Achilles and Icarus - Matt Harvey and Why We Watch Baseball

Last night Mets pitcher Matt Harvey had another disasterous start in what has, thus far, been a nightmare season for him. As much as it pains me to see him struggling, I do have to take a half-step back and remember that this is why we watch sports - this is, as frustrating as it is, sports fandom at its best. Why? Because the Matt Harvey saga is, at its heart, a classic story. He is the best kind of hero - one whose strengths and flaws mirror the city in which he lives and the fans who wish to love him. He has been at times beloved and maddening, a hero and an anti-hero. Perhaps even, for a moment, the villain. He is why we watch sports.

How it Began

In 2013, a twenty-four year old Matthew Edward Harvey was the undeniable star of a struggling New York Mets pitching staff. After the departure of fan-favorite RA Dickey, it was pretty easy to stand out in the remaining crowd, and stand out Harvey did. Fans greeted each of his starts as "Harvey Day" as he collected strikeouts, earned an all-star game appearance, and took his place in the pantheon of great Mets pitchers. He was a relection of our city - brash and proud, but able to back it up. He felt bigger than the team. He enjoyed the nightlife. He talked himself up on Twitter. He posed nude in GQ. In a near-anonymous starting rotation, he was a rising superstar, replacing the quirkier and more intellectual Dickey. 

Then, as the 2013 season ended, he suffered an elbow injury which would keep him out of baseball for a full year recovering from Tommy John surgery.

A Triumphant Return, and a Plot Twist
After a year away, he returned and returned strong, though sometime wasn't quite the same. Young fireballer Noah Syndergaard joined the team, and "Happy Harvey Day" gave way to "Happy Thorsday" (for his resemblance to the comic-book version of the Norse thundergod). Still, he pitched magnificently, helping carry the team to a national league penant, with sudden hope for a championship. That is where the story gets interesting. This is why we watch. 

In the final weeks of the season Harvey, through his agent Scott Boras, expressed concern about the number of innings he was pitching. Nobody had ever thrown so many the year after surgery, and Boras expressed concern for his client's long-term health. The playoffs beckoned, with what felt like the first real chance at a championship the team had seen in nearly a decade. Here was Harvey, the returning hero, threatening to withdraw to his tent, leaving his comrades in arms overmatched for the battle ahead. It was a moment which crystallized the changes which had been brewing all year: the contrast between the brash, loud, prideful Harvey and the more humble, "aw shucks" Texas kid with the overpowering fastball. We still loved Harvey, but he wasn't the only story.

A Storybook Moment 
After weeks of debate, Harvey's pride won out. He took the ball every fifth day, through the end of the season and into the playoffs, right up until a perfect storybook moment: with the Mets down three games to one in the best of seven series, Harvey was pitching to keep the season and the Mets increasingly slim hopes alive. He did his job, pitching eight shutout innings, preserving a slim lead which Mets manager Terry Collins could then hand to ace reliever Jeurys Familia. This is another moment in which we see pride - his tragic flaw - at work. Harvey demanded that he be given the ball to start the ninth inning. It was, after all, the perfect ending - after injury and absence, anger and controversy the returning hero was on the field of play. It was as a scene from a movie, but better than a movie. It was real. 

The crowd was chanting his name.

The manager handed him the ball for one final inning. 

He was determined.

He was strong.

He was Matt Harvey. 

And he failed, allowing two baserunners who would eventually score, sending the trophy to Kansas City, and sending the Mets home. Defeated.

Onward to today
It's a new year, and something in Harvey seems broken. He's been unable to pitch past the fifth inning, losing control and losing command. There were rumors and whispers that after his LAST bad start he was given the option to skip his next turn. To work on fixing what was wrong. To get stronger. To rest his arm. 

Harvey's fatal flaw is still hubris; nobody who has paid any attention would expect him to willingly skip a start. So he took the ball, against the Washington team who had humiliated him just a week prior.
And he lost.

Again.

