Cyber vs Robot: Commentary on Wilson’s Robocolypse

Daniel H. Wilson’s Robopocolypse and Robogenesis, inspired by today’s world of robotics, are on the bestseller list and rightly so. In Makr’s Shadow may be a third such novel worth more than a look.

I’m glad to see a fellow writer who has a similar interest. He is a roboticist, while I am a psychologist.

Our aim is as similar as our approach. We both use an apocalyptic vision to show society at its worst and at its best.  To some literary publishing houses, the subject of robots is passe. Naturally, I disagree. I think it is a subject which time is now. I wrote an article on that recently.

Wilson and I have a similar vision in that our own creations “robots” or, in my case, “cyberts” could be the death of us; however, that said, these human generated or conceived creatures are something special and we can learn from our experience with them.

In Makr’s Shadow is the story of humans relying on technology to make problem-solving decisions that could result in our planet’s annihilation. I say that smiling, knowing full well, Wilson is the more established writer and has the creds to sell his books easier than I can sell mine. I heard his interview on National Public Radio, and I’d love to meet and chat with him. In my defense, In Makr’s Shadow is my debut novel and it needs some attention.

Why Cyber or cyberts and not robots? Semantics. I don’t think so.

Cyberts as I have described them in In Makr’s Shadow are sentient by connection to cyberserver; pure robots exist for mundane taskings–including street cleaning. Cyberts exist in such numbers as to be considered another race, the Cyber, more powerful in every way than their Bio counterparts.

The difference is significant. The cyberts are task- specific mobile extensions of the server, an evolving artificial intelligence called Makr. Robots are tools to aid Bios and perform perfunctory maintenance tasks, nothing more.

In spite of their inferior status, they are still connected and can bring superior “robots” with a connection or cyberts. Some cyberts perform tasks that require intellectual or combat and weapon skills to protect Makr, while others simply maintain the infrastructure of the planet.

In Makr’s Shadow, humanity had reached the end of its patience in trying to save their world from self-destruction–the problems, an “apocalypse” that they themselves caused. World leaders ultimately turned the operation of the planet to the combined intelligence of all the computers in the world, forming an evolving artificial intelligence, Makr.

There’s only one problem. Makr won’t give it back, and tries to create a whole new world populated by Cyber. To do that, he must annihilate the human race.

In Wilson’s Robogenesis, the remnants of society are picking up the pieces, while In Makr’s Shadow, most of society, 90 percent are imprisoned by illusion. Of the remaining ten percent that are not held prisoner, only one percent is actually fighting the cyberts. Interestingly enough, the survival of the human race at stake. Here, though, one man, who has the ability to see through illusions, manages to escape his imprisonment; he is different in a way that changes the world forever. It can never be the same.

“In Makr’s Shadow reads like an Isaac Asimov and Kurt Vonnegut, Jr. novel combining, action, suspense and fun. Thought-provoking. Exciting. Shaw’s characters are dynamic and real. They are as flawed as all of humanity with fears, anger, regret and arrogance, yet heroes emerge from the strangest places. All that seems lost, is not lost.”

Goodreads has good things to say as well.

The biggest difference between Wilson and my novel is probably price and availability.

In Makr’s Shadow is available wherever e-books are sold for $2.99. I’m offering it for free to anyone who is willing to open a dialogue with me or write a review. We’ve all tried to read some horrible e-books, but I don’t believe this is one of those. I believe in this novel’s surprising message and I’m sure you’ll find it entertaining along with way.

At the risk of losing sales of In Makr’s Shadow, I can’t help but recommend Danial H. Wilson’s robotic fiction; they sound as terrific as my own. He said, smiling. By the way, if you are interested in Wilson’s books, here is a sample from this cool site, Science Friday.

I have posted my samples In Makr’s Shadow (previously published as Harry’s Reality) on this website and will continue to do so. I am also working on a new novel called The Jaguar, so you may find clips for that as well.

Styles and approaches vary with every novelist. I hope you like mine. If you decide to take me up on my free offer, leave me a comment. Thanks.

GODS–A Mythical Reality

A Real Beginning for Rob Kristie’s GODS–A Mythical Musical at The Grand Theatre.

We have all seen directors cringe as they watch a production they have directed after leaving it in the hands of cast and crew. Imagine if you wrote the script… In this case, Rob Kristie wrote the book, music and lyrics for GODS—A Mythical Musical that was “performed” on the Grand Theatre’s stage in Williamstown, New Jersey.

