God, your brilliance lit each photon that has shined.
You wove spacetime. You framed the human mind.
Your might assembled every quantum mote,
and heaped up stars like sand, and formed my throat.
And though you’ve bound the universe with death,
today again you’ve filled my lungs with breath.
So speaking now, I kneel as I rise.
I place my hope in you. You hold my fate.
The Bible says you’re holy, loving, wise;
Muhammad says you’re merciful and great.
But me, I’ve never seen you with my eyes;
I only know to cling to hope and wait.
So lowly, weak, uncertain, full of sin,
I’ll worship, serve, and sing as if you’ll come again.
Revalidation Exam: ENGL 725 – Victorian Novel
Note: In 2003 I started a PhD in English at the University of South Carolina. I never finished the dissertation. In 2012 I switched careers to IT, and eventually all my coursework expired. In 2020, after a job change brought us back to Columbia, I decided to try and finish. One of the first steps was revalidating all my old coursework. For one class, I had to write an essay. The essay prompt was defined by me in concert with the English faculty examiner. I submitted the finished essay this last weekend. (DL, Dec. 7, 2021)
Original Course Description:
Survey of the development of the novel form, with study of major and lesser-known figures, in relation to social change and publishing conditions; authors include Dickens, George Eliot, and Hardy.
Instructions:
Write an essay in response to the prompt below. Essay length is at the discretion of the student but may be considered by the reader as part of the evaluation. This is a take-home exam. Expectations in regards to proofreading and source citation may accordingly be high.
Movie Review: Dune
Note: This article was written for and first appeared on the Imperium News Network (INN), a news website dedicated to the space combat video game EVE Online. During the two years after I started contributing in the Spring of 2020, writing for INN was an enjoyable hobby that reminded me of writing for my college newspaper. During that time I wrote more than 40 articles, most covering various space battles and drama in the game. This article was one of the few not directly related to the game. I permanently quit playing EVE and contributing to INN in May, 2022. (DL, June 7, 2023).
I’ll begin with the TL;DR:
The movie Dune is one of the greatest novel adaptations I’ve ever seen and also a magnificent sci-fi epic in its own right. If you like EVE, you’ll probably love this movie. If you haven’t already, go see it in the theater, and soon.
What I Wanted in Dune
This first section is background on what I look for in movies. Skip to the next section if you want to get straight to Dune.
Continue readingThat World
Note: I wrote this very short story in a rush–a few hours in a single day. Vocal.media had a short-story challenge with a grand prize of $20,000. I figured ‘why not?’ and submitted this. The prompt was: “Write a short creative fiction piece, no longer than 2,000 words, about a post-apocalyptic dystopia. . . . The only requirement is that your story must include a heart-shaped locket.” (DL, Sept. 12, 2021)
“Careful, Nour,” he said to her as she picked her way along the beach. Eyes scanning the ground in front of her, she dutifully acknowledged her father’s warning. “Yes, Baba.”
The day was hot. High sun showered her head with heat, barely kept at bay by the bright hijab wrapped meticulously around her black hair. The light was dazzling off the white sand. She kept her gaze low, a shading hand at her brow to save herself a headache later. They didn’t have long before Dhuhr, the early midday prayer, and Baba was seldom late.
Continue readingIslamic Evidence of the Bible’s Corruption
Note: While living for two years in Saudi Arabia I made Muslim friends and as a result have developed Islamic connections on social media. One group I am a part of is devoted to interfaith dialog between Muslims and Christians. The majority of the members appear to be from the Middle East and Africa. In April, I posed a question to the group: “Muslim apologists frequently claim that the Bible has been corrupted from its original form. What specific evidence do you have of corruption? As someone who has spent more than a little time studying the textual history of the Bible, the New Testament in particular, I find the claim of corruption difficult to substantiate. Compared to all other ancient texts, the Biblical text is extremely well attested in the manuscript record.” The question led to hundreds of comments and counter comments from many members. Those comments I consolidated into a single list of twenty evidences. I then shared that list of twenty with the group and asked for validation, which I received from the Muslim members of the group. I present that list here without additional comment. I hope in the future to return to it and share further thoughts. (DL, Sept. 13, 2021)
Continue reading
Goliath’s Final Challenge
Day dawned on Elah, and Goliath strode
onto the field. Three-hundred pounds of bronze
were buckled on him, and the armor glowed—
portentously reflecting rising dawn’s
most thirsty reds. The armies of the LORD
had watched this happen every day (like pawns
resigned to death), and still the mighty sword
and spearhead weighing forty pounds had not
yet lost their fearful newness. Thrice he roared
to gather silence for himself, then shot 10
his widespread hands into the sky, and once
again his blasphemies began their hot
assault.
