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	<title>Nina Munteanu &#187; fiction</title>
	<atom:link href="http://www.ninamunteanu.com/category/fiction/feed/" rel="self" type="application/rss+xml" />
	<link>http://www.ninamunteanu.com</link>
	<description>The Writing Life</description>
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		<title>Second Master Class NOW OPEN</title>
		<link>http://www.ninamunteanu.com/788/second-master-class-now-open/</link>
		<comments>http://www.ninamunteanu.com/788/second-master-class-now-open/#comments</comments>
		<pubDate>Wed, 06 Jul 2011 03:52:18 +0000</pubDate>
		<dc:creator>Nina Munteanu</dc:creator>
				<category><![CDATA[Nina Munteanu]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[SF writer]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[SF writers]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Writing Workshops]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[art]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[books]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[fiction]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[novel]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[novelist]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[publishing]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[sf author]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[sf girl]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[short story]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[story]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[write on]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[writers]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[writing]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[writing tips]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[master class]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[master writing class]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[online writing classes]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[online writing course]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[writing classes]]></category>

		<guid isPermaLink="false">http://www.ninamunteanu.com/?p=788</guid>
		<description><![CDATA[As a result of continued pressure by new students, Nina has opened a second Master Writing Class. It runs every Wednesday at 5 pm EST. Join this Exclusive Club of writing enthusiasts for $49/month. Sign up for Nina&#8217;s ongoing Master Writing Class on the Master Class Page. For $49/month, this is what you get: four weekly one-hour interactive [...]]]></description>
			<content:encoded><![CDATA[<div id="attachment_714" class="wp-caption alignleft" style="width: 310px"><a href="http://www.ninamunteanu.com/images/nina-prospect01-close-warm_edited-1.jpg"><img class="size-medium wp-image-714" title="i1035 FW1.1" src="http://www.ninamunteanu.com/images/nina-prospect01-close-warm_edited-1-300x266.jpg" alt="nina prospect01 close warm edited 1 300x266 Second Master Class NOW OPEN" width="300" height="266" /></a><p class="wp-caption-text">Nina Munteanu, Prospect Point</p></div>
<p>As a result of continued pressure by new students, Nina has opened a second <strong>Master Writing Class. </strong></p>
<p>It runs every Wednesday at 5 pm EST. Join this <strong>Exclusive Club</strong> of writing enthusiasts for $49/month.</p>
<p>Sign up for Nina&#8217;s ongoing <strong>Master Writing Class</strong> on the <strong><a title="Master Writing Class" href="http://www.ninamunteanu.com/master-writing-class/" target="_blank">Master Class Page</a></strong>.</p>
<p>For $49/month, this is what you get:</p>
<ul>
<li>four weekly one-hour interactive teleseminars accompanied by live webinar (computer streaming: NEW!) Nina lectures on popular writing and publishing topics, based on your submitted works, common issues, and questions from previous sessions. Topics covered and discussed are directly applicable to your personal writing challenges and interests.</li>
<li>teleseminar sessions include a twenty minute telephone lecture, followed by interactive computer streaming discussion of specific topics and works directly applicable to your ongoing work. Nina “shows” and “tells”.</li>
<li>facilitated discussions on the 10 most common issues faced by novice and professional writers: getting started; dealing with time management &amp; writer’s block; getting those ideas down and making a story out of them; focusing and maintaining the staying power to finish; incorporating all the elements of good storytelling like plot, character, theme and setting into a seamless, page-turning story; making your writing compelling, clear and exciting; doing research and editing; marketing, synopses &amp; outlines, query letters; handling rejection and fear of rejection; and overcoming fear (of failure, of success, of everything).</li>
</ul>
<p><strong>Eligibility Criteria &amp; Requirements:</strong></p>
<p>The <strong>Master Class</strong> is tailored for writers serious about getting published and with works in progress (e.g., first draft finished, mostly completed, firm premise and storyboard with portion written). If you do not fit these criteria, you may find that one of Nina’s other online courses or her manuscript evaluation and personal coaching is more suited to your needs.</p>
<p>To be eligible for the <strong>Master Class</strong>, you must submit an example of your work and agree that you are willing to persist with efforts toward publication, including the willingness to be critiqued, pursue ongoing revisions, and discussions.</p>
<p>The course requires that you have a computer with internet, a secure phone line, have submitted some of your work, have subscribed below, and have acquired the codes to access both conference call and live computer streaming. </p>
<p><strong>Unless you have been specifically INVITED, contact Nina BEFORE you subscribe:</strong></p>
<p>BEFORE you sign up, contact Nina for eligability and availability at <a href="mailto:nina.sfgirl@gmail.com">nina.sfgirl@gmail.com</a> [subject: Master Class]. In order to address each of you personally, Nina limits her class sizes. Our first class is still running at maximum. This is why Nina has opened up a new class.</p>
<p>The <strong><a href="http://www.ninamunteanu.com/master-writing-class/" target="_blank">Master Class</a></strong> that is currently open, runs every Wednesday at 5 pm EST. There are limited spaces for Master Classes so availability will be on a first come basis. Once you successfully register and subscribe for a place in this exclusive club, you will get an email with information on how to get in on the next call. See you there!</p>

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		<title>How I Almost Didn’t Become a Writer, but Did!</title>
		<link>http://www.ninamunteanu.com/446/how-i-almost-didn%e2%80%99t-become-a-writer-but-did/</link>
		<comments>http://www.ninamunteanu.com/446/how-i-almost-didn%e2%80%99t-become-a-writer-but-did/#comments</comments>
		<pubDate>Sun, 27 Jun 2010 23:25:29 +0000</pubDate>
		<dc:creator>Nina Munteanu</dc:creator>
				<category><![CDATA[News about Nina]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Nina Munteanu]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[SF writer]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Writing Workshops]]></category>
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		<category><![CDATA[fiction]]></category>
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		<category><![CDATA[inspirational]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[novelist]]></category>
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		<category><![CDATA[science fiction]]></category>
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		<guid isPermaLink="false">http://www.ninamunteanu.com/?p=446</guid>
		<description><![CDATA[      What’s Stopping You From Publishing Your Book? Yes, I’m a successfully published author with acclaimed novels, short stories and essays published all over the world.  But I almost didn’t get there. What if I told you that I never read as a kid, I was the worst speller in my school and I [...]]]></description>
			<content:encoded><![CDATA[<div><em> </em><em> </em><em> </em></div>
<div><em> </em></div>
<div><em></em></div>
<p><em></p>