GODS is Kristie’s second original musical. The first was entitled THE DOLL–a Raggedy Musical, which began as a staged reading at the RITZ Theater in Haddon Township, NJ. Later a full production evolved with eight performances at the Sketch Club in Woodbury, NJ, and that musical was nominated for a Perry award in 2011 for OUTSTANDING ORIGINAL MUSICAL.

Rob Kristie’s GODS was a different kind of stage reading for me in that it was a musical, and therefore contained more elements than the standard play reading. A review of a staged reading is not unheard of, but it, too, must contain the reflection and comment in a proper perspective.

GODS—MYTHICAL MUSICAL took place at the Grand to a nearly full house to see if this pared down realization of his idea resonated with an audience. While the staged reading experience with amplified acting, music, sound effects, and lights was unusual, it was necessary. Obviously if a play contains music–well, that has to be audience-tested, too. With the bigger audience, there was more opportunity for proper input. Hence, The Grand Theatre was a great venue choice.

Edith Hamilton’s Mythology—a book many of us used in school–about the Greek, Roman and Norse gods whose dalliances with humans created an exciting bridge to an immortal world inspired Kristie.

The world in which the gods operate is a little different now. While active in ancient times, the gods (all of them) exist in a passive state, coming to Earth only to observe or participate briefly without getting involved.

As you might expect, immortal gods and mortal humans once again collide. This time it’s on a cruise ship at sea. Here, a beautiful goddess catches the eye of a handsome British performer, and they fall in love at first sight. Of course, they can never be together—or can they? How does a human prove worthy to a god(dess)? For that matter, how do any of us prove our worth to  the guardians of someone we care about? Naturally, there is more, but I don’t want to spoil it for you. We must not anger the gods.

The musical is essentially an interesting variation of “boy wins girl,” “boy loves girl and she loves him,” “girl loses boy,” and “boy gets girl back.” All that and be careful not to anger the gods.

We see the world briefly from the eyes of the gods. We see a detached but meaningful look at world society today. The characters are interesting and the music is engaging, while the story takes us back to our childhood studies of human beliefs.

Making theatre magic is not as easy as it looks…and that is because most of the productions we, audience members, attend have had the benefit of testing, and changes and/or adaptations suggested by another audience.

In this setting, the audience must create each scene in its mind while attending to the action on stage…so the experience is participatory to say the least. The actors/singers themselves have to produce art with the barest of direction, seeing their characters in a stage designer’s environment, in a production that hasn’t happened yet. However, the audience must try to do so as well. Actual productions would differ with the casting and directorial vision. In Rob Kristie’s GODS –A MYTHICAL MUSICAL, there appears to be plenty of room for production style variations. That’s a good thing.

Kristie has created an extra character, a narrator, to tell the audience the stage directions. Accidental or not, the narrator, played by Glenn Fennimore, was quite entertaining and presented an intriguing element in the theatrical storytelling not unlike the mythology itself. Nine actors/singers, including Fennimore: Jeff Blomquist, Cierra Olmo, Danielle Dipillo, Lani Campagno, Chuck Gill, Steve Pracilio, Amanda Peacock and Tyrone Fuimaono gave enthusiastic, finished performances on stage.

The music was consistent and lively with catchy lyrics, although a couple musical numbers and dialogue among the gods seemed to slow down the action in the second act. The first act ended in a “chirp,” rather than an exciting change. A tableau of frozen character action might have achieved a stronger effect or depth of change. Or, a stronger song. Or, any number of theatrical devices. Perhaps, even the opposite of a tableau—a dance number—might achieve the same success.

It takes a staged reading to see those very comments emerge.

Although all the songs had merit, one number in particular stood out for me. It had a country feel to it rather than the typical “musical theatre” sound. By itself, it seems out of place, but such a good song deserves to be heard, and maybe more with same “difference.” Then, the GODS musical would be distinctive indeed.

Theatre is a collaborative art that has to start somewhere. Somewhere is not always a theatre. It is often a bare room with actors sitting around a table with a small audience looking on. Kristie has done better than that in having both staged readings in established theatres and by doing so was able to add more elements, i.e., sound effects, music and some lighting. Ultimately it will be he who will weigh and make the decisions to sublimate his art.

A staged reading is the first time an audience sees the beginning of theatre magic. It works without the benefit of direction, blocking, creating and setting, costuming and lighting a stage—essentially the minimum of what appears to be the beginnings of a theatrical production. If the “reading” is a musical as this one, the instruments are basic as well. From this, the creator solicits feedback intended to improve the work. A brave move, but it is the next step.

