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Reality Skimming

Reality Skimming

Reality Skimming promotes optimistic SF -- stories that inspire us to fight the good fight for another day. Committment to larger projects, the writer's sense of mission, joy of reading, the creative campfire of the SF community and the love of deserving protagonists are celebrated. We believe in heroes and striving to be what we believe in. It is also a news hub for content related to the Okal Rel Saga written by Lynda Williams.

29Mar/13Off

Meet the Relatives – Post 8

Meet the Relatives #8

Meet The Relatives by Lynda Williams, is the touching story of very Demish Dela's adventures in Red Reach. Illustrations are by Richard Bartrop.

The Dueling Floor

<< Start at Beginning >>


Then they burst into an open space, and Dela's brain emptied of everything else.

The room was centered on a bared, circular dueling floor, but that was all that looked familiar to her.

People stood or sprawled on mattresses, ringing it, looking as they were camped there.  Tents on the risers around the edges looked semi-permanent.  But most surprising were the writhing metal net of seats and bars that scaled every wall.  The variation in this vertical jungle gym had Dela's eyes darting around excitedly, unsure if anything so alien could be beautiful.  The walls themselves were honeycombed with caves, their mouths draped in  colored rugs that displayed a typically Vrellish abhorrence for repeating patterns.  The colors swirled, evolved and blended into one another.  People sat in the cave mouths with children peeking over adult shoulders.

Eight doors gave off the huge, round chamber, covered with rugs worked in house braid and devices.  Dela guessed the station housed eight clans, just like Fountain Court's hearths back on Gelion.

"See that one, there," Vras told her, using a commoner gender, pol-case pronoun, but pointing towards a man with a big, naked pot belly who sat cross-legged at the far edge of the dueling floor.  "That's Frog.  The local chief stationer.  He sometimes hoards food, but that's old news.  Last week he barred Liege Fital's clan from dock until he'd taken ten of her people hostage as a guarantee of honorable conduct.  Fital is a rel sword, notorious for killing when she doesn't have to.  She's defeated four highborns most people are sure about.  But there's rumors she's been gambling her rebirth, so we're here anyhow."

"Word is Fital's not above killing without honor.  But she has kin who won't believe that."

"Gambling her ...?" Dela repeated, bewildered.  Frog looked very much like a commoner, and commoner revolts were not an option in the world she came from.  She had never even heard of such a thing as a 'Chief Stationer'.  A regular space station had a Station Master.  Most of all, consideration of the opposition's dueling prowess seemed premature.  Hadn't this business just started?

"That's about all we know, for sure," Vras told her, as if it mattered.  "But Vretla figures there are locals too scared to talk.  Word is Fital's not above killing without honor.  But she has kin who won't believe that.  Understand?"

"Um," said Dela, thinking she would have to drag him into one of the caves, pull down its riotous rug, and talk for hours before she could claim as much.

"Good!" said Vras.

He freed her blond curls from the flight hood pressing them down and loosened the front of her flight suit, smiling at the sight of the lacy bra she'd insisted on putting back on before Rilt was done squeezing her into the flight suit.

"Vras!" Dela squeaked.  She hotly aware they were being watched.

"You're sweating," he explained himself, slicking a finger up the inside curve of one breast to capture proof.

Dela's ears buzzed.

He kissed her and was gone onto the challenge floor.

26Mar/13Off

Campfire: Excerpt from Without Bloodshed by Matthew Graybosch

According to official records maintained by the state of New York, I was born on Long Island in 1978. I also troll people by telling them I am in fact Rosemary’s Baby, the result of top-secret DOD attempts to continue Nazi experiments combining human technology and black magic, or that I sprang fully grown from my father’s forehead with a sledgehammer in one hand and a copy of The C Programming Language in the other — and that I've been giving the poor man headaches ever since.

Bad jokes based on obscure allusions aside, I'm the author of Without Bloodshed, a Starbreaker novel coming soon from Curiosity Quills Press. I'm also a generalist software developer with over a decade of professional experience earned at such companies as TEKsystems, Deloitte Consulting, and Computer Aid, Inc.

My thoughts on optimistic SF.

I don't claim to write optimistic SF for the same reasons I don't call myself a hacker or a feminist. I think "author of optimistic SF" is a title which must be bestowed upon me by others, rather than claimed. To do otherwise seems presumptuous.

