Serenity Base Camp

The Last Monk

More from Adrien Girod. “The Last Monk” I can’t get enough of this guy


Around about 1993, sitting around a table tapping magic cards with a bunch of other nerds, the discussion turned from the infrequency of lotus cards and the need for more blue land to the then very new internet. Our Nerd in Chief Deva, who sat in the throne next to the wood burning stove across the room from us, shared his royal two cents. It was possibly the most prophetic and cogent couple of sentences I may have ever heard.

“Even if all you ever did was sit in front of a terminal and read all the stuff on the internet, you’d still never be able to know it all. A tiny fraction of a percentage. And it’s always getting bigger,” he said, or something like that. If I search for it I might be able to find it exactly.

Anyway, recently I’ve had to suspend my fractional readings regarding all the hullabaloo around this year’s now notorious Hugo Cluster Event. WE BOUGHT A HOUSE!


This pad will become Serenity Base Camp for the foreseeable future. RE: Hugos, I’m pretty much unaware of what’s going on and who said what. Honestly, it was getting to the point where the self-identified Sad Puppies were starting to sound a whole lot like a broken record. Endlessly spinning around and around on that same list of broken rationalizations for their actions. So, moving our house, one more time, has actually become somewhat of a relief.

And now that I’m taking a momentary break from stuffing all our worldly belongings into various sized cardboard containers I cast my searches out into the internet and discover that not a whole lot has changed.

The big update seems to be from the handful of people who unknowingly made it onto the SP slate or made the short list otherwise. Connie Willis has told the world that she won’t be presenting at the Hugos.

“You may have been able to cheat your way onto the ballot. (And don’t talk to me about how this isn’t against the rules–doing anything except nominating the works you personally liked best is cheating in my book.) You may even be able to bully and intimidate people into voting for you. But you can’t make me hand you the Hugo and say “Congratulations,” just as if you’d actually won it. And you can’t make me appear onstage and tell jokes and act like this year’s Hugo ceremony is business as usual and what you’ve done is okay. I’m not going to help you get away with this. I love the Hugo Awards too much.”

And both Marko Kloos and Annie Bellett have declined their nominations. I think these three should be commended for their level of personal integrity. That’s got to take some moxie, a whole rocket full.

There may be more. Who knows? I’m only capable of understanding a tiny fraction of what’s going on out there.


Most pictures are worth about a thousand words. This one seems to be worth at least two. “How do you know this?” you ask. Well, because I just wrote another thousand and change because of it. Thanks again to Chuck Wendig for hosting these little teasers. Now that you’ve completed draft on your next novel let us see what you can do short form.


“As you can see the integrated rover housing can be adapted to a great variety of applications. Spacing of trees in your orchard isn’t ever a problem. We’ve sold these units to citrus farmers in the Republic of Cali and to apple growers along the Yakima. Additionally, the individual pollinators can also be changed out in whole racks. Not only does this make cross pollination possible, but it means you can mix your root stock and still get the job done before the sun sets,” said the stick-thin figure from the back of the hydrogen splitter.

The rig was shiny and it looked foreign. It purred like a barn cat with a mouse as it soaked in the sunshine converting water to fuel in its cells. I think everyone was eyeing the petro-plastic covering the six wheel wells on the skinny man’s truck, there had to be enough there we could melt it down and fashion a shed or a house or something. It was black too, which meant there was some sorta dye embedded in it. That’s the kind of stuff you want to use for a water heater or even irrigation. Everyone knew that. Everyone imagined tearing it off the side of the transport.

A hand rose from the middle of the crowd of men and boys that had packed into the alley near the General store, it was Martin Kenny’s. The skinny man noticed Martin and said, “Yes sir, are you interested in buying a Rainier Robotics Automated Pollination Platform?”

“No sir,” Martin replied, “I’m still trying to figure out what you’re selling, to be honest. You talk fast and use a lot of fancy words don’t none of us understand. But what I really want’ta know, would you be interested in selling me the plastic on your rig?”

The skinny man looked surprised and it appeared as if he’d lost his place in the script as he looked out into the gathered crowd of orchard men. With the question out there all we could do was speculate. It’s possible, where ever he hailed from, the petro-plastic along the side of that truck wasn’t such a scarcity. All we had was the kind made from potatoes and sump juice and it crumbled in the sunshine and melted in the soil. Using it to water an orchard is nothing but a waste of time because by the time you finish one end of an installation you’re likely ready to replace the end where you began. All of us work orchard lands above the river, and irrigation pipes is the only way to get water up from the river, so that’s just what we do. Last harvest my cherries fetched only enough in potato exchange for me to replace pipe in the upper orchard. This spring I’ve been doing nothing much more than patching and glueing getting ready for the dry spell.

