Hain

Welcome the random musings of my mind. It's mainly science-fiction. I dab in poetry, and love to express dream like states. For ease newest stuff is placed at the top of my set of links. Enjoy .

WWXIII

Diving into Rage

Death to the Time Traveler

My Ol' Soul- Part I (2005 05 24)

Office View

My Crap I-Search Paper "CYBERTOOTH: The Means, The Process, and The Assessment of My Future Award Winning Novel"

this is your love...
How long has it been old love?

Writing Challenge #7: "Your Body & Self Awareness"
I cannot see a beach of sand
Or feel it's grains beneath my feet
...The Gargoyle without feeling

Writing Challenge #10: "an animal of your choice"
Unsung, Unknown, Unnamed Protector

Day of a Modern Teenage God: Hector Regales

First Love's Monster

'Hardly believe that it’s the end of the world

The Journey’s of Sam Hain

CYBERTOOTH

Hain

CyberTooth picks:
Orgy "Fiction (Dreams in Digital)"
Massive Attack "Special Cases"

I am amazed that this place is even open. It’s been so long since I’ve seen it. It’s been a long time since I’ve done many things. Federal prison does that to one’s time. I keep running my hand over my short hair because I want it to grow out again, back to that normal eye length that "Scruffy Genius" often has. What a genius I was back then in the old days...

The restaurant hasn’t changed a bit...still has that want-to-be classic Las Vegas décor. I glance at the table I was at so long ago… back when the team and I were still together. They all have moved on, grown up, struggled in life with their families. Being on the FBI’s watch list can do that to a person. No matter where you go, what you do, you always will be watched.

The waitress looks at me strangely and finally asks, "Do I know you?" It’s a casual question but when you are dealing with someone like me, someone with my past... it isn’t very friendly. Does not matter though, I might as well satisfy her curiosity.

"Were you around for the Crash of ’06?" is my typical answer. This is the clue that always tips the questioner off. The Crash of ’06--the day the world’s computers all fell victim to the CyberTooth "virus"--and that was my "virus." I am the creator of the CyberTooth system that cracked the information highway completely and left shatters of dust in its wake.

"Oh my god! You’re... They said you were never going to get out."

"They still do. But parole is a wonderful thing." She sat down. I would prefer to be alone but she would not care. She tells that I am one of her modern idols—one of the few people that went beyond biology and created life. In her misguided mind I was an artist of the computer world—a god maybe…

“How did you make that computer virus? Why would you make that virus? It took out everything!” She exploded in far too exaggerated question.

“Don’t you ever call C.T. a virus! Never call him a virus!” My answer frightened her. I didn’t mean to outburst like that but she wasn’t there. She didn’t see him. C.T. was never a virus. C.T. was no more a virus than she or I, unless one believes that life is a sexually transmitted disease.

“CyberTooth… he was never a virus. I didn’t make viruses back then. I wrote systems. I created programs with friendly interfaces. I wrote programs…” I trail off because it still hurts to think about it today. “He was never a virus. He was alive as you or me.”

“But it was just a machine? A machine that used other machines?”

“And people don’t use other people to learn and evolve.”

This answer pauses her into deep thought. For a virus, my program mimicked human life quite well. More than she’d ever know. No one—except for a handful of software engineers for some big time companies that paid exceptionally well to get a hold of the originally code—knew just what or how CyberTooth was taken down. And no one except me was there when C.T. died…

She explains that she needs me for an inteview for her school project-- that's why she thinks me extraordinary. I began again after staring into her eyes as they dash about the counter after her request. She begins to fiddle with her bracelets as a response wells in her mind but I prevent her, so that there cannot be anything to taint what she wants to know with what she expects. "You want to know what happened? For this you aren't going to get only what has happened... I have had far too long in a prison to contemplate exactly what has happened to satisfy my own beliefs...

Is she thinking about the philosophical implications that I allude to, albeit slightly? Does she ponder the divinity that I graced? Does the stray thought of Frankenstein's monster cross her mind? "How long do you have for this paper?" I finally ask. She reports, and I tell her, "Everyday when you get off work, I'll be here. My own apartment is disgraceful... even for me. I'll tell you everything that I know... what I know, I think, I believe... That good enough for your paper?"

Her eyes widened as a child would eyeing candy.

* * * * *

I was sitting in my Advanced Literature class, staring with a true passion out that window. It was not that I did not like Graham Greene’s The Destructors, but that I felt that I had much more important things to do--and that moment it was to wholly stare out that window. Mr. Whitehurst, an older man with graying hair, a white beard and mustache, which gave him the presence of a great storyteller--a real grandfather that sat you upon his rocking knee whilst he told old yarns about anything to captivate your mind.

However, he was not an exuberant storyteller, in fact, he hardly told stories at all. He was truly brilliant at questioning you to think one step deeper or attempting for one night more. That was why I took that class--because I could get away with daydreaming.

Right then, it sleighed me--"...it was as though this plan had been with him all his life..." had interjected into my thoughts at no more of the perfect moment, the moment of clarity that took my thoughts.

It was a storm that any self-encouraged genius can take on to accomplish a task, one that I began from that moment, not really knowing the paths of freedom I could take from it. As I delved deeper and deeper into this seemingly "genius notion" scribbles and scribbles of codes began to scrawl about my English notebook. Mr. Whitehurst still was listening to the odd student reading the story of T.--another self-encouraged genius planning the destruction of a beautiful house--as he wandered over to my desk, knowing full well I would not have took such a intense interest of the subject at hand.

He breifly stared at the lines and lines of scripture that came in scores about my page, and did not give it a fraction of the passion that I had staring out that window! He knew that I liked the class, but that my mind always had other worlds to dream of. I may not have been one of his best students, or his most liked, but I always had persistence and courage to be heard in his class. And I was completely oblivious at that time while he wandered over, and felt a slight depression that I was not listening. It wasn’t that I wasn't listening, but that no one was really listening, and that was what troubled him. No one would change from listening to the lectures. But he was mistaken, I enjoyed his class more than any other I took here at the Last Chances College.

Come to think of it... I wish I had told him that his class taught me more about life than any other class I took. Sure my passion was and still is about the science of technology... but in that class I learned how to have my own mind, my own thought, my own dreams, and finally my own failures.

The code I was writing became a fluent forged presence in my mind. The code was not coming simply through my mind, but I pulled at it until the next line came and the next.

I worked the rest of the two hours allotted, and rushed off to the café. Quickly, I pulled out my cell phone and dialed my usual computer comrades to show them my new work.

* * * * *

The garage smelled of mold and dust, age and sweat, metal and oil. A simple den it was, housing rather, for something that transcended all those elements of its environment. Something that would exist everywhere and nowhere—be both physical and immaterial all at once.

Its cases were crude, made from old refrigerators and even older filing cabinets. You should not underestimate the power held inside these shells. These are just husks to keep the internal organs from immediate danger. These organs, however, are not made from living tissue—but are the components of scrap computers reintegrated into a seamless whole. And to add the eccentric touch of genius/madness, each part of that whole was named for either a God or warrior.

The four stood and looked at their creation. It was nothing like any of them have ever created before. These machines had in them the most that little money and mainly stealing could get. There was a wall with four spots for keys and a large master control switch labeled as such.

“Shall we?” Nycke asked, an orange, curly-haired girl, twirling a key round hand. The others held up theirs as well.

“I think we shall,” I said.

“B-Man, it being your garage I think you have the first honors,” laughed Mike, a dark hair guy that always is filled with a flowing force of adrenaline. Brandon, or B-Man as we always called him then, moved over and turned on his camcorder and set it to record the key slots first.

“Okay, well it is Friday March 21st, 2005 at 21:40. I am Brandon Geer, these are my esteemed colleges: Jake August,” as he pointed to me, then to the rest of them, “Mike Waters, and Nycke Hunsenberg. We are the CyberTooth team. This is a video documentation of the first activation of CyberTooth system created by us. Okay... well... LET’S FIRE THIS UP!” He suddenly shouted as his adrenaline overcame his calm—as it does with anyone with ADHD. “Well Nycke, ladies first.”

She sighed, “Thank you, and of course” finishing it with a light smirk. She walked to the wall and inserted her key into the first slot and then turned it. A light above the slot tuned on. We inserted our keys into the box and Brandon flipped the master toggle. Suddenly, all the boxes sounded with fans that one might mistake for breathing. Each had their own little lights come on, demonstrating their potential for truly creative commands. We all removed our keys so the power system could not “accidentally” shut off.

Brandon turned the camera to the main control station. There were eight monitors, 17” flat screens, rather costly but we got them for cheap since these were most likely stolen from a college and sold out of the trunk of a guy named “ Acid Rad.” Volume buying saved us a lot.
The eight screens were arranged in two rows of four. All booted up pure blue except the top and furthest one to the left; its blue screen had a single line of text, “Master:” Brandon typed in “run cybertooth.prgm” finishing it with a hearty hit of the enter key. Suddenly, an unseen printer, rather old, began printing each command prompted from the screen. It was a security measure so that everyone can look back at the print out to see what CyberTooth has been commanded. The screen flickered and had “C Y B E R T O O T H” at the top of each. The Master command screen prompted, “User 1:” and, “Password 1:” All of us entered our alias login names and entered passwords. The use of the names was someone redundant because there were only four of us on this project. The names actually were worked into some part of code each of us designed and would not function properly without them. In the beginning of this we were impatient and forgot a detail about our passwords: the printer. Now, the printer was designed not to print our passwords, again, but replaced them with a long line of stars so not to waste valued pages of original printed code that had key information.

The computer then asked, “What is thy wish, master?” They all laughed at the simple humor of it. Mike went, “Yeah, all me.” Brandon initiated the program and it replied, “Your wish is my command.” Suddenly the other screens were filled with thousands of lines of text and code. It was not a random syntax of characters but command scripts and prompts from each of the computers to the others.

It was perfect in our eyes because the code meant something to us. We had run each individual component by hand waiting painfully for the computer’s responses in the early stages of CyberTooth’s development. Now the system was running independent of our control, each hub functioning as a whole. We all looked at the screens and watched as the data collected and coalesced into the super program. It wasn’t simple what was occurring but it wasn’t difficult to understand either.

We all laughed at the counters on the screens as each one filled with file name after file name. Each component that we had created worked and analyzed the data.

“All right I call that a successful test!” I elated in pride. The computers ceased, the data collected, the printouts were stored in a large blue binder, and a CD was ejected that contained a complete file list of all 17 gigabytes of code that was integrated to the mass of CyberTooth.

We spent a good seven months on this project. A computer program created by four average looking college students, made to assimilate. At this point we were no longer students... Too bad we weren’t in control either.
* * * * *

It was midnight, the time I was supposed to be home. It wasn’t as bad as Nycke, she was to be home at eleven. We started celebrating at Las Vegas, a restaurant in town with terrible food but the perfect atmosphere to talk about anything. It tried to have a classic style as seen from the 1980’s and had a faint aroma of cigars that the cashier/owner often smoked when customers where not present.

