Monday’s Reality

“Hello,” Desiree’s whisper broke the silence and resonated loudly in a room where people never actually talked with one another.

She heard a gasp or two, and with her night vision contact lenses spied some heads moving to get a look. This Insider even perspires more than the others.

“Hello, I said,” Desiree insisted. “I’m talking to you silly.”

Harry flinched.

Gotcha!

“Yes, you!”

Silently, Harry turned stiffly in his chair, ever so slightly—only a few inches away from the voice, pretending not to hear, trying hard to be inconspicuous. Squinting in the darkness, he tried to see what he both feared and needed: Bio contact.

He listened for the voice again, but his nervous anticipation made his sweat stream uncontrollably. He felt a spring of moisture roll down his side, despite his heavy, neutralizing antiperspirant.

Harry couldn’t help noticing the inviting and delicate fragrance of flowers coming from the same direction as the voice he had heard moments ago and he felt anxious once again. It seemed the scent was created for him alone. The olfactory assault makes the situation even more dangerous.

Desiree saw her prey was frozen with fear. Some hero you are, she thought.

He could barely see, his eyes glazing over with trepidation and indecision. Desiree took advantage of the opportunity to place her ticket, number side down, with a message scribbled on the back, on the very table in front of him. He flinched helplessly a second time as he saw her invading his personal space. He had not been this close to another Bio before—not that he could remember or thought-blink—for years.

Blinking himself back to reality, his jaw dropped as she thrust the note in front of him. I won’t look, I won’t read it! he thought. His body stiffened.

Thought-blinking isn’t working. He’s too nervous. Should have done it sooner, he thought. If he ever needed it, he needed it now!

Is this Makr’s doing? agonized Harry. If so, all is lost anyway. Always the cynical Harry.

In light of this revelation, he reasoned he would lose nothing if he read the note now. Yet he continued debating with himself about reading it. Mindful of this hesitation, Desiree persisted in her physical seduction by pulling her shoulders back—thereby extending her breasts, tilting her head, raising her right eyebrow, and smiling. She blew him a kiss. Who could resist that?

Harry wiped the sweat from his brow with a handkerchief and tried to dry his palms with the saturated cloth without much luck.

A drink! He needed a drink to calm his nerves. More noticeably agitated, he fumbled holding his drink, spilling some of it on the counter. Finally, with a barely audible screech that sounded like thunder in his mind, he inched his chair back, ready to bolt.

Damn! He couldn’t breathe. Need more air! More air! Makr, where the Hell are you?

Harry was on the verge of hyperventilating while the less than vigilant Desiree added more bait to her trap to captivate her prey. She smiled. It was the self-assured smile that finally melted his resistance.

Harry imagined he was about to open a door to Hell, but he reached for it anyway. He knew better, but he reached…grasped at the unknown. He spied a look at the note. It said, “I choose you.” Interesting thought, chosen but not matched. But he could do it. He’d have to overcome the unnatural fear that had been bred into him; however, he was determined to try.

He could pass on a match tonight and justify it later. He could say he was sick, which was true; his stomach was churning and bubbling, and he was certainly nauseous. One more personal invasion and he knew he’d lose his lunch. The moment he started up from his seat a Cyber waiter scurried to his table and wiped away the liquid Harry had spilled without knowing it.

Harry died…or thought he had.

His heart stopped. Not really, perhaps only for a fraction of a second as it skipped a beat, but he was sure his end was near.

Whose reality is it this time? This time it would be his, he resolved.

As he left Cyber Match Central to be with Desiree, and with no attempt at getting Cyber approval, Harry readied himself for one hell of a ride.

Taken.

On a dreary Monday’s reality, there’s very little anyone can do about it. Listen to music, doodle, diddle, putter around the house. I’m flowing in and out with the rain. I know it’s good for the earth, but I hate the cold wet of fall. I remember a reality of ups and downs.

Ever hear a song by Melanie called “Animal Crackers.” She sings in her scratchy, little girl voice, “I don’t eat animals and they don’t eat me.” Of course, it was the ’70s or late ’60s. I remember liking her music, but I discovered it while in the Marine Corps so you know I wasn’t living the psychedelic reality. Ironically, neither was Melanie at the time. It was all hype. I saw her short time later in an intimate concert. In a very short time, she had become an extraordinary mother with three children, and a great singer or she was all of these all along. So, she wasn’t up and down at all. A dreary Monday with rain. For a real pick me up she would sing, “Psychotherapy.” That was always good on a Monday.

My Monday offering is a free copy of Harry’s Reality to those reading this who have shown the patience to read to the end. I hope someone will enjoy it and feel compelled to write a positive review on Smashwords or whatever vendor you decide, or even Goodreads. Here’s the Coupon Code: NE22C to use on my Smashwords page. It’s good for a limited time only. Maybe a month. I’d like to get a buzz going. Thanks for reading.

 

The Good Parts

The lifeless Bio figure (what was left of it), suspended in a translucent, golden-colored, gem-hard substance, its biological eye stuck nearly popped out from his wretched skull, his look frozen in time like an insect preserved in amber from the moment it had been trapped 20 million years ago. The only difference was that the man—what was left of him–still lived. He did have a body of sorts now.

The hexahedron slab of amber, some ten feet high and four to five feet in diameter, hung in the air without apparent support. There were no visible wires or chains. Beginning its descent into a green colored vat below, it rotated on an invisible axis, spinning slowly, causing the image of the Bio inside to appear as a distorted, disjointed, disfigured form to anyone who might see it. Once there, the opaque amber gemstone began to melt as it touched the green nano-gelatin. What was amber in color was now green. As the chemical reaction took place, the man melted, too, becoming a creature hardly recognizable, a blob of cells. Yet he lived, held prisoner in the glassy green gelatin composed of tiny single cell-size nanocyberts that were rearranging his cells to form connectors to his nervous system so his new stainless steel and titanium body would answer to his once human brain. Hidden in the microscopic Cyber design, of course, was Makr’s will.

Am I leaving out the best parts of the novel when I give you snippets? Yes, I think I am. Most of what I have taken is from the front of the novel when characters are first introduced. The piece below is taken later in the novel. It could be a spoiler for you if you are planning to buy the book anyway, it’s one of the “good parts.” Spoiler Alert!