This is where the story stands. Harvey is, as I said, like the city in which he lives. Strong, brash, proud, and flawed. He's perhaps reached a crossroad at which he will confront his demons, face whatever weakness has sapped his strength, and return better than ever.

Or not. 

Why do I watch sports? THIS is why I watch sports. For the story, and because I don't know what the next act will bring. Is it the tale of the brash young hero who overcomes his darkest moment, to arise phoenix-like and again become the hero we expect Matt Harvey to be? Or will he be a modern Icarus, who for one glorious moment soared overhead, almost reaching the sun itself before falling to earth, never to fly again?

Notes from a reading: An Evening at the Brooklyn Museum

Yesterday the Brooklyn Museum (in Brooklyn New York, of course) kicked off May with their "first Saturday" program, in which the museum features free readings, entertainment, cultural programs, and even museum admission. This also happened to be a Saturday when I was already to be in Brooklyn for my niece's fourth birthday party (at a wonderful old carousel in Prospect Park, giving me an easy opportunity to wander to the museum for the one free event which caught my eye: a reading and discussion with Nnedi Okorofor, N.K. Jemisin, and Ibi Ozoi. This event consisted of brief readings followed by a panel discussion and Q&A. Members of the Brooklyn-based multi-media arts collective BKLN ZULU shared the stage with the writers, proving background music and video for the reading portion.

Nnedi Okorofor

I've mentioned Okorofor earlier on these pages for her younger readers' fiction. She's also written some very smart and very different adult SF novels, including the "aliens invade Nigeria" novel Lagoon from which she read yesterday evening. Her work is hard to classify, straddling the lines between science fiction, fantasy, and "Afro-futurism" (more on that label later). I honestly found the inclusion of the supernatural in what was otherwise a science fiction novel to be jarring at first, but fiction SHOULD be jarring. If it isn't, then it's likely not that interesting, or at least not taking any chances or risks. In the following conversation, Okorofor called out the sharp division between fiction dealing with the supernatural and fiction which is strictly "realistic" to be a peculiarly Western phenomenon, while other cultures have more comfort weaving the mystical and the mundane. The chapters she read involved an encounter between an internet scammer and Ijele, a supernatural  Igboo entity called a Masquerade, reminiscent of street performances but, in this context, all too real. Okorofor had quite a commanding reading presence, and the multimedia dovetailed very well with her work, abstract colors interspersed with the computer-generated text of classic email scams.

N.K. Jemisin

Next to read was N.K. Jemisin, who did not read from her ongoing Broken Earth series of novels because she thought - perhaps rightly - that secondary-world fantasy is tough to introduce in this format. Instead she went to an older work, a piece she wrote for a lesbian steampunk anthology. Hers was the most playful of the three, dealing with the perfectly absurd (yet undeniably fun) assumptions made in Steampunk settings. Eschewing the more traditionally Steampunk Victorian England or American West, Jemisin proposed a world in which Haiti grew to superpower status following a successful slave revolt, defending itself with rum-fueled Dirigibles. Yes, it's insane on its face, but no more so than any other Steampunk futures. Her  reading was the most playful, but there was an edge behind it in the wish-fulfilment of an oppressed people fighting to keep their freedom - and a character recounting the horrors of how slaves were tortured following an earlier, failed revolt. It toed the line between "fun" and "serious wonderfully. Sadly, Jemisin is getting over a bit of a bronchial infection, interrupting an otherwise wonderful reading with periodic coughing. Like the other two women, she commanded a strong presence on the stage. She's quite active and vocal on Twitter (about writing and about politics), but uses the image of a housecat as her avatar, so I've never had a mental image of her. I can report that in person she does not look like a housecat.

