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Lizard Brain is a shared blog about Science Fiction and Fantasy from Daniel Abraham and Ty Franck.

The Dogs Project: Part Ten

03.20.12
by Daniel Abraham

What is the Dogs Project?

Living without a dog felt strange.  It felt wrong.  It felt better than living with one.  Maybe later, Charlie told himself, it would get easier.  But days passed and flesh knitted.  The last stitches came out, and the low, grey skies of winter settled in.  Thanksgiving came and went, and Christmas began its low, flat descent.  He had nightmares sometimes, but less.  He had moments of profound and crippling fear that came like bad weather and then moved on.  His doctor put him on antidepressants, and they seemed to help some.

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The Dogs Project: Part Nine

03.15.12
by Daniel Abraham

What is the Dogs Project?

He didn’t hear Adam’s footsteps, only his sigh.  Charlie looked up.  Adam was in the doorway, a handful of pale green printer paper in his hand, a grim expression on his face.  Charlie tried to smile.  Tried to wave hello.  His body wouldn’t comply.

“Rough day,” Adam said.  It wasn’t a question.

Charlie felt a tear on his cheek.  He hadn’t realized he was weeping.

“I can’t do this,” he said.  His voice was weak.  Adam squatted down next to him, carefully not touching.

“Do what?”

“Any of it.”

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Our new robot overlords form a band

03.01.12
by Daniel Abraham

 

This is deeply cool, and — in an age of automated predator drones — also kind of creepy.

 

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The Dogs Project: Part Eight

02.29.12
by Daniel Abraham

What is the Dogs Project?

The downtown streets were thick with bodies, each one moving through its own peculiar path, its own life.  Charlie hunched down into his clothes, hands in his pockets, and head bowed trying to seem like one of them.  Trying to seem normal.  And maybe he was.  Maybe the thick-bellied man with the navy blue suit and gold tie was just as worried about seeming strange.  Maybe the woman driving past in her minivan had the same sense of almost dream-like dislocation.  The kid bent over the bicycle weaving through stopped cars at the intersection might be riding hard and fast so that no one would see the tears in his eyes or ask him to explain them.  How would Charlie know?  There weren’t any signs around their necks to say I’m frightened or I don’t want to go home if no one else is there or I’m broken and I’m afraid I will never be right.  Even if there had been, people would have taken the signs off.  Charlie would have.

A bus huffed by, throwing out a stinking wind of exhaust.  The cars started moving again, following the autonomic signals of the stoplight.  Charlie paused at the corner, waiting his own turn to cross.  Across the street, the glowing red hand meant he had to wait.  A little crowd gathered around him — an older man with skin the color of mahogany and close-cut hair the color and texture of snow clinging to stone, a woman in a tan business suit with the empty stare of boredom, a man Charlie’s age tapping at his smartphone and glancing up occasionally to make sure the world was still there.

A dog barked.  The sound of pure threat.

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Dogs Project: Part Seven

02.27.12
by Daniel Abraham

What is the Dogs Project?

“You’re looking for a dog?”

The man behind the counter seemed amused, but Chartlie couldn’t guess why.  Outside, the street traffic was thick.  Cars and busses and pedestrians locked in the perpetual daily struggle of lunchtime at the edge of the business district.  Inside the pet shop, birds shrieked and complained and puppies yapped.  The display cages ran down the wall, little rooms the size of closets with stainless steel bowls for food and water, oversized cushions to rest on, and in each one at least one dog.  The walls facing the shop’s main room were thick plexiglass, claw-scratched and pitted but clean.

“Thinking about it,” Charlie said.

The days since Dickens left had been much like the days before, only a sense of isolation had grown up where there had only been guilt before.  He’d found himself looking at pet shops and animal rescues online like he was testing too see whether a wound had healed by pressing on it.  More and more in the past week, he’d found himself daydreaming at work or at the office, thinking how he could have done things differently or telling himself that it was the change that had made the difference.  A new dog would never know what kind of person he’d been before, and so wouldn’t be disappointed in who he was now.

