Sunday, September 26, 2010
100 views on Smashwords.com!
Wow! In one day, there has already been 100 views of Revelations on Smashwords.com! Thanks for spreading the word y'all, keep it up, and be sure to rate/review on Smashwords.com! I have begun work on the first book of Resonics Chronicles. This is going to be full length so it will take time, about 10k words in the bag. Check in here and on the forums of jrcalvo.com. I'll be posting updates. Stay Tuned!
Resonics: Revelations is published on Smashwords!
http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/25189
Use the Coupon Code: GM99A and get it for the low price of $2.99!
Use the Coupon Code: GM99A and get it for the low price of $2.99!
Wednesday, September 15, 2010
Slice of Life...
Sometimes it's the little things that give you perspective in life. Take a facebook friend request for example. Two of them in the recent past have given me pause. First, I received one from a friend I had fallen out of touch with. One of those "Aw man, I gotta hang out with them sometime." Before I took the chance, she was murdered by her soon-to-be ex-husband. Just last night, I got a friend request from a high school friend, who I had lost touch with. She's in Afghanistan, for another three months at least. I hope she comes home safe.
As Lucky Durant would say, "Life's always a good idea at the time." Work, games, etc. will always be there, and can wait. Don't miss the chance to connect with someone. Plus you can always blame being late on traffic. ;) You never know if you'll miss the window. This is probably why I've pursued writing Resonics so tenaciously. Beneath the jabs at organized religion and politicians, beneath the message of "think for yourself," It's about isolated people making connections and their lives becoming better for it. Don't waste time on silly drama, grand scale of things, do they matter? Living life is the biggest paycheck, the tastiest meal, and the most epic game. Don't miss it.
As Lucky Durant would say, "Life's always a good idea at the time." Work, games, etc. will always be there, and can wait. Don't miss the chance to connect with someone. Plus you can always blame being late on traffic. ;) You never know if you'll miss the window. This is probably why I've pursued writing Resonics so tenaciously. Beneath the jabs at organized religion and politicians, beneath the message of "think for yourself," It's about isolated people making connections and their lives becoming better for it. Don't waste time on silly drama, grand scale of things, do they matter? Living life is the biggest paycheck, the tastiest meal, and the most epic game. Don't miss it.
Saturday, September 4, 2010
Thursday, August 26, 2010
Saturday, July 17, 2010
Random Bit of Writing II
What does Resonation feel like?
First, you stand and quiet your thoughts. You focus on the sounds you make: the thumping of your heart, the shhh of sand crunched between your toes, the crack of your neck as you stretch, and your slow release of breath. These are all static distractions, hiding your inherent tune. You brush them aside and push your senses deeper. Not listening. Ears are a useless organ to a Resonator. You know that sound waves are about pressure. You feel them pressing against your chest, feel them dancing through your fingertips, like a gentle breeze, meant only for you.
You grasp Resonation, feeling the whirlwind of power form about you. What once seemed only chaos and random becomes patterned to you. You see the reason why bits of sand leap and ride the wind. You know the path a droplet of sweat will follow before it falls. Within the current of new stimulus, you reside at the eye of the storm. You look inward.
Finally, you find your own tune, cradled within your core. You know it’s different from anyone else’s. You begin to move your arms, smiling as the decibels of your sound wax and wan. With your own tune in mind, you open your eyes and look around. To your surprise, a young cat has scampered out onto the ground, not ten feet from you. It watches you with head canted to the side. Like a bat’s echo-sounding, you press your tune out towards the cat and feel the wave rebound. The cat’s ears fold back for a moment, and it arcs its back in a stretch. For a normal human, it would take a myriad of equipment and calculations to determine the cat’s tune, frequency and decibels. You perceive this instantly.
Now you confront the choice: Tuned or Untuned Resonation. For now you choose Tuned, the matching of your tune to that of the cat. Like working a potter’s wheel you set to the task. You gently nudge and sculpt your tune, always causing slivers of change. Heighten the frequency; lower the decibels. You mold your tune, noticing its effects to your posture and stance. You start to hutch over, turning your ear towards the cat. You paw the ground with your toe, feeling the ripple of sound pulse shiver up your spine. The cat’s curiosity becomes more potent then its apprehension as it approaches. It seems surprised you bear a different smell then you. It corrects this discrepancy with ample leg rubbing. The cat shows no fear as you focus your pulse beneath it and lift it into the air. Its only response is to lick some sand off your nose.
