This is a continuation of an earlier #FridayFlash, Ghosts in a Can.
The spirit guides paused in their chanting to confer. “Fifteen,” one said on the general band. In other words, fifteen ghosts on board. “Please proceed with repowering.”
Construction Engineer Paul Temberson checked both ends of his tether, then kicked off the hull of Deimos Salvage VI (aka “Sweet Six”). In a few seconds, he touched the space-weathered outer hull of the can once known as Paradigm Industries Number Four (“Para-4”). This was his third salvage run, and he found he liked the work. Tearing down is always more fun than building up, an old friend once said, but he was describing his ex’s approach to relationships.
Paul found the diagnostics hatch and pried it open. Looking at his wristpad, he punched into the maintenance band. “Looks like a standard D-7 diagnostics port,” he said. “Telemetry receive ready?”
“Let ‘er rip,” Narayan said. Narayan was a Diagnostics Tech, and a damn good one. He and Paul had hit it off right away on his first run. Narayan hadn’t kept Paul hanging in vac at all—third time was the charm. This guy was a keeper.
Paul checked the fuel cell one more time, then sorted through the pigtails on the ancient Atlanta Instrumentation box. His first run, he’d been surprised when they handed him this fossil, but it matched up well with the cans they were recycling. He found the D-7 plug and connected it to the panel. “Applying power,” he said. Several amber lights on the panel started blinking, then turned green, one by one.
“Self-tests passed,” said Narayan. “Ah. Looks like the last one out turned off the lights behind him. Good form.”
“No surprise there,” said Paul. “The solar panels are folded in. I’ll bet the pivots are vac-welded.”
“A bet you’d likely win.” Narayan laughed. “Batteries are depleted, as usual. Try applying evac-level power.”
“That’s all this fuel cell can do,” said Paul. He punched a button on the diag box, and more amber lights went green on the panel. Several others lit up, flashing amber. “Evac power applied. Fuel cell has thirty minutes.”
“Confirming emergency lighting. Thank you, Paul. Narayan.” That was Steven Crescent Moon, one of the few spirit guides who tried to acquaint himself with the rest of the crew. “Primary activity is in Sections Two, Five, and the bridge. The salvage crews can begin their work in the other sections at any time.”
“They’re isolated, then?” Paul asked. Ghosts rarely used a power connection to invade a salvage ship, but it had happened. Such events brought little danger, but much disruption. Spirit guides worked to prevent the possibility.
“They should be, by the time you’re ready to plug this can in.” Paul could hear the grin in Steven’s voice through the general band.
“Roger that. Whup, got a visitor here.” Paul felt the adrenaline surge that accompanied a visitation. Lights flashed at random on the diagnostics panel. Clattering noises came over the general band.
“Poltergeists, poltergeists,” one of the spirit guides said. “Paul, cut power.”
“Cutting power.” Paul flipped the main breaker on the diagnostics box, then disconnected the cable. The indicator lights flickered for a few seconds, but died out. He listened to the noise on the general band. “Everyone all right?”
“So far,” said Steven Crescent Moon. “Everything’s tied down, they’re just throwing dust around right now.” A chunking, snapping noise came over the radio. “What’s that?” one of the other spirit guides asked.
Motion above Paul caught his eye. “Holy… it’s the solar panels! They’re trying to get them open!”
Captain Li’s lilting voice joined the chatter. “Clear the can. Clear the can. Evac Protocol Three.” That was one level above a drill: orderly exit, leave nothing behind.
Paul buttoned up the diag box and kicked off the can, back to Sweet Six. The airlock door was closed. “Knock knock!” he called.
“Sorry, Paul,” Dikembe’s voice chuckled in his ears. We were in the airlock when the captain called the evac. It’s clear to cycle now.”
“Roger.” The light went green, and the door swung inward. He secured the diag box inside, then stood in the open door, waiting for the spirit guides. He watched the vac-welded arms on the solar panels twitch, as the poltergeists tried to pull them open.
“Whoa. Incoming,” a spirit guide said. “We’re leaving!” another barked, her professional serenity under severe stress. “Watch behind,” Steven said, “they might try throwing whatever that was again.”
“Are you in danger?” the captain asked.
“Not much,” said Steven. “As long as they don’t have power, they can’t activate anything.”
“Better hurry, then,” Paul told him. “There’s a little play in the arms.”
“Block ‘em at the diag panel, then!” the stressed spirit guide—Mary Alice something—suggested.
“Negative, negative,” several voices chorused with Paul’s. “Evac protocol. I need to be here to catch your tether.”
“We’re at the lock,” said Steven. “You ready?”
“Do it!” Paul soon saw a blinking light—the tether end—approaching. About halfway across, it suddenly deflected. “Damn!” Again, he checked his own tether, then dived after it.
“What happened?” the captain called.
“Poltergeist knocked the tether end off course,” said Paul. “Got it.” He snapped it onto his belt, then attached it to Sweet Six as he returned. “Secure. Come on home. Better move it, they’ve about got the juice back on!”
“Four fish on the hook,” Steven called. “Reel us in.”
“Roger.” Paul started pulling.
“Look out!” Steven yelled. The others shouted. “Keep pulling!”
“They knocked Steven off!” Mary Alice yelled.
“Hang on!” Paul snapped, and hauled hard. In seconds, three shaken spirit guides stood in the airlock. Paul took the loose end, and dived out. “Steven!”
“Here.” Lights on Steven’s suit raced back and forth, marking his location. Paul kicked twice to deflect himself, and reached Steven with a meter of loose tether to spare.
“Gotcha,” said Paul. “You okay?”
“Just shaken up.” Steven clipped himself on. “Let’s get home.”
Friday, September 21, 2012 14 comments
Wednesday, September 19, 2012 5 comments
Writing Wibbles: The "Look" Challenge
Seeing as I finished the first draft of Pickups and Pestilence last week, it’s definitely a work in progress. I was going to post a teaser anyway… so I searched for look and it appears twice in the Prologue. Perfect! Here it is, with both instances of look underlined…
The gypsy—so Cody assumed—laid three cards on the table between them, the first one sideways. Cody’s gaze was fixed on the table; all he saw were her hands and the cards she dealt. “The three pestilences,” she said. “One is past, yet all three are to come.” The sideways card was WAR. From its center scowled the grim visage of the late Rev. Carlton Worleigh, huge desecrated Bible in one hand, huge pistol in the other. A bullet hole in his forehead, and a pickup bearing down on him from behind, completed the picture. Cody remembered well.
The second card was LOCUSTS. They walked on two legs and carried tiny jars. The third was VERMIN. On it, rats, flies, and other creatures chewed garbage and gardens alike. Behind the vermin, another pickup lurked.
“How—what—” Cody began, but the gypsy’s left hand swept the cards from the table as her right hand laid a new card in the center of the table, face down.
“Behold the King,” she said, tapping the card with a lacquered fingernail. He turned the card over: the King of Clubs. The King’s hair was dark and straight, and hung long on the sides. It framed a thin, familiar face, one he saw in every mirror.
“I thought I’d be the joker,” he said. He tried to look up, but the table held his gaze.
“The Joker is among you.” The hands, old and bone-thin but not gnarled or spotted as he would have expected, laid three more cards to the king’s right: the Queen of Hearts, sideways; the Queen of Clubs, upright; the Ten of Hearts, beneath the first queen. “The queen who was. And the queen who will be.” Sondra’s homely face, the one he longed to see again, lie in repose. In her hands, she clutched a scepter… or was it a rifle? His vision blurred a moment, hiding the face of the other queen. The third card needed no explanation. She’ll get over it. Or not, said the fallen Queen, with a snicker.
Before Cody could respond—dreams have no pause or rewind—those hands were in motion again, arraying cards to the King’s left. “You will know her by the blood on her hands.” The Queen of Spades, whose hard young face had seen too much too soon—and indeed her hands were red. Instead of a crown, a diamond gleamed between her breasts. To her left, a haughty King, sideways, a sword piercing his chest. Peeking from underneath the Queen was a Jack. “Beware the one who will try to draw you to her, for her consort will stand aside. That way lies discord. Destruction.” The Jack seemed to slide even farther under the Queen, not wanting to be seen. “But stand firm, and her children will be of your realm.”
“What?” But now the hands laid four cards above the King that was himself. They were marked A, and Cody at first thought they were Aces. But instead of suits, the faces of Tina, Reverend Patterson, Ben, and Jason looked back from the center of each card. “The Advisors. Neglect their wisdom at your peril.”
“Wait a minute!” Heedless, the hands were a blur of motion, dealing cards beneath the central King.
“The Knights of the realm and their Ladies.” Again, these cards were not part of a normal deck; the men were marked Kn and the women L. Most of the faces were familiar: Tim and Sara, Johnny and Rita, Cleve and a grinning Elly. The fourth Knight carried a bow, and was younger even than himself. Although Cody had never seen his face, he immediately recognized this Knight as one of his own tribe. There was no Lady next to this card, but the Ten of Hearts lay exactly between the center King and this new Knight. As he realized this, the gypsy tore the Ten in half. “This one is torn, only thus to be made whole.” She laid the halves together, and it was at once torn and whole. “But these things are uncertain, and this one thus exists in both states until the day the question is resolved.”
“What question?”
No response but a flick of the wrist. A card floated among and above them all: the Joker. But this was no ordinary Joker. A grey hood, supported by the bill of a ball cap, shadowed all but an enigmatic smile. Orbs like juggling balls circled the hood, spinning and tumbling, even as ink on paper. The Joker is among you, he thought, and the dream dissolved into a chaotic jumble.
And now, the hard part: tag five more people. Fortunately, there’s a lot of writer friends working on a lot of different things, so I don’t have much trouble coming up with five:
John Wiswell, at The Bathroom Monologues
Fel Wetzig, at The Peasants Revolt
Helen Howell, at Helen Scribbles
John Xero, at Xeroverse
Craig W.F. Smith, at The Fantasy/Reality World of a Writer
Five people, four continents—not bad!
Monday, September 17, 2012 6 comments
A Fragment of the Great Nothing (pt 1)
This is really a continuation of the #FridayFlash, World With End. Read it for context. Chelinn, Ethtar, and the rest will wait…
Chelinn was again watching the storm at an open window, when the chamber door opened. The wind found its way in, through the window, drenching the big warrior-wizard. He shouted something into the night, and flinched back. A peal of thunder answered him as he pushed the window shut and turned away.
“Paying homage to the Windlord, Chelinn?” Galbron asked, standing in the door. “I knew there was a reason your life is so charmed.” The priest grinned at his wet friend.
“And how did you receive your Windlord’s blessings without a thorough drenching?” Chelinn asked, then muttered something in a language only Ethtar understood.
The spindly wizard feigned alarm and made a warding gesture. Lightning flashed, and the Protector’s keep shuddered to the thunder, bellowing on the heels of the lightning. “Chelinn, you should not tempt the elements with your blasphemies,” he laughed.
Chelinn chuckled, not at all chastised. “I wasn’t sure that the elements could understand that language,” he said. “That you know it, Protector Ethtar, is somewhat of a surprise in itself! But I was asking Galbron how he stayed dry while opening his arms to the wind.”
“I didn’t.” Galbron smiled and crossed the room, pouring himself a glass of wine from the open jug. His hood fell back, revealing his drenched black hair. “I did wear one of those jackets the local sailors make, and that kept much of the rain off me. My boots, I left with the apprentice, and exchanged them for my sandals.” He lifted one foot and wiggled it. “Did I miss anything of import?”
Chelinn’s daughter Sarna moved over on her divan and gestured to Galbron to join her. “Nothing important,” she said. “But Protector Ethtar did tell the most fascinating story, about a world Made as a half.”
“Thurun’s world?” Galbron asked, surprising the others. “Oh, yes. Our Order knows that story well. As we tell it, Thurun begged the aid of the Windlord to establish that world’s weather patterns.” He sat down next to Sarna, getting a wary look from Chelinn that amused him. “He told you about the Makers? And the Great Nothing?”
“That I did,” Ethtar nodded. “But that is all I know. As I explained to the others, what the Protectors know, we have kept to ourselves. We are attempting to break Termag’s habit of hoarding knowledge, beginning tonight.”
