"Guerrilla Mural of a Siren's Song" by Ernest Hogan (Part 3 of 3)

Guerrilla Mural of a Siren's Song

by Ernest Hogan

[Continued from Part 2]

"You're crazy, Pablo! You got talent, but you're more a criminal than an artist!" echoed back from an argument I had with the rest of the Guerrilla Muralists at our trial.

Rainbow-filled skies over effervescent seas—me shedding my own blood so I could have something to paint with at age eight—the joy I felt the first time I was weightless, and decided that gravity was the enemy of true freedom, and decided to splash my paint, and created splatterpainting—a war of radioactive cloud-beings that goes on for millennia across billions of light-years—cartoons I'd draw on my clothes when I got bored—invisible beasts that flex gravity at will and eat black holes!

She smiled. Then moaned with delight.

And I received input from her mind—she was strange, like the humanoids who rode see-through ships to the end of time to observe the aesthetic qualities of the heat death of the universe—other people's experiences and thoughts were what she lived for. She rarely ate, or moved—was more interested in reading more and more minds than the university's experiments—she wasted away. They thought she would die.

Then she found out about the Sirens, and said some of her few words:

"Take me to them!"

Soon I could see her clearly through my own eyes, and see me through her eyes, and watch the song of the Sirens with no eyes at all.

She said a few more words. "Beautiful. I love it!"

Crack! Something snapped. The deadly intensity in those big, brown eyes clicked off. She dropped on top of me.

The orderlies grabbed her and after a few skilled, strategic feels, one said, "She's dead."

I laughed. A lovely demonic laugh that took my entire aching body and all my strength. It hurt like hell and was worth it. They all, even Calvino, looked into my crazed eyes.

"Idiots! Fools! Assholes! She's..." I screamed.

"You're alive!"

"Guerrilla Mural of a Siren's Song" by Ernest Hogan (Part 2 of 3)

Guerrilla Mural of a Siren's Song

by Ernest Hogan

[Continued from Part 1]

But I did need her to bring me out of it. Willa Shembe, the pride of the scientific community of Zululand. A girl used to experiencing the universe through other peoples' minds.

She keeps showing up in the images, in the paint. Unexpectedly. Automatically.

Just like the first time she showed up in my life. When I was still lost in the influence of the Sirens. After they locked me into the exoskeleton, into the dirgiscaphe, and lowered me by remote control down into evil, heavy gravity and big, beautiful stormclouds out of Turner's wetdreams, or Chalchiuhtlicue's most passionate rituals of whirlpools, violence, growth, and young love.

"Do you feel anything yet?" Dr. Calvino buzzed into my earphone on that day.

"If only those bastards could go through this," I said into the throatmike. "They should all come here and see this planet up close before they call me undisciplined!"

"What are you talking about?" The doc never understood me.

"This sight! Jupiter up close! Wagstaff and the rest of those tight-assed idiots at the Space Culture Project should see this. That is what space art should be about. This energy! This power! This freedom! This is what I had in mind when I created splatterpainting."

"What about the Sirens? Are you feeling any effects?"

"In my mind? No. This gravity is a bitch, though. If only I could see these clouds while weightless! If only I could come here and paint! Can't they build one of these exoskeletons with more freedom of movement?"

"The one you have on is the state of the art. The instruments show a high concentration of Sirens in the clouds around you. Do you feel anything yet?"

"Yeah, now that you mention it. The gravity. It's getting hard to move, breathe..."

"Should we abort?"

"No! I'm feeling better now. Lighter. The gravity seems to be going away. I almost feel weightless. It's really great! Feels like I could peel this exoskeleton right off..."

"Don't!"

"I'm not stupid, Calvino! This is probably an illusion, like what happened to the others. I do plan on surviving this!"

"Any change in sensations?"

"It's like one long rush. Ecstasy—like I'm weightless, painting away like crazy, making a big, juicy mess. I'm getting an erection. The exoskeleton seems to be holding me down."

Then I got a strong rotten-eggs whiff of methane. Could the dirgiscaphe be leaking? I was about to say something, but couldn't move—first I was paralyzed, every muscle locked tight, then it all turned to mush—flesh, bones, exoskeleton, dirgiscaphe, Jupiter, space...

"Cortez, are you all right?" said Calvino.

I was getting softer—like a Salvador Dalí watch. Everything was getting softer. Putty. Liquid. Gas. Like those colorful, flowing clouds that were all around.

"Cortez, are you there?"

I was a twisting, bubbling cloud—dancing among the gorgeous clouds of Jupiter. Among microscopic creatures I couldn't see, but could feel—like spirits, like ghosts.

"Abort! Abort!"

