| operative network | writing archive: columns - reviews - interviews - features

hannibal tabu's column archive

Funky Cold Medina … Or Timbuktu? Building the world of my Steamfunk story

Posted in 104, business, cheap publicity, creativity, culture, entertainment, fiction, shameless pandering, writing on April 6th, 2013 by Hannibal Tabu
fiction header image

This is one of a series of blogs promoting the Steamfunk! anthology by MV Media, which features my short story “The Sharp Knife of a Short Life.” This blog was supposed to publish on March 7th alongside ones from other writers in the anthology. Woops. Here we go …

When creating my “steamfunk” story, one of my biggest goals was to not place it on Earth in some kind of alternative history space. “Hannibal, what’s wrong with you? That’s where steampunk is from!” I know. That’s also one of the elements I don’t like about it. Sure, stories like “Men in Black” or the one positing a Black nation in the continental space of north America might feel good, but for me they only remind me of our failures as a people (which is why I would write that sort of wish fulfillment stuff in the future, therefore hoping it could still happen). So, I had to get the heck off of Earth … which led me to Pless.

I created the “planet” Pless for a number of logistical reasons that’d help me in telling the story. I could perfectly set the technological level to whatever I wanted it to be, which was crucial in establishing this as a “steamfunk” style of story, with all the brass and pageantry and pneumatics and what have you. Normally, I go for more … esoteric and futuristic technologies (which savvy readers might note at the end of my work, the moment linking this story to my larger fictional universe), so this was a challenge but one I accepted in looking at the assignment.

Another reason is that Pless’ ambiguous racial history allowed me to sidestep the aforementioned challenges that alternative history poses for my sometimes overcritical brain. The arguable “love interest” is essentially Latino. Two main characters are Black. The lieutenant governor (or whatever I made him, I barely remember some days) was white (based on some late 1800s politician I looked up). The town’s madam is an ambiguous Asian mix. There’s a whole new race that’s nothing like anybody else. Add that to the flora and fauna differences and my little alien “steamfunk” world is almost a character in and of itself.

Finally, growing up at the foot of my great uncle while he religiously tuned in to Gunsmoke gave me a deep sense of possibility in those old western tropes, if I could just sci-fi ‘em up a bit (apologies to Firefly fans). Pless became my untamed frontier, a striking contrast to the super-technological trappings of ‘Dam Clara Perry, a much broader expanse for my lunacy than cobblestone streets lit by gaslamps, patrolled by constables and what gave you.

Where is Pless? Ah, that’d be revealing a big part of Clara Perry’s overall story, which would continue if the proposed Dieselfunk anthology comes along or if I do a set of short stories past the one on my current docket (seeming more likely as more ideas come to me). Suffice it to say there are well-considered reasons for dropping our cryo-frozen NASA scientist there and I have every intention of finishing the larger story begun here. Maybe I just need a new country music song to get me inspired …

20130406-144906.jpg

The camera shop was a suggestion from the real NASA scientist who consulted, as she said it’d be a place where strange smells and exotic chemicals and/or technology wouldn’t be looked at too oddly and she could continue the real work, using the “futuristic” technology she brought with her. That worked out really well for what I needed to accomplish for the “apprentice” Jenny Taylor.

I also had to give this place its own depth and nuances, like a fully realized culture. Creating their shared religion, with elements familiar yet haunting differences, was important. They believe in a trinity, but it’s a distant father god Avshalom who sparked life and then buggered off to explore the cosmos, a nurturing, forgiving mother god Iya’a and a daughter Muhsinah cast in the vein of Yeshua ben Josef, sent to redeem through sacrifice. The religion uses elements of traditional African belief (matrilineage, hunter/explorer men and gatherer/nurturer women) as well as tropes from Judaeo-Christianity and some other sources I stumbled upon. The framing device for the story (the song “If I Die Young” by The Band Perry as discussed previously) called for a casket to be sank into water “to the words of a love song,” so that meant composing a kind of hymn that would work as both a devotional of spirit and a romantic overture. Yes, that means I had to sing it, but composing a soundtrack of Plessi spiritual music was a bit more ambitious than I planned. If I ever do a reading of the work, digitally or in person, maybe I could be cajoled into at least humming the tune, for reference. It kind of sounds like “How Do I Live?” by LeAnn Rimes (still very country western influenced, and I heard that a lot as a south bay karaoke host). Anyway, I spent the better part of two nights parsing it all out.

