Refracted Neurons

There are many unknowns in the world.  Aliens may be out there.  Parallel dimensions might exist.  Star Wars might actually be non-fiction, or at least that's where the online library put it: Kids, I have something to tell you.  C-3PO is real and he's hiding in your closet. Somehow this didn't bother my daughter at all.  No, what bothered her was Benjamin Franklin. "He's scary," she said, "He isn't real, right?" "No, he's real.  But he died a long time ago." "Did he go to Heaven?" "I mean, probably." "Is there more than one Heaven?" By now, I know where she's going with this question and I'm struggling not to laugh.  "No, there's only one Heaven." "I don't want to go then.  Not if Benjamin Franklin is there." The next day she comes up to me, "I want to see a picture of Gingerman Franklin." Yup, you've heard of Slenderman, but have you heard of Gingerman?...

“I can see the technical skill, but it doesn’t make me feel anything.” Grimmett felt it.  He felt the judges’ words like a hot mandrel pressing against the back of his neck.  He looked at the case next to his, the desire to tip it over bubbling inside him.  “How do you feel now?” he would roar as the headpiece hit the ground.  He imagined the display case shattering, phallic-shaped beads scattering, rolling across the polished cement floor. “Hi Grimmett,” a hand touched his elbow and he jerked.  “Oh, sorry,” the woman pulled her gloved hand away.  “Jade,” he faked a smile, “How nice of you to come.”   She peered in the display case, her neck taking on the elegant bend of blown glass, “It’s rather tacky, isn’t it?” “How do you know that’s not mine?” “As someone who has only taken one lampwork course ever . . . I don’t know.  Your work just feels different,” she scooted over to his case, “This looks like yours.” “How does it feel?” “Uh,” Jade...

Some of you might remember how obsessed I am with Paintschainer , the coloring AI.  Well, recently I stumbled on an AI called Artbreeder that lets you mix images together and fine-tune them by editing their "genes."  I did a little reading on Artbreeder and I'm still not entirely sure where some of the creeptastic images it spits-out come from.  Like this camel for instance: If I'm understanding things correctly, this is what a robot thinks a camel looks like.  The image doesn't originate from some weirdo uploading an image and modifying it through one of the various and sundry gene editing modes (flag pole gene, anyone?).  I really hope I'm wrong and for God's sake, don't look up the gene Sorrel.  I still can't figure out what animal that's supposed to be, but it haunts my dreams. Of course, I decided to contribute to this AI's misunderstanding of the world by uploading close-ups of flowers in the "Portraits" section.  It said t...

Save Desdemona is on sale!  And by "On Sale," I mean free.  Smashwords is doing a quarantine promotion through the end of this month and there are tons of great discounted and free ebooks available. If a low-fantasy survival game is not up your alley, I also finished Do Not Reuse.  It's a futuristic mystery with an unsettling undercurrent.  Of course, this means that I'm working on a new project.  The first is the sequel to Save Desdemona.  It's largely a rewrite of an older novella (just like Save was).  The structure of the book is already there, I just have to rewrite almost all of it (hahaha).  Since it's a rewrite, I want to work on something else co-currently, I just have to decide what.  A while ago, someone suggested I expand a short story about lampworkers into a book, but I'm still not sure about plot.  I'm trying another short story about lampwork this month, and I guess I'll just see how it goes from there. ...

All windows had to be blacked out. I’m not really sure why, but for me, that was the tipping point. “Why?” I asked Charles as he painted the living room window with a brush. “We’re at war.” “Yes, but no one has attacked us from the sky,” I pointed at the blue-grey strip at the top.  It was empty and silent, the dull roar and seagull silhouettes of airplanes only a memory. Charles sighed, and I knew what he was thinking before he even opened his mouth.  “It’s the law,” he set his brush on the edge of the can, “It’s for safety.” “I’m not sure I believe it.  Besides, we can’t see the roses.  They were just about to bloom and we’re not supposed to go outside.” “You can go outside,” he picked up his brush, “as long as you’re engaged in purposeful business.” “Picking roses is not purposeful business,” I turned away from him.  Every inch of me longed to speak to someone who would understand, but trivial use of the phone was forbidden.  The lines...

Eunice didn’t mean to stir up a kerfuffle, at least that’s what she always maintained, but things had gotten boring around the senior center and she herself was bitter.  “Muriel and Marge’s children have taken them home,” she complained through the paper mask, “They are out there going to Safeway on Tuesdays and Muriel even went to bunco!” “Now Mom,” George put a gloved hand on the shoulder of her sweater set, “they don’t have small children at home.  You know how kids pass things around.” “If you’re not going to take me home, at least get them to restore my shopping day.  They don’t buy the right type of cookies no matter how many times I ask.” “Mom, it’s a quarantine.  They’re trying to protect you,” George’s mask couldn’t hide his exasperation, “Anyway, you like it here.  You like the crafts . . .” “They have been canceled.” “You like the cafeteria . . .” “They’re making us eat in our room.” “Being around other people your own age . . . “ “Th...

It was strange, but she didn’t care anymore.  Tracy had pushed her too far and instead of feeling immense sadness, she felt nothing.  It didn’t matter that she had to see him every day, it didn’t matter that he was happy without her, it didn’t - Vera stared at her box of staples in horror.  Now here was something that really mattered.  Instead of the long, uniform rows of staples she expected, they were broken, jumbled, and largely useless.  She held the box over the trash can, then changed her mind at the last moment. “Where are you going, Vera?” Tracy asked as she walked by his office. “Just paying it forward,” Vera held up the box of staples.  Reaching Lynn's office, she cracked the door cautiously.  Looking behind her, she jumped, “God, Tracy, could you not move so quietly?” “Next time I’ll cough like this, ‘eh-heh,’” Tracy faked a cough into the crook of his elbow. Vera slipped into Lynn's office, sliding the top drawer of his desk open....