The two of you turn in unison as a mouse scurries into view. Time slows for you as you invert your Resonation becoming Untuned. The whirlwind caves in upon you as fury fills you. The cat’s ears fold into attack position. It coils up prepping for the strike. You reach out and slam the mouse’s tune with your own. It freezes in place under your bombardment. The cat senses its prey is pinned and lunges. Sand flees aside before the cat’s resonically surged charge. A sneer of bared teeth crosses your face. The mouse never had a chance.
First, you stand and quiet your thoughts. You focus on the sounds you make: the thumping of your heart, the shhh of sand crunched between your toes, the crack of your neck as you stretch, and your slow release of breath. These are all static distractions, hiding your inherent tune. You brush them aside and push your senses deeper. Not listening. Ears are a useless organ to a Resonator. You know that sound waves are about pressure. You feel them pressing against your chest, feel them dancing through your fingertips, like a gentle breeze, meant only for you.
You grasp Resonation, feeling the whirlwind of power form about you. What once seemed only chaos and random becomes patterned to you. You see the reason why bits of sand leap and ride the wind. You know the path a droplet of sweat will follow before it falls. Within the current of new stimulus, you reside at the eye of the storm. You look inward.
Finally, you find your own tune, cradled within your core. You know it’s different from anyone else’s. You begin to move your arms, smiling as the decibels of your sound wax and wan. With your own tune in mind, you open your eyes and look around. To your surprise, a young cat has scampered out onto the ground, not ten feet from you. It watches you with head canted to the side. Like a bat’s echo-sounding, you press your tune out towards the cat and feel the wave rebound. The cat’s ears fold back for a moment, and it arcs its back in a stretch. For a normal human, it would take a myriad of equipment and calculations to determine the cat’s tune, frequency and decibels. You perceive this instantly.
Now you confront the choice: Tuned or Untuned Resonation. For now you choose Tuned, the matching of your tune to that of the cat. Like working a potter’s wheel you set to the task. You gently nudge and sculpt your tune, always causing slivers of change. Heighten the frequency; lower the decibels. You mold your tune, noticing its effects to your posture and stance. You start to hutch over, turning your ear towards the cat. You paw the ground with your toe, feeling the ripple of sound pulse shiver up your spine. The cat’s curiosity becomes more potent then its apprehension as it approaches. It seems surprised you bear a different smell then you. It corrects this discrepancy with ample leg rubbing. The cat shows no fear as you focus your pulse beneath it and lift it into the air. Its only response is to lick some sand off your nose.
The two of you turn in unison as a mouse scurries into view. Time slows for you as you invert your Resonation becoming Untuned. The whirlwind caves in upon you as fury fills you. The cat’s ears fold into attack position. It coils up prepping for the strike. You reach out and slam the mouse’s tune with your own. It freezes in place under your bombardment. The cat senses its prey is pinned and lunges. Sand flees aside before the cat’s resonically surged charge. A sneer of bared teeth crosses your face. The mouse never had a chance.
Monday, July 12, 2010
Random Bit of Writing
What is it like to use mechanized armor?
First, you approach this cold metal behemoth more than twice your size. You run your hand along its plated hull and feel more than just smooth steel. You feel its heartbeat, the perpetual droning hum of oil and lubricant as they pulse through its veins. Up close you realize the plates aren’t perfect as years of extreme heating and cooling have caused ripples and warps in the metal. They give the armor a face, a distinctive character. You know there is no armor exactly alike. Like a new toy, you can’t help rubbing away the fingerprints you’ve left. You look up at the mirror-image of yourself frozen in steel and smile. Everyone does, their first time, and the armor is happy to oblige. It looks down at you as if beckoning you inward. It seems to say, “Come and ride in me and I shall protect you.” You key in the entry code, and can’t help stepping back as the hermetically sealed armor hisses open. Not shrill. It’s soft like a sigh. You think you see relief in the armor’s face. You feel its thoughts, “At last! At last we can go!”
You reach up and grasp the first rung to ascend, like a child clinging to parent’s leg. You realize the armor is actually crouched down slightly, with arms wide open to you. You get a great appreciation for this accommodating stance as you climb up and the height becomes very real. Spinning off the last rung, you settle down in the cockpit. The armor responds to your weight by engaging belts and straps about your waist and limbs. At first you’re a little scared, leaning forward in the seat matching the armor’s stance, until you take hold of the controls rods. They’re loosely strapped to your wrists to keep them close.