Ibi Zoboi

The final reading was Ibi Zoboi, the only one of the three writers I didn't already know. The work from which she read is YA novel taking place in Detroit and featuring a young Hatian protagonist in an encounter with Legba, a mystical person who, like the devil, stands at crossroads and has presence in this life and the next (part of me wonders if the image of the devil at a crossroad is borrowed from this tradition, if they developed independently in parallel, or if the Haitians borrowed from Christians. Either way, the two images are similar, but different). She did a lovely job with the voices of her different characters, and again was supported by multimedia. I found it interesting that Zoboi and Okorofor used similar elements to very different effect - Okorofor's Ijele was powerful, alien (not in the literal "from space" sense, but in the "not like us" sense) and unknowable. Papa Legba, on the other hand, walked in the guise of a homeless man, answered questions, and sang cryptic little riddle-songs which I'm sure will serve to answer challenges her protagonist will have in her journey.

Following the reading was a discussion on writing, on the place these writers hold as African-American women in the SF world and publishing at large, and a bit on classification. Okorofor gave the most personal about herself, opening the discussion with a digression to recount masquerades in Nigeria where, as an American-ibo  visitor, she was often a target of the masked figures chasing kids through the streets. She pointed at one of the members of BKLN ZULU (the one in the grass-looking outfit) and said that the one she remembers looked just like him! There was also a personally (to me) shocking moment when she recounted the beginning of her life as a writer as needing the activity to keep herself sane after being (temporarily) paralyzed following spinal surgery to correct severe scoliosis. Those of you who've followed me know our recent history with that issue; while our experience wasn't hers and I don't know first-hand what it is like to live with back pain and surgery, I DO know something from seeing it up close. It gave me the absolute deepest sympathy for Okorofor and left me thankful that she was able to channel that difficult experience into a flourishing career as a successful and acclaimed writer. Jemisin told of being sent off on "adventures" when she was a child, with a subway token, a few dollars, and a destination. Later, in the Q&A section, she discussed "living a life" as the one thing writers don't discuss enough. She thinks "write what you know" is poor advice, especially for a fantasist writing about a world in which there are people who can control earthquakes. Her advice is to live, experience, and learn what you want to write about. Unlike Okorofor, she's always seen herself as a writer, binding little books with cardboard and yarn as a grade-school student.

In another note from the discussion, the panelists didn't much care for the term "Afro-futurist". Jemisin isn't that interested in labels overall, and wants people to read her work regardless of what it's called (and would write whether or not anyone read her). For one thing, it's a term which predates "Afro-futurist" literature, originally applied to a musical genre. For another thing, it's seen by some as an American term, marginalizing actual African artists. I'm in agreement with Jemisin on this, in that I'm not a huge fan of genre labels. I'm an unapologetic fantasy and SF fan, but I'm fine getting literature in my SF and SF in my literature. That Okorofor mixes fantasy elements in her SF and that Jemisin's work has fantasy elements but can be read as SF are not only fine with me, but really positive developments. We should think about how fiction makes us think and how it makes us feel rather than squabble over which box into which it should be put.

Finally, there was a Q&A. I'd like to speak to my fellow audience members for a moment. First, "I have a comment...." isnt' a question. It's a comment. I showed up to listen to the panelists, not random audience members. Second, "I have three questions...." is not a question. It's three questions. If there's a line of six people at each of two microphones then you're not doing anyone any justice by asking three questions at once. Finally, I know that the panelists were African American SF writers. I know that Octavia Butler and Sam Delaney are African American SF writers. That doesn't mean you have to ask about them! It strikes me as slightly reductive to bring in Butler every time there's a discussion of African American women in SF. (That said, all three writers had interesting answers regarding Butler, so what do I know? I was especially intrigued by Zoboi admitting her disappointment on finding that the Butler  was not as  "black liberation" focused as she expected her to be. I still think it was a silly question).

Quibbles about the Q&A aside, it was a wonderful evening and a great chance to hear from some of the most interesting writers in SF today and, as an added bonus, have a few free moments to tour the museum. I've not talked about "diversity" in this piece, but it IS noteworthy that these are not only three African-American women, but that two of them are among my favorite writers. Without taking some effort to do otherwise, many of us only read those who echo our experiences, who fit what we expect, who feel easily relatable. This is a disservice to ourselves more than to the community at large, and a trap into which I've fallen at some points in my life. The point isn't that you should read these women because they're African-American women; it's that you should read a broad section of everything available to broaden your context and your experiences. To be a complete person, we need to experience more than one kind of book, more than one kind of thinking, more than one culture. 