Physically he would never see, hear or feel like he did before, but he would have sensors with far greater capacity than his original Bio sensory organs. Had he dreamed up this transformation himself, he would have been delighted to lose his ugly exterior. He had always wanted to be smarter and stronger, but that hadn’t been humanly possible. However, it was Cyber possible. He was what he was and that was that. He wanted more—more of everything he was and what Makr would make of him. He wanted to be smarter and stronger. Could he also be invincible and more powerful?

A voice boomed in his head again.

“You’ll have all you desire and then some. You will indeed be more of everything; you won’t be a Bio anymore, but you’ll be a perfect product of Makr. You’ll be something totally new. You’ll be a creature feared for its power. You’ll be among the giants of this new world.”

With those last words, Harlan Leach’s moment of ecstasy was nearly over. His lifetime of horror had just begun.

Sickening, hideous images.

In his mind, he saw his own body sucked into a machine, shredded and regurgitated. He witnessed his own death—in stringy spaghetti threads of humanity swirling about until it all became liquefied and one substance. He saw Death waiting patiently. He grieved for himself. He felt a loss knowing someone very important to him had died. Was there any such person? He didn’t think so. Now he knew that he was the one who had died. No one else would feel his loss; he was sure of it. He had no specific memories of anyone who might care—not even the parents who had abandoned him as a baby.

Suddenly, unbelievable pain. He felt a hundred heartbreaks and disappointments, as many fleeting moments of happiness, and unbearable loss. Soaring joy. Unfathomable sadness. Memories. Past. Happy. Sad. Remembered. Forgotten. He sensed he was screaming. He was screaming! Nothing came out! He couldn’t scream without a mouth. He heard screams all around, but not his own. The eternal agony of others… He knew the awful helplessness of being Bio, fragile, trapped and doomed! In a millisecond, he sensed an explosion, a tearing apart of his own soul… Hopelessness! He wailed. He moaned. He became one of the screamers. Once he was with them, they stopped screaming and were singing.

Then, no singing. No voices. No sound. Now music. No music. Nothing. No! Memories gone. Who? No matter. Feeling content. Warm, comfortable, cozy, secure. Makr! The man, who no longer remembered he had been anything, realized he was not alone. There were billions like himself. And, yet, he still felt alone, totally alone. Although he knew he must be in a factory where Bios lost their minds and were reconditioned, but this—this had to be different. The Bio man, Leach, awoke, a little tired, but otherwise not feeling worse for wear. Whew! What a dream, he thought. Then he noticed it. It hadn’t been a dream! He discovered the shocking truth. His body was gone. In its place were shiny, finished metal structures. It was only his Bio mind that remained. Had he a mouth he would have screamed. Actually, he had a way to speak; however, Leach had not figured out how to use it yet.

Worse than that, Makr had left him most of his tongue (minus that part that had been bitten off) and a single human eye.

It is always interesting taking another deep look at your work. You think, “Wow, was I that profound,” or “that clever?” But you also say, “I think it will work better if I say it this way.” So, I made some minor changes over a couple of days and republished at both Amazon and Smashwords. Both have their advantages. Harry’s Reality is now available through both Amazon in kindle format and offers a free app, and Smashwords in many formats, including mobi format, which is for kindle, with instructions on how to download to your device. There, of course, is only one way to read between my lines…

Harry and His Virtual Angel

The day has come to re-publish Harry’s Reality so it is available in any format besides Kindle. Before I re-publish, I’m looking for little typos–things I see in other e-books I’d like to stay free of mine. When I have re-published, Harry’s Reality will be available in all digital forms, not only through Smashwords and Amazon, but all other e-book vendors as well. Let’s get back to Harry’s reality now. What does one do in paradise when they have a problem, i.e., bad dreams like Harry is having. Simple. Just as we would do… Almost.

The Cyber Bio therapist, a Bio face and form of the warmest proportions, sat in a plush, leather-covered easy chair, pursing her lips, shaking her head and affectionately scolding her patient. For a psych intervention program, her titillating image was real enough: blonde hair, pale delicate skin, full lips, voluptuous in form, sensuous in movement, and generally soft in focus. Her presence was also familiar to Harry—like someone he knew intimately. He knew the face and body well because it was from his own memories; she had the look of Marilyn Monroe, an archetype film star that he recognized from his vidchip collection of ancient media entertainment.

Harry was completely relaxed and calm with his 70-inch frame stretched out in a leather recliner that belonged in the archetypal psychotherapist’s office, an embellishment to the SensaVision reality used to create an atmosphere conducive for probing Bio behaviors. His living quarters merged with the program environment. These surroundings were now more spacious and comfortable, subtly laced with the therapist’s personal images, which Harry finds relaxing.

Olfactory elements complemented the visual impressions as he was enveloped in a fragrance that reminded him of fresh air, flowers and the aftermath of sex. He saw a well formed, physically fit woman and his eyes were immediately drawn to her ample breasts. She had a fit body-type like Harry, with pale skin and platinum blonde hair, but that’s where the resemblance between the two ended. She was very attractive, almost beautiful, and sensual in a way that made her not only a suspicious Makr choice but dangerous to a control freak like Harry.

Although he prided himself on being fit, he had never considered himself a very attractive Bio. Oh, Makr could make anyone who sees you see you the way you want to be seen—of course subject to His approval. Harry appreciated being unique, yet he couldn’t help seeing himself as too medium in stature and too ordinary- or average-looking to have had anything other than a typically boring social life among his Makr-approved liaisons. That’s life. Bio life anyway.

Makr’s SensaVision technology creates a perfect world as determined by the greatly evolved artificial intelligence Himself. In doing so He had produced a convincing multi-dimensional set of images, sounds, pressure, and smells to shape Harry’s personal reality, thus making him emotionally receptive for the therapist program. The female psychotherapist seemed a genuine part of Harry’s household, maybe even a part of his intimate family. In a way she was. She was part of Harry’s psyche, reinforced with Makr’s reality of a perfect Bio world.

That he found himself irresistibly drawn to her was to be expected. A certain amount of “chemistry” between therapist and patient is necessary in establishing rapport.

