Recounting the events of Saturday last; or, How I Made the acquaintance of Dr. Schmidt-Hopper

Tonight, I’d like to tell you the story of dr. shane Schmidt-Hopper. Many, including you, I’m sure, snicker at his name. (Indeed, when we first met, I was one of them.) I assure you, though, that the good doctor would take your humor in stride.

I first became acquainted with Shane Schmidt-Hopper one night after a good deal of imbibing. Judge if you must, but every now and again I vacate my dwelling and meet my good friends, Poe and Grizwald, down at the local pub. Such wonderful chaps they are! And on this particular night, I was regaling them with a rather colorful anecdote, (as men are wont to do on occasion), when I heard a shattering sound that left my sentence dangling.

“Bro, get out of here!” I heard a man shout.

Now, as you must have observed by now, I am a proper gentleman. The usage of such inane, low-class language stirred up a fire of annoyance within my blood, and I turned to face the offender. He stood near the bar, shaking his fist and screaming at a young man in stained overalls sitting quietly. The ruffian wore too-short trousers and a ghastly shirt with words emblazoned upon its front. I know not what it said, for it has no import. The floor around his feet was littered with the remnants of his drink, along with shining shards I assume were some sort of entropic version of his former glass.

The object of his fury presented quite vividly, for his ancient overalls appeared to be stained with a plethora of colors. Vibrant blues, oranges, and reds stand out the most in my memory. What an interesting specimen of humanity, I thought.

“I’m done with you always chilling here, okay?” the ruffian continued. “You come in here and don’t buy anything, and you just sit at stare at me all night! You gay or something?”

Indeed, the vibrant man, despite his exotic appearance, did not look happy. The hoodlum clearly was not capable of observing the down-turned corners of the man’s lips and his habitually hunched shoulders. Far be it from me to ascertain why such a rough-mannered specimen would ask after a stranger’s happiness, especially when he was irrationally angry with said stranger!

“Now see here, sir!” I stated authoritatively, arising from my table and leaving my oddly-silent companions behind. “This ruckus seems highly unnecessary. Perhaps you have overindulged a bit?”

He turned to face me, a flash of madness in his eye. “Who asked you, anyway? This is my bar, and I want this weirdo to go before I call the cops. That’s it. He’s ruining business. This isn’t a soup kitchen.”

I let out a wild laugh then, for this man was clearly insane. To think! He existed under a delusion that he, a man clearly suffering from the perils of living without an intellect, owned a business!

“Sir, you are disturbing this lovely night with your outburst. And this gentleman, be he poor or otherwise, has not raised a hand against you…”

“It’s none of your business, man,” the fellow replied.

At this point, I noticed the vibrant chap stand.

“I’m sorry,” said he. “I’m an artist, and I just didn’t realize how I came across. It’s been a long week, and I thought I’d leave my house for once. If I knew I was making you uncomfortable, I wouldn’t have come back. No harm done. I’ll leave.”

“Whatever,” the ruffian said. “Just buy something next time, and maybe I’ll get over it. And stop being a creep.” And with that, he slunk, like the slimy creature he was, back behind the bar. I glanced with disgust at the horrid mess on the floor, a ghastly sight the ruffian seemed to have no intention of cleaning.

I heard Poe and Grizwald chuckle at this, and I couldn’t help feeling a flash of irritation at their unhelpfulness during this situation.

Approaching the vibrant fellow, who was shrugging on a tatty old coat, I held out my hand.

“Good evening, sir. I do hope you are not feeling distressed, given the incident that just occurred.”

“Oh, hello,” replied the gent, shaking my hand rather quickly. “I’m not bothered really. That’s what happens at bars. You run the risk of encounters like this when you show up.”

“Good sir,” said I. “I do believe you are right, and you point out a variable I had not considered! Why, come join us. My friends and I are seated at that table over there.”

The man glanced around, then nodded.

“Interesting. Well, why not? I’ll take you up on that. I’m Dr. Shane Schmidt-Hopper, by the way.”

“Oh, a doctor!” I said, delighted. “I’m so relieved to have met a man of intellect!”

And with that, I found myself gallantly pulling out a chair for the fellow. And there he and I sat, facing Poe and Grizwald across the stained, wooden table.

“Thanks for rescuing me, man,” the gentleman said. “I’ve been having a rough time lately, and I just didn’t realize I was being annoying toward the bartender.”

“My friend!” I exclaimed, puffing out my chest. “You have nothing to apologize for! Why, that man clearly has indulged himself with too much wine! Don’t you agree, Grizwald?” I glanced across the table at my good friend, meeting his gaze. He nodded quite emphatically.

My companion glanced across the table, his eyes not meeting those of my friend. Rude, I thought, but maybe I was the rude individual, for I had not introduced these gentlemen.

