He's fascinating. I've never seen anyone else lay bare their insanity on paper like he does. Gives you a great window into his paranoia.
My favorite sci-fi writer who is sane is Stanislaw Lem.
Some Great Writers On This Forum
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My favorite sci-fi writer who is sane is Stanislaw Lem.
Okay. This is the beginning of Chapter 2 of Texas Medicine (by popular demand?)
B. J. Milam slammed the solid oak door to his office suite as he entered. His staff had been on the job for an hour. A cup of hot coffee steamed on his desk in anticipation of his arrival. Despite the commotion, no one in the office looked up. B. J. tyrannized the people who worked for him. He had chewed out and fired employees with no apparent provocation. It could be an article of clothing, a look, a comment, or merely being the first person to enter his field of vision. No one knew what was on his mind. The employees had learned to keep a low profile, especially when B. J. first came in.
Actually, B. J. was in a good mood. He had the world – or at least Texas by the tail. Just yesterday, he had won his fifth multi-million dollar lawsuit in three years. B. J. had come a long way from his early years in the Texas panhandle. His father had owned a small ranch outside Childress which he had tried to maintain against all odds. Finally, the big drought in the fifties had wiped him out. To support his family, B. J.’s father worked doing odd jobs around town. In the evenings he would come home and drink to ease the physical pain of his labor and the emotional pain of having failed his family. At these times Mr. Milam would be prone to drunken outbursts. B. J. was terrified of his father and tried to keep his distance.
At school, things were no better. The other students taunted him. His father had gained the reputation as the town drunk. In addition, the Milam’s were the poorest family in a town where poverty was the norm. It seemed almost every day B. J. was in a fight. The first time, he ran away, but when his father found out, he beat B. J. even worse. After that, B. J. never ran, knowing that it would be worse if he did. Through the haze of time, it seemed that B. J.’s pre-adolescence was a continuum of fights in which he was always on the short end.
The turning point came one day when B. J. got in a fight with Bubba Archer. Bubba had beaten B. J. at least a dozen times before. Maybe it was the rage, or the frustration, or the overwhelming feeling of helplessness. Maybe this time B. J. had finally had enough. On this day, B. J. fought harder than he ever had before. This time he landed an effective punch. He could feel Bubba’s nose collapsing under his fist. It wasn’t clear who was more surprised; B. J., Bubba, or the friends who stood cheering Bubba on. For an instant, everyone froze watching the blood and snot flowing from Bubba’s nose. In that instant B. J. knew what to do. With fists flailing, he tore into Bubba Archer with all the fury that had been building up over years. Blow after blow landed on Bubba. When he fell, B. J. jerked him up from the dusty ground and pummeled him some more until Bubba’s stunned cronies finally pulled him away. B. J. and the boys stared at each other, the only sound being the gurgling noise coming from Bubba’s throat. The feeling of helplessness was gone.
B. J. Milam slammed the solid oak door to his office suite as he entered. His staff had been on the job for an hour. A cup of hot coffee steamed on his desk in anticipation of his arrival. Despite the commotion, no one in the office looked up. B. J. tyrannized the people who worked for him. He had chewed out and fired employees with no apparent provocation. It could be an article of clothing, a look, a comment, or merely being the first person to enter his field of vision. No one knew what was on his mind. The employees had learned to keep a low profile, especially when B. J. first came in.
Actually, B. J. was in a good mood. He had the world – or at least Texas by the tail. Just yesterday, he had won his fifth multi-million dollar lawsuit in three years. B. J. had come a long way from his early years in the Texas panhandle. His father had owned a small ranch outside Childress which he had tried to maintain against all odds. Finally, the big drought in the fifties had wiped him out. To support his family, B. J.’s father worked doing odd jobs around town. In the evenings he would come home and drink to ease the physical pain of his labor and the emotional pain of having failed his family. At these times Mr. Milam would be prone to drunken outbursts. B. J. was terrified of his father and tried to keep his distance.
At school, things were no better. The other students taunted him. His father had gained the reputation as the town drunk. In addition, the Milam’s were the poorest family in a town where poverty was the norm. It seemed almost every day B. J. was in a fight. The first time, he ran away, but when his father found out, he beat B. J. even worse. After that, B. J. never ran, knowing that it would be worse if he did. Through the haze of time, it seemed that B. J.’s pre-adolescence was a continuum of fights in which he was always on the short end.
The turning point came one day when B. J. got in a fight with Bubba Archer. Bubba had beaten B. J. at least a dozen times before. Maybe it was the rage, or the frustration, or the overwhelming feeling of helplessness. Maybe this time B. J. had finally had enough. On this day, B. J. fought harder than he ever had before. This time he landed an effective punch. He could feel Bubba’s nose collapsing under his fist. It wasn’t clear who was more surprised; B. J., Bubba, or the friends who stood cheering Bubba on. For an instant, everyone froze watching the blood and snot flowing from Bubba’s nose. In that instant B. J. knew what to do. With fists flailing, he tore into Bubba Archer with all the fury that had been building up over years. Blow after blow landed on Bubba. When he fell, B. J. jerked him up from the dusty ground and pummeled him some more until Bubba’s stunned cronies finally pulled him away. B. J. and the boys stared at each other, the only sound being the gurgling noise coming from Bubba’s throat. The feeling of helplessness was gone.