I felt that I was dissolving. Being absorbed. I panicked.

Then they had me. Me. Who has never given in to anybody!

Alien Contact Anthology -- Story #11: "Guerrilla Mural of a Siren's Song" by Ernest Hogan (Part 1 of 3)

I have been blogging about each story to be included in my forthcoming anthology Alien Contact -- one story per week for 26 weeks, in the order in which they will appear in the anthology -- to be published by Night Shade Books in November. This is story #11. If you need to catch up, you can begin here.

"Guerrilla Mural of a Siren's Song"

by Ernest Hogan

This story was originally published in issue four of Pulphouse: The Hardback Magazine (Summer 1989), edited by Kristine Kathryn Rusch, and is approximately 4,500 words in length. This particular issue of Pulphouse was devoted to "Science Fiction," as noted on the cover. Unfortunately, the graphic is a bit difficult to read because all the covers were "foil stamped" using an iridescent ink, which reflects the light. You can read more about Pulphouse in my previous blog post that also pertains to this particular story.

I've always been partial to what I will call "sardonic" speculative fiction, which undoubtedly explains my 2003 anthology Witpunk (Four Walls Eight Windows), which I co-edited with Claude Lalumière. When I want to read fiction that is both sardonic and zany, I reach for something by Paul Di Filippo or Ernest Hogan or Rudy Rucker; both Paul and Ernest appeared in Witpunk. For Alien Contact I chose this specific story by Ernest Hogan -- I wanted an art story, a story with Class.

"Guerrilla Mural..." has, well, pretty much everything: a Chicano artist, Pablo Cortez, creates art from contact with the Sirens of Jupiter, channeled through a Zulu telepath named Willa Shembe. Cortez has a tendency to invoke the various Aztec gods as well. About this story, Ernesto writes:

Any resemblance between me and Pablo Cortez is purely coincidental. I tend to do my scribbling in sketchbooks rather than on walls. Pablo first came to me while I was experimenting with abstract expressionism in a painting class. Gravity limited the possibilities—if only there was a way to keep the drips from being pulled to the bottom of the canvas. Jackson Pollock put his canvas on the floor, but I was a Space Age baby. I guess if I hadn't been born an East L.A. Chicano, Pablo probably wouldn't have had his graffiti connections. I wrote "Guerrilla Mural of a Siren's Song" to be state-of-the-art. When Ben Bova asked for a synopsis for his Discoveries series [Tor Books], Pablo screamed at me. He went stark raving Spanglish in Cortez on Jupiter. The novel has developed a fanatical following, and I'm glad to be able to unleash Pablo into the world again. There are people who have been urging me to write a sequel, which I haven't really thought about. But then—it's not really up to me. I suppose it depends on what Pablo's been up to, and what he has to say to me after all these years.

And I just hope the world is indeed ready for Pablo Cortez's unleashing! But readers won't have to wait until Alien Contact is published in November to read about Pablo Cortez. With Ernesto's most kind permission, here is part 1 (of 3) of "Guerrilla Mural of a Siren's Song." If you like what you read, please consider pinging the author on Facebook or Twitter (@NestoHogan) and let him know you would like to read more -- the novel Cortez on Jupiter in eBook format, and the still-to-be-written sequel (assuming, of course, that Pablo cooperates).

Picasso on Art via Pablo Cortez

Another story that I've recently read, which I am seriously considering for my Alien Contact anthology (forthcoming from Night Shade Books in November), is "Guerrilla Mural of a Siren's Song," by Ernest Hogan. See my previous blog post, "We Have Alien Contact," for background on this anthology, including a complete listing of the stories (so far) that have been submitted and/or recommended to me, in addition to stories that I myself have added to the list.

When I contacted Ernesto about a possible contribution to the anthology, here's what he had to say about "Guerrilla Mural...": "It's about a Chicano muralist/graffitist who turns out to be the person who breaks through to communicate (sort of) with telepathic microbes that live in Jupiter's Great Red Spot. Later I expanded it into my first novel Cortez on Jupiter."¹ Sound intriguing? Indeed. "Guerrilla Mural..." involves art, and a Zulu, and Aztecs, and alien contact, and is written from the POV of a Chicano -- and is pure zany Ernest Hogan. The only other author with whom I can compare Hogan's writing would be Paul Di Filippo.

