Writer’s Log: 2503 Third eye blue

Daniel cracked the geode with his hammer and an iridescent blue dust drifted up from within the hollow rock. It swirled like candle smoke rising from a snuffed ceremonial alter. He reared back. Too late. Sinuous tendrils of microscopic specs peeled off and wormed their way into his nostrils. He pinched his nose, his mouth closed. He looked about the place, nothing seemed familiar. The two halves of the chalky white nodule fell from his hands, his world fuzzed at the edges and turned black. As the encrusted pieces hit the shop’s floor, a pair of blue mushroom clouds burst and spread.

Next to Daniel, Ricardo, cutting a geode at the wet saw, took one sniff and slumped to the floor. He just missed slicing the fingers from his right hand.

Five others in the lapidary shop: owner, employee, Daniel’s son and two fellow rock hounds, startled at the noise. They too fell victim to the blue dust. Each collapsed to the dirty floor, unconscious.

As the afternoon wore on, the unmanned equipment continued to whine, cellphones in pockets buzzed and chimed. No one else happened into the shop to browse the crystals of quartz, aquamarine and agate, the cabochons of turquoise and jade. Hours of Saturday afternoon sand slipped through the glass. Eventually, seven comatose hobby geologists began to rouse.

Daniel’s robust nature, a big man with gentle hands, allowed him to revive first. “Markie… Markie?” He looked around for his son who’d driven up from University to join the geode reveal. Unable to shake the fog from his mind, Daniel crawled to the first dark shape on the floor. “Ricardo, get up man. Where’s Markie?”

Ricardo, a wiry construction contractor Daniel had met collecting fossils in Montana, mumbled and moaned.

Daniel managed to rise to his knees and move to the next body. Markie had been sorting the bucket of round geodes—those to crack, those to cut—when he’d inhaled the blue dust. He fell back from his stool and cut the back of his head. Daniel’s hand came away sticky when he tried to lift him.

“Markie. Son. Wake up.”

Where are we? Mark said.

Daniel heard his son’s words without registering their source. “We’re in Larry’s shop. Something… Something happened.” Jeeze, I hope this cut isn’t deep.

What cut? “Am I injured, Dad?”

Let me get you up. “It’s nothing bad. Scalp wound.” You know how they bleed and bleed, like that time…

“Building the shed, I remember. You’d thought you’d killed me.” I laughed at how scared you were. Until I saw all the blood.

Your mother gave me shit for days…

The pair of them managed to rise and lean back against shelves of cardboard boxes full of rocks of varying provenance. A voice came from behind the counter.

“Hey. Anyone?” Why the hell am I on the floor. Was I robbed? Larry pulled himself to the counter and lay there breathing hard. “Ben? Where the sam-hell are you?” Hiring Megan’s kid was a mistake from the start.

“Here. I’m here. And I’m trying as hard as I can. There’s a lady…” Ben said from the far end of the shop. He’d been fetching new blades for the saws when he watched a customer, an older woman wearing a peach-colored scarf, slump to the floor. He awoke, his nose just inches from her desert boots, the diamond-edged discs splayed around him. Why are you so goddamn mean?

“I’m not half as mean as you think I am.” Damn kid doesn’t know nothin’ about my real mean-time in the ‘Stan.

Daniel’s voice rose. “Everyone, shut-the-hell-up for a minute. Not everyone can talk at once.”

Easy there, Dad.

Shit Daniel, you don’t have to yell so loud.

I knew you three would bring trouble, carting nodes up from Mexico.

Oh wow, it’s like, dark outside.

Why am I on the floor?

Don’t tell me to shut up. Where’s Leslie?

“I said, shut the hell up!” Daniel got to his feet, his face stern.

“We didn’t say anything, Dad.” Mark tenderly probed the cut on his head. “At least, I didn’t hear anyone I don’t think. Not with my ears, anyway.”

Holy shit. Am I going insane? Or can I—

—Hear other peoples’ thoughts?

Holy shit, is right.

