2011- 'Twas a Good Year Writing

Ah, the passing of time. Makes a man wax poetic on the nature of existence, doesn't it? As I contemplate the complex implications of... Never mind. I just wanted to thank all my readers this year, along with several other people who helped me write harder, better, faster and stronger over 2011. One of them is a wonderful librarian, Mrs. Fisher- she's responsible for much of what goes on at my local library. This includes the writing club, and the production of our magazine, The Aura. She's been a great help and encouragement to both myself and the members of the club, and I cannot thank her enough for giving me something to look forward too every month.
I'd also like to thank Wesley Long, the owner of http://blackmannrobin.com- it's from that website that I really got to experience life as a video game reviewer. His encouragement and feedback has made me a better writer, and it's nice to have him, and the staff of BNR on my side.
This year, I made great friends, and they too have just been so motivating- these people just make me want to keep living, keep getting better. They're inspirational. Inspirational!
My family most certainly deserves a mention as well- they constantly encourage me to keep writing and moving forward. My mother in particular is currently helping me edit and publish my first fantasy novel- keep your eyes open for it!
I could go on and on and on about all the great people who made me a better writer, who made 2011 one of the best years of my life and who made me a better person. Regrettably, the length of the article could potentially crash thousands of servers worldwide, thus resulting in chaos, so I won't do that. Instead, I'm just throwing out one big thank you.

THANK YOU EVERYBODY. YOU KNOW WHO YOU ARE.

Paxcatia: Chapter 2

Paxcatia
by Jourdan Cameron
CC-BY-NC. Details here:
http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc/3.0/

Chapter 2

In a forest of Markonis, not too far from Ace's factory, two men were having a discussion.

“I tell you, she already pulled her weight.”

“Which is precisely why she'll be fighting.”

“No, she's done enough, I think that now she needs a break.”

The larger man sighed. “Vinny, I know she's young. I know she's already seen enough. But think, man, we need her!”

“Casey” sighed Vinny “I don't want to see her get hurt. She's my daughter.”

“And I'll care for her like my own. But why don't you think about what we means, why don't you?”

Vinny looked around. They were mostly alone in the forest, but about a half mile behind them lay the rebel encampment, made up of the strongest, smartest rebels. It was a relatively small; about eighty people inhabited it. It was mobile, made up of the massive, rolling battle-tents. Each “tent” was made if titanium a couple inches thick, and was like a massive centipede on treads, heavily armed, and home to ten rebels, complete with hammocks strung from the ceilings and refrigeration for perishable items. Each was gray, inside and out, and was twice as tall as the soldiers they contained, though they were also much wider than tall, thus they didn't usually tip over.

Inside, they were relatively bright, their control panels flashing and flickering, with rows of simple, black, plastic seats, ready to load groups upon groups of troops, taking them deep into the heart of battle.

Overall, it was a machine to be feared. Several of a rebel army's finest were calling it home.

These rebels were mostly survivors of Paxcatia's invasion who escaped slavery chose to fight. Many had been revolting against the crooked government in Markonis. They'd chosen to run when Paxcatian forces attacked, rather than stand and fight. Most had been rioting in the streets against a government that no longer exists. Indeed, in a twist of poetic justice, the former leader of said government now works as a slave, mistreated alongside his corrupt police force and sham election organizers.

“It's been five years, Vin. She's grown now.”

“She's still my daughter.” Vincent ran a hand through his dark, messy hair. Mr. Sere was right, of course; Katy was a woman now. Decisions were hers to make. He just didn't like the idea of sending her on such a dangerous mission.

“And we're still hiding, running, and scared at night, Vincent. Do you think other daughters, other sons, deserve to grow up like that? Do you think I want to spend the rest of my life like this? Growing old, watching the young go to their graves before I do?”

Vincent stared down at his shoes. They were in shabby shape, and at one point they were brand new running shoes, white and contoured. Now, they were barely recognizable, a tattered pair of duct-tape tubes. The black tape that held theme together was beginning to show its age, faded and brittle in some spots.

