Rated: Fiction T
Rated: Fiction T
I should have been writing something else, but I saw an old post, and something stirred…. Any way for your enjoyment.
“Doomed planet. Desperate scientists. Last hope…. ”
The child ran along the beach, splashing through the surf laughing, and giggling, long dark hair curled and fell in waves across sun kissed shoulders. A simple cloth covered the young child’s loins.
“Callie come to momma” Ebony skinned and statuesque, the African Amazon stood in the shade of the trees. Philippus watched the five year old skip and with an impossible turn of speed alter direction. Callie came to the Amazon with all the enthusiasm of youth. In that split second the three thousand year old warrior found herself lost in memory.
The comet had come across the night sky a red fire ball, a warning to the already astonished Amazons. The women of Themyscira received another shock to their previous unchanging trimillenial civilisation.
It was confirmation. A sky chariot from alien gods. Evil times had come. Philippus had been so sure of it.
What else could this mean. How could any of this have happened?
Prince William and his wife Kate, Duchess of Cambridge kiss on the balcony in Buckingham Palace after their wedding service
Holy crap, what is going on?
I’m so frustrated with this cause that I dearly believe in. Instead of reaching for tolerance and high ideals, the intellectual wing of feminism seems mired in ego, short-sightedness and celebrity snark.
Instead of being a philosophical haven for both the poet and…
Gail, there are a lot of things I like about this post. I like that you reject the idea that feminism should be made palatable to mainstream audiences. I like your emphasis on the breadth of feminism. I like how well you articulate your ideas. And I like your pointing out that mainstream feminism has historically a great many problems around inclusivity or the lack thereof, and in fact has been in many ways a movement borne of privilege (though I do hope that because of this you accept that many people have very valid reasons for not identifying with feminism, and it’s not the place of a white cis woman to tell them that feminism isn’t like that any more, or whatever. Because it certainly is, or large parts of it are).
It is because you acknowledge this truth that I hope you’ll be receptive to my one major criticism (other than the above):
This is a really loaded word. And for me - and a lot of other feminists and social-justice-minded people with mental illnesses - it is an extremely harmful one.
Because when you use this word to categorise “every religious zealot, every hardcore bigot, every sad, confused misogynist”, you are saying that to be those things is to be insane.
And we get so much bigotry from society at large. There is so much prejudice aimed against us in so many ways. So to be told (not just by you, but over and over again by “progressive” and rightwing people alike) that we are equivalent to everything that is wrong in society? That to be evil, to be bigoted or a murderer or maliciously, wilfully ignorant and callous is to be a “lunatic”, or to be “crazy”?
This hurts. And it has very real consequences.
We are disproportionately victims of violent crime. Of abuse. Of myriad forms of human-rights violations.
And to have that twisted—to have the way language is popularly constructed suggest that we are not the victims, but the perpetrators—that, in fact, to be a perpetrator of these abuses is inherently to be insane?
This is really hurtful.
I am not trying to pick on you. The reason I am writing this is because I know you think about oppression. I know it’s something you take seriously. So when I say this, I’m hoping you’ll take it to heart, or at least not dismiss it out of hand.
Please don’t prove me wrong.
No, I think instead I’ll just agree with you and apologize. I don’t even have the excuse of ignorance because people have pointed this out to me a couple times in the past.
I think it’s probably because I’ve never heard anyone self-identify as a “lunatic” in a serious way. I’m careful not to use a phrase like, say, “mentally ill,” inappropriately, but that’s a line too thin to walk with any confidence. I write about people who genuinely are disturbed in one way or another…I do like to think that many of them own that label and are not exactly ashamed of it. But that doesn’t mean it needs to be thrown about pointlessly in real life.
No excuses, I’ll be more careful with that kind of terminology. I don’t think I made the connection you imply that evil = mentally ill, however. I think most evil is simple selfishness and ignorance, as in the examples you mention.
But I get the point about the rest and will try to be smarter in the future. If I mess up again, you have my delightedly given permission to mock me for being a dunder-headed lout who can’t seem to learn.
I’m mentally ill, I’m not insane. There is in practise - in conversation, a distinction between the term mental illness and the word insanity. Insanity insinuates that the afflicted has no hope. Insanity implies those with a serious mental illness aren’t going to recover, rather say locked in an insane or lunatic asylum.
Mental illness describes someone who is sick with a treatable disease.
I think getting upset over the use of lunatic, a word that dropped out of legal use decades ago and has a particular meaning, insane and out of control, with added implication of danger to self and or others, doesn’t help the cause of those who are ill mentally.
I have depression. I take pills. I am comfortable that my brain chemistry needs tweaking in the same way my blood chemistry may need tweaking with antibioitcs.
Insanity in the common consciousness is going to include people who legally are responsible, ie sane before the courts, for their actions.
That shouldn’t preclude the labelling of a serial killer, convicted as sane legally speaking, as an example of insanity. To try and do so would be like King Canute standing before the tide, and demanding it roll back.
