The Glorious Empire of Snellopy

Winter Wonderland

2012-02-28T21:53:00.000+07:00

I love Chuck Wendig’s style of ranting and raving and encouraging us to write, devouring his posts and thinking “shit, yeah!” His Friday Flash Fiction challenges got me writing again after an atrocious first attempt at nano. All of his books that I’ve bought so far (haven’t got them all yet, booze money and random purchases have been vetoed in favour being funneled into baby nest-egging) have been awesome. About the only parts I don’t read straight away are search term bingo (as its sometimes a little too NSFW) and his author interviews. At first, I wasn’t reading the interviews because it was making me pissed off, since buying books here can be hit or miss. Then when I got a kindle and it became oh so easy, I still didn’t really take to them because dammit, it wasn’t Chuck! Sure, I’d look at the favourite swearword, and for a new cocktail recipe, but that’s about it.

That all changed last week, because it was a name I knew. Dan O’Shea. I recognised it because I’d read his posts on Terrible Minds already, so not only was this guy famous (at least to me), he was famous because he was participating in the challenges as well. Awesome. If he can do it, I can do it too! What better motivation! And then to cap it all off, he gives back to the people that read the interview and click through to his site, by giving away a copies of his book if you participate in his flash fiction challenge, on the topic of snow. What more could you ask for?

Picture taken from the aptly named picturesofwinter.net website

Winter Wonderland

If snow was like sand I could see the appeal. Dry, warm, and while it can be annoying to get it in your shoes or clothes, it can be removed with minimal effort. I thought we were going to enjoy our first trip to the snowfields, but it just goes to show how much I know.

Jess is at that tricky age, where parents are always an embarrassment and sartorial choices can make or break you. When she was younger, she loved my dress-sense; the way bright orange contrasted with vivid green and were nearly drowned out by the peacock blue - and that was just in my handkerchief. Today though she just mumbles something incomprehensible (all I caught was the word sucks but I ignored it, trying for peace) and changes song on her ipod. Kids these days.

At least Timmy would enjoy it, I thought, what with snowball fights and making igloos and snow men and all that winter wonderland razzamatazz. But once he got some snow in his shoe he was inconsolable, and wanted nothing more than to be held for the rest of the damn trip. To be honest, after doing snow angels, I can see his point. I can still feel the chill down my butt crack - and I’m not even a plumber, you know what I mean?

The build-up to this holiday had been better, but the road-trip had killed all the excitement. Three days in the car was just too much. We’re flying everywhere from now on. I tried to get everyone excited again, and suggested a sled race, but was met by sullen silence. I admit I lost it a bit there, and ordered the whole family to march on over to the hill where I would demonstrate how much fun it would be. Then there’d be squeals of happiness, goofy family photos, and plain old fun just like in a Christmas Special.

That was the plan, at least. I didn’t realise sleds were so damn hard to steer. Stupid tree. The doctor said the cast shouldn’t be on too long, and I’ll be up and walking in no time. By then I’ll be ready for another holiday. Hawaii I think. I’ll stay safely ensconced in a hammock drinking cocktails.

Faster than Light

2012-02-28T11:30:00.000+07:00

The new hyperdrive failed on its maiden voyage, stranding us in deep space. We didn’t have any hydroponic facilities so I joked to my colleague that at least we would asphyxiate before we were reduced to drinking our own urine. He didn’t appreciate the humour, and went looking for tools - but neither a wrench nor a screwdriver seemed to provide a solution. My co-pilot had a different opinion though, and took to the the failed propulsion unit with a gusto, beating it with the wrench and swearing lustily. Suddenly the computer chimed and gravity reasserted itself, we were home!
*****
I wanted tentacles. I wanted Rigel. But I only had 100 words for this leap of faith. Find the prompt at Julia’s Place, they’re fun and short!

What am I?