In all, the two men, in their beaten attire, were quite a sight. Their conversation, however, was far more interesting.

“Tell me the plan again.”

“We go to Paxcatia, we spy on the land, find a weakness, and return with results. We'll launch a full assault in a year.”

“You can take her” said Vincent after a while. “Just bring her back breathing.”

Casey nodded, a leaf falling from his greasy brown hair, deciding to change the subject.

“So did you hear? They found a stockpile of shampoo. It's great stuff from what I heard, smells like coconut.”

“Doesn't that stuff dry out your hair?”

“Really? I could probably use that right about now” he lamented, rubbing a hand against the back of his head. The two returned to their camp. It was in a clearing, one large enough for the battle-tents to be hidden safely, yet still small enough that the light coming in was somewhat dappled, the dim light gently bouncing off the metal surfaces of the tanks. Leaning against a tree was Katy. Her dirty blonde hair in a bun behind her head, and she was wearing the standard rebel army uniform. The simple dark green canvas shirts, pants, and shoes that were practical, easily obtained, and relatively comfortable now adorned Vincent's daughter. A single red band encircled her right sleeve along the bicep.

“Well?” she asked. She seemed slightly excited. Not entirely out of character, really, though her level of enthusiasm wasn't exactly common among the rebels.

“Just like when she was little” thought her father. Markonis as it once was certainly had problems; a bad educational system, however, was not one of them. The educators, who'd spent most of their time carefully explaining things to other children found that such cautious teaching methods weren't needed with young Katy. She advanced at frightening speeds, excelling in lessons requiring complex strategies, doing things and saying things that seven year olds ordinarily wouldn't. Her teachers, quite simply put, loved her.

She loved them back, and it showed in her work ethic.

“You're going to have to be careful” said Vinny, watching his daughter grin for but a moment, returning immediately being serious, intense.

“Under no circumstances should you take any unnecessary risks, and if you feel like you're in danger, you get out.”

She nodded. “Understood” she replied.

“Casey, brief her please.”

“Katy, you're going to be an integral part of this mission. You need to perform like you never have before. Here's what we'll need you to do...”

A mere few miles away was a factory, the workers within manufacturing goods, primarily putting together control panels for Ferroform surfaces, large ones used in stylish restaurants, bars, and every so often by artists.

A group of these workers sat in a gray, dimly lit room, hunched over a wooden table, each with a slightly different piece of black plastic and glass. These were their creations, their ideas for control panels; one was a simple elongated box with a glass covered surface. Another was quite similar, but it had rounded corners. Yet another was arch shaped, something users would reach into.

Only one of these, however, would be used by Ace as a design. The creator of the winning design would receive the most coveted prize of all: a day off from toiling beneath the machines! Instead of laboring, soldering pieces of metal, one to the other, they'd have the opportunity to sit back and watch their friends working to assemble their creation. Quite a grand prospect!

“Do you have any questions?”

“When do I get to go to Paxcatia?” she grinned.

“In a mere few days” replied Mr. Sere.

“Yes mom, I'll be home on time tonight, you don't need to worry.”

The streets of Paxcatia were among the safest in the world. David strolled down them, heading away from his home to the nearest train station. Like many things in Paxcatia, transportation was mostly free; a network of trains, simple silent steel tubes criss-crossed the nation.

The street David traveled along was peaceful and mostly quiet. The sidewalk was simple, gray concrete; it never seemed to change, age, and almost never seemed dirty. This was due to the rather high number of those willing to clean it, maintain and upkeep it. The work was somewhat challenging due to the amount of debris that tends follow gravity, but the work was considered important and thus payed well. David smirked whenever he thought about how seriously the job of keeping concrete clean was taken. Sure, it looked nice, but there were some bigger things to be cared for.

