Tales from FAR Manor

#FridayFlash: Far From Home

2012-01-27T07:00:00.000-05:00

This is both my #FridayFlash and a teaser for my upcoming novella, Chasing a Rainbow. Like several of my longer stories, it started out as a flash that grew. Here’s a first shot at a blurb for the novella:

The warrior-wizard Chelinn and his friend Lodrán have visited many strange places. But when a curse goes awry, sending them to a place where wondrous yet mundane devices have taken the place of magic, nothing is familiar at first. Then, after stopping a robbery of a game store, they find themselves embroiled in a far more dangerous situation.

As hundreds of lives hang in the balance, two heroes and their new friends must use all their talents to foil an evil plot — and survive until they can catch a rainbow and return home.

This excerpt is very close to the original flash. It’s set in the same world(s) as my earlier #FridayFlash stories What Is Due and Off the Cub, and falls between them chronologically. Feel free to critique both the story and the blurb. (Please!)

Far From Home

Lodrán and Chelinn looked around them wild-eyed, assaulted by eldritch sights and sounds, trying to take it all in. A phantasmagoria of wild flashing colors competed with a cacophony of roaring, bleating, thumping noises. The scent of recent rain battled with a less pleasant smell, a hint of something burned.

After a long minute, Lodrán looked behind him then gripped his friend’s arm. “An alley!” Chelinn took one last look around, then nodded and allowed Lodrán to pull him away from the street.

After the incomprehensible overload of sight and sound, the alley was a familiar if odorous comfort. They ducked behind a large box of some sort, giving them cover and some relief from the strangeness without. The noises from the street followed them into the alley, but muffled enough to allow speech and thought. Unhealthy puddles of standing water, close walls looming above, even the smell of decay, all combined to provide a touchpoint of familiarity. “Some things can’t be changed, eh?” Lodrán grinned, looking around.

“Hm.” The big warrior-wizard rapped the green-painted box with a knuckle. “An alley is an alley. But details? Look. This box is made of iron.” He tapped a shiny spot near the top, where paint had flaked away. “See? Rust. And if my nose does not lie, it’s full of garbage.”

“What? That’s as much iron as we’d find in all of Anlayt or Roth’s Keep, and they… no.” Lodrán sized it up. “A box must have a lid. The way it slopes into the alley, I’d say that’s the front…” he seized the end of the lid and lifted. “Ha! Whew. You’re right — what kind of fools would dedicate such wealth to garbage?”

“The kind of fools for whom iron is near as abundant as water?”

“Impossible. Nowhere in all of Termag is… um.” Lodrán turned to look at his comrade, the question he dared not ask plain on his face.

“Yes. Wherever we are, we’re far from home.”

Lodrán peered around the side of the great metal box, shuddered, and crouched against the wall. “If I get a chance,” he panted, “I’ll kill that priest!”

“Too late.”

“What?”

“I’m sure you already killed him.” Chelinn looked as grim as Lodrán had ever seen. “You spitted him with your spear, right in the middle of his curse. Good thing — those Easterners do things differently, but if I’m right he meant to send our living bodies straight to Hell. Instead, you disrupted him and we’re — wherever we are.”

“I’m not convinced this isn’t Hell!” Lodrán chewed his long mustache, as he often did when nervous or thinking. Instinct led him to crouch in the shadow of the box. Black garb, black hair, tall and thin, Lodrán was a shadow among shadows. Even knowing he was there, Chelinn found him hard to see.

“Courage, man. Hell would not have left us armed —” he patted his sword hilt — “nor provided this quiet alley for our retreat. This is no more Hell than it is Termag. So let us gather our wits and look again at the world beyond this alley.”

After a minute, they retreated again to the shelter of the great iron garbage box. “What did you see?” Lodrán asked.

“Carriages of metal and glass, moving without oxen pulling them. People inside the carriages. Streets of solid stone. Lights flashing in patterns, and patterns have meaning. People walking around without weapons. And our alley. We’re in a city. And you?”

“Storefronts. People walking unconcerned among the carriages. No armed patrols. This place reeks of a long peacetime. And magic.”

“At peace with others, perhaps. But with itself? Hear that?” They paused to listen to a wailing, whooping, chittering cry, a sound they had never heard before. It grew for a moment, then faded. “I don’t need to know the language to know that’s a distress cry. And whatever made it was moving fast.”

“But… didn’t we hear it when we were looking around too?” Chelinn nodded, and Lodrán continued, “Nobody looked concerned then. If we were watching the street now, nobody would do more than look around. I’d put a handful of octagons on that.”

“And you’d be likely to win that bet, my friend. Let me take one more look, then we’ll decide what to do.” Chelinn slipped around their shelter before Lodrán could object.

Lodrán only had a few minutes to wait before his friend reappeared. “I know where we need to go. Come on.”

“Where to?”

“This way,” said Chelinn, reaching the sidewalk and pointing to his right. “What do you see up there?”

“More city. More chaos.”

“No… look up.”

“Hm. The rainbow?”

“Indeed. A rainbow is a bridge between worlds. If we can get to it before it fades, we can cross it and get home.”

“Then let’s catch it.” They started down the sidewalk to their long journey home.

Writing Wibbles

2012-01-25T22:54:00.000-05:00

Welcome to the chatter of a not-so-famous author (for now, heh heh)… Famous and other not-so-famous authors, and of course all readers, are welcome to share their own musings in the comments.

Some time in the last week, Tales from FAR Manor reached the 40,000 pageview mark. Actually, it reached that mark a while ago — stats only go back to May 2009 and the blog has been around for four years longer than that. I figure a lot of that traffic is spambots, judging from what lands in the moderation and spam filters.

Oh, speaking of pageviews: Three Sprites, One Silent has edged past Geek vs. Zombies as my most-viewed #FridayFlash story — the current count is 204 to 203 right now.

My Monday post about iBooks Author has done pretty well. It’s likely one of the most retweeted essays I’ve posted to date. If I wasn’t writing so much fiction, I’d try to turn out more essays like these. But there’s only 24 hours in a day, and I usually get less than one of them to spend writing.

So… maybe I’m not-so-famous now, but you never know, right? I’m sure if my stories get any serious traction, I’ll have people asking me things like “where do you get your ideas?” The answer is the question — or to make it easier to parse, the answer is “the question.” That’s how I handled the “one prompt, three genres” challenge: I looked at the picture and asked three questions:

what’s a stump doing in the water? (Three Sprites, One Silent)
what’s in that hollow? (Feast)
what was on that tree before it was cut and flooded? (Initials)

White Pickups was originally a piece of flash fiction. I asked, “what happens next?” and 150,000 words later… More recently, I got feedback from Craig W.F. Smith’s beta read on Chasing a Rainbow. One of his comments was, “opens it up for sequels.” I thought to myself, “what would happen next?” and I got the answer in a Download From God. I figure while I’m waiting to get unstuck on Pickups and Pestilence, I’ll see where this goes. I don’t have even a working title for it, but do think it’ll run about 12,000 words.

[UPDATE] Now that it’s Thursday, I can share some new news. I’ve joined the TuesdaySerial staff! There’s an interview with yours truly at the link. If you’re writing (or podcasting) serial fiction, be sure to leave a link in the collector on Tuesdays, midnight to midnight (Eastern US time).

iBooks Author: the REAL Problem

2012-01-23T23:34:00.000-05:00

APPLE WANTS TO
EAT YOUR COPYRIGHT!

There has been a lot of sensationalist “reporting,” breathlessly repeated on Twitter, about the licensing terms for Apple’s new iBooks Author app. I’m not going to reward blind panic with links, but I’m sure you can Google your way to something that would be “enlightenment” if there were any useful information to be gleaned from that link-bait. This fish ain’t bitin’.

The big problem is: there’s something that we, both authors and eReader owners, need to worry about and the link-bait articles aren’t telling us about it. And iBooks Author is only half of it.

Let’s take a look at the clause in the iBooks Author licensing agreement that has all the link-baiters going ballistic. Fortunately, it’s like the third paragraph down in the licensing agreement (under “IMPORTANT NOTE,” emphasis mine):

If you charge a fee for any book or other work you generate using this software (a “Work”), you may only sell or distribute such Work through Apple (e.g. through the iBookstore) and such distribution will be subject to a separate agreement with Apple.

XKCD always puts things in perspective.

I’ve bolded the part that should (but won’t) hush up the link-baiters and the fish that continue to bite at it. Let me make it clear:

Apple is only restricting the output of the software. What you do with eBooks generated by any other means is your own freeking business.

So basically, you can take your MSS and feed it to Amazon, Smashwords, or anywhere else you like. But if you’re selling your book (and aren’t we all?), the version you generate using iBooks Author — and only the version you generate using iBooks Author — has to be sold on the iBookstore. Apple may or may not approve it for sale, as they do for iOS apps on the App Store.

A lot of indie writers have talked about the problems we face, often put succinctly as “now that anyone can publish a novel, anyone does.” Most of us want to put our best foot forward, providing an engaging story at a price that won’t break readers’ banks while giving us the opportunity to earn some recompense for the work we put into bringing that story to the readers. Unfortunately, we are often lumped in with those who just throw whatever they have onto the eBook stores. What Apple is doing is attempting to guarantee some measure of quality (what measure that may be, I have deliberately left undefined) for people who want to sell enhanced eBooks in the iBookstore. Instead of welcoming this development, authors are running around with their hair on fire.

The Real Problem

Unfortunately, iBooks Author presents half of a real problem, one that nobody else is talking about. The other half is presented by… Kindle Format 8. Right up until the new year, we had to deal with only two eBook formats: MOBI (Kindle) and ePUB (everyone else). Both formats are well-standardized — you can build an ePUB by hand if you really want to (I’ve done it) and convert it to MOBI using Amazon’s free KindleGen utility. Now we have Apple’s extension to ePUB (i.e. iBooks Author) and Amazon’s extension to MOBI (Kindle Format 8) — and who’s to say B&N won’t jump into the game with their own incompatible extensions for Nook Color?

In short, it’s the browser wars all over again. The only winner of that war will be traditional publishers.

People writing technical documents, comics, and other works that require more formatting options than current eReaders offer are the ones in a bind here. They’ll have to live with the possibility that what works now might not work next year. They'll have to determine whether it’s worth the effort to work with features that are coded differently in different tablet eReaders, or if they should just work with one eReader and not the other.

I’d like to see a few zillion pixels dedicated to this instead of a misread licensing clause.

#FridayFlash: Initials

2012-01-20T00:07:00.000-05:00

Here’s the last of my “one photo, three genres” series. I had originally planned a sci-fi piece to finish it up, but I just wasn’t feeling it. This slice-of-life gelled better for me, but I did manage to allude to the sci-fi version in the story.

The other two stories in this series are:

Three Sprites, One Silent (fantasy)
Feast (horror)

Initials

“Wow,” said Sarah, looking around the park. “Things sure have changed.”

“At least we’re the same.” Earl smiled and squeezed her hand. “Even if we’ve been different most of our lives.”

“Not the same, really. We’re not kids anymore.”

“Whoa. When did they put a lake in here?” Earl stopped at the top of the hill, looking over the water.

Sarah shook her head. “Do you think it’s still here?”

“Maybe. That’s the pavilion. If they didn’t move that too, it’s probably right along the water.”

“Maybe it’s that stump down there in the water.” Sarah laughed. “Maybe if our families hadn’t moved away…”

“We couldn’t have stopped them putting a lake in here!”

“Yeah, but we might have done something else…” Sarah’s gaze went far away, looking across all that happened since they carved their initials in that tree: moving away, losing touch, marrying (other people), divorcing, finding each other on Twitter…

“You know what, Sarah? I think it is that stump. I really think it is.” The downhill slope pulled at them, but something else pulled harder, and they quickened their pace to the water’s edge.

“Will it be there, you think?” Sarah’s breath came quick, not just from the near-run.

“I don’t know. It’s cut kind of low, but how deep is the water?”

“You’re right — it really is our tree! Remember how it was hollow at the bottom?”

“Yeah. I made up a story about how some tiny aliens lived in the hollow and used it for a listening outpost.”

Sarah laughed. “I remember that! I thought it was funny, in a weird sort of way.”

“See that?” Earl pointed to the side of the stump. “That’s part of it, anyway.”

Sarah peered, leaning farther over the water than Earl thought prudent; he took her hand and braced himself. Along the jagged top edge of the stump, she thought she could make out the last part:

4EVER

“Forever. Yes,” she said. She let Earl pull her upright, then hugged him there on the water’s edge.

“We can’t smooch under the tree now,” he said, “but maybe we can find another tree. One a little farther up the hill.” He patted his pocket. “I just happened to bring a knife.”

Writing (Editing, really) Wibbles

2012-01-19T23:28:00.000-05:00

True to my word, I let Chasing a Rainbow sit for a week before looking it over. I printed it out and plunked myself down, pen in hand.

Before I continue, I should point out that I recognize three levels of editing severity:

scalpel
hatchet
chain saw

This one fell into “scalpel” territory — I found things that needed fixing or tweaking, move a sentence, that sort of thing. Nothing major. Thinking maybe it was still too fresh, I went through the entire thing backwards. This worked very well for me when editing Xenocide, so I expected good things to come of the reverse pass.

I think I found two typos in 17,000 words. So far so scary.

Figuring I could just get embarrassed by a beta reader, I exported a MOBI and copied it into my Kindle to look over. Then I started finding things.

Meanwhile, the person I really wanted to beta-read this — Craig WF Smith — volunteered. W00T! So now it’s off to beta, and I’m looking forward to the results.

Now I need to bang out a #FridayFlash… like really quick.

Winter on the Patio

2012-01-17T00:01:00.002-05:00

As always, winter on Planet Georgia is confused: it’s warmest out when it’s cloudy. After a couple chilly nights during the week, temperatures recovered to roughly normal for the long weekend. Mrs. Fetched’s mom said she had some play sand a while back, and I finally brought it up to the manor. We put a coat and “boggin” (wooly cap) on Mason, the same on me, and we went out to the patio.

This worked out fairly well, except that Mason wanted to treat the sand the same way he treated the water during warmer weather: something to fling in all directions. I was only partially successful in dissuading him. Otherwise, I sat back and played with my phone — and found that the wifi carried all the way out to the patio… sweeeeet. The sand was much warmer on bare hands than water could be, a major plus.

Then Mrs. Fetched brought Skylar up. Mason was not happy about this at first, but they shortly worked things out and started flinging sand everywhere. sigh I built a fire in the table and kept my feet warm while watching the kids play. Except for one or two brief shouting matches, they played pretty well together.

Naturally, it wasn’t all that long before they decided to explore a little. This was mostly wading through where I’d piled the leaves from the back yard, and they came right back when I told them to (it’s a miracle, I tell you!).

Finally, lunch called and we all went inside. With rain coming tomorrow, I put the covers on things and left the spilled sand where it lie. It’ll likely wash in between the tiles, where it will possibly do some good.

#FridayFlash: Feast

2012-01-12T23:43:00.000-05:00

Here's the second of my “one photo, three genres” prompt. This one is horror.

Feast

That tiny bird I caught yesterday is long gone. The only blood I’ve tasted in a week. My stomach rumbles.

I am so hungry. As always.

Curse the Fate and Powers, leading me to this hollow tree so many years ago! It seemed a good place to sleep, sheltered from the sun and away from prying eyes. But when I awoke, it was surrounded by this hated water and has been ever since. It is said that vampires cannot cross running water. I cannot touch water.

A ripple… fish sometimes find their way here, but the hunger cannot overcome my hatred of the water where they live. Once a fish jumped, and I caught it. I nearly fell into the water from whence it came, but claws and teeth held fast and I ate. So good… but this ripple is a turtle. They never come far enough out to catch, so I can only imagine what it would be like to crunch through that shell.

Voices. Human voices. I smell them, see them in the fading evening light, and curse the Powers anew. For they are young. Big enough to be a good meal, young enough that the sweetness has not been squeezed out of them.

One male, one female. They lay on a blanket and begin their mating ritual, pressing their mouths together, moving their hands here and there. So disgusting. Were I not trapped here, even sated, I would kill them both just to make it stop. Their clothing begins to fall away, as if to tantalize me. That stuff is tasty and nutritious as tree bark. But the flesh… oh, the flesh…

The female, now naked, springs up laughing and runs to the shore. The male follows, and she slips into the water… so close, yet out of reach. And if I let hunger do the thinking, what would happen if the other saw me and ran? I would be helpless to flee.

He follows her into the water, she retreats. Ever closer. My drool sizzles as it strikes the water. He catches her, and they press their mouths together once again. She wraps her legs around him as they join… so disgusting… they stagger into my tree, moaning and squirming.

I say a quick prayer of forgiveness to the Powers whom I have cursed for so long. I will be strong, perhaps strong enough to leap clear of this prison. If not, I can use their bones as stilts. I will be free tomorrow.

But today I feast.

Writing Wibbles

2012-01-11T00:12:00.000-05:00

As always, let’s start with a big FAR Manor welcome for the new blog followers:

Thaddeus Howze — fantasy writer and computer technologist
Nicola Slade — a fine UK-based writer of fine cozy books of my acquaintance — hi Nicky!

Visitor badges are on the table, as always.

Sometimes, writing is like chasing a receding goalpost — but sometimes you catch it anyway. I finished Chasing a Rainbow over the weekend, a total of just over 17,000 words. After a quick typo pass, I decided to let it marinate for a week before starting a paper edit this weekend.

I’m also thinking about how I want to release it on an unsuspecting world. I know some authors have had good luck podcasting their stories, so I’m seriously considering that route (once again, with the ability to buy the eBook right away). Boran may take a shot at painting the cover, which would be pretty cool. That would give me time to make sure the story is in good shape, so it’s likely to see the light of 'pod sometime later this year.

Not much movement on the White Pickups front. sigh I’m in a similar blockage mode with Pickups and Pestilence that I was at one point with White Pickups, which suggests to me that I might be pushing the story in the wrong direction. Whatever it is I’m doing wrong, I hope the characters will let me know soon. I’m about ⅔ done with the story.

The “one photo, three genres” project is off to a roaring start. Three Sprites, One Silent has (as I type) 199 reads, which puts it very close to being my all-time most read #FridayFlash. Only Geek vs. Zombies has passed the 200 mark so far, and that just barely (at 201). I hope the next one is as well-received.

Speaking of #FridayFlash, my Christmas/motorcycle/horror story To Begin With was named #FridayFlash of the Month for December! I got interviewed and everything — go check it out! Good publicity is good publicity, you know.

And… there’s some other cool publicity-related stuff I'll get to next week…

While Amazon is officially discouraging authors giving out eBook sales figures, I think it’s safe to say that Xenocide hasn’t exactly marched to the top of the best-seller lists on either Amazon or Smashwords. Especially Smashwords. Even with a coupon that made it free, I only got a few more Smashwords free downloads than I did Amazon sales. It makes me glad that publishing Xenocide was a trial run, to see how much effort it took and what I’d need to do to smooth the path for the White Pickups release. But given the numbers, I’m seriously questioning whether it’s worth the effort to release an ePUB on Smashwords, even with the automatic distribution to Nook/Sony/iBooks/etc.

While a quick Google suggests the eReader market is split 67%/22%/11% between Kindle, Nook, and the rest, I also found an eBook sales page that suggests eBook sales are split 58%/27%/9%/6% between Amazon, B&N, iBooks, and the rest — which says that Nook users buy more eBooks than Kindle users. But my experience, and what at least some others are seeing, doesn't line up with this. For example, indie author Stephen Knight posted his sales figures on Monday, and to say his numbers are heavily skewed toward Amazon is an understatement (over 95% of his revenue came from Amazon!). This suggests to me that adding one’s books to Kindle Prime, which makes them Kindle-exclusive for the duration, doesn’t leave much money on the table. I’m not sure what’s happening here — it would be interesting to see how other writers are doing — but it could be that indies are having an easier time of it on Amazon’s store.

We’re all groping our way forward in the dark. Beware of people trying to sell flashlights.

#FridayFlash: Three Sprites, One Silent

2012-01-05T22:39:00.000-05:00

I set myself a challenge: write three different stories, each of a different genre, based on the same photo. The first one is a fantasy.

Three Sprites, One Silent

Photo: Larry Kollar, March 2009

Morning Mist, true to her name, came a-knocking in the first light of dawn as she did every sunrise.

“Urrf,” came the response from the stump.

“Morning has broken!”

“So?”

Morning Mist said nothing, and Gnarlbark soon poked her hoary head out of the hollow. Like the stump she lived in, she looked sodden and worn. “Every morning the same thing,” she grumbled. “And my answer is the same as it is every morning. I will not leave my tree.”

“And I will ask the same question I ask every morning: why? It is but a lifeless stump, surrounded by water. My water.”

“I will not leave. I will not give in to the humans. Or you.”

The naiad grinned. “Oh, pish. You speak of humans as if they are Evil Made Flesh.”

“Humans cut down my tree and drowned its roots. I have good reason to think such.”

“And the same humans dammed my creek, making this lovely pond. Have I not done well with what they gave me?”

Gnarlbark scowled. “Oh, yes. The humans are wonderful. They keep your pond so clean.” She glared at a can floating silent in the water nearby, an empty container for one of their horrid beverages. The can was green as a spring leaf, the greenest thing to be seen this winter morning. It was adorned with white spots and the human script that neither naiad nor dryad had bothered to learn.

“At least it’s aluminum.” Morning Mist gave it a playful slap, and the can flipped onto the weedy shore before slowly rolling back into the water. “Remember when they were iron?”

“All too well. I have felt their iron nails pierce bark and living wood. Their iron fencing…” She shuddered. “Humans bring pain to trees.”

“As do squirrels and birds. Humans are a force of nature, no matter how they may deny it. As are we. And they left plenty of trees just up the bank.” The naiad waved a dainty hand at the woods above them. “There stand many suitable oak trees that would welcome a dryad’s loving care.”

“Until a human cuts them down.”

“Or storm or beetle does the same. At least humans make use of what they cut.”

“And what use do they make of their aluminum containers, when they have drank their fill?” Gnarlbark gave the can a dark look as it floated toward them, rocking with the ripples and turning itself slowly. “Human refuse, have you any wisdom to impart in this matter?”

The green can said nothing, but fetched up against the tree in a gentle caress.

“It seems as if the can likes your tree,” Morning Mist’s laugh was the sound of a creek running over rocks. “Perhaps it is advising you to stay.”

“Then it indeed has some wisdom to impart.” Gnarlbark reached down and lifted the human thing from the water, holding it so the pond water could drain away. “As for us, naiad, we have our charges to attend to.”

“Indeed we do,” Morning Mist swam away, rippling the cattails along the shore as she went. “I will speak to you again with tomorrow’s sunrise.”

“We will be waiting for you here.”

Writing Wibbles

2012-01-04T23:37:00.001-05:00

Oh look, two new followers to welcome!

Chris Morton — a Taiwan-based writer who occasionally gets back home to the UK…
Russell 1200 — “deep background on the human (inevitably) terminal condition”

Your visitor badges are on the table. Please, no flash photography.

I hoped (but did not expect) to get a lot of writing done during the two weeks I had off. It could have been worse — the holiday put a crimp in the writing time, but I did manage to write some. I even got on a roll… not with Pickups and Pestilence, but with Chasing a Rainbow. As with most of the tales I take on, it grew in the telling. I originally expected it to run about 10,000 words. I’m closing in on the end, I hope, and the current word count is 16,000. I think another thousand words will put this one to bed… a 70% overrun. Considering I originally expected White Pickups to be 30,000 words, and the current estimate is 180,000 (a 600% overrun), my estimates are improving!

Something interesting I’ve noted: sometimes, it feels like I have to push the first 200 words through the keyboard. At some point, without my realizing it, the next 800 (or more) words just flow out. It’s like pushing a car over the hill; gravity just takes over and I’m just along for the ride.

I’m not sure whether I’ll serialize Chasing (probably), or offer it for a buck on the eBook sites like with Xenocide, or both. By the way, the latter is currently free on Smashwords, using coupon code CE84M until the 10^th. I’ve had a few Xenocide sales, not enough to get to the payout level, and just a few more free downloads than purchases since I set up the coupon. I’d like to see a review or two, even tepid ones so I’ll know what to improve in my writing.

One problem with releasing Chasing as an eBook is that I have no book cover for it, nor any ideas for one. Oh well, that gives me time to shake out typos and other issues. But I’ll probably have to design my own cover, since (unless I’m pleasantly surprised) it’s unlikely I’ll get enough sales to cover the expense of having it done for me.

I need a 36-hour day.

New Year, New Boarder

2012-01-02T00:11:00.000-05:00

Everyone else is doing a New Year’s post, so I’ll do something different.

Thursday night, Daughter Dearest and I were coming home from running errands. I turned into the driveway, and…

“Looks like one of our cats got out!” I said, hitting the brakes. “How did that happen?”

“If it’s one of ours.” She jumped out of the car and walked over to the cat, who stretched himself up DD’s leg. He had no collar, and no problem with her scooping him up and getting back in the car with him. With a closer look, I could see he wasn’t one of ours: he’s a long-hair and his markings are mainly on his face. Mrs. Fetched let him come inside and he quickly made himself at home — it was obvious to us that he was a pampered indoor cat. We figured there would be “lost cat” signs up pretty soon, and we could facilitate a joyous reunion.

Suddenly… Mrs. Fetched wrinkled her nose. “He sprayed something!” We put the visitor in the garage and started hunting. We only smelled it in the living room; Daughter Dearest was the one to hit on the idea of bringing Pip in from the porch to see if he could find it. He was soon sniffing the tree apron and (after confirming) we chucked the apron in the washer. The smell went away soon after.

Despite his banishment, he seems to have adopted us. Mrs. Fetched thinks he was someone’s pampered kitten who was disenfranchised after he started spraying his original home, and those “lost cat” signs may never materialize. So I named him Stinkbomb, and Daughter Dearest named him Prince because he’s so spoiled. So we put our heads together, and came up with his full name: His Royal Highness, Prince Stinky McSpraygun.

Anyway. If you live on Planet Georgia, and have lost a cat who looks like this one, let me know.

#FridayFlash: Poltergeist Pranks

2011-12-30T16:47:00.000-05:00

I had a dream a couple weeks ago, and thought it would make an interesting story…

Poltergeist Pranks

I loved how the apartment smelled on Saturday afternoons: Jean all sweaty from helping the physical therapist in the morning, the lunch we fixed, the musk of lovemaking for dessert. I was getting used to how she’d nap afterwards, sprawled naked on her back, taking up most of the bed. We’d catch up on our homework later on, maybe meet some friends this evening, more love later. The sweet life for a couple of college students.

I slid out of bed, making sure she was covered, and padded to the bathroom. It was October, still nice out, and the window was open about six inches. I slid the condom into the trash then stood at the toilet.

Maybe I should mention the poltergeist. That’s why this apartment is so cheap: it’s haunted.

To say I missed the bowl would be an understatement. About three inches from the porcelain, the stream took a right angle turn and went out the window. I had time to say, “Oh great,” before the shouting and cursing began. I finished and took a peek through the blinds: frat rats. Five or six of them.

“Dammit,” I whispered. “Now they’re gonna pound on the door and wake up Jean.” The only reply was a brief chill and a hollow sound that could have been a snicker. My poltergeist had an odd sense of humor, and didn’t like frat rats. Seeing as a hazing gone wrong ended its living phase, I could understand that. Since I also like weird humor, we reached an accommodation early on. It and Jean are okay too, one more reason why I love her.

I had just enough time to throw some clothes on before the pounding started. Jean slept on, to my surprise. It must have been really good for her. Muffled voices joined the pounding: “Open the damn door or we’ll break it down!” “You think you’re smart?” “Get out here!” “Hey, this is the apartment where —”

With a sigh, I opened the door. “What?”

The dampened frat rats froze for a moment, then screamed and ran for the stairs. Behind me, I heard a familiar sound: Jean laughing. I turned to find her in my robe, doubled over, and grinned. Her humor was infectious. “What’s so funny?”

“Oh God, Mike, you should have seen yourself just now! Eight feet tall, green, and you were holding an axe over your head! I wish I could’ve gotten a picture!”

After a minute to think about it, I sputtered and then joined the laughter. You gotta laugh about this stuff. It’s so much easier than finding an affordable, non-haunted apartment.

A Smooth Visit

2011-12-29T23:20:00.000-05:00

Well, as smooth as anything ever goes around FAR Manor, anyway. There were no episodes of Daughter Dearest committing mayhem on Snippet, or even a heated argument. But it wasn’t completely uneventful…

The Boy and Snippet arrived Christmas Eve, almost exactly when expected. I got to talk with The Boy a while outside that afternoon. He seems to really like Manitowoc; he said he plans to stay there two or three years. He’s been working at a snow blower factory, which seems like a pretty steady job in Wisconsin although they haven’t had much snow there this year. He texted me a pic last week (before arriving) of a dusting of snow, with the comment “this is the first snow that stuck for more than five minutes.” It’s been a pretty mild winter so far, north as well as south. But he thinks he has a better job lined up when he gets back… one with good benefits and better pay. That would be good!

