First steps....

For the class I am currently about to wrap up, we have been studying publishing and distribution. Throughout the lessons, one thing peeked through. Self publishing and distributing is much harder than I originally thought. The previous pieces I've had published were sent through an editor, then formatted for PDF. 

I submitted this story to a fantasy and science fiction Ezine to see if they would accept it. They didn't, which wasn't a big surprise. I decided to make this my first blog post on a blog I've had set up for quite a while, but have never posted on. 

Putting out that story to someone else was a very raw experience. It was a direct conduit of my writing, from me to them, without the buffer of external editing, formatting or any other polishing from a second set of eyes. 

So for the inaugural post for my blog, "Mimesis", I present to you a short science fiction piece. 

enjoy. 

“The Eye of God is a Telephoto Lens”

As I sit, staring into God’s Eye, I see myself refracted, stretched and distorted. Like a funhouse mirror, I see Chucky standing behind me. His broad features distended, the soft planes of his body sharpened, darkened, stained like old wood.

Charles Allen Pembrose. You stand to be judged. Your soul will be studied for purity. Please send it forth to be examined.

The words float throughout the air, projected on the walls of a too white room. A square appears beneath the giant lens, turns into a door. I hear Chucky shift nervously behind me. A burst of fresh air washes through the portal, caressing my bare scalp. Chucky gasps in surprise a moment later as the air hits him, and as the implications press in.

Please proceed.

I stand slowly. I straighten my coat. The Conduit on the back of my neck starts to grow warm, the tines buried into my neck start to heat up. I turn back to Chucky. Thick tears stand in his eyes, shimmering. A fat drop breaks free, runs down his cheek. More follow suit, freed of the surface strength of the liquid. His big mouth works silently, his blocky, square teeth clicking softly.  His fingers twitch.

I feel a twinge of sadness, buried beneath the artificial guilt stuffed inside me. I turn away. Chucky will find himself renewed within the system.  I will be weighed for his sins, his crimes, and will be assimilated into The Machine.

Stepping through the door, I see that I’m on a short ledge.  It juts out like a pier, hanging over the abyss. I glance down, fighting off the vertigo caused by staring down at clouds. I see the Lower Rungs, pieces of the city floating along. I imagine I can see the Bottom, the ruined remnants of former cities. The poverty line of our world is hidden below the clouds.

At the edge of the walkway, I stand still. There is no wind this high up, all of it siphoned away to keep God’s citadel afloat. I breathe deeply of the clean, unpolluted air. I close my eyes and feel myself fall in tune with the deep hum of machinery below.

The words of the manual are burned in my mind. I know what I have to do now. I straighten my coat and tie, and take a deep breath.

                                                          

Glass. You bear the weight of sin for Charles Pembrose. Please step forward.

I close my eyes and step off the ledge.

For a moment, I am weightless, part of eternity. As I twist in the air, I feel, more than see, the countless eyes of God watching my descent. A constant barrage of silent clicks and whirrs capture my every move. Pictures of every spin I make, every twirl, and of every sin.

Click

Chucky is with his friends. They are slumming it in the Lower Rung. They are drunk and riding high on synth.  Chucky is with these people because he’s a follower. He wants to be one of them. His brother, Walter, is one of them. They are following a waitress, a pretty blonde that good-naturedly flirted with them at the bar. Being who they are, they assumed this meant something. When she turned away the more direct advances, they stormed off.  Now, we follow her.

The waitress weaves through the midnight crowds on streets, followed by Chucky, Walter and three others. Behind them, come us. Each member of them has a G-man, synced in with a Conduit. Racial slurs and threats, physical assaults and thefts, every action syphoned from them to us. Our Conduits run hot on our necks as the guilt flows.  The more they plan to hurt, the more they send it to us. Our souls grow dark and heavy with lust and violence as they decide what they have in store for the pretty blonde.

They corner her in a side street, no more than a dark alley between monolithic buildings. Her eyes, shining with fear, start to spill tears. She knows what’s next, as do we.  Our souls deadened to the impending scene, we form an outward circle, watching for any outside interference.  One of the G-men is new, and I see him pull a small syringe and inject its contents into his arm. His face goes slack as the drugs kick in. His vitals will regulate, and his breathing will slow. He will learn to handle the torrent of self-loathing coming through the Conduit.

The warm red pulsing from the Conduits, growing brighter as they close on her, lights the alley. Their shadows stretch into caricatures of the monsters they are. We carry that burden for them.

Her pleas turn to screams.  When they are done, we leave. Paper notes fall like hot tears as they shower her with money.