2012-02-24T09:31:00.001+07:00

I don’t do many self-reflective posts here, mainly because the bulk of my readers don’t hang around - they follow the link from various flash fiction pages, read that entry and leave. That’s fair enough, and completely understandable as I do pretty much the same thing to them. So the few times I’m not posting a response to a prompt, it feels a lot like I’m talking to myself (and if you’re reading this, I appreciate it). However, I do talk to myself a lot in person, so it’s not really that big a deal.

Chuck Wendig’s recent post about “aspiring” writers raises a whole heap of good points, and really has encouraged me to think about carving out more writing time (tricky at the moment, with parent teacher meetings but they’re pretty much done now). I know I don’t want to be a full time writer at the moment, as teaching is still too much fun, but I reckon I’ve a few books in me if I focus and pound them out. Short pieces are far more fun though, and easier to complete, so the temptation is there to just do them instead.

But more than that, it made me think of how you define yourself as something. Long long ago, back in the halcyon days (or bad old days, depending on your point of view), I could most definitely define myself as a gamer... it was quite common for me to play for a good 6-8 hours a day on a week day, and double that on a Saturday or Sunday.

I still think of myself as a gamer, even though nowadays, I would guess I’d spend maybe 2 hours a week gaming maximum. And the last game I bought was Bookworm Adventures 2 (an awesome game sort of like combative version of scrabble) released by Popcap Games, and I’ve been loving Unicorn Dash on my phone, with its vibrant colours and simple - yet layered - game play (there’s only two things you can make the unicorn do, jump and smash through obstacles). Often people who play computer games are divided into camps, the hardcore and the casual. In the days of TaLA and NWN, I described myself as a hard-core casual player. By that I meant I know that I knew I didn’t have any great skill, but I enjoyed myself immensely, put in as many or more hours than the guys who had the leet skillz, and for the parts of the game I was interested in I had an extensive, encyclopedic knowledge.

Unicorn Dash - as bright and garish as my shirts.

So if by harking back to an earlier time I am still able to call myself a gamer, can I project myself forwards in time and consider myself a writer? I guess so, if I especially if I up my output. At the moment though, TOR is being screwy, so I am having trouble posting comments to blogspot, so I don’t even know if I’ll be able to put this post up, too. But even if I can’t, that won’t stop me from writing.

Tails

2012-02-21T09:52:00.002+07:00

This week isn’t really fiction, this is pretty much what happened. My lucky coin was one of the 1999 Year of the Older Person coins (I still have one here with me for important decisions) and we favoured it because we had a mate at Uni who was a mature age student - but not that much older - who was full of excellent advice. We still call him Wise Old Mr. Emitt now.

Picture lifted from here

*****
The coin seemed to spin in slow motion, the light glinting and flashing as my future spun round and round. I’d weighed up the pros and cons for the decision, and at the time, both seemed equally sensible choices. So what better way to break the deadlock then by calling on Lady Luck? I snatched my favourite coin out of the air, and said to myself “heads, high school English and Computing, tails, primary teaching.” I opened my hand and the spiral glinted up at me. Course applied for: Graduate Diploma of Education - Primary I jotted down on the form.
*****
Woops, forgot to say this the weekly prompt from Julia's Place and the topic this week is flipping of some sort.

Grunt Smash-Kill's Kultchurul Speshul

2012-02-15T08:21:00.000+07:00

The shitty weather has my motivation for writing pretty low, and I listlessly opened about 10 documents today, getting bugger all down. To try and shake myself of the inertia, I dug an old favourite, and tried my hand at some editing. This wasn’t editing for spelling (as you’ll soon see) but more editing for ideas (taking out all the D&D specific language) and in-jokes.