Of course, they were off visiting friends pretty much every evening except the last. Mason mostly enjoyed having them around, although he seemed relieved when they were gone. Toddlers do like their routines, and don’t like having them disrupted.

Snippet was mostly on her best behavior while she was here. Mrs. Fetched printed out several of these shots and included them in Christmas cards, including the one for The Boy and Snippet. She opened the card and squealed.

“What is it? A $100 bill?” our friend Jacob asked.

“No, it’s better!” She waved the picture around.

Okay… when someone says a photo I took is better than a $100 bill, it becomes rather difficult to say bad things about that person afterwards. Really, the only problem we had with Snippet is that she seemed to have an upset stomach. A lot.

You think she’s preg? Daughter Dearest texted me (from across the room) at one point. I really really don’t want to think about that possibility. Texting or IM’ing someone in the same room is a kind of telepathy, when you think about it… nobody else can hear what you say FARf! focus!

Anyway. She got better, good enough to go to iHop with us for lunch. One of her friends is working there, was on duty, and they had a nice chat. Snippet had a job at an ice cream factory (imagine that, a dairy job in Wisconsin… almost as strange as a poultry job in Georgia), but it melted away and now she’s at the local Applebee’s. So she told her friend, “If we move back, I could work at Applebee’s and Calvin Klein!” (she worked at the latter in the outlet mall before moving). Mrs. Fetched looked at Snippet, while I looked at The Boy. He didn’t show any reaction at all… like he just tuned her out.

Mason and I both got “happy place” presents. He got the train table shown here, and has left it only reluctantly since Christmas. Mrs. Fetched’s older sister, the sane one (because she lives like 90 miles away) got a new iPhone 4S, stuck her old iPhone 4 into its original box, and gave it to me. SCORE! Her daughter, Cousin Al (long story) gave me a hard-case for it. It doesn’t have Siri, but it works a HELL of a lot better than that crappy-ass Sony-Ericsson thing. I’m looking forward to no random crashes. I just need to get the photos off the old phone now.

There was much of the 3 Fs — friends, family, food — and that’s the part of Christmas I can get into. Of course, that meant I didn’t spend as much time with my online friends as I would have liked, but something’s gotta give when you only have a 24-hour day (and have to sleep for ⅓ of that). I would have liked more time with The Boy, and would have liked to see Snippet make an effort to spend more time with Mason, but overall I think things went much better than expected.

Then came Tuesday. It started out pretty good: I cashed the check that Dad sent, bought a Kindle 3 and a couple $5 CDs (Styx and Journey if you want to know)… and Daughter Dearest’s present for Dia de los Reyes, plus printer ink for her and Mrs. Fetched’s printers. Total: $300, and would have ran more if they’d had a Kindle case I liked. By the way, the Kindle 2 cases aren’t compatible with the Kindle 3. slaps Amazon upside If anyone has $50 that they want to throw away, you can buy me the lighted cover. I plan to de-register my old Kindle 2 and pass it (plus cover) to a friend of mine who wants an eReader. Of course, I’ll leave an ARC of White Pickups, plus Xenocide and a few Project Gutenberg goodies on it.

But I digress. The Boy and Snippet wanted to visit her dad, who is currently in Marietta, and take Mason with them. It’s one of those things that I haven’t managed to wrap my head around, the idea that Mason has another grandfather, but we got our act together and moved the car seat over so they could go. What they didn’t bother to mention was that they went about 40 miles out of the way to pick up a friend and take him along (some things never change). So… we were done with the “blow the Christmas money” spree, and on the way home, when The Boy called: “My car broke down at McFarland Road.”

Yee. Haw. Fortunately, we left the Civic near the freeway. We called our favorite towing service, and the girlies went on home while I went down to pick up the warm bodies — especially Mason. The tow truck was already there, so that was taken care of. That’s when I found out about the friend, but we crammed everyone into the car and got rolling. That’s when Snippet opined, “Maybe we should just stay here.” Again, The Boy gave no reaction. Snippet was less than enthusiastic about this whole “move north” thing to begin with, and she was hoping they’d just stay here once they got here. I had sort of expected them to stay, but they didn’t.

The car was a relatively easy fix: it mostly needed a major tune-up (and a valve cover gasket). So… $100 for the tow bill, $250 for the repairs, and they departed about seven hours behind their original schedule. And yes, we’re the ones who paid for it. Almost worth it to send Snippet on her way, although it would have been better if The Boy had sent her and stayed here. They departed with a car packed to the gills, plus a big carrier that somehow didn’t fall off the roof. Good thing they’re all skinny.

The interesting thing was Mason’s reaction. He seemed to think he was going to go with them, and was relieved when he stayed behind. He was happy to say “bye-bye” even if he enjoyed having his bioparents around for a few days. I hope that one day, not too far in the future, they’ll be able to give him the kind of attention he needs… I’ll miss Mason big-time, but for now he’s where he belongs.

#TuesdaySerial: Xenocide, pt 11 [CONCLUSION]

2011-12-27T07:00:00.000-05:00

Previous episodes: Part 1 • Part 2 • Part 3 • Part 4 • Part 5 • Part 6 • Part 7 • Part 8 • Part 9 • Part 10

Xenocide, part 11
Conclusion

The flashing blues strobed the immediate area, but got in my eyes as well. Distant streetlights, porch lights, and jack-o’-lanterns didn’t help. I heard Tenesha grunt and curse, saw her twisting in the grip of… someone. Another man stood to the side; he and Noble had weapons pointed at each other in what they used to call a “Mexican standoff.”

When in doubt, act like you’re in control. “Police!” I barked, aiming at the man holding Tenesha. “Let her go and put your hands on your head! You’re under arrest!”

Noble picked up on that. “Drop your weapon!”

I heard a man laugh from Tenesha’s direction, then Jobst’s voice: “You did this, you moron. We tried to do you a favor, and you blow our cover? Nice.”

“I don’t consider sending an innocent kid to prison doing me a favor.”

“Why? He’s just a pothead punk. If we don’t do it, you’ll have to bust him later on. And who knows who he’d hurt along the way?”

“I don’t know how you do things in spook-land, but this is America,” I said. “And the CIA isn’t authorized to operate on American soil, so you’re way out of your jurisdiction. You hurt her, the only way you’ll see Quantico again is feet-first.”

“You don’t have a clue what you’re dealing with here,” said Jobst, sounding strained as Tenesha continued to struggle. “The victim’s — people — have been in touch. They want justice.”

“You know as well as I do that Danny Freeman did the shooting,” I said. “Justice isn’t justice if you ignore the perp and just yank an innocent citizen off the street. Give them Freeman —”

“No!” the other man yelled.

“— and they get justice. Give them anyone else, and it’s just random vengeance.” I glanced at the other man. “I know it’s your father, but you can’t protect him by sacrificing a kid!”

“Leave him out of this!” Freeman Jr. yelled, turning his gun my way.

Noble saw an opportunity, and took the shot. Freeman went down, bellowing, clutching his shoulder.

Jobst took a shot at me from can’t-miss range — thank God Tenesha’s thrashing threw his aim off. His bullet hit the trunk of the patrol car and zinged past me, making me flinch back before I could return fire. With a frustrated cry, Tenesha broke free but she fell at his feet. He glared at me, took aim at her —

Then something flew out of the dark and smacked Jobst in the side of his head, making a hollow wet thwop. Jobst grunted and staggered, gun-hand flailing, and I took him down.

“Tenesha? You okay?” I called.

“Yeah.” She got to her feet. “What about you?”

“Fine, thanks to you. You think you can keep these assholes alive until the ambulance gets here?”

“If I have to.” She gave Jobst a murderous glance. Noble was already cuffing and searching Freeman Jr. “What happened just now? One second I thought I’d had it; the next, he took one upside the head! Who —”

“The Headless Horseman,” a voice called from the darkness. A familiar, youthful voice. I got the flashlight from Noble’s car and shone it on Jobst. Nearby, a pumpkin — the little ones used for Hallowe’en decorations — lay half-smashed, some of its guts spread over Jobst’s head and suit. I shone the light toward the voice, but Jacob Moss had already disappeared into the dark. I shrugged and secured Jobst.

Freeman and Jobst lived, but they might have preferred otherwise. After a hurried discussion with the sheriff and Doc Dix, we called in a news crew from downtown and gave them the whole story, just in time to make the 11 o’clock news. As Sheriff Carmichael put it, “we just turn on the lights and watch the roaches scatter.” We didn’t feel like we had a choice, though — letting Jobst and Freeman go quietly into the night (Sarah Plant was long gone) would have left us with no guarantees that they wouldn’t just grab some other innocent, here or elsewhere.

Politics and news sensations being what they are, we didn’t get much of a break for a while. We charged the perps with conspiracy, credit card fraud, assault, and attempting to pervert the course of justice — not that it mattered, they disappeared from the hospital and were never seen again. Our worthless Congressman vowed to launch an investigation into the matter, but never did. Being on the Intelligence Committee, it’s likely he knew what was happening all along. The sheriff did his time in front of the cameras, looking pleased with a job well-done. He had two years left in his term, but people would remember this. I’d have been surprised if anyone tried to unseat him. With proof positive that we weren’t alone in the universe, people started acting a little different toward each other. A little better.

As for Tenesha and me, the spotlight turned away from us after a few days and we finally got an evening uninterrupted. I won’t go into details, but it went well and we’re still together. We don’t think of ourselves as an interracial couple — because after you’ve seen an alien up close, those kind of differences just aren’t important.

THE END

Want to read it offline? The whole story is available on Amazon and Smashwords!

#FridayFlash: Up On the Tree Top

2011-12-23T11:29:00.003-05:00

My story this week is over at The Were-Traveler, part of the “Creepy Christmas” issue.

Linkys: entire issue and my story.

#TuesdaySerial: Xenocide, pt 10

2011-12-20T07:00:00.000-05:00

Previous episodes: Part 1 • Part 2 • Part 3 • Part 4 • Part 5 • Part 6 • Part 7 • Part 8 • Part 9

Xenocide, part 10
Date-us Interruptus

I went straight to Ruth’s from the Moss place — but Tenesha was there first, keeping the corner booth warm. She and a cold beer were waiting for me.

“Only fifteen minutes early?” she pretended to chide me. “What could possibly keep you?”

“Wrapping up a case,” I grinned, setting my radio against the wall. She listened wide-eyed as I filled her in on the details. “So if our Fed friends have any sense, they’ve already tucked in their tails and are running back to Washington as we speak. The — the victim isn’t getting justice, but pinning it on an innocent kid would be worse than no justice.”

“Yeah.” She looked off to the side. “I ordered us some supper.” The waitress came over and dropped off a plate of nachos and another one of cheesy fries. “I figured we’d need a little extra luck tonight,” she said, maneuvering a cheesy fry to her mouth without losing any of the cheese goo. We ate, we drank, we were merry for a little while.

“Fourteen,” said my radio. That was my code. I gave it the finger before I picked it up, and Tenesha shook with suppressed laughter.

“Fourteen here.”

“Disturbance at 638 Sherman.”

“On the way.” I looked at Tenesha. “That’s just down from the Moss place. Sounds like they’re not smart enough to let this drop after all.”

“I’m coming with you,” she said. The look she gave me said and you’d better not argue. She got a to-go box for the leftovers.

On the way, something occurred to me. I picked up the radio. “Seventeen, this is Fourteen.”

“Seventeen.”

“Any disturbance down the way?”

“Negative.”

I frowned. We had Noble watching the Moss residence, because he would recognize the not-FBI agents best, what they drove, and so forth. Something wasn’t right here.

“They’re trying to draw you out,” Tenesha said.

“Yeah.” I picked up the radio again. “Fourteen to dispatch.”

“Dispatch.”

“Has anyone called in a disturbance at 638 Sherman?”

“Negative, Fourteen.”

“Ten-four.” I rounded the corner onto Sherman. “Maybe I ought to take you back to Ruth’s. I don’t think they pulled this stunt to give me a box of doughnuts.”

“You need backup.” That no-argument tone again. I might have resented it if she wasn’t right.

“Seventeen, this is Fourteen. You see our lights?” I flashed the brights down the street.

“Ten-four.”

“We might have a problem. One needing backup.” I didn’t see anything out of the ordinary, but that wasn’t assuring.

“Come around and park behind me, then.” When in doubt, follow orders and stick to your post. Noble couldn’t bring backup to me, but I could bring myself to the backup.

“Ten-four.” I drove past Noble’s patrol car, then turned around in the next driveway down and slipped behind him. “You should be okay here,” I told Tenesha, and slipped out of the car.

Noble had his motor running, the heater doing what it could to keep the chill October night air from invading through the open window. The sound and smell of the exhaust felt reassuring, somehow. “Everything going okay then?” I asked him.

“Yup. Just did my hourly checkup ten minutes ago. The Moss family has gathered no rolling stones.”

“Clever. Sounds like their new scapegoat is yours truly.” I filled him in on the call.

“Yeah, I was wondering what that was about —”

I heard a door open, and Tenesha’s “No!” A second later, I was crouching behind the car, gun out. Noble lit his blues, then rolled out and came up hot. “Tenesha!” I yelled, squinting, looking for a target in the flashing light as Noble worked his way around the hood.

to be continued…

Can’t wait to see how it ends? The whole story is available on Amazon and Smashwords!

Skylar, "Latchkey" Kid

2011-12-19T23:29:00.000-05:00

I was trying to catch up on Twitter this afternoon, when I looked out the window and saw Big V cruising up the driveway in her power-chair. I shouted an alarm, and Mrs. Fetched and Daughter Dearest went out to see what was going on.

“I need you to call 911,” she said, “Skylar has locked himself in the car.” Now for those sharp readers (which, since you’re reading TFM, is all of you) who were wondering why she didn’t make the call herself, she dropped her cellphone in the toilet yesterday. Which makes it a smellphone for sure! Turns out that Cousin Splat was cleaning out the car, and Skylar wanted to “help.” Of course, there is no second set of keys for their car.

The 911 dispatcher asked Mrs. Fetched if the toddler was stressed. “No,” she said, “but his grandmother is pretty stressed!” That got a chuckle out of dispatch. I figured I’d better go down there myself, just in case there was something I could do… and passed Big V (and her German Shepherd with the huge schnozz) on the way.

Skylar is (when he’s not throwing a random fit) the Zen Master of toddlers. He was chattering nonsense, poking at various things, and not concerned in the least about being locked in an Impala. Cousin Splat (his dad) and I tried to get him to poke the power unlock, to no avail. I thought about trying to get him to push buttons on the key fob, but the keys were in the ignition and decided that wouldn’t be a good idea. The car has an interlock where you can’t shift out of park unless you’re hitting the brakes, but still. Big V got in on the act, and the schnozzlehound got between her and me when she started sounding upset… like I was the problem here.

The cop showed up at last, and had me hold the flashlight on the driver door latch while he ran a gadget between a window and the weatherstripping. Skylar got interested in the thing poking in the car, and started pushing on it. This was actually helpful (for a change), since it gave the cop enough leverage on the latch to pop it.

“His diaper is pretty wet,” said Cousin Splat, carrying him inside.

“Yeah, you probably have to change your pants too, after that!” Big V opined.

I think they’re going to get a spare key made first thing tomorrow.

Christmas Cheer, all in one place

2011-12-19T14:33:00.001-05:00

Mrs. Fetched thinks I’m grinchy. Not so, I just prefer to focus on the social aspects of Christmas — family, feast, reflection — than to make a gaudy show of things. Still, there’s a few things I’ve done over the years to mark the occasion. Some of the newcomers to the free-range insane asylum could easily miss them in the 1300+ posts that have accumulated over the past 6 years, so I’ll gather them together here for you.

A Christmas Story — Santa Claus lives in a single-wide trailer in Lumpkin County, Georgia. Come read about my fictional encounter with The Big Guy.

Podcast from FAR Manor #3 — a special holiday song, and several contributors shared their earliest holiday memories. (I wish I had the time to do more podcasts.)

For This Night — my first #FridayFlash, posted as such. It's about The Slaughter of the Innocents, from the viewpoint of two soldiers.

Music! — the “special holiday song” from the above podcast, as a standalone MP3.

Enjoy!

Staycation 2011, Days 0–2

2011-12-18T22:51:00.002-05:00

Work has a strange policy: they let you carry over two weeks of vacation per year. But everyone gets three weeks, plus a week of personal days and floating holidays, so (if you carried over two weeks from last year) you pretty much have to burn off a month’s worth of vacation to keep from losing any. The upshot is, the office gets awfully empty the second half of December.

We were hoping to get down to Florida to visit Mom before Christmas, but I couldn’t ever get anyone to nail down the days they were off… so maybe we’ll go next month. At least with the chicken houses in permanent shutdown, there won’t be that to contend with — but I have full faith in Mrs. Fetched’s ability to find some other timesuck to throw me into.

With Mason around, I’m already watching him nearly all weekend, every weekend. This weekend was typical in that regard. After a haircut trip yesterday, I zipped over to the bank to deposit a check and that was the closest thing approaching free time I had. Mason refused to take an afternoon nap, so I had none of the time I expected for writing this post yesterday. Then Mrs. Fetched and Daughter Dearest took off on a shopping trip, leaving us to find our own supper. I know Mason likes Subway’s meatballs, so we went there… and they were out of meatballs. I headed up to Johnny’s, where the food’s good but the service is glacial, and got us some chow. Then it was off to Chick-Fil-A, the only fast-food joint around here with an indoor playground, to let Mason burn off some energy.

One thing about Mason: he has a near-fetish for straight lines. He’ll line his cars up in a neat little row, then have a Toddler Meltdown™ when they don’t stay straight when he pushes the line. On modern playgrounds, with their tunnels and spiral slides, he’ll go through a straight tunnel — but if he can’t see the other end, he won’t go in. So he would go up the stairs, then come down and go poke around in the toddler area. Meanwhile, a little girl about three months younger than him was roaring down the spiral slide and having a good old time. Didn’t make the slightest impression on him.

So I’m not sure what happened — maybe some other kids chivvied him through the bent tunnel into the upper level — but he ended up in the enclosed area up top and started crying, because he wouldn’t go down the slide and he wouldn’t go back down the tunnel where he couldn’t see the outlet. I had to climb in there and talk him down; if he could see me, he was fine.

He also refused to nap today — and I had to make rolls for the supper after our church cantata — but I chucked him in his crib anyway until I got the dough thrown together. He was not exactly happy about that, but he got over it pretty quick once I came in and got him out. I got the rolls done just in time — I mean, we were out the door as soon as I threw them in a paper bag — and my throat survived the singing.

Tomorrow, I hope to do some yard work and some writing. Not necessarily in that order. The Boy and Snippet will be here for Christmas proper — or maybe I should say improper — so there might be a little soap opera-kind of post this weekend.

#FridayFlash: To Begin With

2011-12-16T07:00:00.000-05:00

I’m not sure about this one, so feel free to pound on it if you’re so inclined.

To Begin With

Source: Wikimedia Commons

The Harley was dead, to begin with.

Finds like this are rare nowadays. Almost every barn, shed, and garage in the world has been mined for vintage motorcycles. Those who still have them have an idea of what they’re worth — gone are the days when they’d almost pay you to cart off that hunk of rust.

I didn’t get it for free, but a hundred bucks is close. “Yeah,” the old lady said, “I could probably get a lot more for it, but I’d have to put it up for sale. To be honest, I need the space in the shed more than I need the money. My husband brought that thing home… oh God, thirty years ago. He left it there all this time, then he passed away last year, just as he finally started tinkering with it.” I didn’t exactly argue with her about the price. Maybe I should have — if I’d offered her something close to what it was worth, she might have still let me have it for the hundred bucks, but… well, I’m getting ahead of myself.

She watched as I pushed it out of the shed and onto my trailer. It was a tough slog — the tires were flat and rotten, and the axles turned only under protest. The chain was caked with grease, which was good because it didn’t impede me even more. The clutch cable was frozen, but I managed to find neutral after a few attempts.

“I think I got the better end of this transaction,” said the old lady, with a sardonic smile, after I wrestled the bike onto the trailer and got a couple tie-downs on it. “Would you like something to drink?”

“Sure,” I said. “But seriously, you’re letting this go for —”

She waved off my protest. “Coffee or tea?”

“Water would be fine,” I said. She nodded and ducked into the house, bringing out an old green tumbler full of ice water as I finished securing my prize.

“Mitch wi— would be pleased,” she said as I drained the glass. “At least someone’s taking on his old project.” She paused a moment as I handed her the tumbler. “Well, I’m sure you’re anxious to get home and start fixing it up.”

The restoration went much smoother than expected. I had to tear it down, of course, but the insides were in much better shape than I could have hoped for — almost no wear on the bearings, and no scoring on the cylinder walls. The odometer’s 1300 miles could well have been honest. The frame was sound, and most of the rust was only on the surface. A few hundred bucks’ worth of parts, and a bunch of evenings spent the way I like spending them, and I had a vintage bike easily worth eight grand. Maybe ten.

It was Christmas Eve when I hooked up the battery. Cold outside, but warm enough in the garage. I thumbed the compression release, squeezed the clutch, and stood on the kickstarter. To my surprise and delight, it coughed to life on the third kick! “Merry Christmas! It lives!” I shouted. I let it warm up while donning my cold-weather gear.

“Where to?” I asked the bike. Friends were drifting off… but Jim had said something about a Christmas party at his place tonight. It was only ten miles away, and my gear was good for thirty in this weather. I backed out of the garage, flipped on the headlight, and was on my way.

The Harley was alive!

I’d gone maybe a mile when the rabbit dashed across the road. The bike surged on me, as if jumping at the rabbit, and we nailed it before I had a chance to brake or throttle back. I grimaced, but there wasn’t much I could do about it. Evolution in action, etc.

I was almost to Jim’s place when it started sputtering. I cursed and pulled to the side under a street light, working the spark advance to keep it running, and leaned over to look. Nothing leaking, but that didn’t mean anything. I could have missed a piece of crud in the fuel system — or worse, an oil line — and now I was paying the price. I took off a glove to twist the petcock, then cut a finger groping for it. A second later, the engine smoothed out. I wrapped a napkin from my pocket around my finger, then put the glove back on. Whatever crud it was, I thought, it must have passed through.

Jim’s party paused for a few minutes, because everyone heard my grand entrance and wanted to see the bike. Beer flowed freely, and I drank more than usual when on two wheels. Jim offered to let me stay over, but the Harley started right up again and I rolled out.

A rat scurried out in front of me on the way home. Again, the Harley surged and caught it. Too weird, I thought, but I had no idea anything was wrong until I got to the turn home… and kept going. I couldn’t get the bike to slow down, no matter how hard I throttled back or braked. Straight on we went, into the ugly part of town.

Close to midnight, I saw the drunk staggering along the sidewalk up ahead… and so did the bike. The headlight died, and I braced myself for what was coming. The drunk stumbled into the street and the Harley surged again. I wrestled the handlebars, but the bike was in control: it swerved at the last second, kicking the back end around and slapping the drunk back to the sidewalk. The reaction pushed us out of the skid. We kept going, and haven’t stopped yet.

So if you see me coming, get away from the road.

The Harley is undead. And it’s hungry.

#TuesdaySerial: Xenocide, pt 9

2011-12-13T07:00:00.000-05:00

Previous episodes: Part 1 • Part 2 • Part 3 • Part 4 • Part 5 • Part 6 • Part 7 • Part 8

Xenocide, part 9
Upping the Jig

“CIA?” I cocked my head at Carmichael. “Then maybe our friends at the Garden Inn aren’t really FBI agents, but still part of a different three-letter government agency?”

“That’s the way I figured. I had a lot of time to think on the drive home. When you depend on the whims of the voting public, you don’t get to let your imagination run loose too often, you know. You got a good imagination though, Adler. I’ll bet you can come to the same conclusion I did in a lot less time.”

“Conclusion?” The sheriff nodded. Why would the CIA still be hanging around if they knew who did the deed? “Oh shit.”

Carmichael laughed. “You’re faster than I thought.”

“They’re gonna pin it on someone local? Damn. I bet I know who, too.”

“I suspect they’re under a lot of pressure from above, and… from above.” He pointed at the sky. “But if you know who they’re gonna blame, you got a big jump farther than me, and about an hour faster I might add. If I thought you were the political type, I’d be worried for my job.”

I laughed. “You’ve got nothing to worry about there!”

I had to do my usual cop duties through the day, which actually worked in my favor for a change. Shortly after the smoke break, I got a text from Tenesha: Are we really both off-duty tonight?

As much as we ever are, I responded. I’d figured the Moss family wouldn’t be together until evening. I planned to wait until eight, to give them time to finish supper, then visit them. Around 9 then?

If I HAVE to wait that long… I guess. See you then!

At 8 p.m. sharp, I pulled up to the Moss residence and rang the doorbell. I remained in uniform for this visit.

A woman opened the door and gave me a puzzled look. “May I help you?”

“Mrs. Moss?” She nodded. “Are your son and husband at home?” Another nod. “Good. I need to talk to all three of you. It’s very important.”

She wasted no time ushering me in and giving me the comfy recliner while she rounded up the men of the house. The elder Moss came in first, with a smile and a handshake. “Good to see you again, Officer. If you’re here about the case you mentioned, I still haven’t heard anything.”

“It’s related to that. But I’d really like to wait until everyone’s here.”

His face fell. “Jacob’s a good kid. He can’t be in any trouble —”

“No trouble, not any he’s made for himself,” I assured him. “He’s been a big help with this case, in fact.”

“Really? He hasn’t said anything about it to us.” The elder Moss looked both proud and confused.

“Is that his computer?” I looked at the desk in the living room.

“Yeah. We heard somewhere that it’s a good way to keep the kids from looking at sites they shouldn’t be looking at, to put their computer in a more or less public space.”

I didn’t bother mentioning smartphones. If Moss Sr. hadn’t figured that out by now… but then mother and child came down the stairs to join us in the living room.

“Um, Mrs. Moss?” I began the conversation. “May I ask a personal question? Have you cleaned under the sofa recently?”

She gave me a strange look. “To be honest? No. Jacob’s too old to be hiding his toys under the sofa these days.” The kid rolled his eyes.

“Do you mind?” I reached under the sofa, found what I expected, and laid it on the coffee table.

“What is that?” Mr. Moss asked.

“That,” I said, “is a listening device. A bug, in the common parlance.” The parents stared at it goggle-eyed; the son gave me a dirty look that said Why didn’t you say something? I shrugged back. “Your son discovered a murder victim last week.” He looked like he wanted to protest, but I continued. “It turned out to be some kind of alien species — and by alien, I do mean from some other planet.” I paused a moment to let them chew on that; it took a little longer than planned. “Two people claiming to be FBI agents nominally took over the case, but we’ve continued to pursue it, and I daresay we’ve gotten farther than they would like.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” asked Jacob.

“It means we have a pretty good idea where the shooting took place, and who did it,” I said. “We’re pretty sure that the shooter — or an accomplice — has a son in the CIA. It’s pretty likely that the so-called FBI agents are actually with the CIA, and they’re desperate to find some sucker to pin this murder on. Someone not related to one of their agents.” I let that sink in for a moment.

“You’re saying… these people are going to try to pin it on my son?” the elder Moss asked.

“Maybe him. Or maybe you,” I said. “But they’re listening in to this conversation —” I pointed at the bug on the coffee table — “so they know the jig’s up. I’m taking the device with me as evidence. We take that whole ‘serve and protect’ thing seriously, so we’re not going to let them pin a murder on an innocent citizen without a lot of publicity. If they have any sense, they’ll find some other patsy. Preferably someone not in our jurisdiction.”

All three members of the Moss family just stared, stunned. I picked up the bug. “We’ll have someone watching the place, just to make sure nobody tries to arrest you for a crime that none of you committed. Stay home if at all possible, it’ll help us help you. All right?”

continued…

Can’t wait to see how it ends? The whole story is available on Amazon and Smashwords!

#FridayFlash: Bait

2011-12-09T07:00:00.000-05:00

“Mom! Dad! Shinies!” Elly and Sam ran to the back door, yanking at the doorknob, as Kyle climbed onto an end table and pressed his face against the window. In the scrapyard behind their house, the contents of a transparent box glittered.

“Whoa! Kids!” Mom clapped her hands twice; the two older kids turned to give her pleading looks. Kyle paid no attention. “What have we told you about shinies? Especially on cloudy days?”

Kyle, still pressed against the window, said, “The aliens are fishing. If you try to get the shinies, they’ll pull you up there. Then they’ll fry you and eat you.” His nose, pressed against the window, made him sound strange.

“That’s not true,” Sam protested. “They throw you back if you’re too little.”

“You wouldn’t taste good anyway.”

“Kyle!” Mom warned him, touching Sam to cut off a rejoinder. Kyle huffed and continued to watch.

“It came down out back?” asked Dad, coming through the front door and wiping his dirty hands on his shirt. Mom nodded.

“Jane at school says they always throw people back,” said Elly. “She said her uncle got caught, and they put him in a glider. He could see the whole world, and he knew kinda where he lived, so he tried to glide back home. But he still had to walk for a week after he landed.” She ran to give Dad a quick hug, then returned to the door.