“Ah.” Galbron sipped his wine several times, pondering. “Then I should tell one of our own tales. It concerns an ordinary man, on an extraordinary journey, across a most extraordinary world.” He sipped once again, then began.
Once, in the time of Camac That Was (Galbron began), on the world called Thurun, lived a man called Jakrom. The son of a common laborer, Jakrom was not thought to have great prospects, yet he was bold and clever. Many such young men have started with even less and yet prospered in the end.
Now Jakrom had in mind to woo Rakah, the younger daughter of a prosperous merchant named Larbam. As Larbam had no son to claim his inheritance, many poor young men sought the hand of either Rakah or her sister Arah. Larbam would listen politely to these suitors, then set them an onerous task; that was usually the last he saw of them. So when Jakrom came calling, it was the same.
“Very well,” said Larbam after Jakrom made his proposal. “I will give you Rakah, if you can prove your worth. Go to the Edge of the World, and stand on the Great Nothing. When you return, if she is willing, you may marry her.”
“If that is the price, I will pay it,” said Jakrom. “What shall I bring you as proof? I would not want to make such a long journey to have you say I only made up a story.”
Larbam cocked his head, for all other suitors only walked away when hearing of the bride-price. “A perceptive question,” he said at last. “You have the quickness of mind needed in my business. I make a counter-proposal: with no journey, I offer you the hand of Arah—again, if she is willing. It is only fitting that the older daughter marries first. Do this, and you will be my right-hand man and my heir when I pass on.”
“Arah I know not,” said Jakrom. “I have done business with Rakah, buying your spices, and she knows me by name and always smiles when she sees me. I am sure she will be willing to take me as her husband. For her I will go to the Edge of the World and bring you proof.”
Larbam was struck by an idea that made him smile. “Bring me a fragment of the Great Nothing,” he said. “Do this, and both of my daughters and my good name are yours.” Larbam knew that certain rich folk would pay a great price for a fragment of the Great Nothing, a price far beyond any gemstone or exotic spice.
“I will,” said Jakrom, then he departed, already thinking about what he would need.
“That suggests,” said Chelinn, “that the folk of Thurun seldom visited the Edge.”
“Of course,” Galbron agreed. “Thurun's weather is opposite our own, torrid at the pole and frigid at the equator. Its pole faced the sun; there was a vast steaming ocean surrounded by a tropical shore. Most folk dwelt in between. So Jakrom began his journey…”
continued…
 |
| Source: WikiMedia Commons |
“Paying homage to the Windlord, Chelinn?” Galbron asked, standing in the door. “I knew there was a reason your life is so charmed.” The priest grinned at his wet friend.
“And how did you receive your Windlord’s blessings without a thorough drenching?” Chelinn asked, then muttered something in a language only Ethtar understood.
The spindly wizard feigned alarm and made a warding gesture. Lightning flashed, and the Protector’s keep shuddered to the thunder, bellowing on the heels of the lightning. “Chelinn, you should not tempt the elements with your blasphemies,” he laughed.
Chelinn chuckled, not at all chastised. “I wasn’t sure that the elements could understand that language,” he said. “That you know it, Protector Ethtar, is somewhat of a surprise in itself! But I was asking Galbron how he stayed dry while opening his arms to the wind.”
“I didn’t.” Galbron smiled and crossed the room, pouring himself a glass of wine from the open jug. His hood fell back, revealing his drenched black hair. “I did wear one of those jackets the local sailors make, and that kept much of the rain off me. My boots, I left with the apprentice, and exchanged them for my sandals.” He lifted one foot and wiggled it. “Did I miss anything of import?”
Chelinn’s daughter Sarna moved over on her divan and gestured to Galbron to join her. “Nothing important,” she said. “But Protector Ethtar did tell the most fascinating story, about a world Made as a half.”
“Thurun’s world?” Galbron asked, surprising the others. “Oh, yes. Our Order knows that story well. As we tell it, Thurun begged the aid of the Windlord to establish that world’s weather patterns.” He sat down next to Sarna, getting a wary look from Chelinn that amused him. “He told you about the Makers? And the Great Nothing?”
“That I did,” Ethtar nodded. “But that is all I know. As I explained to the others, what the Protectors know, we have kept to ourselves. We are attempting to break Termag’s habit of hoarding knowledge, beginning tonight.”
“Ah.” Galbron sipped his wine several times, pondering. “Then I should tell one of our own tales. It concerns an ordinary man, on an extraordinary journey, across a most extraordinary world.” He sipped once again, then began.
Once, in the time of Camac That Was (Galbron began), on the world called Thurun, lived a man called Jakrom. The son of a common laborer, Jakrom was not thought to have great prospects, yet he was bold and clever. Many such young men have started with even less and yet prospered in the end.
Now Jakrom had in mind to woo Rakah, the younger daughter of a prosperous merchant named Larbam. As Larbam had no son to claim his inheritance, many poor young men sought the hand of either Rakah or her sister Arah. Larbam would listen politely to these suitors, then set them an onerous task; that was usually the last he saw of them. So when Jakrom came calling, it was the same.
“Very well,” said Larbam after Jakrom made his proposal. “I will give you Rakah, if you can prove your worth. Go to the Edge of the World, and stand on the Great Nothing. When you return, if she is willing, you may marry her.”
“If that is the price, I will pay it,” said Jakrom. “What shall I bring you as proof? I would not want to make such a long journey to have you say I only made up a story.”
Larbam cocked his head, for all other suitors only walked away when hearing of the bride-price. “A perceptive question,” he said at last. “You have the quickness of mind needed in my business. I make a counter-proposal: with no journey, I offer you the hand of Arah—again, if she is willing. It is only fitting that the older daughter marries first. Do this, and you will be my right-hand man and my heir when I pass on.”
“Arah I know not,” said Jakrom. “I have done business with Rakah, buying your spices, and she knows me by name and always smiles when she sees me. I am sure she will be willing to take me as her husband. For her I will go to the Edge of the World and bring you proof.”
Larbam was struck by an idea that made him smile. “Bring me a fragment of the Great Nothing,” he said. “Do this, and both of my daughters and my good name are yours.” Larbam knew that certain rich folk would pay a great price for a fragment of the Great Nothing, a price far beyond any gemstone or exotic spice.
“I will,” said Jakrom, then he departed, already thinking about what he would need.
“That suggests,” said Chelinn, “that the folk of Thurun seldom visited the Edge.”
“Of course,” Galbron agreed. “Thurun's weather is opposite our own, torrid at the pole and frigid at the equator. Its pole faced the sun; there was a vast steaming ocean surrounded by a tropical shore. Most folk dwelt in between. So Jakrom began his journey…”
continued…
Saturday, September 08, 2012 5 comments
Interview: Xan Marcelles of Crooked Fang
I bet you don’t too many interviews like this in the blogosphere. Today, I turn the blog over to none other than Cody Sifko, the hero of White Pickups. He’s interviewing Xan Marcelles, the vampire bassist of Carrie Clevenger’s Crooked Fang. In cases like this, it’s best to just get out of the way and let the interview proceed…
Cody Sifko: So yeah, my writer says, “Go interview this guy. He plays bass in a metal band and he's a vampire.” Whatever. What's your story?
Xan Marcelles: My story? Oh, you mean Crooked Fang. I never said I was a vampire, did I? Okay maybe. But that’s between you and me, kid. We’re not exactly a metal band either. We’re a house band that plays covers, that’s popular/previously recorded songs resung and performed by us. Basically, we’re an amplified version of karaoke.
But that’s not exactly the point to the book. I’m not sure what is. Me trying to stay secluded and mind my own business while trouble practically falls into my lap? Never really went looking for trouble. Shit just happens. A lot. It actually starts out with some punk that sends this weird vampire-zombie looking thing after me. He knows what I am and pretty much wants to sell me to Hell, as he puts it.
And then there’s this girl, getting pushed around by her boyfriend. She’s kind of sweet and I hate seeing women mistreated. You don’t hit a female, that’s just how it is.
CS: Figures. My writer has a bad habit of not paying attention. Anyway, my dad would have called that a “bar band.” I know what you mean about shit happening. I tried to learn guitar, but I suck at it. I'm lots better on a skateboard. When did you learn how to play?
XM: Eh, guitar isn’t too hard to play. I started while in school because Dad wanted me to have a constructive hobby instead of getting my ass in trouble. He bought me a bass. A right handed bass because it was big and I’m big but I’m also left-handed, so that was kind of like, figure it out or quit. I figured it out.
CS: What's the deal with Pinecliffe, Colorado? Is there anything to do out there besides drink your ass off? Any good skate parks?
XM: It’s out of the way and barely can be classified as a town, but there’s Pale Rider there, and yeah. You can do more than drink your ass off. There’s the lake, or fishing, or swimming. I think there’s a campground over in the national park nearby. Woodsy outdoorsy things. And what the hell is a skate park?
CS: What kind of songs do you play? (Let me guess. Death metal. Haha.)
XM: We play covers of songs that were popular mainly 70s-90s. Our target audience ranges from college-age to maybe around fifty. The older ones can’t stand the shit and go to Allen’s Landing, the bar across the lake.
CS: You have any videos of your band on YouTube? The Internet's down for good here, but my writer said he'd send me anything.
XM: No vids on YouTube of us since we’re a fictional band, but I do have a playlist of songs I post on Twitter as @crookedfang.
CS: How'd you turn into a vampire? Yeah, I know, you swapped blood with another vampire and all that shit. I mean, how did you hook up with a vampire and when did it happen?
XM: Brave little guy, aren’t you? Hey dude, when did you die? How was it? Fine. I’ll level with you.
In 1985, I went to a bar called Nightflier’s to have a beer. I ended up necking with one hell of a fine chick in red leather pants. She took me home. [actions redacted] I was dropped up at home. I died. I was buried. I was dug up by my new vampire sire. The rest is history.
CS: Who's after you? I guess your girlfriend's ex, yeah. Anyone else?
XM: Considering my previous reputation as a thug for my sire Zeta, I think I’m on just about every vampire’s shitlist. Feared or admired. But that’s not the point of this book either. In this one, it’s people. People that think they know about vampires. People that see me as a monster. I mean seriously…do I look like a monster to you?
CS: Huh. Hell no. So if you got one do-over, what would you use it on?
XM: Pointless to think about it. There is no reset in life.
Sure, I could say I wish I’d never stopped at Nightflier’s, but then I’d be what, fifty-three? Maybe on my second marriage, couple of kids, usual American mountain of debt. Or maybe I’d continued with my bad habits and ended up dead-dead. I guess everything happens for a reason. It is what it is.
And, that’s a wrap. Once again, that website is Crooked Fang, if you want to find out what happens to Xan.
You can find the author, Carrie Clevenger, on Twitter. And other places, of course!
Cody Sifko: So yeah, my writer says, “Go interview this guy. He plays bass in a metal band and he's a vampire.” Whatever. What's your story?
Xan Marcelles: My story? Oh, you mean Crooked Fang. I never said I was a vampire, did I? Okay maybe. But that’s between you and me, kid. We’re not exactly a metal band either. We’re a house band that plays covers, that’s popular/previously recorded songs resung and performed by us. Basically, we’re an amplified version of karaoke.
But that’s not exactly the point to the book. I’m not sure what is. Me trying to stay secluded and mind my own business while trouble practically falls into my lap? Never really went looking for trouble. Shit just happens. A lot. It actually starts out with some punk that sends this weird vampire-zombie looking thing after me. He knows what I am and pretty much wants to sell me to Hell, as he puts it.
And then there’s this girl, getting pushed around by her boyfriend. She’s kind of sweet and I hate seeing women mistreated. You don’t hit a female, that’s just how it is.
CS: Figures. My writer has a bad habit of not paying attention. Anyway, my dad would have called that a “bar band.” I know what you mean about shit happening. I tried to learn guitar, but I suck at it. I'm lots better on a skateboard. When did you learn how to play?
XM: Eh, guitar isn’t too hard to play. I started while in school because Dad wanted me to have a constructive hobby instead of getting my ass in trouble. He bought me a bass. A right handed bass because it was big and I’m big but I’m also left-handed, so that was kind of like, figure it out or quit. I figured it out.
CS: What's the deal with Pinecliffe, Colorado? Is there anything to do out there besides drink your ass off? Any good skate parks?