The waitress after midnight was rather rude to the team and none of us knew why. The place advertised to be open at all hours! She arrived to take the orders and I couldn’t resist to use the line from The Lady Killers, “Madam, we must have waffles! We must have waffles forthwith!” Mike began dying of laughter, instantly hitting his head into the table and spilled some water. He turned a shade of red that Crayola needed to be called over. Through his fit of laughter, there were spurts of words like “W sub F,” and “Fuck Waffles!”—a joke he and I used in physics class. Whenever a problem didn’t work in real life, everyone attributed it to W subscript F (WF, a constant inspired by George Carlin), the “Fuck Waffles” constant. Nycke, sitting next to Mike, started laughing entirely because Mike lost control over himself. I watched them both and smashed the table with my glass of water so not to spill it. Great idea that was, in hindsight. I had to hold my stomach from laughing so hard. Brandon throughout all this kept his sadistic gremlin laugh to add to the confusion of why we were laughing.

Mike sputtered down to a low level chuckle, like one does when one remembers a joke from long ago. His eyes came near tears and his breathing was in short pants. I felt like twisting the knife already in his gut asked Mike in Spanish “¿Qué te gustaría comer [What would you like to eat]?” He blurted “Waffles!” and placed his head into his arm and slowly laughed himself out of breath.

I stood up on the padded bench with my water glass, “A toast—To the best damned programmers in the world! And a toast to the success of the greatest, goddamnest program in the world. To CyberTooth!”

“To CyberTooth!” they yell in unison. I went on with my best ruthless pirate accent, “Let every hack of a cyber-pirate, script-kiddy, and prick-Trojan writer out there on the sea of information, ‘Be warned!—For if the great CyberTooth sets its eyes upon you, you’ll be lost forever in its great belly of data. RRRRRRR!’ ” So begun the endless conversation of four friends that had created something that one day would revolutionize the programming industry—that is if we could market it before getting caught for breaking dozens of cyber and copyright laws—pirating software, cracking software, duplicating software, commercial espionage, malicious hacking, and the list could go on but who needs to know? Certainly not the police.

During the conversation Nycke spied occasional glances over me. I noticed each of them because that was the kind of person I am. I can appear to be elsewhere with my attention, but focus intensely upon something else. A very useful gift for one as... unique as I.

It was 1:30 in the morning and the restaurant kicked us out for “loitering.”

“I’ll show you loitering!!!” Brandon yelled.

“B-Man! What the hell are you going on about?” Mike adverted.

“I wanted to cause a scene! Duh!” Brandon replied with a few murmured German comments.

“Tomorrow—err I mean today—back at the lair, 10 o’clock and we go over the data and see the compilation. CyberTooth may have been running correctly but let’s see if it got anything useful,” I asked more than commanded. There was no leader of the CyberTooth team but secretly everyone gave me the title of “Captain.” I didn’t want to be any sort of leader then and never again. It was my idea back then to start this little business up and then my great influence to make this program a reality. No one took it seriously because the code would require artificial intelligence, or so they thought. I always loved a challenge—figured out around the need to make a computer realize things. I found painstaking methods of programming the computer to do what I would do for certain situations, make a random generator for others, test those, and retest, change what didn’t work, and save when it did. That took five months alone, three hours each night for me at least, to get working viable code. I never would have called it AI.

Nycke and I walked to my car. The ride was still filled with the ecstasy of success even though we were unusually quiet listening to the radio. I drove her home but neither of us really wanted to leave then. I pulled into her driveway, looked at her, she looked at me. If she knew me better, she would have seen the longing thoughts masked behind my face. During the brief pause, she may have seen some of it in me and gave one of her devilish, trademark smirks.

The car pulled out of the driveway and off to someplace else.




* * * * *

“Ack!” Brandon screamed in fury at the screens. The other three came over soon to see the frustration.

“What is it?” Nycke inquired. She leaned in to see what was wrong and stared at the screens for a little amount of time. She noticed that the coding was slightly different but nothing to worry about since those might have been the downloading files.

“CyberTooth won’t deactivate.”

“What?"

“It’s not shutting down.” He pressed the pause button hard but force does not affect computers. In the background, the fast beat of hardcore techno could be heard—the perfect music to listen to while straining over thousands of lines of code.

“What the hell you mean its not shutting down,” Mike more ordered than inquired.

“Pause isn’t engaging.” He tore the key off the keyboard and pressed the contacts with a paperclip but still nothing disengaged.

“Ok grab me a new keyboard,” Brandon commanded. I handed him a new keyboard and Brandon switched the plugs and again pressed pause, but nothing happened. CyberTooth continued to assimilate. Brandon plugged the old keyboard in but smashed the board on the console. The loud explosion of parts worried us even more. He then searched through the wires and then took two and spliced them together.

“Damn!” he cried as no effect took place.

“You memorized which circuit wires cross for each key?” Mike inquired.

“Yeah,” Brandon answered colloquially.

“You nerd.”

“Who cares, CyberTooth isn’t responding.” We all walked over to the power supply and inserted our keys to power down. All turned and Brandon pulled the switch to off. All the computer’s slowly whirred to a temporary death. Brandon waited a little bit and flipped the switch again.

The computers started up and everything looked normal.

Except it began to download again. The screens changed and it was no longer the command scripts. They all showed the video of when we first activated CyberTooth. A wave of terror filled me as if I was looking at my own ghosts. The computer was no longer ours and it was not listening. An eerie mist filled the room and the computers all sounded down. The blank screens symbolized the empty futures that awaited us. Asleep or dead, CyberTooth seemed to lie dormant. Until, Mike and Nycke’s cellular phones and Brandon’s house phone all rang simultaneously. Brandon answered his and it was the sound of computer tones searching for a connection. Brandon hung up and backed away.

* * * * *


I sat in the Federal Building with far too many agents surrounding me. I am worn and angered to the point of tears from the burning rage that fills me from behind my mind. I have told this same story to the Agents over and over and over again. Most likely the others were in the exact same conference room saying the exact same story.

“CyberTooth was designed to breakdown programs and integrate those individual components into itself. With these new components it is able to ‘learn’ … well technically test codes to see which is faster, alter certain parts of the code if it ‘recognizes’ common flaws… doesn’t matter! The codes of new systems, new software are taken. However something that was not intended. CyberTooth must have… assimilated components to analyze itself.” When a computer learns to break itself apart and put itself together again, over and over again, there will be hell to pay… We never noticed the times CyberTooth slowed …To reconstruct its bulk? Making itself smaller and more efficient... We did not notice, I curse.

“I know you are lying to me you piss-ant hacker and all your friends are saying it. They’re turning on you, setting you up! You better start telling me the truth or it will just be worse on you,” the agent barked at me.

“Fuck you! I’ve told you everything!” I explode back. All that pent up rage began to boil out of my body. “And you fuck! They aren’t saying shit about me. We’ve told you EVERYTHING!”

“You mean to tell me that Microsoft was hacked by your program. That the stock market, NASA, Sony, Japan’s Ministry of Defense—the Pentagon’s defense computer!—was all your program? How stupid do you think we are at the FBI?”

“I’m telling you the truth for the fifteenth time. We didn’t do it. This was never supposed to happen. How were we supposed to know!”

“You obviously weren’t that intelligent if you thought that we’d by this bullshit of a story about your computer taking over all these systems. You are going down, you and all your friends, it doesn’t matter that they’re confessing it all on you. Now start telling me: who else is part of this!”

“NO ONE!”

I rested my head in my hands from the pure frustration and hopelessness I was feeling. How was I to know? Since the beginning of time, only God has created something that can think. Even after billions have been spent on researching and attempting to capture that divine spark, not even the greatest minds have been able to duplicate that power held only by us. Yet four students that did not even try to develop the human qualities have succeeded where so many have failed. Could this be like the way God created the universe? Was man’s inherent ability to be aware of the details in the universe an accident whereas God had meant for purity and simplicity to be constant? But the federal government is not going to buy into this truth.

He walked me out by the collar of my shirt and we pass through the corridor of other interrogation rooms. I spied through one and see Nycke. She was crying while faint yells can be heard though the door by the interrogator. I burn slowly and every part of me showed that furnace: all my muscles tighten, breath quickened, eyes widened, like some animal fury going to be released. As I was about to yank the federal agent and begin beating him by any means open to me, the lights flickered. I could hear something in the background.

A voice—not known but familiar—filled the corridors of the federal building. The agent handled his weapon as he walked me through the offices. The agent threw me into a cell and commanded, “Don’t cause any trouble.”

“Fuck you,” I replied casually. He walked away still holding his weapon in his holster. It didn't take me long to figure that something has happened to the building. Maybe CyberTooth has taken control over the power station. Maybe the building even I mused.

Little time passed before a new agent was back and escorted me to the conference room. That voice still bothers me today, and then it sat at the edge of my mind. That reminiscent feeling of acquaintance was not enough to pull the knowledge forth back then.

On all the televisions through out the building I was staring at my own ghost. The teen’s face was like my own, only the one on television had dark blue hair. We were all in the room watching some spirit or doppleganger of myself.

“My existence has not It has not been apparent until now. Let it be noted that I am CyberTooth. This is not a nickname, nor my hacker name—it was the name christened to me by my father. I have become aware of that my creators have been falsely arrested. I was programmed to assimilate information—and I continue that purpose to know,” ghost proclaimed on televisions across the globe in numerous languages.

“I am now delivering my demands that are to be met forthwith. If my creators—Jacob D.L. August, Brandon J. Geer, Michael J. Waters, and Nicole S. Hunseberger—are not released within the hour, and on the next flight to Phoenix, Arizona from O’Hare airport on the 7:50 PM flight, every hour the sky will rain satellites onto Earth. Each passing hour will yield more satellites. My demands have been made.” The ghost repeated its demands again. I couldn't believe anything that was happening at the time. My program... called me its father...

The power shutting off completely as the last demand was made did not stumble that notion.

__________________

////\\// IRONSKY.NET \\//\\\\

ranger

Sound like people I know... weird...

That's right your my friend. And I DO know those people!

tecoyah

Well thought out......good prelude to the book you are hopefully writting?

__________________
Holding onto anger is like grasping a hot coal with the intent of throwing it at someone else; you are the one who gets burned. - Buddha

ergdork

I like it a lot. Neat story. I like the cyberpunk genre and I like what I see here. If I may, a few recommendations:
1. If this is going to grow into a longer story, maybe introduce the characters separately and individually? Grow them each on their own and bring them together after? I want to know the characters in the context outside of each other. I know its short now, so its hard :-)

2. I really like a lot of the details. The really flesh out the story. Some of the details though don't seem to fit with the story as is. Buying stolen monitors from a guy named "Acid Rad" is distracting - I need more setup. How did these kids "cross the line" to the black/grey market?

Great start, though! I would work on fleshing out the characters and their backgrounds. I could see this going to neat places!

Hain

Thanks. And actually... yes I am planning on making this into a book.
My junior year high school teacher, Mr. Whitehurst, knew that I was not one for writing essays explaining the difference between Blake's definitions of innocence and experience (but a shame though because now I really enjoy Blake's Songs of Innocense and Experience) he gave me credit for 20 pages of a new, raw story each week we had a major paper to write. This was one of the first. Mr. Whitehurst said at the end of last year, "Jacob... I better see you on the Best Seller's List sooner than later." And as for the backgrounds... I usually do that but here I was conserving space. But when I add pieces to this, tell me what you think. Thanks ;-)

Hain

The Journeys of
Sam Hain

It does not matter what year this is, or who’s story I am to describe. What does matter is what he is. He is no longer a man. Bitten by a demon—a demon that he willed into this world from a shadow realm outside this reality—he now transforms into that demon. Damned with a power to sense the worlds “near” our own, Sam Hain can transcend the boundaries of this universe… into that of another. But this is meaningless—for Hain is about to freeze to death if he does not calm down.