Back in the good old gaming days, we used to play Neverwinter Nights on the Bloodaxe Realms server. There was varying amounts of roleplay, which made for some good story telling, but a lot of those tales didn’t make much circulation (and sometimes we had server downtime, when we couldn’t play), so to encourage some cross-pollination to the forums, a few of us started alts who were reporters for the Bloodaxe Chronicles, a largely IC newspaper. We did tend to cheat though, as often we were DMs so could invisibly eavesdrop when people thought they had a private conversation going on. For my part in this, I used Grunt Smash-Kill, a forest ogre who used phonetic spelling to blatantly telegraph how thick he was. We never had the attention span previously to play pen and paper D&D, but NWN was perfect.I loved the live story-telling facet of it; not to mention the social interaction that was hard to get when I was working out bush. And smacking things about with axes was just the icing on the cake.

I still use Grunt Smash-Kill, to get a better idea of characters for longer pieces I’m (slowly) writing I have him interview them. Yesterday morning as I was finishing the editing, I looked at this picture of him I took long ago, when I first posted this on the BAR forums, and thought, the NWN graphics were good for their time, but they don’t exactly look like Grunt in my imagination. So I thought I’d draw him. Well, he still doesn’t look that flash hot, but it was fun playing in paint making him, but its not something I’m going to do regularly. My attempt is below the story. I'm happy with how the head came out, and liked that I could fit a TaLA compass in as an earring.

Hi, it me, Grunt Smash-Kill, doing a speshul report for de Bludaxe Kronnykul. I fort we wer supposed to pay for de intervews we do, so I took out lots of muny from der kitty. I woz torking to Jergen de editter de ofver day, and it look like we don’t pay for intervewz. But me awlredy sined the chits saying I use de muny on Kronikuls work, so I have to spend it sum how. Jergin and de uvver writas dey are awl busy, doing improtant stuf, so I fort I would lift de tone of de paypa, by doing sumfing kulturul.

Since de Relms are mulit-cullyturul, I hav browt wiv me Yarrow de elf (he werks on de paper, he is a printa, and a elf, to) and Nugget de derwarf (he is a printa to, but a dwarf wun). Wave to de reeders, guys. I am riting heer dat dey is waving, even dough Yarrow is not, he just rolling his eys. I woz going to bring de gernome we had werking here too, but I can't find him. We is going to do a pub crawel, and talk about de atmusfere, de drinks, and the bars of de Relms. You boys hav anything to say before we start?

Yarrow: Are you sure we are allowed to do this, Grunt? Get paid for it, and drink on company funds, no less?
Nugget: Shut up, ye blathering tree-hugger! I'm betting a sack of gold I can drink ye under the table, and may the Great Smith kick me in the bollocks if I fall before ye.
Grunt Smash-Kill: Yay, dat wat me like to heer. On wid de show.

I have prepared dese cards for us to fill in, so yu, de consering readers, can see wot we fink of de plase.

Disgription of bar.

Reviewer: Me, or one of de uver too
Starf: Wot de starf ar like
Drinks: Wot de drinks ar liek
Ambyance: Wot de playse is lik
Overall: De score for de place, owt of a total of uh, 4? Yeh, 4 is a good numba, nise and hi.

Closink comments.

OK, yu got de idea? Good, we start now!

*****

Ower first stop is de seenic and beutiful Sly Fox Tavern an in. Estabbelished more dan 500 yeers ago by Captin Merder so thay say, it has solid oak timbas and a nise frontage in Goldport. And it a very classy playse, non of de winders are smashed.
Y: Oh dear, that sounds worrying for the later ventures. I must admit this is my usual watering hole, and I don't go to the seedier dives around the Realms. Mayhap it will be fun to go slumming with you gents.
N: Shut yer yap, ya whiney pointy ear. Mouths are for putting ale into, not letting words out of.