<div id="attachment_447" class="wp-caption alignleft" style="width: 310px"><a href="http://www.ninamunteanu.com/images/nina-couch-05w.jpg"><img class="size-medium wp-image-447" title="nina-couch-05w" src="http://www.ninamunteanu.com/images/nina-couch-05w-300x158.jpg" alt="nina couch 05w 300x158 How I Almost Didn’t Become a Writer, but Did!" width="300" height="158" /></a><p class="wp-caption-text">Nina, the Fiction Writer</p></div>
<p>What’s Stopping You From Publishing Your Book?</p>
<p></em></p>
<p>Yes, I’m a successfully published author with acclaimed novels, short stories and essays published all over the world.  But I almost didn’t get there. What if I told you that I never read as a kid, I was the worst speller in my school and I used bad grammar? I didn’t excel in typing class and practically failed English 101. Based on my Career Aptitude Test score, the school counselor recommended that I go into some trade like car mechanic. Believe me, I started from behind.</p>
<ul>
<li>I’ve experienced your disappointment and your fear—and prevailed.</li>
<li>I’ve battled the gridlock of time and schedule conflicts, priority problems and lack of support from family and friends—and forged a way.</li>
<li>I’ve felt lonely and depressed because no one understood my dream or took it seriously—and found a community.</li>
<li>I’ve been lost in a sea of unfocused ideas, undirected plot, excessive—even boring—characters—and created a masterpiece of tense page-turning excitement.</li>
<li>I understand your pain, your moments of hesitation and lack of confidence, your yearning. I’ve been rejected and rejected and rejected—and then published!</li>
</ul>
<p>Are you a storyteller? Because that’s where it all starts. With a story. The rest is window dressing. Every author is on a journey, a hero’s journey, really. Because that’s what most writers are: heroes. We journey into the dark frightening abyss and return with the prize for the world: truth. The writer’s life is not really romantic, like many believe. It is rife with doubt, rejection, betrayal and disappointment. But it is also graced with the richness of joy, satisfaction, energy and fulfillment. When a writer writes what he or she is passionate about, there is nothing better. Absolutely nothing. So, let me tell you a story now, about how I almost didn’t become a writer but did because it was what <em>I had to do</em>.  Like most stories, this one has a beginning, middle and an end…</p>
<p><strong>The Beginning: The Sweet Promise</strong></p>
<p>When I was ten years old, I knew what I wanted to be when I grew up: I was going to be a paperback writer. It was 1964 and I’d taken my favorite rock group’s song to heart, the Beatles’ “I Want to be a Paperback Writer”. It was an incredible moment of clarity for me and despite being challenged by my stern and unimaginative primary school teacher, who kept trying to corral me into being “normal”, I wasn’t going to let anyone stem my creativity and eccentric—if not wayward—approach to literature, language and writing. I was a confident, but lovable, little brat and I knew it. She and I didn’t exactly get along, as a result. But I did okay anyway, and, despite her acidic commentary (I didn’t cross my “t”s the way she wanted me to), Miss House begrudgingly awarded me my due A’s and B’s.</p>
<div id="attachment_449" class="wp-caption alignright" style="width: 247px"><a href="http://www.ninamunteanu.com/images/nina-pretending-to-read_edited-1.jpg"><img class="size-medium wp-image-449 " title="nina-pretending to read_edited-1" src="http://www.ninamunteanu.com/images/nina-pretending-to-read_edited-1-237x300.jpg" alt="nina pretending to read edited 1 237x300 How I Almost Didn’t Become a Writer, but Did!" width="237" height="300" /></a><p class="wp-caption-text">Nina pretending to read</p></div>
<p>I wrote some fan fiction but quickly found my own creations far more interesting and less limiting. As a teenager, I wrote, directed and recorded “radio plays” with my sister. When we weren’t bursting into riotous laughter, it was actually pretty good. She and I shared a bedroom in the back of the house and at bedtime we opened our doors of imagination to a cast of thousands. We fed each other wild stories of space travel, adventure and intrigue, murmuring and giggling well into the dark night long after our parents were snoring in their beds. Those days scintillated with liberating originality, excitement and joy. I also enjoyed animation and drew several cartoon strips, peopled with crazy characters as I dreamt of writing graphic novels like <em>Green Lantern</em>, <em>Magnus, Robot Fighter</em> and <em>Spiderman</em>. My hero was science fiction author and futurist, Ray Bradbury; I vowed to write profoundly stirring tales like he did. Stories that mattered. Stories that lingered with you long after you finished them. Stories that made you think and dream and changed you imperceptibly.</p>
<p>I had found what excites me—my passion for telling stories—and I’d inadvertently stumbled upon an important piece of the secret formula for success: 1) having discovered my passion, I decided on a goal; 2) I found and wished to emulate a “hero” who’d achieved that goal and therefore had a “case study”; 3) I applied myself to the pursuit of my goal. Oops… the third one, well…</p>
<p>…It went downhill from there…</p>
<p>Life got in the way.</p>
<p>I grew up.</p>
<p><strong>The Middle: The Struggles &amp; Confusion of “Reality”</strong></p>
<p>Well, that, and the environment intervened. In several ways. It started with my parents. Recognizing my talent and interest in the fine arts (I was pretty good in visual arts), they pushed me to get a fine arts degree in university and go into teaching or advertizing. They made it obvious that fiction writing was not a viable career or a forté of mine (I was lousy at spelling and, despite my ability to tell stories and my love for graphic novels, I didn’t read books!). I can still remember my father’s lecture about how perfect the teaching or nursing profession was for me. I wasn’t enamored by either. The second blow to my author-ego came in the form of a school “interest-ability” test, meant to prepare us for our career decisions. I remember the test consisting of an IQ portion (spatial, English and math), and a psychology portion (including problem-solving and scenarios meant to tease out our affinity for a particular career). Secretly harboring my paperback novelist dream, I filled out my forms with great excitement. I still remember the deflating results, which suggested that I was best suited to be a sergeant in the army! LOL! Remember what I said about my spelling and grammar. “Writing” as a career barely made it on the graph, and scored well below “computer programmer” and “mechanic”; none of which interested me.   </p>
<div><strong><em> </em></strong></div>
<div id="attachment_451" class="wp-caption alignleft" style="width: 273px"><a href="http://www.ninamunteanu.com/images/forest-road-bright-w.jpg"><img class="size-medium wp-image-451  " title="forest-road-bright-w" src="http://www.ninamunteanu.com/images/forest-road-bright-w-192x300.jpg" alt="forest road bright w 192x300 How I Almost Didn’t Become a Writer, but Did!" width="263" height="348" /></a><p class="wp-caption-text">Forest road near home</p></div>
<p><strong>Dante’s Forest</strong></p>
<p>I began to see a career in advertizing as a viable option; my love and abilities in cartooning seemed to naturally tie in with this pursuit. I also had an affinity for graphic design. So, I deferred to the “wisdom” of others and let myself be diverted and distracted by clever reasoning and an appeal to logic. I did what I thought I should do, not what truly excited me.</p>
<p>I still quietly held my dream of being a paperback novelist close to my heart, even if it was closeted in my subconscious. But self-expression had dwindled to a trickle; the creative flow of stories dried up and in its empty wake I discovered a cause worth investing a fervent energy: the well-being of our planet. With the cause came my relentless pursuit of a science degree. I left home and surprised and disappointed my parents by electing on registration day at the university to go into science rather than pursue a fine arts degree in advertizing. Although I wasn’t “expressing”, I was nevertheless inspired. I obtained several degrees in science, including one in Limnology (the study of freshwater), which were all to prove worthwhile in my ultimate “calling” and self-expression: that of making science accessible to the lay-public and eventually writing hard-science fiction stories and novels of substance about the environment. The latter didn’t happen for several years after I acquired my Masters of Science degree and did a long stint of teaching at university (yes, I DID teach after all!) while successfully publishing articles for magazines.</p>