Writer’s Log: 2500 – one quarter complete

In my endeavor to learn to write well, I’ve fixated on Malcolm Gladwell’s “10,000 hours to expert” theme.

Thus far I calculate I’ve spent 2500 hours on the task. How many words might that be? Four hundred thousand could get me close.

Regardless, the journey has presented numerous obstacles, time, or the lack thereof, being the most egregious. Had I the time, I’d have applied myself tenfold.

Creative energy certainly offers a close second. A writer writes, they say. Well, a slave slaves. A programmer programs, a father fathers, a husband husbands and so it goes. What is left for writing after such a list?

No little distraction includes my infected life’s philosophy. As a self-professed existential Nihilist, what is the point in learning to write well? A rhetorical question. From this perspective there is no valid answer. To forge through is not an option. Around is the only path.

And so around we went. And here we are, 2500 hours complete. Was there nothing learned, gained, accomplished. A few things come to mind:

  • Do more with less. Err with too few.
  • Passive kills the energy.
  • A square block of text is a visual turnoff. It need not be read, its presence on the page cripples the reader.
  • Conflict, always. A constant struggle for me.
  • Any critique is worth understanding.

Accomplishments? Aside from two early, sophomoric novels, not much more than fragments. But in those fragments, some polish could be detected, some self-satisfaction. Write for yourself and you’ll never disappoint. What starving baker wouldn’t eat their own failed cake?

Future? At this rate the next 2500 hours will take years and years. 10,000? Yeah, right.

Writer’s Log: 2499

…continued from prior post

“Welcome to Cylinder. You must be the Dolanoff Family.”

As they followed Rick, helmets in hand, a voice filled the elevator they’d entered. A broad black arrow pointed the direction of down. Raina and Alexi bumbled around while the children became instantly acclimated to the fractional Gs found this close to the axis. Rick waved them into standing positions next to him. “Oh hey, Janette. Yeah, this is the famous Alexi Dolanoff and his beautiful family.” He nodded his head as he pressed the number five on the panel. “I hope you don’t mind me using your first name, sir. We’ve all been anxious to have you onboard.”

The elevator began to descend. Starting at zero, the designated shells of the station were spaced every one-hundred meters, gravity would be greatest at level 5.

“Are you one of those artifactual things the shuttle told us about?” Alsatia occupied herself by jumping up and down as their weight increased with the distance from the axis.

“Hello there, Alsatia. Did I say that right? I’m such a stickler for names.” Janette pretended to clear her throat. “Yes indeed, I am one of those artilects, but we, Jimmy and I, are so much more than just artificial intellects.”

Petr could feel the pressure in his boots grow; the feeling of his suit hanging off his shoulders and hips. After days of weightlessness, the reorganization of his organs in his gut, the heaviness of his head and limbs returned in a comforting but distracting way. He dropped his helmet. “Oops, sorry.”

“You feeling alright there, Petr?” Janette asked.

“Uh, yeah. I didn’t expect, I don’t know, the sagging feeling. And the vertigo, I guess.”

Alsatia quit her bouncing. “Wow, I feel like a ton of bricks.”

“Please continue, Janette,” said Raina, leaning back against the wall for support against the growing weight and the Coriolis effect, like that of a strange carnival ride.

“Ah, yes. Spin-life can be so disorienting. Though I try to understand, I can only imagine.” They’d reached half-G on their way to the three-quarters gravity level 5 would provide. “Jimmy and I are rather like your captains on an ocean cruise. Basically, Jimmy manages the station, the ship, and I work with the people. But I’m just stating what Mr. Dolanoff already knows.”

Petr, who’d been watching the gravity numbers climb on the readout above the selection panel, looked up to his father, perplexed.

“I didn’t want to diminish the wonderment, son.” He removed his gloves, formed a fist and lightly bumped Petr’s shoulder. “I think you might know a bit more than I, Janette. Maybe you could point out how we might get around while we’re here?”

“My pleasure, sir.” On the wall next to the sliding doors a map of Cylinder appeared. “Let’s see. I’ll start simple, just to be sure. The down direction means you’re moving away or out from zero-G. Up is moving towards zero-G. If your walk in-spin, that is, with the direction of rotation, you’ll feel yourself getting heavier. In that direction, east is to your right, west to your left. With me so far?”