XM: It’s out of the way and barely can be classified as a town, but there’s Pale Rider there, and yeah. You can do more than drink your ass off. There’s the lake, or fishing, or swimming. I think there’s a campground over in the national park nearby. Woodsy outdoorsy things. And what the hell is a skate park?
CS: What kind of songs do you play? (Let me guess. Death metal. Haha.)
XM: We play covers of songs that were popular mainly 70s-90s. Our target audience ranges from college-age to maybe around fifty. The older ones can’t stand the shit and go to Allen’s Landing, the bar across the lake.
CS: You have any videos of your band on YouTube? The Internet's down for good here, but my writer said he'd send me anything.
XM: No vids on YouTube of us since we’re a fictional band, but I do have a playlist of songs I post on Twitter as @crookedfang.
CS: How'd you turn into a vampire? Yeah, I know, you swapped blood with another vampire and all that shit. I mean, how did you hook up with a vampire and when did it happen?
XM: Brave little guy, aren’t you? Hey dude, when did you die? How was it? Fine. I’ll level with you.
In 1985, I went to a bar called Nightflier’s to have a beer. I ended up necking with one hell of a fine chick in red leather pants. She took me home. [actions redacted] I was dropped up at home. I died. I was buried. I was dug up by my new vampire sire. The rest is history.
CS: Who's after you? I guess your girlfriend's ex, yeah. Anyone else?
XM: Considering my previous reputation as a thug for my sire Zeta, I think I’m on just about every vampire’s shitlist. Feared or admired. But that’s not the point of this book either. In this one, it’s people. People that think they know about vampires. People that see me as a monster. I mean seriously…do I look like a monster to you?
CS: Huh. Hell no. So if you got one do-over, what would you use it on?
XM: Pointless to think about it. There is no reset in life.
Sure, I could say I wish I’d never stopped at Nightflier’s, but then I’d be what, fifty-three? Maybe on my second marriage, couple of kids, usual American mountain of debt. Or maybe I’d continued with my bad habits and ended up dead-dead. I guess everything happens for a reason. It is what it is.
And, that’s a wrap. Once again, that website is Crooked Fang, if you want to find out what happens to Xan.
You can find the author, Carrie Clevenger, on Twitter. And other places, of course!
Wednesday, September 05, 2012 3 comments
Writing Wibbles
A couple weeks ago, author Sue Grafton (she who writes the alphabet mystery series, beginning with “A” is for Alibi) stepped on a landmine while doing an interview with her local newspaper. When asked what advice she had for aspiring authors, she said (in part) that self-publishing is “as good as admitting you’re too lazy to do the hard work.” When the interviewer mentioned the success of John Locke, who also lives in the Louisville area, she doubled down:
The self-published books I’ve read are often amateurish. … a ‘wannabe’ assumes it’s all so easy s/he can put out a ‘published novel’ without bothering to read, study, or do the research. … Self-publishing is a short cut and I don’t believe in short cuts when it comes to the arts.As you can imagine, the indie/self-published world launched a thermonuclear strike. One author suggested the opposite is true: “Self-publishing means finding your own proofreader, finding your own editor, finding your own cover designer (or designing your own), doing all your own marketing and sales work, etc. Having a publisher is lazy as all you need to do is write a half-acceptable book and allow your publisher's editor to make it sales-worthy.” Along with the vitriol, several indies took the time to educate Ms. Grafton on the new paradigm.
And, instead of locking herself in an ivory tower, Ms. Grafton took the time to listen. She had a look at what’s really going on outside the traditional publishing world. Then, instead of issuing a “sorry that offended you” non-apology, she gave us a real one. I’m quoting at length below, but go read the whole thing.
[It] wasn’t my intention to tar anyone, if the truth be known. … I am uninitiated when it comes to this new format. I had no idea how wide-spread it was, nor did I see it as developing as a response to the current state of traditional publishing, which is sales driven and therefore limited in its scope. I understand that e-publishing has stepped into the gap, allowing a greater number of authors to enter the marketplace. This, I applaud. I don’t mean to sound defensive here…though of course I do.Talk about grace under fire—this lady (and I don’t use the word lightly) has it! Personally, I wasn’t much offended by the original comments; I simply dismissed them as the griping of someone too lost in (or too tied to) the old paradigm to see how the landscape was changing right under her feet. I was pleasantly shocked to see her take a look around and adjust her footing. I can only hope I’m that nimble when the next change comes around.
I don’t understand the mechanics of e-publishing and I still don’t understand how you can earn money thereby but I realize now that many indie writers are doing well financially and netting themselves greater visibility than I had any reason to believe.
My remark about self-publishing was meant as a caution, which I think some of you finally understood when we exchanged notes on the subject. When I’m asked for advice I warn many writers about the charlatans lurking out there. … It’s clear to me now that indie writers have taken more than their fair share of hard knocks and that you are actually changing the face of publishing. Who knew?! This is a whole new thrust for publication that apparently everyone has been aware of except yours truly. I still don’t understand how it works, but I can see that a hole has been blasted in the wall, allowing writers to be heard in a new way and on a number of new fronts.
I will take responsibility for my gaffe and I hope you will understand the spirit in which it was meant. I have always championed both aspiring writers and working professionals. I have been insulated, I grant you, but I am not arrogant or indifferent to the challenges we all face. I am still learning and I hope to keep on learning for as long as I write.
So while “A” may be for Apology, it’s also for Awesome Author. Perhaps the traditional publishing industry has currently veered into the weeds, but there are still lessons that we can learn from it. One is to accept bad reviews, whether for our novels or newspaper interviews, fix what we did wrong to the best of our ability, and get back to writing.
Wednesday, August 29, 2012 9 comments
Writing Wibbles
The current Twitter tempest, at least in the writing world, swirls around the issue of paid reviews. In a rare moment of unity, both the indie world (represented here by Chuck Wendig) and the traditional world (Shelf Awareness) agree that the practice is a little icky. To be specific, Wendig calls it “scummy” while SA says “depressing.” (Both posts link back to an article in the NY Times, about the proprietor of a review mill that was recently shut down.)
Wendig raises the question, we can all be sure that [this will] reflect more prominently on self-published authors above all others, right? Well, the traditional publishing industry could cite it as another reason to shun indies, except for one problem: buying and selling reviews is long-established practice. A Twitter friend has a small-press book out, and her publisher paid Publishers Weekly to review it. The Times article mentions Kirkus, “a reviewing service founded in 1933.” That’s 79 years ago, if you don’t feel like doing the math yourself, a time when not even science fiction could conceive of something like the Kindle. If the review mills are scummy, it’s only in that they tend to accentuate the positive (which, to authors using such things, is simply providing value for the money).
Before I go any further, let me say I haven’t bought any reviews for White Pickups, nor do I intend to. The honest 5* review it got is better than anything I could have afforded, and it even points out a couple flaws (dammit! why didn’t I write that down when I thought of it?). But if you tilt your head to the right and squint, buying reviews (whether from PW/Kirkus or a review mill) becomes a marketing expense. I don’t have confirmation, but rumor has it that a certain number of reviews (50?) is supposed to draw the attention of Amazon’s algorithms and they start recommending the book. From that angle (remember to tilt your head and squint), review mills are targeting algorithms rather than people. Scummy, yes, but people are always going to try gaming the system when there’s money to be made.
But buying a “real” review can be pricey. Factor in the hours spent first reading the book, then writing the review, and even at minimum wage you could be looking at over a hundred bucks. The Times article mentioned Kirkus charging $425, for example, and that sounds about right for a professional. If I was out of work, I’d probably take $400 to write a review, but I wouldn’t inflate the rating.
Personally, if I had the money to buy reviews, I’d spend it on editing instead. Better yet, I’d spend the time writing something that rises above the crud, leaving indies in awe and publishers grumbling how they could have done better. Back to Scrivener now…
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| Review mill! Green energy! |
Before I go any further, let me say I haven’t bought any reviews for White Pickups, nor do I intend to. The honest 5* review it got is better than anything I could have afforded, and it even points out a couple flaws (dammit! why didn’t I write that down when I thought of it?). But if you tilt your head to the right and squint, buying reviews (whether from PW/Kirkus or a review mill) becomes a marketing expense. I don’t have confirmation, but rumor has it that a certain number of reviews (50?) is supposed to draw the attention of Amazon’s algorithms and they start recommending the book. From that angle (remember to tilt your head and squint), review mills are targeting algorithms rather than people. Scummy, yes, but people are always going to try gaming the system when there’s money to be made.
But buying a “real” review can be pricey. Factor in the hours spent first reading the book, then writing the review, and even at minimum wage you could be looking at over a hundred bucks. The Times article mentioned Kirkus charging $425, for example, and that sounds about right for a professional. If I was out of work, I’d probably take $400 to write a review, but I wouldn’t inflate the rating.
Personally, if I had the money to buy reviews, I’d spend it on editing instead. Better yet, I’d spend the time writing something that rises above the crud, leaving indies in awe and publishers grumbling how they could have done better. Back to Scrivener now…
Tuesday, August 28, 2012 2 comments
Vacation, pt 2: Badger Badger Badger
Lake Michigan was unusually calm while I was in Manitowoc, and that was one more reason to take the freshwater ocean route to Michigan via the S.S. Badger. The Badger is a “car ferry,” originally built 60 years ago for the C&O railroad, hauling rail cars across Lake Michigan to bypass the über-busy Chicago railyards. We’re talking some serious iron here:
With the decline in rail traffic, Chicago railyards aren’t as congested as they once were, and C&O eventually abandoned its maritime operations. But there was a demand for carrying the other kind of cars, the ones that we drive everywhere, and a group of people bought the ship and continue to operate it. Unofficially, it’s part of US10; the highway runs from Bay City to Ludington and then from Manitowoc to points west. The ship sports a US10 logo on the stern, which I thought was a fun touch. During the summer, the ship makes two round-trips across the lake per day.
Given the vintage of the ship, it’s a coal-fired steamer. In my opinion, these are the best museum pieces, the ones still doing something close to what they were built to do in the first place. The Badger has a small museum on board, depicting the history of both maritime shipping and the railroads’ maritime passenger systems. Many of the small staterooms are still available to rent along the way—which probably makes more sense on the nighttime crossing, but sometimes you need a mid-afternoon nap.
There’s a couple acres of coalyard adjacent to the Badger’s dock, and this truck hauled at least three loads of coal on board before we departed.
So I bought my ticket and turned my car over to the valets (or whatever the maritime equivalent is), then boarded the ship. In my estimation, the amenities are overkill for a four-hour trip, but I might have thought differently if it hadn’t been perfect outdoor weather. As it was, I spent most of the crossing on the foredeck, lounging on a deck chair and reading—with a little timeout for checking out the rest of the ship. They have two TV rooms, a movie room, a playroom for small kids, the mini-museum, two cafeterias, and plenty of indoor (and outdoor) seating. There weren’t a lot of people on the port side, though, since the wind was blowing the coal smoke right down that side of the ship. They also have wifi, but I didn’t bother.
Eventually, we reached Ludington. It took about half an hour to debark and get my car. I grabbed some food and got on the road, and was at Dad’s after about two and a half hours. It was only after getting here that I found out about another car ferry that goes between Milwaukee and Muskegon, and takes only two hours to make the crossing. I don’t know how much it cost, though, and this was easier with regard to where I was leaving from. Next time we all go to Michigan, we might take the weekend “cruise” across the lake to Manitowoc and stay with The Boy, then go back. We could leave the car and save some money that way.
At Dad’s, I… well, that’s the next post!
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| Image source: official S.S. Badger site |
There’s a couple acres of coalyard adjacent to the Badger’s dock, and this truck hauled at least three loads of coal on board before we departed.
Eventually, we reached Ludington. It took about half an hour to debark and get my car. I grabbed some food and got on the road, and was at Dad’s after about two and a half hours. It was only after getting here that I found out about another car ferry that goes between Milwaukee and Muskegon, and takes only two hours to make the crossing. I don’t know how much it cost, though, and this was easier with regard to where I was leaving from. Next time we all go to Michigan, we might take the weekend “cruise” across the lake to Manitowoc and stay with The Boy, then go back. We could leave the car and save some money that way.
At Dad’s, I… well, that’s the next post!