As an actor who has collaborated on several original plays and screenplays, I can tell you that bringing an original work to the stage takes nerve, but it is an exhilarating and innovative time for all involved. Even for the audience. Harder work is ahead.

Of course, this is not really the beginning for a production; the creator has decided it is time for audience input. Long before that, friends and family members gave their input. Often, it takes years for the theatre artist’s conception to fruition on stage even in its barest of forms.

It’s good to see this one made it. The best is yet to come.

For more on GODS – A Mythical Musical, check out its Face Book page.

GODS–A Mythical Musical
Written and directed by Rob Kristie
Coming soon to a theatre near you.

NEXT TO NORMAL – A Different Reality

Krissy Fraelich, Brian Bortnick and Adam Hoyak (in the background) in NEXT TO NORMAL at The Eagle Theatre. (Photo credit: Chris Miller)

Let’s face it: thinking about mental illness is depressing–a trigger taking us down. But it doesn’t have to be.

By the way, this isn’t the review, but I am going to talk about the musical. The link is several paragraphs below.

We know reality depends on perception. That point was driven home when I reviewed the rock musical, NEXT TO NORMAL at The Eagle Theatre in South Jersey (local identification for people who live in southern New Jersey). The musical deals with reality and perception in a big way. While good plays engage us with a dialogue, the musical, too, can address similar topics.

The standard American musical used to be viewed as fluff entertainment–a way of setting up song and dance numbers. Today, most successful musical theatre productions work in the same way as dramas or comedies; they set us up to listen to a point of view–another’s perception.

What we see and hear on stage is theatre. On different level, a pithy musical like NEXT TO NORMAL informs us and makes us look deeper into ourselves. In this case, the subjects are mental illness and a few other societal problems. Granted, some folks may miss the intended deeper meaning while they are transported to another reality, but most of us are moved to see more than song and dance.

It’s not unusual for theatre to address important topics and differing views. NEXT TO NORMAL entertains us with beautiful, often haunting music and witty lyrics. Any musical, drama, comedy or any variation that successfully dramatizes important subjects usually makes for good theatre art.

Spoofs were invented because its satire masks the intended message, yet still we get it. It’s the same with good musicals like HAIR, LES MISERABLES, RENT and, of course, NEXT TO NORMAL–to name just a few.

This particular play focuses on how mental illness, seen close to home, affects family relationships and the behavior of others. The family has all the right intentions with the wrong result. The play and its music tell the story with sensitivity and, believe it or not, the reality of curing mental illness and families trying to cope.

People who are mentally ill see the same world differently. And, since their current reality doesn’t reflect our own, we are frustrated with their unusual, irrational behavior. While coping with the seemingly ever present illness and trying to understand another’s misperception of the world, loved ones may devote their lives to find a way to help, even though they may do harm instead. Sadly, it’s what families do.

In my review of the production, I focus on humanity’s inability to cope under such circumstances. With realities mixed up, it’s interesting to see how the situation comes to a conclusion.

Check out the review .

Reality, as we all know, is in our perception of the world viewed through our senses. We create a reality based on sensory input. We deploy all of the senses, if we have them, or as many as we do have. i.e. someone who has been blind or deaf or both does not have those sensations. Yet, the blind and deaf have different perceptions than those of us with all our senses intact, but their perceptions are based on the senses they do have. Their realities are as rich as any of our’s. What we see, hear and smell is filtered naturally by our brain.

Obviously, the brain is more than flesh and nerves. What makes it different is that it contains the mind, which is impossible to pinpoint with today’s technology. We do have a good idea where memory is stored. Many a science fiction novel has dealt with the repercussions of trying to change reality or control human behavior by enhancing unknown parts of the brain. The brain uses automatic responses that keep our organs working to keep us alive. It is also responsible for storing memories.

Memories seem concrete. Consistent. And, when they aren’t consistent, we see a need to correct that inconsistency.

Should we tell someone else what his or her memories are supposed to be because we shared the same moment together?

Our perception of the moment is a combination of the mind’s conscious, unconscious and subconscious thoughts, as well as our feelings, what we hear and see so we are assured no two memories are exactly alike.

From Colonial Theatre’s production of THE BOYS NEXT DOOR, Damien Ladd as the son and Jack Shaw as the wasted parent trying to make his son normal. Photo Credit: The Colonial Theatre

We can only approximate a memory by using facts. Memories can’t be confirmed by others. Only the facts can be confirmed. The reality of another who experienced the exact moment, and being in the same place in time–may be similar. Even the moment isn’t exact. That reality is always different, depending on who is living it. We are once again talking about individual and unique perceptions.