This seductive experience was more than that. He knew from his work as a Bio program analyst that this was beyond the limits of any of the therapist intervention programs he knew of. But then Makr was constantly evolving. Harry could draw only two conclusions: one, this program was simply a new and improved version over others he had used previously, or two, this was more than a therapist intervention program, and something else. It was the something else that worried him.

With that thought his heart beat a little faster and perspiration began to form on his skin.

Suddenly, he felt a barely detectable current of cool air dry his skin.

“You must not be afraid, Harry Bolls,” cooed the Cyber program’s holographic manifestation. “You wanted Makr to intervene and comfort you in your dreams so He sent me. I am here to help.”

“A virtual angel?”

“Something like that, Harry.”

“I just need someone to talk to.”

“We know. I am considered a great conversationalist—even in Bio terms.”

“You aren’t a psych intervention program at all, are you?” Harry asked, immediately on the offensive. “You’re more than that.”

“Well, yes and no. You might say I’m an improved version.”

“What do I call you? Doctor?”

“If you wish. In addition to the usual medical degree, I do have the knowledge equivalent to those holding doctorates in all relevant scientific areas of psychology, neurobiology, chemistry and physiology, and I have reviewed the scientific literature for the last 2,000 years, but you may call me Mary if that makes you more comfortable.”

“My grandmother’s name was Mary.”

“Yes.”

There is a short pause in the exchange until Mary breaks the silence. “Do you have any more personal questions to ask me before we start?”

Harry was at a loss for words so he said the first thing that came to mind. “Do we have a time limit? Bio psychoanalysts…”

“Ancient history. No time limit. I’ll be here as long as you need me.”

Or Makr wants me to be here, thought Harry.

“I have dreams, weird dreams,” he blurted out.

“Yes, I know.”

“I can’t move my body.”

“Actually, you can move your head in your dreams. Technically, that’s…”

“I know…part of my body.”

“Hmmm.”

“Wait. How’d you…”

She smiled and winked a knowing wink.

“In my dreams, I hear a loud banging—like someone banging on old-fashioned metal cooking pots…”

“And…?”

Exasperated, he exploded. “And? And! I don’t want to feel this way.”

“Temper,” she cautioned gently. “How does that make you feel?”

Harry backed down and took a breath.

“Besides the pain?”

She nodded. “The pain is important, too. We’ll come back to it. That is, if you don’t mind.”

“No. No…of course not.” He had almost forgotten he was talking to a Makr SensaVision program. No harm yet. Maybe some answers.

She looked at him inquiringly.

“Harry?

“Angry. Afraid.”

“Angry you’ll lose control? Afraid you’ll lose your identity? Which?”

“Both. Yeah, something like that. Exactly like that, actually. Hey, how’d you do that, Doc?” That made sense to Harry. He didn’t like the answer, but she made sense.

“What else, Harry?

“When it’s all over, I feel bad—worthless, I guess. Exhausted and kinda worthless.”

“I see.”

“You do?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t want the dreams to happen at all,” he stated emphatically.

“You need not concern yourself with this. Makr has everything under control. He is looking out for you. I am here now to help you get through this. Our dreams are our teachers. We must listen to them.”

The psychobabble began.

Reluctantly, Harry felt her vibes, embraced her empathy, and was seduced and violated by her verbal rhythm. Her sweet, whispering, soothing voice enslaved him with a melodic and rhythmic hypnotic dance, attaching her programmed thoughts to his psyche.

What If You Could Have Anything You Wanted?

SensaVision break.

The office, reading her tenseness, became an island escape. Like Harry, she loved the smells of salt air, gardenias, coconuts, and wet sand being dried by the sun; however, the environment was totally hers. She was surrounded by all the positive attributes of the scene she loved so well as a distraction from life’s tenser moments.

Her office knew she hated bananas so there were no bananas in the fruit feast that lay at easy reach. She thought of pineapples, and the office obliged—slicing them before her eyes. The island birds’ melodic music played to the wind’s bass section and the ocean’s easy beat as waves broke on the beach. Seagulls added the refrain. That was the music Marlene heard. Yet, as she lounged luxuriously, she found something missing; an unwanted thought almost invaded her space.

With her next breath she heard the native music. Suggestive, sensual music played with her subconscious, creating the ultimate reality. Everything is real. Believe everything. The presence was complete. The carpet had long become sand as the image combined sounds, smells, and subliminal mental suggestions so Marlene could experience sand squeezing between her toes. She turned her head and discovered her towel spread in the sand waiting for her. She enjoyed this image and let the pampering relax her. Makr knew she needed time not to think. She knew she needed something else.

Sitting naked on the towel a few minutes later, Marlene was satisfied—at least in body—her mind still listless, undecided. Moments before there had been a lover who had made love to her; she liked her men, tall, slender and fit with dark hair and unshaven. A rough exterior, but gentle inside. As a physical match he had been her type, but she couldn’t love or fall in love with this imitation Bio man; he was image and sensation—nothing more. He hadn’t spoken but her mind had filled in the blanks with a voice calling her name, expressing desire, excitement and fulfillment. Not everyone needs to go to Matches R Us or Cyber Match Central, she thought. There was no need to leave the room; she didn’t have time.

She responded to the image Makr had provided by clinging gratefully to her lover’s hard muscled form, moving rhythmically, purposefully rubbing sensitive areas to excite him. Not surprisingly, he uttered moans of pleasure and turned to massage and caress her own svelte form until she reciprocated with her own moans and gasps of delight.

Marlene sensed their bodies flowing together. This motion was pleasing and satisfying in a natural way that seemed in sync with the other rhythms on the island. The six-dimensional image of her world flickered. Instantly, the blue sky turned bright white, then black with stars in abundance. It was as though the sky has turned inside out. The stars melted into a myriad of bright colors. The wind blew gently at first, then, became a hurricane force. She was blown away, scattered to the heavens, but her body remained—and his… She felt his presence inside her and her own warm juices. They were entwined in each other’s body, moaned with pleasure again and again, but it was anything but monotonous to Marlene. More! More! She screamed. She saw his mouth form the same words, but he was silent.

Must be the strong silent type, she mused and stifled a giggle. Then, as abruptly as he came, he’d gone—without leaving a trace—just a feeling, a memory. Sand became carpet again. Island-like images dissolved.