“It’s my turn,” said Mom. She shooed Elly and Sam away from the door.

“Mom!” they protested.

“If we let you come outside to watch, do you promise to stay with me on the deck?” Dad asked.

All three kids cheered their agreement, and Kyle jumped down and joined the others in a flash. Mom opened the door, slipped through first, then stood at the steps and pointed the kids to the deck. They complied, grumbling, Dad grinning behind them. He picked up the spotlight while Mom got the hooksticks. This was the only life the kids had ever known: aliens in the sky, enticing people with shinies, and grownups playing tricks on the aliens. Their parents remembered a world in some ways better, yet poised on the brink of self-destruction, before the aliens changed everything. Dealing with aliens was hazardous, but a box of shinies was the only kind of wealth that mattered these days.

Dad pressed a button. The spotlight itself was a shiny — a piece of alien technology, bait taken from some earlier fishing trip. It showed no light of its own, but now a thin arc glowed above the shinies where Dad pointed it. “See that?” The kids nodded. “That’s their line. It’s a monomolecular filament, and it’ll stick to your skin or clothes if you touch it. Then you’re caught. That’s why we use the hooksticks. And that’s why one of us shines the line, so the other won’t get caught.”

“What’s mono— mono-leck-er?” Kyle asked.

“Monomolecular, stupid,” said Sam. It means it’s one piece and you can’t cut or break it.”

“Mom!” Kyle yelled. “Sam called me stupid! Could you stick him to the line?”

Mom caught the line with one hookstick. Without turning, she said, “If you two don’t stop, I’ll put you both on the line!”

“He started it,” Kyle muttered, soft enough that only Dad heard. He and Sam made faces at each other then turned to watch Mom. Elly ignored her two younger brothers, watching Mom and looking worried.

Mom used the second hookstick to catch the hook and pull it out of the shiny bait. The kids cheered as it came loose.

“This is the dangerous part,” Dad told the kids. “A gust of wind can blow the line around, maybe get loose and catch your mom. This is why you should never play around with shinies. We can use them, but we don’t understand them all that well, and they can be dangerous.”

“What kind of shinies are they, Dad?” asked Elly.

“We’ll find out in a few minutes.” He called to Mom, “The truck. It’s closest.”

Mom nodded, watching the line and glancing at her footing as she eased the hook over to the rusty flatbed truck. Using the hookstick, she slipped the aliens’ fishing hook onto the tow point after a few tries. Then she stepped back, tightening the line, and pulled hard.

The line snapped straight, jerking the hookstick out of Mom’s loose grip and sending it flying across the scrapyard. With a groan, the truck lifted into the air, swinging and twisting. Mom dropped the second hookstick and dashed for the deck. The kids watched gaping as the truck dwindled and disappeared into the clouds.

“We need to get in the shelter for a while, kids,” said Dad. “If that truck comes loose, it’ll squash anything it lands on!” He hugged Mom. “Great job. As always.”

Other than a usual Kyle-Sam squabble, they spent an uneventful half hour in the shelter. Finally, Mom said, “Let’s go see what they left us,” and the kids dashed shrieking into the daylight and the scrapyard.

“That’s a keeper!” Zubba chittered, looking at the truck twisting on the hook.

“Yeah,” said Xob. He used his gaffe to pull the catch onboard. The two of them squelched over to it, examining it for a few minutes. “Hey Zubba… you think they’ll ever figure out we’re fishing for iron?”

Writing Wibbles

2011-12-07T22:30:00.001-05:00

At last, Xenocide was approved for Smashwords Premium on Monday! I’m not sure whether they’re just getting swamped with titles these days or what — but to me, a “few days” (as their boilerplate says) to review implies maybe 3–5 days… not 8. So anyway, it should soon be available from Nook, iBooks, and several other stores where Smashwords distributes — hooray! It took longer than expected, yes, but I did get through on the first attempt. I don’t think it was that difficult: follow their style guide and it’s just tedious at worst.

But I haven’t exactly been sitting around waiting. In addition to my author page on Goodreads, I now have an author page on Amazon. Both have nice little gadgetry that displays excerpts from this blog, among other incidentals (like links to all the books I have out, which right now is one). Just another way technology is leveling the field for indie writers.

I kind of think this chaotic time will last for a few years, until publishers make it worth the indies’ while to stop being indie. A few of the current publishers will survive; others, like many hardcore smokers diagnosed with lung cancer, will prefer to die rather than make the changes necessary for survival. In their place will be the new wave of publishers, who never thrived under the old regime and are thus able to treat writers as partners rather than serfs. They’ll have faster publishing schedules, royalties more favorable to authors, and — best of all — they’ll handle most of the publicity.

Am I dreaming? Maybe delusional from this stupid chest cold? Maybe. But if one of the established players suddenly made those kinds of changes, I expect there would be an author stampede in that direction.

#TuesdaySerial: Xenocide, pt 8

2011-12-06T07:00:00.000-05:00

Previous episodes: Part 1 • Part 2 • Part 3 • Part 4 • Part 5 • Part 6 • Part 7

Xenocide, part 8
Fool’s Gold

The paydirt turned to fools’ gold: when I pulled up Danny Freeman’s Visa card, it was reported stolen. On the same day the perps got their SUV cleaned out, no less. Of course, that didn’t mean it wasn’t him — he could have wised up and tried to cover his tracks. But when I pulled his driver’s license record, his description was nothing like a reasonably fit man in his early thirties: Freeman was fifty-four, and (judging from his height and weight stats filed with the DMV) about forty pounds overweight.

I hate when a lead doesn’t pan out, but instinct told me that Freeman wasn’t exactly out of the loop on this one. The problem was, whoever used his credit card would be local to him — and that was a good hundred miles from here. Well out of our jurisdiction, and I couldn’t exactly get the State Police involved in the case since the FBI supposedly took it over.

“I’m beat,” I admitted to the sheriff on his smoke break. I was frustrated to the point of asking Carmichael for a cancer stick, but I knew Tenesha wouldn’t approve. I wouldn’t want butt-breath getting in the way. “Seriously. I don’t see any way we can take this case any further without tripping over the Feds.”

“It’s not like our friends are working the case very hard,” said the sheriff. “I’ve got Deputy Noble keeping an eye on them, but they’ve hardly left the hotel except to hit a nearby restaurant. And they’ve only done that twice in the three days since they’ve been here.”

“Yeah. I hate to let this drop, but I don’t see how I can take it any further.”

“Maybe you can’t,” the sheriff said, “but I can.”

“What?”

He grinned. “I happen to know Sheriff Lester down that way, I’ll pay him a courtesy call. And while I’m there, I tell him we found a case of credit card fraud against one of his locals.”

“But how do you let him know you’re coming without the Feds catching on?”

“It’s Friday. I’m going on a weekend fishing trip — I have a trailer on Lake Baldwin, next county over. There’s no cell coverage at my place, so I’ll make the call from a payphone at the bait shop. Nothing suspicious or even out of the ordinary. I’ll be back Sunday night, and I’ll let you know if I find anything interesting.”

The weekend was a bust, no pun intended. Tenesha had shifts when I didn’t, and vice versa. I had a little excitement Saturday night, quelling a domestic disturbance. Like most cops, those are the calls I hate the most: there’s usually alcohol or less legal intoxication issues, and even the person making the call can turn on you in a heartbeat. SOP in our county for domestics is, you get backup whether you want it or not. There were two couples involved, the women no more roughed-up than the men, bombed out of their minds on who-knows-what. We ended up running all four in and getting a warrant. We found plenty of well-used drug paraphernalia, some residual this and that… but they’d smoked up everything before we got there. That was probably what triggered the quarrel.

As for the rest of the weekend, I spent it either working or watching random ballgames, either at my apartment or Ruth’s. I did a lot of fantasizing about Tenesha. You just never know how an attraction will turn out, once you get to know someone a little better, but I knew I wanted more and it seemed like Tenesha did too. There would be crap from some of the other deputies about a mixed-race relationship — bad attitudes take a long time to die — but they could mind their own business.

But one step at a time. If we were going anywhere together, we’d have to find time to be together first. She did text me Sunday afternoon: Were you in on that domestic last night?

Yeah. But they came along peacefully.

:-) Stay safe, OK?

You bet. Can I email you sched? You can pick a free evening?

Sure.

Email on the way.

I got a kick out of the idea the Fibbies were reading our mushy texts and rolling their eyes.

Monday morning, I barely got to my desk when the sheriff waved toward the back door and mimed smoking a cigarette. I dropped my stuff and followed him out back.

“Catch any fish?” I was almost panting with anticipation.

Carmichael grinned. “Oh hell yes. I got enough crappie in the freezer to throw a fish fry for the entire department. Not only that, our fraud victim is a hog farmer.”

“Yeah, that fits. But we’d need more than that to pin the tail on the donkey.”

“There’s plenty more. Sheriff Lester and I go back a ways, and he didn’t have any problem telling me all about one of his upstanding citizens… and his family. If we were to bring pictures of Freeman’s son and hired hand to your detailing guy, I’d quit this stuff cold turkey if he didn’t say they’re the ones who brought the SUV in for the clean-out. Oh, and by the way, Danny Freeman owns an Excursion.”

“That fits, too. Freeman Junior and his Hired Hank ditch the body and go get the barge cleaned out for the long drive home. They pay with Dad’s credit card, then maybe call him and tell him to report it stolen to provide plausible deniability. I assume the senior Freeman was with his wife all this time, or perhaps doing something in public where they’d be recognized. Alibi covered.”

“And exposed. It doesn’t tell us who pulled the trigger, but if we could round up all three on a conspiracy charge, under normal circumstances we’d probably get one to admit to the deed.”

“Um… ‘could’? ‘Under normal circumstances’? There’s something else, isn’t there?”

The sheriff puffed his cigarette with vigor. “Yup. Turns out that Daniel Freeman, Jr. works for the CIA.”

to be continued…

Can’t wait to see how it ends? The whole story is available on Amazon and Smashwords!

Deck Them Halls

2011-12-03T22:19:00.001-05:00

Christmas time is here, by golly

Disapproval would be folly

— Tom Lehrer

With Thanksgiving finally out of the way, Mrs. Fetched went into full-blown decoration mode. I somehow got out of helping with the inside stuff, beyond horking boxes around. I was doing something, not at the manor, but can no longer remember what it was.

However, Mason was there to help, and he did hang some ornaments. Of course, he slapped ’em right back off the tree first chance he got. Mrs. Fetched invested in non-breakable ornaments this year… although as a friend put it, “they’ll cut your foot just like the glass ones if you step on one.” Okay, maybe they should be called shatterproof instead?

We’ve started doing the “one finger” rule with him — if he touches something, touch it with one finger. But that doesn’t stop him from sweeping that one finger across something to send it flying.

I wasn’t so lucky with the outside. We don't go as bat $#¡+ crazy as some people do with their lights (those, as Mrs. Fetched puts it, who “have nothing else to do”), but it’s more than enough in my opinion. She kept us going much of Saturday and Sunday, well past sunset both days, poking hangers onto the shingles and hanging lights every which way. I had to dismantle and re-do the net-lights over several of the boxwoods, since someone plugged them into each other and I had no idea how they were meant to plug into actual AC current. But I got it straightened out in the end and we managed to get it all lit up for a while… until (I think) the breaker fried. Mrs. Fetched insists we didn’t do anything more this year than last, but she always hits the after-Christmas sales and stocks up on more lights and stuff so I know better.

Then there was the strange case of the “decoration” in the field that was once going to be a subdivision. Seems that some merry pranksters snagged this thing from a farm off Juno Rd. My first knowledge of the deed was seeing it in a ditch along the highway one morning, on the way to work. Two days later, it was gone… and showed up here. It’s been there since Thanksgiving, clearly visible from the road going to the in-laws’ place.

If the chicken looks headless, that’s because it is. If the head didn’t shatter into a zillion pieces when it landed in the ditch, I rather expect it’s now a decoration in some goofball’s man-cave. I like to think of it as the Evil Zombie Chicken, protecting the acreage from another developer… or maybe there’s a bankruptcy curse in effect. Actually, I’m surprised that Coldwell Banker (the seller) hasn’t done something about a stolen statue yet.

#FridayFlash: The Other Woman

2011-12-02T08:31:00.001-05:00

I’ve had the idea for this one kicking around in my head since September 29. To avoid spoilers, the explanation is below.

“Hello?”

“Hi… Cathy?”

“Yes. Um, who’s calling?”

“This is Ann. Tony’s wife?”

Long pause. “Oh. He really told you then? He said he did, but I didn’t believe it.”

“Yes. He did.”

“And… and you’re okay with this?”

“Not really. But if he takes care of my needs first, I suppose… anyway. Is he with you?”

“No! He said he needed to spend some time with you this week!”

“Really?” Ann’s voice softened. “He said he was going to see you this evening.”

“God. I hope he’s not hurt or something!”

“Or… you don’t suppose?”

Cathy sighed. “To be honest, when he’s been here lately, he’s been spending more time on his laptop than… you know.”

“Hmph. Cathy, I’m not comfortable discussing this over the phone. Could you meet me at Jolt Coffee? It’s in the strip, down from the Saver-Mart.”

“Um… sure. I guess.”

“Good. Park over at the insurance office, two doors down. There’s always a few spots open there. I’ll meet you there.”

After leaving a detailed note, just in case the wife had foul play in mind, Cathy left her apartment. She knew Jolt Coffee well — she and Tony found each other on Facebook, then met in person at Jolt the first couple times. He’d been upfront about things: he had no intention of leaving his wife, but needed to get away from her coldness and demands from time to time. She didn’t want a commitment, so the arrangement worked for her too.

Until now. All month he’d been distant and moody, making her wonder if he had S.A.D. issues. And now, she was meeting his wife. This was just weird.

She recognized Ann from a photo that Tony kept in his wallet: a statuesque woman, one who looked used to getting her way. Not for the first time, she felt like she understood Tony’s need to get away…

Ann smiled a thin smile as she closed her car door. “You must be Cathy,” she said. “Let’s get inside, this wind is cutting.” Indeed it was, as befit late November. “You seem like a nice young woman — oh my.” She looked into the coffee house window, then thrust out an arm and stepped back, pulling Cathy with her.

“What is it?”

Ann stole another glance. “I think we found him.” She gestured toward the window.

“It is him!” she whispered, peeking in. “But I don’t see anyone with him.”

Ann’s shoulders slumped as she looked skyward, lips pressed together tight. “That doesn’t mean anything,” she said, tugging at Cathy’s jacket. “Let’s go in.”

Cathy inhaled the heady smell of espresso and vanilla as they entered. The usual soundtrack, Italian folk music, played in the background. Tony sat at a table, back to the entrance, hunched over his laptop like they had both seen so often this month. Ann nudged her and pointed: you go left, I’ll go right.

They flanked Tony, but he paid them no mind, typing away. Suddenly, he slapped the table and leaned back. “Yes! Fifty thousand! I made it —” Then he looked up, his wife on one side and his mistress on the other. “Uh…” he looked back and forth between the two.

Ann and Cathy looked at each other above him. “Let’s get a coffee,” said Ann. “We know who — or what — Tony’s real love is.”

So… why September 29? That’s when Tony Noland posted his handy guide, 7 Easy Ways To Give You Time To Write™. The first way was (summarized): start an affair, tell your wife you’re visiting your mistress, tell your mistress you’re staying with your wife, go to a coffee house and write. Since Tony gave me the idea, I thought it was fitting that I name the hapless male character after him. (I just hope his wife isn’t named Ann!!!) Seeing as November just went past, I put a NaNoWriMo spin on it.

Writing Wibbles

2011-11-30T07:00:00.000-05:00

Some medium-sized news this week — but first, let’s greet the new followers!

LynnCee Faulk — a fellow #FridayFlash’er and fellow Planet Georgia resident
Quinn Smythwood — “author by night” (careful, it’s the ones who don’t claim to be “mighty” you have to watch out for)

Your visitor badges, padded vests, and shock sticks are right here. The inmates may bite if you show fear, but will back off from a show of force.

Click to go to the
Amazon page

Okay, medium-sized news. After getting John Xero to look over the fixes I made one last time, on Sunday evening I decided to load Xenocide into the Launch Cannon and fire. I did do one last typo scan beforehand, which proved fruitful — reading a story backwards definitely breaks up the flow and can expose ugglies that your subconscious has managed to sweep under the rug, but does cause some eyestrain. As much as I hate typos, it was worth it.

I had several goals in mind with this launch: 1) See what it takes to get a book (even a short story) into the Kindle Store; 2) Ditto with Smashwords; 3) Find out how much effort it takes to get into Kindle Singles and Smashwords Premium; 4) Get into the Goodreads Author Program.

Note that the word “sales” didn’t appear above. This is really a practice run for when I load White Pickups into the Launch Cannon, like launching a chimp into space before launching people. Still, I do cherish the two people who actually laid down their dollar to buy it in the Kindle Store (and appreciate the three people who have previewed it at Smashwords even if they passed on buying it) as I write this on Tuesday evening. In that regard, the Xenocide launch has been a roaring success so far!

Using Scrivener for writing makes it almost trivially easy to hit the Kindle Store with the Launch Cannon, since it can “compile” a MOBI file (using Amazon’s KindleGen utility). If you’re not afraid of the command line, you could use Sigil to write your book, format to ePUB, then use KindleGen to convert that to MOBI — nearly as easy as Scrivener. The amusing part of launching into the Kindle Store was that Amazon UK had Xenocide up before the US store did! That may have had as much to do with timezones as anything else.

Putting on my publisher hat for a moment: frankly, the Smashwords setup leaves some things to be desired. The “Meatgrinder” is an impressive piece of software, taking an MS Weird file and turning it into pretty much every kind of eBook format in use, but XHTML would have (IMHO) been a better choice for an input file format. (Yes, I’m going to get technical here. Feel free to glaze over, or skip the rest of this paragraph.) Their FAQ says they used to accept HTML, but gave up on it because of the horrid non-compliant HTML they would get. But they can reject bad Weird documents, why not bad HTML? Or better yet, pass it through HTML Tidy for an automated cleanup? Or, they could take a clean ePUB (which is a collection of HTML files plus some sequencing info inside a Zip archive) and break that apart to create the other formats. XHTML (which is HTML that conforms to “well-formed” XML definitions) is very easy to parse and transform, and would eliminate the perceived need for a program I’ve learned to not trust with anything important. I ended up exporting RTF from Scrivener, reading that into OpenOffice, then (after cleaning up formats to conform to the Smashwords style guide) saved that to DOC and sent it on. [end tech stuff]

Now if all this translated to twice as many sales as the Kindle Store, it would be well worth the effort. However, early returns suggest it’s the opposite: you can expect more Kindle Store sales for less effort than getting into Smashwords. Still, Smashwords is probably worth the effort in the long run since (if you go for Premium status) it gets you into the B&N, Apple, Kobo, and Sony stores. They also issue your eBook a free ISBN number for inclusion in the Apple and Sony stores. You never know, Amazon might stumble and let one of the competitors become King of the eBook Hill.

I got the first draft of my #FridayFlash done today. It wasn’t difficult, as the story idea has been kicking around in my head since September 29 or so. I’ll explain Friday. Until then…

#TuesdaySerial: Xenocide, pt 7

2011-11-29T07:00:00.000-05:00

Previous episodes: Part 1 • Part 2 • Part 3 • Part 4 • Part 5 • Part 6

Xenocide, part 7
Paydirt

The wreck turned out to be a DUI, and there was what the sheriff was pleased to call “a shit-ton of paperwork” involved in that kind of arrest — especially since the drunk SUV driver was a regular contributor to local campaigns. As lunch rolled around, we stepped out back for a smoke break. Sheriff Carmichael was in a mood. “I already took two calls from county commissioners who would ‘consider it a personal favor’ if we went easy on the perp. Not effing likely.”

“Yeah. He nearly killed the pickup driver.” Good thing we arrived on the scene when we did — Tenesha got the guy stabilized long before the ambulance arrived, but he probably wouldn’t have lived if she hadn’t been there. I did what I could to help, but she was nearly worn out by the ordeal. It was a long time before we wrapped up, and I ended up dropping her off at her place, leaving her car at Ruth’s. She refused both taxi fare and an offer to drive her back there myself for the next morning. I did get a hug, though, and she felt exactly like I thought she would: almost athletic-firm under all the curves.

“You know what that means, right?” The sheriff took a big drag on his cig. “There’s gonna be personal injury lawsuits, and we’ll get a lot of negative publicity if we go easy on the idiot. And we’d deserve it.” He ground his butt against the brick siding and slapped it into the receptacle. “Pah. You make any headway on the alien?”

“I made a list of auto detailers in the county. Maybe we’ll get lucky. I’m gonna check ‘em out this afternoon if nothing else comes up.”

“I’ll make sure nothing else comes up.”

I wish you could have done that last night. “Not that I expect it to pan out,” I said. “If the perp had two brain cells, he’d have used a self-service car wash.”

“If he had one brain cell, he wouldn’t have dumped a body in my county,” said Carmichael. “Go check things out — like you said, you might get lucky.”

Northside Detailing, the establishment owned by Randolph Moss Sr. (Randolph Jr. went by his middle name, Jacob), was my first stop. I’d left my cellphone at my desk back at the office so the Fibs couldn’t trace my movements. Nobody had brought Moss a car that smelled like worms and burnt coffee, though. Nor did the second detailing place. But the third place, I hit paydirt.

Glisten Auto Detail was near a freeway exit, which made it a likely place for someone a long way from home to get an emergency cleanup. It was also the closest detailer to the crime scene. As with most low-paying jobs these days, the staff was mostly Hispanic immigrants. Tomas Alvarado’s English improved rapidly when he realized I spoke passable Spanish, but took pains to make sure I saw the line of pictures on the wall with everyone’s documentation.

“Yeah, I remember that smell: worms and bad coffee,” he said. “Nobody else could stand it, so I handled it myself. They just wanted the cargo area cleaned out, but ended up having a full detail done because that smell was all through their vehicle. It cost over two hundred dollars.”

“There was more than one, then? Do you remember anything about them? Names, descriptions? Anything?”

“Oh yeah. There were two of them. White guys, not much older than us. Both of them looked — trim, is that the word? They paid by credit card, so I’ve got all that on file. We can pull it up. What happened? Did they kill somebody?”

“They’re persons of interest in a case.” The sheriff was right: these guys didn’t have a single functioning brain cell between them. Not only did they leave a trail of witnesses, they left directions to one of their houses. “Great,” I said, following him into the office. “What kind of vehicle was it, anyway?”

“A big SUV. Ford Expedition, I think. But we’ve got that on file too.” He clicked his mouse and tapped his keyboard. “Aha. Here it is. Oh, I was wrong. Ford Excursion. He said it was a bag of compost that leaked. It sort of made sense.”

I had a notepad and pen at the ready, and leaned over his shoulder to get the details. This Danny Freeman was going to get roasted and toasted.

“Oh, one more thing,” I said. “Have you had anyone else come in asking about this? FBI?” Alvarado shook his head. “Good. If they do show up, none of the local deputies have been here. Okay?”

“Mi ingles no es bueno, señor.” He grinned. “If they have a warrant, they’ll find this record though.”

“That’s fine. The important thing is they don’t know we’re still working this case. You’ve been a big help, Tomas. I don’t have any ‘Get Out of Jail Free’ cards on me, but I owe you a favor if you need it. Hope you never do.” I wrote my new number on a blank card. “If you think of anything else, or the Feds come around, call my personal cell. You’ll get voicemail because I usually leave it turned off, but if it’s something urgent you should call 911 anyway.”

“Right.” A grimy-looking Honda, pulling into the lot, caught his attention. “Gotta get back to work. Hope you catch those guys.”

Back at the office, I texted Tenesha from my “on the books” cellphone: Bummed about last night, but what’s important is the guy’s gonna live.

Five minutes later, I got a reply: Glad you see it that way. Me too. Maybe we’ll be luckier next time.

Hope so! I added a smiley face that reflected my real one.

She responded with a winky face. Life was good.

continued…

Can’t wait to see how it ends? The whole story is available on Amazon and Smashwords!

Debut Books

2011-11-28T21:33:00.001-05:00

Guest post! Shannon Meyer is taking over the blog for one post. There’s a prize for the blogger who gets the most comments — that would be cool, but frankly I’m in this for the good karma. Remember to support indie authors, the creator-consumers of the publishing world…

Support Four Debut Authors and Snag $125!
Four books — Two Days — Great Prizes

With this contest, there is something for everyone and it’s SO simple to be in on the winning!

On November 28 and/or 29, purchase 1 or all 4 of the debut author’s books listed here. Then forward proof of purchase (the receipt Amazon sends you will do just fine) to motionsrider@yahoo.ca and get up to 4 entries into a draw for a $100 Amazon gift card!

It’s that easy, no reviews, no hoops to jump through. Just a great 99¢ book or two. Or three or four. AND, if the person who wins the $100 Amazon Gift Card has purchased all 4 books, an additional $25 Amazon Gift Card will be awarded to the winner!

On top of that, 2 random commenters picked from 2 of our participating blogs will receive $5 gift Amazon gift cards. So, be sure to leave a comment and let us know what you think of the promo, the books, or the authors.

Winners will be chosen randomly, one entry per person, per book.

All winners will be announced on December 7^th on Wringing Out Words (http://shannonmayer.blogspot.com)

“Between” by Cyndi Tefft
It just figures that the love of Lindsey Water's life isn't alive at all, but the grim reaper, complete with a dimpled smile, and Scottish accent.

After transporting souls to heaven for the last 300 years, Aiden MacRae has all but given up on finding the one whose love will redeem him and allow him entry through the pearly gates.

Torn between her growing attraction to Aiden and heaven's siren song, Lindsey must learn the hard way whether love really can transcend all boundaries.

Link: http://www.amazon.com/Between-ebook/dp/B004XZUMBA/ref=sr_1_1?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1322190792&sr=1-1

“Until Dawn: Last Light” by Jennifer Simas
When darkness falls, whose side will you be on?

For the past six years, Zoë has been anything but “normal.” Struggling to accept her immortality and thrown into a war that’s been waging in the shadows for over a thousand years, Zoë must now become who she was meant to be, joining the other Chosen to save what’s left of humanity. When the endless night falls over the Earth, will she be able to save the one man who reminds her of what it is to be human, or will it be too late?

Until Dawn: Last Light is a story of death and despair, love and longing, hope and hopelessness, and the ability to survive and keep going even when it seems impossible – when you want nothing more than to give up.

Link: http://www.amazon.com/Until-Dawn-Last-Light-ebook/dp/B005QUIXJY/ref=sr_1_1?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1322190717&sr=1-1

“The Kayson Cycle” by Jonathan D. Allen
A stranger enters a dying town and makes a desperate plea…

The Kayson Cycle introduces the Kayson Brothers, a pair of faith healers who once wowed crowds in a traveling show but went their separate ways after a night in which a healing took a dark turn. Jeffrey Kayson disappeared into the wilderness and William Kayson, wracked by guilt, moved to the failing mining town of Calico Hills to build a nice, quiet life – one that has lasted for over ten years.

His quiet, predictable life crumbles when a mysterious stranger walks into his tavern bearing a proposal to find his long-lost brother and do the one thing that William has sworn to never do again - have his brother heal a woman. William soon learns that he can’t escape his family – or his destiny.

Includes an exclusive sample chapter of The Corridors of the Dead. Please note that this is a Kindle Single, and around 6,000 words in length.

Link: http://www.amazon.com/The-Kayson-Cycle-ebook/dp/B0061FDUA0/ref=sr_1_1?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1322190892&sr=1-1

“Sundered” by Shannon Mayer
A miracle drug, Nevermore, spreads like wildfire throughout the world allowing people to eat what they want, and still lose weight. It is everything the human population has ever dreamed of and Mara is no different. Only a simple twist of fate stops her from taking Nevermore.

As the weeks roll by, it becomes apparent that Nevermore is not the miracle it claimed. A true to life nightmare, the drug steals the very essence that makes up humanity and unleashes a new and deadly species on the world that is bent on filling its belly. Locked down within their small farm home, Mara and her husband Sebastian struggle against increasingly bad odds, fighting off marauders and monsters alike.

But Sebastian carries a dark secret, one that more than threatens to tear them apart, it threatens to destroy them both and the love they have for each other.

Now Mara must make the ultimate choice. Will she live for love, or will she live to survive?

Link: http://www.amazon.com/Sundered-Nevermore-Trilogy-ebook/dp/B005KOIVH0/ref=sr_1_3?ie=UTF8&qid=1315021535&sr=8-3

And that’s that! Leave a comment and check out the books…

#FridayFlash: Siren in Training

2011-11-24T23:24:00.001-05:00

To nap, perchance to dream. To dream, perchance to wake up with a story idea…

Siren in Training

"The Siren" by John William Waterhouse.
Image is public domain in the USA.
Source: Wikimedia Commons

“You are not shy.” Lizz’s aunt pressed her lips together for a moment. “You merely fear your power.”

