The Final Report of Chrissmas Collins' Fancy Foods Stand

Warning: This story contains several "naughty" words. I don't mind 'em, and hope you don't either, but c'est la vie.

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I'm Chrissmas Collins and I had just gotten my first order of the day. One of the Grays came by and asked for depilatory cream. I shit you not, they stop here for depilatory cream.

I may be the only human who knows why. When that Gray thinks he's out of sight, he'll pop the cap off and squeeze a bit out and eat it. It's like junk food to them. The way they eat it, it must be awesome. I'm not stupid enough to try it myself. I'm just following the good old Earther way: earning my keep through private enterprise. Chrissmas Collins' Fancy Foods stand. Yes, I'm that Chrissmas Collins. Blond Bombshell of the Stars! My hair isn't really blond, my boobs are real, and my life isn't as glamorous as that special made it seem.

For instance, you saw me cleaning up after carrion, but you don't have to smell it in cramped quarters every day.

Earth wasn't always an abandoned theme park. Admit it, Earth was a theme park. The interstellar thoroughfare brought us out of a decades long depression. And then the Bellitans pulled a Route 66 on us. Now you can buy an Earth putt-putt place for a few hundred ounces of depilatory cream. No one likes putt-putt that much.

I don't like making depilatory cream. Sure, it's steady work, but I'd rather park my stand along the new highway and steal whatever business I can from space restaurants.

One of my buoys picked a Spryde ship. I punched the button to transmit a Spryde version of my blurb and let it wail on. I don't understand a word of Spryde, but according to the guy I paid to program the tone, it says "Chrissmas Collins' Fancy Rocks! We've got the most interesting rocks from the most interesting places in the Galaxy, fast and cheap! Come [untranslatable verb] our rocks!"

Luck was on my side. The ship docked with my stand and in an hours' time, I served about thirty Spryde. They're easy to please and hard to understand. Fortunately, they knew about my shortcomings and tried not to make things hard. They always love rocks from Earth and Mars, whatever the kind. They'll float it in the dark cloud of their body and their little purple sparklies will dance around the rock for a few minutes. Then, they'll give the rock back no worse for wear.

I can "sell" any rock an infinite number of times. Whatever they're doing to the rocks isn't noticeable to even other Spryde after the fact.

The rush wasn't all ease, though. One Spryde tried explaining something to me. Its sparklies kept going reddish. I couldn't understand what it was saying. "Bob's anthem marjoram parsec intersection banana hafflouty" was part of it. Yeah, I don't understand it either. Another Spryde came by and made Red see things my way. Red and my defender floated away after that.

It was a tense situation, but I kept cool under pressure.

As they left, one last Spryde approached the counter. "Bureaucrats. Coming. Affection feeling. Refuge."

That made sense, thank God. I thanked the Spryde and waited for them to leave my stand. As soon as they were out, I closed every container, clamped everything down, and got ready to make way. The bureaucrats want stands to pay a licensing fee.

If I could afford the license, I'd get real inertial dampeners so I wouldn't have to batten everything down. And I'd get real gravity plating to replace these gravity boosters I scrapped from an abandoned Mars facility. These don't even give one full Earth Gravity and I have to turn them off when I get the engine going or I'll blow a fuse and spend a week repairing life support. That's always fun.

I busted ass but wasn't fast enough. I heard the swooshy sound of a Bureaucrat ship connecting to my stand and about half a minute later a very old Garzango walked to my counter. His middle left leg seemed completely useless to him. I felt bad watching him struggle his way across the floor.

"What can I do for you, sir?" I asked. He wore the red pendant of a Bellitans bureaucracy high ranker.

"Stop selling without a license!" He growled.

"Oh really?" It was time to see if the way to this Garzango's heart was through his stomach. "I think you'd much rather a well-aged raccoon carcass. You should see how succulent it is. It's about three days old and I kept the temperatures rotating between 15C and 49C. I even have some of the original flies with it. Five in total, I think, sir."

The Garzango considered this. "My name is Uyullank. And no, I think not. It sounds very tempting. You humans really do make the best food. But you need to learn your place in the galaxy. You could make lots of money working in a Garzango restaurant.” He waved one of his feet to emphasize his point. “More than you could running this stand with a proper license!"

"Maybe so, sir, but I can make more running this stand unlicensed and I'm barely making enough money as it is. Why do you hate us so much?"

"The Garzango don't hate humans," he squinted.