<p><strong>The End: Fulfillment </strong></p>
<div id="attachment_474" class="wp-caption alignright" style="width: 235px"><a href="http://www.ninamunteanu.com/images/nina-BakkaBooks01.jpg"><img class="size-medium wp-image-474" title="nina-BakkaBooks01" src="http://www.ninamunteanu.com/images/nina-BakkaBooks01-225x300.jpg" alt="nina BakkaBooks01 225x300 How I Almost Didn’t Become a Writer, but Did!" width="225" height="300" /></a><p class="wp-caption-text">Nina outside Bakka Books in Toronto where her novel is for sale</p></div>
<p>My non-fiction pieces became my entrance into the world of fiction (much harder to break into) and I used this venue to polish my writing skills in fiction (don’t let anyone tell you that non-fiction can’t be exciting, bending to many of the same rules as in fiction writing). Once I began publishing fiction stories, I never looked back. And as far as I’m concerned, the sky’s the limit now.</p>
<p>Not too long ago, I quit my day job and moved across the country to an artistic community on the east coast. I am currently travelling the world and pursuing my dream as a <a href="http://www.ninamunteanu.com/ninas-books/" target="_blank">full-time author</a> and <a href="http://www.ninamunteanu.com/testimonials/" target="_blank">writing coach</a>. It’s not an easy life. And it can be lonely at times. But it is so incredibly fulfilling and blessed with meaning.</p>
<p>Come, walk with me and pursue your dream. It’s for the taking.</p>
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		<title>Arthur C. Clarke—Homage to a Visionary</title>
		<link>http://www.ninamunteanu.com/195/arthur-c-clarke%e2%80%94homage-to-a-visionary/</link>
		<comments>http://www.ninamunteanu.com/195/arthur-c-clarke%e2%80%94homage-to-a-visionary/#comments</comments>
		<pubDate>Tue, 25 Mar 2008 07:27:00 +0000</pubDate>
		<dc:creator>Nina Munteanu</dc:creator>
				<category><![CDATA[Arthur C. Clarke]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Childhood's End]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[books]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[fiction]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[futurism]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[inventions]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[science]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[science fiction]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[scientist]]></category>

		<guid isPermaLink="false">http://www.ninamunteanu.com/arthur-c-clarke%e2%80%94homage-to-a-visionary</guid>
		<description><![CDATA[The only way of finding the limits of the possible is by going beyondthem into the impossible—Arthur C. ClarkeWhen I was in my early twenties (some time ago) I read Childhood’s End by Arthur C. Clarke. He’d written it a year before I was born. I remember being moved by the story’s grandness and scope [...]]]></description>
			<content:encoded><![CDATA[<p><a href="http://bp3.blogger.com/_xoBIPoObedw/R-iqsfdYUXI/AAAAAAAABX8/u4fudF-AVus/s1600-h/arthur-c-clarke06.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5181579052625449330" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="arthur c clarke06 Arthur C. Clarke—Homage to a Visionary" src="http://bp3.blogger.com/_xoBIPoObedw/R-iqsfdYUXI/AAAAAAAABX8/u4fudF-AVus/s320/arthur-c-clarke06.jpg" border="0" title="Arthur C. Clarke—Homage to a Visionary" /></a></p>
<p><span style="font-size:85%;"><em>The only way of finding the limits of the possible is by going beyond<br />them into the impossible</em>—Arthur C. Clarke<br /></span><br />When I was in my early twenties (some time ago) I read <em><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Childhoods-End-Arthur-C-Clarke/dp/0345347951">Childhood’s End</a></em> by <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Arthur_C._Clarke">Arthur C. Clarke</a>. He’d written it a year before I was born. I remember being moved by the story’s grandness and scope about the transformation of humanity. On the slightly garish cover of the Ballantine science fiction classic book jacket Gilbert Highet’s endorsement said, “…a real staggerer by a man who is both a poetic dreamer and <a href="http://bp3.blogger.com/_xoBIPoObedw/R-irifdYUYI/AAAAAAAABYE/BBuhPiODDUs/s1600-h/childhoods-end.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5181579980338385282" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="childhoods end Arthur C. Clarke—Homage to a Visionary" src="http://bp3.blogger.com/_xoBIPoObedw/R-irifdYUYI/AAAAAAAABYE/BBuhPiODDUs/s320/childhoods-end.jpg" border="0" title="Arthur C. Clarke—Homage to a Visionary" /></a>a competent scientist.” This remains an apt assessment of this self-professed &#8220;mildly cheerful&#8221; British science fiction author, inventor, and futurist, perhaps best known for the novel <em>2001: a Space Odyssey</em> (also about the transformation of humankind).</p>
<p>On March 19 of this year, Arthur C. Clarke died at age ninety in Colombo, Sri Lanka, where he’d made his home since 1956. He left behind a legacy of incredibly imaginative works, valuable scientific inventions and concepts and profoundly thoughtful discussions of the future.</p>
<p>During the time Clarke served in the Royal Air Force as a radar instructor and technician (from 1941 to 1946) he proposed satellite commu<a href="http://bp3.blogger.com/_xoBIPoObedw/R-iryfdYUZI/AAAAAAAABYM/12kJVO9EjYo/s1600-h/arthur-c-clarke02.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5181580255216292242" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="arthur c clarke02 Arthur C. Clarke—Homage to a Visionary" src="http://bp3.blogger.com/_xoBIPoObedw/R-iryfdYUZI/AAAAAAAABYM/12kJVO9EjYo/s320/arthur-c-clarke02.jpg" border="0" title="Arthur C. Clarke—Homage to a Visionary" /></a>nication systems, which won him the Franklin Institute Stuart Ballantine Gold Medal (in 1963) and a nomination in 1994 for a Nobel Prize. What you might not have known about him is that he was an avid scuba diver and helped fight for the preservation of lowland gorillas, which won him the UNESCO-Kalinga Prize in 1962. Clarke was also fascinated with the paranormal and admitted that it was part of the inspiration for his novel <em>Childhood’s End</em>. He was named a Grand Master by the Science Fiction Writers of America in 1986. And in 2000, he was knighted. Yes, he is Sir Arthur Charles Clarke. He served as the first Chancellor of the International Space University from 1989 to 2004, has an asteroid named in his honour and a species of ceratopsian dinosaur (<em>Serendipaceratops arthurcclarkei</em>), discovered in Inverloch in Australia.</p>
<p>Born in Minehead, Somerset, England, Clarke enjoyed stargazing and reading old American science fiction pulp magazines when he was a boy. His first professional sales (e.g., <em>Loophole</em> and <em>Rescue Party</em>)appeared in Astounding Science Fiction in 1946 at age 29. In 1948, Clarke wrote <em>The Sentinel</em> for a BBC competition; although it was rejected it represented a turning point in Clarke’s writing, which introduced a more mystical and cosmic element to his work (<em>the Sentinel</em> was the basis for his best known work, <em>2001: A Space Odyssey</em>). Many of his subsequent works (including <em>Childhood’s End</em>) features the theme of a technologically advanced but prejudiced humankind being confronted by a superior alien intelligence—the encounter of which pr<a href="http://bp2.blogger.com/_xoBIPoObedw/R-isuPdYUbI/AAAAAAAABYc/2i_VP6QZ5xk/s1600-h/arthur-c-clarke04.gif"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5181581281713476018" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="arthur c clarke04 Arthur C. Clarke—Homage to a Visionary" src="http://bp2.blogger.com/_xoBIPoObedw/R-isuPdYUbI/AAAAAAAABYc/2i_VP6QZ5xk/s320/arthur-c-clarke04.gif" border="0" title="Arthur C. Clarke—Homage to a Visionary" /></a>oduces a conceptual breakthrough that accelerates humanity into the next stage of its evolution.</p>