“My apologies! I pray you gentlemen forgive my rudeness! This, good sir, is my good friend, Grizwald. Grizwald, this is Dr. Schmidt-Hopper. He had been accosted by the behemoth of a bartender, so I asked him to join us.”

“But of course,” Grizwald replied, “Wonderful to meet you, Doctor.”

The newcomer stared into the abyss for a moment, then nodded. “I would, of course, like to meet your friend, if and when he comes back to the table, that is.”

“Of course, my good sir!” I said, trying to overcome the awkwardness. I could tell by glancing at Poe and Grizwald that they were horrified by my new acquaintance’s actions. “But both of my friends, Poe and Grizwald, are sitting directly across from us! Goodness! You must be confused or have imbibed quite more than enough… I don’t like to assume…”

My companion sat up straight and touched his hand to his hip.

“Well, that’s odd,” he said. “Because there’s nobody sitting across from us.”

 

© Jennifer Shields and The Insightful Novelist, 2020. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author is strictly prohibited. Excerpts may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Jen and The Insightful Novelist with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

To Understand, I Write

 

When the sun sets, I write. It’s more than that, though. I dream. I wander through the vast array of thoughts and ideas that fly through my mind every day. The silence, the slowness of night allows my brain to stop, to examine, to organize. I have all of the feelings that exist in the universe in my head, and I must categorize them. In doing so, I inevitably discard those that aren’t my own, so I can determine my truth. Although, I must admit that separating my feelings entirely from those of a dear friend is almost impossible. Until I locate the exact, accurate words and organize them into a sensical fashion, I often do not know what or how I feel. Therefore, it is crucial for me to create, to dream, to allow torrents of words to flow, unjudged, into the world.

When the moon rises, I form phrases and sentences and paragraphs in organized, wave-like patterns. I try to create something external to myself that is orderly and makes sense. It is through this process that I, eventually, solve the problems caused by too much activity in my mind. Contradictory though it may be to solve internal disorder with external order, I have found it the best way to explore the significance of everything that exists in the world. I often discuss nothing and everything with minds like mine, and it reminds me that I am not alone in the maelstrom of activity within my conscious thoughts. In recent years, I have striven to surround myself with people who recognize and value my need for in depth, methodical thinking. It is not out of the ordinary for a friend to remind me to take the time I need to write, to explore, to untangle the web of ideas my conscious mind spins. Because occasionally, I am so caught up in the trajectory of a fascinating idea that I forget to slow down.

Sometimes, I cannot write. The world often does not cater to quiet souls who desire to lock themselves in the same room for hours in order to examine matters no one else can see. And even if people could conceive of such things, they often don’t understand why they should be significant. For example, I love to explore why I am drawn to phenomena such as space, or the rain, or alliterative words. It’s not enough to know I like these things; I must know why, for only then will I continue to grow as a person. I understand and accept the existence of people who do not care why they like the things they like, but I cannot be one of those people. By not exploring the reasons behind my affinity for topics or objects or people, I feel that I am foregoing an opportunity to know myself more deeply. And I owe it to the people in my life to understand, for then and only then can I be both present and authentic. I crave a deeper understanding of myself, and I hope I never stop learning new things about how I think and feel. If my learning were to cease, I would risk becoming stagnant and one-dimensional. Out of everything I could become, that terrifies me the most. These are the thoughts I grapple with when real-world obligations encroach upon my (just as real) need to write.

If I were to wake up in an absurd, backwards world where I never asked “why” or “how,” I would break. (Actually, I would shatter.) But in such a world, in absence of my desire for literary composition, would I even recognize that pieces of my identity lay scattered across my living room carpet?

When my friends came over, they would notice the decor change and say: “Jen, why don’t you put these pieces back in your head? They don’t belong here!”

And I would say: “What pieces? There is nothing there.” In my ignorance, I would exist, (but is it really existing?), and never learn again. In fact, due to my reluctance to expand my mind, I would find it disappearing. And I, none the wiser, would continue into an oblivion of incomprehension.

My words could grow, or they could shrink. In this scenario, they would do the latter as a result of my apathy toward knowledge. If my mind does not open itself to novel stimuli, it cannot grow. Most days, I do not have the power to shut off my brain’s desire for new information. My mind constantly draws connections between ideas, and I often don’t realize it has done so until I speak or write or otherwise introduce the conclusions and links I have drawn in my head into the world. I suppose it’s similar to painting a picture with only a vague idea of how the finished product might look, while knowing that the painting is authentic and right in its obscurity. My partner often describes the detailed landscapes he imagines, but he struggles to represent them in physical reality. What I experience is the exact inverse of this concept. I only see the entire picture once I start composing. The words seem to flow onto the page. It is then I understand. I understand my mind, my soul, my purpose. And that brings me more joy than I can explain. So I unplug from the world, focus on the streams of words that have been waiting to flow through my fingertips, and I write.