The photo on the left: A scene from THE BOYS NEXT DOOR, a play that looks sympathetically at being able to appear normal and the behavior of someone close. In this case the father. The schizophrenic son elicits sympathy from the audience, while the parent, obviously affected by his sons erratic behavior, is unable to cope and has a more dangerous sickness than his son.

To be sure, this is the abridged version of studying the brain, the mind and the idea of reality. To keep it blog size. The concept of reality is tied to all.

The brain, if we could use it completely, has more capacity than we can imagine. It has as much potential as a rather complicated computer.

What else the brain can do beyond current science is obviously unknown but speculated about especially in the areas of paranormal activity. Which brings up a question of reality once again. Mere mention of  the word, “paranormal,” makes us take a look at a different reality. We think a person who has these unusual abilities inhabits a different reality, seeing the world with his or her extra perception.

The same can be said of a person who suffers from a mental illness–the reality is there, but the filter is broken. The brain may not be broken necessarily, but the mysterious and unique mind may be confused. Its ability to adapt is broken somehow. In layman’s terms, it is probably safe to say that the mind is a sum of all our experiences, including our unconscious ones we have in our dreams (yet another reality). Some of those dreams we remember, some we do not. But they are still there.

The human answer, as an outsider coping with all this, may be as simple as giving unconditional love.

There is no doubt that mental illness takes its toll on everyone involved. In most cases, it’s impossible to cure. That is today. Perhaps tomorrow will be different. The rescue of a person in need is risky, taking its toll on those affected in many ways–only a few of which are seen in NEXT TO NORMAL.

Maybe, the key to easing that frustration first is understanding that mental illness is not someone’s fault. Secondly, it is not always someone’s responsibility to try and fix the problem. And, thirdly to find a cure, if possible, is a long and hard road to travel.

We, humans, like to fix things. It makes us feel good, but only when our efforts seem to help. That’s the problem with mental illness; there’s never a complete cure, so we may never feel good.

Mental illness remains a disease that rarely comes with complete cure. Sometimes it is a biological anomaly that can be corrected by surgery. More often it is not. Maintaining a “next to normal” level of behavior through drugs and therapy may be the best we can do.

We have to understand our limitations and try to do more good than harm. In families where one person is sick, everyone is affected. It seems everyone should be involved in the “maintenance” and understanding–if that’s the best we can do.

The Jaguar, A Novel

(The Jaguar -Working Title)

1992 – A Panamanian drug cartel mistakes Major Smithson James (Smitty), an Air Force Reserve officer on temporary training for the United States Southern Command (USSOUTHCOM), public affair office for another American–an unorthodox but devoted, DEA agent Jameson Smith.

The United States’ War on Drugs effort in Central and South America barely affected the amount of heroin and cocaine that made its way north. The drug warriors were easily spotted, avoided or killed, if not by cartel members, by the paramilitaries.

Code Name: Smith and Jones was a covert operation, consisting of one well-qualified agent: a Marine major from Force Reconnaissance (RECON), someone who could hide, blend in and survive the jungle. That someone was Jameson Smith, though arrogant and insubordinate, was the perfect weapon–stealthy, ruthless and tough. The buzz around the mission said the man was CIA. Hardly, the CIA had said, this one doesn’t report to anyone; whoever owned him just let him off the leash.

The U.S. drug warriors knew the black op existed, although they didn’t know the name of the “super” soldier or the CIA “special” agent, they knew he hadn’t been sent to replace them. The idea was so ridiculous that most higher-ups dismissed the covert op entirely. “Let this fool get himself killed on his own out there.” Some just said, “The jungle is a scary place.” Some intelligence officers hinted he was there for misdirection, for distracting the cartels, while the real soldiers took them down. Eventually even the intelligence officers lost interest in one man in the jungle or rainforest God-knows-where on the continent.

However, Smith’s early successes made them eat their words. A factory destroyed here and there. A distribution center and organization were frozen, its people afraid to go out at night. There was a lot of product with no place to go. Billions of dollars lost. For the moment…

Then later, the cartels acted as if nothing was wrong, they produced even more product, invented new distribution systems and made faster deliveries while adding more muscle and surveillance. They put more pressure on their “spies” to root out this superman; they’d show him how vulnerable he was. There wasn’t a list. They had no name to add to one. Well, they did…or thought they did. As much as anyone could trust a spy or traitor.

