Writer's Playground

Here is my finished story, the one that got a handwritten rejection note from the Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction saying "Good luck!" (you kind of have to have submitted stuff to know how amazing that is.)

A SINGULAR BEING

by Linda Talisman

For once, Newmia's eight minds were in agreement: it was exciting to have been summoned by Netsen, renowned leader of TCSEE, the Telecognate Collective to Search for Extrinsic Entities.

"Welcome to TCSEE, Newmia."

"Thank you, Savant."

"Please call us Netsen. Newmia, you are here because your work in the Learning Collective shows you are an unusually gifted telecognate. You have shown not only an

ability to perceive, but an insight about your perceptions which would be an asset to the Telecognate Collective.

Newmia flushed bright blue. "Thank you, Sav-- Netsen... We don't know what to say!"

"No expression of thanks or other thoughts is necessary."

Newmia adjusted the intensity of her color until it was a soft, dull blue. Do we always have to blend in with the crowd? said Newmia Finta, Newmia's boldest and sometimes contrary fifthmost self. Can't we be a brighter color for once? Newmia's other seven selves silently shouted NO!

"We have decided it is time for you to begin, without the customary period of advanced instruction on the history and workings of TCSEE," Netsen continued. "As is now well known, all complex cognitive organs transmit and receive thought signals by modulating low frequency electromagnetic radiation. The joined mind of the Telecognate Collective detects and records the faintest signals from the farthest reaches of extrinsic space. Many extrinsic entities, such as the Sinten you will be observing, do not dwell in water, but on land, so don't be confused by how different everything is from anything you've experienced. We know you have learned of creatures with bony inner structures, so don't be distracted by their static form and rigid way of moving. You will find that like many extrinsic entities, their perceptions of time and of self are quite different from ours. Other than providing you with these basic facts, we will let you discover for yourselves."

With the eyes of her minds, Newmia perceived the strange dwelling places of the Sinten. They were all angles and corners. Hundreds of the creatures lived in separate compartments of one enclosure, rarely more than four to a compartment. Sometimes only one being inhabited a small compartment, yet did not interact with the others around it.

Newmia's minds saw "buildings" (as the Sinten thought of their dwellings) that no longer existed, and those yet to be built; individuals no longer embodied, and those yet to be.

The inhabitants of the enclosure were preparing for sleep, ending the conscious portion of their rotation.

There was a word in the beings' minds for those whose bodies no longer functioned. They thought of them as "dead." To the Sinten, "dead" meant gone, never to return. Yet Newmia observed that "dead" Sinten were as present among the living and eager to communicate as Imray who had transcended to the next phase of existence, as had Newmia's mother.

Newmia had watched her mother from inside her egg in the nesting cave, as the large, soft many armed being blew water over the nest, keeping it clean. When the eggs had started to hatch, Newmia had floated with her many siblings as their tiny voices joined their mother's, their birth song filling the cave. Slowly they had emerged from its mouth, to where their father waited, joined by those present in body or just in mind to be part of the Birth Transcendence Collective. All present circled their mother and her newly hatched offspring as she sank to the sandy bottom, her corporeal existence ebbing. The birth song became a song of passage from one state to the other. Then the young ones slowly, gracefully floated toward the light above, where they would dwell in the Learning Collective until mature. Bottom dwelling beings waited respectfully for the song to be over before claiming the organic remains.

Returning her thoughts to the Sinten, Newmia tried to narrow her telecognition to select one being among the hundreds to observe. It was confusing, as she was expecting to find eight linked consciousnesses sharing a sense of self, but realized the eight did not exist in the same space. They thought of each other as "neighbors."

Excluding the other seven from her thoughts, she selected one. He called himself "Martin." His mother had left the corporeal realm not long before. She had been called "Esther." Martin thought of her constantly, consumed with grief at her loss. He was certain she was no longer with him, yet Newmia perceived Esther, close to Martin, wishing to communicate, reassure, touch him. Martin missed Esther, as if part of himself had been torn away. What could it be like to lose part of yourself, when you were only one to begin with?

