Idea for a New Book

Here's the proposal for my next book:


  A hundred or so years in the future, humanity has colonized the solar system and largely abandoned Earth, after a series of devastating wars.  We turned it into a sort of garbage dump, which was later cleaned up by environmentalists and scientists.  Almost too late, we saw the lush abundance of species on our planet as being unique in the universe.  After decades of cleanup and re-terraforming, Earth became a planetary wildlife preserve for the remainder of the world's species. But rather than a tourist attraction or some kind of "zoo in space,"we decided to leave it alone and only observe the planet from afar, using satellites to track animal migrations across land and sea.  Human interaction after this point was expressly forbidden, and these same scientists dedicated the recovered planet to studying how ecosystems develop without intrusion by man, to better understand how to make other planets support life. No ships are allowed to land on it anymore, only observe from orbit.

 An interplanetary "wildlife photographer" is studying Earth from space. During a freak meteor shower, his small ship collides with a chunk of space debris. Disabled, his ship is forced to make a crash landing in a secluded area of what was once North America.  His ship is also out of fuel in addition to being damaged, and does not have enough power to escape Earth's gravity again.

Well-equipped to survive in hostile environments, but still alone and unarmed, he must trek across the surface of a primitive planet "in a time before man," fending off attacks by wild animals.  He knows he must try to locate the ruins of a major city in the "Forbidden Zone", where it is supposed he can find the technological means to repair and refuel his spacecraft. Once he finds a power source and means to repair his ship--if such a thing exists--he will have to backtrack his adventure and find a way to transport the parts, tools, and power source all the way back to his ship.  But he does not have to do it alone.

 During his journeys through the Forbidden Zone, he comes across isolated pockets of human survivors called Primitives, who have no society and no rules, no system of government and little understanding of the technology they once built and used.  Some cling to barely functional technology from the 20th century, and others have lost all grasp of it and deteriorated into a state of prehistoric or aboriginal ways of life. Some have even learned how to communicate and coexist with animals completely, blurring the lines between humanity and nature.

These Primitives have formed tribes, and some are peaceful and others are more warlike.  They must fight daily for survival; simply eke out an existence among the derelict ruins of their civilization on an otherwise wild planet.  Most of the tribal warfare is over fresh water and food.

The protagonist of the story comes to be known as "The Interloper." He is worshiped as a god by some tribes, and scorned as an evil sorcerer demon by others, who no longer believe in science or technology (because their stories remember an evil race of men who nearly destroyed their planet with war and industry).  He is mostly feared and respected by these natives, and he tries to involve himself in this tribal warfare only as much as necessary to buy him a ticket off the planet.

This story will be less futuristic, and more grounded in this world. Ever watch the TV show "Life After People?"  I want to imagine after human society has collapsed and all our technology is old, decaying and broken. The planet's ruled by wild animals, and there are only scattered groups of human survivors in various stages of societal decay.

….From people clinging to the vestiges of the 20th century, all the way down the evolutionary ladder to Iron age savages who hunt with spears. There's people who try to fix machines and use them, and others who fear technology and think it's black magic. And those people are at war constantly.  Some live in fortresses, others in stone castles, and then you got nomadic tribes who live in huts. Every epoch in human history sort of comes together.

The Amish are still around on this planet, for example. Agrarian farming communities, no electricity or motorized machines.  Then in a different place you have a culture that reverted back to the medieval times, with horsemen and swords and archers, primitive siege machines, etc. And on the East coast, a group of militaristic nut jobs who live in the ruined cities (Forbidden Zones) and have electricity, all terrain vehicles and guns, fighting an imaginary and never-ending war against everyone else. Sort of like the NRA meets the the North Koreans meets those crazy Japanese commandos in the Pacific islands who thought World War II never ended. 

The main character spends a chapter or two staying with each of these groups, trying to learn their ways and co-exist with them long enough to get help in escaping the planet. He's a renegade or vigilante type, not really a bad guy but not a good guy either.  He takes nobody's side, and fights on all sides against everyone, with his own agenda. All that matters to him is getting off this rock, because he remembers why his race left it in the first place.  To escape the endless wars.

Possible book titles:

"Interloper"
"The Pathfinder"
"The Explorer"
"The Survivor"
"Exile of the Gods"
"The Man Who Fell From Heaven"
"Exile from the Stars"

Influences and inspirations for this story are mainly from Pierre Boulle's Planet of the Apes series and 20th century sci-fi art by Frank Frazetta. 