Martin Kelly is renowned along the upper Wenatchee because the piss-plastic he cooks up behind his swine stables stands up better than most. Forgive my crudeness it’s just what we call it. So when he starts asking this stickman to buy the petro off the side of his rig everyone standing there starts to worry. The little fella standing on the tail gate of his rig, he just pushes on down the track like Kelly’s question weren’t no obstacle.

Something changes in the man’s demeanor like he’s suddenly remembered something important. He pulls a raggedy straw hat from behind a couple of large boxes and plops it on his head. Then he looks down at his shiny shoes for a moment and mumbles something none of us can understand.

“My apologies old son. I can’t help you much with your plastic problems. I’m here to solve your pollination problems,” the skinny man says direct to Kelly.

“And I have it on good authority,” he then proclaims like a Sunday preacher, “that all y’all have been doing your own blossom pollination for time out’ta mind.”

Now I can hear the difference I just saw in the skinny man, he’s a mimic and I suddenly don’t trust him. It’s like he went home and put on a nice clean shirt and new pants, even though he’s wearing the same damn clothes. He sounds something like the people along the Wenatchee. Everyone standing there notices the difference too, like night and day.

Toby Williams, the kid brother of Vance who owns the land along the Chumstick, pipes up without waiting to be called. “So your saying that lil box-thing does the work of spring time probing?” The kid has been ruffling feather ever since his big brother come down ill with the pox, but I say he stepped up and took on that patch of cherries. No one around Peshastin has near that many trees, I say let the kid be he’s proved his worth and knows his roots.

The skinny man beams a grin at Toby that for some reason seems to calm the clucking men. If there’s an inch of extra skin on this fellow it’s below his clean shaven chin, and it bunches up there as if to underline the smile. “Son, that’s exactly what I’m sayin’. This here machine does all the work bees and butterflies used to do.”

The sound of jaws hitting the crumble-stone beneath our feet is audible. Toby, young man that he is, responds skeptically. “Skinny man, what’s a bee?”

“Like this here petro-plastic bees just ain’t no more.” The skinny man turns away from the crowd for a moment, pokes at the machine. Out pops a long rack of intricate, little clockworks on a long arm. It looks something like a wall of tiny winter coats, each one the same and hung next to it’s neighbor. I estimate there has to be a thousand of them.

From the wall the skinny man bends over and picks a single device. He cups it in his hands and turns to the crowd. “Some ah y’all are probably just old enough to remember what a bee was,” he proclaims loud enough for all to hear. “Something like an apple moth, but it don’t eat fruit. In fact, before the time of probes and picks, these lil buggers made fruit. They’d just buzz around your orchard and do the probe work for you.”

It’s a distant, hazy memory, but I can still recall bees. Well, a bee. I find myself looking inside, sorting through years of rubbish, for that image of a kettle-bellied yellow and black body struggling at my feet. My Father had said it was a bumble-bee. That it was dying for some reason that I can’t recall. And that it wasn’t the only one I’d see die like that, but I can’t recall any others. The old men in the crowd, they’re all remembering too.

“Son, these insects, they’re all gone now, but they made orchard work easy,” said the skinny man. He opens up his cupped hands and the little clockwork begins to buzz. It hovers for a blink of my eye and then darts off into the blue.

Wang That Chord

Myke Cole and I have had our differences. My first impression of him was somewhat negative if not muddled. I had recently self-published The Big Red Buckle and shown up to Legendary ConFusion in order to get to know other writers and fans involved in the genre. It was morning, before the opening ceremonies, and we met in the restaurant. I’d never heard of him, he’d never heard of me. He offered his business card, I responded in kind. He refused my card because it was “too large.”

I spent the rest of that weekend feeling mildly persecuted because of my decision to self-publish my first novelette, but whatever, pretty much everyone else I talked to at ConFusion had previously jumped through those same hoops themselves and so the convention ended a success. I walked away with a couple of new friendships, a better understanding of how these things work, and a renewed sense of what I needed to do in order to get my writing out there. Despite everyone’s else’s assurances that Cole was “really a good guy” I also left with a bitter taste in my mouth from our subsequent interactions. I think, for whatever reason, I rankled him and he in turn annoyed the hell out of me. All the drinking may have contributed to this mutual animosity.

It’s now been more than a year since that initial interaction and we’ve done an admirable job of getting things back to the way they were before that fateful morning at ConFusion. I don’t usually read much of what he writes, he steadfastly refuses to read my writing (I can only assume).

Cole’s contributions occasionally pop up in my social feeds from time to time. Mostly I have steered clear of his writing because, man, first impressions are really hard to shake. Honestly, while I’d rather not feel butt-hurt over that weekend, I admittedly have felt that way. And what a shame it is to feel butt-hurt.