Despite my reluctance to apply the term to my own work, I don't write dystopian fiction. While the backstory for my invented universe contains what I promised my wife I wouldn't make my characters call a "nanotech-induced zombie apocalypse", Nationfall is part of the backstory for Starbreaker. The series itself takes place later, in the society the survivors rebuilt after learning from the past. It's an open society where people are free to live, work, and prosper without unnecessary fear of violence or discrimination. It's a world where liberty, justice, and equality under law for all aren't just empty words or hollow ideals.

However, it's not a utopia. Corruption and abuses of power remain a problem, and must be opposed by those willing to uphold their rights and those of their fellows with diplomacy and force of arms. Reform and further progress are still necessary, but in my imagined society both are possible, and can be set in motion by individuals. And my own tendency towards cynicism and misanthropy results in a tone which might be more appropriate to film noir.

Why do I write such fiction? I do it as both an act of rebellion against the current popular trend towards the depiction of dystopian societies, and for my own sake. I don't want to write about real life in real America as I understand it. I don't want to depict a society in which corruption, discrimination, inequality, widespread poverty, and perpetual war for nothing of lasting value might as well be part of the status quo. Depending on where you get your news, dystopian SF might as well be a new form of realistic literary fiction.

I refuse to be part of that. I refuse to write such fiction. Instead, I choose Romanticism; or, if you prefer, optimistic SF. .

Introduction to Excerpt

Naomi Bradleigh is one of the central characters in my Starbreaker sequence. Her exotic coloration (normally pale skin, white hair, and scarlet eyes) is not a result of albinism, but of her ancestry. She thinks of herself as human after growing up in human society and participating in human culture. She lives in London, is a classically-trained dramatic coloratura soprano and pianist, and until recently one of the driving forces behind the progressive metal power trio Crowley's Thoth. It is her association with the band's deceased founder, Christabel Crowley, which places her in a delicate situation nobody should have to face.

Excerpt from Without Bloodshed

Naomi Bradleigh pressed a hand to her belly, hoping her empty stomach's snarling remained unheard. Two constables took her from her home and brought her to MEPOL before breakfast, which meant her only food today was a handful of hothouse strawberries eaten before her shower. She refused all offers of coffee or water, afraid of a ruse to get fingerprints or genetic evidence without a warrant or her consent. "Do you make a habit of starving your suspects into submission, Inspector?"

She considered the office as she waited for her captor to deign to answer her. The constables who came to her home did not bring her to one of the bare interrogation rooms she expected from watching the occasional police procedural drama, but directly to the office of Inspector Alan Thistlewood. Thistlewood's right hand trembled as he held the phone to his ear, and his gaze lingered on her in a manner which made her wish for a weapon. "No, not yet. I got evidence of motive and opportunity. She'll incriminate herself if we keep up the pressure. Everybody does."

Thistlewood hung up, and studied Naomi until her urge to draw her cardigan tight around herself threatened to overwhelm her. "Hungry, Ms. Bradleigh?"

"Lunch would be pleasant, Inspector. I would also like to speak to my attorney."

"Why do you keep mentioning your attorney? Trying to hide something?"

"I would hide everything from you, Inspector." He leaned towards her, as if sharing a confidence. "The more you tell me, the more I can help you."

I used to be an Adversary. How can I just sit here and wait for rescue which might not come? I should be my own savior. Naomi eyed Thistlewood's revolver, which rested in a shoulder holster under his right arm. The belt holding his service gladius hung from a coat tree by the door, out of his reach. She entertained the notion of overpowering the inspector, taking his weapons, and using them to force her way to freedom. The revolver held only six rounds, but the short, broad-bladed sword suffered no limitations save those of her own strength and stamina. Let violence be my final resort. I can do much to resist before resorting to arms. "I will tell you nothing without my attorney, Inspector."

"You were Christabel Crowley's neighbor, which afforded you opportunities to get close and kill her." Naomi shook her head, unable to believe Thistlewood insisted on beating this hobbyhorse of his into the ground. "Crowley kicked you out of the band, and believed you seduced her boyfriend, which gave you motive. I bet she hated sharing the spotlight with a freak like you."

Thistlewood wasn't the first to call her a freak. Life with congenital pseudofeline morphological disorder, or CPMD, meant she grew up around people who called her worse names. Her eyes had slit pupils, her ears resembled a cat's despite being flat against her head like a normal human ear, and her fingernails curved over her fingertips to create claws. "Now you're just being tiresome." She kept the rest to herself. You think I seduced Morgan? I count the days to every Winter Solstice and an excuse to kiss him.