I gave the people of Pless some alterations in their biology. Tying together purple blood with the purple clothing of their funerary rites was a nod to my youngest daughter and two of my wife’s friends, all of whom adore the color, so that’s purely cosmetic. Other alterations had practical purposes — I’d been aiming to redesign humanity since I was maybe six, so tired of the tedium of waste product. If it was all converted into carbon dioxide, something the ecosystem could conceivably handle, well, that’d eliminate some technical concerns and toilet humor all in one swoop, making for a more mature society (I guessed).

Other stuff — ‘Dam Scarlett’s Diversion Emporium, “fluffener,” or the twelve legged bjekk — was just me riffing, kind of like a pianist when the band is playing “Red Clay,” tickling extra ivories here and there but staying pretty much within the boundaries of the tune. I created a small frontier-styled corner of one fairly parochial planet for a reason … that will likely be revealed in a book I hope to put out in late 2014.

The Vanity Pomp was my excuse for a big, splashy visual scene that combined action (you’ll have to read to see what) and steampunk excess and pageantry. It seemed to work and made a good climactic crescendo for the story to achieve. I just kept going back and making the elements of it more ornate and ridiculous until I couldn’t take it (at one point, everybody in the parade was flying), then dialed it back to what I felt would work.

I think it turned out okay. What do you think?

steamfunk anthology cover

The Steamfunk! anthology is available now.

Playing (Music): “Story” by King

Post to Twitter

Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , ,

Books: There Are No Lines: The What & Why of @MVMediaATL’s Steamfunk! Anthology

Posted in awesomeness, blame society, business, creativity, culture, effectiveness, entertainment, fiction, shameless pandering, writing on February 25th, 2013 by Hannibal Tabu
fiction header image
steamfunk paint by dr. destiny

We will be here forever

Do you understand?

FOREVER

Forever and ever
And ever and ever

We will be here forever

Do you understand that?
Get what I’m saying?

FOREVER!

- KRS-ONE, “KRS-ONE Attacks!”

The essense of Black creativity in the shadow of the western world has been one of necessity and scarcity. “Make way out of no way” is the only consistent commandment from be-bop to hip hop, from STEM education to, finally, the science fiction that fueled many of those who sought it.

Steampunk, as defined by the fine people at Wikipedia, is as follows …

Steampunk is a sub-genre of science fiction that typically features steam-powered machinery, especially in a setting inspired by industrialized Western civilization during the 19th century. Therefore, steampunk works are often set in an alternate history of the 19th century’s British Victorian era or American “Wild West,” in a post-apocalyptic future during which steam power has regained mainstream use, or in a fantasy world that similarly employs steam power. Steampunk perhaps most recognizably features anachronistic technologies or retro-futuristic inventions as people in the 19th century might have envisioned them, and is likewise rooted in the era’s perspective on fashion, culture, architectural style, and art.

milton and balogunA quick web search for “steampunk” will deliver tons of images, comic books, short films, cosplay conventions and discussions … and dangerously few people of color. Google Images has their first non-white person under the search for the term 18 rows down, a single spot of brown in a drawing with three white people. One might take this data and believe that not only are Black people (and people of color, by extension) not interested in the sub-genre, but that they have no place in it.

Milton Davis and Balogun Ojetade disagreed.

The co-editors of the new anthology Steamfunk! from MV Media Publishing offer up a definition that might not be found on Wikipedia …

The co-editors of the new anthology Steamfunk! from MV Media Publishing offer up a definition that might not be found on Wikipedia …

Steamfunk: a philosophy or style of writing that combines the African and/or African American culture and approach to life with that of the Steampunk philosophy and/or Steampunk fiction.

steamfunk anthology cover

Their collection of short stories (nothing could be over 12,000 words) features the work of writers from the worlds of television, journalism and fiction, all positing a slightly more diverse world of fantasy and possibility than many have had access to in the past.