"Guerrilla Mural of a Siren's Song" was originally published in issue four of Pulphouse: The Hardback Magazine (Summer 1989), edited by Kristine Kathryn Rusch; this particular issue was devoted to "Science Fiction," as noted on the cover above. The graphic is a bit difficult to see/read because all the Pulphouse magazine covers were stamped using an iridescent ink, thus reflecting the light. (According to former Pulphouse publisher Dean Wesley Smith, the process is called "foil stamping.") Each issue of the magazine was published in an edition of 1,000 numbered trade hardcover copies and 250 signed (by all contributors) and numbered leatherbound copies. I bought a copy of the first issue (#19 of 1,000), liked what I read, and then subscribed; so all of my later editions have matching numbers: #71 of 1,000. The last volume, number twelve, was published in Fall 1993. Pulphouse Publishing just may have been the first press to self-publish at that time.

But back to "Guerrilla Mural..." Here's the protagonist in the middle of one of his rants:

Me, Pablo Cortez, infamous guerrilla muralist from the wild, crumbling concrete and stucco overgrowth of L.A. -- who refused to be absorbed into the decaying society I satirized in my work long after my fellow wall-defacers were caught, arrested and offered a chance to become honest artists who paint on neat, clean canvases that are displayed in sterile galleries, and bought by the affluent to show everybody how sensitive they are by what they choose to decorate their expensive, prestigious apartments with. I, who tattooed the Picasso quote, "PAINTING IS NOT DONE TO DECORATE APARTMENTS. IT IS AN INSTRUMENT OF WAR FOR ATTACK AND DEFENSE AGAINST THE ENEMY" on my own left arm with a felt-tip pen and a safety-pin. The guy who really meant it when he helped paint -- fast, so we could get it done and get the hell out of there before getting our heads busted -- Quetzalcoatl choking on smog, Uncle Sam holding up the heart of a draftee for the "disturbance" in South Africa (soon to be Zululand -- again) to the gaping jaws of a Biomechanoid War God, mutilated/spacesuited corpses and countless mass portraits of the ever-growing throngs of the homeless to decorate the featureless, empty walls of the blank architecture where Mr. and Ms. Los Angeles could see as they did the freeway boogie to work. Siquerios and Orozco and every spray-can wielding vato would’ve been proud!

Personally, I'm not much of an art aficionado; when I read the Picasso quote I immediately searched for it on the web -- and was shocked to learn that it was, indeed, a legitimate quote. Picasso dissing apartment art! Who woulda thought....

Ernest Hogan, the author of this story, and I go back a ways; he contributed an original story, "Coyote Goes Hollywood," to my co-edited Witpunk anthology, which was published by Four Walls Eight Windows in 2003. So when I was looking for a previously published, over-the-top "alien contact" story that involved another culture (Earth culture as opposed to alien culture), I immediately thought of Ernesto.

One final comment on Pulphouse Publishing:

My most prized set of books from them is The Collected Short Fiction of Robert Sheckley -- five slipcased volumes, signed by the author as well as the introducer of each volume. My set is #282 of 300. I haven't really thought about this set of books until now, so I did a web search just to see if there were any sets available "out there": I found a few hardcover sets like mine (the set was also published in trade paperback), ranging in price from $600.00 to a high of $1,240.00. Whew.

I bring up Robert Sheckley because if there ever was a witpunk, Sheckley is (was) it. And I have to believe that Sheckley's sardonic writing had a direct influence on both Ernest Hogan and Paul Di Filippo.

---------------
Footnote:

¹ Unfortunately, Cortez on Jupiter has been out of print for quite some time; it was originally published as a mass market paperback by Tor Books in 1990. This is another example in which a midlist author's books have gone out print long before their time. I would suggest to Ernest Hogan that he consider releasing the book in a variety of eBook formats as well as print on demand (POD). There are a myriad of cost-effective resources now available to authors for eBook and POD publishing.

"The Dark Man" by Kristine Kathryn Rusch (Part 1 of 3)

Continuing my celebration -- and promotion -- of the publication of Is Anybody Out There? (Daw Books), my co-edited anthology with Nick Gevers, another story from the book follows -- after this non-commercial interruption:

As an avid reader of science fiction and fantasy short stories (I'm referring to the 1980s at this point), I subscribed to/purchased regularly a number of periodicals: Aboriginal SF, Amazing Stories, Isaac Asimov's Science Fiction Magazine, Fantasy & Science Fiction, OMNI, Weird Tales, and probably one or two others. So when I learned that a new publisher, Pulphouse Publishing, would begin publishing a "hardback magazine" entitled Pulphouse, well, I was ready to sign up. Each issue was genre themed, and the first issue, published in 1988, was all Horror.