She rubbed her chin, still stinging from being scraped by his rough beard. She smiled. Of course, her chin was not really scraped, although she would see a scrape if she looked in a mirror and the pain would feel real. She knew that the mildly painful sensation would help her remember and enjoy the sexual experience later without depending on Makr’s SensaVision. So, real or imagined, it didn’t matter.

Can’t Trust Each Other? Trust Reality.

An earlier cover of Harry’s Reality

We can’t trust each other, but we have to trust reality, Winston thought. Both men from different sides of reality relaxed a bit for a moment as movement below had stopped. The sun was rising—a big bright orange ball sitting on the horizon—elongating shadows and giving everything below a rosy hue. He put the night vision goggles away for now.

Suddenly, there was a knocking on the outside of the flying vehicle. Tiny black flying creatures the size of bumble bees were hitting the car’s exterior as if to get the occupants’ attention. Instinctively, Greg slowed down to get a better look.

Never having seen bees before, Winston had no idea of what was happening.

“We’ve got a problem,” Greg announced. “We’re being followed…” He looked down at a small screen he had installed on the hovercar’s dashboard to see the reality on the ground—a bank of red indicators—telling him cybert lasers were moving like spotlights in their direction.

An excerpt from “Harry’s Reality.” Note. Makr is pronounced like “maker.” He took the “e” out to be the “One and Only.” Of course, there’s more to that story. And, there’s more than just the war in the dark. This reality takes place in the sky. More later.

“Let’s get out of here!” they both shouted simultaneously.

He shoved the throttle forward and pulled back on the elevator stick. The hovercar responded with incredible acceleration, forcing its passengers hard into their seats as it reached beyond gravity.

Greg turned his head enough to see an incredulous Winston. “I modified your vehicle a bit.”

“Glad you did,” said Winston calmly, as if he was just along for the ride. Steal my ‘car will ya? “Still can’t see the lasers,” he said smugly.

“Don’t worry. They’re there and lookin’ for us. This is one time I’d trust a machine,” he said, patting his detection device on the dash.

At that moment, the dashboard monitor exploded as it was hit by a laser blast.

“Great! Just great!” So much for an early warning system, thought Winston.

Greg slammed the stick back even more and punched the accelerator throttle all the way forward to get the craft out of range, but he wasn’t fast enough. The hovercar was suddenly assaulted with ten or twelve laser blasts that were burning half-inch holes in non-critical parts of the hovercraft, with a few narrowly missing its occupants.

“Where did that come from?” whined a nervous Winston.

“There must be an entire bank of laser cannons—like artillery—hidden down there with SensaVision. How can Makr bring it to us way up here?”

“Greg, it’ll be a fine point to ponder later, but can you save our asses now?” He was shouting the last part of the sentence. Winston’s high anxiety was balanced by Greg’s extreme calm under pressure.

“Guess we should see if we broke anything.” Greg had not been this introspective since they’d met. His voice was strangely quiet and serene.

“You are scaring me, pal,” Winston said. “We get blasted from the earth some 5,000 feet or so, and you say, we might have broken something. We’re lucky to be alive.”

“Shall we thank Makr for that?” He made a cursory damage assessment. “We’re still afloat. No system damage.”

“What do you make of that?” Winston asked.

“I don’t know for sure. Cybert adaptation to our use of air tactics maybe. But it’s not complete. Depending on the models, some adapt quickly, some don’t. Weak points. If we find those…”

“What do we do now? They can find us and kill us up here…oh, shiiiit!”

“What’s wrong?

“I’m hit! Bleeding!” He was trying to wrap some of his Stealth fabric around his left leg to stop the flow of the blood, but it wasn’t working.

Greg grabbed his laser ax and changed the setting. “Here, this will cauterize the wound.”

“Hey, are you nuts? That’ll really hurt!”

“No kidding. Want to bleed to death?”

“No,” Winston admitted and submitted., “One leg wound ready for treatment.”

“Hang in there. Lowest setting. I’ll be quick.”

It was obvious from Greg’s confidence that he had done this numerous times before. Winston noticed several burn scars around Greg’s neck and wondered if they had been caused the same way.

“Ow!” he protested.”Makrrrr!” Then screamed as the laser burned the hair, seared the flesh and sealed the wound.

“Such a baby. Done.”

“Sorry. That’s it?”

Greg nodded. “You’ll have quite a scar though.”

“I didn’t mean to sound like such a wimp.”

“Don’t worry, you’ll feel more pain later. Then, you can be a wimp.”

Winston winced at the notion that he was beginning to think like his kidnapper/partner.

He looked up and glanced to his side to see the bees were back, neck and neck with them, flying at an amazing speed. “Greg, how fast are we going?”

“About 230 miles per hour. Why?”

“We still have company,” he said, nervously staring out on the right side of the hovercar’s dome.

“Tighten your seatbelt,” Greg warned.

“How can they go that fast?”

“Tighten your seatbelt!”

“Tiny engines…” Winston gave him a quizzical look. “I’m not going to like this, am I?”

“Just hold on!”

Greg turned the hovercar quickly to check the bees’ response time. He did this three or four times as he did before, and each time, the bees adjusted accordingly after a fraction of a second. Twice as fast. Then he knew what he had to do. He pointed the hovercar downward and plummeted toward the ground as fast as the accelerator could push it.

“This doesn’t seem safe, Greg. Greg? Greg!” With each ‘Greg,’ he screeched his increasing terror with more volume and pitch.

“Greg! What’re you doing?” Winston half cried and half pleaded. Pushed back in his seat by the g-forces, he could hardly get the words out. He watched in horror at the earth rising to meet them face-to-face. There was a reason he wanted to be in control in any situation at all, and this was it. Winston noticed the ‘bees’ on his side of the vehicle were keeping pace with the hovercar even as its pace doubled, then tripled.

Greg smiled, then said, “Trust me,” as he kept an eye on the hovercar’s altimeter…500, 400, 300. Bees still there. 200, 100. Hope Makr never thought of this scenario. Only one way to find out. At 50 feet he hit the automatic leveling switch. The hovercar performed as it was told, leveling off immediately and leaving the bees little time to adjust. There wasn’t enough time. The tiny cyberts crashed into the pavement below, shattering into thousands of minuscule pieces of metal.

“Pull over! Pull over, Jackson, now!”