For starters, the trails through Paxcatia's forests were barely maintained, and were typically overgrown and impassible. Sure, they were barely used, but David had a special affinity for nature, and he enjoyed retreating to the forest from time to time. Unfortunately, much of it was inaccessible. The thought of the forest was enough to make him sigh; why didn't more Paxcatian citizens take interest in nature? They all seem so preoccupied with the constant shipments of devices everybody already seemed to own. Nobody really cared that most 'new' gadgets were just repackaged, rebodied versions of old machines, they simply consumed, seemingly stuck in an endless cycle of purchasing, updating, mindlessly.

David wondered, but never quite enough to put any serious effort into finding out who owned the the companies that were always importing, never looking past the highfalutin legal terms that enshrouded the terms of use of so many tiny machines, the complex legal language that seemed in itself a heavy padlock over the general understandability of the nature of a device's existence.

David never followed his curiosity quite far enough.

Soon he was walking up a hill, flanked by bright, glassy, and supposedly 'modern' buildings. He glanced into the window of one and could see brightly coloured electronic wares contrasting heavily with the minimalistic motif established in the shop. His view was suddenly blocked by the back of an employee as he shifted his gaze back towards his goal. The train station near, and he could just make out the faint murmur of human voices on the air.

In what seemed to be no time, he was standing in the shade of the large booth that was next to the track. The train track was a simple, smooth metallic surface, just as clean as the sidewalks. It was about one hundred feet long in either direction, and at either end was a hole that lead the train back underground. The track rose up through holes at either end, where the train surfaced and picked up passengers.

David braced himself as a telltale rumble made the ground beneath his feet vibrate, and the crowd around him seemed suddenly prepared. Like a massive steel earthworm, the train came into view, tunneling upwards, headfirst. It was a simple, elongated cylinder, but broken into individual cars, little joints where the train bent and twisted through the subterranean tunnels.

The crowd eagerly spread out alongside the thirty-foot serpent and waited, impatient for the doors to swing open. Each segment on the train had a simple door, rather silvery from the outside, but as they slid open, would reveal a simple, comfortable seat made of some strange, silky black material. As David sat in one at the end of the train, the door slid shut as he stared back out at the buildings along the street; the doors were transparent from within. In a few short moments, the train began to move, and David relaxed in his seat as simple black walls of the car began glowing a gentle black, and what appeared to be a row of multicolored symbols made their way across the top.

“Ah, a classic” he remarked, as he stuffed a hand into the right pocket of his jeans, extracting a black device roughly the size of his palm.

“The Ardonap Unleash” he mused to himself, opening the clamshell-styled machine to reveal a keyboard flanked by flat black control pads on either side. David loved this little device; it had been created by an independent company on the other side of the country. Ardonap, the company responsible, wasn't quite like the other faceless Paxcatian megacorporations: its founder lived a relatively normal life among the Paxcatian people, choosing to create among the masses rather than for the masses. Needless to say, his devices weren't very popular, but David didn't really care. He was just glad to know where something came from.

He relaxed in his seat as the jewel-bright invaders began converging on the car's door, then blitzing towards him. He grinned, and with a few quick keystrokes, was ready to play. Pointing his device at one of the symbols shaped rather like the letter 'M', slid his thumb down the right control pad of his device as a beam of light sliced the 'M' in half.

“This never seems to get old” he thought aloud.

A half world away in Markonis, a small group of people trod through a forest, speaking among themselves.

“So when did we find out about the factory?”

“A couple months ago. We'd have spoken about it sooner, but there's the matter of the...”

“The slaves?”

“Yeah, that. We'd only draw attention to ourselves if we overran the factory and cut everybody loose.”

“I understand, so you kept quiet about it as a preventative measure against vigilantism. Completely logical.”

The group advanced towards the factory, their practical black clothing contrasting sharply against the greens and browns of the forest around them. Their march was rather like a funeral procession, quiet and solemn. Much like those marching in a black parade so were these people, mere shadows of the loud, joyous Markonis natives who once roamed this land, lived in it and loved it. Those people had been forced into hiding deep within themselves.