Monday, August 27, 2012 2 comments
Vacation pt 1: Manitowoc
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| Awwww… |
I did manage to make the Columbus IN exit around bedtime, and settled on a Motel 6 for the night. The tall, tall sign, visible from the freeway, promised rooms starting at $44.99. I had to ask the desk clerk about that when she handed me the bill for $60. “Oh,” she said, “that’s the weekday rate for a single room.”
“Seems like you should change the sign for the weekend,” I suggested, not being overtly confrontational… yet.
“We can’t see it from here, and something’s screwed up.” Yeah, I think it was a fatal error in the morals circuitry. I haven’t emailed their corporate offices about it yet, but I will. I will. Misleading is the nice word.
The next morning was better—I met the couple that are affectionately called “the Fs” on their blog, for breakfast. All too soon, I was on the road again. But this time, instead of veering onto US31, I stayed on I-65. I got to geek out over the enormous wind farm south of Gary—hundreds of turbines on both sides of the freeway, for miles and miles—before getting stuck in Chicago traffic on a Sunday afternoon. I managed to make Wisconsin before needing gas, and tanked up for the final leg up I-43 to Manitowoc. North of Milwaukee, traffic was stopped up going south, but northbound was mostly clear sailing. I got to The Boy’s place in time for supper.
Anyway, they live in a largish old house that’s been separated into three or four apartments. It’s not upscale by any means, but in reasonable shape for young working-class guys and surprisingly clean. He keeps night-shift hours, so I would get up in the morning and creep out to the porch to eat breakfast and write. That worked out well; the others would start moving around at 10:30 or so, about the time I was about wrote out for the morning.
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| THAT is a lake. |
Of course, since we were right on Lake Michigan, we had to go to the beach. The weather was beautiful, and I wish I was still there.
On Tuesday night, I got a call from Other Brother. “Bad news,” he said. “Uncle John passed away yesterday. His viewing is Thursday night and the funeral is Friday. Are you going to be here for that?” Then the fun one: “Oh, and Dad totaled his car Thursday.” So at least I could be there not only for the funeral, but to make sure Dad got there.
Wednesday morning, I got The Boy some groceries (“I’m about over the thing with Snippet,” he said) and we had a quick lunch before I boarded the ferry. That’s tomorrow’s installment.
Friday, August 24, 2012 12 comments
#FridayFlash: Twin Sisters of Different Mothers, pt 4
The conclusion! (I’ll add the Part 3 link when I get home from vacation.)
Part 1
Part 2
Part 3
“I was just so relieved to see you—her—alive,” Rob moaned, capping the Scotch and dropping it on the coffee table. “I know it’s selfish, but I’m glad that’s not you upstairs. You didn’t get hurt.”
The phone rang, cutting off Monica’s response. “I’ll get that,” she said, jogging to the den. “Hello?” Rob heard. “Yes, this is she. Oh. You did? Well, good. Ah… yes, the address is correct, you can send it there. Thank you so much.”
“That was the airport investigators,” Monica said. “The plane I was supposed to be on crashed? My God, you must have been half out of your mind! Anyway, they found my purse on the plane and they’re going to overnight it here. Which means,” she said, punching three buttons on the phone, “your friend upstairs is the one who stole it in the first place.”
“Oh my God,” Rob said. “The State Department people who called to verify your identity said you looked just like a wanted criminal in the Netherlands. It has to be her!”
The sight of police entering the bedroom was the trigger that restored Monique’s memory. With her leg in a cast and her head still woozy from jet lag and the concussion, she was unable to run and settled for insulting the cops in Dutch. She gave up the “no speak English” gambit when Monica translated the insults, and stopped speaking entirely.
“You’ll want to contact Immigration,” Monica said, as the cops handcuffed Monique to the wheelchair in the foyer. “She’s a Dutch national, probably on a falsified visa, and is wanted by the police in the Netherlands.”
“Jesus, lady,” one of the cops said. “She looks like your twin sister. You think you’re related, maybe?”
“Twin sisters of different mothers?” Monica chuckled. “She never showed up at family gatherings—have you, Monique?”
Monique just glared as the cops wheeled her to the van.
“Next time you go overseas,” Rob said as they watched the cops drive away, “I’m going with you. I don’t think I could take a repeat.”
“That would be peachy,” Monica said, turning him toward the door. “Then when we get our stuff stolen, who do we call to verify that we’re us?”
Rob gave her a cock-eyed look. “For that matter, how do I know you’re really Monica? Maybe I just sent my own wife to the pokey?”
Monica smiled. “Oh, I think I know of a way to verify my identity. Let’s go upstairs and see.”
Friday, August 17, 2012 9 comments
#FridayFlash: Twin Sisters of Different Mothers, pt 3
I’m so glad for scheduled blog posts, I won’t have to worry about this on vacation.
Part 1
Part 2
“Yes, one of the passengers looks like her,” the nurse said, scanning Rob’s wallet photo. “If you’re quiet, I’ll let you see her—I think she’s sleeping at the moment—and you can tell me whether it’s your wife or not.”
“That’s her!” he whispered. One side of her head was bandaged, and her right leg was in a cast, but the hair not covered told Rob what he dreaded to know.
The nurse looked at the photo again, then at the unconscious woman. “I think you’re right,” she whispered back. “Let me buzz the doctor and he can explain the situation.”
“She’s not seriously injured,” Doctor Dikembe explained in the waiting room. “She has a broken leg and has suffered a mild concussion. She seems to be suffering from amnesia, though—is your wife German?”
“Dutch, originally,” Rob said. “But she’s been living here for 15 years.”
“Ah, that explains it. She’s mostly speaking Dutch, with a few words of English thrown in, when she’s awake. From what we’ve been able to gather, she knows she’s in New York, but isn’t sure where she lives or even what her name is. Sometimes she calls herself Monica, other times Monique.”
“She was born Monique, but she goes by Monica,” he said.
The nurse came in. “She’s awake,” she told them. “You can see her, just don’t get too excited.”
Monique looked at Rob. “Hello,” she said, “are you an investigator?”
“It’s your husband, honey,” the nurse said. “He’s here to take you home, if you think you’re up to it.”
“Am I? I can’t remember…”
“You will, in a day or so,” Doctor Dikembe reassured her. “Being in your own home should help you with that. Remember: don’t try to force it, and if you start doing something on your own, let it happen.
“And that goes for you, too,” she told Rob. “Give her time, don’t try to push it. If she doesn’t seem to be fully recovered in a week, you might need to contact mental health professionals in your network. Where are you from?”
“Massachusetts. Framingham.”
“Oh. I won’t be able to refer you to anyone, at least right now. Here’s my card, though; if you need it, call me and I’ll write a referral.”
The nurse rolled in a wheelchair. “You ready to go home, Monica?”
Around 1:30 a.m., Rob brought Monique home. He helped her up the stairs and into the bedroom.
“Rob,” she said. “I know we’re supposed to be married, but I just can’t remember right now. I won’t feel comfortable with you here…”
“It’s alright,” Rob sighed. “I’ll sleep on the couch. Right now, I’m so tired—and so relieved you’re okay—I could probably sleep in the driveway.”
Monique smiled. “You’re a kind man, Rob. I hope when I remember, that I’ll know I was worthy of you.”
Rob nodded, turned off the lights, and went downstairs. He swung into the kitchen to grab the Scotch before getting a blanket out of the linen closet.
Monica woke up just after nine on Sunday morning, much later than planned, which put her in a grumpy mood. She threw everything together, checked out, and got on the road. She was almost to Connecticut before she realized she’d forgotten to call Rob. She swore at herself and drove on.
Rob woke up on the couch around ten, just a little hung over but not enough to forget about the situation. He crept upstairs to find Monique still sleeping. Good: she might wake up in her bed, in her room, and have her memory back. He slipped back downstairs for a glass of milk and a cinnamon roll. A cup of coffee might be good too.
Glancing into the den on the way by, he finally noticed the answering machine light flashing. “Will you accept—” a mechanical voice began, then cut off.
Rob hit ERASE. “No, I will not accept your scammy refinancing offer,” he snarled and walked away.
Just before two, Monique awoke and asked for something to eat when Rob came up to check on her. He quickly rolled downstairs and brought back a tray with coffee, juice, toast, and the other cinnamon roll. She nibbled her food while Rob talked to her. To Rob’s disappointment, she hadn’t recovered any memory of their being married or of other parts of her life. He would probably have to call Framintek tomorrow morning and explain the situation; she wasn’t in any shape to get back to work just yet. “I’m going to change my shirt, if that’s okay,” he said. She nodded, and he pulled off the shirt he’d worn all day and all night.
Monica walked into the house, and saw the blanket spilling from the couch to the floor. Rob must have been watching a late movie, she thought. He was probably outside—good, it would give her time to drop her bags in the bedroom and brush out her hair before he saw her.
Climbing the stairs, she heard Rob talking with quite a bit of animation—but why would he be on the phone in the bedroom? She walked in: “Rob, what—”
Rob looked up, fresh shirt halfway on, and froze. For a long moment, nobody spoke or even moved. Rob stood bug-eyed in the middle of the bedroom, looking to the puzzled woman in his bed, then to she who stood glaring in the doorway, back and forth. Except for the clothes—one was wearing them, the other wasn't—the two were identical.
“Who are—” the clothed woman began, then stopped, seeing her double clearly for the first time. She blinked, rubbed her eyes, then took a hesitant step into the bedroom. It was like looking into a mirror. The woman in her bed stared back, with the same puzzled expression. At the same moment, both of them reached up and brushed the hair back from their foreheads.
Seizing the opportunity, Rob pulled down his shirt and dashed out of the bedroom. If there was any Scotch left in the living room, he intended to finish it.
continued…
Part 1
Part 2
“That’s her!” he whispered. One side of her head was bandaged, and her right leg was in a cast, but the hair not covered told Rob what he dreaded to know.
The nurse looked at the photo again, then at the unconscious woman. “I think you’re right,” she whispered back. “Let me buzz the doctor and he can explain the situation.”
“She’s not seriously injured,” Doctor Dikembe explained in the waiting room. “She has a broken leg and has suffered a mild concussion. She seems to be suffering from amnesia, though—is your wife German?”
“Dutch, originally,” Rob said. “But she’s been living here for 15 years.”
“Ah, that explains it. She’s mostly speaking Dutch, with a few words of English thrown in, when she’s awake. From what we’ve been able to gather, she knows she’s in New York, but isn’t sure where she lives or even what her name is. Sometimes she calls herself Monica, other times Monique.”
“She was born Monique, but she goes by Monica,” he said.
The nurse came in. “She’s awake,” she told them. “You can see her, just don’t get too excited.”
Monique looked at Rob. “Hello,” she said, “are you an investigator?”
“It’s your husband, honey,” the nurse said. “He’s here to take you home, if you think you’re up to it.”
“Am I? I can’t remember…”
“You will, in a day or so,” Doctor Dikembe reassured her. “Being in your own home should help you with that. Remember: don’t try to force it, and if you start doing something on your own, let it happen.
“And that goes for you, too,” she told Rob. “Give her time, don’t try to push it. If she doesn’t seem to be fully recovered in a week, you might need to contact mental health professionals in your network. Where are you from?”
“Massachusetts. Framingham.”
“Oh. I won’t be able to refer you to anyone, at least right now. Here’s my card, though; if you need it, call me and I’ll write a referral.”
The nurse rolled in a wheelchair. “You ready to go home, Monica?”
Around 1:30 a.m., Rob brought Monique home. He helped her up the stairs and into the bedroom.
“Rob,” she said. “I know we’re supposed to be married, but I just can’t remember right now. I won’t feel comfortable with you here…”
“It’s alright,” Rob sighed. “I’ll sleep on the couch. Right now, I’m so tired—and so relieved you’re okay—I could probably sleep in the driveway.”
Monique smiled. “You’re a kind man, Rob. I hope when I remember, that I’ll know I was worthy of you.”
Rob nodded, turned off the lights, and went downstairs. He swung into the kitchen to grab the Scotch before getting a blanket out of the linen closet.
Monica woke up just after nine on Sunday morning, much later than planned, which put her in a grumpy mood. She threw everything together, checked out, and got on the road. She was almost to Connecticut before she realized she’d forgotten to call Rob. She swore at herself and drove on.