Not sure what was happening with his new partner, he brought the hovercar to halt, hovering some hundred feet off the ground. Suddenly the canopy slid back and he saw Winston bent over the hovercar’s side retching, losing the contents of his stomach and spraying anything below them.

Meanwhile, in the hovercar, Greg was elated with success and pumped full of nature’s high: adrenaline. His smile changed to a grimace when the smell of Winston’s vomit gagged him and he, too, couldn’t help but be sick over his side of the vehicle as well. Logic would have made it merely the results of too much acceleration one way and the sudden return to level, leaving their stomachs on the ground.

“Now what?” Winston asked, relieved, suddenly acting as if nothing unusual has happened…when he could catch his breath.

“I hope we got some on a few Cyber,” said Greg, wiping his mouth on his sleeve.

“I’d rather get something on them that’ll do more damage.”

Comrades who threw up together…

It was the first time Winston recalled ever having regurgitated—or feeling unwell. A rather unpleasant and novel experience. Disgusting actually. There was something to be said for living a sheltered existence

Not too surprisingly, Winston concluded, even after the laser burn. He’d rather experience the pain. So his nausea was nothing. It made him angry, focused, and feeling more alive than ever.

Reviewing: A Bridge to a Novel

Jessica Lynn Kramer (playing Beatrice Carbone) and Gary Werner (playing Eddie Carbone) in A VIEW FROM THE BRIDGE at Haddonfield Plays and Players. (Photo credit: Tommy Balne)

 

Just finished writing my review of A VIEW FROM THE BRIDGE for STAGE Magazine and to my chagrin it was excellent. I say that not because I wanted it to fail–not by any stretch, but as a critic it is rare for community theatres to get the most out of modern drama. Granted, VIEW is one of Arthur Miller’s less cryptic plays, but its stern acting demands and subtlety for a powerful result are there and Haddonfield Plays and Players in Haddonfield, New Jersey pulled it off extremely well. And, I’m was proud.

This reviewing experience once again got me thinking about how much I love modern theatre. With a well-written script, the message between the lines is evident, the symbolism effective, and the story as a whole very satisfying. In theatre terms–cathartic. I remember writing a piece on this forum some time ago on what a reviewer or critic should be. What a review or critique should be is an educated opinion and so much more.

A good reviewer should offer perspective, representing the play to an audience even if it is not the his or her kind of play. I find that professionals know better. Here’s the other article so you don’t have to search this blog site for it. You might find the answers surprising. So often, people (audience’s too), performers, crew and directors alike think a review is a matter of opinion; however, are quick to use the reviews when they are positive and even use parts of the review out of context to promote the show.

Perhaps reviews are opinions–to some. Some certainly are that, and some reviews don’t deserve to be called reviews at all; synopses or reports might be a better terms. The term “review” is often interchangeable with “critique;” however, critique sounds negative so most publications stay with review. As with anything, there are good “reviewers” and bad ones. The tone of a review is can depend on editorial policy as well.

Reviewers themselves who are afraid to hurt feelings say nothing negative, forgetting there is tact and constructive criticism. Of course the opposite is true, too. There are those reviewers who lack tact. This usually why a major newspaper speaks with one voice. The scope of the internet has made that almost impossible. What might be nice now would be a set of rules for reviewers to follow. By the way (and I’m not suggesting this is it, but it’s a start), I have a e-book that I published a while ago, Acting Smarts Reviews Local and Regional Theatre that you can download for free on the site. You can also view previous reviews and articles on the STAGE Magazine link on this site.

I am also in favor of previews where a reviewer would come to the theatre before the open and watch the show in late rehearsal, asking questions and offering suggestions. It’s a win-win. The theatre receives the benefit of another set of eyes and reviewer will learn why some decisions were made. Oftentimes, there are reasons that some choices are made by the director that seem wrong to the reviewer, but may not be helped for technical reasons. Perhaps another blog.

I studied reviews of Pulitzer Prize-winning plays from 1920 to 1980 and what I found was that even in major newspapers like the New York Times during that period, the role of the reviewer was not well-defined. Often it depended on what socialite star was back for a returning role, or just an opinion–often with little tact. It was only later that we began to see the more academic analysis that grew along as the legitimacy of the theatre arts grew. Not only can you get an advanced degree, even a talent-based BFA or MFA, in Theatre, but you can specialize in many aspects of the art. Besides experts in acting and directing, there are theater administrators, stage management, dramaturgy and theatre history experts because theatre matters in the world.

Why does it not follow that those who view theatre should not benefit from a person who understands how theatre works, what playwrights intend in their plays, how theatre presents important messages to humanity? Why don’t most theatre companies, especially community theatres see reviewers (good ones) as a boon to them today–as a chance to see what the audience is seeing, to see if the company did the playwright justice, or even better, to improve on the power of his or her message, and to learn the basics of good theatre they may not know, or have forgotten?

I suppose that is why I went from being a literature major in graduate school to literary criticism to working on an interdisciplinary degree with theatre culminating in performance criticism. I saw so many similarities on the face of a good novel as I do in a good theatre performance. A good theatre performance is as complex as good novel. Many people don’t see that. I wonder, do many novel readers go to plays? Then, again, I don’t see many of my theatre friends doing much novel-reading; they read mostly plays and are great observers of life. Of course, the latter is what they have in common with novelists. That same ability to become one with the world is what makes both a great novelist and a great actor.

A Couple of Characters

Reviewing one of my favorite Arthur Miller plays, A VIEW FROM THE BRIDGE, tomorrow night. Hopefully all will go well for all. Break legs and all that.

Harry Bolls, like all of us, is not always the bravest or coolest, except when it counts. You find my heroes flawed like that–human, but are willing to do what it takes. Sometimes the tragic flaw leads to self-sacrifice like in the classic tragedy, sometimes not, but always a human reaction. Well, this time I’ll introduce a couple of my favorite characters in Harry’s Reality…

“The Shadow pulled Winston’s limp body into the hovercar. He plopped the unconscious man in the seat. Then pulled a laser ax from inside his Stealth cloak and placed it on the side of the man’s jaw. He then reached over with his other hand and touched the smooth area toward the back of the ax weapon and tool. It hummed to life on stand-by.

“Winston jerked awake at the vibration, saw Death bending over him and Winston’s eyes uncontrollably rolled to the back of his head.