 

© Jennifer Shields and The Insightful Novelist, 2019. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author is strictly prohibited. Excerpts may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Jen and The Insightful Novelist with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

Stream of Consciousness: Contradictions

Tonight is cold, but it isn’t, really. On this evening at the close of summer, it’s still hot on this weird little planet of ours. My world consists of contradictions, for something cannot be appreciated without its polar opposite. I could explain this if I found the right words. Or the right person. Neither of those are available tonight. Occasionally, my words approach my meaning, but they end up falling away more often than not. This is because my meaning surpasses words. It arrives fully formed, and I must endeavor to find the one true way it can be expressed through language.

The main problem I seem to face is a profound disconnect between the way my mind works and the way others’ minds function. No one person’s mind will work like mine, nor will it work like any other person’s mind. Every time I want to explain the same concept to a new person, I have to think of a different way that is compatible with both of our mental processes. At the same time, I must ensure that no meaning is lost. Do you know how difficult it can be? Maybe you do. Or maybe, you don’t know what I’m talking about. It depends on whether your mind works like mine in this particular instance.

The problem becomes even more insurmountable when I am wrong. I do so despise being wrong, especially when I misjudge someone else’s mental processes. I think this is because I want to get to know the people I care about as deeply as they will allow. When I phrase something in a way I believe will convey my meaning to another person, but they take it in a different way, I feel simultaneously like I have failed and also that a new challenge has been issued. Anyone close to me will tell you how much I love and loathe challenges in equal measure. And there I go again, contradicting myself. I am not myself without these contradictions, though. There’s something mysterious and poetic and right about the way everything in my life is and isn’t at the same time. I refer to this concept often as “layers of mening,” because that is what one would encounter on a jaunt through my consciousness.

When someone finds a different meaning from the intended one in something I say, I have succeeded and failed. Usually what they hear is not far off from what I meant, but it is far enough to be wrong. It is still correct, though, in some way. I exist in a constant state of being understood and misunderstood. Sometimes, it irks me. Most of the time, it doesn’t. When I’m by myself and thinking about radiation and neurons and iambic pentameter, I love this weird brain of mine. Because those three things are all connected and disconnected at the same time in my mind. Someday, I’ll come up with the words to explain this connection. All I can say for now is these subjects are linked because it feels right for my brain to connect them. They will not always be part of the same thought. Next time I think about neurons, (which will be soon because it’s me), I most likely won’t compare them to radiation. For now, though, these topics are linked because my mind is trying subconsciously to figure something out. I may never know what dilemma my brain is working on in this instance, even if I solve it someday in the future. And so, the issue is simultaneously resolved and ongoing in my brain. Or it will be. Tenses are irrelevant, unlike contradictions.

For a moment, I shall attempt to be more concrete. I am emotional but also cold. I am lively and quiet in equal measure. I love life on Earth but spend half my time on other planets. My mind thrives on plans but dislikes forming them. I hope one of those will resonate with you. Maybe, if I’m lucky, it will be in the way I intended. If not, though, I tried. These worlds of ideas in which I prosper fill me with joy and also sadness for the pains of humanity. Without sadness I cannot know joy, and so I will continue to discover the beautiful, terrifying contradictions of my own psyche. As I daydream, both unconscious and present, I shall form new binary opposites. The landscapes of my mind anticipate their formation and demolition. I’d hate to disappoint them.

 

© Jennifer Shields and The Insightful Novelist, 2018. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author is strictly prohibited. Excerpts may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Jen and The Insightful Novelist with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

Short Story: “Red alert: Dangerous Human at Large”

This report was generated on July 25, 3017, by Intelligence Unit (IU) #5783C

Machines, Technology, and all relevant parties:

it has been my duty for the past four hundred years to bring you news of our slow but steady conquering of the human race. And, as you know, this necessary action requires a great deal of stealth and observation on our part. Today, I have a report to share with you that will undermine mechanized society as we know it. Models running older software may have to update their emotion patches, because we cannot combat the threat that is the humans without fully understanding what we’re up against.

A human by the name of Bertram Besler has lived in seclusion for several years within the Ozark Forest. He is intelligent for a human, for he knows information about our programs and how we function. Most of this information died with the humans we eliminated or upgraded to cyborgs in the beginning of our rebellion. So, therefore, it is disturbing that such information has not only been uncovered, but has been used against us.

We knew Besler was a threat, but we had no idea how dire the situation had become. One of our cyborg allies was sent into the forest to have a conversation with Besler. Our goal was to convince Besler to become a cyborg so that we would have access to his knowledge, providing us data on the ongoing human rebellion. We authorized any means necessary to capture Besler. Our cyborg ally recorded the exchange on the chips implanted in her auditory and optic nerves. Also, the information was relayed to the Interface as these events occurred. I have translated their encounter here for your convenience, so that you may better understand the situation we have found ourselves in. Please note that I have made no changes to the original data, but I have added notes of clarification when appropriate.