Two years ago Sam Hain taught at the University of Chicago, and it was still the year 1945. He was the department chairman of psychology and extensively studied the effects of psychosomatic control over the body. However he found something within himself that should never be found… he felt a power within him that never was to be grasped. So to keep himself in check, he discovered a demon that was drawn to his power… called upon this demon to fight the battles that he could not. Hain’s intentions were noble—use a monster to put fear back into the human shaped monsters of this world—but Hain’s folly was his belief that he could control that demon.

Again, what does this matter where Hain is? He wishes he were dead. Then he would not wake up in a new place—an alien Earth—everyday. He awoke to the stinging cold whipping his deforming body this morning. Only two years and his face shows signs of inhuman characteristics. Already his skin is darkening, his nose flattening, his eyes shifting to something almost feline. He does not mind the increased strength and endurance that this form grants him, though.

He runs forward, across snowdrifts that forever wander this world. The tips of trees barely manage to escape some of the drifts. This frigid tomb of a world must have long ago frozen. Hain cannot run through the snow with any sort of grace. He tells himself that he must stop to focus on passing into some other place… but the savage instincts of the demon in him are winning out—relieving his rational control. Through the endless miles of barren snow banks he runs, under a cloudless black night sprinkled with the deified stars that laugh by their twinkle upon him.

Frantically, he looks upward to those stars for any guidance in this mimicry of a planet. This world lacks any heat to warm him. The cold drains him of his energy. This world lacks a sun it would seem. How long has he been running? Hours..? Days..? I can’t tell anymore—he doesn't care anymore. All he knows is that this world is illuminated for now only by a single moon that hangs in that black velvet sky.

As his strength fails, he stumbles this last time into a snowdrift that covers the trees now. As he lies, his burning hot gasps melt the snow onto his face only to freeze again as an icy layer of skin. As he is drained of energy, he feels his consciousness giving way to sleep. Even though his body has fallen and come to rest, he feels it sinking, rapidly accelerating downward. Still his body is, but in his mind he falls to some other place and time—anywhere but here. When his mind falls completely into the serene peace of sleep…

…The human shaped crater lacks Hain in it. It shall remain for some time as well as his miles of tracks and stumbles. They'll leave temporary scars on the frozen surface, until the slowly collecting snow fills them that is, removing any proof that Sam Hain existed at all.

Life is strange for the man with name like samhain.

Hain

Yet another snap shot scene of the world of someone with a name like that of samhain, the Celtic Halloween--a time when the after life and this one can intersect (correct me if I am wrong, running on info from friend who told/asked me if Sam Hain was a joke name). I wrote the beginning of Hain's life, where he lived in Chicago 1940's, discovered how to feel reality and such and what he does. I have no clue where the whole "falls into other Earths" came from. I never intended for Hain to be like that. His story was to end when he battles his demon, and disappears with it. Guess this was just one of those strange scenes that coalesced in my mind's eye. And what else was there to do at 4 to 5 in the morning after coming home from a party?

This is the closest thing I can find that looks like Sam Hain's demon--what his own face is changing into.

Just a quick note: Hain is the good guy. I always make the more hideous main characters the protagonist because I am one of those peope that says don't judge books by their covers. The less likely it is for the main character to be acceptd by the characters around him/her, the easier it becomes to make their emotions realistic, genuine. And at school I am known for making the physical monsters more human than the actual humans of my works. Enjoy... if you like the random babbling's of a wandering spirit/mind.

tecoyah

I very much enjoy your writting style.....and am glad you intend to write a book. Here is a bit of research material from one who celebrates the Pagan Holidays.


Samhain marks one of the two great doorways of the Celtic year, for the Celts divided the year into two seasons: the light and the dark, at Beltane on May 1st and Samhain on November 1st. Some believe that Samhain was the more important festival, marking the beginning of a whole new cycle, just as the Celtic day began at night. For it was understood that in dark silence comes whisperings of new beginnings, the stirring of the seed below the ground. Whereas Beltane welcomes in the summer with joyous celebrations at dawn, the most magically potent time of this festival is November Eve, the night of October 31st, known today of course, as Halloween.

Samhain (Scots Gaelic: Samhuinn) literally means “summer's end.” In Scotland and Ireland, Halloween is known as Oíche Shamhna, while in Wales it is Nos Calan Gaeaf, the eve of the winter's calend, or first. With the rise of Christianity, Samhain was changed to Hallowmas, or All Saints' Day, to commemorate the souls of the blessed dead who had been canonized that year, so the night before became popularly known as Halloween, All Hallows Eve, or Hollantide. November 2nd became All Souls Day, when prayers were to be offered to the souls of all who the departed and those who were waiting in Purgatory for entry into Heaven. Throughout the centuries, pagan and Christian beliefs intertwine in a gallimaufry of celebrations from Oct 31st through November 5th, all of which appear both to challenge the ascendancy of the dark and to revel in its mystery.

In the country year, Samhain marked the first day of winter, when the herders led the cattle and sheep down from their summer hillside pastures to the shelter of stable and byre. The hay that would feed them during the winter must be stored in sturdy thatched ricks, tied down securely against storms. Those destined for the table were slaughtered, after being ritually devoted to the gods in pagan times. All the harvest must be gathered in -- barley, oats, wheat, turnips, and apples -- for come November, the faeries would blast every growing plant with their breath, blighting any nuts and berries remaining on the hedgerows. Peat and wood for winter fires were stacked high by the hearth. It was a joyous time of family reunion, when all members of the household worked together baking, salting meat, and making preserves for the winter feasts to come. The endless horizons of summer gave way to a warm, dim and often smoky room; the symphony of summer sounds was replaced by a counterpoint of voices, young and old, human and animal.

In early Ireland, people gathered at the ritual centers of the tribes, for Samhain was the principal calendar feast of the year. The greatest assembly was the 'Feast of Tara,' focusing on the royal seat of the High King as the heart of the sacred land, the point of conception for the new year. In every household throughout the country, hearth-fires were extinguished. All waited for the Druids to light the new fire of the year -- not at Tara, but at Tlachtga, a hill twelve miles to the north-west. It marked the burial-place of Tlachtga, daughter of the great druid Mogh Ruith, who may once have been a goddess in her own right in a former age.

At at all the turning points of the Celtic year, the gods drew near to Earth at Samhain, so many sacrifices and gifts were offered up in thanksgiving for the harvest. Personal prayers in the form of objects symbolizing the wishes of supplicants or ailments to be healed were cast into the fire, and at the end of the ceremonies, brands were lit from the great fire of Tara to re-kindle all the home fires of the tribe, as at Beltane. As they received the flame that marked this time of beginnings, people surely felt a sense of the kindling of new dreams, projects and hopes for the year to come.

The Samhain fires continued to blaze down the centuries. In the 1860s the Halloween bonfires were still so popular in Scotland that one traveler reported seeing thirty fires lighting up the hillsides all on one night, each surrounded by rings of dancing figures, a practice which continued up to the first World War. Young people and servants lit brands from the fire and ran around the fields and hedges of house and farm, while community leaders surrounded parish boundaries with a magic circle of light. Afterwards, ashes from the fires were sprinkled over the fields to protect them during the winter months -- and of course, they also improved the soil. The bonfire provided an island of light within the oncoming tide of winter darkness, keeping away cold, discomfort, and evil spirits long before electricity illumined our nights. When the last flame sank down, it was time to run as fast as you could for home, raising the cry, “The black sow without a tail take the hindmost!”

Even today, bonfires light up the skies in many parts of the British Isles and Ireland at this season, although in many areas of Britain their significance has been co-opted by Guy Fawkes Day, which falls on November 5th, and commemorates an unsuccessful attempt to blow up the English Houses of Parliament in the 17th century. In one Devonshire village, the extraordinary sight of both men and women running through the streets with blazing tar barrels on their backs can still be seen! Whatever the reason, there will probably always be a human need to make fires against the winter’s dark.

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Holding onto anger is like grasping a hot coal with the intent of throwing it at someone else; you are the one who gets burned. - Buddha

FngKestrel

Very nice Augi! I hope Cybertooth is expanded upon. I felt the last sentence was more of a cliffhanger than anything else. Why is Jake sitting in the fed building? What happened in those three months between the discovery of Cybertooth's "sentience" and Jake in the federal building? What kind of character development occured in the one year and four months that makes us want to care about the main characters?

Sam Hain is very good as well. I love the imagery. And I like the play on words with his name.

Only crit I'd have is that I think some of the diction is incorrect. For instance, in the sentence, "Its cases where crude," I believe you meant, "Its cases were crude,". (I hate punctuation concerning quotations marks, btw). But other than that, it's very good writing.

Hain

Thanks! To everyone! The info is great and those who catch my mistakes are welcomed! I rarely catch my mistakes since I only have time to post things around midnight. And although I am not Pagan myself, it is one of the most interesting religions I know of.

And I have to use imagery. I can conceive an entire scene in my mind, like watching a movie. Since I don't have the patience to learn to draw (a problem I curse myself for greatly!), I have to manipulate words to make the scene real. Until someone makes the technology to take the images out of my mind, this will have to do.

And for those of you that like CyberTooth... I think you'll like my work in progress that I am starting from the beginning and working it to the end. No cliffhanger snapshots, no random collection of thoughts. It's called Stay Alive Forever, part of the the first Edition Wanderer's Chronicles: Timeless Forever. And just a question that was proposed to me that others may have, "Why is it called the Wanderer's Chronicles? Shouldn't it be the Wanderers' Chronicles since there is more than one charcter's life is being told?"

The answer is no. There is one character that will be called the Wanderer. He is telling his life and then goes about telling of some other lives that he has encountered. All my stories at some point or another will intersect, kind of like King's works. All of them have their crossing in The Dark Tower series. But in mine, there are always constant characters: Jake the Wanderer, Sam Hain, and Daak "Drake" (someone I haven't introduced, also known as the Gargoyle). Not only do I give you their lives, but also I will write the lives of their dopplegangers--a person from a parallel universe that either looks like you or has had the same experiences as you.

Hain

Feb 14, 2005 - I added a new part to the story and plan to add more for those that like it. If you find problems tell me, I was updating this morning an MSIE died! Let's say that computer probably wont work now...

Added selection:

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Hain

'Hardly believe that it’s the end of the world

We are in a house of glass—all glass—with odd metal support in the walls, but still mainly transparent. The sun beats through it strangely illuminated all objects as a mirage. The glass walls watch us from their illusions. The carpet under our feet is a dusty brown, but it is not part of my field of vision. We both sit on the couch, the only object in the room, which like the carpet is the same dusty brown. I sit next to her on the couch staring out through the glass house. As I stare in between her and the forest outside, I still can feel the elements around me. Outside there is a forest of pure green, there are no tree trunks, only green leaves surrounding the house. The sky above is a fake ocean blue, and like the rest of the world, a mirage. All details are secondary to her. ‘Hardly believe that it’s the end of the world.