Rob woke up on the couch around ten, just a little hung over but not enough to forget about the situation. He crept upstairs to find Monique still sleeping. Good: she might wake up in her bed, in her room, and have her memory back. He slipped back downstairs for a glass of milk and a cinnamon roll. A cup of coffee might be good too.
Glancing into the den on the way by, he finally noticed the answering machine light flashing. “Will you accept—” a mechanical voice began, then cut off.
Rob hit ERASE. “No, I will not accept your scammy refinancing offer,” he snarled and walked away.
Just before two, Monique awoke and asked for something to eat when Rob came up to check on her. He quickly rolled downstairs and brought back a tray with coffee, juice, toast, and the other cinnamon roll. She nibbled her food while Rob talked to her. To Rob’s disappointment, she hadn’t recovered any memory of their being married or of other parts of her life. He would probably have to call Framintek tomorrow morning and explain the situation; she wasn’t in any shape to get back to work just yet. “I’m going to change my shirt, if that’s okay,” he said. She nodded, and he pulled off the shirt he’d worn all day and all night.
Monica walked into the house, and saw the blanket spilling from the couch to the floor. Rob must have been watching a late movie, she thought. He was probably outside—good, it would give her time to drop her bags in the bedroom and brush out her hair before he saw her.
Climbing the stairs, she heard Rob talking with quite a bit of animation—but why would he be on the phone in the bedroom? She walked in: “Rob, what—”
Rob looked up, fresh shirt halfway on, and froze. For a long moment, nobody spoke or even moved. Rob stood bug-eyed in the middle of the bedroom, looking to the puzzled woman in his bed, then to she who stood glaring in the doorway, back and forth. Except for the clothes—one was wearing them, the other wasn't—the two were identical.
“Who are—” the clothed woman began, then stopped, seeing her double clearly for the first time. She blinked, rubbed her eyes, then took a hesitant step into the bedroom. It was like looking into a mirror. The woman in her bed stared back, with the same puzzled expression. At the same moment, both of them reached up and brushed the hair back from their foreheads.
Seizing the opportunity, Rob pulled down his shirt and dashed out of the bedroom. If there was any Scotch left in the living room, he intended to finish it.
continued…
Thursday, August 09, 2012 13 comments
#FridayFlash: Twin Sisters of Different Mothers, pt 2
In case you missed it: Part 1
“Robert Germain?”
“Yes.” Robert had a bad feeling about this — the caller ID said “US STATE DEPT” and his imagination immediately furnished a long list of terrible things that could have happened to Monica.
“Your wife, Monica. Is she available?”
“Um, no. She’s in Amsterdam at the moment.”
“Very good. Could you briefly tell me where the two of you met, and when you were married?”
“Sure. We were students at Michigan Tech — I was in mechanical engineering, she was in electrical engineering. We got married in 1996.”
“Where does she work and what does she do there?”
“She’s a product manager at Framintek. Since she was born in the Netherlands, they send her to Europe to deal with technical issues from time to time.”
“All right. Now could you describe her?”
“Sure! She’s five foot-six, short brown hair, brown eyes, weighs about 150 pounds…”
“Excellent. Thank you for your time, Mr. Germain. Your wife ran into some trouble in Amsterdam — her purse was stolen, with all her ID — and amazingly enough, she’s a dead ringer for a wanted criminal in the Netherlands. We’re going to issue her a temporary passport and help her get home as soon as possible.”
Monique had never flown before, and the experience was rather unsettling: the deep hum of the engines, the way the aircraft vibrated even after leaving the ground, the noise of the landing gear retracting — but the politie and the Netherlands were now behind her. A new life, a new name, and nothing to do for the next eight hours. “I must be the luckiest woman in the world,” she whispered to herself, then willed herself to sleep.
The pilot’s voice awoke her. “Ladies and gentlemen, we will be landing at JFK airport shortly. For those of you on the right side of the craft, you can see the Statue of Liberty. Please put up your tray tables and return your seats to their full upright position; and as always, thank you for flying Northwest Airlines.” He continued to chatter about connecting flights and the local weather, but Monique tuned him out and looked out the window.
Rob sat and fretted. No word from Monica — no surprise there, if her purse was stolen then her cellphone was gone too — and the guy at the State Department hadn’t told him if she was going to make her flight. He missed her when she was gone, and he’d really wanted to surprise her at the airport with a bouquet. He decided to sit tight, wait for her to call when she arrived Stateside, and order take-out from her favorite Thai place. He turned on the news station and settled into his lounge chair with a book.
More disconcerting rumbles as the flaps deployed and the landing gear came down. Just a few more minutes, Monique thought, watching the runway rush by her window. A jolt as the plane touched down, then a sickening lurch and the plane dipped to the right. Monica barely heard the shrieks from other passengers as she saw a piece of the wing hurtle past, trailing sparks and debris. I think my luck just ran out, as a spindly tower leaped toward her.
“Breaking news about a plane crash at New York’s JFK airport,” the newscaster broke in. Rob jumped, his book tumbling to the floor. “The landing gear on Northwest flight 86 from Amsterdam apparently collapsed as it landed just minutes ago, sending the aircraft skidding across the runway and into a communications tower. There are reports of serious injuries, but no confirmed deaths at this time—”
That was all Rob heard. He rushed into the kitchen and snatched Monica’s itinerary from the refrigerator. “Oh God oh God oh God,” he said, reading Northwest 86 3:50 pm. He bolted out the door, and was on the way to New York in seconds.
It was past eight by the time Rob arrived at the airport. He bolted to the Northwest counter, where a hand-lettered sign promised FLIGHT 86 PASSENGER INFO. “My wife— I think she was on that flight— where would she be now?”
The sympathetic black woman patted his hand. “We’ll try to help you. What’s her name?”
“Monica. Monica Germain.”
“Sir… I don’t see her name on the passenger list. There’s a Monica Pappas listed here, would she have been traveling under another name?”
“No— I don’t know. Her passport was stolen this morning; the State Department called me to verify her ID and said they’d get her home as soon as possible. Could I maybe describe her? She’s about your height—”
The desk clerk shook her head. “Sir, I didn’t see any of the passengers. Jamaica Hospital is where they took everyone; it’s north on the Van Wyck Expressway to Exit 6. They may be able to help you there.”
About the same time, Monica stepped off the jetway and headed to Customs. That was not something she really looked forward to, with a temporary passport in hand, but perhaps the Consulate had sent word ahead. Right now, all she wanted to do was get her bags, find the nearest hotel, and get some sleep. Rob was probably worried about her, so she’d call him collect as soon as she could find an increasingly-rare payphone. Thank God it was Saturday, New York rush hours were horrendous.
After reaching the answering machine, the collect call wouldn’t go through. Rob might be treating himself to a little supper at McVann’s. Surely he knew she would have missed her first flight.
continued…
“Yes.” Robert had a bad feeling about this — the caller ID said “US STATE DEPT” and his imagination immediately furnished a long list of terrible things that could have happened to Monica.
“Your wife, Monica. Is she available?”
“Um, no. She’s in Amsterdam at the moment.”
“Very good. Could you briefly tell me where the two of you met, and when you were married?”
“Sure. We were students at Michigan Tech — I was in mechanical engineering, she was in electrical engineering. We got married in 1996.”
“Where does she work and what does she do there?”
“She’s a product manager at Framintek. Since she was born in the Netherlands, they send her to Europe to deal with technical issues from time to time.”
“All right. Now could you describe her?”
“Sure! She’s five foot-six, short brown hair, brown eyes, weighs about 150 pounds…”
“Excellent. Thank you for your time, Mr. Germain. Your wife ran into some trouble in Amsterdam — her purse was stolen, with all her ID — and amazingly enough, she’s a dead ringer for a wanted criminal in the Netherlands. We’re going to issue her a temporary passport and help her get home as soon as possible.”
Monique had never flown before, and the experience was rather unsettling: the deep hum of the engines, the way the aircraft vibrated even after leaving the ground, the noise of the landing gear retracting — but the politie and the Netherlands were now behind her. A new life, a new name, and nothing to do for the next eight hours. “I must be the luckiest woman in the world,” she whispered to herself, then willed herself to sleep.
The pilot’s voice awoke her. “Ladies and gentlemen, we will be landing at JFK airport shortly. For those of you on the right side of the craft, you can see the Statue of Liberty. Please put up your tray tables and return your seats to their full upright position; and as always, thank you for flying Northwest Airlines.” He continued to chatter about connecting flights and the local weather, but Monique tuned him out and looked out the window.
Rob sat and fretted. No word from Monica — no surprise there, if her purse was stolen then her cellphone was gone too — and the guy at the State Department hadn’t told him if she was going to make her flight. He missed her when she was gone, and he’d really wanted to surprise her at the airport with a bouquet. He decided to sit tight, wait for her to call when she arrived Stateside, and order take-out from her favorite Thai place. He turned on the news station and settled into his lounge chair with a book.
More disconcerting rumbles as the flaps deployed and the landing gear came down. Just a few more minutes, Monique thought, watching the runway rush by her window. A jolt as the plane touched down, then a sickening lurch and the plane dipped to the right. Monica barely heard the shrieks from other passengers as she saw a piece of the wing hurtle past, trailing sparks and debris. I think my luck just ran out, as a spindly tower leaped toward her.
“Breaking news about a plane crash at New York’s JFK airport,” the newscaster broke in. Rob jumped, his book tumbling to the floor. “The landing gear on Northwest flight 86 from Amsterdam apparently collapsed as it landed just minutes ago, sending the aircraft skidding across the runway and into a communications tower. There are reports of serious injuries, but no confirmed deaths at this time—”
That was all Rob heard. He rushed into the kitchen and snatched Monica’s itinerary from the refrigerator. “Oh God oh God oh God,” he said, reading Northwest 86 3:50 pm. He bolted out the door, and was on the way to New York in seconds.
It was past eight by the time Rob arrived at the airport. He bolted to the Northwest counter, where a hand-lettered sign promised FLIGHT 86 PASSENGER INFO. “My wife— I think she was on that flight— where would she be now?”
The sympathetic black woman patted his hand. “We’ll try to help you. What’s her name?”
“Monica. Monica Germain.”
“Sir… I don’t see her name on the passenger list. There’s a Monica Pappas listed here, would she have been traveling under another name?”
“No— I don’t know. Her passport was stolen this morning; the State Department called me to verify her ID and said they’d get her home as soon as possible. Could I maybe describe her? She’s about your height—”
The desk clerk shook her head. “Sir, I didn’t see any of the passengers. Jamaica Hospital is where they took everyone; it’s north on the Van Wyck Expressway to Exit 6. They may be able to help you there.”
About the same time, Monica stepped off the jetway and headed to Customs. That was not something she really looked forward to, with a temporary passport in hand, but perhaps the Consulate had sent word ahead. Right now, all she wanted to do was get her bags, find the nearest hotel, and get some sleep. Rob was probably worried about her, so she’d call him collect as soon as she could find an increasingly-rare payphone. Thank God it was Saturday, New York rush hours were horrendous.
After reaching the answering machine, the collect call wouldn’t go through. Rob might be treating himself to a little supper at McVann’s. Surely he knew she would have missed her first flight.
continued…
Wednesday, August 08, 2012 3 comments
Writing (and Launching) Wibbles
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| Launch Cannon! Source: openclipart.org |
In between those two, I took aim at a new target: the Nook Store. I thought it would be another easy target, maybe a little longer to confirm than Amazon, but Scrivener generates clean ePUB files just as easily as MOBI. That one turned out to be a misfire. Some of my tax info didn’t get entered properly, and I got hung in "Pending Account Verification" limbo for a few days. Finally, yesterday, the Pubit site put up a banner saying "call us, we sent you an email." I didn’t get the email until after seeing the banner, but whatever. After figuring out what needed to be fixed, I fixed it.
So here are the various virtues and failings of each eBook store, as I see them:
Amazon: very easy to deal with, biggest eBook market, multiple countries, CreateSpace for paperback. Not much control after uploading.
Smashwords: easiest avenue to iBooks, 70% commission on 99¢ eBooks, coupons provide lots of pricing flexibility. Insistence on DOC files is a huge PITA for non-Word users, you need a PayPal account (no direct deposit).
Nook: growing market, easy upload from Scrivener (ePUB). Takes longer than Amazon to get your Nook eBook into the store.