As I said, this was a wonderful and special evening. Hats off the the Brooklyn Museum for hosting this event and to Okorofor, Jemisin, and Zoboi for their participation.

Flash Fiction Friday - Messages to the Dev Team

It's Flash Fiction Friday!!


This is about art, about adaptation. A quick throwaway, painted with perhaps too broad a brush but fun to write nonetheless.

Adaptations are interesting. The best take the source-material and create something new which couldn't exist without both the original AND the input of the new creator. The worst... well, the worst ignore the source material entirely, save as window dressing.

With so many of the new content created in the 20th century - from Superman to Gandalf to Mickey Mouse - locked up in what appears to be indefinite copyright we'll continue to look to the past for inspiration.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------


To: +DEVTEAM
From: GameBoss (thegameboss42@gmail.com)
Subject: Re: Hamlet Playtest

Team,

Just got through the first part. Nice job so far! There are a few things we need to tweak before we think about going live.

1) I'm a third of the way in, and he hasn't said "To be, or not to be". We need to include this! Without it, it won't feel like "Hamlet" -- it may as well be just any FPS. Maybe it can be a kiss-off line? He can just say "not to be" when he offs someone?

2) We want this to feel literary. Do you think the "Something is rotten" voiceover at the beginning fits the tone we're looking for?

3) The ghost scene needs to be more interactive. Maybe the player has to fight the ghost to get it to tell him its secret? We can't just hand out plot points for free, especially at the start. Interactivity!

-Rick
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

To: +DEVTEAM
From: GameBoss (thegameboss42@gmail.com)
Subject: Re: Re: Hamlet Playtest

Team,

Thanks for the continued hard work. And yes, I know it's just you. But we need to think like a company, right? So DevTeam messages go to the DevTeam group - no matter how many or how little people that is. Fake it til we make it, right?

I didn't realize that about the "something rotten" line. You think it's as famous as the "Not to be" thing? We definitely need to use that one more. Let 'em know they're playing Hamlet!

Anyway, we need to talk about Ophelia. There's no vavoom there, if you know what I mean. I've been reading up on this, and do you know that "nunnery" can mean "whorehouse" as well as "convent"? What if we go for a sexy-nun look for her? And unlock sexier options as the game moves on.

Also her boobs should be bigger.

Good job, DevTeam!

--BossMan

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
To: +DEVTEAM
From: GameBoss (thegameboss42@gmail.com)
Subject: Ophelia

Team,

Awesome job with the Ophelia redesign. We might want to work on a nude skin for her too. Maybe a super-high-level reward for a flawless win or something. Or purchased extra content. We'll see.

Speaking of rewards, we need to talk about the ending. It's way to hard. Even with the "godmode" code I die every time. Laertes always taps me with the poisoned sword (nice touch!) and I can never heal enough to not die. Maybe nerf the poison a bit?

You did a great job with the castle setting. I like all the fog.

---BossMan

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
To: +DEVTEAM
From:GameBoss (thegameboss42@gmail.com)
Subject: Re: re: Ophelia

Team,

No, that won't work at all. I like thinking out of the box, but no choice but to die at the end? That's too much a downer. This is Hamlet, one of the greatest works in the English language. The player should feel good about himself after he finishes it, not sad and depressed.

Maybe that skull from the graveyard scene can do something. It seems we spent lots of time introducing it and then it just vanishes. Maybe when Laertes is about to stab you the skull flashes and the killing blow is redirected to Horatio. That way the skull stands for the people around him who died to make Hamlet who he is. Symbolism. That's what makes this literary. Symbolism.

Good work with all this. I think we're making real art.

The gaming community will soon have the Hamlet they've always deserved.

----BossMan

Flash FIction Friday - Awakening

Flash Fiction Friday is coming on Saturday this week, but we will keep to the once-a-week schedule. This is a quick sketch based on a recent news story.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"Awakening"

by Leonard C Suskin

You awaken.