Yesterday, because I was looking for more of what people in the business of writing have to say on the whole Hugo Cluster-Event 2015, I browsed Cole’s blog. So far, nothing about said Cluster-Event but I couldn’t help myself and I ended up reading about his next book release. I came across a post entitled “Nobody owns the military experience” which had nothing to do with the Hugo’s yet still felt very familiar to me.

The mil­i­tary expe­ri­ence belongs to *everyone.* No one who lives in any society is untouched by a mil­i­tary. An 80 year old woman who has never served, but has lived through the American inter­ven­tions in Iraq and Afghanistan has just as much “own­er­ship” over the expe­ri­ence as a 25 year old Marine who has fought in both of them. One expe­ri­ence is no more valid than the other. Both of their sto­ries are “mil­i­tary” sto­ries. Both deserve to be told. -Myke Cole

Notice, I’m not claiming that I’ve read Cole’s blog and come to the immediate realization that we’re actually bosom buddies separated by service or birth or even a bad business card exchange. Should we ever meet face to face again, it is possible whatever about me irritated him before will likely continue to nettle him in the future. I’m not wholly a different person than I was in January 2014. I still make mistakes, I can and have made bad impressions, and in order to conserve razors I shave a lot less.

But I wanted to say that I’ve given at least his blog some time and thought and for the most part what I find there is valuable. I now plan on opening a book or two. Cole has done an excellent job of articulating some thoughts and feelings I’ve been nursing, beginning with the aforementioned blog post. Yeah, I’m no saint, but at least I’m big enough to recognize common ground. I’ll never make music if I constantly strike the same damn cord. Hopefully my repertoire will grow a little bit from this experience.

Well done Mr. Cole, well done. I wish you all success with Weapons in the Earth in OPERATION: ARCANA.

I Volunteer to Master the Ceremony

BRB Rates so Low (even on my café’s bulletin board)


I was working out some thoughts on the 2015 Hugo nomination short list when it occurred to me, “This year is your year to host the awards ceremony.” In fact, what better year could there be?

I’m a Science Fiction author that nearly no one knows. My books and stories rate so low on pretty much any publication list that their mere mention can be counted on to elicit an underwhelming “What, who?” from anyone unlucky or bored enough to be reading reviews that far below the fold. Because of this I am peerless and practiced at holding my head up just high enough to pass below the hangman’s knot. I know the perils of invisibility all too well, and as such I’ll be able to represent those nominated without outshining or upstaging.

I can remain pleasant, nay even jovial, in the company of uncomfortably narcissistic people. You can find asshats in any workplace, but I’ve spent more than two decades working at places unnaturally blessed with them. My scorn for their ostentatious choices in everything from cars parked below the office block to project timelines remains necessarily obscured. I have a demonstrable track record of being able to separate myself from crazy; quietly look on with a smile while not partaking from the kool-aid.

We’re located so darn close, a measly 279 miles from Spokane, and thus my speaking fee would be necessarily be a fire sale bargain. I drive a Prius, which is powered by weasel farts, and I can complete the round trip drive in less time than it would take to get through a TSA inspection line on a single tank of stoat emissions. Plus, I’ve already bought my ticket.

This year’s Hugo award script is going to be a cinch to write. In fact, I’ve already worked out the basics.

I’ll open a tastefully off-white envelope as if I’ve never looked inside. “The 2015 rocket for best novel,” I’ll say, “goes to Ann Leckie, Ancillary Sword.” Everyone will clap and cheer, Ann will walk across the stage and accept her award, thank a few people for her successes, and then return to her seat.

This announcement will be followed by about five minutes of me saying, in a dead pan voice, “No award.” I will wait for applause, holding my breath and counting to twenty-seven, knowing that they’re just not going to happen before moving on to each subsequent envelope. I’m telling you I’ve got this.


This is flash fiction piece is in response to a Chuck Wendig – Terrible Minds challangy thing. And, boy oh boy, do I love some flash fiction challenge. Dig it? Hate it? Lemme know.


“No, I’m telling you it wasn’t the Somanetics. Not this time. In fact here,” shouted Emerson while holding out a hand sized electronic device, “take a look. Sam, beyond the recording they didn’t register anything.”

The street café wasn’t the quietest place to share a cup of Koff. Traffic honked, rattled and bumped along the double decker transport pads on the far side of the sound barrier. The walls of Chilango’s colossal architecture shaded the café and echoed the cacophony back at the pair.

“No kidding,” replied Sam sipping at the hot bowl of synthetic morning juice he had just brought back from the register. He put the bowl down and scrolled through the previous night’s nocturnal recording. “You didn’t, I don’t know, accidentally leave a plunge in the queue did you?”