A little more administrivia to deal with. But now that White Pickups is rolling out, I can re-focus on Pickups and Pestilence. I sketched out what needs to happen in the final third of the book, which includes the final climactic confrontation, and started writing a little of it yesterday. If everything goes smoothly (haha), I should have it done by spring.
Friday, August 03, 2012 13 comments
#FridayFlash: Twin Sisters of Different Mothers, pt 1
A strange little four-parter I found in my archives…
What a stroke of luck! Monique thought, looking at the American’s driver’s license. We could be twins! No need to delay a few hours to switch pictures—the local politie had raided her flat this morning, so time was not her friend right now.
Monique looked through the stolen purse again and considered. Using the woman’s airline ticket and passport would only be asking for trouble; she might leave safely but de Amerikaanse politie would be waiting for her. Better to trust her luck with the fake passport and ID she had in her own bag. “But I can perhaps buy myself a couple of hours,” she muttered, fishing around in the American woman’s giant purse and finding the cellphone. The train to Schiphol was a good place to be anonymous; people chatted among themselves or simply looked out the window. She called the hotel.
“Yes, my name is Monica Germain,” she told the clerk. Interesting, the American had not only her looks but her first name. “A strange woman entered my hotel room—room 504—this morning, and attempted to take my purse. I managed to keep it and run, but left my luggage behind. I’m afraid to return to my room.”
“I understand, madam. Can you describe the woman?”
“Certainly.” Act American. “She was my height, five—excuse me, ah, 175 centimeters. Brown hair, thin.”
“We will let the police know,” the receptionist said. “I would think it is unlikely that she would still be in your room, though. If you wish to return, one of our staff will be glad to accompany you.”
“Yes, perhaps that will be best. But I am on a train at the moment, so I will have to turn around. It may be some time. Could you be kind enough to send security upstairs to make sure my room is unoccupied?”
“Good idea, madam. I will do that.”
“Thank you,” Monique ended the call. It was unlikely that her twin would be arrested, but a little confusion would work in Monique’s favor.
At the airport, her first order of business was to cash in the airline ticket. Act American, chatter as if her plight mattered: “I’m traveling on business, and now they want me to go to Frankfurt and then to Paris. I’ll fly home from Paris. I know it will cost more, but they think it will be worth it. Euros will be fine, I’ll use them.”
At the hotel, Monica was turning the room upside-down, looking for her purse—she could have sworn she’d left it in the room before she went down for breakfast!—when the concierge and the security guard opened the door without knocking. “Did I call already?” she asked. “I’ve lost my purse.”
“Come with us, please,” the concierge said. He and the guard each took an arm and marched Monica out of the room before she had a chance to protest.
“For the last time,” Monica snarled in Dutch, “I’m not Monique Fleek. My name is Monica Germain. I was born in Eindhoven, yes, but I have lived in America since 1992. Call the Consulate, dammit!”
The security guards looked at each other. “But you are a perfect match for Fleek,” said the guard who had brought her down to this basement office, “and why would you ransack your own hotel room?”
“Again. I was in the restaurant, eating breakfast. I left my purse in the room and brought my key and my credit card with me. When I came back upstairs, my purse was gone.”
“Perhaps we should let the Americans deal with her,” the conceirge said. “Monica Germain is a guest here, and if that is who she is, then we apologize and all shall be well. If she is Fleek, the Americans will turn her over to the police, and all shall be well. Either way, turning her over to the Consulate seems to be the best course of action.”
With a stolen credit card that still worked, Monique bought another ticket on the same flight, using her false ID. It seemed likely that if the politie were closing in, they would assume that she would book another flight—or perhaps take the train out of the country.
“No luggage to check?”
“My bags were stolen this morning. I’m buying clothes in New York,” she said. She planned to practice Monica’s signature on the flight, and use some of her travelers cheques to buy those clothes.
The clerk looked again. “Good thing. The check-in time just closed. You’re cutting it close.”
Monique bought a magazine with some of her cash from the airline ticket, and took a seat at a gate across and one down from her departure gate where she could keep an eye out for trouble. It wouldn’t be long — she had already emailed an American contact, who said he could furnish what papers she would need in America. A new identity, a new land… perhaps she could even take Monica’s place.
continued…
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| Image source: openclipart.org |
Monique looked through the stolen purse again and considered. Using the woman’s airline ticket and passport would only be asking for trouble; she might leave safely but de Amerikaanse politie would be waiting for her. Better to trust her luck with the fake passport and ID she had in her own bag. “But I can perhaps buy myself a couple of hours,” she muttered, fishing around in the American woman’s giant purse and finding the cellphone. The train to Schiphol was a good place to be anonymous; people chatted among themselves or simply looked out the window. She called the hotel.
“Yes, my name is Monica Germain,” she told the clerk. Interesting, the American had not only her looks but her first name. “A strange woman entered my hotel room—room 504—this morning, and attempted to take my purse. I managed to keep it and run, but left my luggage behind. I’m afraid to return to my room.”
“I understand, madam. Can you describe the woman?”
“Certainly.” Act American. “She was my height, five—excuse me, ah, 175 centimeters. Brown hair, thin.”
“We will let the police know,” the receptionist said. “I would think it is unlikely that she would still be in your room, though. If you wish to return, one of our staff will be glad to accompany you.”
“Yes, perhaps that will be best. But I am on a train at the moment, so I will have to turn around. It may be some time. Could you be kind enough to send security upstairs to make sure my room is unoccupied?”
“Good idea, madam. I will do that.”
“Thank you,” Monique ended the call. It was unlikely that her twin would be arrested, but a little confusion would work in Monique’s favor.
At the airport, her first order of business was to cash in the airline ticket. Act American, chatter as if her plight mattered: “I’m traveling on business, and now they want me to go to Frankfurt and then to Paris. I’ll fly home from Paris. I know it will cost more, but they think it will be worth it. Euros will be fine, I’ll use them.”
At the hotel, Monica was turning the room upside-down, looking for her purse—she could have sworn she’d left it in the room before she went down for breakfast!—when the concierge and the security guard opened the door without knocking. “Did I call already?” she asked. “I’ve lost my purse.”
“Come with us, please,” the concierge said. He and the guard each took an arm and marched Monica out of the room before she had a chance to protest.
“For the last time,” Monica snarled in Dutch, “I’m not Monique Fleek. My name is Monica Germain. I was born in Eindhoven, yes, but I have lived in America since 1992. Call the Consulate, dammit!”
The security guards looked at each other. “But you are a perfect match for Fleek,” said the guard who had brought her down to this basement office, “and why would you ransack your own hotel room?”
“Again. I was in the restaurant, eating breakfast. I left my purse in the room and brought my key and my credit card with me. When I came back upstairs, my purse was gone.”
“Perhaps we should let the Americans deal with her,” the conceirge said. “Monica Germain is a guest here, and if that is who she is, then we apologize and all shall be well. If she is Fleek, the Americans will turn her over to the police, and all shall be well. Either way, turning her over to the Consulate seems to be the best course of action.”
With a stolen credit card that still worked, Monique bought another ticket on the same flight, using her false ID. It seemed likely that if the politie were closing in, they would assume that she would book another flight—or perhaps take the train out of the country.
“No luggage to check?”
“My bags were stolen this morning. I’m buying clothes in New York,” she said. She planned to practice Monica’s signature on the flight, and use some of her travelers cheques to buy those clothes.
The clerk looked again. “Good thing. The check-in time just closed. You’re cutting it close.”
Monique bought a magazine with some of her cash from the airline ticket, and took a seat at a gate across and one down from her departure gate where she could keep an eye out for trouble. It wouldn’t be long — she had already emailed an American contact, who said he could furnish what papers she would need in America. A new identity, a new land… perhaps she could even take Monica’s place.
continued…
Wednesday, August 01, 2012 8 comments
Writing Wibbles
An interesting Publisher’s Weekly article came across my Twitter feed late last week: Profits Fall 48% at Penguin on 4% Sales Decline. I tried running some figures, and it doesn’t quite add up:
- A 4% decline to £441 million implies last year’s sales were about £460 million.
- A 48% decline to £22 million implies last year’s profits were about £42 million.
- That means profits declined £20 million on a sales decline of £19 million!
The above numbers suggest that margins cratered, overhead soared, or a combination of the two. The CEO partly blamed the decline on a lack of blockbuster titles (“none of them were Fifty Shades of Grey”) and “softness in the more profitable backlist business.” To me, both of these points were interesting:
- Both Fifty Shades and The Hunger Games were called out as “[siphoning] sales from other titles.” Correct me if I’m wrong, but didn’t these both start out as indie works?
- A lot of mid-list authors like Joe Konrath have reclaimed their backlists from publishers, and are doing quite well selling both old and new titles as eBooks, for reasonable prices.
If my assumptions are correct, then Amazon is the least of publishers’ problems, no matter how they want to spin it.
A final point: the article mentioned that eBooks now make up 19% of Penguin’s sales. Spin that.
Speaking of Amazon and indies, not all seems to be chocolate and roses there, either. According to iReaderReview, which is usually insightful when the lead blogger isn’t indulging his admitted anti-Apple prejudice, suggests that Amazon is gaming the best-seller lists to downplay $1 books.
In 2011 $1 books were beginning to really take over. … In 2012 this suddenly [ground] to a halt. Lots of indie authors have covered this and talked about a shift to ‘Top Grossing’ instead of ‘Best Selling’.
If this is indeed what’s happening, I must admit to mixed feelings. Sure, at $2.99, everyone makes more per-unit. One point that iReaderReview makes, over and over again, is that the combination of eBooks and easy self-publishing puts enormous downward pressure on prices. As an author, I’d much rather get $2.10 per sale than $0.30. On the other hand, I’ve often said that 99¢ is an impulse buy for most people. If I knew I’d get seven times the volume, I’d definitely go for it. But with 99¢ books largely disappearing from the best-seller (or top-grossing) list, it doesn’t sound like the 99¢ titles are selling in the numbers needed to overcome the higher-priced titles. I’ll definitely play with pricing once I recoup my (small) expenses associated with White Pickups (mostly the cover art), just to see what happens.
And, with any luck, I’ll be so busy working on Pickups and Pestilence that I won’t be obsessively checking the sales figures every time I turn around…
Thursday, July 26, 2012 12 comments
#FridayFlash: Shine Until Tomorrow (conc.)
And we bring this story to a close. In case you’ve missed the earlier pieces, here they are:
“What does that mean?” Mary pushed away to look at Eric.
“You used ‘let it be’ to bring the beast to life, right? And all that other stuff, like getting me out from under that pole. And making the angel.” He took a deep breath. “But not us. I was into you before that.”
“Huh?”
“Yeah. I used to watch you in history class. I was afraid I wouldn’t be good enough for you, so I never dared to try talking to you. I was gonna take art next semester so we’d have another class together.”
Mary grinned. “I so totally wanna hear about this. But we need to get rid of the angel first.”
“It’s that Beatles song.”
“That what song?”
Eric laughed. “My dad said he used to sing it to make me go to sleep, when I was a baby. Let It Be. I bet it’s in there. ‘There will be an answer’.”
Mary shuddered. “I remember thinking that. A couple times, while I was finishing a sketch. How come I don’t know the song?”
“You probably heard it and forgot. I guess it came out when our grandparents were our age.” Eric shrugged. “Dad and Aunt Circe liked the Beatles, and she has her CDs here. Let’s go look for it.”
They went back inside, and Eric lifted the cushion beneath the CD player. He pulled out stacks of CDs and handed them to Mary, digging deeper until, “Aha! Got it! Here, let’s put the other ones back first.” Mary passed stacks back to Eric, until they were all put away. He replaced the cushion. “Let’s play this.” Eric turned on the CD player and inserted the disc. “Track 6. Let me know if it’s too much, okay?”
Mary nodded, and Eric pressed Play. She laughed at the opening lyrics, but was soon caught up. The refrain brought quiet tears to her eyes, but she let the song go on. Near the end, she gasped. “Eric! Stop!”
“What?” He paused the CD. “Are you alright?”
“Yeah. Can you back it up a little?”
“Sure.” Eric held the Back button, watching the numbers count back, then pressed Play again.
“That’s it!” Mary was already at the table, sketchpad open, pencil flying across the paper. She looked up and gave Eric a wild grin. “I’m baaaaack! Give me a few minutes, okay?”