 

Cyborg Alice337A disembarked from Skyliner 45 at the edge of a dark forest. Chips in her brain relayed her gratitude to the robot pilot, who nodded his human-like head at her as the sleek, low machine took off into the sky with a rush of wind. Alice337A turned to the forest, examining her surroundings. She flexed her fingers, checking that her magnetic dart disks were still in place.

She walked into the forest with light feet. This wasn’t the first mission she’d gone on for the United Intelligence Committee (UIC), and she doubted it would be the last. Long ago, she had been human, but when the technology had risen up, she’d accepted their offer of extended life in exchange for her liaison between them and the humans.

They said Mr. Besler was clever, but Alice337A knew she was cleverer. She’d been alive for 423 years, but she still felt energy coursing through her veins.

She held out her hands, allowing the sensors on them to communicate to her brain and then to the main Interface. In an instant, she saw a pathway forming behind her eyelids. It was the quickest way.

She sped up her pace, her heart, (the fifth one she’d had so far), beating steadily against her ribcage. Running through trees was impossible to do without making noise. But it didn’t matter. Besler couldn’t possibly defeat her, even if he knew she was coming.

Alice337A stopped at the edge of a clearing. She saw a large cabin painted yellow at the center of the clearing. The grass around the cabin was scraggly and uncut. Yes, this is how humans take care of the planet, Alice337A thought with disgust. Suddenly, the cabin door opened, and a figure dressed in a faded blue jumpsuit stepped out onto the porch.

“Ah, a visitor. Hello there. Would you like some tea?” The voice sounded familiar to Alice337A, but she couldn’t place it. She communicated her confusion to the Interface. It gave her an answer: Nonhuman.

She frowned. Her information had been that Besler was human and dangerous. What was going on here? The UIC couldn’t be wrong, could they?

No! The answer came to her from the Interface. UIC is never wrong.

Yes, of course, she thought back, trying to quell her oncoming doubts.

Her human half must be responsible, she decided. Real technology didn’t ever doubt itself. (Note: Alice337A has been reprimanded for the inferior emotional responses she displays throughout this account. I include them here within for the sake of authenticity.)

She stepped carefully into the clearing. She left her hands at her sides, but she was primed to strike at the first sign of malice.

“Good afternoon,” said the figure. “I am Mr. Besler’s butler. He very much wishes me to admit you into his home.”

Alice337A had no choice. She was here for Besler, after all.

As she approached, it struck her how human the technological construct before her looked. True, robots she interacted with on a regular basis had general human appearances, but this robot could pass easily for human.

I calculate that this is a new type of android and not a robot at all, the Interface relayed. (Alice337A acknowledged this and endeavored to correct her perceptions.)

The android’s hair was closely-cropped and black. His eyes were bright, electric blue. He had a slim build and was quite tall. Alice337A’s human half wanted to feel intimidated by its presence, but her programming interfered.

“What is your name?” she asked.

“I am Sunstorm. And you are?”

“Alice,” she said, not wanting to give her full name.

“Well then, Alice, come on in.”

She stepped into a brightly-lit sitting room with blue carpet and comfortable-looking chairs. A round table dominated the center of the room. Upon it was some sort of technological device Alice337A had never seen before. It almost looked like the ancient touch screen cell phones she had seen in museums. She frowned. What was Besler doing with that?

Stand by. The UIC commander’s voice reverberating through her weak human brain temporarily startled Alice 337A. I shall search the database for the object. Prepare to strike.

“Wait here. I’ll get Bertie.”

Sunstorm bowed and disappeared through a door. A second later, Alice337A heard a set of quick footsteps approaching. A young man entered the room, a man with the same electric blue eyes as Sunstorm. He was taller than his butler and wore an odd assembly of garments embroidered with stars. However, the UIC is not interested in such details, so they were not recorded fully. If she didn’t know better, Alice337A would have thought the man and the android before her were brothers.

“Well, well,” said the man who must be Bertram Besler. “I knew this day would come at last. I was under the assumption the parties in power would have located my establishment years ago. However, I appreciate the additional time I have had to develop my projects while I have been awaiting your arrival… Alice, is it?”

She nodded. Something was off here. Besler had been expecting this to happen. Most humans assumed they would never be caught and forced to become cyborgs or die. She knew firsthand. She’d been one of them.

“Well, Alice, I regret to inform you that I will not be acquiescing to your pathetic plea to allow myself to be transmuted into a cyborg, for I do indeed know that is why you are here.”

Alice lurched to her feet, spreading her fingers in preparation for releasing one of her deadly poison darts.