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Malice, Rape, and the Curry Rule

02.21.12
by Daniel Abraham

So, because of a few conversations and at least one dreadful and graceless shouting match I’ve been having and/or spectating one place and another online, I’ve been thinking more about my idiosyncratic attitude toward writing about sexual assault and its aftermath.  (And, yeah, poking along on the Dogs Project is part of that.) I tried to make my position clear way back when I posted about why I was consciously not including rape in my urban fantasy series, but I think I’ve found an example in the world that gives a good illustration of what I’m getting at.

No, not that Mali . . . No. Wait. Yes, exactly that Malice.

And so, a movie review.

Let me begin by saying how reassuring it is to me as a writer to see brilliant people stumble.  A cast filled not just with first class actors, but first class actors of whom I’m actually fond: Alec Baldwin, Nicole Kidman, Bill Pullman.  A script by Aaron Sorkin, one of my all-time favorite screenwriters, second only to Tom Stoppard.  Malice came out in 1993, and I have to say, it failed for me.  Badly.

The main plot involves a man figuring out that his wife and their friend the doctor are running an complex grift.  (Protip:  If your cunning criminal plan begins “Step One:  Go to medical school and become a top-flight surgeon” you may be overthinking it.)  There are machinations and reveals, and red herrings and complex subterfuge all written in Sorkin-esque brilliancies and delivered with a weird awkwardness (with the exception of one line by Baldwin, which was a perfect delivery, and so stood out like an emerald in gravel).  But that’s not what I wanted to talk about.

This was also the first film appearance by Gwynneth Paltrow, who had a blink-and-you-miss-her role as an undergraduate who on a campus that was being used as hunting ground for a serial killer.

You’ll notice that I didn’t mention a serial killer in my plot synopsis.  That’s because the subplot was really just an aside.  The movie asked us to pay lots of attention to Bill Pullman’s betrayal by his wife, and the intricacies of medial malpractice while there’s a serial killer stalking the freaking campus.   My experience as a viewer was “Who gives a crap about medical malpractice?  You have a serial killer on campus!  Let’s take care of *that*.”

Which is to say, they put something in that overpowered the main story and then  tried to treat it as minor.

My curry rule is this (as I’ve stated it elsewhere), once you add some curry to your dish, you’re making a curry dish.  You can say it about really good fresh garlic too.  It’s almost impossible to add something that strong and compelling in and not have it be central to the experience.  Malice failed, in part, because it took something more compelling than its own story and tried to use it as background.  I think sexual assault is like that in prose fiction.  I think you can write about rape if you’re writing about rape (and even then, go with God, because it’s a terrible and complex subject) or if it’s not what you’re writing about, you can pass over the subject lightly, but including it as a side-note seems doomed to fail.

In the urban fantasy series, I’ve intentionally touched on things that I think relate to the problematic relationship between women and power in the culture, and while there’s a lot of overlap in subject matter, I’d like this to be a pleasant, somewhat escapist experience so I don’t want to go there with that story.  With Dogs, I’m specifically trying to take on one aspect of the aftermath of sexual assault.  It’s not that I don’t think rape should be written about or thought about or considered.  It’s very much that I think it defines the work in which it appears — it’s pretty much all anyone says about Thomas Covenant anymore — and so if that’s not central what I’m writing, it’s a mistake to include it.

Other folks, clearly, have different views.  But I think I’m right.

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The Dogs Project: Part Six

02.20.12
by Daniel Abraham

What is the Dogs Project?

Back home, Charlie sat at the little kitchen table for a long time, his hands on his thighs.  His mind felt empty and raw.  Sandblasted.  Dickens didn’t come near, didn’t press his nose into Charlie’s lap.  Instead, he curled up on the couch where he wasn’t supposed to be and looked away.  The sun shifted, the angles of the shadows growing thinner, the light turning darker and red.  Near sundown, Charlie became aware that his bladder was screamingly full, pulled himself up to standing, and made his way back to the bathroom.  He sat on the toilet, head in his hands.  Guilt and shame and a bone-deep exhaustion made the early evening feel like midnight.  If it hadn’t been for the autonomic demands of his body, he’d have sat still as a stone until morning.