“Okay. I need to go get whatever they’re handing out for supper, anyway.” He picked up a cooler. “I’ll be back in a few.”
By the time Eric returned, Mary was pacing outside the camper.
“They made rolls today!” he grinned, holding up a plastic bag. “And they gave Aunt Circe two cans of beer. She’ll like that.”
“Spam and green beans, too?”
Eric laughed. “How did you know? Did you draw it?”
“Nope, just guessed. Come look.” She took his wrist and pulled him inside.
“Cool,” he said, looking at the drawing. It showed the angel, rising to Heaven in a great beam of light, with people watching all around. Above were three words, different than from before: SHINE • UNTIL • TOMORROW.
“Do you think it’ll work?” Eric asked her.
“Only one way to find out,” she grinned, and kissed him with fervor.
They soon felt the gaze of the angel upon them, but there was also a glow, far brighter than the evening light. Mary looked up again. “Shine until tomorrow,” she said. “Then you go home.” She laughed.
“I guess we’ll have to be careful then,” said Eric. “About… you know.”
“Let it be!” said Mary. They laughed together.
- Let It Be (There Will Be an Answer)
- Times of Trouble
- Words of Wisdom
- Shine Until Tomorrow, pt 1
“What does that mean?” Mary pushed away to look at Eric.
“You used ‘let it be’ to bring the beast to life, right? And all that other stuff, like getting me out from under that pole. And making the angel.” He took a deep breath. “But not us. I was into you before that.”
“Huh?”
“Yeah. I used to watch you in history class. I was afraid I wouldn’t be good enough for you, so I never dared to try talking to you. I was gonna take art next semester so we’d have another class together.”
Mary grinned. “I so totally wanna hear about this. But we need to get rid of the angel first.”
“It’s that Beatles song.”
“That what song?”
Eric laughed. “My dad said he used to sing it to make me go to sleep, when I was a baby. Let It Be. I bet it’s in there. ‘There will be an answer’.”
Mary shuddered. “I remember thinking that. A couple times, while I was finishing a sketch. How come I don’t know the song?”
“You probably heard it and forgot. I guess it came out when our grandparents were our age.” Eric shrugged. “Dad and Aunt Circe liked the Beatles, and she has her CDs here. Let’s go look for it.”
They went back inside, and Eric lifted the cushion beneath the CD player. He pulled out stacks of CDs and handed them to Mary, digging deeper until, “Aha! Got it! Here, let’s put the other ones back first.” Mary passed stacks back to Eric, until they were all put away. He replaced the cushion. “Let’s play this.” Eric turned on the CD player and inserted the disc. “Track 6. Let me know if it’s too much, okay?”
Mary nodded, and Eric pressed Play. She laughed at the opening lyrics, but was soon caught up. The refrain brought quiet tears to her eyes, but she let the song go on. Near the end, she gasped. “Eric! Stop!”
“What?” He paused the CD. “Are you alright?”
“Yeah. Can you back it up a little?”
“Sure.” Eric held the Back button, watching the numbers count back, then pressed Play again.
“That’s it!” Mary was already at the table, sketchpad open, pencil flying across the paper. She looked up and gave Eric a wild grin. “I’m baaaaack! Give me a few minutes, okay?”
“Okay. I need to go get whatever they’re handing out for supper, anyway.” He picked up a cooler. “I’ll be back in a few.”
By the time Eric returned, Mary was pacing outside the camper.
“They made rolls today!” he grinned, holding up a plastic bag. “And they gave Aunt Circe two cans of beer. She’ll like that.”
“Spam and green beans, too?”
Eric laughed. “How did you know? Did you draw it?”
“Nope, just guessed. Come look.” She took his wrist and pulled him inside.
 |
| Source: christianimagesource.com |
“Do you think it’ll work?” Eric asked her.
“Only one way to find out,” she grinned, and kissed him with fervor.
They soon felt the gaze of the angel upon them, but there was also a glow, far brighter than the evening light. Mary looked up again. “Shine until tomorrow,” she said. “Then you go home.” She laughed.
“I guess we’ll have to be careful then,” said Eric. “About… you know.”
“Let it be!” said Mary. They laughed together.
THE END
Thursday, July 19, 2012 13 comments
#FridayFlash: Shine Until Tomorrow, pt 1
At long last, I pick up the thread I left off back in April. If you haven’t read the earlier parts, you probably should, because this is an epilogue of sorts. It runs two (short) parts, then it’s really The End for this story. I’ve cleaned it up a lot, thinking I might submit it somewhere. Here’s the earlier parts:
School let out, and the students poured through what was once a side entrance of Four Oaks High School. Mary and Eric walked together, hand in hand, an eddy of quiet in the current of chatter. Outside, the parking lot was full of campers and even a few tents. Most of the campers looked battered, bearing scars left by the beast’s five-day rampage across the world. School had been open for only a week, but the kids were getting back into a routine. Meanwhile, the grownups were trying to rebuild.
Mary and Eric made their silent way through the parking lot. Finally, they reached the camper they shared with Eric’s Aunt Circe, the only surviving close relative either of them knew about. She was out, probably helping with the cleanup on the other side of the school. The tornado, then the beast, had not been kind to the building. But fewer than half the students were left, so the part left standing was enough.
Dropping their bookbags under the small table, they plopped down on the narrow sofa. They sighed as one. Mary idly flipped through her sketchbook, then laid it aside. “This sucks,” she grunted.
“It’s not that bad,” said Eric, waving at the camper around them. “Aunt Circe’s cool. Besides, they’re using all the fuel for cleanup and rebuilding, and it’s too far to walk from my old apartment.” He put an arm around her before she could argue. “Besides, as long as I’m with you, I’m cool with wherever we are.”
“Yeah, me too,” she said, and kissed him. For a blissful moment, the only sound was their breathing as their kiss deepened. That now-familiar warmth kindled in Mary’s guts, and spread all over her. His breathing grew deeper with hers, and they held each other tight. She pulled him down—
They broke off. Mary looked at the ceiling, unconsciously straightening her clothes. “Why won’t you just go away?” she shouted at the angel outside. Its gaze had already turned away, the moment broken, the lust dissipated. She stormed out, slamming the door against the side of the camper. “Leave us alone!” she snarled. “Why do you always have to watch us?”
“It’s not just us,” Eric said softly, stroking the back of her neck. “Word’s getting around. It’s anyone who wants to do something… sinful, I guess. As soon as they start thinking about it, they feel the angel watching. Nobody wants to talk about it, but…” he shrugged.
Mary turned and buried her face in his shoulder. “I can’t live like this!” she wailed. “Why can’t we just, just have things like they were?”
“You mean with guys like that creep coming onto you? Amber Garner making your life miserable? Us not together?” He squeezed her. “I know you think this is your fault—”
“It is my fault. I made the beast.”
“No. It was there already. It just tricked you. Remember?”
She thought back to the day she drew the angel. “You were right. But how did you know?”
Eric paused. “I don’t know know,” he said. “I guess it’s intuition. I don’t have hard data, but—well, you never made things happen with your drawings before, right?”
She shook her head against his soft chest. “I thought it was girls who have intuition.”
“I don’t think it’s gender-specific,” he said.
Mary laughed. Eric was a geek, and he talked like a geek. Her rampaging beast, killing over half the world’s population, couldn’t change that. He liked to figure out how stuff worked, and she just did stuff. He devoured the news, where hearing about the billions of casualties kept Mary awake at night. Left brain and right brain. Oil and vinegar. They completed each other.
“Anyway, I still think you could draw it gone,” Eric told her.
“I’ve tried. I can’t draw anything. Ever since I drew that last one, where the angel killed the beast.” And I made you like me, she thought with a pang of guilt.
“Maybe it’s something different.”
continued…
School let out, and the students poured through what was once a side entrance of Four Oaks High School. Mary and Eric walked together, hand in hand, an eddy of quiet in the current of chatter. Outside, the parking lot was full of campers and even a few tents. Most of the campers looked battered, bearing scars left by the beast’s five-day rampage across the world. School had been open for only a week, but the kids were getting back into a routine. Meanwhile, the grownups were trying to rebuild.
Mary and Eric made their silent way through the parking lot. Finally, they reached the camper they shared with Eric’s Aunt Circe, the only surviving close relative either of them knew about. She was out, probably helping with the cleanup on the other side of the school. The tornado, then the beast, had not been kind to the building. But fewer than half the students were left, so the part left standing was enough.
Dropping their bookbags under the small table, they plopped down on the narrow sofa. They sighed as one. Mary idly flipped through her sketchbook, then laid it aside. “This sucks,” she grunted.
“It’s not that bad,” said Eric, waving at the camper around them. “Aunt Circe’s cool. Besides, they’re using all the fuel for cleanup and rebuilding, and it’s too far to walk from my old apartment.” He put an arm around her before she could argue. “Besides, as long as I’m with you, I’m cool with wherever we are.”
“Yeah, me too,” she said, and kissed him. For a blissful moment, the only sound was their breathing as their kiss deepened. That now-familiar warmth kindled in Mary’s guts, and spread all over her. His breathing grew deeper with hers, and they held each other tight. She pulled him down—
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| Source: openclipart.org |
“It’s not just us,” Eric said softly, stroking the back of her neck. “Word’s getting around. It’s anyone who wants to do something… sinful, I guess. As soon as they start thinking about it, they feel the angel watching. Nobody wants to talk about it, but…” he shrugged.
Mary turned and buried her face in his shoulder. “I can’t live like this!” she wailed. “Why can’t we just, just have things like they were?”
“You mean with guys like that creep coming onto you? Amber Garner making your life miserable? Us not together?” He squeezed her. “I know you think this is your fault—”
“It is my fault. I made the beast.”
“No. It was there already. It just tricked you. Remember?”
She thought back to the day she drew the angel. “You were right. But how did you know?”
Eric paused. “I don’t know know,” he said. “I guess it’s intuition. I don’t have hard data, but—well, you never made things happen with your drawings before, right?”
She shook her head against his soft chest. “I thought it was girls who have intuition.”
“I don’t think it’s gender-specific,” he said.
Mary laughed. Eric was a geek, and he talked like a geek. Her rampaging beast, killing over half the world’s population, couldn’t change that. He liked to figure out how stuff worked, and she just did stuff. He devoured the news, where hearing about the billions of casualties kept Mary awake at night. Left brain and right brain. Oil and vinegar. They completed each other.
“Anyway, I still think you could draw it gone,” Eric told her.
“I’ve tried. I can’t draw anything. Ever since I drew that last one, where the angel killed the beast.” And I made you like me, she thought with a pang of guilt.
“Maybe it’s something different.”
continued…
Saturday, July 14, 2012 4 comments
2-4-6-8, Everyone Evacuate!
Yesterday morning, I’d set up the co-worker with my MacBook Pro because his Dozebox wouldn’t open the files he needed to work on. I had two things to do, and one of them I could do on my own Dozebox, so I hooked it up and got at it. Things were going well enough, when…
braap braap braap
The fire alarm went off. They were doing some testing on Thursday, so at first I didn’t think much of it. It goes off once in a while, and usually quits after a few seconds. But, a minute later, it was still going.
“Must be a fire drill,” I said, and meandered out the door without much further thought. We’d finally got some rain here on Planet Georgia, and it was threatening more, so I stayed under the overhang just outside the door. I thought, If they’re timing us to see how quickly we clear the building, we’re failing miserably. While there were a few dozen people in the back parking lot, there were more still toiling away at their desks.
After a few more minutes, the alarm was still going. I meandered over to the other end of the parking lot where the supervisor was standing. “Hear anything?” I asked him.
“Nope.” Others were joking about what it could have been; I assumed something in one of the labs started smoking.
Finally, someone stuck his head out the door. “All clear, you can come back in,” he said. We headed inside and started chatting about one of the projects I’m working on. We hadn’t been in for two minutes when another guy came by. “Everybody out! Again!” he said. Shortly after, I heard a fire truck approaching in full howl.
Something wasn’t right. I went to my desk to get my Kindle and umbrella, then went out the side to where my car was parked. There were a couple more of my co-workers, whom I joined after putting my stuff in the car (Daughter Dearest’s car, since mine’s in the shop for a power steering issue). That’s when word started getting around: a suspicious package was delivered to the Legal department, and it spilled some white powder.