Once upon time the dangerous and disadvantaged, the insane and troubled were all branded lunatics and were locked up in asylums. There is still a long way to go.
But things aren’t as bad as they were. People in my experience are able to differentiate between mental illness and the more lurid terms once legally applied people with mental health problems. They remain pejorative, and in some cases “every religious zealot, every hardcore bigot, every sad, confused misogynist”, does deserve the title insane - and when harmful dare I say lunatic.
First of all, I loved the line about Frankenstein and Ming the Merciless.
Second, thouroughly enjoyed the fight scenes.
It doesn’t get much better than evil genius super-dinosaurs evil Amazon-like women riding Pterasaurs.
Is it just me, or do all of the best battles in this story take place in pocket dimensions?
I can’t wait to see what happens next. Good luck!
quoted from GioiaRecs
@countryboylife Holy cow that’s HUGE! Particularly for your first fic! I’m quite impressed. :)
I’m huge and impressive, it’s just another aspect to my winning personalty.
Earthly Angels vs Earthly Demons. Vampires, the heirs of Lillith, and the Children of the Horned-god Cain. High School Heroine must overcome personal tragedy to deal with the occult legacy of her small town’s hidden history.
My name is Madeline Stevens, I’m seventeen. My mom turns to face me, the house phone in her hand, and I know something is very wrong. The last time she looked at me like this was when they found dad’s body.
Mom struggles for words as speaks into the receiver. “Oh my God. No. Anita that’s… just awful, awful.” This is bad. Jennifer Stevens is rarely lost for words, an important strength when you’re a High School English teacher, and yes she passed this trait on to me.
“It’s Brandon isn’t it?” I ask once they are done on the phone. She nods. Anita Lyons was one of my mom’s best friends in Eden Field, perhaps the only one. We were still the newcomers to this patch of Vermont, three years doesn’t mean much in a small town.
The internet did not believe it. The collective consciousness of the blogsphere, the chatter was conclusive, the powers that be could not stop file sharing.
Information must flow freely, but the lawmakers had the power to damn that river, sever the connections, and the corporations had the muscle – the money to make sure that it happened.
Technological change advanced. Memory augmentation meant that every living moment of our days were recorded by our mobile devices – our clothes came with wireless camera’s and mic’s as a matter of course, heck you had to and shop vintage if you wanted dumb fabric, everything had smart weave, from jeans to the bio-plastic panels on the car.
All this information was backed up to our servers, thought controlled interfaces meant the editing and presentation of that slapstick moment when grandma fell over the dog on youtube was mere impulse away.
The thought police were draconian. It was a logical extension of the laws against file sharing, heard that piece of music, while it was perfectly recorded in your personal ‘CLIC’ - cybernetic link interfacing computer ( grown for you from your own neurons; no rejection and perfect memory ) this didn’t meant you couldn’t share it - but uploading copyrighted content from your own subconscious ie talking or file sharing as they lawyers insisted on calling it - without payment was illegal.
So if you told your friends about the movie you saw you paid the industry it’s fee, every thought was tracked, every copyrighted word logged. Every time you sang Happy Birthday the Disney Corporation got richer.
“Remember” the warnings began, “Intellectual Property Rights are protected in law, you do not own your memories of copyrighted material, accessing memories, containing copyrighted intellectual properties incurs a fee, deducted from your account automatically for your convenience.”
Butch’s drink spilled all over his friend, as the big car lurched. “Hey you nut! What’s up with you.” He shouted at the driver.
“There a fool standing in the middle of road.”
Matson leaned forward and looked ahead. “What he’s doing star gazing? Drive at him. Give the nut a scare.”
The driver gunned the gas pedal and the big car tore forward again.
“He’s not moving boss.”
“Is that a red coat he’s wearing?” Andy-boy asked.
“We’ll hit him!” Another said.
“Watch the chrome!” Butch yelled at the last moment, concerned for his expensive auto. The driver swerves. Superman jumps clear and somersaults over the speeding automobile.
“What the hell was that?” The Driver spat.
The men in the back turned around and looked out of the small rear window.
“I’ll be damned – it’s the devil himself, I swear that man - he’s chasing us.” Andy-boy spat.
“I don’t believe it.” Butch stated. Hit a leaver in the custom cabin the rear window dropped behind the seat.
“Pass me a typewriter, going to write this fella a letter.” Butch snarled.
Andy-boy opened a hidden storage box in the car’s floor, and passed his boss a Thompson submachine gun. Matson sticks the muzzle out of the rear facing opening and begins emptying the magazine at the pursuing figure.”
“Die you son of a…”
“Butch he’s not stopping!”
Matson could see Superman’s face in the light of the muzzle flash. He couldn’t believe his eyes, as the bullets even a this close range were having zero effect.
“Step on it!” Andy-boy urged their driver.
