Fiction, non-fiction or ...

We seem to be very dualistic in our thinking. Things are either fiction or non-fiction. Fiction is all that made up stuff that does not relate to any fact in any real way, such as the Hobbit, or Cubism. Non-fiction is all those factual things like science, history or Cubism. Oh wait. I mentioned Cubism twice. Is art a fiction or a non-fiction? I think in our attempt at simplistic, black and white thinking, we are overlooking one other category which is neither fiction nor non-fiction and yet it is both fiction and non-fiction. That is the category of faith.
 

But what is faith? Faith is meaning.

Some fiction is just pure entertainment as it should be. But hidden in that category of fiction are also those pieces which speak to a deeper level, it brings meaning to life and to the heart and mind. Now you are moving into faith. When that deeper level is reached it does not mean the author is a great genius of psychological insights and depth. What it does mean is that the human experience is such that we share vast amounts of feeling, insights and thoughts. By tapping into that shared experience, depth is reached and faith is kept.

Within the realm of fact, or non-fiction, meaning is gleaned not from the accumulation of data and information, but from understanding. Understanding needs to develop into wisdom through application. Now you are moving into faith. When new discoveries force a paradigm shift within the scientific communities do the old theories then become fictions? Certainly they are invalidated but they have not lost their meaning. That was one way of looking at the data set and from it certain conclusions could be deduced, now a new way is needed to look at the data set which may or may not create new conclusions. Meaning is maintained. Faith is kept.

Some works are born in faith which straddles the line between fiction and non-fiction. Any attempt to force them into the category of non-fiction stripes it of meaning and make it irrelevant. And likewise to push it towards fiction is to remove the wisdom and understanding that it contains leaving it empty of value.

For me, the Bible is a book of faith. To attempt to use it as a guidebook to the past for historical studies removes its meaning and makes it an empty book. To chalk it all up to works of fiction erases the insights and meanings which it brings to being human. For me it is not a work of fiction, nor is it a work of non-fiction. Any facts it contains are incidental to its meaning. Any stories it contains are not just moralisms, but speak to real human meaning. It is a work of faith which should bring meaning to one’s life. To read it any other way is to not understand it.

For me Art is a work of faith. I am creating something real in a real place at a real time. All of that data about me, my artistic career, my place in history, etc. can be compiled and biographized and that is not a bad thing, but it is not my art. Art is not a fiction although it is created and holds a special place in my being, and perhaps only my being. But it is not make believe. It is real but not is a scientific, quantifiable way. It is real in the same way an experience is real. Everyone who rides that roller coaster leaves with a different experience. And yet it is a shared experience but not everyone likes it. Art is a faith thing because it transcends fiction and non-fiction into the realm of meaning, of experience.   

Learning to find that place of faith in our dualistic culture is not easy. Religions turn it into theology and legalistic judgments. Politics turns it into an “us vs. them” mentality. Science says “this is the only way it can be.” Faith is meaning and finding that meaning is a personal quest for each person. Some find it in family, some in sports, some in work, some in church, some in… well the list can as varied as the population. The important part is to break the dualistic thinking and realize that faith is not an either/or proposition but a both/and. Faith is that which brings meaning to you regardless if you find it in a movie, a book, a lecture, a community or a political party.

Sample of my Work in Progress, Untitled.

The force in the lift began to lessen as they reached an opening of a branch. They all followed Elijah out into the branch tunnel. It was dim after the brightness they had first experienced. Not too far along the tunnel of the branch leading away from the trunk was a set of windows. They stopped briefly to admire the view. Reagan judged they were three quarters of the way up the tree and well above the forest. They could see for miles and miles.

“Wow” Layla said stepping back from the windows. “That is high.” 

Windows continued to dot the walls as they walked further out in the branch. They could feel a slight breeze that was growing steadily stronger. They reached a place where the tunnel branched into two slightly smaller tunnels. It was unnoticed at first but obvious once Reagan began to look for it, the tunnel had been narrowing slightly. The group, following the Raven, turned down the left hand side of the split and after a dozen steps was greeted with an opening stretching before them. It was the source of the breeze. A large green deck stretched out from the opening. Another green “leaf” covered part of the deck.

“This is where I would have landed. But obviously your vehicle could not make a landing here. So we walked, and floated. Take a look if you would like.” Elijah spoke calmly. His feathers ruffled slightly in the breeze wafting in from the opening in the branch to the landing pad.

Reagan, Clara, and Olivia walked out on the deck. It was made of a very sturdy ceramic. Layla hung back. “No thanks. I can see fine from here,” she offered at their quizzical looks.

