space to drift, and came up with his overcoat and his ball point still in the pocket. Niamey, however, was . . . gone. On one level, that’s worse than turning up dead. I never saw the body. I don’t know why but at that instant, the story about the laundry room incident flushed my mind with desperate intensity.
There weren’t any gaping holes in XT3 to wolf down a toddler.”

            “A few days after Niamey walked into thin air, one of our guys found a spatter of blood mingled with lacerated flesh in Room 33. If you can imagine a POW behind enemy lines, and this group of really stoned soldiers pulls the pin off a grenade, yank his mouth open and force him to swallow it, works for a succinct comparison. We did a headcount and Reynard came up missing.
            “Let me tell you one thing, when I took Iback’s offer I didn’t know what I was stepping into. I wish Stacey had passed this up. I would have felt as if she left me in the lurch yes, but . . . When we act for the noblest reasons, the last link of the chain all too often drips with someone’s blood.[IX]” God, I wish she said no.

            “Have you found God, Jase. Finally?”

I got up and walked to the refrigerator. I poured myself a glass of water and downed it. I refilled it then returned to the dining. Hannah was circling the rim of her glass with her index finger. She looked up when I sat down. I could feel the tension settling over me like a cloak.
            “That was a lovely exercise,” she said. “It begs the question, effectively.”
            “Why switch the subject, Hannah? Does it mean anything?” I said.
She raised an eyebrow.
“Maybe so, maybe no,” I said. My Mom and Dad died in an auto crash. I was spared. End of story. Why blame it on God? I believe God takes a hand in things from time to time. “God is much more intelligent than I,” I said, drumming on the table. “Let Him try to find me.[X]
Hannah reached across the table and squeezed my right hand. “In a world where death is the hunter, my son, there is no time for regrets or doubts. There is only time for decisions[XI].”
I withdrew my hand, gently. “Fortune knows we scorn her most when most she offers blows.”
Hannah sighed. “Fortune gave me, you, after your parents passed on. I do not despise him for it. Not even after my husband died leaving you and Stacey for me to raise. Rather, I cherished the privilege.” She searched my eyes, her face inscrutable like the face of a god in a shrine. “There are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamed of in your philosophy.”
            “Well, that’s tough,” I said. “I know there are people who argue differently but, that’s just the way it is. For better or worse”




She combed her Cornrow braids with her fingers and sighed. “Some things that were science fiction a few years ago are reality today. Iback and I were the first two of a team of astronauts commissioned by the Nigerian Intergalactic Agency (NIGA) to shoot the independently-boosted Nigerian interstellar ship into orbit.” “I don’t recall discussing you or Stacey with him, though. I may have slipped on one occasion, it’s not impossible. I really can’t help it talking about you, guys.” She laughed softly. “We were boosted by The Kalabria, the positronic starship into deep-space to probe Kepler[XII] – a habitable exoplanet about two times the size of Earth.
            “The hyperdrive had been invented using Nigerium, a highly refined radioactive material discovered by Sam Dukey in the Nok valley, to build its nuclear engines. When the hyperdrive field is activated, The Kalabria enters the hyperspace moving thirty times faster than light. It’s the only way we could even come close to the Kepler about 560 light years away. The field creates warp holes; a kind of hyperspatial shortcuts. We collected all the samples we could carry on Kepler and returned home. On re-entry from hyperspace, the Cherenkov radiation reversed Iback’s genetics. Medical examination revealed he caught it on our way out. Earth’s atmosphere had only amplified it. He was treated, certified cured and discharged.
            “It was in the course of those very years, following the discovery of Kepler, that rocket probes began to be sent out to other planets initiating interstellar travel and faster than light transmission (FTLT).

            “There, I told you how Iback may have come about your name. I want to know how my daughter met death.”

            I adjusted my position. “Nobody moved a motion to abort The Project, despite the tragic episodes. At the subconscious level where shadows grow claws, we knew there was no going back. We’ve invented the Theremon fluid before this time and worked it into touch screens and touch pads. Well, we thought we invented it but, the real deal is, it was alien fluid. It seeps through the fingertips and next thing’s you’re possessed by a secondary personality. We didn’t ship any though; we were performing tests before incidents in Room 33 reached inevitable outcomes.
            “The night Stacey died, I entered that room and couldn’t shake the feeling that the air was smokin and tokin with a lethal potential. When I stepped into Room 33, strange shapes popped into my eyes and there was a feeling of coming into a grotesque room, not a computer room. I had this feeling somebody was trying real hard to lodge in my mind. XT3’s screen was horrid black. It was like looking into the mind of the devil, himself.
            “I knew Stacey was in there. She’d informed me and I’d promised to catch up. I was still watching that screen when this hazy stuff started, a moving silhouette on the darker surface of the computer screen. And then, this weird inscription floated out on the screen like through a glass darkly:

 The installer will automatically continue when these conflicting applications are closed 

           “And following closely, you won’t believe this, an inventory;