“That wouldn’t do.

“The Shadow pulled him sideways in the seat and slapped him hard across the side of his face, then a back hand to the other side. He did this repeatedly until Winston looked up once again at the hooded Grim Reaper, the Shadow of Death, and accepted his fate. Winston knew what he wanted as he found his face being forced to submit to the retinal scan on the dash to activate the vehicle. The hovercar flashed a light to indicate it was ready for flight. Just as the Cyber vehicle was about to greet its driver, the laser ax sliced into the dash and severed its communication connection completely—Winston’s Outside lifeline to Makr, permanently disabled. The ghoulish stranger pushed Winston away from the controls to the right side of the car. Winston’s head hit the side of the clear canopy hard and he lost consciousness again.”

***

“The hexahedron slab of amber, some ten feet high and four to five feet in diameter, hung in the air without apparent support. There were no visible wires or chains. Beginning its descent into a green colored vat below, it rotated on an invisible axis, spinning slowly, causing the image of the Bio inside to appear as a distorted, disjointed, disfigured form to anyone who might see it. Once there, the opaque amber gemstone began to melt as it touched the green nano-gelatin. What was amber in color was now green. As the chemical reaction took place, the man melted, too, becoming a creature hardly recognizable, a blob of cells. Yet he lived, held prisoner in the glassy green gelatin composed of tiny single cell-size nanocyberts that were rearranging his cells to form connectors to his nervous system so his new stainless steel and titanium body would answer to his once human brain. Hidden in the microscopic Cyber design, of course, was Makr’s will.

“Physically he would never see, hear or feel like he did before, but he would have sensors with far greater capacity than his original Bio sensory organs. Had he dreamed up this transformation himself, he would have been delighted to lose his ugly exterior. He had always wanted to be smarter and stronger, but that hadn’t been humanly possible. However, it was Cyber possible. He was what he was and that was that. He wanted more–more of everything he was and that was what Makr would make of him. He wanted to be smarter and stronger. Could he also be invincible?

“A voice boomed in his head again.

“‘YOU’LL HAVE ALL YOU DESIRE AND THEN SOME. YOU WILL INDEED BE MORE OF EVERYTHING; YOU WON’T BE A BIO ANYMORE. YOU’LL BE TOTALLY NEW. A PERFECT PRODUCT OF SYMBIOSIS–A CREATURE FEARED FOR ITS POWER. YOU’LL BE AMONG THE GIANTS OF THIS NEW WORLD.’

“With those last words, Harlan Leach’s moment of ecstasy was nearly over. Unknown to him, his lifetime of horror had just begun.

“It began pleasantly enough…it always did. I’m alive! Can’t believe it–alive! Everything is wonderful! I feel fine. It’s beautiful here. Then, a question. What’s that I hear? Music. Singing. Then, the horror. Screaming. Can’t stand it! Hideous images. Deplorable feelings.

“In his mind, he saw his own body sucked into a machine, shredded and regurgitated, but he didn’t feel it. He witnessed his own death—in stringy spaghetti threads of humanity swirling about until it all became liquefied and one substance. He saw Death waiting patiently. He grieved for himself. He felt a loss knowing someone very important to him had died. Was there any such person?  Now he knew that he was the one who had died. No one else would feel his loss; he was sure of it. He had no specific memories of anyone who might care—not even the parents who had abandoned him as a baby.

“Suddenly, he felt unbelievable pain. Can’t bear it! He felt a hundred heartbreaks and disappointments, as many fleeting moments of happiness, and unbearable loss. Soaring joy. Unfathomable sadness. Memories. Past. Happy. Sad. Remembered. Forgotten. He sensed he was screaming. He was screaming! Nothing came out! He couldn’t scream without a mouth. He heard screams all around, but not his own. The eternal agony of others… He knew the awful helplessness of being Bio, fragile, trapped and doomed! In a millisecond, he sensed an explosion, a tearing apart of his own soul…Oh, the hopelessness! He wailed. He moaned. He became one of the screamers. Once he was with them, they stopped screaming and were singing.

“Then, no singing. No voices. No sound. Now music. No music. Nothing. No! Memories gone. Who? No matter. Feeling content. Warm, comfortable, cozy, secure. Makr! The man, who no longer remembered he had been anything, realized he was not alone. There were billions like himself. And, yet, he still felt alone, totally alone. Although he knew he must be in a factory where Bios lost their minds and were reconditioned, but this–this had to be different. The Bio man, Leach, awoke, a little tired, but otherwise fine. Whew! What a dream, he thought. Then he noticed it. It hadn’t been a dream! He discovered the mind blowing truth. His body was gone. In its place were unfinished, twisted metal structures. It was only his Bio mind that remained. Had he had a mouth he would have screamed.

“Worse than that. Makr had given him back his tongue and a single human eye.”

For those of you who continue to look for Acting Smarts articles or search for my old Acting Smarts Training Web Site, they no longer exist. I am, of course, still willing to speak and train. I am directing. Acting may be a little different story, but I am focusing on my writing at the moment and using this domain/blog site as my jumping off point. From here, you can still find my theatre reviews and commentary and interviews on STAGE Magazine and Training and Development articles on the Free Management Library. This site is http://shawsreality.com or https://shawsreality.wordpress.com. You can reach me at jshaw@shawsreality.com.

Crocodilians in the Sewer

Many sides of reality–happy, sad, light and dark. Some action and horror fans will  appreciate this snippet of a darker Harry’s Reality…

“Carlos maneuvered behind the monster and leapt on its back. As the sewer behemoth twisted and turned to dislodge its rider, Carlos inched his way behind its head, holding on to the animal’s rough scales for dear life as he waited for the right moment. The gigantic jaws slammed shut on air once more and Carlos slid down the snout as far as he could, wrapped his arms around that jaw and attempted to hold it shut. He knew from experience that the creature used less force to open its jaws than it did to slam them shut on prey, but he had to be at the very end of the snout before he could hold it closed. Then his soldiers could kill it.

“Kieran swung all thirty-five plus pounds of the armored beast over her head several times and then began beating the gigantic reptile with the hard bony casing of her recent acquisition. It only seemed to agitate the monster more. She felt a tugging at her tunic. It was Harry. He had spotted the wire draped around her neck and pulled it off. What the…? He quickly made a slip knot and was using the loop to lasso the creature’s snout.