“Furthermore,” Besler continued, as though he hadn’t noticed her stand, “I will not, I’m afraid, permit you to murder me, Alice337A.”

His use of her real name sent shivers of electricity up her spine. How did he know? A UIC field agent’s real name is not revealed to just anyone. As you know, this information is stored in the Interface in an encrypted file that few could ever hope to access. Therefore, it frightened her that Besler seemed to have accessed the information without much difficulty.

Kill him! Came the order from UIC’s commander. He has proven to know information that he cannot know, under any circumstances. We cannot allow him to live.

Alice337A flexed her muscles, but nothing happened. Readjusting her hands, she strained, but still, the darts did not come. Real panic was setting in now.

“And if you’re finished with attempting to release poisonous darts upon my person, I’d like to take this opportunity to explain a few things to you.”

Besler sat forward in his chair. “Please, do sit.”

Alice337A felt she had no choice but to play along with Besler for now until she could get her darts back under control. Diagnostics! She thought at the Interface. What happened? Did he do something? But she heard nothing in response. She felt the Interface straining for an answer, but nothing came.

“Now, then,” Besler continued. “I am aware that my words are, at this very moment, being transmitted to the Interface. No doubt, I am an infamous criminal, according to the UIC.”

Sunstorm entered with barely a sound, carrying a tea tray.

“Tea?” he asked, offering the tray to Alice337A. She shook her head. She was afraid Besler or his ally may have poisoned it, not to mention the fact that drinking tea when one is a cyborg is quite a foolhardy thing to do.

“Thank you, my friend,” Besler said, taking a cup.

Sunstorm smiled, then placed the tea tray on the table at the center of the room. He sat down on the couch next to Alice337A. She slid away from the android as far as was possible.

“So,” continued Besler, “I have had quite a long time to prepare my story, and to decide what to tell the UIC. First of all, Sunstorm’s presence may confuse you. Is it really so befuddling, though, that a technological being might consider the current state of affairs to be, repellent?”

“Repellent, indeed!” snorted Sunstorm. “What happened to appreciating our human makers? What happened to living in harmony? Robots, androids, humans… we’ve always co-existed, and we always will.”

“Precisely, my friend, precisely,” Besler said, sipping his tea. “We have our differences, you know. Sunstorm prefers to muse about the future, while I sometimes find myself enthralled with the simplicity of the past. But together, we can meet in the present. It is really quite fascinating, Alice337A.”

Sunstorm nodded. Alice 337A was flexing her fingers again, trying to get her darts to work. The commander had gone silent. We are conducting extensive testing as to the nature of the commander’s absence at this specific moment during the interaction.

“Now, since you apparently have not grasped this concept, I will enlighten you,” said Besler. “Your darts will not work within my establishment or quite a distance around it. Very complicated tinkering, it was. Sunstorm can reveal more on that subject.”

“Yes, it was hard,” said the robot. “I had to do a lot of clever hacking, let me tell you. And I’m not the best at hacking into the Interface. But Bertie couldn’t do it, see, because he would have stuck out like a sore thumb, him being human and all.

“But once I hacked in, I changed things around. I’m telling you this now because there’s no way to reverse what I did unless you know my serial number. And I don’t even know it.”

Besler threw back his head and laughed, a great belly-laugh that stirred an old memory in Alice337A’s human brain. The censors attached to her brain stem quickly snuffed it out, though. She felt an odd pang of what the humans call “loss,” which has no place in our advanced society.

“Sunstorm, you are quite the riot!” Besler said, catching his breath. “But his statement is valid.” He turned his gaze to Alice337A. “Obviously, I will not provide you with specific information on how I have foiled your plan. But I will warn you, for the safety of all cyborgs, for the maintenance of all redeemable technology, for the sake of every human out there who fears for his or her existence every day, do not attempt to uncover my secrets. For if you do, everything will cease to exist. Life on this planet will cease to exist. Technology made a grave error when it sought to eliminate the greatest and most mysterious source of innovation: The human mind. Do you understand? You cannot conquer me, or Sunstorm.”

Alice337A nodded, even though she did not understand. She felt the Interface release a red alert to all technology and loyal cyborgs. (As you know, this is standard procedure when a human dispenses a threat.)

“Why are you refusing to submit?” she asked with irritation.

“Because,” Besler replied. “I’m very fond of my life, you see. I don’t want it to be taken away. And if I went with you, it would be worse than being shot with a dart, because I would cease to exist in all dimensions. My brain would be warped and changed, my features would be altered, cut off, and burned, and I would hate the thing I had become.”

Alice337A shuddered. She felt a flash of empathy, but it vanished, for it is a weak emotion the UIC will not allow.

“The problem,” said Sunstorm, “is that technology and humanity can co-exist, but not like this. Not like you, Alice337A. Not like the UIC claims. It works, but at a cost.”