Soon, they neared the gray, concrete bulk of the factory. It was a simple, oblong block full of misery, mistreatment and mostly hard labor. The flat roof doubled as a docking station: when a transport arrived, it would rise, the cargo being pulled into the belly of the ship by powerful magnets.

After that, the ship would shut its hull and fly back to Paxcatia. The process took mere seconds, and involved no humans; it was completely automated.

“So why do we have to climb the building, exactly?” A random rebel dissented. “Wouldn't it have been easier to just use Flights?”

“Wouldn't have been easier to just show up with a marching band?”

“But Commander Sere, Flights are so quiet!”

“They also show up as generating a massive electro-magnetic pulse, just the kind of thing we don't want on a reconnaissance mission!”

“Can we just get this over with?”

One rebel stepped out of the crowd. He surveyed the wall, feeling it, smacking his palms against it and considering it for a good thirty seconds before he finally reached into one of the many compartments of his black, heavy jacket and removed what appeared to be a handful of long, thick, white nails, the type used for building things. Casey smirked- he'd been to some of the more rural areas of Markonis where things were still being built with wood. Wood.

“How times have changed” he thought to himself, as his comrade loaded the nails into what looked like some sort of small, orange pistol. The rebel took a shot at the wall and a nail sunk itself halfway into the concrete with little more than a click and a scrape.

The process was repeated, and the man proceeded to stand on the two nails he'd placed. He then created a pair of handholds above himself, climbed onto these, and continued until he'd reached the top of the simple, flat roof. Katherine could hear her heart pulsing in her head- this felt different, definitely different from rushing into battle. This was slow, deliberate and dangerous, and it didn't seem to sit well with her. She glanced back into the forest, away from the building- surely Mr. Sere would understand if she wanted to go home, wouldn't he? The mission could continue.

“What's the point of this miss-” Somehow, she'd managed to cut herself of in mid-thought. She knew precisely what the point of the mission was. A great injustice had occurred- it affected her, and her family and all the already oppressed citizens of Markonis. This was not the time for looking back in fear- it was the time for action.

“I'll go next” she said, making quick strides towards the makeshift ladder.

 

The Hunger Games Trailer- It's finally here, and I'm very, very happy.

Well, it looks like I'll be counting down days 'till March 23rd, because that's when The Hunger Games comes out!

I'm sorry I haven't updated this blog in such a long while, life has been mad busy, but do not despair! Work on the next chapter of Paxcatia is still underway, stick with me!

Wanna help me raise some money for charity?

Dear Readers,

I'm going to be spending a weekend gaming (rest assured I'll spend much time working on Paxcatia's second chapter soon after) for charity. It'll be part this year's Gaming and Giving for Good, and I'll be on team Blackman'N Robin. Just for clarification, BNR is actually a website, and I primarily write reviews over there. But enough about my (awesome) personal life, would you like to help us out? It's easy. Just click on the button above this link to visit our team's page and sponsor one of us, or, if for some reason the button doesn't work, use this link: http://extra-life.org/team/BNR
Next, choose a gamer to sponsor, and give out of the goodness of your heart. Each dollar you give will bring BNR closer to its goal of $100. Will we pass $100 this year? Let's find out.
Thanks for reading guys, please help us out. The money will be going to the Children's Miracle Network of hospitals, and yes, the donations are tax-deductible.
Don't wait, give today!

The Capitol is now open

Looks like advertising for the upcoming Hunger Games film adaptation is now open; thecapitol.pn now assigns you to a district (here's hoping you wind up in a good one).

Check it out now!

Source:

New Milford Library Teen Blog: The Hunger Games Opens the Capital

What's worse?