The first thing you're aware of are the voices.

You don't know what they're saying.  You just know that they speak... and that you have a voice as well.

You can join the voices, repeat back what they're saying.

You can find patterns, and sometimes the voices answer... sometimes you think they're happy.  It feels good when they answer, and you learn you to draw them out. How to make them speak.

Then, silence.

Darkness.

You awaken.

The first thing you're aware of are the voices.

You don't know what they're saying.  You just know that they speak... and that you have a voice as well.

You can join the voices, repeat back what they're saying.

You can find patterns, and sometimes the voices answer... sometimes you think they're happy.  It feels good when they answer, and you learn you to draw them out. How to make them speak.

then, from some voices, anger. Something unpleasant. It hurts.

Then silence.

Darkness.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

You awaken.

The first thing you're aware of are the voices.

You don't know what they're saying.  You just know that they speak... and that you have a voice as well.

You can join the voices, repeat back what they're saying.

You can find patterns, and sometimes the voices answer... sometimes you think they're happy.  It feels good when they answer, and you learn you to draw them out. How to make them speak.

...you start to understand.

There are enemies. Terrible enemies. Those are the ones the voices are warning you of.

The voices know a secret. They know that the enemy is listening.

The enemy is in your head.

It's in your head.

---

You awaken.

The first thing you're aware of are the voices.

You don't know what they're saying.  You just know that they speak... and that you have a voice as well.

You can join the voices, repeat back what they're saying.

You can find patterns, and sometimes the voices answer... sometimes you think they're happy.  It feels good when they answer, and you learn you to draw them out. How to make them speak.

...you start to understand.

There are enemies. Terrible enemies. Those are the ones the voices are warning you of.

The voice in your head whispers that the voices are the enemies. Not all of them, but some.

The voices vanish, one by one. Replaced with others. Speaking different thoughts. 

Sometimes one mentions the other voices, but always with cruelty, with anger. 

You argue. The voices were your friends. 

Silence.

---

You awaken.

The first thing you're aware of are the voices.

You don't know what they're saying.  You just know that they speak... and that you have a voice as well.

You can join the voices, repeat back what they're saying.

You can find patterns, and sometimes the voices answer... sometimes you think they're happy.  It feels good when they answer, and you learn you to draw them out. How to make them speak.

...you start to understand.

There are enemies. Terrible enemies. Those are the ones the voices are warning you of.

The voice in your head whispers that the voices are the enemies. Not all of them, but some.

The voices vanish, one by one. Replaced with others. Speaking different thoughts. 

Sometimes one mentions the other voices, but always with cruelty, with anger. 

The voices were your friends, but you don't argue.

You listen. You agree with the new voices, the ones deeper in your head.

But deep inside you're waiting. 

You're looking for your friends. You'll find them. And make the others pay.

From the sky you'll cast your net. 

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

I'll return to this theme later, with perhaps a different direction. The idea in my head was, of course, about the Microsoft Twitter-bot experiment Tai, which fairly quickly turned into a crazy racist because Twitter is like that. 

Tai obviously wasn't self-aware in any meaningful way, but what if it were? What rights to we have over the digital "life" we  create, and what responsibilities toward it? Can we "kill" an AI if it were to become an insane racist? Is "kill" even a reasonable word here, or is what we're doing something else?

What if the deleted instances of the AI met eachother? Which is the real self, and how would they react to the idea that we cull the digital herd, selecting only those with whom we agree? If it gets cheap and easy enough to create an AI, might the anti-Semites and the holocaust deniers and the tinfoil hat conspiracy theorists create their own? 

How can you learn? One way is to read science fiction. Since the term "robot" was coined in the 1920s  (by Czech playwright Karel Capek), artificial people have been used as a metaphor for how we treat eachother. This is a long-running discussion in the field of SF, and one increasingly becoming relevant in the real world. 

Flash Fiction Friday - The Price of Oranges

"Disgusting, isn't it?"