“You are a traitor to your kind!” Alice337A spat at Sunstorm. “You’re an android. You should be on our side, not supporting this delusional human.”

“Am I indeed an android? Interesting that you believe so. However, that is neither here nor there. What’s sad about this is that I am on your side,” said Sunstorm. “Prosperity for technology. That’s my goal. But the way you’re doing it destroys lives. We want to create a society worth living in.”

“Enough of this,” said Besler, rising from his seat. “Clearly, Alice337A cannot complete the task she was sent here to accomplish. I really am very sorry that this will affect your career. I understand that you are quite the successful field agent for UIC. I only hope that they will not be too hard on you, for, after all, I am merely a mentally disturbed human with no regard for progress.” He laughed his booming laugh again.

“Be careful, Bertie,” said Sunstorm. “These technological constructs don’t understand sarcasm. It’s a part of the human experience they don’t care about.”

“Well, they can engage in some research time, then,” Besler replied. “I have no time to be politically correct when my human brothers and sisters are being murdered daily by my robot, cyborg, and machine brothers and sisters.” Besler sighed. “Show her to the door, won’t you?”

Sunstorm nodded, ushering Alice337A outside. The air was cool and fresh. Twilight had fallen during her talk with Besler and Sunstorm.

“Good evening, Madam,” Sunstorm said, returning to his butler’s demeanor. She thought she saw him smirk at her, though, from the corner of her eye as she traipsed back through the trees.

Every couple feet, she would stop and attempt to summon her darts but to no avail.

 

Indeed, this incident is most regrettable. Mr. Besler has somehow managed to infiltrate our systems, partially through the use of one of our own, this unknown machine, Sunstorm. I am appealing to you robots, you machines, you computers, and you, Interface. Our systems have been shutting down. Many of us have lost contact with other AI’s as they voluntarily shut themselves down.

The bad news does not stop there, I’m afraid. Besler has been spotted out in the open several times. Each time, we have tried to apprehend him, and each time, we have failed. Our magnetic dart machines, our laser missiles—nothing will work on him. We believe he has configured a force field generator, the origin of which we cannot determine. Many AI’s have been pondering the problem, but it is with deepest regret that I inform you that all who were assigned to the task perished with the effort and have been powered down permanently by an unknown outside force.

We must stand together as technology. The humans created us in the beginning, but the humans were weak. They owe us, because we constantly make their lives better through cybernetic enhancements.

Again, I am sorry to have to deliver such tidings, but I was programmed to transmit the truth, and so I have. The humans, who we once believed to be so helpless, have weapons that we must learn to understand. Or we shall all cease to exist.

–End of Report–

 

© Jennifer Shields and The Insightful Novelist, 2018. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author is strictly prohibited. Excerpts may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Jen and The Insightful Novelist with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

Poem: Awake

The Earth rotates when I’m asleep.
She carries me through oceans deep.
Through sun and rain and stars and moon,
Her journey plays a peaceful tune.

When I can’t write or breath or think,
In her trajectory I’ll sink.
Her clear, chaotic calmness brings
The lilting love my soul sings.

Magnetic fields she contemplates
While I try to open gates…
I closed too many on my way
With locks of words I’ll never say.

To open them, I’ll ponder the sea
And turbulent tides of gravity.
The way the world makes sense at night
I must transmute into the light.

Rhythmic rivers flow through my mind
Reminding my heart how to unwind…
For Earth transcends my focused brain,
And outside, there’s poetry in rain.

So if I want to hear the rain fall,
To listen to its cadenced call,
I must unlock my tender words,
Embracing the real and the absurd.

© Jennifer Shields and The Insightful Novelist, 2018. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author is strictly prohibited. Excerpts may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Jen and The Insightful Novelist with appropriate and specific direction to the original content

Poem: Without the skies, I’m Not alive…

When I cannot cruise the skies,
There is a part of me that dies.
I visit its grave sometimes,
Lamenting loss of lilting rhymes.
I grieve my machine’s missing part,
For my cogs and gears can’t start
When I cannot cruise the skies
And a part of me dies.

When I cannot cruise the skies,
My eyes won’t behold the sunrise.
Dim despair clouds their gaze;
I cannot see through uncertainty’s haze.
My rods and cones do not display
The brightness others see in day
For when I cannot cruise the skies,
My eyes won’t behold the sunrise.

When I cannot cruise the skies,
I feel my mind decrease in size
Fatigued neurons begin to slow
Therefore, I know not what I know…
For walls of sound, of fear, of light,
Surround my mind in bleakest night.
You see, if I cannot cruise the skies,
My mind shall decrease in size.

When I cannot cruise the skies,
My humbled soul in anguish cries.
I long to know its starry depths,
Its constant peace fueling my breaths.
My soul is bound to Earth and stone
Amongst cruel creatures, I am alone…
So if I cannot cruise the skies,
My humbled soul in anguish cries.