“What power?” Lizz huddled into herself, pressing into the cushioned back of the restaurant booth.

“The power with which you were born. The power of the Siren, to lead wicked men to their doom.” Her aunt stood. “I will be gone only a few moments. Do not fret, Lizz. Your power can only sway those unworthy of their mates.”

Lizz unfolded herself and grabbed a breadstick from the basket. She swirled it in her marinara sauce and chewed. From her fourteen-year old perspective, this whole Siren thing sucked. The only boys who would like her were those who would cheat on her anyway — and then they were doomed. What kind of love life was that?

On the pretense of touching up her lipstick, she took the mirror out of her sequined denim purse and looked at herself. Weak chin, bumpy nose, big dark eyes that were her best feature. At least she didn’t have too much trouble with acne, and her teeth were good. As a direct matrilineal descendent of the original Sirens — who were naturally rewritten to make for a better story, or at least a story that didn’t make their “victims” look so bad — she possessed their power. And it was true, Dad had cheated on Mom but wouldn’t leave until she threw him out. He’d gotten drunk and wrapped his car around a tree not a week later. She and Mom both cried at his funeral, but not much.

“Sucks,” she whispered, and put the mirror away. Gnawing away at her breadstick, she felt eyes upon her. Glancing to her left, she caught the man in the booth across the way looking at her. He tried to redirect his gaze, but she held his eyes with her own. He was caught. It was so easy.

She could see him trying to turn away, could feel him drowning in her eyes, his mind racing round the inside of his head like a squirrel trapped in a barrel. She gave him a thin smile, and he returned it, although she could see his fear. Without letting him go, she took in the wedding ring on his hand, saw the touch of gray in his hair. Dude, she thought, you are way too old to be checking out the middle-schoolers, and turned away. She broke her breadstick in two, then dipped it deep in her sauce and let some of the red drip before chomping and tearing off a bite. In the corner of her eye, she saw her released prey slap some cash on his table then fly away. Maybe he’d live long enough to apply the lesson.

“You look relaxed, Lizz,” said her aunt, slipping into the booth again. “More than I’ve ever seen. I wasn’t making you nervous, was I?”

“No, Auntie. Not you.”

“I saw our neighbor across the way, just now. He was in a hurry to leave. Did you have anything to do with that?”

Lizz gave her an innocent smile and blinked several times. “Me? I’m just a girl!”

#TuesdaySerial: Xenocide, pt 6

2011-11-22T07:00:00.000-05:00

Thanks to John Xero for looking this over and helping me clean it up. If you don’t want to wait for the ending, you should be able to get the whole story on the Kindle Store and Smashwords this week…

Previous episodes: Part 1 • Part 2 • Part 3 • Part 4 • Part 5

Xenocide, part 6
Out On the Town

I talked Tenesha into meeting me at Ruth’s. I wanted to catch her up, sure, but part of me just wanted to show off my new wheels. It was a perfect car for undercover work: a gold Cutlass Supreme, lowered, with oversize wheels, plenty of chrome and pinstriping, and a killer sound system. Nobody would expect an undercover cop to drive something so gaudy.

“Looks like something my cousin would drive,” said Tenesha when she saw it. “What possessed you to get a ride like that?”

I lowered my voice. “It’s not official, but I’m still on that case. I needed something the Fibs hadn’t managed to get their buggy little mitts on.”

Her eyes got big. “No shit? You’re still gonna investigate this?”

“Yeah. You didn’t hear this, but the sheriff is backing me up. He got me this car out of the impound lot.” I grinned. “So… you wanna take a drive?”

“Let’s have a drink or two first. Then we’ll see.”

We left after a couple beers and a big plate of nachos to put something on our stomachs. “Where to, copper?” she grinned.

I was tempted to say something stupid like My place, but managed to (as Moss might say) keep it real. “Oh… no place in particular. I just thought we’d cruise the strip, maybe wind it up on the freeway a little. Then come back here and see what they’ve got for dessert.”

“Sounds like a good first date!”

The temperature seemed to climb a few degrees, and I tried to recover. “The stereo’s awesome in this thing. Pick a station?”

“Nah.” She turned it off. “We’ve never had a chance to just chat.”

She had a good point there. The beers got us past the awkward teenager thing, keeping the silences short and amusing, and we ended up telling each other our life stories. “I decided to be an EMT after we got wrecked when I was a kid,” she said. “I was buckled in good in the back seat, so I was just shaken up and scared. Mom was hurt pretty bad though. I thought those guys who got us out of the car and to the hospital were heroes, and I decided I wanted to be just like them.” She sat for a moment, remembering. “What about you?” she asked at last. “What made you decide to be a cop?”

“A couple of things,” I said. “I grew up out in the country, and the cops didn’t have a good reputation. I always thought I could do a better job than that. My brother getting beat up really bad and robbed sealed the deal for me. I was in college, majoring in biology at the time. They never tried to catch the people who did it, even though he gave good descriptions of the perps. I knew I had to do something to make a difference then, so I left college and enrolled in the academy first chance I got.”

“I’m sorry,” she said, laying a hand on my arm.

I slid my own hand off the wheel and took her hand. “It’s okay,” I said. “He got over it — I don’t think it changed his life as much as mine. But I like the work. We don’t solve every crime here, but we do our best and —”

“Oh no!” Tenesha pointed. Up ahead, in the intersection, an SUV and a pickup truck had mixed it up. The pickup was on its side. I hit the emergency flashers and grabbed the portable radio; Tenesha was already out the door and running toward the scene.

That’s the thing about being a cop — or an EMT — you’re never really off-duty. And the evening had looked so promising.

continued…

Revolving Door

2011-11-20T19:52:00.001-05:00

I really ought to install a revolving door at FAR Manor — M.A.E. lasted about a week at the free-range insane asylum this time. At the beginning of the week, she told us she was going to visit with Lobster for a night. One night stretched to two, three… and Lobster has a girlfriend living with him, so I don’t think it was that. However, I did get a call on my smellphone while I was at work from some guy named Jesse (I think it was). I figure she hooked up with someone on Facebook. Again.

So I was working at home Friday, because I had a meeting on Wednesday, and she came in without my noticing. I often work with the door closed to keep Mason from demanding more granddad time, so that wasn’t unusual. I also managed to miss the “discussion” she had with Mrs. Fetched, who had talked with her baby-daddy when he called earlier. So…

M.A.E. asked Mrs. Fetched, “Am I going to get Moptop this weekend?”

“No.”

“Why not?!”

“I don’t want her here this weekend.” There was the minor detail about us not being here all afternoon today, and M.A.E. almost immediately blowing off everything after she promised us she’d do anything if we let her come back, but Moptop does antagonize Mason a lot. Sure, he gives it right back, but the constant shrieking does get annoying.

So M.A.E. stomped upstairs to make some phone calls. Mrs. Fetched called up the stairs after her to bring the phone back down with her. She didn’t. This is where I first learned of M.A.E.’s presence, as she stormed back downstairs, slamming the door behind her, then out. “If you’re leaving,” Mrs. Fetched advised her, “you’d better take your stuff with you, because you’re not coming back.” M.A.E. gave no response. We found out later she went down to Big V’s with the boo-hoo routine, then got Cousin Splat to give her a ride into town (presumably to meet her current… whatever you want to call it).

• • •

Left to right: Mason, me, Skylar

The 80s song, “Me and the Boys” might be my theme song for this week, since that might be what’s coming. Since we get Thursday and Friday off, and everyone else is going to be gone anyway, I took the rest of the week as vacation (or more like staycation). Skylar is another revolving-door inmate at FAR Manor, in and out a lot, and I expect that Mrs. Fetched will find many “reasons” to leave them both with me.

I’m hoping that Big V will start picking up some of the slack, since she’s had cataract surgery and can see a little better now. Funny how things work: just when he’s where he’s not screaming in his sleep at night, and is starting to play a little better with Mason, they take him back.

One of the Evil Twins is here for a couple days, so I just may get a few things done while otherwise abandoned with the grandkid. Her sister is visiting some friends, and she’s getting stir-crazy.

#FridayFlash: Wandering Mind

2011-11-18T07:00:00.000-05:00

“Hello, Mr. Johnson,” the nurse chirped in her baby-talk voice. “Are we doing okay this morning?”

“Hi, Tammy,” I replied. “Whatever it is I’m doing, I seem to be doing it here at the moment.”

Her smile became less forced, her tone closer to — but not quite — adult-to-adult. “Oh, good. Looks like you’re having a good day, then! Do you know what year it is?”

“I’ve told you twenty-‘leven times, it’s twenty-‘leven.” The retro styling was supposed to help us Alzheimer’s patients by giving us comfortable surroundings, but it can confuse things. It didn’t help that they assumed we all liked Glenn Miller and that other big band crap — give me good old 50’s rock and roll.

Tammy laughed. “Good! Are you up to eating, then?”

“Yeah. Breakfast would be good. And some crosswords, maybe. I’d like to call the kids, if they’re around.” I paused. “How long was I gone?”

She gave me a sad look. “Three days. And you were pretty foggy the day before.”

So I’m lucid about a third of the time now. “I hope I didn’t cause trouble.”

“No. We know you weren’t yourself.” Tammy’s expression changed enough to tell me I’d been trouble. She brightened. “I’ll send your breakfast in. Anything else you need?”

A Viagra pill and you out of that uniform, I thought but did not say. Her job was hard enough. “Nope. Not unless you have a cure for this damned Alzheimer’s!”

She laughed. “If we find one, I’ll make sure you’re first in line!” She breezed out of my room, off to her next patient. God, she had a nice ass — broad and round. Not a conventional looker, but I had a few of those in my time back before I settled down. They were lousy in the sack. Hell, I might not even need a Viagra with Tammy. Never needed one with Martha, God rest her soul. I’ll see her again soon enough.

I breezed through the two easy-level crosswords, and did pretty good with the middle level. For however long it lasted, I was all the way back. The shrink’s intern came by with the usual battery of exam questions, then said, “Well, I’ve asked you my twenty questions. You have any for me?”

“Yeah. Where the hell does my mind go when it goes away? I’d like to follow the son of a bitch and drag it back here where it belongs.” I tapped my hairless skull.

He gave a nervous laugh. “That’s a question… I don’t know how to answer. Maybe that’s more metaphysical, or even spiritual, than psychological. Some medical researchers would say your mind just… shuts off.”

“But wouldn’t that kill the rest of me?”

“Not necessarily. Your conscious mind resides in the cerebral cortex, the uppermost layer of your brain. If that upper layer stops — or freezes up — the lower layers continue to do their functions. Your phrase, ‘mind goes away,’ is half-right: only your conscious mind goes away. The involuntary functions like heartbeat, respiration and digestion continue to do their work. Reflexes, too. If someone pokes your arm, you’ll move it.”

“Yeah. So what’s happening in here when I vacate the premises? I guess I wasn’t much fun to be around this last time.”

“Good question. Can you remember what you were thinking last time?”

“Kind of. I could feel it coming on, and I was furious about it. I hated what was happening to me. Still do.”

“Ah. So that anger came through — or stayed behind, rather — during that last episode. You were belligerent. The staff had to restrain you for two days.”

I rubbed my forehead. “I’m so sorry.”

“Blame the disorder, not yourself, okay?” The intern smiled. “Maybe next time you feel an episode coming on, try to calm yourself instead of letting the anger have its way. You might not be with us, but perhaps you can ‘program’ your limbic system to be less aggressive before you leave.”

“Worth a try.”

I woke up this morning in a fog. “Here we go again,” I said, but it took me a while to figure out what that meant. Worse luck, it was Tammy’s day off. The Chinese guy — Song, that’s his name, like music — stayed with me as I collected my fading wits and battled with an easy crossword.

I grew frustrated, angry, at my inability to concentrate. But I remembered what the intern said, and I focused on calming myself. Don’t be a jerk, I told myself. There was something else — something important — I needed to remember. I tried to think of what it was as I used the bathroom — one less diaper for the music guy to change — then laid down.

I hate when my mind goes away… aha. Where is it going? Can I follow it and bring it back to my brain? Why I can’t remember where I go when I’m gone?

Follow it. I reach out, take hold of my mind. You’re not going without me this time, I tell it. I feel a moment of clarity as I take hold. Together we go, into the unknown.

Writing Wibbles

2011-11-16T21:23:00.001-05:00

Today, I’d like to talk a little about the story bomb. But before I do, go over to John Wiswell’s blog and read Making Ideas. Writers get asked about imagination a lot, he begins. Where do you get your ideas? It’s a really insightful post about the beginnings of the writing process.

Me, I ’m not that insightful — or at best, most of my insights don’t lend themselves well to description. I’m mostly a pantser (i.e. I write by the seat of my pants) and that really starts with the ideas. These Writing Wibbles can be difficult to write simply because I often don’t put that much thought into the process of writing; I’m too busy doing it. In the best of times, the characters are telling the story and I’m just taking dictation.

John makes an excellent point: you have to immerse yourself in good stories, in good writing, to train yourself to recognize it (and, we hope, create your own). I read a lot from the time I could read (before my fourth birthday… I cannot remember ever not being able to read) up to the time I plunged so deeply into the world of FAR Future that I was spending all my free time writing.

So where do I get my ideas? They just come. I’ve mentioned before, I believe creativity to be a reflection of the Divine, the image in which we were created. Sometimes, the idea comes in a snippet of a dream (in which I tell someone, “Dammit, you fool, I’m her father!” although she was made rather than born). Or there was the time I was driving to work and was surrounded by white pickup trucks for a half-minute. Writing prompts usually work best for me when I ask a question — what happened up to this point? — and if I ask the right question, the answer often comes in a story bomb and I’m off to the races. White Pickups was originally a flash piece, about 700 words, ending with Tina in the Saver-Mart parking lot. When I asked myself “so what happened next?” I got a 200 kiloword thermonuclear story bomb. Well, no — I didn’t get one Big One, it was more like a carpet story bombing that has kept me busy for nearly two years now. Accidental Sorcerers (and some partly-written follow-ons) came from a photo and an off-hand comment by the photographer.

What about you? Do you get ideas as a story bomb? Or do they just trickle in? Or do you just lasso an idea and drag it into the corral?

#TuesdaySerial: Xenocide, pt 5

2011-11-15T07:00:00.000-05:00

Previous episodes: Part 1 • Part 2 • Part 3 • Part 4

Xenocide, part 5
The Crack House That Wasn’t

“Hey. Can I talk to you?” The Moss kid stuck his head through the window of my patrol car.

“Sure. What about?” I put a finger to my lips, then grabbed my ears and stretched them away from my skull.

He smiled, lips pressed together, shaking with silent laughter, then recovered quickly. “Uh… you know there’s a crack house just up the block from here?”

I cocked one eyebrow, he shook his head. “No. What’s the address?”

“I didn’t write down the number. But I can show you where it is.”

“They’ll be watching for cop cars. Maybe you can take me on foot.”

“Yeah.” He smirked. “C’mon, I’ll show you.”

I rolled up the windows and locked the car, and we walked up the block. “They bugged you too?” he asked me, sotto voce. “That’s some serious shit. I mean, yeah, what’s a kid gonna do about it. But a cop?”

“I doubt there’s much we can do about it either,” I said. “They’ll just deny it. I was trying to figure out how to get word to you when you came by just now.”

“I saw ‘em do it.” Moss shook his head. He looked angry. “Assholes. My computer’s in the living room. That ice queen’s on the sofa, she leans down to tie her shoe, and the big jock’s at my desk. I saw him reach up underneath. I guess he figured I’d be staring at her tits or something. Yeah I did, but I didn’t exactly focus on them. They were okay, but there’s girls at school with better racks than hers. One or two I might even have a chance with.”

I laughed. “What did you do about it?”

“I downloaded that sucky Cop Killer track off a torrent, hung a speaker right next to their bug, and put the track on repeat at full volume for a couple hours. Parents were out, so I just left the house and left it running. By the time I got back I figured they got tired of it and turned it off, so I pried it loose and threw it in the garbage.”

We both laughed. “You know they probably left one or two more where they wouldn’t be so obvious. The sheriff figures they can hear everything going on in the office, so we don’t talk about it there or in our cars.”

“Damn. So you guys are still on the case?”

“Let’s just say we haven’t closed our books on it just yet.” I stopped and thought a minute. “Hey… doesn’t your dad own a car detailing place?”

“Yeah. Why?”

“If we get lucky, he just might have a lead for me.” I motioned for us to turn back. “Listen. You’re a smart kid, smarter than you let on. Stay out of trouble, and you might just surprise some people, how far you go. Okay?”

To my surprise, he laughed. “That’s what I’m plannin’ on, Ossifer Friendly.”

The senior Moss owned Northside Detailing — the name made me wonder if the kid inherited his dad’s sense of humor. There were over a dozen full-service detailers in the county, some that made house calls, and more self-serve car washes than I could count. If the perp decided to hose that alien goop out on his own, I was SOL — and that’s what I expected. But I had to run these leads down. I couldn’t do it from the office, because the Fibbies were sure to have the phones tapped on top of the mikes they left around. A visual inspection turned up four bugs, including one in the men’s room, and we hadn’t even started electronic sweeping yet. I figured my home phone and cellphone were similarly numbers of interest, so I used the old drug dealer trick of paying cash for a prepaid cell and enough minutes to deal with the situation.

On a smoke break the next morning, I let the sheriff know what I had in mind. He surprised me: “You know that Cutlass we impounded back in April? It’s still in the lot. I’ll let Sam know you need it for some undercover work. There’s some cash from the same bust, still in the safe.” He grinned. “You never know when you’re gonna need a slush fund.”

I laughed. “Man. The Fibbies really got on your bad side. I wonder if they know how bad.”

Sheriff Carmichael put the grin away. “To be honest, Adler: I’m probably taking this a little too personal. But someone dumped a body in my county, and the Fibbies bugged my office. I don’t mean to let either one just slide. There’s not a lot I can do personally, but I can give you a whole lot of leeway to pursue this.” He shook his head. “If you decide you’ve hit a dead end, though? Just let it drop. I’m probably giving you too much encouragement as it is. But I’d sure like to wipe that smug look off the Feds, you know?”

continued…

The End is Just the Beginning

2011-11-14T22:27:00.001-05:00

Somebody pinch me. Bonus points if you’re female and I get to pinch back.

It appears that we have outlasted the chicken houses!

Tyson’s, using their usual “company store” debt-slavery tactic, demanded some rather pricey upgrades to the chicken houses to renew the in-laws’ contract. They said “nope,” and thus the last batch was scheduled to leave around the end of March. However, since the entire paycheck goes out the furnaces during winter grow-outs, the in-laws pulled the plug after the last batch left Friday night. Permit me a brief…

WOOOOO-HOOOOOOOO!!!!

This leaves the farm with four empty chicken houses and still a small hill of debt remaining. Several possibilities have been bandied about for making the houses pay the rest of their way — some kind of greenhouse seems to be the idea that we all keep coming back to. It's actually not a bad idea; the houses have lights, water, heat, and ventilation. And fertilizer. Lots of fertilizer. If we replace some of the roofing tin with plexiglas, we can get some sunlight into the middle of the houses as well. I’m pushing for herbs (cooking, not smoking) as a primary crop, since the stores charge like two bucks for an ounce of leaves and they can grow like weeds under the right conditions. The agent at the ag coop that has the loan had several good suggestions for marketing and lining up customers. The upside is, you can go away for a weekend and not come back to a thousand dead chickens to pick up.

In less pleasant news, M.A.E. seems to be back at the manor. She can’t seem to pick friends who can handle her desired lifestyle, which is to spend the entire day on Facebook and do as little as possible to help around the house. She’s brought her daughter (Moptop is no longer a good moniker for her as her curls have gone for now) over for weekends and she and Mason have a great time antagonizing each other.

Gotta take the bad with the good, I guess.

Let’s Go To the (Blog) Hop!

2011-11-11T07:00:00.000-05:00

I was invited to participate in the Scribbles Blog Hop, and it sounded like a lot of fun, so here we go…

each writer is going to post pics of their writing journal/diaries/notebooks/notepads/etc and tell a little about their approach to writing, how & why they use their journals, and post links to the other bloggers participating.

I knew there was a reason I was saving all those scraps of paper…

Everything eventually finds its way into Scrivener on my laptop, but not all of it starts there.

After I got caught out with an idea at lunch, and nothing to write it on, I got into the habit of taking a pen and either a notepad or notebook to lunch with me.

Depending on how hard something is trying to get out of my head, I’ll either eat lunch (usually at the Johnny’s Pizza on Jones Bridge in John’s Creek) or just start writing right away and keep an eye out for the server. I’ve been going there long enough that the staff knows I drink unsweet tea and usually get two pizza slices with mushrooms. Once I get started, I’ll write until whatever it is gets completely out of my head or until it just gets too late to ignore how far overtime my lunch “hour” is running.

This particular scrap of paper contains what became Episode 74 of White Pickups. You may notice scratch-outs on the paper — those happen at the time I’m writing. I can’t get out of the habit of editing as I write. I’ll edit some more as I type things in — often inserting sentences or whole paragraphs.

One day I was poking around in a B&N while someone (I think it was Daughter Dearest’s boyfriend at the time) was at the nearby game store, and it was there that I saw the Moleskine rack. I bought one of the pocket notebooks, and bought a second one in May after I filled up the first one.

They’re awfully handy — it’s easy to see why (as the promotional literature wants you to know) the likes of Hemingway swore by them. The little pocket in the back holds note cards and other bits of not-quite-outlines that I’ll flesh out when the characters get off the dime and let me know what’s going on.

That pretty much leaves “why” — well, I’ve already explained part of it: it’s a convenience. As I wrote a couple weeks ago, writers are working when we’re staring out the window — but the downside to that is that we’re always working. So having a way to get words on paper when the ideas are coming, but the keyboard isn’t available, is crucial.

Now of course, that only works if someone (like Mason, the World’s Cutest Grandkid) doesn’t snatch the pen and Moleskine right out of your pocket:

I took this shot back in February, when he was about 18 months old. He’s 26 months now, and still likes to grab ’em when he can. Maybe once he learns to write, he’ll be writing his own stories too.

But until Mason starts sharing his stories with the world, go check out the other writers participating in the Scribbles Blog Hop:

Danielle La Paglia: http://daniellelapaglia.wordpress.com/

Anne Michaud: http://annecmichaud.wordpress.com/

Marianne Su: http://mariannesu.com/blog/

Victoria D Griesdoorn: http://www.vdgriesdoorn.com/

Ren Warom: http://renwaromsumwelt.wordpress.com/

J.A. Campbell: http://writerjacampbell.wordpress.com/

Tammy Crosby: http://tammywrites.wordpress.com/

Maria Kelly: http://mariakellyauthor.com/

Chrissey Harrison: http://chrisseysgreatescape.wordpress.com/

Natalie Westgate: http://nataliewestgate.com/

Tony Noland: http://www.tonynoland.com/

Larry Kollar: http://farmanor.blogspot.com/ (←you are here)

Book Review: Six Moon Summer

2011-11-10T14:00:00.000-05:00

This is the first in the “Seasons of the Moon” YA series by S.M. (Sara) Reine. A promising, even exciting, start.

Price/Length: $2.99 / 50,000 words

Synopsis: Rylie’s having the worst summer ever: her parents are divorcing, and they’ve sent her to summer camp to get her out of the crossfire. She’s a city girl in the woods, and the other girls at camp have made her their personal chew toy. Even worse, she got lost in the woods and was bitten by something, and now… she’s changing. Her vegetarian ways are giving way to a craving for raw meat, and twice a month — at the new moon and full moon — things get seriously weird. The one high point of the whole experience, the cute boy from across the lake who keeps coming to see her, only makes things more complicated.

Storytelling: ★★★★★ This is a great take on the traditional werewolf story; it stays true to the legends while introducing new wrinkles (like the new moon changes). So much of horror these days is zombies and vampires (sparkly and otherwise), and it’s almost refreshing to see a reminder that there’s more to life and unlife. As a YA novel, it walks the tightrope with aplomb — plenty of boy/girl, but avoids sex scenes. I wouldn’t have a problem giving the book to a 12-year old, or even a bright 10-year old.

Writing: ★★★★★ Sara creates characters you care about and characters you love to hate. The Mean Girls got me hoping that Rylie would chew them up and spit them out, at the same time hoping she somehow kept her humanity. Her parents made me want to rattle their cages until they get their acts together. I cringed at Rylie’s mistakes and cheered her triumphs.

Editing: ★★★★ Very good, near professional-quality editing. A few typos, nothing cringe-worthy. If I get my book out at this level, I’ll be satisfied.

Summary: I’m looking forward to reading All Hallows Moon, the next book in the series. ’Nuff said!

Writing Wibbles

2011-11-09T22:48:00.001-05:00

Whew, I made it.

I recently finished reading a book (no, not the next review, nor the one after that) where the editing… well, there’s no easy way to put this. It started out really well, a few glitches here and there, all books have those. About halfway through, it got past the “all books” benchmark. In the last fourth of the book, the editing broke down completely. I tweeted the author about it — via direct message, no need to hang dirty laundry out in public — and she was pretty cool about the whole thing. Two people had edited it, and the author hadn’t looked it over before the final went out — heck, I’d have been inclined to think that two editors would have done the job as well. But like I said, she was pretty cool about it, and plans to roll out a corrected edition next month (hooray for eBooks!). I would probably have a very public meltdown if it happened to me; I’m anal about typos to the point where I’ll fix old blog posts if I see typos in them.

So I’m expecting lots of jitters before, and immediately after, the White Pickups release. I’ll be happy if it’s completely typo-free, but I need to keep some perspective — even if there are more than a handful, I can push out a corrected edition. I wanted to release it on Sep. 14, the day the story began, but I’d rather have it out late and right. I've probably gone through the entire thing several dozen times, no exaggeration — one advantage of serializing your work, it makes you go through it to make sure the next episode doesn’t wander off into the weeds. That’s one reason I’m going to start small (literally) with Xenocide as a short eBook. I figure I’ll learn several valuable things that I can use to make the White Pickups release go smoother.

I can’t remember, did I ever link to The Were-Traveler issue where my two drabbles appeared? My entries are #2 (Hunted), and in the middle (Unseen). If you haven’t seen them, go check them out. They’re all good.

Instead of a #FridayFlash this week, I’m participating in a bloghop. I think it will be interesting — there will be verbiage about how I use my handwritten notebooks and photos of my horrible penmanship, as well as links to other participants. (I may recycle a certain photo of Mason, just for the “the cute, it burns” factor.)

#TuesdaySerial: Xenocide, pt 4

2011-11-08T07:00:00.000-05:00

Previous episodes: Part 1 • Part 2 • Part 3

Xenocide, Episode 4
Doc Dix

Doc Dix was the county coroner from back before urban sprawl turned our sleepy little county into a hotbed of subdivisions, retail strips, and shopping malls. He’d adapted well to the changes; sometimes he complained about how much busier he was than twenty years ago, but he did love the work. Data he’d provided cracked more than one important case over his career.

“What brings you here?” he asked. “If it’s that thing Tenesha and Ali brought in day before yesterday, the Feds took everything. Bastards even took the instruments I used for the autopsy. You think they’ll compensate the county?”

“Probably not. But I’m here about the Jones case.” He gave me a puzzled look and I winked. “I’ve got something to show you concerning it.” I led him out back.

“What is this about?” Dix glared at me — he was pushing sixty, if it wasn’t pushing back already, and he was starting to get a little grumpy in his old age.

“A precaution. We’ve found listening devices in our offices and patrol cars, and it’s likely the Feds bugged your office too.”

He swelled up. “Bastards! What right—”

“They’ll just deny it was them if you confront ‘em. Best thing to do is let ‘em think we’re letting them handle it all on their lonesome.”

“Hm. Underhanded, I say. I didn’t vote for your boss, by the way. He’s sneaky.”

“Personally, I like working for him. But I didn’t come to talk local politics.”

“I suppose. Well, like I said, they took everything. Everything but my memories.”

“That’s really why I’m here. Do you remember a bag coming in with the body?”

“Ah. Didn’t you inspect it?” Doc Dix gave me a mocking look.

“No, the smell got to me. Funny thing for a cop to say, I know —”

“No shame there. It nearly overwhelmed me as well, and I’ve dealt with bodies in every state of decay.”

“I’m sure. So you inspected the bag?”

“Of course. But I couldn’t tell you what the contents were with any certainty. Food and technology is about the best I could tell you.”

“What about the breathing mask?”

“Ah. Now that was interesting. It resembled a portable oxygen concentrator, but it was concentrating methane.”

“Really?”

“If I’m not mistaken, and I’m quite sure I’m not. There was a canister of methane attached to the apparatus, perhaps as an emergency supply. I speculate that the creature naturally inhaled a methane-oxygen mix and exhaled good old CO₂.”

“Huh. Any chance the breather was failing?”

“None whatsoever. I’ve never examined an alien lifeform before, but I’m confident in my diagnosis. Cause of death was blood — loss of whatever vital fluids it had — and organ damage from multiple double-ought buckshot wounds. I’d further speculate that the creature was lurking in the vicinity of livestock, where abundant excrement would provide sufficient methane for its needs.”