<p>Among Clarke’s visionary science (fiction) and inventions, some of his most notable include the following:
<ul>
<li>Geostationary satellites as telecommunications relays (described in a paper in Wireless World, October 1945 entitled, <em>Extra-Terrestrial Relays—Can Rocket Stations Give Worldwide Radio Coverage?) </em>The geostationary orbit 36,000 km above the equator is officially recognized by the International Astronomical Union as a “Clarke Orbit”;</li>
<li>Space elevators (first described in <em>The Fountains of Paradise</em>, 1979); and,</li>
<p>
<li>A “global library” (in <em>Profiles of the Future</em>, 1962).</li>
</ul>
<p>We get a good sense of Clarke’s beliefs and philosophy in his works. In his introduction of <em>Mysterious World: Strange Skies</em>, Clarke said, “I sometimes think that the universe is a machine designed for the perpetual astonishment of astronomers.” At the end of the episode, of the Star of Bethlehem (of which his favorite theory was that it was a pulsar) he added, “How romantic, if even now we can hear the dying voice of a star which heralded the Christian Era.”</p>
<p>I<a href="http://bp3.blogger.com/_xoBIPoObedw/R-itHfdYUcI/AAAAAAAABYk/NR_1pxRjD5I/s1600-h/arthur-c-clarke03.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5181581715505172930" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="arthur c clarke03 Arthur C. Clarke—Homage to a Visionary" src="http://bp3.blogger.com/_xoBIPoObedw/R-itHfdYUcI/AAAAAAAABYk/NR_1pxRjD5I/s320/arthur-c-clarke03.jpg" border="0" title="Arthur C. Clarke—Homage to a Visionary" /></a>n the 1973 revision of his 1962 book, <em>Profiles of the Future</em>, Clarke added two laws to create his famous three laws of prediction, aptly termed Clarke’s Three Laws: </p>
<p>1. When a distinguished but elderly scientist states that something is possible, he is almost certainly right. When he states that something is impossible, he is very probably wrong.<br />2. The only way of discovering the limits of the possible is to venture a little way past them into the impossible.<br />3. Any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic.</p>
<p><span style="font-size:85%;"><em>Fiction is more than non-fiction in some ways…you can stretch people’s minds, alerting them to the possibilities of the future, which is very important in an age where things are changing rapidly</em>—Arthur C. Clarke<br /></span></p>
<p>Clarke’s most notable works include <em>2001: A Space Odyssey</em>, <em>Rendezvous with Rama</em>, <em>Childhood’s End</em>, <em>The Fountains of Paradise</em>.</p>

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		<title>Angel&#8217;s Promises by Nina Munteanu</title>
		<link>http://www.ninamunteanu.com/118/angels-promises-by-nina-munteanu/</link>
		<comments>http://www.ninamunteanu.com/118/angels-promises-by-nina-munteanu/#comments</comments>
		<pubDate>Fri, 19 Oct 2007 07:49:00 +0000</pubDate>
		<dc:creator>Nina Munteanu</dc:creator>
				<category><![CDATA[Nina Munteanu]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[angel's promises]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[books]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[fiction]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[love story]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[nano-soup]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[nanotechnology]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[published author]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[romance]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[science fiction]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[short story]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[techno-slumming]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[veemeld]]></category>

		<guid isPermaLink="false">http://www.ninamunteanu.com/angels-promises-by-nina-munteanu</guid>
		<description><![CDATA[I&#8217;m heading off this weekend to Vcon, Vancouver&#8217;s SF &#38; F convention&#8230;You know the deal&#8230;drinking, talking, laughing, sharing, drinking some more, slurring, theorizing, imagining, arguing, drinking yet some more, slurring some more&#8230;Well, then there are all those aliens &#8220;coming in peace&#8221; or whatever it is they&#8217;re saying (I&#8217;m usually too happily inebriated to understand their [...]]]></description>
			<content:encoded><![CDATA[<p><a href="http://bp1.blogger.com/_xoBIPoObedw/Rxhibl7ZwzI/AAAAAAAAA0s/ARDKoUAQ4Jw/s1600-h/vcon32-dragon-small7.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5122952802311193394" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="vcon32 dragon small7 Angels Promises by Nina Munteanu" src="http://bp1.blogger.com/_xoBIPoObedw/Rxhibl7ZwzI/AAAAAAAAA0s/ARDKoUAQ4Jw/s400/vcon32-dragon-small7.jpg" border="0" title="Angels Promises by Nina Munteanu" /></a>
<div>I&#8217;m heading off this weekend to Vcon, Vancouver&#8217;s SF &amp; F convention&#8230;You know the deal&#8230;drinking, talking, laughing, sharing, drinking some more, slurring, theorizing, imagining, arguing, drinking yet some more, slurring some more&#8230;Well, then there are all those aliens &#8220;coming in peace&#8221; or whatever it is they&#8217;re saying (I&#8217;m usually too happily inebriated to understand their squeeky little voices&#8230;or to care for that matter&#8230;). </div>
<div>For reasons I&#8217;m not at liberty to discuss, I shant be participating in any panels this time (shame, really, because now I&#8217;ll just have to keep that neat little phaser I was going to give away as a door prize&#8230;). Suffice to say that the best of promises, motivated by the very noblest of intentions, may &#8220;break&#8221; when pressed with insufficient resources or time. </div>
<div><a href="http://bp0.blogger.com/_xoBIPoObedw/RsFXsyLuu2I/AAAAAAAAAVg/C1qJ51Foekg/s1600-h/aliencity05.jpg"></a><br />At any rate, I fully intend to enjoy myself and learn a thing or two. So, in the meantime, I&#8217;ve left you a short story that is aptly in keeping with misunderstanding, apparent abandonment and hopeful resolution. It&#8217;s all about promises: to others and ultimately to oneself. The story was originally published in Dreams &amp; Visions (Skysong Press). It&#8217;s a love story set in a time when AI and humans have settled on an uneasy truce of cooperation. </div>
<div><strong><span style="font-size:130%;">Angel&#8217;s Promises</span></strong> </div>
<div>Rebecca stared through the window where the sun trembled on the horizo<a href="http://bp3.blogger.com/_xoBIPoObedw/RxhikF7Zw0I/AAAAAAAAA00/pB9nFjAp5HU/s1600-h/aliencity03.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5122952948340081474" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="aliencity03 Angels Promises by Nina Munteanu" src="http://bp3.blogger.com/_xoBIPoObedw/RxhikF7Zw0I/AAAAAAAAA00/pB9nFjAp5HU/s320/aliencity03.jpg" border="0" title="Angels Promises by Nina Munteanu" /></a>n and inflamed the sky. She contrasted what she saw with the dark inner-city, dank with despair, from which they’d retrieved him. Pacing her outer-city office like a trapped pan<a href="http://bp1.blogger.com/_xoBIPoObedw/RxhfCl7ZwyI/AAAAAAAAA0k/ZnZHYgLhCc8/s1600-h/aliencity03.jpg"></a>ther, she fidgeted with her dress and raked her dark hair back with her fingers. She strained to hear footsteps approaching and felt her heart race with — what? What did she feel? Exhilaration? Terror? A terse rap at the door was her only warning before it swung open and the face she had not seen in four years stared boldly at her. The fire in his coal-black eyes stirred up memories of when she’d met him, kissed him and deserted him. </div>
<div>~ 1 ~</div>
<div>Belly aching with hunger, Rebecca glanced down at Isabelle huddled next to her in the gutted apartment that was once home. It was four days since they’d lost their mother in the crowded mall. Rebecca listened to the murmurs of the city in her head: a low hush mingled with the stirrings of cryptic metallic sounds, chopped up words, bleeps and sighs. Like a million voices in the distance, they came and went like the ebbing and swelling surf of the sea. She no longer mentioned the sounds to Isabelle, who could not hear them, because it frightened her too much. Rebecca had heard a rumor that the outer-city was searching for people who could interface with AIs. They called them veemelds. Could she be one? As much as she wished to return, she refused to leave her little sister behind. Nothing would ever separate them, she thought, glancing down at Isabelle’s urchin face. She’d promised.<a href="http://bp0.blogger.com/_xoBIPoObedw/Rxhb7V7ZwvI/AAAAAAAAA0M/OzUMcNjavis/s1600-h/urbanlandscape4.jpg"></a></div>