Creative Writing: Book Chapter Sneak Preview: The Duel

The following is a chapter/short story from a book I have self-published:

1612 - THE DUEL

FUEDAL JAPAN

A gently rocking motion and the distant sound of waves were the first things his mind became aware of. And the creaking of wood. He was in a small wooden boat, that much he could tell. The hot sun was beating upon his back, he felt it gently baking his flesh. Beads of sweat formed on his neck. A voice drifted in from the edges of his resting subconscious. It sounded irritated and urgent. Sharp syllables, harshly accented consonants followed by single vowel sounds. Phonetic building blocks of a language he at first did not recognize. Urgent word sounds, and one other word, repeated briskly. It sounded like it could be a name. 

“Sensei! Sensei! Okiru, Sensei! Musashi-sama! Musashi-sama!”

Then a stick made of very hard wood poked him in the back.

He opened his eyes. Since there was no one else in the boat, that must be his name. After a few more sharp repetitions of the phrase, he determined that the man was prodding him, trying to goad him into alertness.

It became clear what the man was saying. He was speaking Japanese. “Sensei” meant teacher, or master. “Okiru” was a common, informal command meaning “wake up”. The “-sama” suffix also meant “master” or “lord”, indicating respect or admiration for a superior. And “Musashi” must be his name. Yes, that had to be his name… his name was Musashi.

He had not been asleep, he was merely resting silently in a sort of meditation. He opened his eyes and instantly became alert. 

He was sitting cross-legged on the bottom of a small wooden rowboat. He looked down at his chiseled, muscular legs. He was barefoot. He was sitting in what he recognized as the Lotus position; he must have been deeply entranced in a state of Buddhist meditation. The younger man behind him with the stern edge to his voice was one of his pupils, a servant and student to his master. He now understood what the man was saying. He thought he had been asleep, and was poking him with a short bamboo stick, trying to wake him up. He now understood perfectly; he was once more firmly rooted in his own body, and in time as well as place. 

He was a greatly respected Samurai warrior, and was in his own rowboat on the way to another honor duel arranged by his Daimyo, in an attempt to conquer a rival clan and obtain more land to add to his feif. It looked like the open sea, for land was not visible. However they were in a strait between two provinces of Japan, called Honshū and Kyūshū. He could see a small green island up ahead; they were slowly approaching the shore. It was a hot day and there was a light blue haze that faded into the distance. The sky was cloudless, and pristine blue. 

The island he saw before him was Funajima, otherwise known as “Ganryu island.” It belonged to his biggest rivals, the Ganryu clan. It was a place that had been appointed for today’s match with a rival samurai; a powerful warrior named Sasaki Kojiro, otherwise known as the “Demon of the Western Provinces.” Rumor had it that he was a savage man who fought with an oversized three-foot-long sword known as a nodachi and had not yet lost a single match. Well, Musashi knew that was about to change.

Musashi was roughly thirty years old. He did not know his exact date of birth. Both his parents had died by the time he was seven years of age, and he was raised by his uncle Dorinbo. His father Munisai had taught him some ways of the sword, but then his own father was killed in a duel. He was adopted by his uncle and brought up around a Buddhist shrine, and he accepted that as his faith, rejecting the traditional and much older Shinto. He praised the fighting style of the Shintoist monks, but thought the religion itself  was too…rustic. Too obsessed with nature. He felt that Shinto monks devoted far more time to hugging trees, worshipping rocks and arranging flowers than they did to fighting. Travelers from the West had brought Buddhism to Japan, and it was already deeply rooted in his culture. 

From seven years of age onward, young Musashi was trained in the arts of war. He had learned to pick up a sword as soon as he could hold a pair of chopsticks. He had studied the Samurai arts at a renowned school and learned bushido, the Way of the Warrior. He was a very fast learner, and even as a boy, he was undefeated. 

 His first duel at been at the age of thirteen, against a man more than twice his age. He defeated the man without hardly a fight. His second duel was at sixteen, with a man from Kyoto province.  That man he had also defeated effortlessly. Then when he was twenty-one, he fought and killed several more famous swordsmen from rival schools. He then later returned to his own school and defeated his old master and all his fellow pupils. Surpassing and often defeating one’s master, and one’s rivals, was the way of a warrior. It was a way of showing one’s strength. The legend was that Musashi had won duels against sixty opponents by the time he was thirty years of age.

He had also fought in a clan war under the Toyotomi shogunate, roughly twelve years ago, defending Gifu castle against the armies of Tokugawa. His side lost, and, in a way blaming himself for the defeat; he retreated into the mountains to live a lonely life of solitude for several years and refine his technique. During this time he had become somewhat of a hermit; still respected and feared by his enemies, but thought of as rather eccentric.

Particularly, he was legendary for refusing to bathe for long periods of time.