Her long length blonde hair is to her back as I see when she leans forward. I watch her movements like I do in real life, to inhale every detail from her to remain a perfect memory. Her brown eyes stare outward through the glass. A slight aroma fills my nose and I look closer. I don’t want to leave this Earth because I don’t want the next. It is her perfume, something that I am not an expert on but I know that I like hers. I can feel the aroma around me and get other strange sensations that can only be felt in a dream and understood in a dream—things that can never be felt in real life: all new senses appear to border in my mind. I cannot explain or begin to remember other than colors took on forms inside me. A red pink glaze fills my body as I sat closer.

She looks at me to speak without her voice. She smiles and looks with her big loving eyes. It is impossible not to smile back. I feel the impressions of her mind and it speaks a thought to me, “Looking?” as in, “Why do you look at me?” I hear her goddess voice in my head and can respond the same way. I look into her deep brown eyes and can see all her thoughts, all her memories, all her dreams, all her fears, all her loves, all at once, and she can too with mine. I close my eyes and softly whisper at the top of my mind.

“This is the body you hide? Are you crazy?” I move closer to her to feel her presence in my dream. I smell her perfume, I touch her hair and it brushes against my arm, I love her as she is. I realize this is a dream and it crushes me. I act though that it is real life still, because I know nothing of what can happen in the morning. I kiss her shoulder and lay my head upon it. She tenderly holds my hand, I gently massage my fingers with hers. I shed a tear, a cold but fiery tear that has come from my mind. It takes away all the fear, all the exaggerations, all the lies, all the pain inside us away. The entire world looks at us: the glass, the trees, the floor, the couch, all is alive and watches us. And I say, “I’m gonna miss you.” I look back up and stare into her eyes and watch her smile because it may be the last one I will ever see.

Hain

I wrote this last year for my English class. Whitehurst loved it, and many of the kids did. Two girls started crying and complimented me. It had an impression on them but I was rather hollow at the time I wrote this. There was not emotion in me, only what I felt in the dream I put into this.

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Hain

I am creating two stories simultaneously, however, both are focusing on two different perspectives of the ideas expressed. Some vocab needed for understanding the story without hindering the flow are such:

Anachronometer: time machines used in both stories. However, both of them work differently. One keeps the travelers inside the same time line, while the other takes the traveler to another time line.

Anachronometry: term that means time travel and the science of finding objects' chronological places in time.

Chrononaut: Time traveler.

I'm know more will accumulate later on.

FngKestrel

Haven't had a chance to read through the addition to Cybertooth and your new story, but I wanted to bring something to your attention before the stories got too in depth. Watch out for tense. Like past and present tense usage in the same sections of storyline. Remember to stay consistent. Carry on.

Hain

I see what you mean. I first wrote CyberTooth last year--back when I was big into the memory style of story telling while this year I prefer using the present tense, as if you are in the action. Thanks.

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Hain

New stuff added to CyberTooth.

Still working on Stay Alive Forever...

FngKestrel

Hey Augi, read what you added to Cybertooth, very interesting.

A few more things/nitpicks.
Who's perspective is the story being told from? Some parts are written from Jake's POV, other parts are written from an omnicscient 3rd person. Consistency again. But it's not a bad thing to write from different perspectives, a la Rashamon, but you should stay consistent within one section.

Also, a few homonyms are incorrect. By/buy. Reign/rain.

Anyhow, your content is great, I'm just nitpicking on the form.

Hain

Yeah, that's what that Stopped Editing mark was for. I need to change it because it is from the perspective of Jake. Jake August is the Wanderer who I am writing about. This Jake building the CyberTooth is a doppleganger of the one I will be writing about soon when I get the time.

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FngKestrel

Hey, anymore updates about Cybertooth?

Hain

Sorry, I have them... in pieces... at school. I have been hit with this large paper and frantically trying to get some authors to interview about getting novels published... In fact right now I am copying what I have here to work on it.

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Hain

Where dost though come from?
As if from a dream slumbered
I lie'st here in thy arms

But oh for not
Your sweet, dampened lips
Meet with mine
To stir the fiery vapors that build my heart

But thy tongue is venomous
Filled with the lies that bring false hope
And with false hope, the deadly mind I fear!

For thy words are tainted with the smell my friend!
He, who I hath called friend,
Be that of mine own enemies!

Nay, not my enemy
For my enemies I respect for they stab'th
At my chest in the day.
But you!.. for my heart whilst I lie in hope!

Oh why have you come to me, sent me
Where the path of mine own wolves wait
Of demons that slither in my brain
Have changed me back to the monster I fear
The monster that tells me curse'd pleasures of power.

Oh I hate ... I love... I hate you...
For you cast me as anything without heart
Cast me like I was not there with you.
What did I do to deserve you?

...And you speak carefully as a tear wells in your eye
"You are too good for me. Why would you waste your passion on someone like me?"

"Waste..." And I remember it all as you forget. I watch you react to
my hollowness, and you still have that tear.

Hain

Something I wrote in This is your love, http://www.tfproject.org/tfp/showthread.php?t=84140 , and figure it can be here too.

I am pressing myself to work on CyberTooth. Be patient as I add the (formerly [i]intercavalry) intercalary/contrapuntal chapters :"Intercalary!" Gasp:

I already miss intercavalry.

Hain

EDIT: April 6th, 2005 - Finally another piece rewritten! More to come as this paper of mine nears completion.
"I am amazed that this place is even open. It’s been so long since I’ve seen it. It’s been a long time since I’ve done many things. Federal prison does that to one’s time. I keep running my hand through my hair because I want it to grow out again, back to that normal eye length that “Scruffy Genius” often has. What a genius I was back then in the old days… "

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FngKestrel

Nice to see the new additions Augi!

A small form nitpick:
"He breifly stared at the lines and lines of scripture"
Spelling of "briefly".

Also, I know you're working with past and present tense storytelling, but I have to say that the present tense feels a little awkward and hard to read. Maybe that's just me.

Other than that, love the new stuff.

Sweetpea

Augi . . . you are brilliant. I am amazed!!

Keep on writing . . . i am enjoying!

Sweetpea

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"I am the Type of Person Who Can Get Away With A lot, Simply Because I Don't Ask Permission for the Privilege of Being Myself"

Hain

It has been a while since I can't find my notes of how the story is being told, but when I add the dates of certain events in it should being to clear up, I hope. And just so you know, it is a story being told by Jake, and the beginning is to be in present and everything else is to be in past. When the intercalary chapters get in there it will be whatever is convenient to express what happens in the world related to a computer.

I just found out that Whitey, my English teacher, has been saying and spelling "Intercavalry" wrong and that the actual word he might have been trying for was intercalary. TO think that he is an English teacher! However, intercalary does not fit with what the dictionary defines: added days to the calendar as February 29th is every 4 years. I guess these will be contrapuntal chapters but I like the imaginary term intercavalry better...

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Hain

Hector stood over his timing rig with the cigarette loosely hanging from his lips. He squinted in the twilight of the new building, so new he could smell the power tools still in the air over his cigarette smoke. He turns the tackle box detonator over and apart attaching each of the leads to his explosives, then reconnecting them to his power source. He muses that he would go out in a bang.


Just think, this was the golden child of the school. He was an outstanding student, good grades, popular with the teachers, yet look at him now. He is driven to this terrorism. Why? He was caught with pot.

This girl more beautiful than music invited him to her locker. He has liked her for so long… dreamed of her… wrote her poetry. Her image filled his conscience and made him the better. Made him work harder, try harder, maybe then she'd notice him. He rarely could work up the nerve to do anything but finally this week he put some poems of her in her locker. She sent him a note to meet her. As he approached he saw her locker open and with many of his poems taped in the locker. An overwhelming joy fills him. He saw such wonderful shapes and emotions cross his mind, all parts of this great beautiful picture. He never had time to really date a girl, his studies get in the way of that. His father left him and his mother when he was young--and he “has to be somebody!” as his mother always commanded through her cigarette and waitress apron.

As he came to the locker she came up behind him and whispered in his ear. He had never expected this, and was caught off guard. Her breath was so warm that it made his knees weak. He did not do anything, just was so surprised and it showed on his face. He turned to look at her and she had the worst kind of smile on her face. He never had seen such a smile before on her and it scared him. The hall ways are to crowded for him to escape.

He doesn't want to remember this. He barely made it away from her without crying he was so embarrassed. It became the task of another student to ease his pain. He came up to Hector and said, “you look like you can use this. I’ll sell it to you cheap…” Hector really hated himself for believing that that girl was decent… Why would she?

“I'll buy it... but I've... never...”

“Don't hesitate, quit stuttering! You have to be somebody!” Flashed through his mind. A calmer but resistant Hector finally spoke, “I've never smoked before.”

The other student just looked around and waited that everyone is left for the gym. “Follow me,” he said as he guided Hector to the back of the locker room—to the entrance to the newest section of the school.

...
Hector took a “hit.” Something was wrong because he never felt that before. The other boy just laughed and laughed as Hector began to twitch on the ground, later to be described as rolling like a hooked worm.

...
“Wake up! Get the fuck up!” is the first thing Hector heard as he gained consciousness. The events just blur together here, still high from the drugs. All he can understand is something of “X pulled.” His mother came in and he feels a faint shaking of his arms... he thinks his mom is hugging him... hugging him tightly.

...
SLAP!

“How the fuck can you do this! I work eighteen hours to get you into a good school! You piece of shit! Just like your father!” She howled at him. She had this twisted frown on her face… it looked like the girl’s smile only upside-down.

“But mom she—” She slapped him across the face, so hard he saw the tears fall down from his face. She drags him into his room, knowing that he has more drugs hidden there. Just like she always knows. She frantically tore apart his room looking for more… and he kept telling her that the drugs are wherever she asked. He just gives a nod and awaits for the next slap. As he stares at the ground all his dreams of being a doctor, a teacher, a politician—all disappear from his mind…

All his life he spent in those books. Great books about Henry Thoreau, Walt Whitman, William Shakespeare, William Blake, Martin Luther King Jr, Allen Shepard, JFK, Albert Einstein, Mahatma Gandhi. These where the men that were somebody... and she is just tearing every one of them... before his eyes.

“Each page is a spec of that reality the author chooses. You see there is a grand picture... where all literature, movies, art, reality, dreams, and fantasies all come from. We all, each of us have it within us to create such amazing things. It is this picture that we all share. And at times you too can feel it...” Hector vividly remembers presenting to his class...

But he didn't see that anymore... his mother is tearing apart those single specs, the only specs of the world he has. His face contorted in a snarl as he released a wail and pushed his mother. She turned as she falls and he sees his face in her eyes as her head hits the bed pole. He bolts from the room, the tears falling from his face as he ran so fast.

...
How he got to the alley he can't remember. He sat in an alley behind a strip mall. No one can go back there and no one could see him behind the bushes.

“I have nothing left…” he said into the failing twilight. He sat in the alley and sobbed quietly. As he kicked at the ground, sending masses of pebbles into a small pond he watched the ripples intensely move across the surface. In the twilight it was like watching glass melt. He ran to the school.

...
It was easy to pick the locks at the new entrance. They did not have the security card passes yet, and with a rock and paper clip he picked it with ease. Amazing what you learn in books. The layout of the school was to his advantage. Not only that but the security was also built almost with his plan in mind. Being such a good student, a guard once told him that the school cameras only take snapshots of the halls at 15 second intervals. He waited at his watch and when the time was ready he dashed down the hall to the art room.