Naomi ignored Thistlewood's questions, for she deflected each of them half a dozen times already. Morgan would call even the deflections a mistake. So would Edmund and Sid. They kept telling me I should treat the police as my enemy and give them nothing but name, rank, and serial number if I ever found myself in their custody. His aftershave reeked of alcohol as he leaned over her, staring into her eyes. "You might be a freak, Ms. Bradleigh, but you got a hell of a body. Do you work out?"

She suppressed a shudder, and considered Thistlewood's revolver again. The weapon waited within her reach, its polished wooden grip a dull gleam beneath the antiquated florescent lights. No. This is just a new tactic. He hopes to use my revulsion in his favor. Naomi narrowed her eyes as his hand gripped her thigh too tightly to be a mere caress. "When did groping a woman become an acceptable interrogation technique?"

Thistlewood loosened his grip, and smoothed her skirt with a lover's delicacy. However, he continued to lean over her. His hand trembled through the layered chiffon and the silk of her stocking. "I hoped you'd incriminate yourself, but we can convict you on the evidence alone. Juries hate women like you." The hand slid up a bit. "But I can suggest a plea bargain which will get you a very lenient sentence if you cooperate."

"For your sake, Inspector, I hope you don't use that line at pubs." She slid her hand behind his head, and gently pulled him close enough to whisper in his ear. "You don't need a line with me. I'm in your power, right where you want me. Morgan Stormrider never had me like this." He wouldn't want me this way, which is why he's a better man than you'll ever be.

Naomi held her need to fight back at bay as Thistlewood's creeping hand slipped between her legs. I dare not kill him. His death would bring rest of them down on me, and he might stop me if I go for his gun now. I need to lower his guard. I bet Claire would seduce him, or at least let him think she was seducing him. She shifted in her seat, parting her thighs a little, and arched her back. "Am I the reason your hand trembles, Inspector."

"Are you telling the truth?" Thistlewood's voice was lower, rougher. He strained against the seam of his uniform trousers, and for a moment Naomi wished Morgan was leaning over her, his lips inches from hers. "Stormrider never had you like this?" "He never had me at all." Naomi let her voice settle into a seductive purr as she slid her other hand along his waist, before letting her fingers curl around the revolver's grip. She slid the weapon free of the holster, and dug her nails into the nape of Thistlewood's neck when he tried to pull away. Smiling as he yelped in pain, she ground the muzzle of the revolver into the soft flesh beneath his jaw while thumbing the hammer back. "Neither will you, Inspector." She kicked his feet out from under him, and her claws, which she filed so that they would not interfere when she played a keyboard, tore into Thistlewood's flesh as he fell. She sprang out of the chair and retreated before he finished collapsing to the floor. She adjusted her grip as he rose to his knees, glancing at the sword; she held the weapon in both hands, as Morgan taught her, despite her insistence on needing only a sword for self-defense. I should have told him I was an Adversary.

He stared at the weapon, stared at her, and could not get the words out right away. "You stole my gun, you treacherous bitch."

"You violated my rights and tried to extort sexual favors from me, but you insist I'm the villain here? You certainly think highly of yourself." She smiled behind the iron sights, and put her teeth into it. "I can be reasonable. If you do as I tell you, I might forget this ever happened." "That's blackmail."

She shrugged, and the revolver pointed at his belly instead of his groin. "Now you have cause to arrest me. Try not to make a complete botch of it."  

25Mar/13Off

ORU Artifact #37 Craig Bowlsby Appearance at VPL

The Okal Rel Universe has inspired many beautiful, curious, fun and touching moments, objects and re-mixes or interpretations over the years. This page celebrates them one by one. Found one that should be here? Tell us about it for the finder's reward of the month. Send your discovery to [email protected]

Craig writes about hockey in British Columbia as well as SF and produced a comedy aired on the Space Channel. He has served as a fencing consultant to the movie industry as well as to the Okal Rel Saga.

Craig Bowlsby @ VPL

Author Craig Bowlsby made an appearance at the Vancouver Public Library in Dec 2012 to promote his latest book about hockey in British Columbia. http://vancouver.en.craigslist.ca/van/eve/3469056898.html.

Below is his bio citing his Okal Rel Universe publications.