Martin dreamed he was in the public square of a quaint little town. There was a town hall with a square clock tower, a white, steepled church, a courthouse with shallow steps leading up to a platform beneath towering Greek columns.

Martin was from Flatbush, in Brooklyn. He had rarely been out of New York City in his life, though he might have passed through a town like this when he'd driven with his brother Jake and family to Boston for a vacation. He could imagine the town's mayor giving a speech to its assembled citizens from atop those courthouse steps. As a matter of fact, the front of each building surrounding the town square was full of people, gentlemen and ladies dressed as if for a 1950's black and white movie. They were applauding and cheering, as if someone were making a rousing speech. But no one was.

Instead, on the courthouse portico lay his mother, wearing the hospital gown she'd worn the last weeks of her life. She was dying. The assembled populace was cheering for her.

"Why don't you help her?" he wanted to scream. But he couldn’t speak or move. He seemed to be there, watching, and that was all.

His mother's breaths were long and rasping. An unbearable pause lengthened between each one. During Esther's last days of life, a hospice worker had sometimes administered a few drops of liquid, and her breathing had eased. Now there was no ease. "She's dying! Help her!" But he had no voice.

The people began to sing "For she's a jolly good fellow." They sang it again and again.

After endless choruses, the tempo slowed. They joined hands and sang "which nobody can deny, which nobody can deny," more and more softly, until the sound of their voices faded out.

His mother lay on the platform above the courthouse steps, dead. After a final round of applause, the townspeople walked away, some chatting quietly in twos and threes. The square was empty. Slowly, as if in a procession, five feral dogs padded to where she lay. They sniffed. One of them began licking Martin's mother's right arm. Quietly, the dog settled down and began to gnaw. Another chewed on her face. Having gnawed off a piece of what used to be Martin's mother, each dog solemnly walked away carrying its prize.

Martin awoke screaming.

Newmia joined her minds with the Collective, reviewing her previous session. She realized there was a period of time during which her minds had continued recording Martin's thought signal while her attention had wandered, as he had entered the state of sleep.

He heard our thoughts! said Newmia Dota, Newmia's secondmost self.

He couldn't have, replied Newmia Teta.

He must have, said Newmia Dota. Why else would he dream of the Transcendium?

What do you mean, the Transcendium? said Newmia Anta. That wasn't the Transcendium!

A being watches passively while its mother passes from one state to the other, as the Collective rejoices. The "townspeople?" "Singing?" And those creatures that came for the remains. He called them "dogs." They were like bottom dwellers.

But we were receiving, not transmitting, said Newmia Teta.

Besides, said Newmia Fonta, it's impossible. The Sinten don't know what's to come, and by the time our thought signal reached him, Martin would be long "dead," as the Sinten say.

Would he? said Newmia Finta, with rising excitement. They can't see the future, but maybe we can transmit into the past. Look at the inter-time signature of the dream. It coincides with that of our thought-wandering.

Poor Martin, said Newmia Sefta, Newmia's sensitive seventhmost self. We made him feel worse!

Yes, said Newmia Teta. We're supposed to study them, not hurt them! Savants observe, we don't intervene.

Savants discover, said Newmia Finta.

What have we discovered? said Newmia Sefta.

Perhaps, replied Newmia Finta, that telecognates send thought signals as well as receive them.

Signals that travel through time as well as space, enabling beings on distant worlds to receive them immediately, added Newmia Fonta. We must conduct an experiment to test this hypothesis.

At the close of Martin's current rotation as he prepares for sleep, said Newmia Anta.

Ideally, he should be asleep, so the conditions will be as close as possible to last time, added Newmia Fonta.

Sleep thoughts are unpredictable, said Newmia Teta. We must send a simple message this time.

Something common to our world and theirs, so he will recognize it, said Newmia Dota.

But unusual enough that we will recognize it as a likely result of our transmission, said Newmia Finta.