“Sounds plausible. Did you tell the Fibs all that?”

“Of course not. However, I’d made notes and they did carry those off as well.”

“What about time of death? Any thoughts there?”

“Hard to say, given the nature of the victim. Certainly no more than a day or two prior to discovery, though.”

“Thanks, Doc. I knew you’d be a big help.”

“I always try to be.”

“You always have been. If we need to phone each other about this, we can call it the ‘Jones case’ again. But details outside the office or vehicles, got it?”

“Understood. Sneaky, like your boss. But warranted, in this situation.”

I drove away, chewing on the implications. It made sense: Farmer John Doe lets fly at a perceived threat to his herd, panics over the thought of creating an interstellar incident, figures to ditch the evidence up in the mountains. The smell gets to him and his — son? hired hand? — before they can get that far, and they unload it the first place they can find.

“Could have been a sewage plant,” I almost said aloud. I didn’t know of any sewage plants that felt their security needed 12-gauge shotguns, though.

continued…

Book Review: Checkmate and Other Stories

2011-11-07T22:29:00.001-05:00

Icy Sedgwick is a #FridayFlash regular on Twitter (she tweets as @icypop), and Checkmate is a collection of 15 of her short pieces. It’s a good choice for a rainy weekend afternoon or plane trip.

Price/Length: $0.99 / 15,000 words

Synopsis: A collection of Icy’s flash fiction, published between 2008 and mid-2010. The stories run the gamut of fantasy, sci-fi, and horror, and are arranged in chronological order of publication.

Storytelling: ★★★★★ Icy has an amazing ability to write dark fiction with an oft-humorous twist. While all of them are well-written, six of the stories stand out as particularly memorable for me:

Midas Box — a young woman’s life takes a turn when she is given a very special box.

Checkmate — in which the fate of the world is decided over a coffee shop chessboard.

My Bleeding Heart — a macabre twist on an old pun.

Bleed Them Dry — a vampire has more than one way to draw blood.

The Mirror Phase — a creepy story of a little girl fascinated with a mirror.

The Dead Do Listen — sometimes, the dead want to set the record straight!

Writing: ★★★★★ Like most #FridayFlash participants, Icy is versatile and can write well in many genres. In fact, her Western novel, The Guns of Retribution, was recently released in paperback and eBook by Pulp Press.

Editing: ★★★★ Checkmate stands out in the self/indie-published arena as having very few typos or other editing issues. I ran across maybe one or two minor issues. All books — indie or otherwise — should have this much care put into them. The only real glitch I ran across was a formatting thing: using the Kindle’s “five-way” to move between stories put the original place of publication at the top of the page, and the title at the end of the previous page. This may have been something Smashwords did.

Summary: Brief as it is, this is a steal for 99¢. If you enjoy dark fiction, you’ll find big enjoyment in these short works.

If you like Checkmate, you might be interested in some of Icy’s other work:

The Guns of Retribution (Western)
The First Tale (a “vaguely steampunk” novella, set in Icy’s Vertigo City)

Weekend Wibbles

2011-11-06T22:41:00.002-05:00

Writing Wibbles, Photo Wibbles, Life Wibbles, I need to start posting in the moment again.

But first, welcome to the two newest followers:

S.M. Reine — author, proprietor of Red Iris Books, and (as you may remember) the person who designed my White Pickups cover.
Carole Gill — an author whose goal, as she puts it, is to “push the boundaries of gothic romance.”

Your visitor’s badges are at the front desk — in a free-range insane asylum, you don’t want to be mistaken for an inmate!

Hallowe’en has come and gone. Mason had his first trick or treat experience, and brought home a modest bucket of loot. Now when he wants a piece of candy, he’ll say, “Trick or treat? Please?” As he loves Cars so much, Mrs. Fetched got him a pit crew uniform for his first outing.

If I had to caption this particular photo, it would be something like, “Well, they told me to make a scary face, so…” Or maybe “Caaaaandyyyyyy!”

This morning at church, he pulled a good one. He snagged a hymnal and sat down and said, “Read?” I reached for it, and he insisted, “I’m reading!”

Daughter Dearest has also been busy. She had her senior recital last weekend and it went pretty well. The preparations for the reception following were fairly intense, though. Fortunately, I was spared and and just had to keep Mason out of everyone’s hair.

We took video, and I took a few pictures:

I've learned that slightly de-saturating the photo is the best way to deal with the rather intense backdrop on the Falany Performing Arts Center stage. DD really has a gorgeous voice. I’ll link to the video somehow when Mrs. Fetched edits it down, so you won’t completely miss out.

Writing? Right. I’m definitely not doing NaNoWriMo, but cheering on anyone who is. I’ve got two people, John Xero and Chuck Allen, looking over the complete version of Xenocide so I’ll know it’s in reasonable shape. I’m using it as a “test bed” of sorts, turning it into an eBook so I’ll have an idea of what the overhead will be like for White Pickups as well.

My #FridayFlash piece from week before last (Geek vs. Zombies) pretty much confirmed a theory I came up with: if you want lots of pageviews and comments, write a zombie story. I got really close to cracking 200 pageviews, and got nearly 30 comments. Quite a spike when compared to other recent #FridayFlash stories (not to mention the #TuesdaySerial). So the big question: is it wrong to be a “zombie whore”? I don’t think so, not if you write them because you enjoy writing them. I like doing a slightly different take on the zombie apocalypse — such as scavengers on the edges of the horde, or even grass-eating zombies.

I’m working on a soundtrack for White Pickups. I’m about 40% done, and that’s just songs in my own playlists. I’ll continue looking for suitable tunes.

I happened across a site called ifttt (IF This Then That) recently. It’s really handy, the way it can tie many of your online services (and your phone) together. It doesn’t talk directly to Blogger, but does read RSS feeds, so I have it auto-tweet new blog posts and text me when someone comments. Several people have had trouble with Feedburner’s auto-tweet lately, and I pointed them to ifttt. I may expand on what I’m using it for later on. I also need to talk about Calibre, and how it can turn your Kindle (or other eReader) into an offline blog/news reader.

#FridayFlash: Antibodies

2011-11-04T17:14:00.000-04:00

This is another story idea that’s been kicking around in my head for a long time. I originally intended to make it a brief screenplay. It may happen yet.

Antibodies

The waitress departed, and something nudged Jan’s foot.

“You said you need gym clothes, da? For your health?” The bulky blonde man across the table smiled at him.

There would be no cheating, but all the same Jan pulled the gym bag into his lap, keeping it out of sight as he peeked inside. As agreed, it was stuffed with zlotys and euros. He reached inside and felt the four gold bars at the bottom.

“Just my size!” he grinned, slipping the bag under the table. “Any company logo?”

“Nyet. No. No markings of any kind. I saw to it myself.”

“Ah, good. Are they made in China?”

“Likely. Or perhaps Pakistan.”

The waitress brought their supper, pierogies and borscht, and they were quiet for a while. Jan lived in a decaying industrial town in the Polish heartland, but this café was quiet and served good food. And if Jan often dined with strangers in suits? He did computer work for a firm in Warsaw, and on occasion, they needed to visit him here.

“A question, if I may,” said the visitor. “Only personal curiosity.” At Jan’s nod, he continued: “You use the alias Vector for your work. Does it indicate the mathematical meaning, or some other?”

Jan grinned. “English is a wonderful language. So ambiguous. Many words have the same meaning, yet other words have more than one meaning. In your maths, a vector has direction. Purpose, even. And in English, it may also mean the path a infectious agent takes to invade a living body.”

The other man — Jan was sure he was Russian, perhaps KGB — looked amused. “An almost poetic layering of meanings, my friend! But beware, living bodies often develop antibodies to resist such invasions.”

“Of course. Discretion is survival.”

“Very good.” The visitor rose. “Well then, you have your project and goals. I should leave you to it.” He looked at his Rolex. “I have plenty of time to catch the train back to Warsaw, but I like to arrive early. I can call the office and let them know everything is well in hand.”

At home in his flat, Jan got to work. Two wide displays, side by side, showed him the locations of thousands of computers around the world under his control. He’d come a long way in the years since he found a shabby old computer in a dumpster and brought it home, his first step to becoming Vector. He had direction, although the organisms he invaded thought he came from a different direction. Moscow wanted control of America’s satellite fleet, while making it look like a Chinese hack? A worthy challenge to be sure, but a challenge he was more than equal to.

(A relay clicks over, opening a valve. Gas hisses, pouring into the basement.)

Vector considered. His client wanted some blame to fall on Pakistan? That could be arranged. He had access to systems in Lahore and Islamabad; some were active. With a few keystrokes, his servers in China uploaded necessary software components.

(Through the apartment building, phones ring. People leave in haste, carrying what they can.)

Ignoring the commotion outside his door, he worked on. His viruses continued to infect more computers around the world. Cracking military networks was tough, but his infections gained him a toehold and opened a tunnel. What his client planned was not important —

(A surge through the power lines causes a switch to arc over in the basement, igniting the gas.)

Jan heard a thump, then the floor collapsed beneath him, dropping him and his tools into the inferno beneath. What few remains there were, were fused together in death as they never could be in life.

Living organisms develop antibodies.

#TuesdaySerial: Xenocide, pt 3

2011-11-01T07:00:00.000-04:00

October Horror Spotlight #4

2011-10-31T23:12:00.000-04:00

Happy Hallowe’en! I’m wrapping up this series with some real treats: free horror fiction, fresh from the blogs! Clicking the links below open a new window, so you won’t have to remember to return here for the others.

Maria Kelly’s The Were-Traveler is a newborn webzine — the first issue, Hundred-Word Halloween, was published on Saturday. I happen to have two pieces in that issue. ;-) The ‘zine focuses on drabbles (100-word stories) and other types of micro-fiction, with occasional flash or short stories.

Lake Lopez wants to “scare the hell out of you,” so he blogs at The Scary Story. There are short and long pieces to suit your scarification needs. His current serial, Sinister, is definitely worth reading.

Christian Jensen’s Beautiful Stories for Ugly Children is for those adult-types who like their erotica with a big side dish of horror. Or maybe it’s horror with a side of nookie. Whatever!

And that’s a wrap. It’ll be November in less than an hour here, so enjoy whatever’s left of the day!

#FridayFlash: Geek vs. Zombies

2011-10-28T07:00:00.000-04:00

If there’s a moral to this story, I suppose it would be don’t mess with a geek!

“You’re my little geek girl, Linda.” Her father’s voice came to her from years away.

“Flipping switches, turning knobs, pushing buttons,” she said aloud, and grinned. “Gotta figure out how stuff works.” What was once a passion was now a survival trait. She’d been in touch with her parents up in New York City up until the phones stopped working. Maybe they were still alive.

Linda Ma stepped away from the edge and wrote in her notebook:

Weaknesses: All senses seem dulled except for sense of smell. They can hear a gunshot, but not a bow. Sense of touch is all but gone; they ignore arrows to non-vital parts. If they are upwind, they cannot find a living person standing still in shadow.

They appear to be lazy, following the path of least resistance unless they smell prey. Stairs are difficult for them, locked doors are impossible.

Feeding habits: they are pack hunters, not scavengers. They will not eat carrion — which makes sense, otherwise they would attack each other. They will eat animals they can catch, but prefer human flesh. Packs of dogs follow them and attempt to snatch some of their kills (or tear off hunks of zombie legs) without themselves landing on the menu.

Knowledge — potentially useful — gained from a nauseating week of observation. Most of it had been done from right here, her fourth-floor rooftop garden, where the zombies got only occasional whiffs of her but no ideas how to reach her. Some of her work, though, required getting way too close. The dogs made things easier for her, though — the constant racket of their barking, nipping at zombies, and their smell (they rolled in carrion) kept them from noticing a living human lurking downwind. On the one occasion they spotted her, she reluctantly put an arrow into a dog and ran for it; they went for the easy meat.

She turned back to her notebook:

Miscellaneous: the zombies and dogs are in the process of forming a sort of symbiotic relationship. It might be useful to think of the dogs as remora, or pilot fish, but more aggressive. She pushed away the memory of what happened after she crippled one zombie with lucky shots to each knee: the dogs fell on it with gusto and left it little more than a skeleton, twitching on the street. Given the opportunity, they have no problem eating each other — but it’s possible that the dogs will start protecting the zombies, and perhaps even helping them find food, as time goes on.

She could hold out a long time. She had managed to raid a grocery store, and between that and what others left in the apartment building, she had plenty of food. Her father had immigrated here, her mother was second-generation, and they had raised her as Western as they knew how. But rice and vegetables just agreed with them all, and they made little effort to Westernize their diet. A vegetarian diet was about the only thing Chinese about her habits.

Picking up her notebook, she felt reluctant to add the next part:

How to fight: stay downwind. Attack from cover. Avoid using firearms, it seems to draw them. She remembered the small group of people who’d shot up a small pack of zombies, only to attract several larger packs with the noise. It had not ended well for the living. Crippling them is much easier than killing — the latter requires severing or destroying the head — and once crippled, the dogs will finish the job.

It may be better to take an Eastern approach, and simply remove ourselves from their path instead of trying to confront them. Their primary food supply (us) is mostly gone already, and they are not clever or quick enough to catch most animals. Zombies need an energy source, just like anything else, and without that they may finally turn on each other. Or they may simply lay down and finish dying.

“Or,” she said with a grim smile, looking at the cases of dynamite, fuses, and blasting caps she’d carried up, “you can just blow the bastards to Kingdom Come, and let the noise bring more. Lather, rinse, repeat.” It wasn’t an endless loop, but it would be a lot more fun than waiting.

October Horror Spotlight #3

2011-10-27T18:00:00.000-04:00

I didn’t post last week because I was having way too much fun last Thursday. I ended up attending the Red Iris Books launch party on Twitter, conducted under the hashtag #TrickOrTweet. There was much swag and prizes — I got eBook copies — and the authors, S.M. Reine (@smreine) and Angela Kulig (@angelakulig), both ended up in the birdcage that is known as Twitter jail for excessive tweeting. As one of the other attendees put it, “it’s not a party unless someone goes to jail!”

And thus, I dedicate this week’s spotlight to the new indie imprint, Red Iris Books. Both books are available as eBooks (Kindle and Nook), and in paperback. As always, clicking a link will take you to the Amazon page for each book.

Let’s start with S.M. Reine’s Death's Hand (The Descent Series) since, as she puts it there’s more boobage on the cover. (She knows how to attract eyeballs.) 99¢ (Kindle eBook) or $12.99 (paperback), rated 5 stars on one review.

The blurb:

Policing relations between Heaven, Hell, and Earth is messy and violent, but Elise Kavanagh and James Faulkner excelled at it — until coming across a job so brutal that even they couldn't stand to see one more dead body. Now they've been pretending to be normal for five years, leaving their horrific history a dark secret. Elise works in an office. James owns a business. None of their friends realize they used to be one of the world's best killing teams.

After years of hiding, something stirs. Bodies are vanishing. Demons scurry in the shadows of the night. A child has been possessed. Some enemies aren't willing to let the secrets of the past stay dead…

And I have a feeling the former partners will be dragged out of retirement. This looks like an adult-oriented series; younger readers might enjoy her novel Six Moon Summer.

Angela Kulig’s Skeleton Lake is $2.99 for the Kindle edition. A paperback edition is available at B&N if you’re shopping the Nook Store. It’s rated 5 stars on two reviews.

The blurb:

Unsure if she's drowning or being saved, all Marlow wants to do is run away. Ensnared in a haunting love triangle, she realizes both boys have holes in their hearts—scars from loving the same girl, a girl who managed to stay dead.

Now she is being hunted for what she has become and what she never asked to be. Even as a Skeleton Marlow isn’t the worst thing in the night—she isn’t even close.

I hope you’ll support indie authors. There’s a lot of great stuff out there for not a whole lot of money — and yes, there’s not so great stuff, but it’s up to us to highlight the good stories out there.

There’s going to be one more Spotlight post, on Monday (Hallowe’en itself). If you know of a good story that needs spotlighting (even yours!), leave me a comment or email.

Writing Wibbles

2011-10-26T22:41:00.000-04:00

Oh hey! Remember when I mentioned submitting two drabbles to the Were-Traveler? They were both accepted later that evening, woohoo! I’ll post a link when I get it.

I’m in the middle of a sort of writing break. I say “sort of,” because the flipside to working when you’re staring out the window is that you’re always working. But it’s a good way to fill up 20 minutes of downtime — for example, while I was waiting for choir practice to start I wrote down a few hundred words of a scene in Pickups and Pestilence, where Caitlin talks to Delphinia. That was interesting: after a false start with the opening sentence, I was off to the races. Something that I’ve known for a while but have just now put into words: if the opening isn’t working, start with dialogue. Seems like it works for me every time.

I’ll probably come up with something for #FridayFlash. Maybe something dark, as it’s the season (and I get bigger responses from darker fiction, insert evil laugh here). Speaking of responses, I’m a little disappointed in the (lack of) response to my current #TuesdaySerial. Makes me wonder if it’s that bad, or if it’s not grabbing people the way I’d hoped. I made an ePUB of the complete story and put it on the iPad for Mrs. Fetched to read; she’s found it interesting so far but I was hoping she’d have finished and offered general feedback by now. I’d like to have a couple beta readers check it out (Mrs. Fetched is an alpha reader of sorts).

On the other hand, in the last few days I won the Grand Prize of a big pile of (autographed!) paperbacks in the #LieOrDie event, and scored a couple eBooks in the #TrickOrTweet launch party from Red Iris Books. The latter was a ton of fun — the authors both ended up in Twitter Jail (is that a bird cage?) for posting too much — and I met a couple new tweeple. Tomorrow’s October Horror Spotlight will thus be focused on Red Iris.

Having decided to take a writing break, I’ve turned back to whittling my huge to-read pile. I started with G.P. Ching’s The Soulkeepers, which by coincidence is one of the paperbacks I’ll be getting from the #LieOrDie event. It was a great story — with a flaw or two, of course. But I so identified with Jacob (the main character) that I knew he was about to do something monumentally stupid and had to put the book down for a day because I didn’t want to see! (And I was right.) Yet another book that I need to review. I might combine three reviews into a single blog post this weekend.

#TuesdaySerial: Xenocide, pt 2

2011-10-25T07:00:00.000-04:00

I combined two scenes today because they're under 1000 words combined. Hope you’re enjoying this…

Part 1

Xenocide, Episode 2
Conversations

Ruth’s Sports Bar was a good place. Ruth was an ex-cop and knew cops and EMTs sometimes needed to talk about things nobody else needed (or particularly wanted) to hear about. She gave us a corner booth, away from eyes and ears.

The waitress left our beers — Sweetwater 420 for me (the name reminded me of the kid), Amber Bock for Tenesha. That kind of surprised me, I figured her to be a wine drinker.

“Well?” I asked.

Tenesha laughed. “Doc Dix looked at it like we brought him a camel. And the maintenance crew about quit when they got a whiff of the back of the ambulance!”

The mental image gave me a chuckle, too. “The sheriff called the Fibbies. I guess he didn’t want to deal with it either. They’re gonna be all over this town by tomorrow afternoon. I’m sure they’ll want you to give a statement again.”

“I oughtta just write it down and hand ‘em a piece of paper.”

“Good idea. Me, I can just hand ‘em the pictures I took and let them do the talking.”

“Y’know, that’s the last you’ll ever see of those pictures.”

“Yeah.” I didn’t mention I’d filled a keychain drive with copies of all my photos and paperwork, and slipped it above the ceiling tiles in the supply room — I trusted Tenesha, but didn’t want her getting in trouble covering for me. Sheriff Carmichael likely did something similar with the reports. The Fibs had resources that we didn’t, but that didn’t mean we wanted them stealing everything. It just might be needed.

“You know, Adler, it wouldn’t hurt to clue in that kid who called you in the first place. You know, about the FBI being in town and all.” Tenesha took a long swig from her bottle and held my eyes with her own.

“Good point. He could have let someone else find it and call it in.” I know it sounds weird, a cop going easy on a pothead. But that’s Sheriff Carmichael’s policy: his theory is if we let the little stuff go, people will cooperate better when something serious is up. My dad says that’s how it used to be: the cops would take drunk kids home to their parents instead of “miring the whole family in the legal and so-called correctional systems.” Thus, Jacob Moss and his alleged bag of weed wasn’t an issue unless he got stupid about it and made it an issue — on the other hand, we show no mercy to distributers or meth labs. It seems to work; we get tips, anonymous or otherwise, about anyone even thinking about setting up a meth lab in the county. Out of town feds aren’t likely to see things our way, though.

We finished talking shop and tried moving on to other topics. Afterward, I walked Tenesha out to her car and she kissed my cheek. I couldn’t get a commitment from her for a repeat, but she didn’t turn me down either. Which is probably how it should be in an exurban county; things can get busy.

I caught Jacob Moss on his way out of his parents’ house the next morning. He was bundled up in a black hoodie for the chilly October morning.

“What’s going on?” he asked, looking me over. I wasn’t in uniform, and driving my own car. “I’m not in some kind of trouble, am I?”

“Not any of your own making. Besides, I’m off-duty. But I need to fill you in on some stuff. Lemme give you a ride to school.”

Moss looked up the sidewalk. “Fine. But you gotta drop me off before we get there.”

“No problem.” He got in, and I got rolling. “You know that — that body you found yesterday?”

Moss looked out the side window, away from me. “Yeah. What about it?”

“The sheriff called in the FBI. They’ll probably want to talk to you. Ask you the same questions I did.”

He breathed a swear word. “I wish I never called you guys. Do the right thing, get pounded.”

“That’s why I came by. To let you know. We’re not the enemy, at least the county cops aren’t. You know that, right?” He gave me a reluctant nod. “Yeah. So the FBI is gonna walk into your house like they own the place, and they’re gonna give you funny looks because you wear baggy pants and black t-shirts, and one of ‘em might poke around in your room while the other one’s asking questions that sound like they think you did it. So… I’m not sayin’ you do, but if you got anything that you wouldn’t want Feds stumbling across, you might want to get rid of it. Okay?”

“No worry. I’m clean.” He didn’t sound like he meant it. “So when do you think they’ll come?”

“For you? I’m guessing tomorrow. Today they’ll hit town and grill my ass and confiscate the pictures I took. That’ll take ‘em all day, because they’ll ask me the same questions in like six different ways — then they’ll do the same to you tomorrow. Just stay calm, tell them what you told me, and you can call ‘em on it when they start asking you the same questions. They’ll be busy running down the list of everyone’s names on the report and talking to them tomorrow, so they won’t be in your space too long. As long as you don’t give ‘em a reason to hang around.”

Moss laughed. “Yeah. Thanks for the warning, Ossifer. You can let me out here.”

continued…

#FridayFlash: Cody Resolute (White Pickups prequel)

2011-10-21T07:00:00.000-04:00

A few weeks ago, Nina Pelletier posted a writing prompt on Google+: Backstory on why you (or your character) have a certain fear. That got me thinking: what is it that Cody fears, and why? But he explained it to Sondra that night they moved into the townhouses, and I thought I’d expand on that a little. I’ve added to it since it appeared on Google+ so if you saw it there you might want to re-read anyway. This happens about three years before White Pickups begins:

Cody Resolute

Cody hunched over himself in his bus seat, face buried in Second Foundation. He wasn’t really reading, but the book hid his wet eyes. A baseball cap covered his neat haircut. I did everything for her, he thought. Why did she do that to me? God, he hated these clothes. Designer stuff made him feel like a nerd, but she had gotten him to wear them. No more.

The sixth-grader sharing his battered bench seat was preoccupied, talking to the kid across the aisle, and Cody felt it safe to wipe his eyes. “Never again,” he whispered to the book. “I’ll die before I let anyone make me be someone else.” His parents approved of his new look, especially his mom, and that was gonna be a hassle. He pulled the ball cap down tighter. That haircut crap was something both parents were happy about, and going back to looking like Cody was going to be tricky. Even going back to wearing his real clothes might be a problem, but maybe he could do that a little at a time.

He closed the book and watched out the bus window for a while, letting the landscape go by in a blur. He cracked the window open, letting in a little fresh air. The bus reeked of teen hormones and sweat, a smell so familiar that hardly anyone noticed, but the April air felt good (even if her name was April).

After countless stops, starts, and turns, the bus stopped in front of the Laurel Hills subdivision; Cody and a couple other kids he didn’t know well got off and hiked to the clubhouse. One of the kids stopped to check the mail. The other was an eighth-grade girl, a cheerleader, and Cody had nothing to say to her. She had no intention of talking to a seventh-grader, but was offended that he didn’t try. I’m supposed to ignore you. You’re not even looking at me. She trailed behind his quick stride, glaring at his back. Too bad he’s not in high school, I’d talk to him. He’s kind of cute.

The clubhouse was a short walk from the entrance. Cody would wait here for the elementary school bus to bring Teri; the cheerleader’s ride wasn’t here yet and she stood fuming and fidgeting at the curb nearby. Dad bought the house in here a year ago, and it was an okay place. He had his own room, and it was cool to have a pool, even if it was here at the clubhouse — it was covered up right now, but it would be open next month. Cody peered over the privacy fence, thinking how cool it would be to ride his skateboard in there. He would love to ollie up onto the diving board and roll right into the pool if he could do it without getting caught.

“Not like I’ll ever get a chance to do that,” he mumbled, oblivious to the puzzled look the cheerleader gave him. He sat and opened Second Foundation, and soon lost himself along the edge of the galaxy, leaving girls and other problems light-years behind.

“Hey dork,” said Teri, blocking his sun. His sister was a pain in the butt, but he still kind of liked her. Usually. At least the cheerleader was long gone.

“Kaaaaaa-terrrrrrrr-aaaaaaa,” he said, rasping the name and dragging it out.

“Don’t call me that, dork!” She gave him the scowl that only an eight year old girl can give.

“Why not, Katera? It’s your name.” He grinned.

“I don’t care. It sounds stupid. I go by Teri, and you know it. Let’s go, you can read that stupid book at home.”

“It’s not a stupid book, Teri-ble,” said Cody, tucking it in his backpack. “You’re just too stupid to read it.”

“I’m tellin’ Mom you called me stupid!”

“Whatever.”

Home after school was always quiet. After putting his nerd clothes away (forever), Cody did his homework while Teri watched Cartoon Network and Nick Jr. The parents would be home in a couple hours, then — then Dad was grilling burgers for supper. Cody thought a moment.

“Hey Dad. Need some help?” Cody stuck his head through the sliding glass door to talk to his dad, who stood at the grill on the patio out back. Dad had a beer close at hand, like he always did when he was outside.

His dad gave him a puzzled look. Cody was wearing what his mom called “play clothes” until last year: plain blue jeans and a t-shirt with the school mascot. He still had the hat jammed tight over the parent-approved haircut. “Did your mom send you out here?”

“No. I figured I should learn how to grill burgers and hot dogs, if you wanna show me how. If you guys get sick or something, I could fix supper.”

“Well, sure. It’s never too early to start learning how to be self-sufficient.”

“Um... does that mean not depending on someone else?”

“You got it, son!” Cody’s dad grinned and beckoned him closer to the grill. “Okay, this is how you start. Stack the charcoal like this....”

Writing Wibbles

2011-10-19T23:43:00.000-04:00

I have to admit I made little or no progress on the Pickups series this week. But I did finish a short story I started in January 2008, and actually came up with a title, Xenocide. It’s my #TuesdaySerial for the rest of the year; I kicked it off with Episode 1 yesterday. Comments (even negative ones) are always appreciated, of course. I think it’ll wrap up in the first or second week of January — by then, White Pickups should be in the eBook stores and Pickups and Pestilence should be in beta. I have a somewhat aggressive (for a guy with a day job and raising a grandkid) publishing schedule for next year: Pestilence, an anthology, and maybe a novelized version of FAR Future. If I’m really productive, maybe the first book of that YA trilogy will be out by the end of next year.

But that’s all I’ll talk about myself this post. I seem to remember seeing something about this when it hit the fan in August, but my Twitter buddy and fellow Planet Georgia denizen (and virulently anti-traditional publishing advocate) Kendall Grey reminded me about it today. The Write Lawyer weighed in on the saga of Kiana Davenport, who had the audacity to self-publish (with Amazon) an anthology to keep paying the bills while her novel was working its way through the sluggish bowels of the traditional publishing system. The publisher, Riverhead Books (a Penguin imprint), had rejected the anthology years ago but had a full-blown temper tantrum when they found out what she’d done. The editor delivered a lovely shouting session over the phone, accusing her of (among other things) “sleeping with the enemy” (i.e. Amazon). They then canceled her book and refuse to return to her the publishing rights until she returns the $20,000 advance (which she needed to pay bills and live on in the first place).

Davenport sums it up pretty well, I think, on her blog: “Sleeping with the enemy? Perhaps. But now I know who the enemy is.”

But as Kendall points out, it’s not just publishers taking far too long (to their own detriment) to adjust to the new world of self-propelled eBook publishing. After attending a local romance writers’ conference in Atlanta, she’s pretty much sworn off writers’ conferences. And, quite likely, the Planet Georgia chapter of RWA (who sponsored this conference).