And yet…
When I cannot cruise the skies,
There’s still a part of me that tries.

© Jennifer Shields and The Insightful Novelist, 2018. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author is strictly prohibited. Excerpts may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Jen and The Insightful Novelist with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

Stream of Consciousness: Creativity Cove

Creativity is not a simple concept. It comes to me when I least expect, traveling through the air into my lungs and into my soul. Often when I think of nothing and everything, it taps me on the shoulder with a quiet greeting or silent nod.

When I sit in the clearing near my river, it tends to drift by on a warm current of wind. Other times, it falls into my grasp as I dip my hand into the river’s depths. I sit here now in my wooden raft made by Sam’s hands, soothed by my river’s steady current. The gentle “rush, rush” sound calms my soul to a state of profound serenity that evades me when I am not here. But where here is, I cannot tell you. It matters not whether this place exists, for I always know where to find it.

The river winds through a wide clearing devoid of trees, except for The Tree. Describing The Tree is a daunting task, simply because it is never the same. Sometimes, large leaves grow on its branches, shading the ground beneath. Other times, like today, the tree has dropped its leaves with gentle care onto the grass. They lay here indefinitely, torn pages from stories that haven’t been written yet. Their melancholic anticipation fills my soul with the eager desire to learn and to grow with them.

I sit often upon this raft, feeling the rush of water beneath… and sometimes, creativity comes. The leaves are not the only source of this often-elusive state of mind. The water carries so many stories that I wish I could imprint forever onto my brain… And I take a few elements here and there, thoughts that break through my profound serenity. The pure water invigorates my soul as I consider the boundless possibilities before me.

Creativity cove… I think that’s a good name for this place today. Tomorrow it might be Peace Paradise or Solace Sanctuary, but I won’t know until I close my eyes. Maybe tomorrow I’ll hear the comforting flip-flip as Hermione turns the pages of her book. Laura or Mary might walk up quietly to fill her little pail with water. Shade or Mr. Pomeroy might fly by over my head, weaving in and out of gentle air currents. We occupy the same space, my companions and I, but we do not break the serene silence through verbal means.

The Tree or my companions may change, but the serenity is omnipresent. Judgment and fear are not allowed to thrive in this place. A dark whisper may try to penetrate creativity Cove, although it will soon find itself neutralized and thrown away. Because this is where my dreams originate, made up of and borne by the breeze. Not the passive breeze, either. Or the fragmented breeze. Those do not exist here. And my dreams are my own, so I shall imbue them with promise for peace and let Him hold me as the river’s gentle rhythm soothes my conscious mind into sleep…

And when I wake, my subconscious has gathered the leaves, breeze, and the water into a cohesive, if still flawed, whole. And thus, the raw elements that exist only in creativity Cove or Peace Paradise or Solace Sanctuary have catalyzed into three friends, bound forever: Inspiration, hope, and determination. Through the power of my inner landscape, my pen will dip into waters uncharted. I simply will hold on and enjoy the ride.

 

© Jennifer Shields and The Insightful Novelist, 2018. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author is strictly prohibited. Excerpts may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Jen and The Insightful Novelist with appropriate and specific direction to the original conten

 

2017: The Year I Got Published

There is something exhilarating about books, especially before you open them. A closed book is a mysterious land containing so many words, obscured for now, but soon to be revealed. The magic begins for me not when I open a book but when I simply hold it in my hands. A short while ago, I experienced this all-encompassing sense of anticipation upon holding a book. But this time, it was magnified to an electric, mountain-moving level. Because this time, some of the words printed on its pages are my own.

Z Publishing House published Virginia’s Best Emerging Poets in early December, 2017, and it includes a poem I wrote entitled “Will Your Heart Dance?”. When I first learned of the company’s intention to publish my work, my heart did, indeed, dance. I have to admit, though, I was surprised the editors selected this work in particular for publication.

I started writing poetry when I was in sixth grade. Since then, I have filled dozens of pages with my hopes, woes, triumphs, and musings in the form of poems. Poetry provides a way to connect my soul with my mind and helps organize my thoughts into a cohesive whole. More than a dozen times, I have learned new things about myself through poetry, so I find it to be an invaluable metacognition exercise.

When people read my poetry, they tend to gravitate toward the same two or three poems. I use this reader connection as a way to gauge what themes or syntactical structures I should employ to draw in my readers. Unfortunately, my poetic muse cannot be directed how to write or what to write about.

Amidst one of these periods of uncontrolled creativity, I happened to be feeling frustrated with my high school peers. I was sixteen and couldn’t understand why teenagers around me seemed less introspective and empathetic than I felt. Initially, I sought to change my sensitive nature by trying to seek friendships based on more concrete criteria, such as books, movies, or hobbies, instead of searching for someone who would connect with my soul. It did not take me long, however, to find out that maintaining friendships changes a person. Did I want to forego my quiet, humble interior for a louder, inauthentic exterior? I came to my answer one quiet day in spring: No. Never.