Water is so common on their world that it exists inside their bodies, said Newmia Octa.

Yet it's unusual for them to be immersed in it, said Newmia Seta.

They do not breathe it as we do, said Newmia Anta.

We must think of water. Focus on it moving through our gills, said Newmia Dota.

If Martin dreams he is immersed in water, we have evidence he received our transmission, said Newmia Fonta.

If he dreams he is breathing water, we have excellent evidence, said Newmia Finta.

Newmia tuned her minds to the thought signal and locality she'd isolated during her previous session. Something seemed different, however, and she realized what she'd received was a composite signal from Martin and Esther, and only part of it was present now. Martin was not there. She detected the formless presence of Esther before a row of framed photographs. Esther had carefully tended, dusted, and smiled over these pictures when they had stood for decades atop the dresser in her bedroom. Now they were precariously balanced before a row of bestsellers on a shelf in Martin's living room. They were of Martin and Jacob as infants, children, boys, young men, and one of Esther and her husband Frank on their wedding day.

Esther's eyeless gaze moved from picture to picture, again and again. Each image on paper under glass filled Esther's consciousness, expanding, swelling, blurring together with seventy-five years of memories. Her husband, dead. Her sisters, gone. Her father, her mother... No one but me...gone, all gone...I'm gone...no one... no one...no one... The being Esther was suffused with grief, no voice to speak, liquid from eyes that weren't there. "No," thought Newmia, her ink tube clogged with tears. "No. The Sinten cannot exist without their bodies."

Newmia had use of a small chamber in the cave of a TCSEE member, its muted colors interrupted by bright bits of potted sea foliage she'd brought from her dwelling chamber at the Learning Collective. In selecting the foliage she grew she allowed Newmia Finta's fondness for bright colors some expression.

Newmia dreaded what she planned to tell Netsen, all the more because he no doubt already knew. The Sinten often thought one thing, said another, and no one ever knew.

Her excitement about her discovery, already tempered by remorse for Martin's bad dream, had been washed away by her compassion for Esther.

"Newmia?" Netsen's virtual presence shimmered beside her, pale gray. "What troubles you?"

Only Newmia Finta could say.

"We can't stand another day of telecognating those... those creatures. We've cognated way too much about them already. We don't understand them at all, and we don't want to!"

"Calm," Netsen said. "Let your upset bubble out your gills, and let fresh clean oxygen stream in."

Newmia bubbled.

"Now. Begin again. What troubles you?"

"They live only to die. They feel, they love, only to lose, again and again."

"Good. You're making excellent progress!" Netsen said. "Besides, we sense you have made an important discovery."

"Yes, and we wish we hadn't."

"We sense your remorse. We know you find the Sinten disturbing, but you are a savant. Your investigation must come before your feelings. You must continue."

"But--"

He was gone.

"Very well," Newmia said to her potted hibernium. "We will."

Martin slept fitfully after replaying the last year of his mother's life in his mind, as he did every night. He and Jake had moved most of Esther's possessions to Martin's home, to Jake's, or to storage, preparing to sell her house. Newmia noted Esther's constant presence near Martin, near Jacob, or among the gradually dispersing remains of her former life. This bodiless presence contemplated its existence with inarticulate dismay.

How can two beings exist in such close proximity without connecting? said Newmia Anta.

I can't stand to see them like that, said Newmia Sefta.

I can't stand it that there's nothing we can do about it, said Newmia Octa.

Maybe there is, said Newmia Finta.

Her mind is lost without its organ of cognition, said Newmia Dota. His is full of memories of his mother. Maybe we can--

Bring them together? said Newmia Finta.

That's no way to replicate our previous results! said Newmia Fonta. We must test our hypothesis!

Why? said Newmia Seta.

We wanted to quit, said Newmia Anta.

Netsen wouldn't let us, said Newmia Dota.

We care more about Martin and Esther's feelings than about our hypothesis, said Newmia Sefta, so maybe we're not the savant Netsen thinks we are.