“It’s like a big hamster wheel in space, right?”

“Good analogy, Alsatia. And everyone but me and Jimmy are the hamsters.”

Petr followed along as Janette highlighted portions of the diagram. “Is it true that you get lighter if you run, I guess, out-spin?”


“Yes, Janette.”

“You’ve arrived at level five. If you could give a demonstration…”

The doors opened to an atrium the size of an opera house. The Dolanoff’s cautiously stepped out and stood gawking. Overhead, more than thirty meter up, the superstructure was painted a mat white but was currently bathed in a vivid sky blue light. Before them, rows of planters sported trees, shrubs and gardens overflowing with greenery. To either side, the curve of the outer shell rose enough to give them the sense that they stood at the bottom of a valley.

“I’m sure you won’t have trouble getting about,” Rick started, “but let’s practice. First I’ll answer Petr’s question.”

Rick walked ahead, east between two low planters filled knee-high grass. He brushed the tops as he went. “We’ve even got livestock onboard.” Once he reached an intersection he stopped and turned right, out-spin, backed up several paces, sprinted forward and, in what Petr could only describe as the leap of a gazelle, launched himself easily clearing five meters in distance. “You’re right, Petr. While moving against the spin, gravity drops.”

He returned and hooked a finger over his shoulder. “This way to Carousel.”

“That was amazing.” Raina said.

“Thank you.” He turned and managed to keep walking backwards. “One more thing about moving about.” He spun back around and pointed left. “In-spin,” he announced. He pointed right. “Out-spin.” He then pointed forward as they worked their way between stands of aspen trees. “This way is side-spin. Now.” He stopped and pointed to his feet. “When I take a step straight along the axis, what happens is that Cylinder rotates beneath my foot, just a little.”

“This is important.” Janette’s voice came from somewhere, everywhere. “Oh, yes, I’m always available, Alsatia. But I’m no eavesdropper. Anytime you want me to be quiet and ignore your conversations, just say my name three times. The same technique works in reverse, too. Now, Rick was getting to an important part.”

“Thanks, Janette. Moving side-spin can be dangerous. The faster you move the more you have to compensate. If I did that jump moving along the length of Cylinder? I’d have ended up landing in a patch of petunias. That’s the Coriolis effect. This ain’t Kansas, as they say.”

The group eventually entered a section of the station that felt more like a hotel. Above the entry way, an airtight set of doors, A garish marquee announced ‘Carousel’.

“These are your rooms. Your belongings will be along soon.” Rick had stopped before suite 2-21. “One last thing before I leave you. You are very safe here. We have never had a critical accident. But, to be sure you can always know where you are and can reach out, on your beds you’ll find replacements for your phones that you left behind on Earth. These are special, Cylinder phones.” He peeled back a zipped flap on the left forearm. He held up a familiar rectangular screen that had been strapped on. “You two will like these.” He nodded to Petr and Alsatia.

“Alright, you guys.” Janette was back. “There are closets for your suits and helmets. Keep them safe. This is space after…”

An unsettling shudder rumbled up through their boots. Petr expected some dismissal of the anomaly. But the look on Rick’s face spoke otherwise.

“Janette…” He began.

“I’ll take care of them, Rick.”

That was the last time they would see Rick and his graceful self as he dashed down the hall running out-spin.

Writer’s Log: 2495

…continued from prior post

The shuttle nosed into the port at Cylinder’s central hub, briefly jetting to match rotational spin.

One of the other tourists, a fellow who’d complained of a never ending queasy feeling, whose nose dribbled constantly, a glistening dewdrop forever poised, cracked his helmet against the airlock door. “Ugh. I thought the hub was gravity free.”

“No G’s, but ya gotta match the spin.” Petr swam through the circular exit, following his sister who’d somehow beat him to it. “Cylinder rotates once a minute, you know, relatively speaking.”