He took a shower, the hot water making his skin pinker, the pale scars white by comparison.  When he got out, he stood in front of the mirror for a long time, his gaze tracing what damage could be seen.  The bedroom clock told him it was just past seven, and he had to check his phone to convince himself it was true.

Dinner was a frozen serving of butter chicken run through the microwave until the apartment smelled rich with it, a glass of ice water.  There were sitcoms on TV, so he sat there, letting other people’s laughter wash over him, and joining in by reflex.  By the time the evening news came on, he felt almost like himself again.  Still fragile, but himself.  He cleaned the dishes, put on some music.  He needed to get up a little early.  He was going to take the bus, and he wanted to leave a little extra time to walk there.

Dickens hadn’t moved except to shift from time to time.  Charlie knew he should have made the dog get down from the couch, but that little breaking of rules seemed important; an apology for the shortcomings of the afternoon.  After all, if one pattern had changed, maybe they all had.  Maybe everything was up for grabs.  Charlie finished cleaning, put a bowl of food down for Dickens, and listened to the soft sounds of the dog eating.  He wasn’t looking forward to the walk that would follow.  It was cold outside now, and dark.  When the little steel bowl was clean, Dickens walked over to the leash and looked up at him.

Charlie hadn’t meant to hesitate, but it was there.  That little half-beat that marked the difference between enthusiasm and reluctance.  Dickens sighed and went back to the couch.

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The Dogs Project: Part Five

02.16.12
by Daniel Abraham

What is the Dogs Project?

The week passed slowly, old patterns slowly remaking themselves in slightly altered forms.  He took himself to the lunch bar at the side of the fancy steakhouse across from the office.  Meetings became more and more comprehensible as he put together what he’d missed during his time in hospital.  His still-healing wounds bothered him less; he found ways to move and sit and stretch that worked with the new limitations of his body.  Every morning and evening, he allowed himself the luxury of a taxi home, swearing that this would be the last, that he’d get back to being responsible with his money next time, and then changing his mind when the next time came.

He hadn’t thought to dread Sunday until Sunday came.

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The Dogs Project: Part Four

02.12.12
by Daniel Abraham

What is the Dogs Project?

“Hey,” Adam said.  “Sorry about that.”

“Well.  Can’t say you didn’t warn me.”

“They mean well.”

“I know,” Charlie said.  “And I appreciate the thought, it’s just . . .”

“Yeah.”

Adam stood, neither in the room nor out, his expression friendly.  The moment stretched just a little too long.  If Charlie wasn’t looking to talk, it wasn’t an invitation.  If he did want to, then it was.

“They didn’t find them,” Charlie said.  “The dogs who . . . They never found them.”

Adam stepped in the room, sat in the chair beside Charlie’s desk.  Charlie’s fingers hovered over his keyboard, then folded into fists and sank slowly to his lap.  A telephone rang in someone else’s office.

“It bothers you,” Adam said.

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The Dogs Project: Part Three

02.09.12
by Daniel Abraham

What is the Dogs Project?

The effort of going home exhausted him.  The effort of being home.  Charlie had spent weeks in his new nightmare life, and all his things waited for him, unchanged.  It was like walking into his room in his parents’ house and finding all his things from high school still where he’d left them.  The artifacts of a previous life.

Adam had stacked the mail neatly on the dining table.  Charlie sat there, his new aluminum cane against his leg, and went through them, envelope by envelope.  Dickens capered and danced and brought his old fetch toy, a ragged penguin.  Charlie only had the energy to toss it half-heartedly across the apartment a few times, and Dickens seemed to recognize his lack of enthusiasm.  The little dog hopped up on the couch with a sigh, and rested his head on his forepaws for the rest of the evening.

In the morning, Charlie took Dickens on a quick walk around the block, then fed the dog, fixed himself a cup of coffee and a piece of toast, and called a taxi to carry him to work.  The indulgence wouldn’t work as an everyday occurrence, but for his first day back to the office, he didn’t wan’t to push.  And, secretly, it meant one more day before he had to walk down past the strip mall, past the parking lot.  Better to spend a few dollars and treat himself gently.  There would be plenty of time to face unpleasant memories later, when he had more strength.

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