Speak for yourself, said Newmia Finta. If we do this, and it works, it will be more evidence for our hypothesis. If it doesn't work, it will help to disprove our hypothesis.

That's what savants do, said Newmia Octa.

That's what we do, said Newmia Fonta.

Martin awoke with a start. Someone was in the room. Someone, or something was sitting beside him on his bed.

The smell of death surrounded him. A pattern close to his field of vision reminded him of something. That pattern. He and Jake had searched for it frantically in their mother's closet, looking for her favorite dress. The dress they had buried her in.

What was in front of his eyes was its sleeve. At the end of the sleeve was a gray lifeless hand. Lifeless? It was moving toward his face. He started in terror, the kind of panicked jump that should have propelled him off the bed and halfway to the front door, but he lay motionless.

With sudden merciless clarity he took in the scene; the decayed corpse in his mother's dress sitting on his bed, jawbone visible where part of her cheek was gone, one eye socket dark and vacant, the other housing a dull, jelly-like blob, about to fall. As his eyes adjusted to the dim light he realized her face and neck crawled with tiny white worms. He heard a faint hiss, realized the corpse was speaking.

"M a a r t i n..." It was the voice he remembered, only not. Hoarse with disuse, slow with effort, and somehow not right. "L o o v e y o o u...

That dead hand touched his face. He felt two, then three of the little worms wriggling on his chest.

In panic he flailed and cried out but he had no voice. He couldn't move until with a desperate effort his body jerked a fraction of an inch. His eyes opened. The room was as usual. The air conditioner hummed. He smelled nothing but the sharp reek of his panic sweat.

Newmia awoke in her chamber, but her minds were pulled to the TCSEE Convergence Locality. There was great dissonance and confusion.

"What has she done?" So many conflicting voices, thoughts, and presences at once made comprehension difficult.

"She has harmed the Sinten."

"How can a telecognate harm an extrinsic entity?"

"She feels terrible remorse for it."

"For what? What has happened?"

"She'll be expelled from TCSEE for this."

"It's a crime! She should be isolated behind a thought-blocker membrane, so no one will even know she exists."

"We should never have followed Netsen's absurd suggestion to admit a youngster to TCSEE without orientation!"

"Our daughter just wanted to help 'Martin' and 'Esther' share a post-Transcendent relationship like we have." It was the virtual presence of Newmia's mother, shimmering protectively beside her daughter's sleeping alcove.

"Esteemed Collective," Netsen appeared at last, an iridescent silver. "Please calm yourselves. We are in danger of losing all reason. Newmia is a fine young savant, and cannot possibly have done anything requiring hysterical thoughts or rash actions. Newmia, please be prepared to enlighten the Collective with your report one rotation from now."

The lighting of the TCSEE Convergence Locality shifted from bright to dim, from soft muted colors like the usual mauve, to harsh bright ones like white or orange. Sound was uncertain too; the cacophony of many voices humming discordantly. Newmia could not stop spasmodically shifting color, reflecting her anxious emotions. She knew it would be hard for the Collective to see her, and how she wished she could keep it that way. With effort, she maintained an appearance of silvery white, hoping she would remain visible to all.

"Esteemed Collective, honored Colleagues, fellow Savants," she began, "We made an important discovery early in our investigation. We must confess that sometimes our minds wander during our telecognition sessions."

She sensed appreciative laughter from her fellow telecognates.

"When we began observing the Sinten being we call 'Martin,' his preoccupation with his mother, who had recently transcended to the next state, made us think of our own mother. We did not understand how the passing could cause such emotional pain, and we remembered the joyous occasion of our mother's Transcendium.

When we reviewed our session the following rotation, we learned that Martin had dreamed of an experience resembling the Transcendium, and its inter-time signature corresponded with that of our errant thoughts. This suggested that we were transmitting as well as receiving thought signals, across time as well as space. We decided to try sending a simple signal, an image of being immersed in, and breathing water the next night while Martin slept to see if our findings could be replicated.