Since he was undefeated, he was constantly being sought out by new opponents who wished to challenge and best him in duels, and his only real fear was being caught unaware and vulnerable. He slept fully clothed with his swords every night. He simply did not undress to cleanse himself unless he was forced to, or he had to be in the presence of a feudal lord. It was sometimes said that none but the Shogun himself could persuade Musashi to clean himself up and look presentable. Unkemptness was his trademark. And it often worked to his advantage. His lowly, haggard appearance threw many of his opponents off guard, and made them underestimate both his strength and his sword prowess. He often traveled and fought barefoot, presenting himself as a mere pauper who was too poor to afford his own wood sandals. He had no real earthly possessions, aside from the robes on his back and his sword. He chose a life of absolute poverty.

In the years following his time as a soldier, Musashi went back to his old dueling ways and established his own school for training new warriors. He wandered the countryside looking for haughty arrogant old Samurai, or young and surly fighters so he could teach them all a single lesson: one did not meddle with Musashi and live to tell the tale. He was now widely regarded in Japan as the deadliest man alive with a sword in his hand.

By Western reckoning it was the year 1612 anno domine, and the date by the Gregorian calendar was the thirteenth of April; and the surly young samurai that Musashi was sent out to duel on this day was Sasaki Kojiro.

And, if for no reason other than to insult his challenger, he was very unfashionably late.

Over three hours late in fact. His young student, aiding his travel to the island, was calling his attention to this:

“Wake up, master! Kojiro is waiting for us. Ah, alas in the name of Buddha, we are so late. Why did you not rise earlier so we could leave on time?”

His master did not reply. He merely stretched, yawned and turned around, and grimacing with a face of stone and a look of ice in his fierce eyes, glared sternly at the young pupil and said;  “Row faster.”

His servant looked frustrated. Sweat was running down his face. His scrawny arms were flexing with strain. He complained with an urgent whine to his voice.

“I am going as fast as our little boat can travel, Musashi-sama! I have but only one oar…why did you take my other oar and start whittling away at it? You realize that thing you made is utterly useless to propel this vessel now, master.”

He looked down. His sword was laid out carefully on the floor of the boat at his feet, its case wrapped in its silk cloth and resting on his straw tatami mat, the same one he had overslept on that morning. And next to it, in a pile of wood shavings, was what remained of the oar in question. He had been carefully and deliberately hacking away at it with his wakizashi, his smaller weapon that was halfway between a sword and a knife.

“I am merely trying to pass the time while you plod your way toward this island, you young idiot. You must row faster!”

He was deliberately intimidating his pupil. He had not told him that what he was actually doing was carving it into a bokken, a wooden staff that was longer than his sword. The wood was dry, strong and hard, yet lightweight enough that he could wield it easily. He was going to face this man and defeat him without even using his sword at all. The bokken was mainly a training weapon. Such a tactic was used on younger, lesser Samurai and students in training, typically whom one did not wish to seriously hurt; and in this way Musashi planned to humiliate his opponent by showing that Kojiro was a mere student, and an inferior; also that Musashi didn’t feel particularly threatened by him.

This, coupled with the fact he was showing up very late to his duel on purpose, would be the ultimate insult.

They slowly trundled toward the island, the boat wobbling and wavering on its course. This was because the unfortunate man rowing the boat had only one oar to propel it with; he had lashed it to the rear of the tiny vessel and was wagging it back and forth like the tail of a fish, doubling as both a means of propulsion and as a rudder. It must have been a comical sight to those silent and angry eyes watching it like hawks from the shore.

On the beach of Ganryu island, many people were growing restless, and silently fuming with indignation. The feudal lord especially. He had come out to this tiny island and sat on the beach in his finest dress for hours to witness this epic duel between warlords, and he was becoming very impatient and aggravated. He sat cross-legged on the beach, under the shelter of a tent his subjects had pitched for the occasion. They were all in their finest garb. Behind him was a wide banner which flapped idly, with the blue stripes on a white field and the eight black circles arranged around the larger middle one, the standard of Kojiro’s clan. The lord’s consorts and Samurai bodyguards were also in attendance; their obi cloaks all matching. They wore these odd conical hats that had to be held on with white straps. These served no useful purpose, and were probably effective to guard against the harsh afternoon sun but little else. Still, they made for an imposing sight. The gaudy display made them look more like a diplomatic consulate than a bunch of hardened warriors. They wore their richest robes today, if for no other reason than to show off their power and wealth.