I write very violent and sexually explicit spy novels as a hobby which you can buy on Amazon! I have my latest one that I intend to finish up whilst I avoid the NY winter down here in Florida on my lap top. I should have knocked out two more titles over the last two years but my retirement keeps getting put back so hopefully this year I can say good bye to the day job and plug on!
PKD depress the heck out of me. But still some good reading. I don't write at all, other than what I did at work. Mostly tech info on how I resolved problems. Or "NILF. Closing case."
I've penned many an astute soliloquy upon the enamel walls of bathroom stalls.
This very sentence would do very well on a bathroom stall!
I'm working on a Master's in dramatic writing in my infinite (lol, what was I thinking) free time.
One of the bright spots of 2020 is that I've been lucky enough to take class with really some fantastic people, including what tuned out to be the best class I've ever had at any level of education this past semester.
I have a play I need to have about a third done by Jan. 8 or so... haven't started yet, lol.
One of the bright spots of 2020 is that I've been lucky enough to take class with really some fantastic people, including what tuned out to be the best class I've ever had at any level of education this past semester.
I have a play I need to have about a third done by Jan. 8 or so... haven't started yet, lol.
They jump into bed the very first thing, like in Moby Dick. ?
But in all seriousness, I used to write articles and tobacco reviews for the site back in the day. For anyone interested, you can read them here:
With Pipe and Pen
With Pipe and Pen
I think Forums members who stick around and post quite a bit are people who like to write, to some degree anyway. I'm sure there are plenty of knowledgeable pipe smokers who just don't like to write much who may visit the site but never post.
Bit of a poet myself. There once was a man from Nantucket....
I’d probably say opinionated, but what you said sounds so much nicer
Only one book published. I've been considering sharing a story here from it, but I'm not sure—wouldn't like anyone lifting it. Not you, guys, but we know we're not the only ones browsing the forums.
So, I'll just leave you with an ultra short science fiction story I wrote as an introduction to a term paper dealing with, what would you now, mainstream science fiction !
_____________________
That day of the last week of October AD 2058 was meant to be an uneventful one. Amid all the events affecting the world that year none of them had had any remarkable developments on that day. As dusk came, myriads of journalists silently lamented the lack of screaming, fear-instilling headlines for the next day’s dailies as they sat imbibing their favourite drinks in their favourite bars. It was meant to be an uneventful day.
As she walked home along the strand in South Tarawa, 17-year-old Rakeinang Timon passed by a familiar landmark —a white post with red markings, one of many rise-o-meters erected along the shore twenty-one years before she was born, and which were meant to record the speedily rising sea levels. Some called them doom-o-meters, as most of their markings were red, indicative of the irreversible and terminal flooding of the atoll beneath an unforgiving and hungry sea, turned into an engulfing gigantic nemesis by the rapid liquefaction of all the ice in the world due to the ever rising temperatures. She had walked past the post so many times that she never stopped to examine it; but had she been interested in it, she would have seen the mark of the sea barely a nail’s breadth above the zero mark. As it was, the post did not even register in her thoughts, which, as she passed it, were “Oh, God! What a boring day it was to-day!”
Fifty degrees farther north and two hundred and seventy-nine degrees westwards, Eric Kimmerich came out to the porch of his farm near Elbow, SK, to enjoy a pipe as he watched the sun go down. In his early sixties, he was old enough to remember the media scares forty years or so ago about the doom that would come to many farms and communities in Saskatchewan due to a greatly diminished South Saskatchewan River —a result of the catastrophic melting of the glaciers and icefields in the Rockies; but at the end of this ordinary day his thoughts were on the new vehicle he had just bought with the surplus from his farm’s yields. As he smoked his pipe and looked proudly at his truck, his only thought was, “Oh, God! What an uneventful day!”
At the end of the uneventful day, Morisa Muir turned off the light and huddled in her sleeping bag. It was another chilly night in the valley in British Columbia where the SUFFME protesters’ camp site was. It had been eight months since the group and supporters had set up camp by the river, blocking all access to the upper reaches of the valley, in order to prevent the building of the dam in the glacial lake 56 km upstream.
The corporation in charge of the major project had tirelessly proclaimed that the project was vital to prevent failure in the moraine that naturally dammed the lake. The moraine had showed incipient signs of failure several years ago, and was now under mounting strain due to the increasing water volume resulting from the small, but steady melting of the glacier above. More than vital, the corporation’s representatives had said again and again, the project was overdue; but SUFFME (Stand Up for Freedom and Mother Earth —though their detractors normally called them ‘suffer me’ among other less flattering and colourful epithets) was having none of their balderdash: furiously and ceaselessly decrying the project as corporate greed, and as harmful beyond measure to the local ecosystems, they took action.