"I didn't ask why the Garzango hate the humans," I put down my towel. "I asked why you hate us. I have many many Garzango customers and none of them have ever been anything but kind to me. Why does Uyullank hate humans?"

"You're trying to take our place. You take money from our restaurants. Even our kin eat here!"

You can't talk sense into someone who feels their family is threatened. I flashed the sign for family duty, nodding. "We aren't trying to take your place, but even if we were, we have as much of a right to be in space as anyone."

"Perhaps on Garzango dinner plates," his back legs flexed.

"We're not dead, Uyullank."

"Not yet, Collins. Not yet." Uyullank slapped a fine on my counter and hobbled out.

I hope his threat was an empty one, but if it's not, maybe someone who can do something about it will read this.

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Attention Ms. Collins,

Thank you for your colourful report, which I believe could have been summarized as “Grays eat depilatory cream and some Garzango would like to kill all humans.” If you send further reports, please keep to the point. Do you think the Grays are interested in different flavors?

Sincerely,

P. Jacques, Earth Information Administration

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I still exist!

Hey, everyone! Just wanted to let you know that I still exist, and I'm still writing. Various annoying things have slowed my progress, but I'm hoping to have some things up soon.

My VD project is still in the works, even though it is painfully late. However, if it turns out well, I may be submitting it to some publications rather than posting it here. That doesn't mean it will never show up here in any fashion, it's just not likely to show up that soon.

I've also discovered a new path to writing success (I'm being ridiculous on purpose, I know how it sounds, haha). No, it's not some sort of crazy scam. One of the issues with trying to get your work published these days is that unless you're already famous, it's very hard to convince a publisher to take a chance on you.

If you already have a proven audience, however, things are a lot different. A community of writers has grown up around the concept of Podcasting fiction. Some of the Podcasts are full audio drama productions (like Metamor City Podcast and Murder at Avedon Hill) and others are more like audio books (J.C. Hutchins's 7th Son trilogy and Christiana Ellis's Nina Kimberly the Merciless). Almost all of the ones I've mentioned here have turned their podcasting success into opportunities to be published.

I've actually been concerned for awhile that traditional book-and-mortar publishing is going away. Even people that I would consider real "readers" aren't sitting down with books that much any more. They are listening to podcasts. Most of them aren't listening to podcast fiction yet, but I think they will be in the future.

For the moment, I've set aside the idea of getting a book published traditionally. I'm hoping to start my own podcast, but I will probably start with a one off production like Dr. Horrible's Sing-A-Long-Blog, but we'll see.

In other news, you really want to buy J.C. Hutchins's new book, Personal Effects: Dark Art, which you can find in a bookstore near you, I kid you not.

P.S. The "Read More" link from the homepage is a lie unless someone comments, and then it isn't a lie.

Also, I just realized I'd left the default CAPTCHA system turned on for this blog. I don't believe in CAPTCHAs because they are ineffective and make sites inaccessible. I have turned the CAPTCHAs off and taken steps to ensure that I'm aware of spamming as soon as it occurs so I can remove it.

I understand this isn't reasonable for every situation, but if you have a blog, I urge you to look for ways to counteract spam without decreasing access for disabled people.

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Heroes

Here's a serious essay, as opposed to my normal satire. It's a little long if you're not used to reading articles, but I did drastic cutting when I was editing it.

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Today I'm writing about heroes. Not the ones in comic books, not the Greek or Roman legends like Hercules or Achilles, nor the practical but vague heroes like "all firefighters" or "school teachers." They are fascinating subjects, but the ones I want to talk about are moral heroes.

Some are super pastors (pastors of mega churches, a television audience, leaders in a movement, or very popular local pastors). Others are practical moral heroes like Gandhi or Mother Teresa, scientific geniuses like Albert Einstein and Stephen Hawking, or historical political leaders like Thomas Jefferson, Abraham Lincoln, John F. Kennedy, and Martin Luther King Jr.

They didn't set out to become heroes. They set out to change the world. Few set out to become a figurehead for a movement or a moral maxim and there are plenty of people who set out to change the world for the good who didn't become heroes.

Our society creates these heroes out of subconscious nostalgia. When we were young, our parents seemed infinitely wise, moral, and powerful but we were disappointed by their finite nature. We long for the lost image of perfection. We want to know someone has the answers and strength to protect us and lead us to a promised land.

So we put people on pedestals and hold them to standards that mirror our lost faith. However, even with the best heroes, each is human and destined for the failure.