Dewdrop’s fiance rubbed his helmet where she’d seen it strike. “Easy there, dear. We’ll get to our room at the outer shell where you can finally rest.”

Raina helped corral the couple through and into the antechamber that lead to reception. “As soon as you’re past this next room, you should be able to remove your helmet.” She gave them a nudge. “Hmm. You can start to smell the scent of loam. Familiar smells can help, with….”

The woman smiled weakly. “Thanks, I’ll take it from here.”

Dewdrop mumbled, “I don’t like smell of dirt…”

Raina frowned, spun and tugged her husband out of his seat. “Alexi, we’re the last to go. Unless you want to stay cooped up in here.”

“I was just checking some numbers.” Mr. Dolanoff had been outfitted with a heads-up-display within his helmet. “Looks like the mining company ran into issues while transporting the third rock.”

“Tell me about it on the way.” She shoved Alexi through the hole, giving him a bit too much momentum.

The fully suited attendant, receiving the crew, snagged him as he whipped through. “Whoa, there cowboy. The Z-G race isn’t until tomorrow.” He swung Alexi in an arc and pinned him to the wall of the chamber. He spied Raina. “Looks like you’re last. Let me seal up this first lock and then get you all processed. We’ll have your luggage delivered to your rooms.”

Reception proved a marvel. Luscious vines, and ferns, all apparently immune to zero-G, imbued the tubular enclosure, the size of a city water tank, with earthy tones and organic shapes. Light, dawn colored to match the diurnal timezone that the crew had departed, gave the feeling of an early spring morning.

The attendant, Rick, had followed them through. “You two look agile,” he said to Petr and Alsatia, “let me show you how close locks here on Cylinder.” He tucked a toe into a loop for leverage and pulled the second door closed, gave it a tug to seal it, and dogged it locked. A green glow lit up around the border. “Think of Cylinder like a big submarine. Closing hatches saves lives.”

The eight person crew followed his example when Rick twisted off his helmet.

“Ooh, the room is spinning around us.” Dewdrop gagged once. “Where’s gravity. I need…”

Rick grabbed a bag from a secret alcove, snapped it open and shoved it into Dewdrop’s face. “Some love this room. Zero-G, great aroma, jungle like. Some don’t.”

Alsatia drifted over to the wall and began rotating with it, around the others who floated in the middle. Between the planters, rows of LED lights glowed. She reached into a tangle of greenery and plucked out a brown, furry egg. “Hey look, I found a kiwi.”

“Alsatia,” Raina fumed. She turned to Rick. “I’m sorry. If that’s part of some experiment…”

“Oh, don’t worry. We grow so much food here, we pretty much don’t keep track. Not for the food we eat.” Rick did a quick acrobatic flip opposite of Alsatia and extracted a finger long cucumber. He took a bite. “But, we do expect you to eat what you pick.”

“Oh,” Alsatia said, looking embarrassed. “I’ll save it for later.” She patted her suit and finally tucked the fruit inside her stiff collar.

Her mother continued to glare. Alsatia gave her a big smile.

Rick radioed for two assistants who showed up within minutes. “Tricia, can you take the Zhangs to Tahiti Terrace? Ben, the Clarks are headed to Starry Night, and I’ll lead the Dolanoff’s down to Carousel.”

Raina, ever the hostess, bid farewell to the Clarks and Zhangs. “Take care. This is going to be marvelous.”

“Maybe we’ll see you a-round,” Alsatia chimed as the other two groups drifted through portals at the far end of the room.

“Ugh,” Petr groaned. “Is that how it’s going to be?”

Rick, stroking his shaved head, joined in. “Round is my favorite.”

Alexi followed the attendant as he led them through yet a third air-lock. “Come on you three. Save your puns for gravity.”

Alsatia grinned. “Heavy, man.”

“This is gonna be a long ride,” Petr said, his own grin settling in. He was here, in the most incredible structure humanity had ever created. A place only a fraction of the nine billion souls on Earth would ever experience. “A wild, wicked ride.”


This is a link to an online calculator for determining rotational speed and G-forces for spinning cylinders…