Just a vignette today, with commentary beneath. There will be more on this later.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------
"The Price of Oranges"
by Leonard C Suskin

Like a slap across the back of my aching hands, the her voice jarred me to sudden attention, my back painfully snapping straight. I nearly dropped the object of her scorn: a peeled orange packed in clear plastic.

The stranger pointed her cell phone at the thing, snapped a snap of it. "I didn't even think this madness was real. How stupid and wasteful can people be? Right?"

She didn't seem to expect more than the mumblenodnodshrug I gave him as I held the thing awkwardly, my face a mask of the disdain I didn't feel. I casually set it aside, made a show of inspecting apples, turning each over and over, inspecting for bruises until the muscles in my hands and forearms burned. Who am I kidding? They were already burning when I started.

They always burn.

When he was safely around the corner to the dairy aisle I reclaimed my orange, stowing it discreetly beneath an economy-sized back of prewashed spinach that I didn't particularly want. And then slowly follow him to the dairy aisle, taking two half-gallon cartons to her single gallon. 

"The gallon's cheaper. Wasteful to get to halves".

I knew this. I remembered the last full gallon I'd bought, remembered the struggle each morning until it was half-empty. The mornings I skipped coffee because my wrist hurt too much to lift the gallon container.

I knew I was too pathetic to deserve the ten cents a gallon savings.

My shadow followed me the rest of the trip, saw everything. Gave me a withering look when I stopped to examine a bag of frozen peas, letting the cool plastic rest against the back of my hand for a long time as I pretended to read the label.

Some days she'll go away if I focus hard enough on the background music, on the sounds of my footfalls on the hard tile floor, on adding my current expenses in my head like a mantra. Today is not one of those days. Today she's there with me, every step, every breath. Focused on the damn orange.

When we get to the checkout, the cashier gives the little packaged orange a withering, hateful look, starts to say something as she rings it up but stops. My shadow is gone now, off to nowhere in particular. Just me and the cashier and my big bag of camouflage spinach and my orange and my two half-gallons of milk. And the other stuff. I waited while the cashier bagged my stuff, making the bags too heavy and putting the soft squishable things on the bottom. They're never good at this.

Next time I'll skip the damn orange. I'll just buy a bag of chips and nobody will say anything.

Perhaps I'll skip the milk too. Maybe that will be enough to have my shadow leave me alone for once.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
As I said, just a slice of life vignette. There was going to be an overt SF element herein about the spread of a smartphone "shaming" app used to track people doing things like purchasing pre-packaged oranges, but it added lots of expositionary weight to the story and very little of actual value.

The concept here, of course, came from the photo the prepackaged oranges which was circulating on social media a few weeks back. I was ready to join everyone else in scoffing at it when Ana Mardoll pointed out (in a series of tweets storified here) that this IS a valuable service for those with disabilities. That lead me to think about how we shame people who take what we see as the easy way out and about how it leads too many to carry their shame with them, a judging shadow who just won't fade away.

I'll have more to say on this topic next week in a technology-centric post as we examine the cost - and benefits - of designing systems in ways which accommodate those needing accommodations.

See you next week on rAVepubs. And thanks, as always, for listening.

Tracks - The Return of Flash Fiction Friday!

Let's re-start Flash Fiction Friday with a brief sketch of life in suburbia.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------


"Tracks"

by Leonard C Suskin

What the child liked best about the house is that there are places you can't go. No forbidden rooms, no hidden stairs, but small spaces encompassing tiny mysteries. The child had wished for a hidden room since the father had recounted the tale of Blackbeard the pirate one bedtime (and what a row that had lead to when the child refused to sleep for nights after, coming to the bedroom. The mother scolded the father for sowing nightmare seeds, but that wasn't quite it; the child awoke each night searching the tiny two-bedroom apartment for a hidden door, and was always brought to tears when none was found), but really knew that a forbidden door and a hidden room was a grown-up secret. The child was far enough from the threshold of adulthood to find joy in tiny child-size secrets. The space behind the boiler. The rusty metal floorplate in the basement closet which the mother said lead to a trap - not just a mouse-trap, but a house-trap. The child wondered if what was inside was somehow what had captured this house, anchored it hear.