Superman grabbed the bumper of the car, sliding behind the Cadillac for a brief second before snatching the auto’s driving wheels clear of the pavement, then he began braking the speeding vehicle, his boots sliding along the road surface, bringing the sedan to an abrupt stop – while pulling the car to himself.
Superman tipped the car up further, shifting his grip he tossed the car over his head and grabbing hold of the spinning prop Superman tore the drive shaft clear. The powerless rear wheels span on steadily slowing.
Balancing the town-car and its seven occupants over his head Superman flips the vehicle over onto its side.
One hand now taking the strain his fingers sink into the body work; with the other free hand Superman tears the doors off the big sedan while shaking the auto. The gangsters fall tumbling to the ground.
Then with a nonchalant toss Superman drives the expensive limousine into the ground. Butch’s chrome crumples as the engine smashes into the empty cabin.
Superman turns to face the dishevelled, badly shaken hoodlums. They begin picking themselves up from the dirt, and the Man of Steel lets them.
Butch and Andy-boy aim their Tommy guns, the other’s draw iron; and a hail of bullets rain down.
Superman steps into it grasping the submachine guns barrels in either hand he yanks them away, crushing them out of shape, the guns become so much scrap. The gunmen stop firing as Superman takes Matson in his hands.
“What are you? You’re not human!” Butch gasped.
The Man of Tomorrow held the big man clear of the ground by his coat replies. “You’re right. I’m superhuman.
“Tell your boy’s to toss their guns, they’re harmless toys where I’m concerned, and if one of them let’s off a shot the only person they’ll hurt now is you.”
“Do it fella’s.”
“Toss them here, to me.” Superman commands.
Guns arch through the air. Superman turns, catching and crushing the remaining pistols.
“You might have me, but my people are everywhere, I’ll…”
Butch’s voice was drowned out by rushing wind, the ground vanishes beneath him. Superman powers upwards.
“Up up and away Butch.”
Thomas Brown adjusted his frock coat as he entered the library. He was fashionably attired for a young man about town, but today he chose to browse the volumes housed within the relative quiet of this palace of learning.
The librarian was strikingly beautiful. Her delicate perfume was like a summer meadow. Brown smiled. For him life was perennially better than his material forebears, her rich brunette hair, and delicate gold framed glasses made her violet eyes all the more lovely; it was only fitting that an edifice as splendid as this should be graced by such a classic beauty.
Around about him Doric columns rose to support arches, under which polished oak shelves taller than the trees from which wood was felled rose, and above all this a domed ceiling painted and adorned like a vision of heaven itself, replete with angels and the stars themselves.
Passing the beauty seated at her gargantuan desk, Thomas’ booted feet clicked against the polished stone floor, and at once the familiar scents of waxed wood, polished leather, and crisp paper aroused happy memories. Brown surveyed the shelves of books, section by section.
Walking to his preferred topic the fair haired youth’s eyes danced back and forth until the settled upon a slim green leather bound tome.
Stretching out his hand he withdrew the dated volume of McGillican’s Tropics from the Historical Travel section.
The leather was cool to the touch, the pages crisp and white. Miraculously deep in both colour and vibrancy, at odds with the beautiful but austere library of stone, wood, and polished brass.
His fingers strayed across the page, brushing the picture of the blue lagoon, the golden sandy beach framed by jaunty palm trees.
As if by magic Thomas Brown tumbled through the page of this book. Falling into the world, that only a moment before he had remotely observed, in a swirl of colour and light, swapping the cloistered reality of the library, for heat of the tropical sun.
Casting aside his frock coat, Brown leapt unashamedly in the cooling blue waters, splashing naked as a babe, and as carefree.
In due course Thomas stepped from the sea. Beneath his feet the hot sand, taking a towel that hung conveniently from a nearby tree, he dried himself before dressing. Then reaching into his coat he withdrew the same green book he had taken from the library shelf. Opening it at the first page, where the library label was attached, he brushed his finger once again against the paper to be instantly transported back to libraries cavernous hall.
Replacing the book, Brown retuned to the Librarians desk.
“Thank you.” He said. “I have had a most pleasant afternoon.”
“Indeed Sir, I am pleased, may I enquire which volume you perused?”
“ McGillican’s Tropics, 1770”
“Oh a wonderful time period, very peaceful.”
“I swam in the ocean, most enjoyable.”
“Of course. Perhaps upon your next visit you would consider ‘Chang. Titan Moon. 2090’ Swimming in the methane seas among the indigenous life forms is a truly splendid.”
“I shall certainly consider it. Thank you.”
Brown paused. Adding. “ Would it be to bold of me to ask if you care to accompany me?”
The librarian smiled. “Not at all. I would be delighted.”
Brown reached across and took her hand. “To think in the past our ancestors were limited by such a pedestrian concept as reality.”
She brushed his hand with hers. “Yes, when all that is real is but electrical impulses from the senses, what indeed is reality?”