It was then that Jameson Smith seemed to have disappeared. Some thought he was a real ghost–like a dead man. Cartel squabbles and sabotage exploits were rarely seen or heard; it was as if Superman just went home.

He had been destroying the drug “machine” in Central America almost single-handedly and had started his path of destruction in South America. He had discovered a few “leaks” and eliminated them, but there remained enough still at large to compromise organized raids by the authorities. With the jungle getting crowded with rebels, paramilitary as well as cartel members, he went quiet and invisible, using all of the surveillance techniques in his playbook to spy on the drug operations and trafficking with hands off for the moment. Everything was going fine, until…

The cartel’s security forces in Panama City kidnapped and tortured Smithson James (aka Smitty) to find out how he had sabotaged so many of their efforts to produce and move product. Coincidentally the two bore a striking resemblance to each other. Both men were very fit, above average height and had blond hair with a darker blond beard. And, the obvious; their names were similar. The Cartels’ informants were sure of the name (or names now) they had.

A victim of human trafficking, a female captive, thrown into the mix provides James the means for them to escape into the jungle. At first, James has to survive and heal, but the people who take him in and the events that follow change him. While his wounds are bad, his mind is worse. 

James has not only forgotten who he is, but he believes he is that DEA agent. His captors, thinking “Smitty” had not survived his wounds and the jungle, go back to their deadly routine of terrorizing and enslaving local villages to produce product and distribute it through Mexico to the United States. With the help of the other captive and her unusually resourceful village, James heals and regains his strength.

To the surprise of the drug cartels, the Drug Enforcement Agency, the Central Intelligence Agency, and United States Southern Command, James surfaces from the dead as a were-jaguar and unleashes even more ferocious and terrifying attacks on the cartels. And, Smith sits back and watches. For a while…

To USSOUTHCOM, Smithson James is a deserter. To the DEA, a rogue agent, and to the CIA a threat to its control of the region. To the traitors in the program, he is a dangerous threat and must be killed.

James is a mystery to all. How can he seek and destroy every few days? Who or what is helping him? It seems he has done the impossible, he has terrified the Cartels and that’s a tough thing to do.

There’s romance, too, with strong and capable beautiful women, proud indigenous people, enslaved entire villages, and well, a real jaguar.

Looking for something a little different? I have started work on my new novel, working title, The Jaguar, an adventure, suspense thriller. Superstition plays an unusual role that involves the drug interdiction agencies, human trafficking, kidnappers, revolutionaries and drug cartels.

Lots of explosions, fire and body counts. All with a little horror thrown in–for the villains. The characters, agencies, the drug manufacturing and distribution situations are real.

The Jaguar is a work in progress. I plan to post passages as I write them, and hopefully publish by the end of this year.

Also, please check out my debut novel, In Makr’s Shadow. Available now through most any online bookstore.

***

Humans by themselves could only fail.

An evolving artificial intelligence calling itself Makr is engaged to run the planet’s resources, saving humankind the trouble.

The enlightened people, some 90 percent of the population, have chosen to live a fantasy life, never having to worry about discomfort or pain, or being bored, or being lonely, or whatever.

Think about it and it’s yours. Even if you don’t consciously think about it, it will be yours because you need it to be. Who cares if it all isn’t real? If it feels real, then it is.

Reality doesn’t matter in PerSoc, a perfect society.

The ten percent of the population that’s left are those who can’t live a lie and choose to live Outside in the dark reality without Makr’s help.

In Makr’s Shadow…

Harry Bolls proves that one unique man makes a difference, by seeing through illusion, he sees reality however stark. For those Outside, he is a stranger who comes from Inside, searching for lost memories and thus, seeking his true identity–In Makr’s Shadow.

But there is more to Harry than he knows himself. His presence will unite a splintered society, help them win an unwinnable war, and show them their unusual future.

If you purchase In Makr’s Shadow (Harry’s Reality) from Smashwords.com, you can find any format to suit your needs, but you’ll have to go through a different process: https://www.smashwords.com/books/view… or buy from http://www.amazon.com/Harrys-Reality-… http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/harry… http://store.kobobooks.com/en-US/eboo…

In Makr’s Shadow is available wherever ebooks are sold, including those links above. And, not to worry, there are at least two more Harry Bolls novels to look forward to in the Trilogy.