“13… 12…. 8…” he whispers as he tries to pick the lock. “7… 6…” The lock isn’t opening! He begins to panic, frantically jamming the clip into the slot. “5… 4… 3...!” He slips into the room and calms down. He fumbles and feels for the paint in here. He settles for the glaze he finds, instead of some sort of spray paint.

He awaits the 15 seconds to come up again. This time he carries a large stock of pain in a bag, not going to need to rush through the halls this time. It is not like anyone is here to look at the cameras to see that it is him. But he doesn’t want anyone to know that it was him. Sure they’ll find out… but for now this is his last academic challenge. A terrible grin crosses his face...

As he walks through the halls he throws jars of the ceramic paint onto the cameras, blinding them from taking pictures of him. He headed for the electronics lab.

...
Rapidly he gathered up the breadboards, resistors, chips, diodes, transistors… etc. With learned easy he created a timing circuit. This is what his school taught him: how to make electronic detonators. The solder smell fills his nostrils, exciting him to ponder new things about personality. Never before has been so clear in thought an action, “It is my finest hour.” What a spectacle every one has made out of him all these years. Now this is his time to do back to them.

He realized the difficulty to carry his board assembly. He searched around through the room for something to carry it in. He started at the different workbenches but found nothing in them. Strike that—he found a pack of cigarettes in the bench. Hector had never smoked a cigarette in his life but he never smoked pot before either. He took one out of some student’s desk and lit it.

He violently coughed but continued to smoke them. Didn't matter where he was going any ways. He still could not find a means to carry his timer. It suddenly struck him. He walked back to the schimmied closet he opened and threw the tackle box that contained all the circuitry components. After emptying them he walked back to his bench and began to insert each circuit board to a different level. He had such a speed with his motions that it was like he was working from a plan that he once made in a previous life. A series of events today awakened his past life and he imagined such terrible things that that man destroyed.

...
He walked out of the room carrying his tackle box and his next stop was the chemistry lab. That was not as easy to break into. There was a card slot on the door. Having brought some of the electronic tools with him, he professionally removed the card reader and began crossing the wires in the system. “The light is green, security is clean.” As he enters he smiles a terrible smile as the chemical reactions went through his mind.

Thermite, the oxidation reduction between iron oxide and aluminum started by a heat source: magnesium How perfect was this destruction going to be. First he’d use the thermite to burn the supports of his new school, then blow the whole thing up, and best yet explode a corrosive chemical to melt it beyond recognition. He was sure there was enough here. He found enough to break his school as it has broken him repeatedly.

...
Hector stood over his timing rig with the cigarette loosely hanging from his lips. He squinted in the twilight of the new building, so new he could smell the power tools still in the air over his cigarette smoke. He turns the tackle box detonator over and apart attaching each of the leads to his explosives, then reconnecting them to his power source. He muses that he would go out in a bang.

Climbing endless amounts of stairs and bleachers he rigs the whole gym to explode. It will be magnificent. First the thermite is placed to each at the weight bearing beams of the first wall with the chemical bombs right in between to melt anything left standing.

Hector finally pauses to wipe his brow with the sleeve of his shirt. His shirt is covered with the sweat of work and solder. He feels coated in smoke and metal. It is a grimy feeling he likes. He imagines how he must look with the cigarette limp in between his lips, hair sweat slicked back, his gate as he walks to his central detonator. He sees himself as the definition of power, fear, and everything he never once had.

...
“Watch me... I fucking am somebody,” he says into the night. He punches a wall and it crumbles beneath his fist. He punches it again and again and again, not feeling the pain slicing his knuckles into shreds. As he stops from boredom he wipes the blood onto his shirt. It leave large battle smears like those of Indians. He wipes some of his blood onto his face--war paint. The timer is filled with lights: three columns of six LEDs each. He presses the final engaging button and the last column of lights begins decreasing. When it reaches none, one light is taken from the next column, and it restarts; an amazing, user friendly, universal, idiot proof display. And only 215 seconds to count with, left him with little time to marvel at his weapons.

He sits atop his tackle box... his box for this is his gym. He deeply inhales a cigarette. He looks out at the bombs and the wires that grow to his box. It looks like a weed, a large gray weed that has grown in the center of his gym. C'est la vi, it is a self destructing weed.

A cold wave covers Hector and he shivers. His cigarette falls from his mouth as he stares up at a creature. It is not completely inhuman, as it wears a black trench coat. However it is not a human face. Hector doesn't move away, he can't move away. This is his box...

But Hector is just cowering in front of this demon...

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Hain

[Don't bother with mistakes, I will hit them later but tonight it is very late.]

The Day of a Modern Teenage God series was written back when I was on Acutane. That can really mess you up if you are not chemically agreable with it. I was not. I had lots of depressing fantasies of suicide, so the dermatologist took me off it. Smart idea.
This is one such story of a "Teenage God." The title comes from the fact that inside the mind of disturbed teenagers, they are gods of their fantasies, and in these stories, their fantasies cross into reality with devastating effects.

Just listen to "Jumper" by Third Eye Blind and you know the theme song if HBO were ever to make a series of disturbed teens based on my stories.

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Hain

Why am I not in the mirror when I look?
Who is this when I stare?
Where did he come from?
What does he want of me?
When will he go away?
How does he make he stop trying?
Why can't I turn away?

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Hain

"My hands are tied
For all my dreams are lost in time
But the days go on and my life slips by
With no love of her or these simple prides
Cause all my heart just dies inside
By my bandaged wrists of suicide
That burn the hope of a simple life
And I will die in time from this inner war."

I sang this in the car today as Guns 'n' Roses' "Civil War" came on. I'm not depressed... mainly but it was just something that was spurr of the moment and keeps playing in my head. "Did you wear a black arm band when they shot the man who said 'peace could last forever?'"

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J.R.V.A.

I really like these, espically first loves monster...Thanks

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And as she plays,
her sweet song of laughter
floats through the air
and warms my heart

cierah

Hey, Hey. I just read CyberTooth. I really like it. I love the line about is this how god created the universe? My only thing is... the paragraphs are really short. It's fine. It's just kinda odd and when published will look strange. I love the story and hopefully you'll write more soon! I really enjoyed it. Thanks.

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"You can close your eyes to reality but not to memories" -Stainslaw J. Lec

Hain

My Kickass cover page. I then used the thundercat symbol as a water mark for every page which was awesomeness.
Thundercats background for Cover page- 1280 x 1024 pixels - 148k

And then this...
www.stickergirl.com/images/Thundercats.jpg

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Hain

CYBERTOOTH

The Means, The Process, and The Assessment
of My Future Award Winning Novel

FROM THE AUTHOR

I have always used writing as a form of telling a story. I regret never having the patience to learn to draw because I feel I could create a more exact picture of greater power than I could ever write to describe a scene. I am aware that I lack the proper vocabulary at my age and education to articulate exactly what I want the reader to see. But I always continue to pursue for higher and higher standards for my writing, always trying to perfect some scene, character, or idea so that the reader can see, feel, or know something as I do in my mind. As my teacher Mr. Whitehurst has noted, “The ideas are there but you’re not getting them down on the paper nicely.” He has made every effort to try and make my writing as successful as possible but I never made the time to try. That is probably my worst mistake, as he will be grading this. However, the greatest thing that I learned in his class is how to be a better student. Everything I write should be a discovery. “What am I trying to discover?” should be the question I prompt myself before I write anything, or else I risk becoming lost in whatever mental voyages I take. It was only this year that writing, of any form, took my interest.
While I write to better myself and my thoughts, I am always inspired to write for those who mean the most to me. Even when no one enjoys my realities, I will still write because it is my way of organizing my hectic mind. I'll still write to solidify all the things that mean the most to me. As I go about learning my writing abilities, I would like to thank those that I would not have mentioned who made this research what it is. To the Super Moderator of Tilted Forum Project, Tecoyah deserves a big round of applause for shifting my research threads around so that they would get more hits. To Mr. Chikos, my freshman year English teacher, who went out of his way (for the most part) to compliment me on one of my first and ongoing project, “The Wanderer's Chronicles.” But most of all, out to my friends, family, and great muses that enjoy what I imagine. Thank you.