<div></div>
<div>Rebecca’s gaze swept the place. Some vagrant had vandalized and torched it. Nothing of theirs remained, not that there was much to begin with. She rose and wandered into what used to be their bedroom, Isabelle scrambling behind. Black and sodden, it reeked of kerosene and urine. Her gaze rested on her old bed, torn and stained, where her mother used to awaken her every night, smelling of whiskey, then crawl in beside her, clutch Rebecca to her breast and sob. Rebecca turned abruptly from the gutted bedroom and said, “We have to go now.” She was fifteen and could take care of herself and her twelve-year old sister if she had to. </div>
<div>Isabelle scrambled behind. “Can’t we go back to the outer-city and visit Uncle Carl till mummy comes back?” </div>
<div>S<a href="http://bp1.blogger.com/_xoBIPoObedw/Rxhi9l7Zw1I/AAAAAAAAA08/bfkelmmP8fs/s1600-h/darwinbookmarkbluestairs.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5122953386426745682" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="darwinbookmarkbluestairs Angels Promises by Nina Munteanu" src="http://bp1.blogger.com/_xoBIPoObedw/Rxhi9l7Zw1I/AAAAAAAAA08/bfkelmmP8fs/s320/darwinbookmarkbluestairs.jpg" border="0" title="Angels Promises by Nina Munteanu" /></a>he isn’t coming back, Rebecca thought. She rolled her eyes and shook her head at her sister. “And how’d we get there, you silly? On wings?” As if they could simply climb out of the dark depths of the inner-city. Besides, Uncle Carl was mean. He’d said that anyone who ended up techno-slaving for the inner-city AIs deserved their fate. There’d been no choice for her mother who’d lost her wits after their father was taken away. Rebecca pushed out her lower lip and narrowed her eyes at the thought of Uncle Carl’s stern face. Seeing the tears stream down Isabelle’s cheeks, Rebecca took her hand. “Never mind, Izzy. I’ll take care of you.” </div>
<div>They headed to the mall, hoping to find some scraps of food. They staked out a Food Stop and patience finally paid off when a woman got up with a half-eaten oatcake. The girls followed her to a waste bin and watched her drop the cake into the bin. After a quick glance around, Rebecca dove in after it but a dirty hand snatched the cake first. Rebecca jerked up and gazed into a filthy face.<br />“Th-th-this is my bin,” stammered the boy about her age, who stared at her with intense slag-black eyes. Blinking through dark strands of hair, he stroked his long face, smeared with dirt and grease. Then he flicked back his shoulder-length hair and studied the two girls with a smirk that unsettled Rebecca. “You t-t-techno-slummers?” </div>
<div>She’d heard of them. They were orphans of the inner-city, waste products of desperate and over-indulgent techno-slaves. And troublemakers for the AIs. Vermin, who choked up the cyber-system, disturbed their complacent humming, stole into their metal bellies and snuck off with their secrets. “We’re looking for my mother,” Rebecca replied, curbing a frown. </div>
<div></div>
<div>“That’s what they all s-s-say, after their parents ab-b-bandon them,” he said as though he was discussing a school event. He smacked his lips as he chewed. “She’s b-been gone awhile,” he said with a full mouth. “I can tell.” </div>
<div>Isabelle puckered her face, ready to cry. </div>
<div>“Here.” He broke off a piece of the oatcake and handed it to Isabelle. “You can share my bin until you get one of your own,” he stuttered, offering Rebecca another piece. “We’re family. We look after each other, especially from the cypols. I’m Neo.” He puffed up his chest and tilted his head back proudly. “You probably heard about the mess I caused in the Food-Center. I got us twenty kilos of nano-soup.” </div>
<div>Rebecca refused the piece of oat cake, even though Isabelle had already accepted hers and was gratefully eating. “I told you, we’re not techno-slummers,” she said in a huff. “We’re just waiting for our mother to come back.” </div>
<div>“Yeah, like when chaos turns to order.” </div>
<div>~ 2 ~</div>
<div>“What d’ya mean they talk?” Neo squatted next to Rebecca in the cramped makeshift shack, as they repaired a computer they’d built with scrap parts they’d found. He dug his dirty nails into his tangled hair and squinted at her. </div>
<div>“Can’t you hear them too, Neo?” Rebecca said in a faltering voice. She shifted her weight from one knee to the other, suddenly giddy under his penetrating stare. She caught his scent, sharp with old sweat, felt her face heat and fought down the confusing storm that surged through her abdomen. Lately she’d caught him studying her with such intensity that it made her blush. His opinion meant more to her than anything. </div>
<div>Neo tilted his head to one side. “You making this up?” His name wasn’t really Neo. It was Colin Baker, but he’d abandoned it like the parents who’d given him the name had abandoned him. All the techno-slummers had given themselves new names. She’d chosen Angel, the nickname her father gave her. “Machines don’t talk to people, Angel,” Neo said, shaking his head at her. He stood up. “I gotta get some quantum couplers.” He studied her for a moment. “Get a grip, Angel. You’re still looking for your mother a year after she abandoned you! A cypol probably caught her and she’s been recycled into something by now, maybe the nano-soup you ate today.” </div>
<div></div>
<div>She thought him cruel to have said that. Mocking the promise she’d made to her father the day he was arrested. He’d turned at the threshold, flanked by two policemen as her mother and sister wailed uncontrollably and Rebecca stood brave like a soldier: Take care of your mother and sister for me, till I return, Angel . . . I will, father, I promise. . . .He never did return, of course. They’d accused him of being a luddite &#8212; she didn’t know what that was &#8212; and she never saw him again. </div>
<div>Several of the younger orphans had gathered around in the small bivouac built from scrap parts cemented with the detritus of urban fast living. Rebecca clenched her fists and worked her jaw as she watched Neo brush past the giggling children. Letting her anger subside in silence, she decided that from then on she would avoid confiding in him. It was too painful. </div>
<div>But that night, when the little children lay asleep in their nests of garbage and she listened with her eyes closed to the droning throb of the machines in her head, Neo startled her by touching her shoulder. Her eyes darted open to his reckless smile and her face smoldered with the thought that he meant to kiss her. But he was only excited about her strange talent and what it meant for them all. She inhaled his smoky metal scent and controlled her<a href="http://bp1.blogger.com/_xoBIPoObedw/RxhkUl7Zw2I/AAAAAAAAA1E/ELWFyuY8uFU/s1600-h/darwinbookmarkslum.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5122954881075364706" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="darwinbookmarkslum Angels Promises by Nina Munteanu" src="http://bp1.blogger.com/_xoBIPoObedw/RxhkUl7Zw2I/AAAAAAAAA1E/ELWFyuY8uFU/s320/darwinbookmarkslum.jpg" border="0" title="Angels Promises by Nina Munteanu" /></a> breathing as he shared his plan, totally unaware of the effect he was having on her.<br />That was when they began to invade the cyber world of the inner-city to feed and clothe themselves. Although she disagreed with stealing, Rebecca sensed that her ability to tap into the AI world not only fed her undernourished companions, but also bolstered their morale. What else could she do? They were starving, cold and sick. And they had no one they could go to. Turning themselves in to the Care-Center facility was not an option. They’d heard horror stories of what went on there. No one ever emerged once they went there. Nano-soup. </div>
<div>~ 3 ~</div>