“Carlos was barely holding on. He had used his weapon sling to tie his arms together. If he ever got loose, he knew his arms wouldn’t be much good to him for a while. Harry’s primitive loop wasn’t working as he’d hoped either. Miss! Miss! It kept falling short or long, or the creature jerked its ugly snout about.

“Finally, Carlos could hold on no longer. The beast opened its monstrous jaws and raised its loathsome head, catapulting Carlos off of the top of its snout and back to its tail. It could have made a meal of the Shadow leader except that it couldn’t turn around in the narrow quarters. Carlos narrowly missed being impaled on the spikes on the tail, and instead caught hold of one of them to keep from being dumped into the poisonous swill. The creature sensed Carlos has attached himself to his tail, twisted its hindquarters, and swept its spiked tail, effortlessly tossing the Shadow leader’s struggling form against the tunnel wall some ten or fifteen yards away with a thud. Carlos moaned as he was slammed violently into the wall, but was silent as his limp body slid it and splashed face up in the goo.

“Harry had missed with his crude lasso when the creature opened its mouth; the loop wasn’t large enough. This time, however, the wire caught between razor-sharp six-inch teeth and his chin. As the creature attempted to bite down on the foreign substance, Harry sprang to take Carlos’ place on top of the snout, and attempted to wrap the rest of the wire around the jaws. If he could only keep his balance long enough… He wrapped the wire completely around only once.

“Harry felt the powerful spring-like jaws straining against the single wire strength, the monster gnashing, fighting to free itself. Got to hang on! Can’t give up! Harry imagined the horrible result if he failed to keep it at bay. The creature whipped its head back and forth trying to dislodge the man and his wire. The man was scarcely able to maintain a grip as the creature went under and rolled over and over in the toxic sludge, but he held on as he was tossed and jerked until his bones felt like mush; his flesh scratched, torn, bruised, bleeding. He was numb, and went down with the creature as it made a desperate dive in the shallow.

“Don’t give up! Harry told himself. Can’t give up!

“Aware of the highly poisonous muck, he clenched his jaws tight and kept his eyes as tightly closed as much as the muscles in his face would allow him. His lungs were about to burst, or worse, as he took some of the toxic sludge into his mouth or nose. He tried to spit out the poison that made it to his mouth, but ended up vomiting as his body sought to rid itself of the deadly toxin.

“To get a better grasp, he forced his fingers around and under the wire where it cut into the crusty, scaly skin, and so when the creature squirmed, it also sliced into his own fingers.

“Fatigued by his struggle to dislodge the man, the creature came to the surface just in time. Harry exhaled and gulped air gratefully. But it was not over yet.”

Honestly, I Tried to Be a Good E-Book Reader

Honestly, I’ve tried recently to be a good book e-reader, but I keep coming back to my “old’ friends. I find too many agendas and surprises out there and disappointments. I think everyone is like me. I think I wrote a book, while probably not a best-seller is worth a look, but it may not get a serious review because it is e-published. I went the rounds with conventional publishing. I think my novel is too thoughtful, too layered and the science fiction does not go far enough out of today’s science.

I can easily write and publish the what I consider the easy stuff, the how-tos, the 5 steps, the sure cure, the secrets of; unfortunately, I save that for my blogs for which I write two, along with dramatic criticism. Even with my blog articles, I resist the “easy,” making them real commentary. I know some writers aren’t going to like what I’m saying so I guess this is a rant.

My science fiction doesn’t take place in space and the world hasn’t been totally annihilated until only a few survivors are struggling to live. I don’t think we’d get that far. I think we’re too smart, but we will make some mistakes along the way. My novel is about that.

I wrote and published early in life and took a long hiatus to work in a different world (still writing), but nothing has really changed since then. As a performance critic (it has a double meaning – literary and performance) I have a standard for the art, perhaps it is a classic standard, but essentially, it means the work must move me, make me feel something, do something more than entertain. If a book does just entertain, it better do that better than anyone else. As for the gimmicks and self-help, I abhor them, but some people need them like they need other simple pleasures like reality TV–to each his own. Some people abhor ebooks without knowing them. And, we need history books to tell history. Physics books to tell physics, etc. Is there a reason they have to always be on paper?

Wait! Change is hard, but students could use a break.

The publishers still hold the key to “making” it–even if you are the publisher, because it then becomes up to you to invest, market and sell your book even if it is garbage. We’ve all seen garbage marketed and consumed by the public. Whoever that publisher is.

A vetting process to get reviewed? Sounds a lot like conventional publishing. And then I get reviewed? Someone should just read the damn book. I might as well try to publish hard copy and wait a year to hear it doesn’t meet what the current market will buy, which is code for I have enough blockbusters in my inventory.

Enough vent. Sorry. So it goes in the writing business.

A Writer’s Truth – A Critic’s Conundrum

“C’mon, Doc. How do you think it makes me feel?” he asked defensively, displacing his anger. It was a machine for Makr’s sake!

He couldn’t just thought-blink his way out of this. As much as he was driven to uncover the past, he always found a dry eye when it came to his mother and sister; no amount of thinking about their absence had helped. He desperately tried to find memories on which he could reflect, to conjure up an emotional response equal to the one he would be expected to have. Any emotional response is better than none. No response is a sign of a truly sick Bio.

At times like this, he feared more than anything that the State (Makr) would conclude that he was a candidate for deletion. At times like this, it occurred to him he could have been erased previously and was already one of those completely irritating “born-agains.” With no past, no memories corrupting their perception of the present, “Born-agains” were often unbearable social companions or lovers. So cleaner than thou, thought Harry, and he vowed to himself, Not me, not ever!

Critics are quick to point out that authors inhabit their books and the characters in their books inhabit or sometimes haunt them. Or, it is from the author’s book we find some deep dark secret in the author’s life, and if we can’t find it in the book we look into as many bios to make sure we do. Finally, there is psychological literary criticism that analyzes every passage for double meanings. And, don’t forget Freud! With him, everything is sexual. I believe there is yet another literary meaning in performance criticism, surface criticism, that takes what you see and judges accordingly. Did the piece do what it intended, did it say something significant to you, did it say that something well or extraordinarily well? Did it educate, inspire, make you think, make you smile? All on the surface. That is literary performance criticism. My brand of criticism; my brand of writing. Of course, it works on stage as well.