The armor knew you before this moment. Encased within the control rods is a fingerprint recognition system. A series of lights and air circulation units come to life, a monitor to the left of your head displays your name, rank, and vital signs. On your right is a full system display of the armor, surrounded by gauges for temperature, power, and gyroscope. You slide your right hand to the hatch lever and watch it close sealing you in. Simulations have done nothing to prepare you for this. Your heart pounds as you draw in and hold a breath. The metallic thud of it closing jars you as you unclench your eyes. Now comes the moment when one out of four panics, in this dimly light walking coffin. The heat rises in the cavity, and procedures empty from your head. All systems are primed and ready to go. All that’s left is kicking the ignition pedal, until 90 tons of mechanized armor starts moving to your cues. Gritting your teeth, you kick the pedal. Nothing happens at first causing a lump to form in your thought, are you trapped? The floor plates fold downward, leaving you suspended in the air. You’re surprised at how comfortable it actually is, resting in a spider-web of belts and straps.
You start slowly. You stretch your legs out, causing the armor to stand up straight. A moment later your stomach catches up with the ascent and you exhale that same breath, and begin panting fiercely. Your needs become simple. You’ve stood up, now you need to see. You’re not sure which performed the movement first, you or the armor, but both of your left hands rise to forehead. The armor’s hand lifts the visor and sunlight pours into you. You pull a lever with your left hand, and the glass porthole slides open, letting cool air whip into the cockpit. When did you start sweating? Looking down you see your drill sergeant and are surprised to hear nothing of his usual barks and insults. He’s uncharacteristically silent. He half smiles, nods, and thumbs over his shoulder.
“Welcome to the big world, kid.”
You almost catch yourself thinking him like a father watching a child ride for the first time without training wheels. Is this why they have your first go with no one else in the hangar? Just you and ‘dad’? Just as nervously, you take a step forward.
First, you approach this cold metal behemoth more than twice your size. You run your hand along its plated hull and feel more than just smooth steel. You feel its heartbeat, the perpetual droning hum of oil and lubricant as they pulse through its veins. Up close you realize the plates aren’t perfect as years of extreme heating and cooling have caused ripples and warps in the metal. They give the armor a face, a distinctive character. You know there is no armor exactly alike. Like a new toy, you can’t help rubbing away the fingerprints you’ve left. You look up at the mirror-image of yourself frozen in steel and smile. Everyone does, their first time, and the armor is happy to oblige. It looks down at you as if beckoning you inward. It seems to say, “Come and ride in me and I shall protect you.” You key in the entry code, and can’t help stepping back as the hermetically sealed armor hisses open. Not shrill. It’s soft like a sigh. You think you see relief in the armor’s face. You feel its thoughts, “At last! At last we can go!”
You reach up and grasp the first rung to ascend, like a child clinging to parent’s leg. You realize the armor is actually crouched down slightly, with arms wide open to you. You get a great appreciation for this accommodating stance as you climb up and the height becomes very real. Spinning off the last rung, you settle down in the cockpit. The armor responds to your weight by engaging belts and straps about your waist and limbs. At first you’re a little scared, leaning forward in the seat matching the armor’s stance, until you take hold of the controls rods. They’re loosely strapped to your wrists to keep them close.
The armor knew you before this moment. Encased within the control rods is a fingerprint recognition system. A series of lights and air circulation units come to life, a monitor to the left of your head displays your name, rank, and vital signs. On your right is a full system display of the armor, surrounded by gauges for temperature, power, and gyroscope. You slide your right hand to the hatch lever and watch it close sealing you in. Simulations have done nothing to prepare you for this. Your heart pounds as you draw in and hold a breath. The metallic thud of it closing jars you as you unclench your eyes. Now comes the moment when one out of four panics, in this dimly light walking coffin. The heat rises in the cavity, and procedures empty from your head. All systems are primed and ready to go. All that’s left is kicking the ignition pedal, until 90 tons of mechanized armor starts moving to your cues. Gritting your teeth, you kick the pedal. Nothing happens at first causing a lump to form in your thought, are you trapped? The floor plates fold downward, leaving you suspended in the air. You’re surprised at how comfortable it actually is, resting in a spider-web of belts and straps.
You start slowly. You stretch your legs out, causing the armor to stand up straight. A moment later your stomach catches up with the ascent and you exhale that same breath, and begin panting fiercely. Your needs become simple. You’ve stood up, now you need to see. You’re not sure which performed the movement first, you or the armor, but both of your left hands rise to forehead. The armor’s hand lifts the visor and sunlight pours into you. You pull a lever with your left hand, and the glass porthole slides open, letting cool air whip into the cockpit. When did you start sweating? Looking down you see your drill sergeant and are surprised to hear nothing of his usual barks and insults. He’s uncharacteristically silent. He half smiles, nods, and thumbs over his shoulder.
“Welcome to the big world, kid.”
You almost catch yourself thinking him like a father watching a child ride for the first time without training wheels. Is this why they have your first go with no one else in the hangar? Just you and ‘dad’? Just as nervously, you take a step forward.
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