For eight months they had been successful in preventing all access to the moraine.
The government, afraid of appearing repressive, had kept the military away and continued negotiations that led nowhere.
As Morisa rejoiced in the power of the people united, she was suddenly shaken out of her revelry by a distant rumble. “Surely a blasted corporate chopper”, she thought angrily as she hastily got out of her sleeping bag. It wouldn’t have been the first time the corporate bozos had tried landing people on the moraine under the cover of darkness. The rumble had become a deafening roar when she came out of the tent—her contraband 750-mW laser pointer in hand. In the few seconds that followed she caught a quick glimpse of many of her fellow SUFFMEs rushing out of their tents to look anxiously at the sky, scanning it for signs of ‘hostile’ aircraft. But the danger was not in the sky: out of the darkness emerged a deluge of icy water carrying everything before it. All Morisa had time to think was “Oh, God—"
So, I'll just leave you with an ultra short science fiction story I wrote as an introduction to a term paper dealing with, what would you now, mainstream science fiction !
_____________________
That day of the last week of October AD 2058 was meant to be an uneventful one. Amid all the events affecting the world that year none of them had had any remarkable developments on that day. As dusk came, myriads of journalists silently lamented the lack of screaming, fear-instilling headlines for the next day’s dailies as they sat imbibing their favourite drinks in their favourite bars. It was meant to be an uneventful day.
As she walked home along the strand in South Tarawa, 17-year-old Rakeinang Timon passed by a familiar landmark —a white post with red markings, one of many rise-o-meters erected along the shore twenty-one years before she was born, and which were meant to record the speedily rising sea levels. Some called them doom-o-meters, as most of their markings were red, indicative of the irreversible and terminal flooding of the atoll beneath an unforgiving and hungry sea, turned into an engulfing gigantic nemesis by the rapid liquefaction of all the ice in the world due to the ever rising temperatures. She had walked past the post so many times that she never stopped to examine it; but had she been interested in it, she would have seen the mark of the sea barely a nail’s breadth above the zero mark. As it was, the post did not even register in her thoughts, which, as she passed it, were “Oh, God! What a boring day it was to-day!”
Fifty degrees farther north and two hundred and seventy-nine degrees westwards, Eric Kimmerich came out to the porch of his farm near Elbow, SK, to enjoy a pipe as he watched the sun go down. In his early sixties, he was old enough to remember the media scares forty years or so ago about the doom that would come to many farms and communities in Saskatchewan due to a greatly diminished South Saskatchewan River —a result of the catastrophic melting of the glaciers and icefields in the Rockies; but at the end of this ordinary day his thoughts were on the new vehicle he had just bought with the surplus from his farm’s yields. As he smoked his pipe and looked proudly at his truck, his only thought was, “Oh, God! What an uneventful day!”
At the end of the uneventful day, Morisa Muir turned off the light and huddled in her sleeping bag. It was another chilly night in the valley in British Columbia where the SUFFME protesters’ camp site was. It had been eight months since the group and supporters had set up camp by the river, blocking all access to the upper reaches of the valley, in order to prevent the building of the dam in the glacial lake 56 km upstream.
The corporation in charge of the major project had tirelessly proclaimed that the project was vital to prevent failure in the moraine that naturally dammed the lake. The moraine had showed incipient signs of failure several years ago, and was now under mounting strain due to the increasing water volume resulting from the small, but steady melting of the glacier above. More than vital, the corporation’s representatives had said again and again, the project was overdue; but SUFFME (Stand Up for Freedom and Mother Earth —though their detractors normally called them ‘suffer me’ among other less flattering and colourful epithets) was having none of their balderdash: furiously and ceaselessly decrying the project as corporate greed, and as harmful beyond measure to the local ecosystems, they took action.
For eight months they had been successful in preventing all access to the moraine.
The government, afraid of appearing repressive, had kept the military away and continued negotiations that led nowhere.
As Morisa rejoiced in the power of the people united, she was suddenly shaken out of her revelry by a distant rumble. “Surely a blasted corporate chopper”, she thought angrily as she hastily got out of her sleeping bag. It wouldn’t have been the first time the corporate bozos had tried landing people on the moraine under the cover of darkness. The rumble had become a deafening roar when she came out of the tent—her contraband 750-mW laser pointer in hand. In the few seconds that followed she caught a quick glimpse of many of her fellow SUFFMEs rushing out of their tents to look anxiously at the sky, scanning it for signs of ‘hostile’ aircraft. But the danger was not in the sky: out of the darkness emerged a deluge of icy water carrying everything before it. All Morisa had time to think was “Oh, God—"
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