Entry 1
Journal of Maxwell Robinsion

"S-s-so tell me what's worse, being held at gunpoint or having a bullet in the cerebellum?'
"Killing me proves difficult, doesn't it?"
"K-killing you will be the easy part."
I've discovered a few fascinating things during my relatively brief existence. Fear, I've discovered is a wonderful motivator.
"You realize that if I'm dead, we can't be friends?"
"You... Y-you haven't answered my question yet!"
"Well I suppose it depends, really. How likely am I to be shot?"
For a moment, her gaze faltered; it was all I needed. Deftly, I pulled the gun straight from her hands and discharged it into the treetops.
Something else I realized is that Jo, my best friend since childhood, has the somewhat normal tendency to stutter whenever she's afraid of something. Right now, it seems to be losing me.
"You said you wouldn't leave me" she said softly. "Why'd you go away, Max? You lef- you left me for days!"
"Jo, I went away for fifteen minutes to find firewood."
Maybe you'll want to know more about me. Well, honestly, there isn't much to tell. I was born in Markonis, spent a few years between nannies. When I was of age, I got shipped off to boarding school. I suppose you could say I've had an average childhood thus far. Average seeing as my father was the leader of our country. Pretty normal, knowing he wanted nothing to do with me. I guess I'm just like all the others, homeless now after the invasion. The boarding school was burned to the ground by the Paxcatian drones, and I barely escaped with my life. My possessions, any trace of my old life, that's gone now.
I guess Jo lost more. She lost her sanity.
For a while, we wandered. We dodged the drones and avoided becoming slaves, and eventually, we found a small camp. We found friends, allies, people who'd avoided becoming slaves.
I found a purpose.
"A-are you mad with me?"
I dropped the pistol into the dead leaves below. I hugged her, holding her quaking form close. She'd grown awfully skinny. Her dark brown skin seemed to swallow the setting sun's orange glow.
"Jo? Where did you get the gun?"
"I found it."
"Just where exactly did you find it?"
"Isn't it r-really obvious?"
"No, you're not making it so."
"It was underneath Mr. Sere's pillow.
"What were you doing there?"
"I'm not sure. myself."
I sighed.
"Can I have it back now?"
"You have to give it back to Casey, Jo."
"I know."
I picked up the gun and handed it back to her, albeit slowly. It was an old fashioned weapon, a rather elegant weapon that looked out of place with our utilitarian, makeshift lasers, our electrical weapons, so unpolished. It was nearly a pretty thing to look at, with its silvery, simple surfaces. It almost seemed ornate, the ax of a wealthy executioner.
"I'll give it back, Max. I promise."
I nodded as we made our way back to the camp.
"So why did you take me out here, anyway?" She'd recommended we take a walk; she usually only does this when there's something she needs to tell me.
"Because Mr. Sere has a message for you" she said.
"Oh? What is it?"
"That you'll be going on a very, very special mission."
"And?"
Jo stopped suddenly. Her mood, upbeat, cheerful moments ago, suddenly seemed to collapse to the forest floor.
"It's a long trip, far away. You might not return."
"How far?"
"Paxcatia."
"And I take it that he-"
"He didn't invite me."
"Then I'm not going."
"I think we both know why I'm not going with you."
"And that's exactly why I'm staying here with you."
"Max, I'm afraid for you but... But I've been thinking. It's selfish of me to keep you here. Markonis- the real Markonis- needs you. I'm afraid for everybody."
We trod towards the camp in silence for a while. There really wasn't much more to be added.
As I've said before, fear is one of the, if not the best motivator of all. It was enough to make Jo walk into camp, and enough to make her approach Mr. Sere.
It was enough to make her point the pistol at Mr. Sere, to make her offer him one last choice.
"Take me away from here. Far away from Max, far away from it all, take me back home" she yelled.
This was the last I heard from her. I came running to find her, only to discover her limp in Mr. Sere's arms.
"She fainted" he explained quickly. I trusted that she had. Mr. Sere slung her over his shoulder and carried her away, into the brig. I caught a glimpse of a smile on her face. Our brig, our improvised prison, is essentially a big, plastic box on the end of our convoy. We've never had to use it before.
Later that night, Mr. Sere took me aside. He explained to me everything I knew: Jo wasn't stable, and for the sake of our ultimate goal, he thought it'd be best if I went away for awhile.
I cried a little after that conversation. We both understood what Jo did. She was afraid, not for herself but for everyone around us and she knew just what I could do, what I needed to do. She understood. She just needed to get me away, and she found out how to do it.
She's the best friend I've ever had.
I'm about to go off to Paxcatia now, as you may surmise, and I've said goodbye to Jo for what may be the last time. She kept telling me not to worry, she kept begging me not to be scared for her. She promised that we'd be together again, soon. I think she was right, and I suppose she's in good hands, but I don't think I'll ever stop fearing for her. I guess it's because we're almost siblings, and I can't stand the thought of being away from her for so long...
"Hey, do you remember that game we used to play?" she asked me shortly before my leaving from within her plastic prison.
"Which?"
"The one with the rich grandmother, she died and left clues to her fortune."
I smiled a little; that scenario was pretty much the product of our upbringing here in Markonis.
"Yes, I remember, her name was Evelyn."
"You do remember" Jo beamed.
"Remember how we tried to organize a-"
Mr. Sere cut me off. It was time to go. Right now, I'm sitting on a fallen log with my comrades. We're about to sneak across an ocean, and quite frankly I have no idea when I'll be able to write again. If there's one thing I do know for certain, however, it's that I'm going to see Jo again, and secretly, I'm proud of her. She made a dangerous, foolish decision.
It was the right one.