In Makr’s Shadow: A Working Title for Harry’s Reality

If you can read between the lines, you will find hidden meanings. Harry sees two worlds on the same planet: fantasy and reality, but there is something in between, a hidden meaning he seeks.

We needn’t leave the idea of a hidden meaning to Harry. There are hidden meanings in all things creative, but also in the practical world. We read between the lines every day in OUR OWN reality. We have to or we couldn’t understand each other.

For example, words and phrases can have different meanings not readily apparent. A while, awhile and while are words that depend on how you use them. This “word” can be a noun, a verb or a conjunction.

Thus, the words have meanings depending on context–a form of reading between the lines.

If words alone can do that, how do you plant ideas between the lines?

To make that happen you have to lend your creative package to a total stranger.

I tried editing my novel once, twice, a million times–after being told once by a professional author that I could do it easily. Instead I found it difficult for several reasons:

• I was too close to it to the work; it was too personally attached to my psyche.
• It had been written and re-written over a long time.
• I decided to write it in first person and changed my mind, which only meant there was opportunity for more errors.
• I needed to find a focus and stick with it.

Writing a novel, as I have found it, is excruciating if you want to do it right. It takes time–a lot of time to tell a good story and have it mean something to anyone who reads it. That scenario is unlikely to happen without a good editor.

Most people think of an editor as a proofreader, pointing out the usual grammar, spelling and typos. Not so. A copywriter does that. Of course when you start looking for an editor, you have little idea where to look.

Obviously you look for someone who has worked with your particular genre, see some examples of their work, but most importantly you need to talk with the person directly so you both are thinking alike.

Hopefully, before you turn it over to an editor, you have done the most you can do in telling the story your way, with the style that can be attributed only to you. You may fear the editor will “edit” more like a teacher, and spoil your masterpiece.

At the moment it is a masterpiece only to you. At times, it is more like a child and you, the parent, have to keep correcting it. You have to stop. Stop parenting or babysitting, and go on to the next project. That’s the hardest part.

When I made the decision to have In Makr’s Shadow professionally edited, I was far from ready. I had a mangled piece of writing close to my heart–for at least a decade. When I looked at it, it seemed all right, but it didn’t snap–it didn’t grab me. As I looked to publish, I found errors constantly because most of all the changes were of my own making.

Here’s where the editor or a mechanic comes in to fix it. In my case, it was a true book doctor, an editor Tricia Johnson. I made changes every time I read a passage to make it perfect. It’s happened on this blog. I post a clip, but as I’m reading it–it’s all wrong, and disappointing so I fix it. In reality, I’m may not be fixing it at all; I have clarified a paragraph that didn’t read well, but I may have also changed the style and focus for the reader each time I tried to fix it.

Like the perfectionist most creators try to be, we change anything we craft if there is a way to do it. While it’s impossible to change a piece of art without creating something new, it’s not so hard in other creative endeavors. If we are musicians, we try to produce a better result, or a different result every time we play the same song. If we are actors on stage, we do the same thing–every night. No two performances are alike. It is the “creative” part of us that can’t leave the work alone. In some cases, that’s fine, but not with writing a novel.

Tricia took my novel and broke it down into what it communicated to her. She made my message stronger and the delivery better by deleting words, entire paragraphs, asking me to clarify what I meant. To do this, often paragraphs and chapters were moved around. More importantly as she did this, the novel became more focused, tighter and direct–a grabber and keeper of interest. All that we want in our work.

The King’s English and American English are different. I had selected a British editor who had experience editing science fiction. It seemed to me her perspective could be interesting and it was. There were some surprising differences between us–all good. Now I had a choice. Should the book have an international or American reading? So, I gave a hard look at my idioms, singularly American word choices and phrasing. I changed them to include a more universal audience.

My editor, Tricia Johnson, The Word Weaver, gave me a list with page and paragraph numbers so I could take another look at what I had written. She rewrote passages, changed tenses and cleaned it up in so many ways, but most of all she gave advice–advice that came from editing other novels. What came back to me was a focused, gripping novel. Over the course of the experience, the novel took on a new significance. Instead of a jumbled mess, it was whole and something to be proud of. Tricia’s work was phenomenal. It helped me create my masterpiece. More importantly, she taught me to read between the lines of my own work.

I recently added Tricia to my Facebook and LinkedIn. In fact, upon seeing the result of her fantastic work online, in Harry’s Reality, she pointed out to me that maybe my idea of juxtaposing a frightening image with a less than a mysterious title didn’t working so well. I wanted the novel to be received both as dramatic in thought and scary, and trusting Tricia as I do, a new cover title may be coming soon.