The failure of Jim Bakker led to the disillusionment of thousands if not hundreds of thousands of Evangelical Christians. The stream of Catholic priests who have been implicated in the molestation of children have caused many Catholic Christians to turn away from the church. Some of those affected in both camps lost their faith in God altogether.

Even in the all-too-brief honeymoon period where the hero seems perfect, few people use the inspiration to accomplish anything. Mother Teresa was an inspiration to millions, but few of those millions did anything to help Calcutta or even their own neighbors.

Even the thought of giving more than a few dollars to a cause is beyond our imagination. We create heroes so they will give us hope and make us feel better about our world, not to spur us on.

The tenor of Gandhi's life was such that Albert Einstein said, "Generations to come, it may be, will scarcely believe that such a one, as this, ever in flesh and blood walked upon this earth." Einstein wasn't attributing divinity to Gandhi. The was speaking of the strength and compelling nature of Gandhi's teaching.

But even the few people in the west who admire Gandhi's teaching do nothing to right the wrongs in their own society.

As many Christians are fond of saying, "You have to do something with Jesus. You can't learn about him without choosing to believe or choosing to disbelieve." We have photos and video of Gandhi and Mother Teresa, and recordings of what they said in their own voices. We know with scientific certainty that they existed. Our heroes' lives often demand a reaction. Either they are wrong, or nearly every level of our culture is wrong. If they are right, the changes required in our lives is devastating.

But we don't want heroes that makes us question our lives. We don't want to question whether it is right to participate in a war or tolerate an immoral government. We don't want to concede that the people who went to Iraq to act as human shields weren't loonies. We want to believe that they were misguided and unpatriotic so that we don't feel the guilt of doing nothing to prevent a grievous evil. We don't want to question whether our sixteenth hour of television this week might have been better spent helping people in a homeless shelter or mentoring children in broken families.

So, we latch onto the rumors we hear about them.

It wasn't really Gandhi's non-violence that won India its freedom. He was mean to his wife, abusive to his children, and inconsistent in his approach to lower-caste people. Therefore, he is wrong and those who admire him and his teachings should shut up and learn to appreciate the necessity of violence.

Donations to Mother Teresa weren't properly accounted for. She was more concerned about making converts than she was about helping the sick and dying. She had lost her faith in God and no longer felt his presence from shortly after she left for Calcutta until the day she died.

It doesn't matter how incredible a hero is, the hero is still human. They have some failing and if we haven't found one yet, we'll criticize something unimportant so we can dismiss their message. Perhaps Mr. Gandhi-of-Today drinks Lipton tea, or shops at Wal*Mart. Maybe the Mother-Teresa-of-Today doesn't agree with our doctrine, is harsh in her speech, or doesn't follow the popular reality television programs.

We go through mental gymnastics so we don't have to re-evaluate our lives.

If we are unwilling to be changed by our heroes, we might be happier if we weened from them and avoid the emotional whiplash.

But I don't believe we should ween ourselves from heroes.

Instead, we should accept that they are human and that they will fail. We will never find heroes who are perfect who will never fail us. We should take the example of their lives and use it to give us the strength we need to change our world.

The courage to act (along with the correct action) is what being a hero is about, not about perfection.

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As a special note, the knowledge of Mother Teresa's struggle with faith has been a bittersweet comfort to me. While some latched onto the idea that Mother Teresa's struggle was a sign of her unfaithfulness, it reminded me of my own doubts and pains. That someone of her level of faith and accomplishment would wrestle so deeply with the substance of faith for so long gives me strength and inspiration.

Ammon Hennacy is my hero, but it's kind of hard to write this essay about a man so few are even aware of. If many were aware of him, he would be much more controversial than any other hero I mentioned here.

"You may never know what results come of your action, but if you do nothing there will be no result."
-Gandhi

"Love has a hem to her garment that reaches to the very dust. It sweeps the stains from the streets and lanes, and because it can, it must."
-Mother Teresa

"Returning hate for hate multiplies hate, adding deeper darkness to a night already devoid of stars. Darkness cannot drive out darkness: only light can do that. Hate cannot drive out hate: only love can do that."
-Martin Luther King Jr.

"We really can't change the world. We really can't change other people! The best we can do is to start a few thinking here and there. The best way to do this, if we are sincere, is to change ourselves!"
-Ammon Hennacy

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Cream Cheese

Here's some variety of ultra-short story I wrote using Write or Die to spur me on toward greatness. Or, you know, bagel obsession.