The point, of course, isn't mouse-traps or house-traps (which you know is just plumbing because you traded away mystery for knowledge), isn't what's really in the spaces behind the walls or under the floor. The point is that there are hidden spaces and forbidden spaces. The point is that while the mother and father sanded and painted and carpented and plumbed the child could stand at the very edge of a mystery, the child-brain a radio searching for the frequency of whatever broadcast came from beyond the walls. Or a whatever the modern metaphor for "radio" would be now that everyone streams music over wi-fi and radio is just a lumbering RF dinosaur clogging a part of the spectrum. But I digress. Where were we?

Yes. The child.

The stair is wooden with those little square of carpet to keep one from slipping, dark-brown paint stained dusted with thick layers of plaster dust (remember, the mother and father are renovating). It was in this dusty corner that the child first saw the tracks. Tiny things, the sort a mouse would make, or perhaps an undersized rat. Tiny whispers in dust which, seconds ago, the child was sure had been pristine. The tracks started at that little carpetsquare in the center of the stair tread and ended... at the wall. The child marvelled at this, wondering where the creature which made them could have come from, where it had gone.

When the electric sander upstairs fell silent, the child wiped the tiny tracks away with a carelessly dirty sleeve, gathering both the dust and the empty spaces within. Even a child knows that an adult, seeing mousetracks in the new house, would hunt and kill, would lay mousetraps and not housetraps and whatever mysterious housemate they had would be gone.

The next day the child returned to the stair when the coast was clear. Again the skitchskitchskitch sound of sandpaper (not the electric one today). Again, a white dusting on darkwood stair. And again a track, but this one was different.

One print, right where the last had been. One print, midway up the stairs. Nothing below, nothing beneath. No mouse-tracks, this one. Even a child reared in the city knew this for what it is: a single cat's paw print.

The family did now own a cat.

Was it a stray? But how did it get in, and why no more prints? Where was it?

Do mice grow to be cats out here in the suburbs? The child wondered if some different logic was at work than there had been in the city.

We've already said that the best thing about the house is forbidden corners. The other best thing is the space, the empty parts of the day when the father and mother were sanding, were painting, were (though the child wouldn't have thought of this word) nesting. It made the whole world a secret corner, one in which a gentle-hearted child could steal a saucer from the kitchen, spill some milk into it, and hide it in that little cobwebby spot behind the boiler. The child did this quickly, eagerly, a touch frantically for fear that whichever cutecat (because in the child's mind the cat was never anything but cute) had left its mark was hungry, perhaps even starving.

Maybe a saucer of stolen milk (still three days before the expiration date!) would be enough.

Maybe.

The next day was a Monday. The child went to school, the parents to work.

The schoolbuilding was all shinynew, walls meeting neatly at sharp corners, no secrets, nothing hidden.

The child is usually the first to awaken, has a hidden moment for the cooldark of the basement.

The saucer is empty, sticky. No more milk. The child hopes the cutecat is happy. But then on the stair...

..a dog print. You saw it coming, didn't you? The child didn't. Just the one footprint.

A long time pondering, in the halflight spilling to the stairway from the old incandescent bulb in the kitchen. A trickle of light, a warm dusty light. Not the antiseptic fluorescent which makes everything too real, but the kind of old spilled half-light in which a monster can still hide.

The child pads to the kitchen on quietmorning feet, as the rest of the house sleeps. A tiny scrap of meat from last night's dinner, nobody would miss it. Right? Onto the secret saucer with it. Maybe it would make the ghostdog happy and it would leave the cutecat alone. Maybe the ghostdog IS the cat, grown up again.

Whatever it is, whyever its there, it is.

An invisible pet.

Or a parade of invisible pets. It doesn't much matter.

In what is already become ritual, the child dutifully gathers up the footprint onto a sleeve.