All the writer conferences I’ve attended (yes, every single one) are geared for people looking for agents/editors to schmooze. … I do not belong with these people. I’m an outlier who doesn’t fit into their box. I refuse to wear their leash.

Responding to comments, of which there were many (and most supportive), Kendall did admit that there were other good things about writers’ conferences — the networking, promotional opportunities, and the like — which got me wondering. Would a writers’ conference geared toward indie- and self-publishers spark any interest? Rather than workshops on crafting the perfect query letter, what agents are looking for, and so on, the agenda could focus on topics relevant to indies:

Setting up an author’s site
Blogging stories
Compiling an anthology
Getting the formatting Just Right
Print on Demand
Promotion without driving all your friends crazy
…and of course, the great plotters vs. pantsers smackdown

There could also be ad hoc crit groups and a “skills exchange” — as I wrote last week, you need a good team behind you, but not everyone has the cash upfront to hire that team. But I might be a typesetting gearhead and need an editor; she has editing chops and needs a cover artist; he can produce killer cover art and needs someone to format his own book. We could all take on the parts we’re good at, and everyone gets (we hope) a quality job without breaking the bank.

Kendall thinks I ought to take this and run with it. I don’t think I have that much time on my hands. But if people think it’s a good idea, I’ll try to facilitate it. If I get a lot of response, I’ll open up a new blog or website to keep things moving.

#TuesdaySerial: Xenocide, pt 1

2011-10-18T06:20:00.000-04:00

This is a story I began in January 2008, the kind of scifi-detective mashup I've always wanted to do, and never finished. I first envisioned it as a flash, but soon realized I would need a lot more room to tell this tale. I got hung up on it, moved on to other things, but Deputy Adler was sitting in the back of my mind, waiting for a connection. Things got rolling earlier this month, taking the story from 600 to 2900 words — then I had a word-storm over the weekend, adding another 3300 words in two days. I think I have 1500–2000 words to go, and I know how it's going to end and wrap up. It won’t get left hanging, and it won’t blow up into another gigantic three-year project.

So come ride with an exurban cop on the strangest case he’ll ever see…

Xenocide, Episode 1
The Smell of Worms and Burnt Coffee

“Do I have to say it all over again?” The kid looked frustrated and nervous. “I bought a Coke up here and was gonna drink it down at the creek. I like to sit down there, y’know? It’s cool and quiet.

“So I smelled something weird, and walked down there —” he flailed a hand downstream — “and saw the body. I smelled a dead deer once, and that didn’t smell nothin’ like this. I ran back up here to the gas station and called you guys. So can I go home now?”

“Yeah,” I said. “You might have to tell it one more time, in front of a judge. But it’ll just be a deposition. You won’t have to go to court. You want a ride home?”

The kid — Jacob Moss — shook his head and got moving. Like as not, he had a little weed on him, but he wasn’t a troublemaker. If he didn’t get stupid about it, we’d never have to do business again.

“Hey, Adler. Steve.” It was Tenesha Davies, one of the EMTs. Short, black, all business, but cute as all get-out. “You gonna come down and process your crime scene so me and Ali can — we’re not sure — well. Come see for yourself.”

I ducked under the tape and took pictures of the scene, and Tenesha started talking. “Whatever that thing is down there, it’s ain’t human.” Now that we were back down at the creek, she seemed a little pale under her coffee complexion.

“You sure? It could have been here a while.” But Moss was right: the smell was wrong. Dead people don’t smell like worms and burnt coffee. I handed Tenesha the camera and approached. The body was wrapped up in something like a blanket, with a leg sticking out. The light was tricky down here, and I suspected the leg was broken; I could see how someone might have jumped to conclusions — but Tenesha? I held my breath and flipped the blanket back.

My brain went in several different directions at once. The cop saw the telltale pattern of a shotgun blast at close range. But the college biology student saw a pattern that looked more arachnid than human: oblong body, way too many limbs, and something that sort of looked like a breathing mask. A deeper part of me just wanted to get away from that smell and that sight. A long way.

“Some kind of animal?” Tenesha said.

“Not an animal. Animals don’t wear masks and carry stuff.” I pointed to the mask and what looked like a bag underneath the body. “But you’re right, it ain’t human.”

“So what do we do with it?”

“Take it to the morgue. Let Doc Dix figure out what to do with it. Then we could get us a coffee.” I hoped. “Here, hand me the camera. I need some more shots before I process this. Can you hang around until I finish?”

“Me and Ali have to cart this thing off. We ain’t goin’ nowhere. Much as I’d like to do just about anything else.”

“Me too.” I took a shallow breath. “Can you guys keep this quiet? I don’t think we want this all over the evening news.” I paused. “Yeah, the kid will talk, but nobody’s going to take a pothead seriously.”

“I’m not sure if anyone would believe we carted a dead alien, for that matter. But yeah, we’ll keep it quiet. Human or not, this is a crime scene.” She smiled. “Maybe we’ll need something a little stronger than coffee.”

continued…

#FridayFlash: On the Georgia Road 4

2011-10-14T07:00:00.001-04:00

If you missed any of the others in this irregular serial, they’re here:

#1: the commuter
#2: interstate patrol
#3: lake property house-sitters

“And now for your ‘Viewer Feedback.’ We’ve received a lot of email concerning Sean McKinzie’s ‘On the Georgia Road’ series. Most of the responses have been positive, and Keri B. of Decatur is typical:”

Cut to: mail animation. Paper springs from letter, text fades in. Marcia voiceover: “Please give my thanks to Sean McKinzie for such an informative series. We’ve been putting off our annual camping trip in the North Georgia mountains, since we’ve been concerned about safety, but it looks like there’s really nothing to worry about. Thanks again!”

Cut to: Marcia. “Those who gave our coverage a thumbs-down fell into two camps. Steve L. of Norcross is one example:”

Cut to: mail animation. Marcia voiceover: “This drivel is typical of the happy-babble that TV news has been for decades. Shame on you for trivializing the very real hardships that people in Unincorporated areas have to face every day! If you want to know the real story, you could talk to my brother. He and his family escaped, and are living with me now.”

Cut to: Marcia. “Bobby J. of Marietta was also negative, but for a very different reason:”

Cut to: mail animation. Marcia voiceover: “Count on the media to exaggerate problems. No government interference, and you get a $5000 tax credit on top of that? If someone in Unincorpated [sic] territory wants to trade places, get in touch!”

Cut to: Marcia. Ironic smile. “It’s good to know we haven’t lost our knack for simultaneously trivializing and exaggerating the issues. And now, doing two opposite things at once, it’s Sean McKinzie, ‘On the Georgia Road’ in Milledgeville. Sean?”

Cut to: Sean, exterior, trailer park. “Thanks, Marcia. Rather than venturing into Unincorporated Georgia, today we’re in Milledgeville, in the heart of the Georgia Quadrangle. Milledgeville is a boom town these days, due to the number of people relocating from Unincorporated areas.”

Cut to: view of trailers. Sean voiceover: “The Baldwin County Fairgrounds is now home to the largest Relocation Center in the state. Many people leaving Unincorporated areas move in with friends and relatives while looking for work, whether in Atlanta or any of the other metro areas along the corners of the Quadrangle. Those who don’t have that option often come either here or to a similar Center in Statesboro.”

Cut to: interior, office. Title: Kwame Grammer, FEMA Director, Milledgeville Relocation Center. “People choose to relocate for many reasons, but most of them boil down to either health or economics. People with chronic health issues need to be near stocked and staffed medical facilities. Others need work.”

“Understood. But why FEMA?”

“The federal government considers chronic energy shortages to be an extended emergency. After a natural disaster, like an earthquake or hurricane, resources are often unavailable — and in the Unincorporated areas, resources are nearly always unavailable.”

Cut to: stock shot, office workers. Sean voiceover: “Upon arrival at a Relocation Center, people’s skill sets are entered into a database and matched with open jobs. Most, of course, don’t find a match right away. But some skills, such as healthcare, have more positions open than people. In general, people with college educations can find work in their field while lower-skilled positions have plenty of people to fill them. But for some, jobs aren’t the primary issue.”

Cut to: interior, elderly woman. Title: Janice Pernal / relocated from Rome GA. “Even if there was gas, I haven’t been able to drive for a long time now. My church brought me groceries and took me places, and made sure I had firewood for the winter. But I got sick about when they stopped bringing fuel, and it got harder for them to look after me like they did just when I needed to see a doctor. The preacher-man talked me into coming here, and they brought me to Atlanta. The gov’mint folks carried me down here from there.

“I get to missin’ my old home, though. They tell me I won’t live too long without healthcare, but I might just find a way home anyway. If I can pass away in my old place, amongst the memories I have there, I don’t think that would be so bad.”

Cut to: exterior, young man talking. Sean voiceover. “For most, relocating comes down to one thing: economics.”

Title: Ray Beckwith, electrician / relocated from Hiawassee GA. “Even with the tax credit, I wasn’t gettin’ enough work where I could drive around to the jobs. Some of us were pooling our money and takin’ a truck down to Gainesville once every coupla weeks for groceries, but the gas started costin’ more than the groceries. Then someone siphoned the gas outta the truck, and we were SOL. I got lucky, FEMA hired me on to take care of wiring here in the trailer park. The kids are catchin’ up with their schoolwork, and we got lights. You don’t know how big a deal that is until you don’t have ‘em for a while. The trailer’s about the same size as the one we lived in up in Hiawassee, so we got room at least.”

Cut to: exterior, middle-aged couple, Sean voiceover. “Rarely, some who leave their Unincorporated homes behind decide they were better off where they were.”

Title: Frankin and Sarah Burke, Toccoa GA. “Sure, it’s rough up there. Don’t hardly get no power, can’t find work, so we thought we’d come give this a try. Yeah, the lights come on and all, but we’re crowded in with a bunch of folks we don’t know and we still can’t find work. People in town look at you like you’re a bleep. The FEMA people helped get us a loan against our tax credit so we can get some solar things to run our lights. We got a good garden at home, we’ll get by.”

Cut to: exterior, trailer park, Sean. “The Burkes tell us they’ll invite us up some time, to see how they’re doing. Until then, in Milledgeville, I’m Sean McKinzie.”

October Horror Spotlight #2

2011-10-13T22:02:00.000-04:00

Welcome to the second spotlight post. Here’s a few more books for your reading enjoyment. (If you’re running an ad-blocker, you might need to turn it off for farmanor.blogspot.com to see the links for some reason.)

Dark Tomorrows is a collection of short horror stories by various authors. Reviews on Amazon are divided equally among “love it!” and “hate it!” for some reason. I’m in the “love it!” camp, giving it five stars. You can see my review under my real name on Amazon if you want the full monty.

Three of the stories stood out in my mind, perhaps the three longest ones. I felt like one story — Amanda Hocking’s “The Second Coming of Pippykins” — didn’t really belong in here. Not because it was a bad story, it just wasn’t a piece of dark fiction. It was actually humorous to me. Her other story, “Of Shoes and Doom,” was also chuckle-worthy but still dark. If her other work is this amusing, I’ll have to try reading some of her novels.

I got Dark Tomorrows when it was free, but it went back to being 99¢ last night — just in time for it to get the Horror Spotlight treatment. It’s definitely worth the pittance, in my opinion.

Now on to the stories I’ve been pointed toward this week…

Fear in Words, Vol. 1 (The Stories) by Jason Darrick is another anthology. Darrick bills it as “Five short horror stories. Each is unique in the fear it brings, some cerebral, some more visceral.”

This one is also 99¢, and gathering rave reviews (all 4- and 5-star) so far.

No Laughing Matter by Jim Bronyaur is a novella about a murdered clown that won’t stay dead. Now that’s a scary premise. Some people are afraid of living clowns… an undead clown is like triple the terror.

One (4-star) review so far. Sounds like plenty of shivers for 99¢.

Who gets the spotlight next week? That’s up to you. Let me know about horror from an indie author (even if you’re the author) and I’ll put it in the queue!

Writing Wibbles

2011-10-12T19:07:00.000-04:00

I’m a few hundred more words into Pickups and Pestilence, which is that much closer to putting the finishing touches on this project. I’m enjoying the part I’m working on now, leading up to Cody’s final showdown with the trucks and their creator’s proxy. You ever get that kind of blockage where you know what you want to write, and can even recite some of the passages in your head, but just can’t seem to get it down on paper? But once you get that first sentence down, the rest just pours out like syrup.

Actually preparing to self/indie-publish a novel has called to mind a particular scene from Mason’s favorite movie, Cars. After the first race, the retiring veteran The King (voiced by Richard Petty himself) tries to give some advice to the vainglorious rookie Lightning McQueen: “This ain’t a one-man deal, kid… you ain't gonna win unless you got good folks behind you.”

And yes, that’s how writing is like NASCAR. The driver, or author, is the one whose name is plastered on the car (book). And that’s the person who gets cheered or booed — the pit crew or editor can screw up or save the day, but they’re rarely (or ever) named. The NASCAR driver has mechanics and engineers who optimize the car for each race, has a pit crew to get the car back out on the track, and (especially at the big-money Nextel Cup and Grand National levels) has sponsors providing funding. In the same way, a successful author is the most visible member of a team that includes beta readers, editors, cover designers, typesetters, and (again, at the big-money levels) publishers who turn a story into a book. Now some authors, especially at the indie level, might do their own cover design or typesetting (which translates to eBook formatting in this century), and many people are their own publishing house. But it’s when authors or drivers go in thinking it’s a one-person show, that things don’t go so well. There are no guarantees — drivers and authors alike can land a big sponsor or publisher, and still end up at the back of the pack — but “[getting] good folks behind you” is necessary to do well both on the track and in the Kindle Store, Nook Store, iBooks, or Smashwords.

On the really short end of story telling, Maria Kelly’s The Were-Traveler is looking for submissions for a Hallowe’en Drabble issue. A “drabble” is a story that runs exactly 100 words, no more no less. As Maria puts it, “The trick to writing a good drabble is a great twist ending. Give me that, and you’re in.” I managed to come up with two and sent them in. I never wrote a drabble before (deliberately, at least), so I hope I did OK. The page I linked to itself links to submission guidelines and the preferred word-count tool — yes, different word counters can and do come up with different results. My own metric of “leave three blank lines on a Moleskine page” gets it in the ballpark, anyway. If you want to give it a shot, the deadline is October 20th (extended from the 10th, which was good for me because I only figured out the subjects of my drabbles on the 10th).

Tomorrow is the second October Indie Horror Spotlight. I don’t see any reason (right now) to not have it up on time this week.

Let There Be Light

2011-10-10T23:16:00.000-04:00

You know I wouldn’t pass up a chance to re-use this picture, right?

Tuesday evening, I was playing with Mason under his bed for a few minutes. When I went to get up, I put my left knee down on the register grate… then put my entire weight on that knee. HURT I limped around for a few minutes until the pain went away and didn’t think much of it.

Until that night, when it hurt enough to wake me up. Ibuprofen was my friend then and for the next two nights. It never got to the point where I couldn’t walk on it, or needed my friend Reality the crutch, but I didn’t like it much. From then until Friday afternoon, when the pain subsided, I didn’t do much tweeting, blogging, or writing. I’d planned to post yesterday’s October Horror Spotlight on Thursday, but it was one of the casualties of the week.

So when I got home from work on Friday, I got crackin’ on my #FridayFlash and got it posted.

But Saturday brought new issues to the fore. Ever since the fluorescent fixture in our bathroom crapped out again last winter, we’ve been getting by with a lamp on the vanity. It hasn’t been a wonderful workaround — it gave just enough light to be useful, but took up space and we kept trying to flip the switch. We finally decided to do something about it and picked up a new fixture at Home Despot.

As with any project, I realized I needed more parts once I actually got started, not to mention getting the wrong parts for the next thing, so back I went. With everything I needed, the actual job took less time than the round trips needed to get the stuff. (I took the picture with auto-exposure set to −2 so the light wouldn’t blow out the whole picture.)

A less annoying, but still necessary project, completed the electrical work at FAR Manor. One of the dimmers in the living room wasn’t working right, and I decided to get something that didn’t have a large protruding knob that Mason or Skylar could put a lot of sideways force on. What I really wanted were the new touch-plate dimmers, but they didn’t have any rated to work with dimmable CFL or LED bulbs. So I settled on sliders with rocker switches.

One of the things I got on my second trip was a wall plate and a 3-way switch. It turns out that they don’t have a wall plate with two big rectangular cutouts (slider size) and one small (regular switch size). So I replaced the working switch with a rocker so I could get a plate to fit them all.

Unlike the bathroom light, where I just had to turn off a switch to have safe working conditions, we had to find the breakers for the dimmers. Once that was accomplished, I got to work… OH $#¡+ the 3-way switch was on another circuit we hadn’t shut off! Mrs. Fetched fixed that by hitting the main breaker, and I got that job finished without any further tingly zappage.

So I have a good dimmer and a good 3-way switch in the parts drawer now. I think I know where I want to put the dimmer…

October Horror Spotlight #1

2011-10-09T23:48:00.000-04:00

If I don’t do this now, I’ll feel guilty about it all week. I was planning to have this one ready for Thursday, but I managed to hurt my knee by putting all my (not insubstantial) weight on it while it was resting on a register on Tuesday evening while playing with Mason under his bed. It hurt enough that I couldn’t even blog about it, and I blog about everything. The pain faded to background level some time Friday evening, in time to get a (late) #FridayFlash done.

So, without further ado… it’s time to spotlight some horror fiction by indie authors. Even with repeated begging on Twitter, I had to mostly dig up (haha) this week’s entries on my own. Maybe people will understand I’m serious about this and help me out the rest of the month. Prices listed are for Kindle eBooks. If you have a Nook or other eReader, I’m sure many of these titles are also available on Smashwords as well.

Here be Monsters — a free anthology of horror. The author list includes two Twitter friends of mine, S.M. Reine and Jeremy Shipp.

Seed (Ania Ahlborn) — Here’s a creepy little tale that will keep you reading. I owe Ania a full review, so I won’t go any farther here. Of the (so far) 92 reviews on Amazon, well over half of them are 5 star and there are very few ratings less than 4 stars. For a 99¢ eBook, that's saying something.

From Dark Places (Emma Newman) — UK author Emma Newman, aka @EmApocalyptic on Twitter, brings us an anthology of dark fiction. If you prefer to read from paper, that option is open as well. ($4.99)

Season Of The Harvest (Michael R. Hicks) — Murder and interstellar intrigue around genemod food? This sounds like a fascinating story, and I’ll grab it myself once I work down my current “to-read” pile. Another book whose Amazon ratings are top-heavy with 5- and 4-star reviews. ($2.99)

Don't Fear the Reaper (Michelle Muto) — This sounds like an interesting story, dealing with the afterlife for suicides. Of the 5 reviews on Amazon so far, every single one is 5 stars. ($2.99)

All right — if you’re an indie writer, and you want your day on the blog, email me at FARfetched58 at aim dot com.

#FridayFlash: What Is Due

2011-10-07T22:31:00.000-04:00

I injured my knee mid-week, and it wouldn’t let me write. This is an excerpt from a longer short story, which also features one of the two main characters from Chasing a Rainbow. I guess I need to get crackin’ and finish that story so I can share it with you.

What Is Due

The trap was laid, and Lodrán calmed his breathing. Damned-fool Easterners, he thought, never cheat a man in his own home. But they were making enough noise to draw attention to themselves; stomping and chattering preceded them up the stone-lined corridors. As a practitioner of the Silent Art, especially one who earned his pay in the ancient warrens beneath Ak’koyr, Lodrán knew the value of quiet.

“You are paying weregild for our brothers, Edrac?” were the first clear words Lodrán heard as they approached. Edrac’s hired swords had lost nearly half their number to the rouvanth who guarded what Edrac sought, and they carried their fallen comrades homeward. Torchlight flickered; Lodrán could now see his hands but the rope that made his trap was invisible. He backed down the side passage a little farther.

“It wasn’t I who killed them,” Edrac replied. “But to keep the peace — shall we say, ten gold octagons for each?”

“Seems fair,” one of the swordswomen said. “If you pay us,” another growled.

“Everyone will be paid,” Edrac sighed. “We cut out the locksmith, after all. Extra for all of us.” The torchlight shone down the corridor where Lodrán squatted, a shadow among shadows. “Speaking of the locksmith, I expected him by now.”

“Maybe something ate him,” one of the men chortled. Several others laughed, as the last torch passed the opening. Lodrán scuttled to the intersection, staying to the shadows.

“Hey, how much longer?” one of them complained. “I never knew Tisiph was so heavy...” Now Lodrán was behind them. He picked up each end of the rope and stood in the center of the hallway.

Now. He snapped both ends of the rope, hard. One, two, three, pull!

“Hey!” “Look out!” “What—” CRASH! Lodrán pulled harder, then dropped the rope and dived back into the side passage. His imagination described what he could not see: the swords leading the way had their feet pulled backwards. They fell kicking, unbalancing those behind them. These dropped their fallen comrades and fell back themselves, in a chain reaction.

“Lodrán!” Edrac snapped, clambering over his hirelings. “You should have stayed where you were, you fool.” The mage wore a cruel smile, squinting down the side passage, looking for Lodrán. “Where are you, you son of a whore? It doesn’t matter, we’ll see you,” and began a spell.

Lodrán reacted quickly. The safehouse master had only one thing to say about fighting a mage: a knife or spear will stop any spell, if you throw fast enough. Lodrán was fast. His knife hissed, and Edrac cried out, clutching his thigh and moaning.

“I only want what is due me,” Lodrán said to the wall, making his voice echo down both sides of the corridor. “Throw it down here and go your way.”

A crossbow quarrel hissed by and clattered down the hall past Lodrán. “What stops us from coming for you now?” one of the swordsmen growled.

“Nightwalk is my home,” Lodrán replied, “Follow me and you’ll die. You might find me, but thirst will find you. Care to try?”

No reply. Edrac gasped and spat. “Help me up, damn you,” he groaned.

“Don’t try another spell,” Lodrán warned. “You won’t survive it.”

Edrac smiled, though he must be hurting — Lodrán’s knife had pierced his thigh, far too close to the most vital spot of all. “No, no more spells. Consed, put twenty gold octagons and that ring in a sack. Yes, that ring. Now throw it down there.” The sack clinked on the floor, close to Lodrán. “So everything is as it was agreed upon?”

Lodrán snatched up the sack, squeezing it to keep the octagons from clinking and giving away his position. He reached into the bag and touched the ring, not daring to take it out and possibly having it glint in the dim torchlight. He felt a gaudy piece of jewelry intended to distract from the true treasure, a scroll that tingled his hands before he passed it to Edrac. “Yes,” he said quickly, and pocketed his pay.

“Good,” Edrac purred, then spat again. “Now you have your due. How will you spend it?”

“Eh?” Lodrán kept his responses short, seeing two of the swords step into the corridor, raising torches. He squinted to keep his eyes from giving him away.

“We’ll wait here for you — after all, we’re between you and the way out, hey? Sooner or later, something will flush you out. We won’t have to chase you anywhere.”

Lodrán sighed. The two swords started down the hall, but a word from Edrac stopped them. They settled down to wait, weapons ready, while another tended Edrac’s wound.

About fifteen minutes into the vigil, the swords’ patience ran dry and they ventured down the passageway. They found a chalk drawing of a Hand, one outstretched finger pointing down the passage. “The Hand that Points the Way!” Edrac hissed. “He has another way out! After him!” He wove a spell that lightened their load and they moved swiftly. Farther along, another Hand pointed the way, and another.

They raced through the switchbacking passageways until, stiff and sore from the effects of Edrac’s spell, they came to a door. This door was marked with a Hand showing a different finger outstretched; none of them needed Edrac to explain this particular rune. They opened the door — and blinked as the daylight of Sunside filtered down a stairway. At the top, a lone figure looked down and then was gone.

Indie Author Horror Month!

2011-10-03T22:00:00.001-04:00

A few years ago, I celebrated October by posting links to classic horror movies found on archive.org. This year, I’m arbitrarily proclaiming October to be Indie Author Horror Month. I should have started doing this last month, but I only thought about it today. Better late than never, right?

To celebrate, I’m going to post a list of horror fiction by indie authors. I want to support indie authors, because I’ll soon be one myself (hoping this very month!) and I think it’s the right thing to do in any case. So here’s a chance to plug your book!

Let me know about a book or story you want spotlighted! Authors are welcome to send in their own work, and everyone else is welcome to make suggestions too. Books, eBooks, and blog fiction are welcome. (If I get reader suggestions for any title, I’ll mention that.) Message me on Twitter at FARfetched58, or email lkollar at gmail dot com — or just leave a comment here if you’re in a hurry. If you email, put “Horror Spotlight” in the Subject title. If I get a bigger response than expected, I’ll use that to set up a Gmail tag. Include a link so people can buy the book, if applicable.
Let other writers know about this. Tweet it, Facebook it, Plus it, spread it around in forums. Include a link back here, or to…
On Thursdays, I’ll post — then you can buy or download the books that interest you! (I’ll probably run links through my Amazon affiliate account so I’ll make a few cents too. Yeehaw.)

Note that there’s no requirement about following me on Twitter, or following my blog, to participate. But I sure won't object if you want to follow either or both. ;-)

If I get a halfway decent response with this, I’ll spotlight another genre (thinking sci-fi right now) in January.

Way Out West

2011-10-03T08:41:00.000-04:00

Technically, this wasn't an “Escape from FAR Manor” — my employer has an office in Beaverton OR, and they wanted me to attend the Author-it training the writers out there were getting. Fortunately, we have something set up with a travel agency, and they took care of making the derangements (including changing my name on the plane tickets to match what’s on my driver’s license). It’s been like six years since I had to get on a plane, and several things have changed since then — like fees for just about everything including checked baggage. Since you’re allowed two carry-on bags (one luggage and one “personal item” such as a computer bag), I put my clothes in a soft-sided bag and loaded up the laptop bag with other things.

So Monday morning, I bolted out the door a little later than planned since I was trying to take care of a panic-mode glitch in one of Mrs. Fetched’s video projects — leaving behind the credit card I’d planned to use for incidentals such as the hotel room and rental car. Fortunately, I’d stopped for lunch just a little ways down the road and was able to call someone to bring it to me.

It’s difficult to find a non-stop flight from Atlanta to Portland, and nearly impossible to find one that fits the corporate travel budget, so I had an hour and a half layover in Chicago. O’Hare is undergoing a lot of reconstruction right now, so things are a little strange. For the first time in my experience, they rolled stairs up to the plane and we got off outside. Cool! Getting to the next gate took about a third of my layover time. It was going to be a long leg to Portland — around five hours — so I asked the guy at the United desk whether the inflight meal was worth paying for. “The food itself is okay,” he said, “but you don’t get very much.” He proceeded to suggest a place just down the hall that made great hot sandwiches, and I took his advice. It was an early supper, but it was going to be a long evening (made even longer by shifting three time zones west).

On the plane, I suddenly realized I’d left my crappy feature phone in the terminal. A flight attendant told me there was time for me to go grab it, but another one brought it in and asked if anyone had lost a phone. I was of two minds: 1) Whew! 2) Can’t get rid of it, it followed me onto the plane! I suspect if I’d left an iPhone behind, I’d have never seen it again. We left without further incident, and I spent the flight reading and listening to my iPod.

In Portland, the nice young woman at the Hertz rental counter gave me directions to the hotel — or rather, directions to the exit I needed to take. The hotel turned out to be a few blocks off the road, and I stumbled across our office while looking for it. I finally stopped and called the front desk and got directions. The room was labeled “kid-friendly” — it had a little table for kids to sit and draw or play board games, there were cute decorations all over… Mason would have loved it, but I had it all to myself.

Mason and Dutch

For me, the high point of the trip was meeting Janet, a regular on Andi’s blog, and her husband Wayne. They lived just a few miles away, so we managed to get together the last evening I was there at a local Thai restaurant. They plied me with gifts for Mason (really cool folks!) and sent me back with most of the leftovers. I didn’t do much exploring other than that, just spent a lot of uninterrupted evening time writing. I pretty much stayed jet-lagged the entire week, waking up at 4am every morning.

The second-to-high point was the first leg of the trip home. The TSA people in Portland actually smile and talk to you; I asked one if there was a problem bringing my lunch through security. “No,” he said with a grin, “but you might have to share!” I didn’t have to, but there was plenty. The first leg of this trip was to Seattle, on Horizon/Alaska Air. Not only did they roll the staircases out like in Chicago, it was a twin turbo-prop! I hadn’t flown on a prop plane since college, in the days of North Central/Republic Airlines. More cool! They used two staircases, which made boarding a lot less congested than usual. We got in the air, and they brought beverages around. Including… free beer! I LOVE THIS AIRLINE! I did ask them if they planned to serve Atlanta any time soon (doesn’t sound like it, drat).

Finally, the long flight to Atlanta on Delta. And here was a surprise: every leg, both ways, was on a different plane. The Boeing 757 was easily the most cramped from a passenger standpoint, while still being the largest. Even the Bombardier prop-job was more comfortable. I read a lot, catnapped, and generally endured until we landed. Delta’s gone downhill in a lot of ways in the last 20 years.