<div>“Cypols!” Neo shouted. His voice rang in the mall, empty now in the deep of the night. Rebecca looked up from the public computer she’d hacked into and her gaze followed Neo’s to where a shrill whine grew louder. Several great metal birds of prey swooped down, their burnished wings glinting as they selected their targets and honed in. The children scattered and ran for cover among the garbage and rubble. Isabelle stood stiff with fear.<br />Rebecca spotted one heading straight for them and leapt to her feet. “Izzy, come on!” She seized Isabelle’s hand and ran. Isabelle stumbled behind her, panting. Rebecca tugged her hard, galloping toward a makeshift lean-to. Isabelle gasped and tripped in the rubble. Their hands flew apart. Rebecca dove under cover, expecting Isabelle to be right behind her.<br />“Becky!” Isabelle shrieked. Rebecca turned and saw the metal bird seize Isabelle with its claws. Her arms flailed out to Rebecca. “Help!” Within a moment Isabelle sailed up, clutched firmly in the great bird’s talons as Rebecca, crouched under the corrugated metal, stared in frozen silence. Her sister’s wails subsided and she disappeared into the darkness above. </div>
<div>~ 4 ~</div>
<div>Neo’s face grew red and blotchy. Rebecca had just told him that she intended to let herself get caught by a cypol. </div>
<div>They were fashioning a table out of an old building support and he reeled away, letting the piece he held fall to the floor. She flinched as the table crashed. “Damn you, Angel!” He spun around to face her, raking his fingers through his long greasy hair. “What about your mother? You going to abandon your search for her? Just like that?” </div>
<div>Rebecca set down the makeshift hammer then straightened up, wiping her hands on her rags. “You’re the one who keeps telling me it’s useless to keep looking for her. It’s been close to two years now.” She tilted her head at him and said tartly, “Nano-soup, remember?” </div>
<div>His eyes flashed. “What about your promise?” </div>
<div>Her face heated with defensive anger. “Which one? I promised I’d look after my sister too.” He pouted and his voice dropped to a whisper. “What about our dream. . . .” </div>
<div>It was a wild dream they shared: escape to the outer-city, where the sun shone and the air was fresh from a breeze rich with the wild scent of flowers. Where people walked with unrestrained laughter and AIs only served a limited function as tools, not lords of techno-slaves. She’d corrupted him with her tales of the outer-city and regretted it now. Sold him on a dream that she couldn’t deliver. </div>
<div>He waved his gangly arms. “Damn you!” he lashed out. “We’re family and you’re going to leave us to rot and starve.” His stammer was worse than usual. It got that way when he was upset. She stiffened. “You were around long before I arrived. Besides, Neo, you can do most of what I can do. It’s not like you need me—” </div>
<div>“I can’t talk to the machines —” </div>
<div>Rebecca stomped her foot in frustration and stalked forward until they stood facing one another less than a meter apart. “Neither can I, Neo. I told you, I can’t talk to them, only hear them.” “It’s the same thing!” </div>
<div>“No it isn’t!” </div>
<div>They were both panting, eyes blazing in stalemate. His breath reeked of nano-soup. She let her shoulders slump and looked away with a sigh. She knew he was only hiding his pain under this tirade. She would miss him too, more than she cared to admit. </div>
<div>Neo hunched over and sobbed, “D-d-don’t leave me, Angel.” The hand that never asked for help thrashed out, like the broken wing of a bird, flopping on the ground. </div>
<div>Overcome by his clumsy supplication, she took his hand. Then she leaned forward and kissed him lightly on the lips. Stunned, his eyes widened. She savored his delicious vulnerability like the nectar of a flower unfolding as he opened to her kiss, his mouth wrapping itself around it. When she withdrew from him, he leaned with her, reluctant to separate. He fumbled for her, clutched her tightly and laid his cheek upon her breast. She stroked his head, smelling his unwashed hair, and felt him shake with silent sobs. Her eyes heated with tears. She fought the confusion between the craving to stay and the need to help her sister. She’d promised, after all. “I’ll come back for you,” she said in a trembling voice. “I won’t leave you behind. I promise.” </div>
<div>~ 5 ~</div>
<div>As the rest of the techno-slummers dashed for cover, Rebecca stood fixed. Her heart pounded as she listened to the familiar squeal of the approaching cypol. Neo lunged for her, tugging hard. Determined, she fought him off and thought down the panic surging inside: I’m going to do it this time. I’m going to let it catch me. </div>
<div>“Damn you, Angel!” Neo screamed. “And damn your promises!” He dashed to safety. </div>
<div>She swallowed down her fear and curbed the instinct to hunker and flee. She could see the cypol’s gleaming eyes. Saw it veer toward her. Lock on her. There was no escape now. She’d be joining her sister soon. It had been a week since the cypol took Isabelle. What if she was dead? What if the cypols just took you up to their lair in the darkness of the ceilings and devoured you, like Neo said? What if her sacrifice was for nothing, wouldn’t reunite her with Isabelle but would simply put an end to her life? </div>
<div>Rebecca ran. But the cypol was almost upon her. You will not be hurt, it seemed to say. Did she imagine it? Stunned, Rebecca broke from her run, let her body go limp as the cypol scooped her up. The air rushed across her face as she soared up and felt exhilaration. I’m coming, Isabelle, she thought. I’m coming to save you. She glimpsed Neo staring up from the shadows, his face twisted in anguish, as she approached the rafters. Trembling with the memory of their first kiss, she whispered in a hoarse voice, “I’ll come back, Neo. I promise.” </div>
<div>A doorway opened into a yawning darkness. The bird sailed through and she was enveloped by pitch black. Her heart raced and she caught an overly sweet, almost cloying smell as she grew weary and fell into a deep slumber. </div>
<div>Rebecca awoke groggily to loud voices in her head. It was still dark. She lay bound with her back on a smooth, hard surface. </div>
<div>She recognized the metal voices as their AI rulers. <em>She’s definitely a veemeld</em>, said one. <em>Go fetch Christian from the outer-city. We can sell this one.</em> </div>
<div>Another said, <em>Look at this, Alpha. Her V29 prostaglandins appear abnormally high. Even for a veemeld. What can it mean?</em> </div>
<div><em>Perhaps we should charge a higher price. It is a sweet deal, Omega. We rid ourselves of these pests and the outer-city humans pay us for them. Beats recycling. Reuse, when you can, I always say. This one will fetch us a good price. They use these veemelds to help them run their disorganized outer-city. Able to interface with their primitive AIs, veemelds also serve as the best interpreters between their city and ours</em>. . . . </div>
<div>She strained to hear more but the voices faded and she lost herself in the dark void. When she regained consciousness, she heard more voices, this time not in her head. They were exchanged in mild argument and one of them was definitely human. </div>
<div>“—You know we want her, damn it!” the human, an older male, said in frustration. </div>
<div>“Only if you pay double the price, Christian,” a shrill metal voice insisted. </div>
<div>“All right, all right,” the human conceded wearily. “Are there more like her?” </div>
<div>“Doesn’t she have a sister?” rejoined a tin voice. “I think we picked her up earlier.” </div>
<div>Another metal voice cut in, “She tested negative. Not a veemeld. We disposed of her. She’s been recycled.” </div>
<div>No! Not Isabelle! She pulled frantically on the bindings and squeezed her eyes tight to the tears that filled them. Oh, God, no! Not my baby sister. </div>
<div>The voices continued, oblivious to her pain. “ The girl has an uncle in the outer city. Carl Douglas,” Christian said. </div>
<div>No! Not there! Let me stay here with Neo. </div>
<div>“. . . I’ll contact the uncle and arrange for her departure within the hour.” </div>
<div>No! Rebecca screamed out but no sound emerged. The weariness overcame her. Oh, Neo. I’ve left you for nothing. Our dream. So many promises to keep. So many promises. . . . </div>
<div>~6~</div>