Someone came from around the front, and said the fire truck was putting some people on the roof. “Why don’t they turn off the ventilation?” I asked. Nobody had a good idea why.
One of the upper managers came by. “We’re going to be out for two hours,” he said. “After that, they might let us back in.” It was 11:15—a little early for lunch, but I did have a 1pm conference call scheduled. I decided to hole up at Johnny’s Pizza for a couple hours, because they have wifi and it’s usually quiet. I could catch up on the world, get lunch, then do some writing-related things until it was time for the conference call. But at 12:30, one of my co-workers called and said we were locked out for the afternoon. Adapting was simple: I’d simply drive home and mostly listen on the conference call on the way. But my counterparts in Beaverton figured it was best to just reschedule, so I had a quiet drive with no distractions.
I came home, got on the VPN, and pulled up mail. “The substance was determined harmless,” said the email, “come on back in.” Fat chance. I took care of things at home.
At least I don’t have to worry about my work computers being contaminated. Beyond the one that’s already contaminated with the Microsoft operating system thing.
braap braap braap
“Must be a fire drill,” I said, and meandered out the door without much further thought. We’d finally got some rain here on Planet Georgia, and it was threatening more, so I stayed under the overhang just outside the door. I thought, If they’re timing us to see how quickly we clear the building, we’re failing miserably. While there were a few dozen people in the back parking lot, there were more still toiling away at their desks.
After a few more minutes, the alarm was still going. I meandered over to the other end of the parking lot where the supervisor was standing. “Hear anything?” I asked him.
“Nope.” Others were joking about what it could have been; I assumed something in one of the labs started smoking.
Finally, someone stuck his head out the door. “All clear, you can come back in,” he said. We headed inside and started chatting about one of the projects I’m working on. We hadn’t been in for two minutes when another guy came by. “Everybody out! Again!” he said. Shortly after, I heard a fire truck approaching in full howl.
Something wasn’t right. I went to my desk to get my Kindle and umbrella, then went out the side to where my car was parked. There were a couple more of my co-workers, whom I joined after putting my stuff in the car (Daughter Dearest’s car, since mine’s in the shop for a power steering issue). That’s when word started getting around: a suspicious package was delivered to the Legal department, and it spilled some white powder.
Someone came from around the front, and said the fire truck was putting some people on the roof. “Why don’t they turn off the ventilation?” I asked. Nobody had a good idea why.
One of the upper managers came by. “We’re going to be out for two hours,” he said. “After that, they might let us back in.” It was 11:15—a little early for lunch, but I did have a 1pm conference call scheduled. I decided to hole up at Johnny’s Pizza for a couple hours, because they have wifi and it’s usually quiet. I could catch up on the world, get lunch, then do some writing-related things until it was time for the conference call. But at 12:30, one of my co-workers called and said we were locked out for the afternoon. Adapting was simple: I’d simply drive home and mostly listen on the conference call on the way. But my counterparts in Beaverton figured it was best to just reschedule, so I had a quiet drive with no distractions.
I came home, got on the VPN, and pulled up mail. “The substance was determined harmless,” said the email, “come on back in.” Fat chance. I took care of things at home.
At least I don’t have to worry about my work computers being contaminated. Beyond the one that’s already contaminated with the Microsoft operating system thing.
Thursday, July 12, 2012 18 comments
#FridayFlash: Sheriff Art
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| Source: openclipart.org |
“I’m off-duty, Tina,” said the sheriff. “How ‘bout a Bud? What y’all got on special tonight?”
“Barbecued half-chicken with two sides.” Tina grinned. “Bread and beans for your sides?”
Art returned the grin. “Like always.”
Tina left to put in the order, and Art’s mind began to wander. As Tina returned with a Bud and a cold mug, a newcomer slipped into the seat across from Art. A striking woman, with dark hair and eyes.
“Oh—” Tina started. “Well. Art, you didn’t tell me you’d found—”
Art scowled at the woman sharing his booth, then looked up. “Tina, this is Ann. My sister.”
“Oh,” Tina said again. “I didn’t know you had a sister, either.” She looked Ann over, then smiled. “Yeah. I can see where y’all favor. You like anything?”
Ann returned the smile. “What he’s having. He knows what’s good here.”
Tina laughed. “That’s true! Comin’ right up.”
“‘Art’? And ‘Ann’?” The woman shook her head.
“Close enough.” Tina swung by and dropped off another beer and mug for Ann, as Art poured his own. “What’s going on?” He glared at Ann.
Ann pushed the mug aside and drank from the bottle. “You’re looking good, brother.”
“As do you.” Art glanced around and lowered his voice. “Too good. Who did you kill?”
“Nobody that didn’t have it coming.”
“Not in my county, I hope.” Art put his hands on the table and looked his sister in the eye. “I won’t stand for that. Not even from you.”
Ann laughed. “Over in Colquitt,” she said. “I know better than to poach on your grounds.”
“Who was it?”
“Just a cop who got above himself.”
Art tensed. “Abusing his position?”
“With gusto!” Ann grinned and took a generous swig of beer. “But not anymore.”
“Better be careful. They’ll be looking for a cop killer.”
“Oh, I haven’t gone sloppy. They’ll never find him, or his carriage.”
“Patrol car.” Art smirked; Ann rarely slipped like that. “And let me know if you find a crooked cop here. I’ll deal with it.”
“Nobody’s above the law, even now.”
Art nodded. “That’s right.”
“Half-chickens, beans, bread.” Tina laid platters from front of each. “Enjoy! I’ll bring you both another round. Thirsty day.”
Ann watched Tina go. “Serving-wenches are so chatty nowadays.”
“Waitress. She’s a waitress.” Art sighed. “You’re playing with me. Now tell me, why are you here?”
Ann giggled. “Of course I’m playing with you.” She picked up her chicken with her fingers and tore into it. Barbecue sauce made her mouth look bloody, making Art think about the life she had taken. She swept a hand around the place. “Why are you here, Arthur?”
He glanced around. “I go by Art here. Art Pender. And I’m here because the people appreciate an honest man watching over things.”
“You were once a king, and now you are a sheriff? A shire-reeve? Subject to the approval of the peasants, like a Saxon kinglet?”
Art sighed. “As ‘shire-reeve,’ in this age, I do much the same I did as king. I uphold the law. I do not allow the mighty to exploit the weak. Yes, they are peasants, and ignorant as peasants often are. But they are content with their lot. And to sit, even in fair Avalon, wears at one after so many centuries.”
“You should find a woman. Yon waitress would swoon into your arms, methinks.”
Another long sigh. “I haven’t had such good luck with women. You know that.”
“That was a thousand years ago, and half again! And—” She caught herself.
“You have not yet told me why you have come, Morgana.” He paused. “Is it time? Has Merlin awakened?”
Morgana’s eyes turned milky white. “Merlin yet sleeps, but he has stirred. He has cried out in his dreams. The time draws near. Earth is not the only troubled realm. The King must soon become a King once more.” Her eyes cleared, and she lifted her beer bottle. “It took much time and trouble to find you.” Then she smiled. “The King should take a Queen,” she continued, nodding at Tina. “That one will not betray a good man.” She drained her beer bottle and stood. “What I have come to do, I have done. When I see you next, we will stand together and fight for the Realm. Until then.” She walked into the deepening evening.
Tina came to fetch the plates. “No offense,” she said, “but you sure got some odd ducks in your family.”
Art laughed. “You don’t know the half of it!”
“You ready for dessert? Pound cake’s pretty good tonight.”
“Not tonight.” Art paused for a moment. “You free tomorrow?”
“Uh, yeah. Why?”
“Oh, I thought maybe we could go over to the reservoir park. Have a picnic. I can bring you your supper for a change.”
Tina grinned. “You know what? You got yourself a date. Lemme get your check, and we can thrash out the details.”
Art smiled as she walked away. Morgana did know women.
Wednesday, July 11, 2012 4 comments
Writing Wibbles
Every time I sit down to write a blog post, it seems like I get distracted by shiny writing things. So, let’s start by welcoming the newest visitors to the free-range insane asylum…
Badges are on the desk. Someone forgot to recharge the Tasers, so don’t get too close to the inmates!
I know, White Pickups hasn’t left the garage… yet. The editor got tied up with other stuff about a third of the way through, but most of her comments were recurring things. I went through the rest of the book, tidying up based on what she’d been saying, and I finished that over the weekend. At this point, I really feel like the book is ready to go. I’m going to have her give it one quick pass though, to (ahem) pick up anything I missed. Then I load the Launch Cannon and open the Crown Royal! It’s not definite for July 28, but it’ll be pretty darn close.
I’ve not been idle while waiting for the edits. I finished Accidental Sorcerers a while back, and it’s a 30,000 word novella. I have a beta reader lined up, and she’s about Mik and Sura’s age—so it’ll be good to see what misconceptions about YA I have.
Speaking of YA, I followed a link to a Guardian (UK) article interviewing an author about Why teens in books can’t swear. This led to a brief but fun discussion with G.P. Ching and Sonia G. Medeiros. Age ratings might be a coming thing, to help parents find appropriate reads for their kids. Of course, they had both read Stephen King as teens (I was in college when I first read The Dead Zone). I’m keenly interested in find out what kind of audience White Pickups is going to have1. The language and sex definitely push it into the “17+” camp—but since it revolves around high-schoolers, I expect there will be younger people reading it as well. Cody is a moody teen, who uses strong language. He’s also sleeping with Sondra, and they are both quite happy with that arrangement. I’ve said all along that this could have been YA, if I’d figured out how to clip out the strong language and sex scenes without diluting the story.
Anyway, once I fire the Launch Cannon, there isn’t much call for a break. I still have to finish Pickups and Pestilence, and start Wings: Unfurled (which won’t have a problem being YA). A sequel to Accidental Sorcerers wants to get onto the waiting-to-write-this list, but it hasn’t really told me enough about itself to qualify just yet. I’ve been working on my Termag wiki, and I might make it publicly accessible so I can work on it from not-home. Plugins for the wiki software would let me deploy a Termag-specific blog, and let readers comment on pages even if I have editing locked down. One thing at a time, though…
1Yes, I’m being optimistic and assuming there will be a general audience for my book.
- Alyssa McKendry — she blogs! she writes! she’s 13!
- Jazon Dion Fletcher — author of Skull Flowers, which sounds whimsically interesting…
- L. G. Keltner — “aspiring writer and mother.” (Does that mean she aspires to be a mother as well as a writer? Hm. Both of them involve creative endeavor, and the results of both are often referred to as “my baby.”)
Badges are on the desk. Someone forgot to recharge the Tasers, so don’t get too close to the inmates!
I’ve not been idle while waiting for the edits. I finished Accidental Sorcerers a while back, and it’s a 30,000 word novella. I have a beta reader lined up, and she’s about Mik and Sura’s age—so it’ll be good to see what misconceptions about YA I have.
Speaking of YA, I followed a link to a Guardian (UK) article interviewing an author about Why teens in books can’t swear. This led to a brief but fun discussion with G.P. Ching and Sonia G. Medeiros. Age ratings might be a coming thing, to help parents find appropriate reads for their kids. Of course, they had both read Stephen King as teens (I was in college when I first read The Dead Zone). I’m keenly interested in find out what kind of audience White Pickups is going to have1. The language and sex definitely push it into the “17+” camp—but since it revolves around high-schoolers, I expect there will be younger people reading it as well. Cody is a moody teen, who uses strong language. He’s also sleeping with Sondra, and they are both quite happy with that arrangement. I’ve said all along that this could have been YA, if I’d figured out how to clip out the strong language and sex scenes without diluting the story.
Anyway, once I fire the Launch Cannon, there isn’t much call for a break. I still have to finish Pickups and Pestilence, and start Wings: Unfurled (which won’t have a problem being YA). A sequel to Accidental Sorcerers wants to get onto the waiting-to-write-this list, but it hasn’t really told me enough about itself to qualify just yet. I’ve been working on my Termag wiki, and I might make it publicly accessible so I can work on it from not-home. Plugins for the wiki software would let me deploy a Termag-specific blog, and let readers comment on pages even if I have editing locked down. One thing at a time, though…
1Yes, I’m being optimistic and assuming there will be a general audience for my book.
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