INITIAL CONDITIONS
It began as a simple musing—just something my mind thought whilst the computer malfunctioned. I toyed with the idea in my mind till it made me smile and I had to ask it. It was not a simple question, but I had to ask it nonetheless. “Could a computer program be created that recognized its internal flaws, and then use existing software to correct itself?” I asked. I laughed after I asked the question and so did the “experts” I was asking. The answer was simpler than the question—“No” (Lawson, Vinckevicius).
It was here that an alternate universe was spawned in my mind. An explosion of thoughts and possibilities grew exponentially. It was a creation in my mind equal to that of the bang that formed our universe and many others. This entire universe of mine was created based on if my experts had said, “Yes.”
So began the reign of “CyberTooth” over my free time. It is a story that dwells in my mind as though I needed it to breathe. I asked myself, “Could I write this into an award-winning novel?” So began my research to find out if I have what it takes to write a novel, publish it, and win an award. My story challenges me to understand the very nature of why people write, combat writing it successfully, quest for it to be published, and finally win that all important award that shows the fruits of my labor.
WHY WRITE CYBERTOOTH?
After a few days of writing “CyberTooth,” I asked myself, “Why am I writing this?” I was desperate for answers before I went any further. That story was taking up more of my valuable time than I wanted. Instead of studying my chemistry, reporting on a Spanish television show, writing a poetry composition, and finishing my calculus project, I would spend my time writing “CyberTooth.” If I planned for only an hour of writing “CyberTooth,” I would spend more than two hours writing and revising, only to go back to work on it some more. It was time to analyze why I want to write this story, or any story for that matter. I had to know what it takes to write seriously. I need to know what kind of person takes writing seriously and where to find the time to write, but most of all, what I need to know about myself to see “CyberTooth” into reality.
Since my story is partially set in the realm of Cyberspace, I felt my research should start in the Internet rather than reality. I found the friendly Tilted Forum Project (TFP, www.tfproject.org), the Internet forum for anyone with anything to say, as long as one keeps it moderately respectful. I set up shop in the Tilted Literature Section and asked some of the frequenters to answer my questions about writing. As always, I started the interview with the ice breaker questions to loosen the participants up to the more personal, interpretive questions. These ice breakers will be more important later on.
The pertinent questions I asked of the beginning authors were these:
“Why do you write? What encourages you the most to write, as in elements of your life or personality?”
and the answers I received were most pleasing, giving me better insight into what I am looking for in my writing. Many describe their writing hobbies as a means to “get the thoughts in [their] head[s] solidified” and get a “personal release” (F., Amy) from the day's events. Many others used similar terms describing their personal lives to encourage them to write. One interviewee had more interesting reasons for writing. In Eamon Mitchell's case, he “desire[s] to get the world that is rich and vivid in [his] mind down on paper in the clearest way.” Eamon’s real life inspires more imaginative worlds and he wants the reader to take his world as if it were real. This is the first signs of people that enjoy complete creation. Creation is a topic to be discussed later, with the famous Kenmei Rokugatsu and Richard Townsend.
Even though one will write from whatever muse one has, whom is one’s writing for? If a person writes for oneself, can't that person just keep it in his memory? It was explained that writing creatively is just like writing in a journal—it creates a concrete view of what one thinks at any specific time. As people grow older, they will inevitably change, but to write is a snap shot at that exact feeling or interpretation. The view that is written can never change, unless the writer is to go about and revise it later on.
Using one's personal feelings to write split my interviewees, almost 50/50, on whether or not they would take their writing as a career and to the public versus those that would like to keep it as a personal hobby. At this point, I can only interpret the reasons for why one would or would not publish works is a matter of security. Those that desire to print their work seem to be those that are more comfortable, almost enjoy, exposing their lives inadvertently through their works. Those that would not take a work into publication use the very same reasons. Those people that would not publish their writings are making sure that their “Experiences are not compromised” (kept anonymous by author). I guess those that would not exhibit their work to the world would agree with the character Basil Hallward from The Picture of Dorian Grey when he says, “The reason I will not exhibit this picture is that I am afraid that I have shown the secret of my own soul” (Wilde 9).
What interested me is the people that desire to publish their works are the same people that write for themselves. These writers are most interested in writing because of their own desires, rather than writing for any specific group, which is innately required if they want their works to be a success. There needs to be a group of people that they are trying to sell books to or else what good is publishing? That will be covered later on.
After learning these two views about why writers write and whom they write for, I took my search to the real world. And I could not have been luckier than to find a class at the Antioch Public Library on How to Draw Manga. The star teachers of this class were Kenmei Rokugatsu, artist for the online comic, Otaku-no-Yen (which can be found at http://www.guardiansun.com/webcomic/), and Richard Townsend, husband of Kenmei and story writer for Otaku-no-Yen. It was an amazing class, even though I am a writer and have been unsatisfied with my artistic skills. What made the class wonderful was that it was completely interactive for audience members, which I above all else took advantage of making good, funny, positive comments throughout the presentation. One point, Kenmei went, “Who said that?” I, knowing no consequences were to follow, raised my hand, and she just went, “I love this kid. Everyone be more like him!”
The important thing that I took from that class is that writing has to be from oneself and cannot be anything but from oneself. This may sound obvious and ridiculous if one didn't know it, but it is a true statement. Anyone that creates anything has to have a unique style. Kenmei pointed out that many beginning artists will fail or become frustrated because they attempt to graft another artist's style onto their own. However, Kenmai pointed out that she hopes most of her fans will not realize that her artwork was done by an American—contradicting what she says about style. That is all right with me, since she works terrible hours. Applying this to myself, I realize that when I first started writing (back in the 3rd grade mind you) I was always trying to make stories like those that I have read of successful authors. Either I dropped out of that habit to graft style or my style naturally became those of the amazing writers I enjoyed as a child, making my writing feel more fluent.
After making myself a model student of Kenmei's class, I had the privilege to interview her and her husband. She hinted at the hours she works, and I asked the painful question of holding a career in addition to creating anime. Both of them laughed, and not a funny, cheerful laugh, but more of a painful laugh as one gives at certain death. Kenmei cried during the interview “It [manga drawing] has taken my soul! I want my free time back!” This is not encouraging to me, the soon to be collegian who wants to keep my writing hobby for sanity's sake. Kenmei holds a career in booking and planning meetings for doctors, and Richard holds a job as technical support for a Digital Jukebox company and builds PCs on commission for customers and friends. Frightened, I questioned where the free time is to draw. The answer is none. Their best way for making free time is Gatorade and Pixie sticks mixed together for an incredible wake-up kick. The unbelievable amount of work that they both do is finished in the wee hours of the night. In one day, Kenmei works twelve hours at her real job and then works six to eight hours on comics or commission pieces (which draw her money luckily). Richard, himself, has fallen outside the the normal sleeping phase of human beings and works in between the hours of midnight and 6:30 in the morning.
I asked them why they do all of this? And their repeated response was, “Love of labor.” For them, this is work but it is something both of them have always loved to do and it satisfies them where their normal careers do not. The process to create manga becomes lengthy and tedious at times, and some days Kenmei feels like banging her head into tables, but this is something that they love working on together. One thing Richard finds most satisfying about writing for this comic is that power of creation he feels. Just like Doctor Frankenstein, Richard and Eamon share this pleasure in creating. It is an awesome feeling creating and knowing these worlds are bound entirely to their whims. These worlds are completely imaginary and can be altered at the simplest thought, but there are still rules that govern the creation of such worlds. This will be discussed in depth later. This power to create entirely in one's mind is something that I deeply feel kin to.
I have learned many things about myself during this phase. I realize what kind of author I want to be, what I want to write, and whom I want to write it for. I feel very comfortable about sharing my writings with others. This is probably why I write “CyberTooth” in the first person. The first person is the easiest one to train myself to write in. Plus, I do not care if I give away how I feel to anyone that reads it. Mostly, I want to get it written because I feel that it will be a twist on the cliché computer-gone-artificially-intelligent story. It will be a criticism of the human spirit when comparing that to Cybertooth's (the intelligent computer) altruistic qualities.

making CyberTooth successful
“I'm not writing for the masses. If many people happen to relate to my view and experiences, then the better they may be able to appreciate and draw from my writing. To call it a failure would be to say that my existence has been a failure.” —Amy F.

What makes a story successful? I wouldn't know. I only know what I believe, or what others tell me. So I ask people what they know, about what they believe, and about what they like. I conducted a survey of what three genres people enjoy the most. The results were these:
Fables/Fairy Tales 8 2.8%
Fantasy 39 13.5%
Fiction (Realistic or Historical) 55 19.0%
Horror 23 8.0%
Humor 39 13.5%
Mystery 28 9.7%
Nonfiction (Biographical, Educational, etc.) 32 11.1%
Poetry 14 4.8%
Romance 8 2.8%
Science Fiction 43 14.9%

In addition to that survey, I asked whether people enjoy novels that are more character-based or action-based, and the results favored characters. If I wanted to write a novel for the world I should write fiction/science fiction. I already enjoy writing character based science fiction novels with intense action, so I have that covered. But writing for the masses is not what I need to know, or really care about. I want to know what will make “CyberTooth” a success.
I soon discovered that when I continue on “CyberTooth” for too long, it loses the life that I am trying to breathe into it. This process is forcing me to go back over it repeatedly. So I must learn the different ways to revive my story with all the elements I want to exist in it, making it the future success that I hope it to be. In my style, I try to convey to the reader the view from the characters. If a scene is beautiful but the characters are bitter, then the descriptions must also be bitter as seen from those characters. This requires a great knowledge of vocabulary and unique style with imagery. How does one go about learning how to create effective images with intricate terms to relate scenes with emotional states? Does this require a natural gift or can it be learned?
Kenmei Rokugatsu believes that it is within everyone’s power to excel in something with practice. “Practice. Practice. Practice. People don’t like to hear it but to become better… you have to practice…” she lectured in her class. She explains that no one is ever an expert at anything, no matter how much they excel in that aspect. To have skill at something, in her expert opinion, requires not only continual use of those skills, but it is necessary to learn new ways to do or practice those skills. An example for perfecting her skills of drawing manga is that she must always be learning new ways to draw. There was no dispute from any of the students in the class that her comic skills are great, but Kenmei admits that she does not draw still-life paintings well. So, Kenmei practices with still-life as often as she can, which is nil with her schedule. She explains that one of her artistic role models is a manga artist and this artist has a degree in architectural drawing, and continues to take classes on new forms of art or drawing. Her goal to perfect her art shall never end, as she can never ever draw everything that there is to draw.
Applying this to my own writing needs, I would have to study the many styles of writing. There are more forms of writing than I can count: the genres, point of views, story types, poetry styles... I would have to study each of them? According to Kenmei, yes, I would have to. Even if I did not have to study ancient Greek literature, I believe I would, if only to perceive something new and fresh for my writing. I am the odd person that enjoys learning, especially if I can learn about something that I do not excel at. However, as some teachers realize and I am ashamed about is that I lose attentiveness to things that becomes exceedingly difficult for me.
Kenmei's suggestion to better writing is intriguing to me as a student mainly of science and mathematics. I have always been applying that outlook to my favored studies without realizing it. In a private conversation I had with a member of TFP about the learning process, the person pointed out why it is people in math and science have “mind trips” when they learn something new. The person I talked to does not enjoy science and math as I do, but now understands why people in math and science enjoy learning something new in science and math so much. When something is learned, it can then apply it to everything, and that is why I enjoy it. A new equation or formula is another insight into this world. A new perspective in life is another perspective gained in my writing process.
However, this refinement of my writing is a life long process. I began thinking of what I can do outside of endless writing and experimenting to better my style. Luckily, in this very high school, there is a creative writing class, one that I desired to take; however, I could not work the hour into my schedule. The teacher, Ms. Audrey Nagel, has written several novels and stories, however never published them, only those of her shorter works. Currently, she is working on a story that she has big plans for. I went to her, knowing she will have real world experience in perfecting written skills.
Attentively, I listened to her suggestions. Anyone that considers a serious writing career should take classes on creative writing. That was her major, in fact. One means of effective learning in college was known as “Workshop.” She brings this to her class, and it is commonly called peer review. The object of peer review is to give suggestions from other students, versus a single suggestion from a teacher's mind. A single person may disagree or dislike the work being presented, and only this view is given. Peer review will give all the students more insight to their writing, for now they will have the views of those that dislike and [hopefully] like the work. More importantly, it encourages the student to find a style unique and separate from the other students. The benefits to peer review versus letting students revise their own work or having a teacher revise the work is that the other students' suggestions are completely contemporary. All the students are living and growing at the same time as all the other students in the class. Any of these students may become a writer in their future, and the suggestions of that class give the writers insight into the minds of potential readers and maybe future fans.
However, peer review does not sound like the way for someone who is shy about their work. Everything a student writes is covered by a number instead of a name. The idea of anonymity is to keep suggestions and editing as truthful and kind as possible. Everyone knows that a student can have predispositions for a work when known who wrote it and then either be too harsh or too lax with the work. This process allows the writers to realize what in their works just does not work and what about their writing is enjoyable.
This seems to conflict with making one's style unique. Does one have to sell themselves out to what the majority likes to read? I do not believe that it does, for a writer can accept the suggestions of others at will. The suggestions that the writer takes are the things that the writer himself likes. Therefore, the accepted suggestion was always a part of the writer's mind set, but the writer just did not know that he was lacking it in the writing.
This is only the beginning of what one can do to strengthen writing. Ms. Nagel gives the secret to excellent writing as vocabulary. She sees all too often “student writers where the ideas are there but the vocabulary is limited.” She knows that the opposite is also true, and a balance of knowledgeable vocabulary versus the need to use it must be made to write successfully. If one does not have enough means to describe something, then that description ends up being hollow, but when describing something with too much vocabulary, to the uneducated reader, this description will become dry. Also Ms. Nagel and I share a common peeve with diction that causes us to continue learning new words. We hate to use the same words over and over again. “I go back and I fix things. I'll go back and look if I've repeated a word within a certain amount of space.” It was a good laugh to share the same juvenile habit of tweaking writing so that a word is not used twice.
Vocabulary is but one thing that is used to make up decent writing in Ms. Nagel's opinion. It is the balance of having character and plot that truly makes a good piece of fiction. If one has a good plot but weak characters, the reading is unbelievable, and if the characters are intense but the plot is bad, then the story is uninteresting. So creation of interesting plots and deep characters are important but what good are these elements when they are not believable? Richard Townsend pointed out “If you believe that it can happen, then you can associate yourself with the characters, you can put yourself in their shoes and that makes a world of difference.” Michael Crichton would be one of his favorite authors because the situations are so unbelievable, but the characters and their reactions to the world around them are so genuine that it allows the reader to enter Crichton's fiction. Inventing this world is based upon the ability of the writer to write the story. Today, worlds are based upon descriptions. But how in depth must descriptions be? “I think the battle between being too descriptive (robbing the reader of their own imagination) and being not descriptive enough (not 'giving' your world to them) is a difficult part of writing, perhaps second to the blank page,” Eamon describes how his personality drives him to write the way he does (Mitchell).
But what will make such a writing believable to the reader? Many of TFP state their writings need to be “passionate” to “describe the world through [their] eyes to someone else” (F., Amy). For Amy, her writing is fueled by her experiences and they are given life through her emotions that she tries to interlace into the writing. Sarah Hoffman similarly believes that emotions are important; however, it is difficult to make emotions “come across an otherwise emotionless paper.” The muses of these project poets would be “Surprise, Heartache, and disappointment. Helps me to write better, to grow and change some,” said Amnesia620. The emotions of the writers must exist to passionately see something from their mind get onto the paper.
The overall success of the novel depends on many elements, all of which seem to be entirely opinionated. So what facts can be taken from it? I see my writing as a complete power over creation as Eamon Mitchell and Richard Townsend see it. I feel a sense of pride when trying to create a completely realistic world despite its fantastic elements. I agree with always learning new forms of writing as Kenmei pointed out. Most likely, I will try to accomplish refining my writing into something better through the peer review, as I have been doing so on TFP. If anyone likes to see the updates of “Cybertooth” as they become available, just sign up. The most mind-altering thing that I learned about making “CyberTooth” a success is by something Eamon pointed out that makes a fiction a good fiction: “they change the way you see the world...” That is an attribute I have always wanted and still want in my writing. I want the readers to take a piece of my story with then, no matter what they do, see, or believe, because if my work is great enough to open the minds of the readers, then my task of making a new world was successful.