As they watched the small rowboat approach, the high feudal lord turned to his son standing by his side. He was a boy of perhaps twelve, he wore a ponytail and the top of his head was shaved, as was the young Samurai custom. He spoke lowly to him: “My son, if this man tries any silly business, I want you to give the signal for my guards to attack him all at once. You know the secret word and hand gesture.” The boy nodded, looking scared. He was trying very hard not to tremble. He knew the man approaching was dangerous, much more so than other Samurai, and not to be trusted.

Kojiro himself had been kneeling silently on the beach, not moving for a very long time. His long sword was planted blade first in the sand; one hand grasped the handle. The other rested on his knee. His eyes were closed. He wore a white robe with a light blue sash, and dark or black pants. His hair was pulled back and secured by a white headband with a metal plate which protected his forehead. He was slight of figure and more effeminate looking than Musashi; his eyes were thin and slanted. 

As he heard the sound of the tiny boat approach over the crashing of the surf, his lord called out: “Kojiro! Your enemy approaches.” His eyes snapped open. Slowly and very deliberately, he rose from his resting position, retrieved his sword from the sand, and began to walk forward. He stopped about ten feet away from where the tide broke. 

The boat was almost ashore. Musashi quickly made himself ready for battle. Yet he did not pick up his sword. Instead of tucking his katana into his sash, he rolled it up tightly in the straw mat, and shoved it underneath the seat in the boat. His assistant whispered to him. “Master, you have  gone mad! This man is dangerous. You cannot challenge him without your sword!” Musashi ignored him.

He picked up a piece of rope he had cut, and tied one end around his left arm over the shoulder; then, weaving it behind his back, tied the other end around his right shoulder. It was a mystery to his assistant why he did this. His ways were odd and not like that of most samurai. He then tied a dark, blood-colored cloth around his forehead to keep the sweat out of his eyes. He made sure his hair was tightly pulled in the back, but left many straggly locks coming off his head, preserving his wandering homeless man’s appearance. At last, he bent down quickly and picked up the roughly carved piece of wood, formerly a rowing oar. He held it as tightly as he would his own sword. Musashi was ready. He stood upright in the boat, unwavering despite its tipping and rocking motion. His face was set sternly with a grave appearance, a solemn grimace. A fiery look of anger was in his eyes.

The boat reached the shore and ran aground, its pathetic means of locomotion propelling it no further. Musashi leapt from the boat and landed with both feet firmly in the sand. The imposing, white-dressed figure of Sasaki Kojiro was standing before him, hand at his waist on his sword handle. 

The two rivals did not bow to one another; clearly there was no respect between them. Kojiro simply growled, “Musashi…you are late.”

Kojiro looked him over from head to toe, sizing him up. He was unimpressed by the man’s appearance. He scowled as he caught a whiff of the grungy man’s odor. He then fixed his attention on the odd implement that his adversary was clenching tightly like a sword. Disdainfully, he snorted. “What is that? You cannot defeat me with that wooden stick.” Musashi somehow betrayed the faintest hint of a grin without changing his expression. “Watch.” His other hand grasped the wood as he wielded it double handed; his fingers tightened and cracked faintly. Kojiro was getting aggravated at Musashi’s sternness; he still thought it had to be some kind of joke. He sneered and spat on the sand as his fist whitened around the handle of his blade.

“You insolent peasant. You come to a duel on my island dressed like that and don’t even bother to bring your sword. I will cut you down like a dry reed…MUSASHI!” Kojiro took a combat stance, legs spread apart. He raised his sword still in its sheath, held horizontal before him, and briskly pulled off its wood case with one hand and let go of it. It shot out several feet to the side and landed in the surf. He glared at the lowly excuse for a samurai that stood before him.

A look of bitter anger took Musashi. He scowled even deeper with a fierce look in his eyes and glared back with a riveting stare as if he were the ghost of a disapproving ancestor. He said, “Sasaki Kojiro… you have already lost.”

 “…Nani?” Kojiro appeared confused. Musashi spoke in a low, gruff voice. “You threw away your sheath; now you cannot use it. I will kill you before you can pick it up.”

“You cannot be serious. Your piece of wood against my sword? How can you even have the nerve to show up at a duel before my clan wearing your rattiest robe. And making us wait on this beach for hours. What kind of samurai do you think you are?”

“…A better one than you think you are, Sasaki Kojiro.”

Musashi made the slightest move and Kojiro flinched. Holding his arms straight, he lifted his nodachi high in the air and held it up near his face, ready for his trademark “swallow cut” finishing move. It began with the sword in a high position and was intended to swing downward, then flip and swing back up, in a movement quick and sharp enough to chop someone in half. Musashi had long studied this attack and knew how to counter it. He held his improvised wood bokken level with his waist and parallel to the ground; his attack would come upward from below.