Empire of Ice event at Vancouver Public Library http://www.facebook.com/events/261350430658316

Knights of Winters http://www.webturf.com/knights_of_winter/pop-ups/author.shtml

Steph's Author Ambush #8 (2009) - http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pR9yURmKxrQ

Commander's Log http://mypage.intergate.ca/~epic/cl/craig.htm

22Mar/13Off

Meet the Relatives – Post 7

Meet The Relatives by Lynda Williams, is the touching story of very Demish Dela's adventures in Red Reach. Illustrations are by Richard Bartrop.

Dela and the Six Nobleborns

<< Start at Beginning >>


"What - exactly - are you here to - investigate - for Liege Vrel?" Dela puffed, as Vras dragged her along.

"A dispute," Vras answered, letting go of her hand.  "There's been a complaint.  And we're here to respond."

Dela relaxed, glad of the confirmation it was early in the process, and trying to remember how many of the six nobleborns behind them had been women.  A Demish prince wouldn't sleep with an inferior who might lay claim to status through a bastard's blood, but the Vrellish were so casual about these things, and she was haunted by the way Vras had kissed and fondled Rilt on their arrival although she felt quite certain they were not close.

'Oh, what am I doing here!' She thought.  'Amel was right.  He'll not only break my heart, he'll drive me mad, wondering how!'

People boiled out of doors, hatches and passages as they passed.  People dressed in bright clothes, some of them with and some without dueling swords.  A festive air thickened, concocted of station gin, bright scarves and hawkers selling finger food.  There were children, too.  Clean, but half naked, with no evidence of house braid to help identify whose were whose.  Dela was ashamed of herself for looking, but even the children's groins did not help much with gender because what clothes they did wear tended to be shifts or loose pants.  Most disorienting of all, Dela could not tell if they were highborn, nobleborn or even the children of commoners, presuming there were servants of some sort on board.

Or were these Vrellish peasants?

She swallowed a yip as Sert's deep voice rumbled at her, "Keep up, fluff."

Dela was forced to skip and hop to keep up with Vras.  His gait was faster, and instead of accommodating hers like a Demish Prince would, he simply towed her after him or let go and expected her to keep up.  When she did, though, he was always ready to let her reclaim his hand.  Once, she noticed Sert was walking hand in hand with Harn, too.

As the crowd thickened, it began to obstruct their path.  People shouted things, some of them directed at Dela.  A child threw a sticky sweet taken from his mouth.  Ears burning, Dela hung back.  Vras let go of her, but an iron grip upon her elbow kept her moving along.  She swallowed a yip as Sert's deep voice rumbled at her, "Keep up, fluff."

The six nobleborns went on ahead to beat clear the crowd with drawn swords.  Dela gasped at the sudden red of blood as someone was slashed across an arm.  It didn't make a deep wound.  Vras had told her, once, that dueling swords were not sharp enough on the edges to do 'real harm' and the Vrellish sometimes used them for crowd control.  Such charming things he talked to her in bed about!

18Mar/13Off

ORU Artifact #36 A Birthday Card

The Okal Rel Universe has inspired many beautiful, curious, fun and touching moments, objects and re-mixes or interpretations over the years. This page celebrates them one by one. Found one that should be here? Tell us about it for the finder's reward of the month. Send your discovery to [email protected]

A birthday card from Mel Farrow

Mel Farrow b-day card

Mel Farrow, a friend of the Okal Rel Universe and chibi artist, gave Lynda Williams this birthday card around 2007 in the era when Lynda was reading aloud each new installment of the saga to her family and friends every weekend.

18Mar/13Off

ORU Artifact # 35 – Edge Ad for World Fantasy Con 2008

The Okal Rel Universe has inspired many beautiful, curious, fun and touching moments, objects and re-mixes or interpretations over the years. This page celebrates them one by one. Found one that should be here? Tell us about it for the finder's reward of the month. Send your discovery to [email protected]

The ORU was proud to appear in the Edge Science Fiction and Fantasy Publishing ad used on the website of World Fantasy Con 2008. Part 3: Pretenders is the title featured in the image below.

World Fantasy Con_Ad 2008

World Fantasy Con was held in Calgary, Alberta in 2008, which made it feasible for Lynda Williams to attend. It is usually in the U.S. Lynda was delighted to meet Guy Gavriel Kay at the event. Kay is an author she's read and enjoyed since discovering The Fionavar Tapesty in her youth.

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