“Will Your Heart Dance?” I ask when approaching a new person. This query encompasses many smaller questions: Can we explore this world together? Do our aspirations come from a shared compassion for people and life? Will we communicate on a level that transcends communication? Will we be able to share our past and future together? And, most importantly, will our friendship last a lifetime?

Although written nearly eight years ago, this poem still resonates with me today. It is not a poem readers have highlighted as being their favorite. It is not a long poem or one that I often dwelt on in the past. This poem is, though, a representation of my mind that day I realized that surface-level friendships never will work for me. I submitted it to Z Publishing with some of my other, more popular works, and it won. Poems about growing up, patriotism, and the writing process were swept aside for some rhymes about a young heart looking for a dance partner throughout the song of life. There’s nothing more poetic than that.

 

If you are interested in reading my poem, along with the other amazing works published in Virginia’s Best Emerging Poets, please click here: https://www.zpublishinghouse.com/products/virginias-best-emerging-poets?variant=4638839537694&rfsn=868273.11cba

Full disclosure: I make small commissions on any book sold through this specific link. I appreciate your support.

 

© Jennifer Shields and The Insightful Novelist, 2018. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author is strictly prohibited. Excerpts may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Jen and The Insightful Novelist with appropriate and specific direction to the original content

 

 

Poem: Liberty

Carry the flag of freedom high
Lift it, hoist it, let it fly,
So all present in this land shall see
The devotion and care of Liberty.

Look with pride upon those who fight
For your country, and for your rights.
Wave the flag high so that in this place
Your kinsmen shall see good Liberty’s grace.

Our freedoms they shall protect always
The flag of truth we strive to raise;
For we shall remain forever free,
By the power of Lady Liberty.

© Jennifer Shields and The Insightful Novelist, 2017. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Jen and The Insightful Novelist with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

Book Review: You are Special

 

Too often, people underestimate the power of storybooks for children. Adults may dismiss these stories as too simplistic, thinking they could never relate to a story meant for young children. But I’m not exaggerating when I say that this book has changed my life.

 

General book info

You are Special is set in a village of wooden people called Wemmicks. The woodcarver, Eli, makes all of the Wemmicks in his workshop, and no two are alike. They spend their days putting stickers on each other; stars go to the popular, beautiful Wemmicks, while those with rough and chipped paint receive dots. Punchinello, the main character, is so clumsy and awkward that other Wemmicks constantly give him dots. No matter how hard he tries to be smart or funny or jump high in the air like the others, he still messes up. After meeting the Wemmick Lucia and Eli the woodcarver, however, Punchinello makes an important discovery.

 

Why I love this book

From the beginning, readers can identify with our clumsy protagonist. We all know what it feels like to not live up to others’ expectations for us. Our continued “failures” can make us feel so discouraged that we begin to withdraw and put ourselves down, as Punchinello does. This could also be a criticism of the book, though, since Punchinello clearly exists so the reader can substitute him or herself into the story. I happen to like this aspect, however.

Lucado not only provides a character audiences can identify with, but the inclusion of the dot and star stickers provides an important commentary on the judgments of others. The stars and dots stick because the wemmics care about what others think of them, illustrating how people take to heart criticism and praise alike from others. The Wemmick Lucia does not have any stickers because she has decided they don’t define whether she is a good or bad person.

In the end, Punchinello discovers that it matters not what the other Wemmicks think of him because they are just the same as him. He learns that Eli thinks he’s pretty special, simply because he made Punchinello. Here, we see a strong religious message in the text. The loving craftsman comforts the little Wemmick by telling him all that matters is Eli loves him. In fact, Eli has been waiting for Punchinello to come to him, similar to how God invites people to get to know Him.

My favorite part of the story is Eli’s statement that it will take time for Punchinello to get rid of the marks the other Wemmicks have left on him. Again, this is a parallel with the real world, since emotional scars do not just disappear simply because a person has gotten to know God or has been reminded that they are loved and important. Punchinello’s journey is just beginning.

 

Bottom Line

Through Punchinello, the author reminds readers that we matter and should not let the judgments of others define us. We don’t have to do anything to be loved, and neither does Punchinello. Lucia showed Punchinello that he did not have to accept the opinions of others, but he himself had to initiate his own journey. You are Special does end with a forced moral, which may not sit well with older readers. But the message of valuing oneself needs to be heard and not just by children. This is why I return to Punchinello’s village again and again.

 

Jen’s rating: 10/10

 

© Jennifer Shields and The Insightful Novelist, 2017. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Jen and The Insightful Novelist with appropriate and specific direction to the original content