Originally titled, In Makr’s Shadow, there may be a change back to the past. Ironically, it was the working title for Harry’s Reality. The cover will remain the same with the exception of the title. Hopefully, that will make a difference in the first impression the book makes on the public.

At present, Harry’s Reality is available in any digital format wherever fine e-books are sold.

 

What If You Could Have It All Now?

Live as luxuriously as you like? Live as simply…? Be anyplace? Do anything? Or, have the world around you change to suit your slightest whim? All you need to do is accept the rules of the Perfect Society, PerSoc, for short, which states if you must go Outside you must wear your blinders (rose-colored glasses) and absolutely, under no circumstances, will you make any social contact. Unsanctioned personal contact is punishable by death…or so it goes in this scene from Harry’s Reality. But then, some stupid laws are meant to be bent or broken, and as we know, people don’t always say what they mean. Or, think they mean.

“Harry Bolls is mine!” Bio Chief Prosecutor Marlene Hess exclaimed loudly to herself at her monitor as she witnessed him leave Cyber Match Central. Bolls had committed a most heinous crime as far as she was concerned. He had violated personal space and, without Makr sanction, left with a stranger—a known Outsider at that.

Criminal acts like these normally disgusted her, but this single blatant violation by a single SensaVision employee enraged her. While other Bios had committed similar capital crimes, her feelings then had been indifferent, uninvolved, except to prepare Makr for the Bio variable. This one was different: A Bio cyberlink of proven influence! And he was loose Outside!

His psychological profile told her he was a searcher—a troubled soul who was using the Cyber psychotherapist program regularly and someone who can lead us to others.

“Do you wish to delete his mental record now, Prosecutor Hess?”

The question came from an animated, exceptionally lifelike hologram perched on a platform floating some five feet high and in front of the prosecutor’s chair. It wasn’t really necessary for the operation, but it made her feel Makr’s personal presence rather than a disembodied voice that just seemed freaky sometimes. Since Makr always looked to accommodate her preference and the most receptive format for his Bios, so be it. Most times the platform hovered at a safe distance where the chief prosecutor was able to ignore the presence if she wanted to. The sensory-enhanced three-dimensional image was a rather handsome, distinguished gentleman about fifty years old with graying temples and a slightly receding hairline; she perceived him as a seemingly paternal man—firm, yet fair, and found it easy to forget he was not real.

“It is normal procedure,” the image added pleasantly.

“No,” Marlene Hess responded. “Not yet, anyway.”

“What about the girl?”

“Insignificant. No potential impact.” She tried to sound sure of herself.

“If we take her out of the social equation, he’ll become invisible.”

“Excuse me?”

“He either goes underground or back Inside where he’s no good to us.”

“Why ‘invisible?’ How does he do that?”

“Sorry, creative Bio speech,” she offered.

“If you are to succeed in this job of advising me, you’re going to have to be more efficient in your word choice.”

“Yes, Makr.”

She paused, stirring the thoughts in her mind, trying to separate the emotional from the rational until cold hard facts emerged. Let’s see how far he goes, she concluded.

“Do you wish to override State procedure?” The cyberserver image sounded impatient. Strange, almost an emotion, she thought.

“At the moment, yes,” she replied.

“May I remind you that State recognizes there will always be a few dissidents?” Pause. “It is better to let them go than infect investigators with undo evil influence.”

“I know. I know!” Sometimes Makr can be most annoying, she thought.

With that thought, Makr’s image changed from the fatherly authority image on the platform to a six-sensory illusion of a handsome soul mate, a confidant. The voice was gentle, caring, reassuring, but Marlene knew, no matter how real it always seemed, that it was still pure cyberserver magic.

The hologram disappeared because it had perceived its presence was interfering and potentially affecting the chief prosecutor’s thought processes. It would return the instant the chief prosecutor needed it. She sighed.

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 stressful moments.

Her office, like Harry’s wall, 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 total 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.

Then again, it was never really up to her. Knowing what was best for her, Makr selected the details accordingly. At that moment, Makr had decided that she didn’t require romantic assignations or emotional commitments, just sex. The right images, a few aromas, multiple sensations, a few specially focused sensations and voila! Our chief prosecutor was primed for action.

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.

She didn’t need people—real people; she needed to do her job and that pleased Makr, Who, in turn, pleased her by giving her pleasure on her terms. What more was there to life?