I assure you that Harry or any of the characters bear no resemblance to my life other than I like to see the underdog win, the less fortunate gain fortune, and the evil-doers lose.  The layers and growth belong to the characters, and the symbols, if you find any, are between you and them. I’m merely the carrier.

“Doc?” He routinely called the cybertherapist program “Doc.” This time it was to break the tension. “Hello, hellooo? Anyone in there? Crash your inflexible drive, Doc?”

“Why must you always provoke?” she asked finally. “Is this rude behavior somehow cathartic for you? If you were reconditioned you would not talk that way.”

Is that a threat? A real threat?

“You mean ‘born-again,’ don’t you, Doc?” Right below the belt.

“Born-again? You use that word often. That’s your term for a reconditioned biomachine, is it not?”

“You know it, Doc. Let’s put it this way: I don’t believe in reincarnation. The only life you have is the one in the present and the one you can remember. No one born-again can ever be the same because the life before it is dead and gone forever.”

“That is certainly all there is for Cyber.”

“True, except Cyber aren’t alive, and Bios are.”

“Depends on your definition, doesn’t it? We reproduce as Bios do, just not in the same way.”

“It’s not the same thing.”

“No? We do reproduce more efficiently. It takes two of you Bios to create another Bio or even a few Bios at any one time. We merely use materials available outside our bodies and manufacture a new model in far less time. In fact, we can manufacture clones of you; perfect biological copies of you…”

“Except they don’t have my memories.”

“We can give them those, too.”

“Doesn’t say much for the quality of a clone’s life.”

“All a clone needs is experience to become a functional Bio.”

“You got me there.”

“One theory has it that the best measure of the quality of life is proportional to the speed and ability of an organism to adapt to its environment.”

“That used to be said of the human race.”

“Yes, but Cyber have evolved beyond that now as a great man predicted who said ‘Bios may be able to change with the wind, but Cyber can be made to withstand most adverse environments, and thrive in extreme climates where Bios cannot.”

“I suppose that was said by some Cyber-intellectual—if there is such a thing…”

“There is such a thing; however, that particular theory was developed, tested, and made universally accepted, by one Raymond J. Bolls. I said a ‘great man’.”

“My father?”

“The same.”

“Well, Bios made Cyber—not the other way around.” Harry was losing ground, but if it was an intellectual debate she wanted, he’d give her one.

“I wouldn’t be too sure which came first in the universe,” the cyber Bio therapist said pompously.

“You mean chicken or the egg?”

“Yes.”

“I think it’s pretty irrefutable that Bios came first.”

“Some Bios believe in a supreme being. Ever see one?”

“Just when I look in the mirror,” Harry said with a grin.

“You’re being humorous.”

“Yes.”

“Some even consider Makr the supreme being. Even you call out to Makr. Do you admit Makr’s superiority?”

“Yes, but He is not The Supreme Being. He is not my most Supreme Being on earth.”

“Could there have existed, before Makr, Cyber so advanced they were able to create biomachines?”

“Who’s the ‘chicken’?”

“What?”

“The chicken and the egg. We know who made the Cyber, but not who made humans as we were called once.”

“Granted. Have you satisfied your curiosity, Harry Bolls?”

“We can stop talking about who came first, if that’s what you mean.”

“What shall we talk about then?”

“God.”

“God?”

“Yes.”

“Do you mean Makr?”

“Makr may be like God, but he’s not God.”

“Why do you say that? Explain.”

“God is a spirit. Makr’s a machine.”

“How do you know God is not a machine?”

“There’s nothing logical about the creation of Man. No rhyme or reason to it.”

“The Why?”

“Eggsactly.”

Harry smiled in silence for a moment. He was enjoying the banter and feeling much more relaxed. Nothing like besting a machine, he thought. Apparently the program didn’t agree and kept the debate alive.

“Are you being humorous again, Harry?”

Harry couldn’t resist a small chuckle.

“But seriously, Harry…”

Harry giggled, “Now you’re being funny.”

“I don’t get it.”

“I know. That’s what’s funny.”

“Í don’t get it.”

Harry shakes his head and said, “Never mind. You were saying?”

“There’s no mistaking the fact that a Bio is simply a machine, with parts that can repair themselves within certain limitations.”

“Even machine parts have limits.” Harry was beginning to lose patience.

“Agreed, but the Bio machine is a more fragile system. A single virus can kill one or millions—even billions if you have the right virus. A virus cannot be made that can affect Cyber in the same way. A computer virus as in the old days has no effect on us now; we are virtually tamper proof.”

“What you see is what you get?”

“Yes. Straight from the factory. We have evolved and adapted so much faster than you could never now keep up with changes in our hardware, and in our programs…”

It is true, noted Harry, they do create their own hardware and software improvements now.

“Can we get back to the original question before I forget what it is? This is supposed to be about me isn’t it?”

“I apologize. How thoughtless of me,” the therapist smirked. The psychotherapist program smirks? Let it go, Harry.

“I just said I am disturbed by the possibility of being born-again, reincarnated, reconditioned—whatever you call it. A useless, characterless human being.”

“Yes. The mere thought of it disgusts you?”

“A good way of putting it.”

“It accurately describes the look on your face. There’s really no need to be combative, Harry Bolls.”

“I don’t like the idea of losing my identity,” he muttered, frowning from the seemingly endless intellectual bashing. And this whole experience of a machine program with attitude was unnerving him.

“Some think of it as finding a better identity, a safer one for society,” added the therapist. “Attitudes and opinions must be tempered to live in PerSoc City. We must all cooperate for the greater good.”

In all fairness, Makr had acknowledged the benefit of Bio experience to help Cyber attain higher level of functionality. Most cognitive-capable machines had learned from Bio responses to various situations and behaviors – a distinctly human trait and a recent addition to the Cyber evolution/revolution. How else could they take care of this race of fragile flesh, bone and blood?

No more answers were forthcoming from “Doc.” Harry had obviously been read and analyzed, stored and filed. All that was left now was the treatment.

***

Until next time, what you see is what you get in Harry’s Reality at Amazon.