Our plans were disrupted when we encountered the signal of a post-transcendent Sinten being, Martin's mother Esther. We thought of trying our experiment anyway, using Esther instead of Martin as a subject, since Martin was not present, but quickly realized since she neither breathes nor sleeps it would be unproductive. And soon we were overwhelmed by our glimpse into the chaos that is a Sinten being without its body. Martin's grief at losing Esther was bad enough, but Esther's helplessness at losing herself was unbearable.

We wanted to withdraw from the project, but Netsen made it clear that this was not an option.

We felt the grief of Martin and Esther. We saw they could not reach each other. We know what it is to share a joyous post-Transcendent relationship rather than grief without respite. Since we wanted to test whether we could influence the thoughts of extrinsic entities across time and space, we could not resist trying to do so in a way that would relieve suffering. Instead we increased it."

Newmia paused. Emotion was turning her a deep ochre, the color at the very heart of her favorite sea blossom. All her life she had fought her tendency to change color in response to how she felt. It was "embarrassing," a Sinten word. Now, she allowed the deep yellow to flow all over her. She felt her emotion reflected in her audience. Several of them changed color as well.

"We tried to arrange communication between Martin and Esther while Martin slept, using the dream channel. We did not expect this to result in no communication, only fear and revulsion for Martin, and frustration and remorse for Esther. Why did words and memories in Martin's mind turn out to be so unpleasant as a means for Esther to communicate with him? This is the question we've tried to answer during the units of duration since last we met. Focusing our telecognition as broadly as possible on the scholars and archivists of Sinten collective knowledge, we have observed the thoughts of as many of their Collectives as we could, of many languages, of both those with bodies and the disembodied, of past, present, and future. We have learned two things that help explain the mystery.

The first is how much they depend on the five senses of their physical bodies.

These senses only perceive the corporeal. All other knowledge depends on a willingness to believe without what they call 'tangible proof.' 'Tangible' means 'able to be touched.' Their very definition of reality is tied to their bodily senses. Belief that a being's essence, sometimes called its 'soul,' persists after the body's end has declined as instrumentality has extended the reach of their senses. They now perceive distant stars and the tiniest units of physical matter, but they cannot see the soul. So they do not believe in it.

Instead, they now think the temporary life of the body is all there is. They believe the decaying organic remains literally to 'be' the person who has moved on, and treat them with fear, revulsion, fascination, and reverence.

It is this focus on the body, on the organic remains of the transcended being, that explains their horror at the Transcendium. For us, the remains are trivial, an unimportant part of the ritual. The bottom dwelling beings are welcome to them, as long as they do not disrupt our song. For the Sinten, the remains are the center of all rituals surrounding transcendence, or as they call it, 'death.' Poor Martin felt it was his mother he had seen torn apart by wild dogs."

A murmur of thoughts and voices dispersed throughout the locality as the Collective absorbed this.

"We also learned something about how the Sinten store thoughts and memories. Their organ of cognition, or 'brain,' begins recording when they are quite young, and continues until after organic decay makes memory unreliable. It seems they remember everything that has ever happened to them, and everything of which they have ever learned or heard, although only a tiny fraction of it is available for conscious use. The memories occur in groups held together by a common word, or image. Any random thought can bring forth a string of others, unbidden. This is why the very idea of a visit from his 'dead' mother brought along with it a whole string of gruesome and frightening images, resulting in a nightmare he will not soon forget, nor, we fear, will any of us.

We deeply regret having caused him this fear and pain. We only wanted to relieve the suffering we saw. We only wanted to help."

Newmia realized the dissonance was gone: the voices around her were in harmony once more.

"Newmia," Netsen spoke. "Your experiment was a success. You have not only provided evidence that telecognates can transmit thought signals across time and space, but have also helped TCSEE reach a new level of understanding of extrinsic entities. Most we've encountered are more like the Sinten than like us. Their consciousness is marked by permanent death and loss, and our telecognates do not understand it. We thought a gifted telecognate like yourselves, deprived of the usual orientation period, might achieve the understanding which has eluded us. And you did. Admitting you to the Telecognate Collective before you had completed the Learning Collective was a wise decision."