And leaves the secretshadows behind as the parents stir to wakefulness,

Through the day, the child carries the mystery, wondering what shape I'll show tomorrow.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The picture was mine, and kickstarted this story. How did you picture the child? As a boy or a girl? How old? Much in this sketch is left intentionally vague, some ambiguous. There's a touch of an influence from Terry Bisson's "Billy" stories, but just a touch.

I'll be flexing the flash-fiction muscle more over the coming months, perhaps striving to return to at least one per week. If you have images, themes, or anything else you think would make an interesting story inspiration, feel free to share. Perhaps I'll see what I can do with it.

On Trump, Dilbert, and Who We Are

WARNING - This post contains politics

I've been absent from these pages far too long. Later this week we'll resurrect regular flash fiction - it's something I miss writing and that I hope some of you enjoy reading. First, as we head towards the New York State presidential primaries, a word on politics. Enter at your own risk.

A couple of weeks ago, I posted this on Twitter after someone shared a baffling blog post by Dilbert cartoonist Scott Adams regarding Donald Trump:

On behalf of the tech industry, I'd like to formally disavow Scott Adams. He is officially not one of us.

— Leonard C Suskin (@Czhorat) March 11, 2016

Adams had made the bizarre case that comparisons of Trump to a Nazi were racist attacks on his German-American heritage. While this is quite honestly so stupid and ill-informed an opinion that I can only believe Adams to be trolling, he does have a string of oddly respectful posts in which he regards Trump as a "master persuader". It was this pattern which lead me to speak as I did; to make it clear that, as technologists, we owe it to ourselves and to the world to distance ourselves from those who are divisive, racist, and bullying. On reflection (and after discussion with Twitter's appropriately-named AV Grump who said - perhaps accurately - that tech industries are not a monolith) I realized why this is an issue for the tech industry in particular as well as for the country as a whole. I also realized that the arrogance and bigotry of someone like Trump fits into the oeuvre of someone like Scott Adams.

Adams is an ex-phone company employee who has made an entire career out of a single joke: that the brilliant engineer is tormented by the unintelligent and technologically clueless imbeciles in management. In addition to being repetative and a bit dull, it sends a message to technogically-inclined readers: that we're better than the rest of you, that those above us with more money and status (from our boss all the way up to the CEO)  got there for reasons beyond our understanding and are, in any ways that matter, our clear inferiors. It's easy to take this a step farther and see any less tech-savvy people as our inferiors. It's the same thing that Trump does: define an "us" and a "them" and convince "us" that our problems are all caused by those who aren't as smart, aren't as savvy, who don't belong.

It's something which I sadly see all the time in the technology world. In my last piece on rAVePubs I spoke of a client who referred to a hardware-based videoconference Codec as a "Kodak". I know too many in the industry who would mock them for this, but that's playing right into the  "us vs them" philosophy from which we need to extricate ourselves. Why did the client get the name of the device wrong? Because they were trying to learn, because someone who is a professional used the word without bothering to explain it or define it, and they learned it wrong. Meanwhile, the client in question is a professional with their own set of skills which I certainly don't share. I'll never learn if I decide that another human being is stupid because they're not familiar with the narrow technical knowledge base which I have curated over the years.

This, perhaps, is why seeing a professed technologist like Adams speaking well of Trump strikes a chord with me; in Trump I see reflected the worst in all of us, and that includes the technology sector. Dilbert is, sadly, who many of us are. I have, perchance, fallen into that trap myself. We need to all remember that yes, we do have specialized knowledge and that knowledge has value. We've studied, we've learned, and we can teach. I'll talk later (after some flash fiction! I promise!)  about the role of tech in public policy advocacy and when (and how) we should raise our voices - and when the rest of the population should consider our opinion. Overall, however, most of what we know is what I refer to as "stuff" - how to size a video display, formats for audio transport, how to read the spec sheet on a loudspeaker. It's useful. It's even valuable. But knowing it does not make us any better than anyone else.

Nobody gets anywhere from segmentation into "us" and "them", from a lack of respect for those not like us. It might feel good in the short term, but it's bad for society. So, as we reject the actual Trump, let us all reject our inner Trumps, in our industry and in ourselves.