With the unresolved jet-lag, at least I didn’t have to readjust when I got home.

#FridayFlash: Off the Cub

2011-09-29T23:57:00.001-04:00

Icy Sedgwick laid down the challenge: “write a story about a pirate captain, a fictional London bus route, and a kidnapped bear cub.” Am I up to the challenge? You decide (and leave a comment)! I’m sure I suck at UK dialects, but I hope that doesn’t muck up the story too much for you…

The main character is from the same universe as Chasing a Rainbow, a short serial I hope to start posting soon. This runs just a little long; I hope you’ll forgive me.

Off the Cub

Chelina crouched in the alley, cursing her brother by every Dark Power she knew. “Never again will I make a wager with you, Chelinn!” she muttered, knowing she would. The potential thrill of beating him at his own game far outweighed the humiliation and (in this case) outright terror of losing once again.

She took a deep breath and stood — the Pirate Queen of Haven would not cower like a slave girl — then let her senses reach out. This city was enormous. She could feel the weight of it in her gut. More souls here than all of Haven, perhaps all of Termag. She stretched further — gods, iron was more plentiful than water here — there. A wide river, noxious with filth. That was where she would find it.

Taking a deep breath, she left the alleyway, her purposeful stride carrying her quickly. Tall as a man, more broad-shouldered than many men, she drew attention as she moved. True, she was dressed in the best work of Haven’s best tailors: black leather vest and short skirt, cut to enhance her beauty while providing freedom of movement; red sash; black leather boots, nearly knee-high to conceal her knives. Her long black hair, tied with red lace, hung halfway down her back. She grimaced as her brother’s advice rang in her ears: This world doesn’t like a visible display of weaponry. Nor are they thrilled with the kind of carnage you enjoy so, no matter how deserved it may be. Try not to draw attention to yourself.

“Not so easy, brother.” Chelina smiled. Men were the same everywhere: they looked upon her with longing and fear as they passed by. Am I strong enough to win her? Doubtful. Most of the men had a softness about them that she associated with the merchant class. Indeed, her brother was the only man she knew who could stand against her and even hope to prevail.

She reached the river and marveled. “What kind of world is this?” she whispered. “Even their ships are made of iron!” The smallest of them would be a treasure on Haven — if only she could carry it on her back across the rainbow, of course. At least the harbormaster’s office was easy to recognize; she walked in.

“How may I help you?” the man behind the desk asked her, giving her more than a once-over.

“I’m looking for the vessel Fletcher 4,” she replied.

He turned to a nearby panel, tapped at an array of buttons, then said, “Ah, Fletcher 4. That would be slip 74, down to the right.” He looked her over again. “Right. Might I ask what your business is with Mister Harvey?”

“It’s a private matter,” said Chelina, sliding a gold coin across the desk. “I’m expected.”

Those eyes stopped crawling over her body and focused on the coin. “Quite right.” He paused. “Ah, m’lady, this ain’t coinage of the realm —”

“It’s gold. Probably a week’s pay for such as you.” She slid another coin his way, then a third. “It occurs to me: I may need coinage of the realm, as you put it, to finish what I need to do here. Could you possibly trade me some of yours?”

The man stopped breathing for a long moment, staring at the gold coins. “Yes. Yes, that’s certainly possible.” He dug into his pockets, and produced both coins and slips of paper. “Not nearly the worth of one of your coins, mind you, but it’s all I have.”

She left the office a few minutes later, striding quickly to Slip 74. No guards in sight on the Fletcher 4 — but they were there, she was sure. She walked by the small ship, noting likely hatches. Slipping behind one of the huge iron boxes strewn across the docks like so much garbage, she worked a spell that made her hard to notice before crossing the gangplank and boarding. A task made for your talents, Chelinn had said. Board a ship and relieve it of its cargo. Except that she wasn’t on the high seas.

She’d guessed right about the hatch, and slipped below. She sensed the crew, but as long as nobody ran into her she would be unnoticed. Her nose and senses led her to her goal.

She dispelled her cloak; the bear cub looked at her from the far corner of its pen and made a noise at her. Another minor magic… “Food? Hungry.”

“Food outside,” she lied. “Come to your den.” Chelina put her hand on the lock and it fell open —

“‘Ere, what’s this?” A sailor approached, some kind of angular club in hand. Chelina turned and pulled open her vest, revealing her breasts. He never saw the knife that slashed his throat.

“Men. So predictable.” She smirked and covered herself, watching his blood pour into the deck. The bear cub squealed and shrank back, reminding her why she was here.

More magic: she calmed the cub, then cast a glamour over it. Its brown fur became a chaotic mop of hair, its round figure a chubby boy’s. She coaxed it out of the cage, then pushed the dead sailor in. Another glamour made her victim look like a sleeping bear cub, at least until dawn.

“Come,” she said, taking the cub by the paw.

A guard stood watch at the bow, but people coming out were not his concern. Even if they were a hot-looking Amazon and her fat kid. He watched them — her, anyway — debark and walk away.

“Cargo retrieved,” she said to herself. And return it to the London Zoo, was her brother’s final instruction.

One more familiarity: whores looked the same here as well. Chelina approached the first one she saw. “Greetings, sister.”

“Sister? I ain’t yer sister! Get on wi’ ya, or —” She hushed, seeing gold in Chelina’s hand. “Look, sweetie. You need to do somethin’ about the kid first.”

“That’s not your worry. I just need to know the easiest way to get to the London Zoo from here.”

“Ah! Is that all?” The whore snatched the coin. “Take the Number 47 bus. It stops just up the way there.” She pointed the direction.

Chelina had to calm both the bear cub and herself before they could board the bus. As it lurched away, she swore her brother would pay for this.

Writing Wibbles

2011-09-28T19:08:00.000-04:00

You would think I would have had plenty of time to crank one of these out last week. But, no. I was actually getting some writing done while traveling on business to our office in Beaverton, OR (more about that later). Kind of nice to be able to come to a quiet hotel room and not worry about people wanting you to Drop Everything and take care of their stuff.

The writing action the last couple of weeks was centered around Pickups and Pestilence. I figured out how Chapter 8 was going to fly, and that filled in a serious gap in the story. If I were to start serializing it today, at the usual one a week, I’d have a year’s worth of episodes in the queue. I think I’m about ⅔ of the way done with it.

Even better, I now have a clear view of the endgame. Among writers on Twitter and the blogs, there’s a “plotter or pantser?” meme (we have too much fun with it to call it a controversy). After writing just over 150,000 words on the White Pickups two-fer, I’ve finally figured out how it ends. I’ve had some thoughts about it all along, even from the time when I expected White Pickups to be a 30,000-word novella instead of two large novels, but none of them ever felt quite right. This is definitely pantsing, i.e. writing by the seat of my pants. The thing is, it actually works for me. Of course, what’s really happening is that I’m taking dictation from the voices in my head. Naturally, the changes reverberated all the way back to Chapter 1 of White Pickups. Funny thing was, several things I put at the end of the first book are tied to the ending of the second. Maybe the voices in my head knew all along and gave it to me piecemeal.

My next large project, tentatively called Wings, is going to be largely plotted. In fact, much of the plotting is done already. I did that as a compromise — it wanted some attention, and I’m trying to stay focused on finishing a large commitment as described above, so I threw down as many details as I could into a mindmap (you may remember this wibble from July). I did it so I won’t forget important details when it actually comes time to start writing, rather than any serious conversion to plotting (I think a plot is like a battle plan: neither of them survives very long once they’re actually used).

Maybe some of you are still stuck on the “year’s worth of episodes” thing three paragraphs back, thinking Hey FARf, if you’ve got that much done why aren’t you posting them already? Well, I’ve been thinking about that ever since I got back from Oregon. Here’s what’s going to happen: I’m going to get White Pickups released, I hope some time next month. When I hit some arbitrary sales figure (50? 100? don’t know yet), I’ll start posting episodes. I’m hoping to complete the first draft of Pickups and Pestilence by the end of the year, and have it ready for release in the spring, so it should be available long before the last episode goes up on the blog. (You see where I’m going with this?) If you don’t want to wait to see how it ends, you’ll be able to get the eBook.

Yes, I’m pantsing this whole marketing and promotion thing too.

For my #FridayFlash this week, I’m going to try really hard to do something with Icy Sedgwick’s prompt: “write a story about a pirate captain, a fictional Londe bus route, and a kidnapped bear cub.” I’m going to assume “Londe bus” means “London bus,” since that’s what Google thought it meant.

Lobster Toss

2011-09-26T22:42:00.000-04:00

Lobster hasn’t been at the manor for more than a few minutes at a time since we returned from the resort. We specifically told him to not bring his girlfriend over here, especially since he hasn’t even started divorce proceedings, so he (and she) have been at Big V’s place. Another instruction I gave him before we left for Michigan was: “no drugs over here, or you’re outta here.”

Well… back when M.A.E. was still here, the first night we left for Michigan, he and a friend (that Mrs. Fetched told him to never bring to the manor) went in the detached garage and did some meth.
According to M.A.E., he was so whacked he probably doesn’t remember her cussing him out. So last night, Mrs. Fetched told me I needed to tell him to pack it up. Fine, whatever.

So tonight I sat down to check the state of the Internet and it immediately started thundering. I unplugged the power strip and figured that telling Lobster to come get his stuff would be a waste of time because he’s: a) too lazy to get off his girlfriend and do it; b) hoping Mrs. Fetched would forget about it if he put it off long enough, because she has a history of doing that. We’ve been down this road before; I grabbed a couple of garbage bags and waded into the nightmare that is the former bedroom of The Boy and Snippet (and Lobster, sleeping on a mattress at the foot of the bed).

The pile of dirty clothes behind the door was immediately recognizable as Lobster’s, so I shoveled clothes into one of the bags. After removing our towels (so that’s where they all went!), the remaining pile of clothes fit easily into one bag. I started on a second pile, but began recognizing some of those as The Boy’s things. I did, however, find a suitcase that belonged to Lobster so the clothes that looked clean went in there. Things that were obviously garbage went into the trash.

As I was finishing up, Mrs. Fetched made her slow way up the steps. After seeing what I was up to, she joined in. As with anything the wife does, scope creep ensued and (after figuring we got all of Lobster’s stuff bagged up) we started going through all the other crap laying on the floor. There were dishes, cups, a few empties (mostly beer but there was a Crown Royal bottle too), more socks, more towels, more socks, and even more socks. I took a deep breath and dived under the bed and found… more socks, among many other things including several empty photo albums for Mason and a bag of (thankfully unused) condoms. Many little bits of paper and other articles of trash. The iPad charger and an All Dogs Go To Heaven DVD. The lighter I’d been missing (for starting fires in the patio table firepit).

But the crowning horror was yet to come. Daughter Dearest complained mightily about the state of the bathroom when she was here last weekend. She even taped a note to Lobster on the mirror, ending with “if you would clean up after yourself, maybe you could keep a girlfriend.” We found the note in the bedroom; I was surprised he didn’t wad it up or shred it. But the bathroom hadn’t been cleaned up beyond removing the note. Mrs. Fetched, who has cleaned up a dead man’s blood in the bizarre reality that is life at FAR Manor, started by mining out the mildewed washcloths and towels piled in a corner. She asked me to bring a broom, the mop, and the mop bucket. Figuring she’d want me to bring up the cleaning stuff she forgot to ask for, I added it to the load.

So that’s where we are tonight. Mrs. Fetched is cleaning up the biohazardous upstairs bathroom, after I took some risks picking up crap in the bedroom. Tomorrow, I’m getting a large bottle of rum and drinking myself happy.

#FridayFlash: A Day at the Museum

2011-09-23T02:24:00.000-04:00

This is something I posted on Google+ a while back. I thought I’d update it a little and share it here.

A Day at the Museum

The hands-on museum was open at last! I was one of the first inside. A room titled Evolution of the Book caught my eye, and I went to check it out.

The artwork on the device’s outer display attracted my attention, and I picked up the rectangular object. It flexed in one direction, which was kind of interesting. Its cover wrapped around one side to the back, leaving it open on the other side.

I opened it. “Wow,” I thought, “this thing must be expensive.” It consisted of hundreds of thin, flexible text displays. The text crawled down both sides of each display, which was a good design feature — it saved both cost and bulk. I read a few lines, and found the display amazingly crisp. I flexed the device and ran my thumb across the edges of the displays, and it gave off a scent unfamiliar and pleasant. Nowhere did I see power or data jacks — did they have wireless charging and book loading back then? Maybe the cover had some kind of solar collector built-in.

A horrific thought struck me — what if this thing only held one book? Storage would be a nightmare, especially if you had a thousand of them. Not to mention the expense of having a device dedicated to just one book. And how did you update it, send it back to the factory?

I shuddered and laid it back on the table. This thing definitely belonged in a museum.

#FridayFlash: On the Georgia Road 3

2011-09-15T23:33:00.001-04:00

If you've missed others in this irregular series:

On the Georgia Road 1
On the Georgia Road 2

“Lanier Fest runs Friday through Tuesday. If you’re short on gas — and aren’t we all? — MARTA is running shuttles from the Doraville station. The shuttles leave at 9 a.m. and noon, and return to Doraville at 1 p.m. and 6 p.m. If you’re staying overnight, each passenger is allowed a bag as long as it fits in your lap or at your feet. Call the MARTA hotline, shown at the bottom of your screen, for further details or last-minute schedule changes.

“While Lake Lanier will be busy this weekend, many other Georgia lakes are all but becalmed, deep in Unincorporated territory. In today’s segment of ‘On the Georgia Road,’ Sean McKinzie visits Lake Arrowhead in Cherokee County. Sean?”

Cut to: Sean McKinzie, exterior, freeway shoulder. Unincorporated Area sign in background. “Hi Marcia. Located just a few miles north of Canton, Lake Arrowhead was one of Georgia’s most scenic planned communities. Many homeowners commuted to Marietta or even Atlanta, or had a second home and spent weekends on the golf course. That all changed with the ESPA in 2015, when all of Cherokee County was designated an Unincorporated Area. The homes are still there, and some are still occupied. We went ‘On the Georgia Road’ to learn more.”

Cut to: interviewee, interior. Title: “Andrew Kelly / Lake Arrowhead Homeowner” “It’s a really beautiful house. I couldn’t afford the commute, but I think one of my neighbors was going to try sticking it out. I’ve got a housesitter watching the place, and I keep thinking I’m gonna take a long weekend up there before summer runs out. My wife’s kind of afraid to go there, though. She thinks we’ll get shot the minute we cross the county line or something.”

Cut to: Sean, interior, moving vehicle. “While I-575 is technically incorporated, the Army leaves spur highways to local enforcement. The State Patrol took on the responsibility, and is giving us an escort to the old Riverstone retail district. From there, a Cherokee County deputy will take us to Lake Arrowhead.”

Cut to: deputy, exterior, abandoned retail strip in background. Title: “Roy Hart, Deputy” “Gettin’ cut off like this hasn’t been easy, but it ain’t all bad. It’s mostly peaceful here, kinda like the old days. People settle their differences among themselves, and they don’t get us involved. We got a task force down in Woodstock, keepin’ meth labs busted up and all; but up here it’s not too bad.”

Cut to: exterior shot, edge of college campus, shot from moving car. “This is what used to be Reinhardt University’s main campus, in the heart of Waleska. We took this footage for our business anchor, Reinhardt alumnus Isaac White, but we learned some interesting facts about the campus that we’ll cover in another segment. The south entrance to Lake Arrowhead is just a few miles past the campus.”

Cut to: exterior, guardhouse. “Lake Arrowhead was always a gated community, but now the gate security is armed. Fortunately, we were expected. Once inside, we saw bicycles and foot traffic, and only two other cars along the way.”

Cut to: exterior, lake house. “This is Andrew Kelly’s lake house. Mr. Kelly hired a local businessman, Jackie Barnes, to keep his house looked after and maintained. ‘J.B.,’ as his friends know him, watches — and lives — at both this house and the house next door.”

Cut to: exterior, housesitter, lakeshore. Kids splashing in the water, adults grilling or fishing on the shore or from rowboats. Title: “Jackie Barnes, Housesitter” “There’s been a few incidents, but nothin’ we can’t handle ourselves.” Cut to: hand patting holster, then back to J.B. “This ain’t some kind of impregnable fortress. The security folks do a good job, but they can’t catch every single fool who slips in cross-country. Gettin’ in is the easy part. The question is, when you come out, are you goin’ to jail or the cemetery?

“Yeah, the owners keep sayin’ they’re gonna come up and stay a few days or even a week, but we ain’t seen ‘em yet. If one ever does come up, we’ll just stay in the other house until they leave. I don’t think we’ll ever see both of ‘em up here at the same time though. But if it happens? Plenty of houses in here that ain’t bein’ looked after, you know. We’ll check ‘em out for free.

“A couple of the neighbors bring groceries when they go out. We eat lotsa fish too. Squirrels, groundhogs, rabbits if we trap ‘em. The mission brings canned goods, sometimes a little produce, out to the gate for people in here sometimes too. The golf course is shut down, so some of us have gardens on the fairways.”

Cut to: exterior, lake house. Solar panels and satellite dish on roof. Sean: “Mr. Kelly’s neighbor, Vikram Patel, is one of several homeowners who have succeeded in staying. Mr. Patel works for Marietta-based Trileo Communications as an engineer.”

Cut to: exterior, Indian interviewee. Title: “Vikram Patel / Homeowner” “It is very peaceful out here. I think I have heard a powerboat maybe… two, maybe three times all summer. Very quiet. I work all day, check in maybe two, three times. On Fridays, I drive to Marietta to my office. Sonali buys our groceries, and anything else we need, while I work. It is a very good arrangement. We get a large tax break for living out here, too.

“My sister conducts a home school for our children and some of the housesitters’ children. That works well, the children are in a good environment and nobody has to worry about gas.”

Cut to: exterior, Sean, close-up. “Like anywhere else in America, resourceful businesspeople are always ready to satisfy a need. Whether it’s property protection or simply transportation or food distribution — or even food procurement — commerce goes on, even in unincorporated areas.” Camera pulls back, showing Sean in a boat with a fisherman holding up a fish. “On the Georgia Road, I’m Sean McKinzie.”

Vacation Writing Wibbles

2011-09-14T12:55:00.000-04:00

It’s been an odd week for writing, both good and bad. But first, let’s greet the new follower:

Philip Ellis — I couldn’t find your website, but shoot me some info and I’ll update!

Being at the resort, I have to go to the clubhouse or office to get Internet access — between Mason and Mrs. Fetched each needing attention, that has been catch as catch can. Writing has been a little easier: I don’t have to go anywhere to do that, and not being able to mess around on Twitter means I have one less distraction/excuse to crank out some words.

Of course, I’d have preferred to focus on Pickups and Pestilence, but I’ve had some trouble putting scenes into words with that one. Instead, I’ve found myself working on a pair of novellas. The first, Chasing a Rainbow, is a fantasy based on a completely worn-out trope; I’m hoping the main characters will make it worth the read. The second, which doesn’t even have a working title, is a sci-fi/detective mashup. I don’t want to get too detailed about either one, since I hope to post one or both as Tuesday Serials when I get them closer to completion.

A shelf here in the clubhouse has a ton of toys to keep Mason occupied, and a random collection of books up top. I picked up Full Dark, No Stars by Stephen King day before yesterday and plowed through it in a day. Most of King’s work is a quick read, at least for me, so I knew I wouldn’t end up leaving it unfinished. I left a review on Goodreads if you’re curious.

And that’s been my Week in Writing.

Mason Gets a Boat Ride

2011-09-11T11:30:00.000-04:00

Up at the resort. Mrs. Fetched, after giving me Friday night to myself, gave me Mason all day yesterday and today. We’ve had a good time; we signed out a paddleboat yesterday afternoon and he got his first(?) boat ride:

We went to the pool after supper. There was another family there, with two ten-ish kids who thought Mason was truly the World’s Cutest Grandkid. The boy even held him for a moment, before Mason suddenly got anxious about it.

We’ve taken a couple long walks (well, I did the walking and pushed him in the stroller). Right now, we’re at the clubhouse where he’s working his way through a shelf full of toys and I’m scarfing the wifi.

#FridayFlash: At Rest

2011-09-09T07:00:00.009-04:00

This is a dark one for me. That’s what I get for looking for inspiration in a graveyard again. Like I said, this cemetery has been around a long time, and more than a few (very) young children are buried here. The grave below has a hole in the middle of it; I wondered what happened and the story once again wrote itself.

At Rest

Talia Hart glanced about her, but the others seemed inclined to allow her this moment alone. A wisp of autumn wind stirred about her, whispering comfort. The scent of turned earth mingled with the cut flowers she held, calling spring planting to mind.

“I won’t say I’m sorry you’re gone, Fredrick Hart,” she whispered. “I loved you the best a wife could. But whatever it was that happened, it was comin’ to you.”

A twinge of guilt washed over her, and unwanted tears came. Was she to blame? She cursed him that night, after all…

Fredrick paused in his drunken humping. “Won’t it shut the hell up?”

“She’s probably hungry. Babies get that way. Finish what you’re doin’ and I’ll go feed her.”

Her husband returned to business for a few seconds, then rolled off her. “Shit. Just take care of it.”

Talia stood, pulled her gown down, and made her stiff-legged way to their daughter’s cradle. “Hush now, Mary,” she said, shrugging one full breast out of her gown and offering it to the baby. Mary fussed for a few seconds, then latched on. Talia winced, but made no protest — Mary was just a baby after all. Life was pain, the preacher said, and that was true. Mary’s hunger, Fredrick’s meanness, the endless work in between, from pain to pain. Maybe she should take to hard drinkin’ the way her husband did. Was doing now, from the sound of it.

After a while, Mary slept and Talia returned to bed. Fredrick yanked her gown up and rolled on. “Saddle up, boys, this ride ain’t finished yet,” he chuckled, thrusting —

Mary started wailing again.

“That’s it!” he yelled, jumping to his feet. “I’m takin’ care of this, once and for all!” He stomped toward the cradle.

“Fredrick, no!” Talia screamed, grabbing his arm. That was all she remembered for a while.

Talia awoke on the floor, face on fire. Her husband sat at the rough table, whiskey jug at hand. Something’s wrong… “Mary!” She scrambled to her feet.

“Died in her sleep,” said Fredrick, staring at the ceiling. “Prob’ly choked on somethin’. I went and gave her a good Christian burial out back. You say anything different, and you’ll be there next to her. Understand?” He took a long pull from his jug, then laid his head on the table.

“The Devil take you for what you done, Fredrick Hart,” she hissed. “And may he do you ten times worse than what you did to an innocent baby, for all eternity.” Then she passed out herself.

Fredrick Hart had a still at the back of his property, shielded from sight by a rhododendron hedge growing along the creek. He got a fair income from whiskey, and might have got more had he not been so fond of his own makings. This new moon night was just right for the work: plenty dark enough to keep trespassers at home, no wind so the fire wouldn’t get out of hand. The wife was keeping the house… not like she’d done much else these last few months. Never spoke unless spoken to, and only one or two words if that. Which suited him just fine —

Snap went a twig, and Fredrick slipped into the bushes. He left dry twigs all around the still, to give him fair warning. He drew his boot knife, slow and silent, and listened.

A squall went up. Fox got a rabbit, but it kept on like a hungry baby.

“What the hell,” he muttered, slipping around the rhododendron and along the soft moist creek bank. The wailing kept on, leading him. “Died in her sleep,” he whispered, not realizing. Truth be told, he didn’t remember what happened to Talia’s brat. He must have buried it, though. He’d later paid good coin for a crude headstone:

MARY HART
B. JAN 26, 18—
D. APR 4, 18—

The wailing. Fredrick wrung the hilt of his knife and followed the noise up the bank. Too dark to see, but he knew where he was.

Now the noise was behind him. He trotted along the edge of the river bank —

Talia found him the next afternoon, just above the still. He’d slipped and fell onto one of his own traps; the sharpened stick went in between his legs and came out behind his shoulder. From the look on his face, he’d lived a little while. She nodded and took the wagon into town for help.

Wiping her eyes with her free hand, Talia walked to the wagon. Without a word to anyone, she rode away, still clutching the bunch of late-summer flowers.

At home, she went to Mary’s little grave. Something — maybe a gopher — had dug a hole in the middle of it. Talia slipped the flowers into the hole. She glanced at the headstone, but her tears hid a line that had not been there before:

AT REST.

Writing Wibbles

2011-09-07T22:48:00.000-04:00

Greetings to all y’all…

It’s been a strange week for writing. The three-day weekend at Mom’s didn’t let me do much more than nibble at the edges of things, although I did finish up a third segment of On the Georgia Road that may become my #FridayFlash this week if another idea doesn't strike me tomorrow. But I’ve mostly been trying to get some momentum on Pickups and Pestilence — filling in holes here and there, trying to get rolling on the last half of the story. Some time in the last week, an important detail finally became clear: I’ve known for a long time what’s behind the pickups, but not why they’re white pickups instead of a Maserati or Ford Expedition. Only 140,000 words in before I figured it out.

Mom says, “needs more nasties!” There’s a group that fits the description in Pickups and Pestilence, but I also have a feeling our heroes will run into Perry Adams…

Meanwhile, I’m not neglecting White Pickups. I’ve begun tackling the dreaded “blurb,” the summary on the back cover of printed books. The White Pickups page has the first attempt; Mari Juniper (my April Fool’s Blog Swap partner) gave me some suggested fixes that I’m working on now. I never realized how difficult it could be to condense a 95,000-word story into a single paragraph of promotional come-on. But I’ve summarized 500-page technical manuals with a haiku. I can do this.

A week ago, I said I was going to change the blog template because of several deficiencies: the “contact me” link went nowhere, and not having the Share buttons, were the two big ones. But I also wanted the “comment” link at the bottom of each post, where it’s more likely to get clicked by someone who just finished reading. I figured I should check the Deluxe Templates site for an update before doing anything drastic — there wasn’t an update, but there were instructions for adding the Share buttons! That didn’t include the +1 button, but a little poking around on the Blogger site led me to a fix for that too. Fixing the “contact me” link was trivial by comparison; I pointed it at my profile for now. For whatever reason, I figured out how to copy the “comment” link to the bottom this time, when I couldn’t when I first started using Abrasive.

So now I have almost everything I wanted. The last part, making the sidebar wider (from 180px to 240px), involves widening the background graphics as well. I have Photoshop Elements, so I don’t expect that to be a huge problem. Speaking of the sidebar, I put a small copy of the White Pickups cover in there.

Then when I was reading Tony Noland’s #FridayFlash last week, I noticed he had a “LinkWithin” widget at the bottom of his posts that links to related posts on his blog. The widget also had a link to its home site, so I followed that and found easy instructions for adding one to TFM… so I did. It’s kind of fun, seeing what posts come up and sometimes following them. It was a little random at first; it said it could take a few hours to index the blog. Given that TFM is approaching 1,300 posts, it might have taken a few days.

So I have all these new features bolted onto the blog, and once I get the sidebar widened that’s going to be all the changes for a while. Feel free to click them to see what else is lurking here — or share it around with your friends, of course. Smack that +1 button if you like a post. Don’t forget to leave a comment…

Happy Birthday, Mason!

2011-09-06T21:26:00.000-04:00

Although he’s been “terrible” for a while now, today Mason is officially two!

Blowing out the candles

After blowing out the candles, he seriously considered eating his cake Viking-style…

Who needs a fork when you’ve got a tongue?

Compared to last year’s big blowout, this was a pretty low-key event. The Boy and Snippet wanted to come down, but were out of money. Since the van’s alternator decided to begin eating its bearings on the way home from Mom’s yesterday (it got us home), and my car’s thermostat got stuck this morning, we have no money to send them. August came a month late this year.

As Mason blows out his second candle, he’s advancing a lot these days. He’s getting scary-good at climbing — not quite The Boy’s level, but getting close. (Speaking of which, he refers to himself as The Boy, which could get confusing around here.) He’s also beginning to move beyond two-word sentences: last week, he told me “The boy drive Granddad’s car.” This evening, after cake, he told Mrs. Fetched: “The boy is hungry,” and pointed to himself. He also told me, “Granddad in, too,” referring to the underside of his bed.

The Boy and Snippet think they’ll be able to just come get Mason once they get settled up in Wisconsin, but I don’t think it’ll be quite that easy. Mason barely knows his parents now, and there would have to be a transition time for them to take over without seriously disrupting his life. I really want them to be where they can actually be his parents, but I don’t want it to be at Mason’s expense. I just haven’t seen that he’s been their priority even when they were here.

#FridayFlash: Grand Coup

2011-09-01T23:10:00.001-04:00

I got the idea for this story Wednesday evening, on a stroll with Mason. We walk along a dirt road bordering a nearby cemetery, since there’s not much traffic to contend with. Some of the buried were born in the 1830s; some of those have Confederate flags next to their headstones, indicating a Civil War veteran. The story came to me almost immediately. Any perceived resemblance to The Screwtape Letters is an honor on my part.