Anthology contributor Valjeanne Jeffers said, “Within this new genre we are witnessing the birth of worlds in which Black folks and that which moves us reign supreme. In short, Steamfunk is just as different from Steampunk as Black Science Fiction is from White science fiction. Imagine a Steamfunk hood, an antebellum South in which abolitionists fly airships. Or, as in my novel, Immortal IV: Collision of Worlds, folks living in a post-apocalyptic, steam-world with meta-humans…policed by androids. Now imagine each of these worlds predominated by folks of color: worlds in which Black, Native American, Latino, and Asian folks are not sidekicks but heroines, heroes and villains. That’s what Steamfunk is.”

john henry

Geoffrey Thorne, an actor and screenwriter with scores of credits to his name including Leverage, Star Trek: Titan: Sword of Damocles, Honor Brigade and more, said, “At some point in my lifetime I realized, ‘if I wished to see stories about people who looked like me engaged in the fanciful activities I loved in the books I devoured … the only way was to write them myself.’ That’s the best thing about being a writer; if you don’t like the world, just make up another one. So, I did. I did it a lot. I did it a lot A LOT and eventually came to the place I call THE OTHER COUNTRY. When you read the STEAMFUNK anthology, you will get a quick tour of the place and I hope you like what you see because that’s the point of that.”

Hannibal Tabu, weekly comics reviewer for Comic Book Resources and editor in chief of Komplicated at the Good Men Project, said, “When I started out, I didn’t even like steampunk. I didn’t get it. I’d seen the images and thought it was a little anachronistic — my eye was on tomorrow, not a brass-covered look at yesterday. However, I saw the amazing work Balogun and Milton were doing and, frankly, took it as a challenge to myself. Write a ’steamfunk’ story I’d wanna read, one with possibility and pomp, science fiction extremism and atmospheric flourishes. Along the way I developed yet another Black female protagonist who thinks first and kicks butt, and along the way … I kind of got sucked in. It’s just another kind of thing to like, you know, like I am nuts about Star Wars or the Patternists of Octavia Butler. You’re not gonna see me in a bowler and goggles, but I now like these fantastic ideas way better than I did when they tried that abysmal steampunk Transformers series a few years ago.”

harriet tubman

Davis himself said, “I hope to see it expand. Hopefully other writers and readers will see the possibilities and share their own interpretations. As for me, I have a couple of novel projects planned that are set in my alternate history steampunk country of Freedonia: From Here to Timbuktu, an action adventure novel and Unrequited, an action romance series. After that, who knows?”

What is “steamfunk?” It’s Kool Herc behind the turntables, it’s Coltrane taking a deep breath, George S. Schuyler’s smile as he put pen to paper or Obama stopping to take it all in after the second inaugural. Taking the pieces of whatever’s available and making it wonderful, be it soul food or impossible situations and characters, coming to you one scintillating syllable at a time. Now there’s another new way, a path to “the other country,” and you’re welcome to take a trip.

“… there is a deeper world than this
tugging at your hand …

– Sting, “Love is the Seventh Wave”

The Steamfunk! anthology is available now.

[Originally posted on Komplicated at The Good Men Project]

Post to Twitter

Tags: , , , , , , , , , , ,

Poetry: Anedge Hirak Dwight Johnson (also known as D. Black)

Posted in creativity, culture, family, fatherhood, gratitude, poetry, writing on August 16th, 2012 by Hannibal Tabu
poetry header image

Dwight “D. Black” Johnson died on Tuesday, August 14th of complications surrounding heart disease. Survived by two children, a wife, a brother and a sister, he … you know what? Screw the prelude, here’s all I need to say about him.

Dwight "D. Black" Johnson, 1959-2012

The hereafter went and got a little bit smoother ...