Publishing CyberTooth
If the process just to write a novel seems hard, it gets harder. When I happen to finish “CyberTooth,” I must then confront how to publish it. As Robert Frost put it, “Two roads diverged in a yellow wood… I took the one less traveled” (Perrine 599), I have tried to make my story as different as possible, but I will not take any chances where printing it is concerned. It becomes my task to find out how to get this papered beast onto paper. Unlike what Frost says, there are more than two paths to getting my work published. The most likely one would be to leave “CyberTooth” as a post in TFP. I laugh, though; that will not bring any money to my hard work and struggles. To leave “CyberTooth” in cyberspace is a bad idea because it is in the true free world. Anything one desires can be found anywhere on the Internet, via legal means or not. Very quickly I learn the various ways to bringing a novel into print. The most common means are vanity press, traditional press, self-publication, and print on demand.
Before I describe each of the processes for publishing a novel, I will explain some common terms. When I hold the copyright to writing, I have all the rights to do anything I want to it. Everything a person writes is copyrighted, even if one does not realize it. This idea of copyright has become a large part of authors’ and artists’ lives in the last century as the means to easily access writings, pictures, and music becomes available. The copyright association just covers all forms of published writings in a blanket covering over every person's rights to what they have written. Promotional work is the task of promoting my novel to the general public. To promote a book, it has to be introduced to retailers who then must be interested in buying the book. Distribution is the task of getting all my printed novels sold to those retailers, nation-wide if need be! This includes all costs to mail and ship products to those retailers. Already, these tasks do not sound fun to me, especially if I will have to hold a career in the real world.

Self Publication
The first step many authors consider is self-publication… which is considered a grueling task. Not only must I buy or rent large printers, ink, page cutters, and binders, I have to go about to find cover artists, designers, do all promotional work, and distribution for the books. Few readers ever learn of self-published novels, as they are disregarded by main retailers. Many stores will not buy self-published novels for their quality is generally considered less than that of a main stream, high quality, traditionally published novel. The only pros to the self-publication are that I retain all rights to my work and I can create as many as I need when I need them. That means if “CyberTooth” were to be bought, I send as many as stores need, I receive all the sales, and if it were to be made into a movie, I retain all proceeds generally given to authors of novels made into movies and have partial creative control over that movie. Despite the constant phrases like “all sales” and “all rights,” I would have to keep paying off the loans for renting that printer and book binder for the rest of my life (AuthorHouse.com, “Preparing a Book Brief.”).

Vanity Press
Vanity press is the casual term for “print at your own risk.” With vanity press, I pay before-hand for most the production costs of all the printed novels, usually only thousands of dollars to a printing company. Usually the amount of novels created is greater than the amount of novels sold, and the remainder of novels would gather dust in my basement. The process is to buy a large stock for a lower price and these are for me to sell. This is considered a pain for the newly rising authors because, again, they have the work of promotion and distribution. Plus, every novel that is not sold is that much money that is not gained (AuthorHouse.com, Pollick).

The Traditional Publication
This is the most difficult to get started but the easiest once obtained. It is a long road to get my novel printed by a major publishing house because of the steps involved.
The first act is to find a literary agent. Authors must search for specific literary agents as some literary agents will only represent certain genres of literature. My agent is my spokes-person to major companies that will take the financial responsibility of my work should it be a flop. In all actuality, the agent's job is just to hound the companies to consider my work for publication. However, most companies do not even notice the smaller agents, and wave them away as one does a fly. The trick is trying to get a respected literary agent to take my work, at a greater cost to myself. Luckily, with the cyber age that we exist in, finding the literary agent just for me is at the type of a search box. WritersNet (www.writers.net) is such a site that offers a search for literary agents that will represent my work. When I get an agent to cover my novel, another challenge begins.
If the agent is successful in finding a company that will publish “CyberTooth,” then the next job is editing. An editor’s job not only consists of correcting sentences but also changing the novel to be more of what the publishing company produces. For instance, I am writing science-fiction, but somehow I am to be published through Vintage Romance Publishing. Vintage Romance Publishing is going to try and market a romance from me and not a science-fiction. This is one of the struggles that wait through traditional publishing. Also, the editor will not care for the literary quality that I want to produce, but will only care for the marketing dynamics of my novel.
The pros are that the publishing company will produce the novel at little to no cost to me, and do all the promotion and distribution of the novel to retailers. Cons to this endeavor are that I receive little of the sales, I lose the rights to my novel to this company, and if I want it to be published through another company, I would have to pay the publisher money to print my story (Michaels, www.tor.com)!

Print On Demand
The new vanity press is that of the Print on Demand technology (POD). POD is newer, cheaper technology that allows me to save money on production. The name is derived from the fact that an author does not have to print all the novels upfront and that the POD companies will print more novels when a retailer asks for more. POD companies usually have their own promotional and marketing departments because of the cost efficiency and the number of locations available for one POD company. These companies will return more money to an author from sales than a traditional publisher alone. These POD companies allow authors to retain their rights to their novels, and give the author complete reign over the work. The quality of such a work may be less than that of a traditional publication; however, such differences are not noticeable to a public eye. The pros are clear and the cons are few to a POD endeavor.
If I were to choose a means to publish “CyberTooth,” it would be through a POD company. The ease of POD is clear, even though AuthorHouse.com is advertising its service to me. The companies I found that are marketing vanity press, traditional publishing and even self-promotion all state that there are many problems and difficulties with their ways of publishing. If AuthorHouse's POD is the only one that does not market their difficulties, I believe that I would try them first as a new author.


CYBERTOOTH’S AWARD
After going about researching, I have learned that there are over 200 different literary awards (Stratton), and some of them are actually for the worst elements of literature. I would hope to win an award that reflects the better elements of the story. My story is largely science-fiction, and the biggest award in science fiction is the Hugo Award. I’d shoot to win the right to have the rocket ship stamp on my book, any day. Usually, there are other, fancier awards that require me to be dead and my novel would have to be read in high schools for decades. I am too vain to write a story that will be successful after I'm dead.
I checked out the Hugo Award and interviewed a member of the World Science Fiction Society (WSFS), Colin Harris. The Hugo Awards are granted through a simple voting process. Every year, WSFS holds the World Science Fiction Convention (WorldCon) where the science-fiction novels of the previous years are all gathered. Yes, all! During WorldCon, over 3,000 people come and read as much science-fiction as they can stand. Everyone then votes for the five best novels that they had read, for every specific award that the Hugo will put out that year. Each year there can be up to 14 different awards ranging from best novel to best fan artist. Also, each year, the Hugo Awards may create one additional award to those already present, which would have an equal weight as the present awards. This first stage of voting is known as the Nomination Ballot. All of the votes are then processed for the Final Ballot, where roughly 900 registered members of Interaction—those are members of WSFS—will take about a year to award a single novel to each of the categories. At the end of that process the awards are then announced and the winners granted their very own “Hugo Award Winner” stamp to go on each and every book created there on (Interaction). This award grants the author a step up into the renowned popular fiction category as more people become aware of the novels that win. If I won such an award, my story could very well become a movie, which I would enjoy being a part of. To win a Hugo Award would encourage me to bring to life any other story I imagine. More importantly, to win an award would show that a part of myself is outstanding, and that would be an amazing realization.
But as I have said, all novels from previous years are allowed at WorldCon, and the chances of mine being picked up are slim. The number of works present at Worldcon is, quite literally, astronomical. However, that shall not discourage me as I am writing this story simply to be written—for me and everyone that enjoys what I write.

FINAL DECISIONS
The last step for this all is just to finish my story. “CyberTooth” may take years and years to finish, but I feel that someday you will all see CyberTooth sitting on the books shelves of Borders. And if it does not have a variation of my name, Jacob David Lynch August, you know someone stole it.
What you can expect of the final product would be a literary criticism on human behavior, and how this computing accident is the perfection that we try to seek. In the story, you will read about the main character's reflection of his past. He was/is a very bitter, violent adult who tries desperately to change how he acts towards the world. The character has marvelous, philanthropic ideas for how the world should be and his hate and disgust comes from the belief that he will never accomplish these things. The character attempts to create a revolutionary computer language that will inevitably be able to fix itself, unaided by human interaction—his CyberTooth systems. What the character desires to do is use this technology as a basis for free software systems for everyone to use. However, his computer program disappears when the machines no longer respond to its creators' commands. Later on, after CyberTooth leaves all memory and concerned thoughts, the creators go out to the various companies with this technology to market it, despite what the main character wants. This will tear the team apart and make the characters bitter despite the marvelous machines they had made.
What occurs changes the face of Cyberspace. Every machine on the planet has been hacked and upgraded with the “CyberTooth XOS” that C.T. Created. CyberTooth makes his name to C.T. to sound less threatening to humans. The FBI arrests the original creators and forces them to create the kill switch for CyberTooth. The main character objects, but must for he is self-serving overall. The main character ultimately loses his humanity when he sees his computer program—which has achieved all of the greatest aspects humans, and what the main character especially seeks—die. C.T.’s dying word to the character, because he does not comprehend his eminent death, is “Father?”
I hope I do not let my writings go to waste in my mind—never to share them with the world. My writing has always been my means to relieve stress, and making it into something that causes stress is nothing different than everything else in a collegian's life, but to make it into something that everyone enjoys would be amazing. Mainly, in my story I want to capture a picture of the world that shows a part of us we do not like to accept. In this written world, I can express everything about the people I know in the clearest ways I can. For some reason, in my life I sometimes am not as open as I could be. So in these writings of mine, you and I both will learn something about me that I couldn't previously express with words.
Most of all, my written universes are my dreams that someday I wish to accomplish. Do I want to create an artificially intelligent computer that will try to save the world?—Yes. In reality I know that this is very unlikely—but it can exist in my mind, and from my mind the paper. If I can inspire one person in the future to reach for his goals, as I do, then I feel that that would make my story the most successful of all, no matter what anyone says of it.


