Official Website of Science Fiction Writer
A writer of TV, Film, and prose speculative fiction with particular emphasis on BIPOC, female, and sexual minority inclusion, perspectives, and lead narratives.
TOUCH:
As the world wrecks, Artima succumbs to sorrowful seclusion until she contrives a chance at physical connection - with dramatic results.
DON'T TOUCH
About madison
Madison survived working in corporate science and finance on his path to creative art as an emerging, mid-life writer. A black gay man, he writes speculative fiction with particular emphasis on BIPOC, female, and sexual minority inclusion, perspectives, and lead narratives. He has a special passion for high-concept idea generation, with a distinct talent for asking what’s out there and what if? Madison writes in several formats, exploring the storytelling possibilities and craft benefits in translating visual concepts or script writing into prose fiction, and vice versa. In screenwriting, Madison exhibits aptness, aptitude, and interest in pilot generation, adaptation, original and contained sci-fi features...full
His Stories
I am a science fiction fanatic. Within the genre, I hold a special affiliation for, interest in, and a creative knack for positive, emotional first contact stories. As a reader and writer, I revel in that exciting fiction space filled with moments of wonder, fear, danger, discovery, mystery…, created when meeting another intelligence; be it AI, ET, terrestrial, biologically engineered, or…? I can clearly see myself delivering or facilitating film products such as Ex Machina, Arrival, or Super 8. Currently, I am crafting a feature, Legacy, that slowly reveals the selfless and brave act of a prehistoric African woman eons ago, which changes the course of humanity; and the contemporary more
"Brain Travel" open:
"You, Decimas the first" open:
An overzealous political appointee first noticed the giant, golden, eye-of-Sauron-like globe hovering above the Washington Monument, all aglow in a new day's dawn, and hysterically notified the world. At first, humanity reacted with a viral freak out for the ages. Predictable. Understandable. The Whispering, seemingly flickering into folks' minds, but maybe not, followed, and a world teetering on a precipice fell into real calamity: crushed markets, deadly accidents, mass suicide, desolation, protests, sequestration, pilgrimage—apocalyptic societal standstill in its most blatant form. Tragic.
Sad, though not an unexpected outcome. Human civilization had been pretty much whiffing the whole advanced species thing. Social economics, the pinnacle of their civil and evolutionary achievement, warped into a strip-planet, for-profit Ponzi scheme engineered to overproduce and immediately enrich while delivering nature and their grandchildren to dust. All cleverly accomplished by the unconcerned, blinders on, earplugs in, mute-for-money mogul class. These passively ever richer universe-masters fiddling on their pastimes with perilous embers all around. Hungry Earth. Overridden Earth. Boiling Earth. Unequal Earth. Disease-ridden Earth. None of it broke through elite walls, except perhaps for a tiny strain of anxiety over the inequality symptom, and its risk of rich heads on spikes. A preservation strategy became obvious—absolute control—as the best, the only, response to their own corporatist-enabled planetary destruction, and guillotine risk. The People had marched right into amply spread propaganda traps in spades, succumbing to division, exploding partisanship, and inflicting every ism on each other, until, indeed, they'd crowned corporate fascism as de facto king of the world. Firmly in power, they had wilted the world to a knife's edge, primed for upheaval from many a tipping-point event, but which came in the form of a spooky, disembodied, whispering slit-iris.
...
You don't belong here.
You have me tired, so sick and tired, boy. Me your kinda-granny; maybe mama-like, for you. Really there's no love loss, on either end, even with that. Not at this finish of it.
Volcano dying down, you stand there eyeing me. Lookin' all of three, but only one. Terrible one.
That toy hurt, the one you threw at old me. Maybe you won't miss me. Maybe you will. This was us:
Our troubles weren't there at first, you hear. A baby is a baby after all—even a weird, funny-looking one. Most little ones grow outta that anyway, cute fatties, but not you, not in our way... maybe in yours. But who can know that? So those smarties tell me. Or try to. So with no mother to mother you, with that face, but pretty eyes in that melon head that almost killed the birthing one, the doctor-folk gave you to me. Well, no. Not exactly. Brought me to sub when they needed to let you be.
At first.
Problem was, from the start of it, you did NOT take to what was called for. You cried so breathlessly—sending 'em all to heart attacks so much, they had to wire you up more to ease many minds—until so unhappy you worked up into your glass-shatter squeal: eee! Your trauma still haunts my nights; seems you were tailor-made to traumatize us right back. True enough, they had ripped you out, so anybody'd be ornery; who even knew how long you were supposed to cook? Even those smarties. A whole lotta big brains to get to point A, with a whole lotta guessin' to get to B and more—if they could.
This time.
...
IN THE News
Grant
Madison Kilpatrick,
San Francisco Times
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