The look on Emerson’s face said it all, but he reiterated for clarity. “No damn it. Who’d do that anyway? That mierda will just mess you up. I’m telling you I went there on my own.”

“Yeah? I just don’t see,” Sam paused to take another sip of the bitter-dark drink. “Wait, how do you know you went anywhere? I mean, maybe you just had a dream, right?”

“Check the coordinates at the beginning of the dream,” said Emerson.

Sam’s thumb swiped and tapped on the device. He put down the bowl of Koff and picked the device up from the table. “Hmm,” he said. There was more swiping and tapping, this time with two thumbs and a finger.

“What are you doing?” asked Emerson.

“Well, finding out where this is for one thing,” Sam said. “I mean, I’ve never seen anything like this before. Have you? Well, obviously you have, but where? Haven’t you always lived here Em?”

“Yeah Sam. And I mean ‘no’ I’ve never seen that kind of a place before. When I woke up I had to go look it up on the informática. I cross referenced that image with every place I’ve ever been. Chilangolandia? It’s never had a cherry tree in it. Let alone that many,” Emerson said with an excitement his biochemistry probably could not support. It was still pretty early in the morning.

“Em, these coordinates don’t map. Well they do, but its to the middle of the ocean,” Sam interrupted.

“I’m telling you Sam I walked down that path, just like the recording shows it. I don’t know, it was chilly and wet. Not like Chilango. I think it was morning because the light was all pink,” Emerson said with conviction.

“Look Em, there’s got to be an explanation. Maybe we should finish our Koff. Aren’t you going to get any?” Asked Sam. Emerson crossed his arms and shook his head. Sam continued. “Then I’ll take you to the Oneironautica and they can check out your hardware. Maybe something’s gone wrong with your deck. Maybe you just need a reset. Jeez, let’s hope it’s your deck.”

Emerson scowled at his friend. “Sam, listen to me. You’re not listening to me. I already ran the full diagnostic on my deck and my head. All negativo my friend, and the Oneironautica validated the tests.” Emerson sat up in his chair and snatched the device from Sam. He scrolled around a bit and held an image of a stone path, inundated in florid water vapor, and bordered by blossoming fruit trees. “I’m telling you, this place is real. I went there last night. I did it without the deck,” Emerson said emphatically pointing at the image.

“Okay, alright,” Sam replied holding his hands palm out in supplication. “I can see that this dream has got you all wound up. And why not, it’s a beautiful place.” Sam gestured with his right hand at the booming, urban canyon where they were situated. “It’s certainly better than anything I’ve ever seen.”

The two sat across from one another, Sam sipping at his Koff. Emerson studied his friend in silence.

“Do you think you can go there again?” asked Sam.

“That’s the thing, I don’t know how I got there in the first place. I don’t know where ‘there’ even is. I walked in this dream for seventy-three minutes and there was no one else. No markers, no signs. Only fog, cherry trees and the brook. If this was someone’s plunge they don’t want to get paid. I couldn’t pay them if I tried,” Emerson said.

He looked up at his friend’s face. Sam had that grin on his close shaved jaw that Emerson knew all too well.

“Oh no,” Emerson said.

“No wait,” Sam replied.

“No you can’t have the recording. Sam, you can’t have it.”

Sam feigned injury, then sat up in his little café chair. “Good idea Em, but not what I was thinking. There’s plenty of plunge in any bodega.”

“Then what?” asked Emerson.

“Well, we’ve got the full recording, thank you modern medical science, and that’s sort of a map, right.” Emerson sat silent, he could tell that Sam needed to talk this one out. “You’ve got all the brain chatter and chemical levels and whatever recorded, and the deck can reproduce those directions when you tell it to. It could even tell my head to follow your map.”

“So you want me to what, play it like an induction plunge?” Emerson asked incredulously. “There’s a reason all I ever play on my deck is certified sleep Somanetics. You know that stuff can mess you up.”

“Yeah, but how we gonna know? How else we gonna know?” Sam asked and Emerson knew he’d already made up his mind. “I’ve got the wiring, just need a deck right?”

Emerson sighed deeply. “The deck and twenty years of grade A therapy.”

Sam poured the remainder of the Koff down the back of his throat and stood. “Just think Em, you may have stumbled onto something big. I mean huge, right. You know, dream therapy I never really liked much. But getting out of here, getting the fuck out of Chilango? That’s worth the try.”

Sam wiped sweat from his forehead, Chilango walk level already sweltering and the sun had yet gotten over the artificial albedo. “Come on, let’s go get a deck. This place is too damned hot.”