<div>He’d cut his dark hair short and his face had matured. A few stubborn locks fell over his temple. Full lips, held tightly, were poised on a rugged and unshaven jaw. She appraised his torso, visible beneath his tattered rags. At 21 years, he’d filled out from his awkward adolescence into a man’s shape, tall and strongly muscled. She hardly recognized him, except for those intense coal-black eyes. </div>
<div>Rebecca pointed to a chair facing her desk. “Please,” and slid into the chair behind her desk. She placed her hands flat, caressing the smooth wood. </div>
<div>Refusing to approach, he planted his legs apart and crossed his arms over his chest. His eyes narrowed with suspicion. “Why’d you bring me here?” he said without a trace of a stammer. He’d learned control, she thought. Become a warrior poet. “Why didn’t the AIs kill me?” he challenged. “I’m not a veemeld. I’m no use to you people.” </div>
<div>Could it be that he didn’t recognize her? Trying to control the emotion in her voice she said, “Neo, it’s me. . . Angel.” </div>
<div>His face paled. A tide of astonishment swept the dark hostility aside and his arms dropped to his side like lead. “A-a-ngel?” he stammered. Then anger boiled up. It fired his eyes with rage and he charged toward her. She recoiled in alarm. But he stopped at her expression and a miserable smile crossed his lips. She watched him take in a deep breath before speaking with more control, “I was right. When the human slaves are no longer useful like your drunk mother, the AIs recycle them.” His mouth curled into a self-mocking smirk. “Nano-soup.” He appraised her wearily and pursed his lips. The expression in his eyes opened to his pain and she heard the agony break over his voice. “I thought you were dead, Rebecca.” </div>
<div></div>
<div>She flinched at his use of her proper name and swallowed. </div>
<div>“Couldn’t eat nano-soup after that.” Then he veiled his anguish with disgust. “But eventually news filtered down that the outer-city had a new veemeld with special powers, she could hear the machines in her head.” He sneered. “And I knew you were alive.” He flicked his hand to dismiss all his previous pain as if it were unimportant. “You probably knew you’d be safe and fetch a good price too. Not brave like I’d thought, more like self-serving.” </div>
<div>“It wasn’t like that, Neo,” she said in a trembling voice. </div>
<div>His eyes gleamed with open hatred. “I really believed you. I believed all the things you said about escaping and living here together, but you never really meant it, did you?” </div>
<div>“Neo—” </div>
<div>“Once you got here, you forgot all about us.” </div>
<div>By &#8216;us&#8217; he meant him. Did that tremulous first kiss taste bitter to him now? </div>
<div>“And I can see why.” His accusing gaze slid from her face and roamed her plush office. His eyes rested on the blazing sky. She heard a tremor in his voice, “You got what you wanted.” He glared at the plaques of distinction and achievement that hung on her wall. Then his head snapped at her with a scowl. “Chaos knows why I’m here now. Was it a glitch? Some embarrassing mistake you have to fix? You certainly didn’t earn your excellent reputation by thinking of us or our welfare.” </div>
<div>Shivering with anger, she found her voice, “Do you think that was my choice?” Propelled to her feet, she gripped the desk and locked her eyes on his. “They — my uncle — kept me from going back to look for you. I was trapped here in a paradise without a heart. It was our dream and my thoughts of you. . .” and that sweet kiss “. . . that kept me from drowning in despair. Kept me afloat these past four years with the hope that you hadn’t been caught and recycled like my sister. I realized that the only way I was going to find you and bring you out was if I played along and became the best veemeld the outer-city had. My prize was that I eventually had a chance to talk to the AIs in the inner-city and convinced them to sell you to me.” She swallowed the emotion rising in her throat and tried to gauge his intense look. Was he still angry with her? She couldn’t blame him. Feeling utter defeat, she forced the last words past a tide of anguish, “I thought I would never find you.” Her eyes heated with tears and his face blurred in pools of dismay. “And now that I have, it’s to find I destroyed our dream. I lost you anyway.” Unable to meet his fierce eyes her gaze dropped to the floor and her voice fell like petals from a wilted flower. “I’ve broken all my promises.” </div>
<div>“No you haven’t,” he said in a gentle voice that drew her gaze. With a few strides he’d closed the distance between them and stood so close to her, she could feel his breath upon her. His smoky metal scent coiled around her in a heady embrace as he placed his hands on her shoulders and leaned forward. His icy glare had melted to dark pools of warmth. “You didn’t break the one you made to me, Angel, when you first kissed me with your tender promise of love.” </div>
<div>She trembled as he took her face in his hands. Then his lips were on hers and she felt like they’d never been apart, tasting the mature fruit of his love. He took her in his arms as though he never meant to let her go and she finally felt like she was home. </div>
<div>She thought of her mother and sister, recycled in the inner-city, feeding into that eternal cycle of altering form. . . nano-soup. . . the cell of a beating heart. . . the suspended dust upon which bloomed the blushing sky. As she gazed into Neo’s midnight eyes, now reflecting the glow of sunset, Rebecca realized that he’d just given her the key to her legacy of promises. Every promise she’d made was a declaration to nurture a tender seed. </div>
<div>The rest was up to God. </div>

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		<title>Christ-Figure in Movies/Books: Grace or Redemption?</title>
		<link>http://www.ninamunteanu.com/108/christ-figure-in-moviesbooks-grace-or-redemption/</link>
		<comments>http://www.ninamunteanu.com/108/christ-figure-in-moviesbooks-grace-or-redemption/#comments</comments>
		<pubDate>Tue, 02 Oct 2007 07:03:00 +0000</pubDate>
		<dc:creator>Nina Munteanu</dc:creator>
				<category><![CDATA[Christ figure]]></category>
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		<category><![CDATA[popular culture]]></category>
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		<description><![CDATA[In one of my previous posts (Fertility&#8211;Infertility &#38; the Environment) I got into a rather lively discussion with a fellow blogger, Erik Hare, about the tendency in Western Culture mythos (in literature and in movies, particularly) to portray the main character in fiction as Christ figure and the ramifications of this choice. Erik lamented the [...]]]></description>
			<content:encoded><![CDATA[<p><a href="http://bp0.blogger.com/_xoBIPoObedw/RwHxcF7Zv1I/AAAAAAAAAs8/iNRCDKCl8VY/s1600-h/MATRIX.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5116636116599553874" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="MATRIX Christ Figure in Movies/Books: Grace or Redemption?" src="http://bp0.blogger.com/_xoBIPoObedw/RwHxcF7Zv1I/AAAAAAAAAs8/iNRCDKCl8VY/s400/MATRIX.jpg" border="0" title="Christ Figure in Movies/Books: Grace or Redemption?" /></a>
<div>In one of my previous posts (<em><a href="http://sfgirl-thealiennextdoor.blogspot.com/2007/09/fertilityinfertility-environment.html">Fertility&#8211;Infertility &amp; the Environment</a></em>) I got into a rather lively discussion with a fellow blogger, <a href="http://ezinearticles.com/?Interview-with-Erik-Hare,-Author-of-Downriver&amp;id=604318" class="broken_link">Erik Hare</a>, about the tendency in Western Culture mythos (in literature and in movies, particularly) to portray the main character in fiction as Christ figure and the ramifications of this choice. Erik lamented the separation that has occurred between <em>Jesus the Teacher</em> and <em>Christ the Redeemer</em>. I hadn’t really given this much thought until he brought it up. But his examples (e.g., <em>Matrix</em> and <em>Harry Potter</em>) and his discourse were so compelling, I&#8217;ve had to give it considerable thought. And here are my thoughts…</p>