Reagan now noticed that each leaf hanging from the branches surrounding them was much thicker than he had first realized. Each one served as a room, or in clusters of leaves, as a whole house possibly. He could also make out other landing areas, usually near branch junctions. He walked near the edge and peered down. He could see the trunk stretching down to the ground far below.  He realized that many of the trees were similar to this one, housing a whole community of Ravens. He stepped a little closer and noticed the lack of a guardrail around the deck. Of course, what need would a bird have for guardrails? It was a long, long way down. Maybe Layla had the right idea. He moved slowly back from the edge. He sighed and moved to join her in the tunnel.

Clara laughed at him. “A space captain afraid of heights?” She mocked, as she stood motionless near the edge.

They resumed their walk and came to a cluster of leaves. Elijah rang a discrete buzzer at the opening. And they waited. It was not long until an aged Raven appeared whose dark feathers had mostly turned gray. He slowly inspected his guests. He greeted Elijah coolly.

“You have brought me humans.” It was not a question, but a statement directed at Elijah.

Read another sample here

Walking the Coast

The coast.

A beach, not the sandy vacation beach of suntans, bikinis and kids with sandcastles.

The beach with the cold water, rough rocks and seagulls that crap on everything and everyone, including the drift wood logs that some poor shmuck keeps trying to turn into bonfires. That beach, that coast.

A man walks, no, shuffles along. His feet prints are two long ruts dragged in the sand. Follow those ruts back and you will run out of time before you run out of rut.

On closer inspection it is evident that the man is old, aged, ancient and beyond. He moves one foot and then the other, and again and again and again. It is not a step as much as a plowing the fields, but no corn will grow here. He left the corn far behind and a long time ago. Maybe so long ago that is was not yet corn as we know it in the hundreds of varieties, but rather just the maize of the ancients. That is old, but not nearly as old as this poor individual who shuffles along. But don’t be deceived he is not the poor fool who tries to build bonfires out of water soaked logs. No, he is far wiser then that. He is the one who sees the future and the past and knows the prophecies, not those cheap bible house prophecies about Babylon and dragons and the end of it all with trumpets and hosannas, no the prophecies he knows are far more profound. They are the kind that the Farmers Almanac wishes they had. They are prophecies of knowing those things that no human mind should know. They are knowing the number of rain drops which fall in the Amazon every hour and the number of the grains of sands on the shores, which he is very thoroughly checking at this moment. The corn has been counted, the stars have been counted, the rain has been counted and now the sand will be counted. Good luck, ancient man. We await your verdict with apathy. 

Copyright Protected David Corbet 2012

And Later

The quiet of the morning washed over the scene. A light blue sky above, a deep blue lake below and there stood a man on the lake shore.

He gathered a net into his strong arms and walked into the cool water. This was his favorite time of the day. Far out on the lake a few fishing boats dotted the surface. Like a whisper he could hear snippets of conversation. He could imagine the idle chatter or the rough commands drifting from boat to boat as they searched out the best spots.

He smiled inwardly, thinking of a different boat, a different day completely unlike this one. That stormy day he walked on water, however brief it was. His smile turned down as a tear slid slowly from his eye. Fear sank him that day.

With a practiced motion he flung the net into the shallow water. He enjoyed the pull on his back and shoulders. The net settled and slowly he gathered it in. The tension in his arms and chest made him feel alive. Another thought flooded his mind. Once again it was about Him. He shrugged it off, shaking his head to clear it of unwanted thoughts. He gathered the net for another throw.

Throw after throw, it soothed his mind and worked his body. But it did little for his troubled soul. He was anguished, perplexed, confused but most of all he was ashamed. The repetitive motion gave his body work and his mind space to think.

The sun was beginning to warm his back and hunger gnawed his stomach but he was not yet ready to turn and face the world. This place, this peace, the comfort of the net and cool of the water was what he needed most. It had been too long since life was simple and he knew deep down inside that those days were gone. They fled away when he first relinquished his net to follow Him.

I will make you fishers of men.

The methodical movement of tossing and drawing back was meditative. He had no intention of catching fish. He just needed to clear his mind. His thoughts wandered over the drama, the power, the humor of the last so many months. Had it been that long, it seemed so much longer.

A shadow of a man, and the quiet splashing of someone walking in the shallows behind him brought him back to reality. It could only be one person. He sighed and straightened his back pushing his shoulders back and allowing the net to droop in the water. He was not yet ready to face reality so he did not turn.

“Hey” He said.

“Hey” the man responded. His voice confirmed his identity. His brother.

They stood in silence watching the boats move about looking for their morning catch. Sunlight glistened on the water. It would be a hot one again.

“You’ve seen too much to turn away now.” The brother stated simply. “We all have.”

“I betrayed him.” He responded.