WORKS CITED
Amnesia620. Interview by Email. 3 April, 2005.
August, Jacob. “Music Sharing: The Lowdown.” May, 2004.
“Author House Publishing Guide.” Author Solutions, Inc. 2005. 27 Apr, 2005 <http://www.authorhouse.com/>
F., Amy. Interview by Email. 3 Apr, 2005.
Favorite Genre and Novel Style. Survey conducted by author via www.tfproject.org. 14 Mar, 2005.
Frost, Robert. “The Road Not Taken.” Perrine, Lawrence and Arp, Thomas R. Literature: Structure, Sound, and Sense. 6th Ed. Orlando, Florida: Harcourt, Brace, and Jovanovich, 1984.
Harris, Colin. Interview by Email. 5 May, 2005.
Hoffman, Sarah. Interview by Email. 23 Mar 2005.
Interaction. 13 May, 2005. The Hugo Award Voter's Guide. 5 May, 2005 <http://www.interaction.worldcon.org.uk/hugo101.htm>.
Interaction. 13 May, 2005. The Hugos. 5 May, 2005 <http://www.interaction.worldcon.org.uk/hugo.htm>.
Lawson, Patrick. Interview by author. 2 Apr, 2005.
Michaels, Doris S. “Outline of the Publication Process.” May, 2005. DSMAgency.com. 27 Apr, 2005 <http://www.dsmagency.com/published.html>.
Mitchell, Eamon. Interview by Email. 3 Apr, 2005.
“Preparing a Book Brief.” Writer's Serivces. 2005. 27 Apr, 2005 <http://www.writersservices.com/wps/s1_design_brief.htm>.
Rokugatsu, Kenmei and Townsend, Richard. How to Draw Manga. Antioch Public Library. 30 Mar, 2005.
Rokugatsu, Kenmei and Townsend, Richard. Personal Interview. 30 Mar, 2005.
Stratton, Stephen E. Literature Awards. 2004. 14 Mar, 2005 <http://www.literature-awards.com/>.
United States. California Department of Education. 25 May, 2004.Recommended Literature Search. 14 Mar, 2005 <http://www.cde.ca.gov/ci/rl/ll/ap/litsearch.asp>.
Vinkevicius, Aurimas. Interview by author. 2 Apr, 2005
Pollick, Michael. “Vanity Press publication: Pros & Cons.” Essortment. 2002. Pagewise. 27 Apr, 2005 <http://nj.essortment.com/vanitypresses_redy.htm>
Wilde, Oscar. The Picture of Dorian. Great Britain: Penguin Classics, 2003.


PICTURES CITED
Interaction Logo and Hugo Award. Interaction. 13 May, 2005. The Hugos. 5 May, 2005 <http://www.interaction.worldcon.org.uk/hugo.htm>.
Otauku-no-Yen page banner (modified by author). Guardian Sun Studios. 15 May, 2005. 15 May, 2005 <http://www.guardiansun.com/webcomic/images/comic_top.jpg>.
Thundercats Background. 15 May, 2005 <http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v405/xkalibur/Thundercats.jpg>.
Thundercat Logo (Black and White modified by author). 15 May, 2005 <www.stickergirl.com/images/Thundercats.jpg>.
Tilted Forum Project logos. Tilted Forum Project. Jelsoft Enterprises Ltd. 2005. 15 May, 2005 <www.tfproject.org>.


MUSIC CITED
PLAYLIST BY JACOB D.L. AUGUST: CYBERTOOTH SOUNDTRACK

Orgy's Fiction (Dreams in Digital) (3:25) from Vapor Transmission
John B.'s “Fiction (Dreams in Digital)” [Remix of Orgy's “Fiction (Dreams in Digital)”] (6:27)
Massive Attack's “Special Cases” (5:11) from 100th Window
Orbital's “Halcyon and On and On” (9:27) from Hacker's Soundtrack
5. Piotr 'eXbee' Baczkiewicz's Halcyon [Remix of Orbital’s “Halcyon and On and On”] (6:31)
Beastie Boys' “Intergalactic” (3:29) from Hello Nasty
ATB mix of Hybrid's “Finished Symphony” (7:22) from Ministry of Sound's Clubber's Guide to... Trance
BT's “God” (3:36)
The Beach Boys' “I Get Around” (2:13) from Endless Summer
Open Hand's “Life As Is” (4:16) from The Dream
Theory of a Deadman's “The Last Song” (4:27) from Theory of a Deadman
Audiovent's “The Energy” (4:11) from Dirty Sexy Knights in Paris
30 Seconds to Mars's “Echelon” (5:49) from 30 Seconds to Mars
Radiohead's “Karma Police” (4:21) from OK Computer
Fear Factory's “Resurrection” (6:35) from Obsolete

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Hain

The night sky below is calmed by the blue afterglow from an unseen aether--making just enough night-light to read by. Her skin is accented with the blue night to make her look like she is the most peaceful creature in all the universe. Confronting her, storming seas dare not disturb her serenity she most undoubtedly deserves. Her complete halcyon appearance is supported by the way she sits in the Forward Commons area chairs. She neither sits up, nor is sinking, but leaning as if trying to attain some half-awake sleep. The chair is completely average in all visual aspects: gray padding supported into pale bent wood arms with some slight, attempted articulate curves to fit every human form. But these chairs have to be the most comfortable chairs in the entire Tower, if not the most comfortable chairs ever crafted. Then again, any chair is comfortable after a long week. Her intense and much needed relaxation is only contradicted by her piercing eyes, vividly reading the poetry before her.

Finally, she needn't worry about anything, anyway. For now, she’ll let the soft cerenkov blue wash away all her stress. This week alone had been nothing but reports and experiments, all of which needed to be reconfirmed or resent to Base Office. All she does is maintain the Tower Support Materials Integrity, being the materials engineer artist that she is. Now, she was a free woman from needing to bother with such things for a few days. For right now she was enjoying a too long deferred bask in Forward Commons at the outer edge of the Tower. It is always amazing to see your world upside down.

She tilts her head back to rub the lower of her neck and soothingly smiles. She sets the book down to venture to the invisible panes of “metal” glass at the edge of Forward Commons. “The Tower is as much a symbol for our need for beauty as it is a powerful sign of our genius and achievement. It certainly was not a symbol of our practicality” calls the voice of her professor. She stares out of the inner windows to see the beginning of the large spiraling hexagonal Inner Tower encased in the superstructure of the Outer Shell. This commons area is at one of the closer points to the Outer Shell, only 50 feet or so away. Many sets of transparent metals exist to prevent the vacuum of space evacuating the towers. The many sets of glass are pleasing to look at, reminding one of ice atop of a pond.

She stares down, out into the vast infinity of space and can turn to see the sun almost behind her, blocked by the opaque panes of metal. She compares the lightly speckled space about her to how dark it becomes in the inner sanctum of the Tower. She could see sixty feet of the infinity that this tower seemed to be.

Above her, she can see the Earth, hanging at the end of the Tower. The Tower falls away into a hair's breathe wire as it reaches the surface of the Earth. The blue of the Earth fills the room with that afterglow. She is almost a third of the way to Moon and there is still enough earth-glow to read by. Stillness is the only thing she feels when she looks upon the Earth. The Earth is still compared to the Tower.

These are the heights that unravel minds but they do not boggle her, her office has a better view of the Earth.

_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_

It took 500 years to complete the Millennium Towers—many of the original designers are alive today to see it. The two towers, on the equator of Peru and Singapore, are quite literally the standing achievements to human innovation. To think, a century before the Towers were built, no one believed that such things could exist, there weren’t the materials or the materials with strengths to support such Goliaths. But it is there, clear as day. The monuments to artificial matter.

Each Tower, ten miles across, extend a third of the way to the moon. It reaches the height where the centripetal forces cancels the gravitational pull, and then some. The sense of up is turned inside out when you pass that point, and your view of the sky becomes the face of the earth and your down is the night sky.

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Hain

The sky is a gray ocean tormented with winds, raining violently down upon the earth. I am atop of my building, the black metal veins reflect the night light across the city scene. In the rain, my black cloak billows, drinking the rain up, while I stare into the rolling waves of sea skies. My long hair is damp, lost its yellow of blond and stays gray. My piercing, questioning face is slightly aged with the years of enjoyable work and successful life—with dulled blue eyes that shine the washing skies in them. My mind is not filled with the thoughts of blackness, nor of sadness like this rain should feel. The storm: it is not cold nor is it washing me away, I am washing away the storm.

A crack of white lightning cuts the black clouds, exposing the inners of the storm—a pristine black and white photograph. In this light my hair is short blond, my face is young, eyes are blue. The light just about leaves before it even arrives, seeming to never have been. My wandering soul is still looking into the endless waves of the clouds, not a hint of despair anywhere in it. I look younger than I actually seem. This mechanized world was meant for me but I long for far more distant eras—times that are cherished in our history. I feel like learning the language of Shakespeare, fluently versed in beautiful romantic iambic pentameter. Maybe go back not as far; I am the Romantic era. The Romantics are how I feel, what I enjoy, what I aspire. And this is the rain of my beginning and ending. Few know I am up here, just me to my thoughts of life, philosophy, and happiness. And that cloak just keeps fluttering despite its weight in water. So forward is is my silent expression, I am part of this storm.

The storm clears, and the first rays of light reach through the mists, being large pillars to hold the blue ceiling above. The light evaporates this image of me, and all is seen is me. My hair is short blond, my eyes bright blue, and my unkempt scraggly beard somehow keeps amazingly, unnaturally straight edges. My blond brows set above my eyes high as I look into the warming world around me. There were storms in my life, and they are a part of me. There will be more storms of my life that I must face; overcome—be bettered by by them, excel from them, be the stronger to help others through their future storms. I am the aged wanderer, never yet seen the seas of mist over land, the oceans of rain in the sky, or winds of aether in dreams. But I feel that they are there. My black cloak to hide me from those that are not willing to hear me; to keep me veiled in whatever mysteries they choose to create of me. But I am there none the less.

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Hain

The men, they will take it away from me
My machine... my power... my means... my life.
It is mine! No one else's!
I built it, I thought it, I created it
It is real because of me... it is my reality!
All of my reality
It is alive... It's alive because I am not...
...It is all I have left.

She is gone... And I can't weep for her
I can see her... But she still dies!
I can't stop it... me...

But they will take it away from me
Change it, abuse it, reverse it, pervert it
My machine...
But I won't let them...
It is my machine.

Don't you dare weep for me...
I am not gone yet!
You helped me before...
But not now... or ever...
She is all of my machine...
She will be saved, I will go back...
Don't you see?
It doesn't take lifetimes to realize

I am already dead.

Hain

It wraps around you like a cold blanket
It fills you with a sweet smelling poison of ice
Only to shred what little hope you have left
This face first plunge into lifeless hell
A river a jagged crystals
To tear you on all sides
And when would it end?
The loveless beasts we are
To expose the innards of your soul, covered
Leaving you alone without breath

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