Bright blue swept over Newmia, displacing the ochre of her grief.

Stay blue, Newmia Finta whispered. It's okay. We did a good job. It's okay to be happy. Stay blue... For once in our life, let's just stay blue.

Martin could not stop thinking about his nightmares. His therapist urged him to attend a bereavement support group. A woman he met there assured him over coffee that those we mourn are still present in spirit, anxious to communicate with those they have left behind. "That's what I'm afraid of," he said, remembering his dream. She invited him to a séance. Martin wasn't sure whether the idea of a séance made him want to laugh or scream, but he felt encouraged by his desire to see the woman, Annalese, again. It had been so long since he had desired anything, except maybe a good night's sleep.

"I'm Joan. I'll be helping you make contact with the other side." At the words, "other side," the croaking corpse in his dream flashed through Martin's mind. The woman's voice was low, musical, hypnotic. "Please relax, and feel free to chat quietly. We'll be starting in about twenty minutes."

The dimly lit room smelled of cinnamon. It reminded Martin of cookies his mother used to bake. A recording of spacey plinking on an unfamiliar string instrument played softly in the background.

Martin and Annalese were seated with three other people around an oval table covered by a white cloth, on which three white candles and three purple ones burned.

The music stopped. Joan sat down at one end of the table, her purple dress overflowing the sides of her chair. "Please join hands, and close your eyes." she said. It's ridiculous to be nervous, Martin thought. At most a wire will lift the table off the floor, or something will be rigged to knock on the wall. Annalese's hand in his felt warm.

"Martin..." Joan said softly. They had not been asked their names.

"I'm getting a message for Martin... Martin, Esther... your mother, Esther... is here... She's standing beside you..."

Martin opened his eyes and looked around. Nothing.

"Martin... Esther says... she says she loves you... She says she's sorry she scared you..."

Martin broke out in goosebumps. He was sure the rotting corpse was there beside him, but all he could smell was cinnamon. When he opened his eyes, the room was unchanged.

"She says she's getting used to her new existence... it was hard at first, but now she knows she must let go of old habits... seeing with eyes, hearing with ears, speaking with words, only being Esther... There is a greater whole... You will get there too, Martin... but now you must move on, live your life..."

"My mother is telling you this?" Martin whispered.

"No. Someone is giving me this message for you, Martin. An entity... Do you have a name, Entity?"

Joan was quiet for a moment. Then she spoke. "Noo... Noo... Noo me ah..."

Martin felt completely lost. "What?" he said.

"Martin, it appears you are very lucky. You have a wise and loving spirit guide. Her name is Newmia."

Title	subject
"The Enemy"	mold
"A Night Out"	dust
"Frightful Necessity"	I think this became the daily grind. Is it about jobs or cooking? I don't think it really works as such.

Title	No.	Status
"The Enemy"	1	Crittered, revised?
"A Night Out"	2	Crittered & revised, I think
Change title from "The Daily Grind"	3	"Extreme Commute"
"A Singular Being	4	Finished
"Always Birds"	5	I think this was crittered, & could be included in the collection. The subject was "the cold"
"Best Laid Plans"	6	Not really even a zero draft
Pirate	7	This is an outline for a romance novel. Actually it’s a sexual fantasy, but there does seem to be a market for that sort of thing. A lot of work to actually write the book I have so carefully outlined. On the other hand is there a way to sell the outline?
Rebecca	8	Not sure I want to even deal with this
Séance	9	This is about Mandy & Eileen & so on, real names, isn't finished, doesn't go anywhere

Writer's Playground

Tuesday, December 03, 2013

New way of doing things...

Friday, August 30, 2013

A Singular Being

Tuesday, August 27, 2013

UPDATE II

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