“We all did.” The brother answered sympathetically. It was not the right thing to say even if it was true. “He forgave you.”

Feed My sheep

The voice still echoed in his head as he cast the net again. He remembered the last time he had cast a net. The catch was more than he could haul in alone. “Do you remember the first day?”

“Of course I do.” The brother answered and stepped forward to help gather the net in. They cast it together in practiced rhythm. They had worked their whole lives together side by side. And they followed Him side by side, from the first day to the last.

Eventually they stopped, the moment gone. “I don’t know why. That will be what they all ask. Why?”

“Brother, thinking has never been your strong point. You are a man of action. You always have been. What did he say to you? ‘Feed my sheep?’ I think that is more than enough. He knows you. And more than that you have an intuition, a spirit of knowing. You were the first to see Him for who He truly is. Those two things are more than enough.” They sat in silence watching the boats and the sun playing on the water. “I will follow you. But we have seen too much to turn away.”

He fingered the net, thinking. Why. It was a question with no answer. Each one has to find their own answers to that question. But feed His sheep, that was something that could be done. And he knew it would be up to him to do it. He would not, could not betray him again. He would accomplish at least that much. Tell the story of His life and care for all those that he could.

“Catchers of men.” He whispered.

“What?” the brother asked.

 “Remember. Catchers of Men." He picked up the net and turned back towards the shore. The world was waiting. It was not going away no matter how many times he cast his net. “Come brother we have work to do. The net we cast is for Him and we catch the hearts and souls of men.”

They walked out of the water, uncertain in mind but firm in faith.  Fear would not sink him this time. When they ask why, the best answer he could give would be “because” and tell the story of His life and death.

Moving space and time without leaving the couch

They knew that time travel was possible. The theory was sound, the equations balanced and the apparatus calibrated. But the first dozen unfortunate souls that tried it just simply disappeared. They knew not where. Until a sixteen year old son of one of the primary researchers made an off comment while lounging in a recliner in the corner of the office.

“I wish I could go back a day. Yesterday I was a thousand miles away on the beach enjoying life, this place sucks. It is so boring.”

Immediately it clicked in the minds of the all the researches sitting in the room. Of course you can travel in time, but not in space. There is nothing rooting you to this particular place in space. It is like hitting the pause button on your existence, but the rest of time AND space moves on. The world is not only spinning around and around, but it is also moving around the sun. And the sun and it’s satellites are speeding through space.

With a few speedy calculations they were able to find eight of the ten lost souls. The last two were to far out in deep space to be recovered.

The next day they started working on time vectoring. They realized they would never be able to achieve time travel and remain on the planet. But they could, with enough number crunching, travel vast distances in space by standing still in time. There is only one thing that is faster than light, and that it is time. They had inadvertently invented the first FTL capable device. 

Copyright 

David Corbet 2012

The Sword

Sword

The sword hacked at the shield.

The broadsword hacked at the bronze shield.

The iron broadsword with a leather handle hacked at the bronze shield incrusted with diamonds.

The iron broadsword with a leather handle which was wielded by a north’s man hacked at the bronze shield incrusted with diamonds held a loft by the priest’s assistant.

The iron broadsword with a leather handle which was wielded by a north’s man hacked at the bronze ceremonial shield incrusted with diamonds held a loft by the priest’s assistant attempting to save the life of the head priest.

The iron broadsword with a leather and turquoise handle, which was wielded by a north’s man hacked at the bronze ceremonial shield incrusted with diamonds held a loft by the high priest’s assistant who was attempting to save the life of his master who wore the blood red robes of the high priest.

The iron broadsword with a leather and turquoise handle, which was wielded by the north’s man hacked at the bronze ceremonial shield incrusted with diamonds held a loft by the frightened priest’s assistant who was attempting to save the life of his master who wore the blood red robes of the high priest and carried the sacred golden scepter.

The iron broadsword with a leather and turquoise handle, which was wielded by the north’s man, hacked at the bronze ceremonial shield incrusted with diamonds held a loft by a frightened boy-servant who was attempting to save the life of his master who wore the blood-red robes of the high priest and carried the sacred golden scepter which was the ultimate desire that drove the barbarian onwards with ever increasing blows.

Why this scepter? For the gold alone? Does it have special powers? Is it sacred also to the north’s man? How many others has he killed in this pursuit? Will he be happy with just the scepter or will he want the golden lamp stands and the silver chalice? Ultimately does it matter? Where is your soul

Copyright Reserved

David Corbet

Memoirs of a Super Criminal Cover Art

These are three possible options for the cover of my new novel. Please leave a comment as to which one you like best and maybe a reason why. You can read a sample of my novel below this post.