Character Vignette: Brorig
Note: I started this in Notes on my iPhone in December of 2017, the same time I was polishing the fantasy ranger vignette. The last edit was made in April of 2020. I’m sure the bulk of the writing was done in 2017. I think Brorig and the ranger are the same character, although Brorig may be a hermit-style monk who lives in the Underdark. (DL, Sept. 18, 2021)
“I know nothing of my parents. One of them was an orc; the other was a human. That’s it. Earlier than I can remember, I was taken by the Bloodskull clan in a raid, and I was raised by one of their war chiefs as a Bloodskull warrior. By the time of my Gurk’cha ceremony at fourteen, I had already been on many raids and spilled much blood. I do not like to remember those days. Orcs live like wild beasts, and I lived as an orc.
In the summer of my seventeenth year we were raiding in the lowlands of Mortgwyern, camping in the deep woods by day, taking what plunder we could by night. I was as bloodthirsty as the rest. One day as most of us slept we were ambushed by rangers from the provincial guard. Every orc was slaughtered, but I was netted and taken alive to serve as a thrall in the provincial coal mines.
For two years I was a slave in the mines and lived in the dark and the dust with outlaws and outcasts.
It was in that place of despair and death that I first began to live.
The Song of Uka
Note: I’ve written a few poems about World of Warcraft, okay? Stop looking at me that way. The events in this poem actually happened as described. While leveling in WoW Classic, I got camped by a higher level Shaman who ran away immediately as soon as a similarly-leveled opponent came along. It was originally posted to Reddit where it received no love at all (sigh). I have mixed feelings about the enormous amount of time I put into WoW; it was very much an addiction, but perhaps not totally devoid of merits, though certainly not worth the many costs. I permanently deleted my WoW account (along with almost all my video games and social media) in May of this year. (DL, Dec. 10, 2022)
Uka the Shaman, mighty and bold,
Like Vol’jin, and Zekhan, and Thex.
He’s stronger than you if you aren’t very old,
So watch out, he’s ready to flex.
One pleasant day in Hillsbrad they say
He found him a 32 warrior.
With “Calooh! Callay!” he entered the fray,
Just right for a 41 shaman.
The battle was hard (that clutch heal was timely),
But finally he finished his foe.
Pleased with himself (he’d battled sublimely),
He spit on the corpse he’d laid low.
Then he sat on his raptor on guard for the fallen,
To show he was better than him.
As soon as he rezzed he set straight to brawlin’,
Then spit on his corpse again.
Over and over, he conquered his man,
(Though sometimes it was a close shave).
He teabagged and laughed, a jovial fan
Of the prowess of Uka the Brave.
Then all of a sudden a 41 rogue
Sapped the shit out of Uka the shaman.
It was then that he felt it was time to prorogue
His fight with the dangerous warrior.
Fighting a warrior is one thing you see,
When his level is appropriately low.
But fighting a rogue the same level as he
Takes more plum than he’s willing to show.
The rogue kicked his ass (right away so they say),
And poor Uka, he rezzed in the bushes.
Then fast as he could he scurried away,
Like manure that a bulldozer pushes.
Adventurers all, remember this tale,
Whenever you feel overpowered.
It’s better to fight those who are bigger and fail,
Than be a pussy like Uka the Coward.
Men Don’t Give Birth
"Doctors prepared to do an emergency cesarean delivery, but in the operating room no fetal heartbeat was heard. Moments later, the man delivered a stillborn baby." apnews.com/b5e7bb73c6134d58a0df9e1cee2fb8ad
If men have babies, what’s even the point of talking about gender and sex categories? The categories are literally meaningless.
First:
“Sex” and “Gender” were synonyms. They both meant male and female as traditionally understood. Girls. Boys. Pink. Blue.
Then:
“Sex” and “Gender” were separated. Sex referred to biology. Gender referred to cultural norms around biology. Male vs. Masculine. Gender—being cultural—was malleable, and things like gender fluidity and transgender became common terms.
Now:
Sex and gender are synonyms again. But now they mean “malleable designations that mean whatever an individual wants them to mean.” The malleability of culturally-based gender notions has been back-migrated into biological sex.
Driven
In Riyadh drivers are a fact of life.
Domestics, Ubers, taxi men—they steer
the expat hordes and every mother, wife,
and daughter to their destinations here.
They come in droves from countries down the scale,
from Pakistan, and Bangladesh, Nepal,
and India—impoverished men who trail
the highways at another’s beck and call.
Each time I walk, I hear the taxi horns,
each plaintive beep, “Please white man, share your wealth
with me.” For fourteen hours, from early morns
and through each night they spend their life—and health.
I sit in back, while they the front are given.
My conscience knows who drives and who is driven.