Twenty million
oppressive ultraviolet hammers
falling on your back.

Ain’t easy bein’ cool under summer heat.

Refrigerators asking for ice water.
Everyday challenges of
blacktop battlefields
hamstrings half-steppers
so frequently,
ain’t worth remembering names.

Dwight motherf***in’ Johnson, now,
Mister D. Black,
he could side step with supernovas,
cut heat in half with one breath.
Fresher than condensation
on grandma’s glass of sippin’ tea,
he was old school
like a diamond in the back,
with a sunroof off.
We’re diggin’ a scene
that’ll miss his lean, ooh ooh …

Pick up your pens,
D. Black 101.
Please make no mistake,
if you’re hittin’ southside streets
or talking LA legacies,
yo ass needs to know about Dee Black up in here.
The Dee Black I knew,
spun around two axes
like twenty inch rims
on a deuce and a quarter.

First,
D. Black was about these kids.
From ones he sired,
to helping orphans in need,
his sunglasses always saw tomorrow.
G’on and call Caltech or MIT,
find yourself a math whiz
wielding a super computer,
maybe they can help calculate
how many smiles he planted,
how many futures he improved.
Blazed a trail for me,
showed balance of art and responsibility,
giving back while getting yours,
all with perfectly pressed creases
and a brim free of dust or imperfection.
Example of one
who gave so much
to those who had less
will carry on, like his daughter
helping her little brother
with his tie on prom night.

He’ll be there,
even if y’all can’t see him.

Second thing,
maybe even what people knew more than anything else
was that D. Black was cool.
An ineffable sense of certainty
about who he was,
this implacable inner tranquility
exuding style and confidence
like long shoes he favored
or a Corniche rollin’ out of the car wash.
Whether Inglewood or Hollywood,
with ballers or busters,
you could find him at epicenter of everything,
posted up with something to sip
cooler than mornings in Anchorage.
Cutty mack, he’d say,
what Steve Harvey dreams about being,
never needing jewel studded showiness
of shuck and jive men on music videos.
Kept credibility in the hood
and respectibility for the northsiders,
incorporating young man slang
with old brother strut,
perfect synchronicity of swagger and class.
Everything he did spun out of that cool,
from poetry that gave Shakespeare some pimpin’
to shootin’ the sh** under street lights
to remembering that every goodbye ain’t gone.

We know he’s not gone.
Every time we brush that dirt of our shoulders,
he’s there with a smirk and an “mmph.”
Each shiny pair of gators
carries his blessing,
and every dude who ever steps smooth to a sister,
whether he’s trying to get with her or not,
has a hint of D. Black,
ready to fold her up
and put her in his pocket.
Leimert Park sidewalks embedded with his footsteps,
grafitti that won’t wash off,
you can’t paint over,
he’s here,
and we’re here,
and he wouldn’t want it any other way.

I’m not here to mourn.
This life is hard,
and D. Black had weight on his shoulders, too.
No, I’m here in gratitude,
wearing my nicest shoes,
giving my freshest respects.
We learned from each other,
we grew together in fellowship with words.
I miss him, sure,
I’m sorry he won’t see me side eyin’ his boy
when he’s checkin’ my daughter in a few years
but knowing he’s free from suffering,
ask me if I’m sweatin’ under sadness.
I’ll just smile, and say,
“nay … err …”

In the words of our people,
anedge hirak Dwight Johnson,
and thank you.

“His Sunglasses Always Saw Tomorrow”
For Dwight Johnson
By Hannibal Tabu

We’ve got to take care of ourselves, yo.

Watching (Hulu): The Booth At The End, “A New Reality

Post to Twitter

Tags: , , , ,

| writing & web work | personal site | writing archive | contact |





the operative network is a hannibal tabu joint.
all code, text, graphics, intellectual property, content and data
available via the URL "www.operative.net"
are copyright The Operative Network, LLC 2003,
and freaked exclusively by hannibal tabu


accessing any of these pages signifies compliance
with the terms of use, dig it
.