It's probably not finished. I reserve the right to re-write it later.

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They gave me the last bagel. At least they said it was the last bagel. "We've done a world wide search," they said.

They held a lottery with every region on Earth and my region won. Then they wrote down all of our names on scraps of paper and pulled a name out.

It was my name. They handed me the bagel and told me that I should enjoy it.

Because there wouldn't be any more bagels.

I laughed, and I laughed, and I laughed. They asked me what was so funny.

I told them, "I don't even like bagels."

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Voter Caging

This actually did involve writing (and graphics editing, and endless amounts of REALLY ANNOYING video editing), but it's more of a political nature than not. Please watch it anyway.

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Dear Mrs. Hubbard

This piece is probably ill-advised. It did distract me for a bit though, so it served its purpose. I wrote it today. Fresh off the presses. The only thing I'll mention sans-bribes: So far as I know, the Concorde Times doesn't exist.

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Dear Mrs. Hubbard (I admit I may be assuming too much even in just this salutation, but kindly forgive me if I have taken too many liberties),

It was with great interest that I followed in the Concorde Times (a newspaper of some import in my region) the recent adventures which you have had with your dog. What with the economy and high fuel prices, I find it no great shock that you had forgotten to purchase the poor pooch a bone.

I can't pretend to know what a fishmonger is (though I shall be sure to ask my friend Polonius when next we meet), but it seems to me that someone is feeding your dog on the sly. Whatever this good Samaritan may be up to is anyone's guess, but perhaps he (or might it be she?) is as impressed with your dog's feats as I am.

A dog that plays a flute and reads the newspaper? Even if it isn't the Concorde, that's an astounding accomplishment for any dog!

Such a remarkable dog must require a great deal of care. To this end, I would like to offer myself as a potential guardian of your dog in the event of your untimely demise if you have no capable benefactors and the Samaritan continues in the greater part of valor. I promise that your dog would receive only the finest care and admiration and would have only occasional showings at some highly esteemed traveling establishment such as Barnum and Bailey or some suitably educational venture for the benefit of the younger generation.

Yours Faithfully,
Edmund Delanie, Esq.

P.S. Peach cobbler is a pie. If it's not too much trouble, may I inquire what kind of cobbler sells shoes?

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Living Optional

This story was written November 3, 2004. Holy cow. Only edits are spelling related. I'd keep up with the "I'll tell you one thing about it without bribes," but I don't really remember anything about it. It's vaguely related to a "tangible happiness" concept I was working on at the time, but I don't remember much about this piece at all.

I hope to post new work up soon, but I can't make any guarantees. You'll probably see more work from my archive before anything new is finished.

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Richard walked down the living-optional beach. You met all kinds there, from the dead, to the nearly dead, dying, transcendent, translucent, and impervious to death. It's best not to stare, he decided.

As odd as it appeared, he actually preferred the dead who had handkerchiefs holding their mouths shut. The modern ones with their jaws wired shut were a bit unnerving.

Richard threw his towel down, and sat down on it, knees at his chest, and feet in the sand. He spotted a transcendent a few hundred feet away. He never figured transcendent would be fond of beaches, but apparently, some of them liked nothing better than a good romp in the sand, and waves, and a few cold beers. He realized he was staring, and looked away.

The cool breeze felt wonderful. It was a perfect night to go to the beach. Even the seagulls seemed less savage at night. Their caws and calls seemed softer, and more subdued.

"Hello," a voice beside him said.

He turned quickly and saw the transcendent standing beside him.

"Hi," Richard tried to hide his embarrassment.

"It sure is a nice night to go to the beach," the transcendent sat down ignoring the fact that he had no towel to sit on, and no clothes either.

"Yeah." Richard tried staring off in to the distance. The transcendent didn't seem upset with him, but you never could tell with the ambiguously existent. Mostly, they seemed not to be there.

Richard and the transcendent sat silently for several minutes, until Richard couldn't stand the awkwardness any longer.

"So," Richard started, "I never figured transcendent for beach-goers ... Enlightenment — and all that."

"Oh, you never know. The living think life is so complicated, so many things you have to get done, and if you want to be perfect ... well, never mind. When you transcend, you realize that sometimes the most important thing is to spend a few hours on a night beach, drinking cheap domestic beer."

Richard thought about that for a second. "Huh. I guess I never saw it that way."

"You want to go get a beer?" the transcendent asked.

"Sure, I'd love to."

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