The two people behind Pulphouse Publishing -- Kristine Kathryn Rusch and Dean Wesley Smith -- won the 1989 World Fantasy Award / Non-Professional for their work on the magazine, and it was at that World Fantasy Convention in Seattle that I first met Kris and Dean.  I recall that convention vividly because it was held shortly after the Loma Prieta earthquake (October 17, 5:04 PM), which rocked my San Jose home more than I ever care to remember. And 10 days later, in a plane over San Francisco on my way to Seattle, I saw a site that I hope to never see again -- nothing! All the lights on the two major San Francisco bridges -- the Golden Gate Bridge and the Bay Bridge -- were out. Very eerie...to say the least.

Then, later that year, during Christmas break, my wife and daughter and I made a trip to Eugene, Oregon. Diane and I had met in Eugene, and we decided that at age 7, Lindsi was old enough to appreciate the sites and sounds as we visited some of our old haunts, and where Diane and I had lived and worked.¹ During our few days in Eugene, we visited with Kris and Dean at the Pulphouse Publishing office, and the following day we all met for lunch at an eatery across the street from the Eugene post office. (K&D had to check their mail!) Also joining us for lunch were Kevin J. Anderson and Nina Kiriki Hoffman. A good -- and noisy -- time was had by all.

I would see Kris and Dean at many a convention in the intervening years, and I kept track of their writings and recognitions. So it was only natural that, shortly after joining Golden Gryphon Press, I contacted Kris in early 2000 about publishing her first short story collection. Entitled Stories for an Enchanted Afternoon², the book contained all of Kris's award-winning and award-nominated fiction (at that time), including two of my favorite stories: "Skin Deep" and "The Gallery of His Dreams." The book's dust jacket featured stunning wraparound art by Thomas Canty, in which scenes from some of the stories were depicted in the quilt squares that lay across the woman's lap.

I could go on and on, but suffice it to say that whenever I'm involved in an anthology project, Kristine Kathryn Rusch is always on my list of invitees.

About her story "The Dark Man," in Is Anybody Out There? Kris writes: "In 2007, I went to Rome with the writer Adrian Nikolas Phoenix. She was researching a book on Keats. I was along for the ride. We spent a lot of time near the Spanish Steps (Keats died near there), and I was struck by how old Rome really is. The Spanish Steps are 'new' -- only a few hundred years old. For years, I've been thinking about that -- what's old to some cultures is new to others -- and also about our perception of the world around us. After all, creatures in our world have a different way of perceiving life -- dogs, for example, with their amazing sense of smell. What if they perceive time differently too?"

The Dark Man

by Kristine Kathryn Rusch

Condi stepped out of the internet café, an ice-cold bottle of Coke in her hand. The street was dark except for the light spewing out of the café's door. Motorcycles were parked to her left, squeezed between Smart Cars that had slid bumper-first into slots too small for a regular car.

In America, this would be called an alley, if someone deigned to dignify it with a designation at all. Crooked, covered with uneven cobblestone, winding uphill between darkened and graffiti-covered buildings, the street felt more like a path between main roads.

The internet café didn't help. It was the only business still open at 11 o'clock at night, still open and still doing business. The hotel across the way locked its doors promptly at nine, something she thought unfair in Rome, which like most Mediterranean cities, remained awake and active long past midnight.

Fortunately, Condi was staying in a slightly more upscale place on the Via Purificazione, another alley-like side street in a slightly more desirable neighborhood near the Via Veneto. She wasn't there for the shopping; she wanted to be as close to the American Embassy as possible without paying Westin Excelsior prices.

Not that money was an object. The Organization of Strange Phenomenon Ancient and Modern was paying for everything, including the tiny, expensive bottle of Coke resting damply in her right hand. She had an unlimited expense account, and a salary fifty times higher than her going rate as one of the Rocky Mountain News's best reporters -- back when there had been a Rocky Mountain News.

Condi glanced over her shoulder. Inside the café, which wasn't really a café at all -- just three narrow rooms of computers and two vending machines -- the waif who ran the place was surreptitiously checking the information Condi had left on her computer screen.

The waif, with her big brown eyes, round cheeks, black-black hair, looked like a cute Italian kid straight out of La Dolce Vita, or at least she did until you factored in the piercings, the tattoos, and the leather bustier, which seemed just too hot to wear in this strange 100-degree Roman autumn. Condi had already clocked out, leaving the screen on a UFO social networking site filled with wackos.

The waif always captured that last screen, missing the important stuff -- or so Condi hoped. She tried to check her e-mail several times per day on her iPhone, but the AT&T connection in Rome was spotty at best -- hell, all wireless connections were spotty here -- and she was afraid she lost a lot of information.

She waited until the waif stopped checking the screen capture. Then Condi sighed and stepped onto the cobblestone street, heading up hill to the Via Sistina. Ahead, she could hear music and laughter. Behind her, she heard the whisper of shoes against cobblestone.

She didn't have to turn around to know he was following her again.

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