Click

Chucky, alone, is out on the streets. His mind, stunted by generations of hedonistic and unaccountable living, sees in limited shades of grey. He knows on an animalistic level, he can do what he wants. He takes what he wants, with no repercussions. Like a blast of synth, it’s foggy, like a dream. The only aftereffects are the residual feelings of pleasure and self-gratification.  His namesake, engraved on the Upper Rung, one of the think tank that created God, blessed with immunity for his actions.

When one creates God, he will be rewarded with riches eternal.

Chucky finds something he wants, a bauble behind glass. In his slow, oafish voice, he demands it. The worker, not knowing who he is, demands payment in return. I feel a slow burn in the Conduit, seething, primal rage. As the guilt etches into my soul, I step over the broken glass and  the bleeding form of the shop worker.

Click

Chucky and Walter.

They are drunkenly firing shots out the windows of the car. Pane, Walter’s G-man, and I sit in the back seat calmly, hot shells bouncing in our laps and searing guilt worming its way through the backs of our necks. Sirens follow us, unheeded. Once their name is discovered, the holy lineage bared, all will be excused. The dead will be buried, families compensated for their loss.

Until God calls upon the Pembrose boys, the incident will be forgotten.

 Clickclickclickclickclickclick

Each snapshot, a still frame of my stained soul. As the layers peel away, I start to reform.

I remember the contract. The drug regimen. The bonding.

I remember being a child. I had a holo on my wall, of the Jupiter landing module. I always wanted to fly.  The stars were to be my way out of the Lower Rung. I was going to fly one day.  Then, my father died in an accident at work. My family needed money.  And being the youngest mouth they couldn’t feed, they sold me.

As I fall into eternity, I wonder if my family will remember me.

Will my sacrifice be appreciated?

Did my mother miss me?

Click

The first day I meet Chucky is my first day as a G-man. My memory, my mind, and my soul are all blank slates. Ingrained within my mind is my job.  I am to carry the burden of guilt for one of God’s Chosen.

I step off the elevator, my ride to one of the Upper Rungs a blur as the world comes into focus. My eyes trace the blue tubes that line every wall in the city.

 God’s Veins. A pneumatic system that transports all of Its messages to all of us. As I approach the door where my new master is, I hear the sound of a printer. scrik, scrik.

The sound of the ribbon going across the piece of paper delivers my name.

The heavy doors open, and there he is. Charles. He has a goofy grin on his face. He imagines something grand and wonderful, like a pony or a hound. Standing behind him is Walter, his brother. In the corner is another G-man. He has heavy bags around his eyes; dark smudges on an otherwise smooth, non-descriptive face.

Walter is on the opposite side of the spectrum as his younger brother. He knows exactly what it means to have a G-man. His lopsided grin and steely glint shows he’s already planning the wonders to teach his younger and slower brother.

Charles’ face droops as I walk in, a plain figure in grey. Walter tears the page off the printer and hands it to his brother.

“That’s its name.” Walter says. I see a low glow in the corner, and recognize the tightness around the G-man’s eyes. Walter is planning something, and his guilt transfers over.  

“Glass.” Chucky says. His words are slurred, a soft consonant followed by a sibilant hiss.  I feel the Conduit on the back of my neck tighten like a warm hand upon my nape. A sliver of ice enters as the first pinprick of guilt is transferred to my soul.

Click

“This is where we wait.” Pane, Walter’s G-man, says. 

Scattered around the darken room are four others, pale skin reflecting the dull pulse of another’s Conduit. They sit, staring off into space. Dull eyes listlessly watching a show only they can see.

I see hypodermic needles sitting in the lap of the nearest. A thick green liquid drips from the tip.  Too much sin builds up in the body and physical pain follows. The soul can only handle so much.

“We sit here until they call.  This is what our life consists of.” Pane moves across the dim room to sit. Within seconds, he stares off and his eyes show nothing.  I watch as he retreats into himself. The others, locked in their own personal hell, have done the same.

Will I turn into a creature such as these?

Click

I’ve hit terminal velocity, and I truly am weightless. Below, I see the end. The Eyes of God start to taper off, more distance between them now. The clicks are lessening. The time is almost here.

Click

The burning, seething

Click

Sting in the back of my neck is almost done, a fading

Click

Sting of a scorpion’s tail. The steel claw warms one last time

Click

And disconnects.

Click

Free! No

Click

Oppressive weight. The

Click

Burden lifted. I feel like I can

 Click

 Truly fly.