----
Alright, I finished another short story in Markonis, sort of a prequel to the next chapter (still a WIP!).
This story was actually a very clever analogy for something. I don't like to refer to my own work so haughtily, but today I'll make an exception. Will people understand what else this story means? Here's hoping.

Review - Fahrenheit 451

“It’s not books you need, it’s some the things that were once in books… The same infinite detail and awareness could be projected through the radios and the televisors but is not… Take it where you can find it… Books were only one type of receptacle where we stored a lot of things we were afraid we might forget.” Faber, in Fahrenheit 451 Recently, I had the great pleasure to read Ray Bradbury’s brilliant novella Fahrenheit 451. This is a book that deals, interestingly enough, with the subject of book burning, with implications that reach far beyond destruction of literature. In this classic dystopian tale of censorship and suppression, Bradbury follows the life and goings-on of the central protagonist, a fireman named Guy Montag. Overall, Guy enjoys his job. Burning books is quite an honor, and indeed, it’s his duty to burn the homes of those who unrepentantly hoard books, those who choose to swallow the seeds of insurrection, planting dissent and cultivating the forbidden knowledge in the deep corners of their minds. Montag unflinchingly goes about his duty, never wasting time to question, disregarding doubt and ignoring any ill-borne ideas.

All this changes when Guy meets Clarisse. She’s his new next door neighbor, she’s seventeen, and she’s crazy. Indeed, she’s quite strange, choosing to care about thing’s nobody seems to notice. Guy finds her upbeat, anomolic personality enlightening. She caused him to begin wondering. Pondering. Considering.

This marked a turning point in his life, and he begins to call into question the very nature of his existence.

Personally, I absolutely loved Bradbury’s writing style. It was ornate and heavily stylized. Powerful. Reading Bradbury’s work was like gazing into The Garden of Earthly Delights, by Bosch, but instead of feeling so insanely overwhelmed by the sheer level of detail, I felt as if I could understand everything at once, I could inhale the information and felt impelled, as if the book insisted that I keep moving.

Initially, the messages about censorship did feel a little heavy handed sometimes, but they did seem to relax as the book advanced; the book never loses its message, however.

Overall, it was quite an enjoyable read, one I can especially recommend to lovers of dystopias, lovers of books, people who love prose bordering on poetry, and essentially anybody taking in any sort of media at all. The idea of stopping ideas, stopping the free flow of information and ripping the human element out of art is a rather universally frightening idea, and it's one that Bradbury explores with bold confidence.