1. Jase
2. Mekan
3. Nivel
4. Ito
5. Tinker


            “I stood as still as a paper boat upon a paper sea, waiting, my heart pounding against my chest like the testicle of the great bell at the St. Thomas Cathedral clanging against its walls at the wake of dawn. The names or the applications, stopped at 5. I sensed the wrongness before I actually saw it. It buzzed in my brain like a voice crying out from behind the walls of doubt; names of members of my team who had an encounter with Room 33 were omitted. I reckoned it wasn’t an error.
            Stacey, who I’d been with a few minutes earlier, heck, is the reason I was in that horrible place after all, wasn’t on the list either. I felt my butt plop to the floor as strength fizzled out of my muscles, and I landed on my balls. The pain shot through me and my body shuddered. I reached for the aching spot and my fingers caught something. I would have let it go under the circumstance but intuition overrode reasoning. I picked it up, instead. It was drenched in blood and body juice. I recognized Stacey’s engagement ring. It rolled off her finger when something grabbed her, must have.
            “When I saw the body, Stacey wasn’t dead yet. Not by a long chalk but, what I saw . . .” I swallowed hard and almost choked on my spittle. A coughing fit shook me. I got it under control and went on “I wished she was long gone . . . I don’t need to draw you a picture, do I?
            “Go ahead, Jase, I fixed my storm doors.”
            “A huge tube-shaped structure, somewhat like a misplaced oviduct attached itself to Stacey’s eyes and sucked away ‘floop, floop, floop’­­­ producing a noise like of a hidden brook. I don’t know exactly what I felt like, because a man can’t easily hold on to those things that are typically macho you know, like trying to fight back the tears and all that, when it’s all so damn personal. Wasn’t much of her left but a bag of bones when I found her. She retched like a rooster putting up with a bad case of thirst. They came then. A deluge blurred my vision I had to wrestle it or forgo what I had to do. In a sudden desperate invention, I grabbed the tube and made to rip it off her. A torrent of electricity pitched me against a processor. I was beginning to get a hold of myself when Iback’s face popped into view. Giving me the once over he said, ‘In space, it’s always one minute after midnight.’ He had a smirk but I could read nothing on the fox’s face.”

            “He always said that at NIGA,” Hannah said. “Usually, when things went awry. Dreadfully awry.” This was followed by a spate of sobbing. I’d known details of Stacey’s death would unplug a river. But, some tears have to be cried or they eat away at the soul like cancer. I got her some Kleenex and as I passed by the window saw darkness creep up on the skies as the horizon gulped down the sun in degrees. “Iback was so dysfunctional after the Cherenkov experience Humpty Dumpty wouldn’t have envied him.” I’ve never seen so many wrinkles in Hannah’s face before as I did then. “I never observed a man’s nature totally translated in a short breath.” After a bout of heaves and sighs and a sip of her limeade she said, “Continue.”

I resumed my story thinking about how often we were fed with information we would have done without. “ ‘What’s done’s done,’ Iback said. ‘You can’t help her now, anymore than you can save the human race. It’s best to leave well enough alone. You can’t fight them, son. Yield. They’ll go easy on you. Call it Fate.’ ”
“‘Them’, what did he mean by that?”
“He didn’t say. But I’ll bet my shirt, he was talking about aliens. He stepped over my sprawled body and booked for the door like he was on to something. Just before he slipped through it he glanced back over his shoulder at me and said, ‘You give my regards to the devil or whoever has his job in hell.’ And then he was gone. Stacey was no longer here with us, she’d become one heap of bones covered with a very thin slice of skin. Seeing her drained me of the will to live. I felt the floor vibrate as if some monstrosity was busting through. I would have waited for it to come and get me. But I had a vision of the world under the control of some alien race and something deep in my character allowed me to take the hits and still get on with trying to win”[XIII].

Hannah broke down completely and I had to hold her in my arms for a while. It was okay, I knew it was going to be a long night. I came prepared.

But for your sake, Dear Reader. I know you’re itching to know how the story ends. The details of our, mine and the few hands left on Data Base, little adventure’s what you see on the news every other day. We threw a special cocktail party. The type where you served up exclusively, Molotov cocktails. I don’t need to draw you a picture too, do I?


☤              ☤              ☤


There’s been a lot of bickering making the rounds since the birth of deep-space exploration. Questions like, if there are aliens in deep space where does that leave God and the Angels and perhaps, even the Devil? My story’s not an attempt to answer that question. It’s one author’s shot at making the two subjects serve one story plot. I’m one of those writers who believe, a writer doesn’t write because he has an answer but rather, he writes because he has a story. Let the reader beat themselves up trying to solve the puzzle.
                If you think any of the characters in this story looks like you or anybody you know, your mind’s probably playing tricks on you. All the guys and gals in this piece are fictional. But the story on the other hand, that’s real, baby. As someone once said, ‘You can’t make up anything anymore. The world is a satire. All you’re doing is recording it. Go, figure.
                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                               ENEH AKPAN
                                                                                          Ikeja, Lagos



Footnotes

[I] A veteran Newscaster on the Nigerian Television Authority (NTA) News Network used here chiefly as a rhetorical device
[II] A Poem by Wole Soyinka
[III] Barcelona FC or Barça is the defending soccer champion of European football.
[IV]A variety of Nigerian Barbecue
[V] There is a real Lionel Messi who plays for both Barça FC and the Argentine national team. He’s a current recipient of the FIFA Ballon d’Or (formerly World Player of the Year). Messi has scored three goals similar to the one described in this story. Only one of those handballs was actually penalized. He is mentioned here in a fictitious sense.
[VI] Said match was actually against Espanyol FC. I think it ended in a 1-1 Draw. I only mentioned Chelsea to inspire well, a little bit of controversy
[VII] Robin B.
[VIII] A phrase I got online and twisted around a little bit
[IX] Stephen King, Lunch at The Gotham Café
[X] Isaac Asimov supposedly  said this concerning his religious belief during an interview
[XI] @Quotes_Life
[XII] There’s actually an exoplanet called Kepler-10b. It was discovered by NASA Ames’ spacecraft and speeds around a star in the constellation Cygnus. Much of the details presented in the story are factual except where I’ve stated that it is HABITABLE. It’s not. Kepler 22b’s a closer bet.
[XIII]  Lionel Messi quote (paraphrased).

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