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<p>Today’s Christ-like hero suffers for the sins of the world and prepares himself (often struggling with this considerably) to deliver salvation, usually through fighting or violent confrontation and often with an incredible arsenal of weapons. I was swiftly brought to mind of the many action shoot-em up films whose tortured hero redeems him(her)self through some selfless, though violent action (e.g., <em>Soylent Green</em>, <em><a href="http://www.geocities.com/evrenguven/literary.htm" class="broken_link">Matrix</a></em>, <em>V for Vendetta</em>, <em>Ultra Violet</em>, <em>Aeon Flux</em>&#8211;all sci-fi movies, by the way, and ones I very much enjoyed watching. And what about all those superhero movies, like <em>Spiderman</em> or <em><a href="http://theteemingbrain.wordpress.com/2006/06/29/superman-returns-as-a-christ-figure/">Superman 2</a></em>?). These films represent a version of Joseph Campbell’s “Hero’s Journey”, where the original hero leaves his ‘ordinary world’ wherein he/she has some major flaw to overcome (like apathy, greed, distrust, an<a href="http://bp2.blogger.com/_xoBIPoObedw/RwHv5l7ZvyI/AAAAAAAAAsk/25_AAsrtJRk/s1600-h/aeon-flux-poster.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5116634424382439202" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="aeon flux poster Christ Figure in Movies/Books: Grace or Redemption?" src="http://bp2.blogger.com/_xoBIPoObedw/RwHv5l7ZvyI/AAAAAAAAAsk/25_AAsrtJRk/s400/aeon-flux-poster.jpg" border="0" title="Christ Figure in Movies/Books: Grace or Redemption?" /></a>ger, fear of strawberries…etc.) to answer ‘the call’ to be the hero he/she was destined to become. It is a very familiar trope and I&#8217;ll get to this in more detail in a later post. Erik Hare’s enthralling post on his blog at <a href="http://www.authorsden.com/visit/viewblog.asp?authorid=55121&amp;m=9&amp;y=2007">Author&#8217;s Den</a> further expounded our discussion. Erik suggested that Western culture’s “concept of Redemption has invariably separated from the Grace that created it.” Jesus the Teacher had somehow fallen to the wayside to make room for Christ the Redeemer. </p>
<p>Here’s the difference according to Erik: “Jesus the Teacher said to ‘turn the other cheek’, but today’s Redeemers kick ass. Jesus the Teacher told us that what is done in love is blessed, but today’s Redeemers have more personal and interior motivations.” The two have simply become two different people, says Erik and “the latter is a superstar” compared to the former.” He ends his post with these compelling thoughts:</p>
<p>“The Beatitudes have become rather old fashioned, it seems, as has the idea of Grace&#8230;That is what seems to be the problem with today’s Redeemers – theirs is a personal battle with evil, and not a social one. ‘Love thy neighbor as thyself’ is an alien concept in a world that is perfectly self centered. All that’s left to do is kick ass on those who disagr – er, behave in an evil way, yeah, that’s it! If popular fiction really is a mirror being held up against us, the image we see is not a pretty one. The heritage of Western Culture has turned into a strange kind of cartoon – exaggerated, repetitious, vain, slapstick, and ultimately too silly watch. For some reason, very few people seem to understand this. They are too busy fixing their own hair in the mirror.”</p>
<p>If you still don’t get what Erik and I are talking about, go watch the poignant film “<em>Pay It <a href="http://bp2.blogger.com/_xoBIPoObedw/RwHxLl7Zv0I/AAAAAAAAAs0/RULe9dQgjGw/s1600-h/pay+it+forward.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5116635833131712322" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="pay+it+forward Christ Figure in Movies/Books: Grace or Redemption?" src="http://bp2.blogger.com/_xoBIPoObedw/RwHxLl7Zv0I/AAAAAAAAAs0/RULe9dQgjGw/s400/pay+it+forward.jpg" border="0" title="Christ Figure in Movies/Books: Grace or Redemption?" /></a>Forward</em>” and then contrast its main character with the one in “<em>Ultra Violet</em>” or “<em>The Matrix</em>”.<br />The definition for Grace occupies almost half a page in the dictionary. When I think of Grace I think of selfless compassion, humility, gentleness, kindness, mercy and forgiveness and both inner and outer beauty. So, why does Grace languish in the shadows of redemption? Why do we watch—and more importantly, totally enjoy—these latter movies at the expense of the former? Why do we long for a strong but flawed hero with personal issues as our icon? One who is often tough, independent, and ‘kicks ass’ at the expense of gentleness, humility, cooperation and selflessness? If, as Erik suggests, we are seeking heroes who reflect our own self-image or at least the traits we strive to have, then what does popular fiction say about our choices in life? Is Erik right about this dichotomy? Well, I’d say definitely yes…but also no…</p>
<p>While I agree with Erik on the apparent separation of Christ figure in today’s popular fiction, perhaps there is another way to look at these tales that resolves this apparent dichotomy; if one were to view them more as allegories with traits and values represented in several characters woven together in a complete and whole tapestry. And that way is to include the secondary character as being equally important. Let’s take Matrix, for instance. In fact, Neo isn’t the only Jesus-figure. His two female opposites (Trinity/Oracle) demonstrate Christ-like traits that embody grace, mercy and love (the holy spirit). Okay, so Trinity kicks major ass too; but her character also provides the chief motivation for our main ‘kick-ass’ hero through her selfless love and humility.</p>
<p>I assert that these two aspects of Christ (merciful teacher and redeemer) are indeed both represented (albeit in separate individuals) in films today: two individuals, one Christ the redeemer and the other Jesus the savior/teacher, often joined through a bond of selfless love; two halves of a whole. The Gnostics have a word for this divine male/female pair: they call them <em>syzygies</em>, <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Aeon">aeons </a>(beings of light and emanations of God) that exist as complimentary pairs or twins. The aeon pair of <em>Caen </em>(which represents power, the redeemer) and <em>Akhana</em> (truth, love and grace) are complimentary and inseparable. The yin/yang of a whole. The paradoxical oxymoron of chaos in order (or order in chaos). In Gnostic belief, aeons are emanations of God. According to one version, an aeon named <em>Sophia</em> (wisdom) emanated without her partner aeon, creating a <em>Demiurge</em> (responsible for the creation of the physical universe; <em>Ialdaboth</em> in Gnostic texts) which was not part of the <em>Pleroma</em> (fullness and the region of light) and apart from the divine t<a href="http://bp0.blogger.com/_xoBIPoObedw/RwHycF7Zv2I/AAAAAAAAAtE/BKkk2LgxQwc/s1600-h/patronus2.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5116637216111181666" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="patronus2 Christ Figure in Movies/Books: Grace or Redemption?" src="http://bp0.blogger.com/_xoBIPoObedw/RwHycF7Zv2I/AAAAAAAAAtE/BKkk2LgxQwc/s400/patronus2.jpg" border="0" title="Christ Figure in Movies/Books: Grace or Redemption?" /></a>otality [a metaphor possibly for humanity]). God then emanated two savior aeons, Christ and the Holy Spirit to save man from the <em>Demiurge</em>. Christ then took the form of the man, Jesus, in order to teach man how to achieve <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gnosis">Gnosis</a> (and know God). So, for every Neo there is a Trinity/Oracle; for Violet there is Six; for Aeon Flux there is Trevor Goodchild; for Harry there is Dumbledore, Hermione and Ron; and so on. In this way, the two complimentary aspects of Christ are reconciled. And in cases where such complimentary pairing is achieved (e.g., Neo would not have succeeded without both Trinity or the Oracle) we are taught that selfless cooperation is the highest form of heroism.</p>
<p><span style="font-size:85%;">Erik Hare&#8217;s book, </span><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Downriver-Erik-Hare/dp/1420887165/ref=sr_1_9/002-3879890-1728043?ie=UTF8&amp;s=books&amp;qid=1191310358&amp;sr=1-9"><span style="font-size:85%;">Downriver</span></a><span style="font-size:85%;">, is available at </span><a href="http://www.amazon.com/"><span style="font-size:85%;">www.amazon.com</span></a><span style="font-size:85%;">. Erik says his own use of Jesus in <em>Downriver</em> used the foundation of Grace within a strongly cultural context.</span> </p>
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