“Don’t Read This Book! You’ll Never Look Back!”

Intellectually he knew there was a positive side to these insects, but this was not the time to look for the balance in nature. Instead he focused on the sounds he was hearing to be sure they were truly bees.

If they were truly bees, their wrath seemed to be focused on the two travelers, flying at their faces from time to time. As the chorus cacophony became louder, the swarm’s harassment increased in kind. While Desiree accepted these bees as a part of nature something strange was happening to Harry. For him, the convincing natural music took on a surreal quality, losing its buzz and replaced it with the sound of vibrating violin string blades. The natural music became unreal, too, Harry thought, and familiar. He’d heard this music before in his collection. “The Flight of the Bumble Bee?”

Makr was telling him the bees weren’t real. Why?

True bees were thought to be extinct. Harry knew that they had become extinct in the last few decades when the Bio-polluted atmosphere prevented many flowering plants from attracting their biggest pollinator—bees. Eventually, the flowers adapted, producing an even stronger fragrance, but not soon enough. Both the flora and insects died out, but flowers weren’t the problem now.

Harry thought, maybe they’d bounced back. It had happened before when a species was thought to be wiped out. It only takes a few hardy individuals re-start the population. There could have been some hardy individuals that survived. Like Desiree, he smiled, as he playfully swatted at the bees. But something was definitely not right!

The symphony crescendos and the swarm of bees darting in and out, faster and faster, continuing to assail the two Bios; some bees harassed and retreated, while others seemed to be hovering just slightly out of reach.

“Bees!” Harry picked up his walking pace. “Very large bees.”

“I can see that!” Desiree snapped back as she batted as many away from her as she could. “What do they want? Why are they following us?” She increased the speed of her gait, too, while thrashing her arms about to keep them at a safe distance.

“I don’t know,” Harry said, taking her cue and flailing his arms as well. “Wait a minute…” His thought-blink confirmed what he already knew. They weren’t bees at all, but tiny flying cyberts! “Makr knows we’re here.”

“How do you know that, Harry? Have you seen these before?”

“No, but I can see them as they really are. What do you see?”

“I see bees! Why? What you see!” With a wide-eyed, puzzled look, she answered him as she kept trying to wave the bees away! “Bees!”

“Not bees! Not bees! Cyberts! Tiny cyberts!” Harry froze, powerless to wave or slap at the tiny attackers now that he saw them as flying metal insects. Something held him back. Fear. Sadness. He stopped thought-blinking and saw bees again. Bio bees. He could swing at them now, even batted a few to the ground. They kept bouncing back after he knocked them to the ground. The few that fell were stunned and seconds later crept away unhurt and unnoticed.

“Whatever you’re doing, Harry, is working.” Desiree was gaining respect for this ordinary Bio as he kept battling the swarm of “bees” to the ground. Together, they pelted the bees with their hands, slamming them hard to the ground. More were staying on the ground while others keep flying back at them.

“Gotcha!” Harry exclaimed as he knocked two at once to the ground. As he tried to step on them, they suddenly became metal again. He froze again, unable to crush them under his feet.

A flicker of bright light, a low audible roar and both Harry and Desiree sensed the ground shake. Harry saw his picture of the world change slightly for an instant; for a second, he saw a dreary gray reality in his mind’s eye. It left him feeling uneasy. He was positive Desiree had not noticed it. Why didn’t she notice the shaking, the shudder of their reality? Makr!

The cyberts were bees again. While they were bees, he was happy he was able to knock them down; however, this time, he didn’t dare try to crush them. Some of the bees appeared dead on the ground. At that moment, the rest of the swarm shifted position, moving up and away from them as if withdrawing. The swarm hovered for a moment as if to take one last look before heading away from the duo to the north across the city skyline. Neither Harry nor Desiree saw two of the “bees” that had fallen to the ground and were pretending to be immobilized. These “bees” waited for Harry and Desiree to continue their journey before they flew upward and followed them, staying several yards behind.

While it wasn’t the “Attack of the Killer Bees” that bothered Harry so much, it was the fact that he was powerless to fight them as cyberts—tiny or otherwise, and yet he could fight them if he saw them as Bio creatures. Does that mean he was capable of destroying his fellow man—or woman and not a machine? Not even a toaster. The idea is preposterous but the evidence was overwhelming. Rather than sounding foolish he decided not to share this insight with Desiree. She might send him back Inside and he wasn’t ready for that yet. Not even if he was one of Makr’s pawns.

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.

 

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.