Thanks to Tony Noland, Chuck Allen, and Craig WF Smith for looking it over. I was concerned it might be too dialog-heavy.

Grand Coup

“Welcome to the real world, kid.” Filth held out his grimy paw, engulfed the newcomer’s in it.

Despair grinned. “Yeah. No more classes. Church bells, but that training was like Limbo — I never thought I’d get outta there!”

“Hey, watch your mouth. You Venals all come outta training thinkin’ you’re Hell on Wheels. Got all the latest techniques, up to date with the modern program and all that shit. Well, I got news for ya, hot shot: your real training begins right here, right now.”

“Huh?”

“Oh, come on. You know the saying: those who can, do; those who can’t, teach.”

“And those who can’t teach, administrate!”

Filth glanced around them. “I wouldn’t say that too loud, kid. Some of these walls has ears, ya know. Besides, that’s some human’s idea of a joke. Your instructors, they did their worst with ya. But half of ‘em never been out in the field, and the other half got kicked upstairs ‘cuz they didn’t get the job done. You know? Okay, riddle me this: what’s the best way to get a soul on the road to Hell?”

“Huh, that’s easy. Sex.”

“Bah.” Filth spit, making the stone sizzle. “See, the problem with you Venals is, they pump you up. Yeah, they gotta make you prideful, you’ll never get the job done if you start doubtin’ yerself, but then they fill you up with our own propaganda.” He lowered his grinding voice. “Ya didn’t hear this from me, but the Enemy created those greasy little humans with a sex drive. It’s the way they’re wired, not a whole lot of sin in that. Why do you think the Propaganda Department gets ‘em focused so much on it? Yeah. Humans got a one-track mind. Get the churchies all worried about Lust, and they completely ignore Greed. And we get a big ol’ helpin’ of Wrath and Envy on the side, when other people get what those ‘God-fearing’ churchies are afraid of gettin’ themselves. The problem is, you hear the message we send to the humans, then you get to believin’ it yourself.”

Despair scratched between his horns, leaving shallow grooves in the top of his skull. “So what’s the plan?”

“It ain’t the sex that’s brings in the sin, it’s the disloyalty. Women churchies are great for that. Get ‘er all afraid to enjoy herself, she cuts off the man, the man starts lookin’ outside. He don’t even hafta follow through to bring the sin, ya know!”

“Yeah. I knew that.”

“Sure. Even your instructors can get that much right.” Filth made a dismissive gesture. “Gettin’ a human to do somethin’ they shouldn’t, that’s easy. Oh yeah, get ‘em to do it enough, and it adds up, sure. But there’s lotsa ways to fork a soul. You can get ‘em to wanna do it, without ‘em actually havin’ the fun, and that’s what we call a little coup out here in the field.”

“Uh-huh. We learned that in Advanced Temp, last semester of training. Just not that word for it.”

“Yeah. They told you about keepin’ humans from doin’ stuff they should, right? Usually easier than gettin’ ‘em to do, and usually a better result.”

“Sure. Why you tellin’ me all this?”

“Just wanted to make sure you knew the basics, kid. Some of you Venals sleep through the whole thing and think all ya gotta do is keep a human outta church. Were you payin’ attention in yer Historic Triumphs class? You remember Hideous?”

“Oh, yeah. He’s the one that started the American Civil War, right?”

“Close enough. But you probably focused on all the sufferin’ and hatin’ and all the gravy, and didn’t get down to the meat, right?”

“What are you talkin’ about?”

“That wasn’t the point of that war — or any war. The hate, the pain, the killin’, that’s all gravy. Tasty, but it ain’t fillin’. The real point was turnin’ their virtues —” spit, sizzle — “against ‘em. Makin’ that what brings the sin. Hideous got all them souls on the losin’ side to turn their loyalty to their homes into treason against their nation. That’s the biggest score of all, kid. We call it the grand coup.”

Despair got a faraway look. “Grand coup. Yeah.”

“And Hideous didn’t do it to just one soul, he did it on a grand scale. That’s how he ended up running the furnaces — it usually takes serious connections to get that kinda cushy job. And he made the leap from Senior Venal to Grand Malevolence all at once…. Whoa. Look, kid. It’s an advanced technique. Hideous not only paid attention in class, he had a great field mentor and he got bless’ lucky. It takes years to lay the groundwork for that kind of payoff. Old Plaguepit did most of the work, and left it to Hideous when he retired. Rotheart’s doin’ somethin’ similar with the churchies now, dunno if it’ll pay off. It’s always risky playin’ around with churchies. If some of ‘em get wise to the game…” Filth shook his head. “I seen a century of work unravel in weeks, thousands of souls lost — that always gets the attention of those down-pit.” He shuddered. “You and me, kid, we’ll play it safe. Nibble around the edges. Little challenges, stuff that don’t make trouble if it don’t pan out. You don’t need a grand coup to snag a soul. Slow and steady wins the race.”

“Slow and steady. Sure.” Despair still had that faraway look, and that suited Filth just fine. Like flies to shit. He’d been stuck at Senior Vice rank forever, but there was more than one way to get ahead. Let Despair take the risks, and take the fall if he screwed up — it was on the record that Filth cautioned the kid against big schemes — and it would be easy enough to snag the credit and that promotion to Lower Malevolence if the kid did manage to pull off a grand coup.

Writing Wibbles

2011-09-01T00:56:00.000-04:00

The more sharp-eyed readers (and I love you all, sharp-eyed or not) noticed that I changed the usual title of Wednesday Wibbles to Writing Wibbles. I’m doing this for two reasons:

They don't always end up getting posted on Wednesdays.
Much of the content of these posts is about writing in general, and how my writing in particular is going, anyway. May as well make it official, and talk about the free-range insane asylum during the rest of the week.
As I get closer to releasing White Pickups, and slowly drop my light coat of anonymity, TFM will of necessity focus more on writing until I move that to its own blog or website.

Earlier this week, Tony Noland wrote a blog post about The risks and rewards of posting NSFW content, after an unusually erotic (for him) #FridayFlash story created some blowback. He hesitated about posting it at first, and asked for opinions on Friday morning. I obliged, and thought it erotic but well-written and not as “bad” as some other erotica I’ve seen on Blogger. I said go for it, just add the NSFW (Not Safe For Work) tag, and he did. Sure, it was an easy call on my part — I didn’t get the blowback — but I think any blowback was unwarranted. I haven’t posted flat-out erotica myself, but there are sex scenes in White Pickups that still move me more than a story about hot wax, even after repeated readings. I didn’t exactly gloss over the nature of Cody’s Christmas present to Sondra in Episode 57, for example.

Tony has this, in part, to say about posting stories that concern matters of the heart (actually, a couple feet below the heart):

I have a nasty tendency to overthink things. This, I believe, has the potential to be a problem for the quality of my writing. I've decided that a writer who is perfectly unobjectionable is far too close to one who is perfectly acceptable, perfectly unexceptionable, perfectly bland.

Perfectly forgettable.

As a writer, can you see yourself striving to be acceptable? That's setting the bar a little low, don't you think?

Indeed it is. I’ve had a couple deep thinks about the sex scenes in White Pickups, and decided they do add to the story. Writing White Pickups has pushed my personal writing envelope for me in several ways — there’s plenty of R-rated language to go with the juicy parts, and I hadn't written much of either previously — but while it would work as a YA novel without those elements, that was never my intent. Even with a youthful main character, it was meant to be an adult novel. Tina at first, then Cody and Sondra later on, made sure of that. But that’s not so important. The important thing is, as I said in my comment on Tony’s post, is there’s no good reason that it’s okay to show people getting beaten, shot, stabbed, or tortured on prime-time TV, but a little nookie gives people the Shivering Collywobbles.

The closest thing I’ve ever written to erotica is a short called Hunter and Trapp. I haven’t posted it on #FridayFlash partly because I can’t get it below 1400 words without marring the story, but mostly because it’s centered around a rape scene. The tables are turned in the end, but I know several of my female friends online have emotional issues centering on either rape or a near-miss. It would disturb them if they stumbled across the story, so I respect that and may find some other venue for the story sooner or later. But even if it only sits on my hard drive or sees an occasional private reading (Maria Kelly thought it was well-written and not at all over the top), it wasn’t wasted effort. The “Trapp” character turns out to be an important part of a half-baked urban fantasy novel that may get some attention before 2015, God willing.

I’m going to change the blog skin soon. Tony pointed out that the “Contact Me” link is broken, and it doesn’t support the “share” tools available on standard Blogger templates. I need a cleaner look anyway. Fair warning, and all that!

Terrible Two

2011-08-29T23:46:00.000-04:00

Mason will be 2 in ten days, but he was quite the little monster yesterday. To be fair, it wasn’t entirely his fault.

Mrs. Fetched’s aunt died this week, age 90, about three hours after she went into hospice. The funeral was yesterday afternoon, so I took Mason on to church. As happens rather often, he started nodding out in the car on the way home. Since we were nearly home, I took a little loop that adds ten minutes to the ride and that was enough to get him zorched. Unfortunately, that left about a half hour for him to nap before we had to get him up and go back into town.

Results were about what you’d expect from a toddler whose nap got interrupted: he kept moving at a frenetic pace, trying to keep moving so he wouldn’t go back to sleep in front of all those people. Some other kids showed up, and they opened up a side room for the kids to bounce around in — and Mason’s idea of a good time was trying to escape and getting angry when I wouldn’t let him. After a while, I got frustrated with his disrupting things and took him outside so he could cry as loud as he wanted. All in all, I felt like I was there for neither the aunt or the mourners, and told Mrs. Fetched as much. “You were there for me,” she said, which did make me feel a little better. But if I had it to do over, I’d have stayed at home with him. I did end up taking him home early; DoubleRed was at the funeral and offered to bring Mrs. Fetched home.

Once we got home, he got a little more nap in, but woke up cranky and not completely napped out. Meanwhile, DoubleRed got off on a tangent about Sesame Street, saying there was an episode that was never aired. I was thinking, “Oh boy, the whole Bert and Ernie hoo-hah again,” but it was Something Different. “The head of PBS pulled it,” she said. “They had a same-sex couple, and an interracial couple.” Okay, assuming she hasn’t swallowed yet another line of crap, I could see that they might not want to get embroiled in the same-sex marriage issue. A lot of people aren’t comfortable with the idea just yet, as lame as their justifications might be. But equating interracial marriage? The pod people have had fifty years to get used to that idea. I gave her a rather sarcastic response, and she shut up. Which is fine, because Sid the Science Kid features an interracial couple (Sid’s parents) and I haven’t heard any flack about that even on Planet Georgia. I’ve decided that sarcasm and ridicule are the only way to respond to pod people when they start spewing their anti-everything agenda — they know it’s shameful outside their little circle and rubbing their noses in the fact is the only way to open their eyes to the Real World.

Anyway. Mason cheered up considerably once I got his shoes on and took him out to the patio to splash in the play table, then he walked back to the house. I thought for a moment he wanted to go inside and watch Cars for the zillionth time, but he grabbed a stroller and said, “Ride!” So I took him for a stroll along his usual route, and he was in a much better frame of mind for his supper/bath/bedtime routine. In fact, he slept all night for the first time in quite a while.

The Boy called me this afternoon and talked for a while, then talked to Mrs. Fetched for quite a while longer. He seems to really like Manitowoc — the lake’s right there, the parks don’t have No Drinking ordinances like they do here, he’s fallen in love with disc golf, cost of living is cheaper, what’s not to like? Winter? He’s planning to get a snowboard. He’s in line for a couple jobs that involve sanitation in food-handling plants, similar to the job he had in the chicken plant before a party derailed him. Not much was said about Snippet… I don’t know how she’s dealing with the move or how she’ll handle Real Winter. For all I know, getting her away from the influences she has around here might help her mature a little. (Yes, I’m the eternal optimist.)

#FridayFlash: On the Georgia Road 2

2011-08-26T07:00:00.001-04:00

The first one was received well enough that I figured it wouldn’t hurt to post another.

“Gas rationing has made the Great American Road Trip a thing of the past. But even in unincorporated areas, the interstates are still open. They may get only a fraction of the traffic they did in years past, but the federal government considers them vital. In today’s segment of On the Georgia Road, our Sean McKinzie has more.”

Cut to: Sean McKinzie, exterior, freeway overpass. Below, an occasional car or motorcycle passes by. “Thanks, Marcia. It’s a little-known fact, but the interstate system was built partly as a defense project. It’s official name is the ‘Dwight D. Eisenhower National System of Interstate and Defense Highways.’”

Cut to: infographic. INTERSTATE HIGHWAY SYSTEM / Construction began in 1956 / About 47,000 miles long / Nearly 60% of the system lies in Unincorporated Areas. “Officially, the Interstate Highways are considered incorporated areas of the country. But in practice, while you might drive safely from Atlanta to Chattanooga and back, you aren’t likely to find any open gas stations along the way — and if your car breaks down, you’re on your own.”

Cut to: Sean in front of boundary sign. “In late 2015, a modern-day version of the highwayman began to plague the freeway system. Makeshift barricades caught unwary travelers, who lost their fuel — and sometimes their lives — to banditry. Stories have a way of growing in the telling, and recent polls show that three out of four people living inside the Georgia Quadrangle believe that venturing into Unincorporated areas is likely to be fatal.”

Cut to: Sean, exterior, military convoy. “But the military, charged with keeping the system open, has been patrolling since the spring of 2016. I-85 and I-185, the route from Atlanta to Columbus, get special attention. Captain James Galloway, of Fort Benning’s 75th Ranger Regiment, recently invited us to ride along with the patrol — On the Georgia Road.”

Cut to: Capt. Galloway, interior, office. “The biggest battle was in Congress. Representatives of Unincorporated Areas blocked our initial efforts, citing the Posse Comitatus Act, then made it very difficult to get the Act modified to specifically allow us to do our jobs. It took an Executive Order from the President to cut the red tape. After that, we began clearing the highways under strict rules of engagement. Those made life difficult at first, but by fall of 2016 we had re-opened all but the most remote sections of the system.

“At first, we would simply remove barricades by whatever means necessary. Then the bandits began using portable barricades, and we resorted to satellite surveillance to locate trouble spots until they caught on and used overpasses to conceal their activities.

“Nowadays, we use a vehicular version of the naval ‘Q-ship.’ Those were naval vessels disguised as merchant ships, intended to draw the enemy out from ambush. A decoy car takes the point position, usually with a crew of four: driver, data logger, and two armed guards. The car is specially modified with armor and gun ports, but is indistinguishable from a civilian vehicle until you’re right on top of it.

“Behind the decoy is one or more reinforcement vehicles, again indistinguishable from a civilian vehicle, carrying more troops. The banditry problem has all but disappeared since we began using this tactic.”

Cut to: Sean, exterior, roadside. Camera angle very low, showing a blimp far above. “In fact, this section of freeway is so secure, the Army now has tethered blimps to old billboard posts to do most of the watching for them. This has several advantages over satellites, including constant surveillance of the areas in question. While it is possible for a determined bandit to climb up and cut the tether, or punch holes in it from the ground with a high-powered rifle, the blimps have certain non-lethal defenses that were not explained to us for security reasons — and tampering with a blimp is certain to draw a forceful response. ‘De-tethering’ a blimp, as Captain Galloway describes it, does not disable it right away. It will attempt to hold its position and altitude as long as possible, usually long enough for a maintenance crew to arrive on-site.”

Cut to: Sean, interior, in vehicle, surrounded by soldiers. In the background, military radio traffic can be heard. “We are now in a reinforcement vehicle, on the way to Columbus. While this is officially a combat mission, the atmosphere is relaxed. Of course, that can change in an instant, depending on what the decoy vehicle sees.”

Cut to: exterior shot from moving vehicle. Several burned-out vehicles scattered on either side of an overpass, another nearly covered by weeds. “This is the site of the last action seen along I-85, over a year ago. Since then, we’re told, there have been only isolated incidents, usually after someone breaks down or runs out of gas — in other words, the same kind of thing that can happen along I-16 or I-20. Night patrols occasionally run into races, which are usually dispersed with warnings unless they run across contraband or repeat offenders.”

Cut to: Sean, exterior, Fort Benning. “We safely arrived at Fort Benning, so we’ll stay in Columbus for some amount of time before hitching a ride back to Atlanta with the next convoy. The patrols happen at random intervals, but always at least twice a week. We’ll bring you news from Columbus in separate segments until we head home. On the Georgia Road, at Fort Benning, I’m Sean McKinzie.”

Wednesday Wibbles (Big V’s Big Blowup)

2011-08-24T21:56:00.000-04:00

Sitting at the dining table tonight, as Mason is watching Cars for the n^th time (actually, playing around in between race scenes). No new followers to welcome this week, but the blog must go on regardless, right?

This was an interesting evening… I was working at home today, and was packing it in for the day when Mrs. Fetched called. “Meet me at Big V’s in five minutes.”

“But what if I don’t want to go down there?”

“Then you don’t eat.”

Well, I applied the usual formula for Mrs. Fetched’s time estimates: multiply by two and add one, then headed down there. She was cooking sloppy joes, while Mason and Skylar were playing in the back room. I wandered on back to look in on them, and the “fun” began shortly after when they started running loose. Big V is more than half-blind these days, and tools around on a powerchair. She came down the hall to borrow my phone, since hers was dead, and ran Skylar’s foot over in the hallway. He howled for a few minutes, but didn’t even limp after he settled down. It scared him more than anything.

I guess Mrs. Fetched must have said something to Big V about watching what she’s doing and waiting for me to come down the hall — next thing I know, I heard a door slam (so I thought). Voices rose, and rose again, and continued to rise, and it wasn’t long before the two of them were in a major-league shouting match. When I came out to see what was going on, Big V hoisted herself out of her powerchair, portable drill/driver in hand, and started on the door between the living room and the little hallway going to the carport. Turned out Big V didn’t slam the door, she deliberately drove her powerchair through it. She didn’t tear the door off its hinges so much as she tore the hinges out of the frame. I took over with the drill, because she couldn’t see to hit the screws, then took the door out to the carport and stood it up out of the way.

With that accomplished, Mrs. Fetched told me to get Mason, because we were leaving, and then the two of them managed to kick their shouting match up an order of magnitude once I got Mason outside. Made me glad I was in my own car, and Mason chose to go home with me — but that’s normal, he likes riding in my car for some reason despite it being noisy and lacking in A/C (red is his favorite color, though).

We got home, and realized that supper (i.e. the sloppy joe stuff) was down at Big V’s, so Mrs. Fetched went and got some. While she was there, Big V said to not help her do anything anymore. No problem. That will last just as long as it takes for her to need/want something. Like I’ve said before, Big V isn’t the most stable isotope on the periodic table.

The Book Cover!

2011-08-21T15:18:00.000-04:00

I know I’m weird, but I get giddy all over again just looking at it. If you want a photographic book cover, Sara Reine is a wiz with Photoshop and does great fast work at a great price. Tell her FARf sent you.

Hey FARf, stop yapping and post the cover already!

OK, OK… here it is:

Yup, there’s my real name. Now y’all know who I am. Sondra cleaned up gooooood for the book cover, didn’t she?

The only thing is, I have no idea what I’m going to do for the Pickups and Pestilence cover just yet. Oh well, I still have a while to think about that. Gotta finish the book, first things first.

#FridayFlash: Second Jude

2011-08-19T07:00:00.004-04:00

All I can say about this is, it proves that I have a strange sense of humor. We might preserve a few things over the next 2000 years, but it’s likely that most things will get lost… or misinterpreted.

Submitted August 18, 3911

Time is unkind.
— An adage among data archaeologists

About two thousand years ago, the Data Explosion dwarfed the so-called “population explosion” in scope. Indeed, it is only the sheer quantity of data produced, and the numerous copies made, that has allowed us to recover anything at all about that time in history. Until recently, the process was labor-intensive, requiring trained data archaeologists to reconstruct documents by matching fragments of data scattered across paper, magnetic, and optical storage devices. The development of Quantum Media Analysis is changing the field, as QMA is able to recover data from media once thought unreadable while automating matches across any number of devices. This has allowed the Department to turn to more obscure works, which may provide glimpses into many alternate modes of thought during that time.

Some of the oldest documents extant are religious works, as their adherents continuously copied and updated them as needed. However, many works not included in the primary scriptures, such as the Bible, were lost or long misplaced. One of the latter is the epistle commonly known as “Second Jude.” References to the text begin to appear in the decades following the discovery of the “Dead Sea Scrolls,” so it is often assumed that the text was part of that discovery.

Only fragments of the text survived, usually in a “modernized” paraphrased format popular during that time. In particular, the greeting is missing. Some scholars suggest that the known text is a hymn, or less likely a popular song, based on the original text.

Authorship is commonly ascribed to St. John the Apostle, as the style is reminiscent of the soaring prose of the Gospel of John and The Revelation, although the repeated exhortations are unique to this epistle. The text recovered is brief but rich in metaphor, comparing Wisdom to a desired woman and a song to the preaching of the Word. The following text was prepared by Quantum Media Analysis, and mimics the style of canonical scripture. While the analysis is imperfect — after recovering the fragment below, the text deteriorated into nonsense syllables — QMA achieved the most complete recovery to date in about an hour. Note that the media used was unreadable by other methods, yet further improvements in QMA may allow further recovery of the text.

Footnotes were inserted by the author of this report.

[1]

O Jude, I exhort thee, turn away from all evil things, that you may improve the sorrowful song. [2] Forget her [3] not, but take her into your heart; only then will your song be pleasing.

O Jude, again I exhort thee: fear not! This was the purpose for which you were created: to search diligently, that you may find her. Keep her close to you, that she may wear your very skin as her own, [4] for this is how your song shall be improved. If you suffer the pain of persecution, O Jude, cease; it is not for you to carry the world upon your shoulders. For it is written, “the foolish man shall let his fire go out.”

O Jude, I exhort thee: fail not in your purpose. Your search has borne fruit; therefore, take her as your beloved wife into your heart, that you may begin to improve your song. Cast out that which is unwholesome, that you may be filled with the Spirit. [5] O Jude, do not tarry in this matter. For know you not that otherwise you stand alone? Lift your hands, raise them to Heaven. [6]

[7]

¹No surviving copies include the customary greetings of an epistle.
²“Song” is used to describe the preaching of the Word through this text.
³Wisdom is depicted as a woman through this text.
⁴The transliteration is unclear. This idiom is not found elsewhere in scriptural writings.
⁵QMA chose this wording. The literal “let it out, and let it in” is an idiom not found elsewhere, but is clear in context.
⁶QMA chose this wording based on context. The media was nearly unreadable at this point; only the words “move” and “shoulder” are legible.
⁷The text repeats itself, then deteriorates into nonsense, after this point. This may have been caused by an interaction between QMA and badly deteriorated media.

Wednesday Wibbles (on Thursday)

2011-08-18T23:37:00.000-04:00

I know it’s not Wednesday, but my employer sent us to a Braves game yesterday. The pitching was rather uninspired, and the bats only slightly more so until the bottom of the 9th — then a late rally got the thin crowd on its feet until it fell two runs short. It was a lot of fun, and the manager decided to try a team-building game on the way home: state one true thing and one false thing about yourself, and let everyone guess which was which. I picked: “I’m trying to get a novel published, and I raced in road rallies during college.”

But before I go much farther, it’s time to welcome the new follower:

Robin Eduardo — dark and disturbing horror!

Funny thing: when I dropped into my Blogger Dashboard to get this post started, it popped up one of those notifications: “Your blog is popular, why not make some money with AdSense?” But according to my stats, pageviews dropped around 25% last month… which I attribute to not posting a Friday Flash two weeks in a row. Daily counts are now recovering, though — I knew you guys wouldn’t let me down!

We’re now calling the guest room “Mason’s room,” even if he isn’t sleeping there yet. We’ve modified the barricades to let him come down the hall and go in there. With daylight coming in the windows, he had no problem crawling under the bed and coming out around the side. He loves having the extra running-around room. Me… I can no longer stake out one place and expect to always see him from there. Sigh

With vacation behind me, I’m getting back into the writing groove a little. I have no idea where tomorrow’s Friday Flash came from, but I thought it was funny. Then again, I do have a strange sense of humor. I posted another flash on Google+ last week, and I figure I need to bring it over here. Maybe next week.

I’ve set Scrivener to give me a daily word quota — Nicola Slade, an author who sometimes hangs out at Andi’s blog, quoted another author who suggested this — of 50 words. The idea is, no matter how nutso your day gets (and most of mine can get pretty nutso), you can almost always find time to put down 50 words. Since a writer in motion tends to remain in motion, that 50 words can easily become 600 or more without even realizing it happened.

I got really excited yesterday, and not just for the Braves’ almost-comeback. Earlier in the week, Sara Reine offered on Twitter to work with people on their book covers. I was pretty impressed with the work she’d done for her own book, Six Moon Summer, and I wasn’t getting much indication that either The Boy or Brand X were interested in making a little money. I gave her my “vision” for the cover on Tuesday, and by Wednesday afternoon I had a first draft. To say the least, I was excited — too excited to offer objective feedback until later this afternoon. Once I settled down enough to suggest some changes, she turned it around in roughly an hour. I’m having second thoughts about one of the changes, but again I’ll sleep on that until tomorrow. But I hope to reveal it this weekend or maybe Monday. One of the beta readers got his feedback in as I was typing this up, so it’s two down one to go.

Mrs. Fetched took her van in to get the windshield fixed after we got home from vacation, and got it back today. I don’t know whether they fixed the other issues we reported yet… probably not. Daughter Dearest is getting her blue Civic, and has gotten comfortable with a manual shift.

And that’s things around FAR Manor.

Moving Furniture

2011-08-16T23:10:00.001-04:00

With M.A.E. out of the manor, Mrs. Fetched decided it was time to bring in the bed she bought for Mason at a yard sale last year. There were many cobwebs to clean out of various corners, and I ended up vacuuming then wiping down each part with a towel, and that got it pretty clean.

Whoever designed this bed knows little boys. It’s up off the ground, giving room for a matching dresser and cubby along one side. The door on the footboard turns the rest of the under-bed into either storage or a kid’s fortress of solitude.

Mason said, “Cheeeeeese!” as I took the picture. Where did he learn that from?

Mason watched and “helped” as I assembled everything, then put the slats, pad, and mattress on top. He was suddenly less pleased with the door, but I showed him that he could come out the back side and around and that mollified him a bit.

The cubby is a tight squeeze for a kid, even one as small as Mason, but I told him he could throw toys in there. He opened it, tossed whatever gadget he was holding at the moment, then closed it. Now if we can get him to do that consistently…

He’s still in the crib for now, and this will be the guest bed until he’s old enough to sleep in it himself.

Clearing House

2011-08-15T09:09:00.000-04:00

This is what the room that M.A.E. was staying in looks like at the moment:

Mrs. Fetched finally got tired of saying she was going to chuck her out and actually did it. I’ll be at work when M.A.E. comes waddling in after a long weekend of boyfriend-banging, expecting Mrs. Fetched to take her to a doctor’s appointment, but I’d love to see the look on her face when she sees this. Nothing says GTFO like removing all the furniture.

This is the state of the carpet after we applied an entire can of cleaner. She and especially Moptop were none too careful about what they spilled on a white carpet. We’ll probably end up ripping all that out and putting in a wood floor, since we have enough to do this room.

Meanwhile, The Boy got tired of saying he’s moving to Wisconsin and appears to actually be doing it. A friend of his says he’s lined up a factory job for The Boy (he works there too, juicy union wages), and The Boy says he’ll never get along here, so he packed his car last night and is cashing some checks for the trip as I type.

I’m of two minds about The Boy leaving: there are risks, but there are also risks in staying here and working a construction job. The difference is, he has a well-defined safety net here. On the other hand, it’ll be a good experience for him. If he thrives (and survives a Wisconsin winter), he will be happier than he was here. My family is across Lake Michigan, a long drive to be sure but shorter than all the way back to Planet Georgia. I ended up wishing him well, while Mrs. Fetched just hopes he’ll cough up some of what he owes us. Only one way to find out, I guess.

One thing I’m not conflicted about: the move has put a massive strain on his relationship with Snippet. She wants to stay where she already has a job, even if it’s a part-time retail job. More importantly, all her friends are here. (“All her boy-toys too,” said Mrs. Fetched.) She’s been the one putting pressure on him to stay — the exact wrong thing to do with anyone having the in-laws’ genetic code. Telling him (or Mrs. Fetched) something they don’t want to hear only makes them more determined to do what they’ve already decided. I didn’t bother to tell Snippet that, though… she doesn’t listen any better than The Boy.

Finally… we forklifted Daughter Dearest and her belongings over to the college to begin her senior(!) year on Saturday night. She’s staying with a lady from the church choir she sings in while at college, so we’re saving a ton of money on room and board while DD has a nice quiet place to study. The lady has no Internet access, but DD managed to “find” an unsecured wifi node…

So the manor has mostly emptied out for a while. It’s just Mason, Lobster (who is allowed to live here because he helps Mrs. Fetched with the chickens), and sometimes Skylar.