The two warriors stood like statues, each daring the other to move first. The foaming waves lapped around their ankles. The harsh afternoon sun shone brightly on every reflective surface. The sky was cloudless. The tide would be going out soon. The conditions were perfect. Musashi knew all he had to do was get Kojiro in the right position, and then strike.

They stood steady as the rocks on the beach for a brief moment. Kojiro’s feet were dug into the sand, Musashi’s bare feet were ankle deep in the water. Musashi refused to budge, but just kept glaring. Furious and indignant from waiting hours for the duel to start, and further humiliated by Musashi’s refusal to give him a proper fight; Kojiro’s impatience won over. He roared in rage and he sidestepped, ready to circle around him. Musashi lunged in the same direction to foil his tactic, and the two ended up running sideways facing each other down the beach for some distance. Kojiro stopped and feinted lunging at Musashi. They both pointed their swords at each other gripped in both hands, each looking ready to chop the other down. Kojiro’s eyes were fixed on Musashi’s unusual weapon, not sure what he would do next. Musashi was paying far more attention to his environment. 

He noted the position and angle of the sun. It was over his left shoulder. He still stood, clutching his wooden oar that was little more than a club. He stood steady. Kojiro, his sword still held high, was trembling. One eye twitched. He could see it. His opponent was thoroughly unnerved. Musashi had all the while been strategically wearing down his adversary, readying for the strike. Now he had his rival in exactly the right position. Every move he made from this point onward would have to be deliberate, if he wanted to end the fight with only a single blow.  

Now was the time. Musashi lunged.

He threw himself at Kojiro; Kojiro swung his long blade. Before he could recover, Musashi leapt into the air with his strong legs, bokken held high above his head. Kojiro looked up, and for an instant was blinded as he stared straight into the sun. He swung his nodachi upward, and missed. Musashi brought his stick down as hard as he could and simultaneously kicked out with one foot.

Musashi’s feet hit the sand half a second later. Kojiro still stood, sword held defensively and ready for a second strike, glaring at him fiercely. Musashi stood and stared back. It was another faceoff. Neither moved for a few moments.

Sasaki Kojiro kept standing there silently, as if stunned. Then, his eyes grew wide.

A thin trickle of blood ran down his nose from underneath his forehead protector. His eyes rolled back in his head and he wheezed in his last breath. He dropped his sword and fell over backward.

He was dead. The front of his skull had been shattered; his lung had been punctured by the kick.

Just a single strike, and the match was over.

Musashi leaned over the body of his fallen rival, grimaced and gruffly grunted. “Humph!”

Then he turned and walked down the beach back to his boat, ignoring the indignant elders, not bowing to them for respect as was customary. He climbed in and pushed off shore, and the receding tide carried him swiftly away from the island.

The Ganryu elders were shocked and dumbfounded. No one dared to pursue him.  

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"Why Space Matters" video contest

I am SO TOTALLY entering this video contest!

Canyonlands Logo Contest - #2 and #3

Canyonlands Logo Contest - #1

Vector traced the first logo concept for the design contest. This is my favorite one and I really hope it goes somewhere!

A very difficult logo to steal because it's so complicated (still watermarked it on my design template anyway), but the concept is solid. The imagery I think should speak for itself. The silhouette of the man wearing the hat is Stuart Udall, the secretary of the Department of the Interior at the time, who was responsible for officially designating Canyonlands as a National Park in 1963.  This logo is for the fiftieth anniversary of the national park.

Rule #1: The best logos are designed FIRST in black and white. Then color is added later, if necessary.

Logo designs #2 and #3 will be redrawn over the next couple days.  This is my chance to get my name on something really big!  If I get this deal, I win 500 bucks... which I badly need!

Canyonlands Logo Design Contest

Proposed logos for Canyonlands National Park, Utah.

 

Early Adobe Illustrator Projects

Design for a label of fictional "Giorgio" pasta sauce. Designed in 2003, gradient mesh effects added for realism in 2007 for portfolio.

Sign and logo for a fictional seafood buffet restaurant.

Set of 3 typographic design posters. You will see these ideas greatly expanded upon in some of my new work. Originally designed 2006.

 

Blog.

In the beginning, there was nothing.  And then Jeff said "Let there be a blog!" And there was a Blog. And Jeff saw the Blog, and it was good.

On the first day, Jeff procrastinated.

On the second day, Jeff created everything the Blog was. And for seven days that followed, Jeff worked on the Blog.

On the first Friday of the first week, Jeff rested. And made up the seven days he spent working on the Blog by sleeping. Two hours later, Jeff woke up. And wrote some more. And hereafter it was most righteous and bloggerific.