Reviewer: Nugget
Starf: Very friendly, though the barmaid wasn't as friendly as she could have been, kept saying once she had gnome, there was no going home. Those wee fellas get around, hey!
Drinks: A good range, the fire ale might have been a bit watered down though. But what do ye expect from a place in Goldport?
Ambyance: It's a bar, with beer, and chairs. What more do ye need? Guess you don't really need chairs if it comes to that.
Overawl: 3 hammers

Reviewer: Yarrow
Starf: The barman certainly knew his trade, and even unearthed an amphora from the Windward Mist Estate for me, when I handed over the coin. I was most impressed with the barmaid's rebuff of Nugget, a higher score for the place because of it!
Drinks: The Mist was of an impeccable vintage, and I could taste elements of rowan, oak, honey, nutmeg and just a soupcon of ginger.
Ambyance: The throw rugs from Vesi are exquisite, and set off the tapestries from the Dutchy of Sattan with a wonderful frisson.
Overall: Three and nine tenths acorns.

Reviewer: Me
Starf: dey woz good.
Drinks: dey woz good.
Ambyance: it woz good.
Overall: 4 uh, 4, rocks? Yer, rocks.

GSK: Guys, wot yu fink of de Sly Fox? I fort it wuz good.
N: Aye, the ale flowed well.
Y: Philistines!
GSK: Hey, Yarrow, give me yor hand, OK? I wanna show yu a trik.
Y: What sort of trick? I'll not be fooled easily by a simple forest ogre.
GSK: Nah, nah, it not dat sort of trik. Tanks. Next, we ar going to de seedyest dive in de Relms, my favorite and yurs - Der Black Unicorn.
Y: Argh, I'm too young to die!
N: Shut up, ye whiny elf, afore I tap ye with me hammer.
Y: No! No! Help! Help!
N: Ye asked for it!
*Clunk*
Y: Urgh
*Thunk*
GSK: Tanks, Nugget, lets load him on de boat befor he waykes up.

Set in de squawlid sity of Sajona Keep, de Blak Yewnikorn does a birisk trade in de dodgeyer tipe of clyientell. Nugit, he shoud be OK, but Yarro, he a bit too weedy, so it a good ting he with me and has stoped skreeming - most ov the tiym.

Reviewer: Nugget
Starf: I'd have to be pretty damn drunk to chat em up. It's a male half orc, but there's pickings to be had outside.
Drinks: A fair range. They don't taste that great, must be something in the water here that they cut it with. But it don't matter, yer only renting it for a while, and it still kicks like a mule.
Ambyance: It's a bar, with beer, and chairs. And gambling! Hot damn! Goldport must be a bit backward, as the Merchant’s Guild makes you leave the tavern to find a good game going in the Casino.
Overall: 3 hammers.

Reviewer: Yarrow
Starf: A low-brow, grunting, thick-headded male half-orc, that you wouldn't trust to open a bottle of wine, much less pour.
Drinks: There was an ample range, but the glasses were filthy, so I'm docking points. Blood, spit and bile are not common elements of wine making where I'm from.
Ambyance: I'm going to die. There's no place like home! There's no place like home! There's no place like home!
Overall: -7 acorns.

Reviewer: Me
Starf: dey woz good.
Drinks: dey woz good.
Ambyance: it woz good.
Overall: 3 rocks.

GSK: so wot yu guys fink? Pretty good huh?
Y: By the Treemother! I... how... we... Hobgolins!...
N: Damn right, boy-o! The Hobgoblins on the road there are great, ye get to fight yer way in sober, and ye get to fight yer way out drunk, so you can compare your scores, and wager on which way ye are better at it. Now that's what I call service!
GSK: Lets go to de next one. Onwerds to Raypier Isel.

Nestlink amungt de trees, on a rarely uzed road, is de Hilltop in. Dis was ower next stop.

Reviewer: Nugget
Starf: Staff are real friendly here. Not many travellers to entertain em with stories through the long cold night. Yeah, that's it... stories.
Drinks: Good spirits, and not just the drinks if you know what I mean, hey hey!
Ambyance: The only way to improve this place is by hiring barwenches with beards!
Overall: 4 hammers

Reviewer: Yarrow
Starf: The thrice-damned waitresses wouldn't keep their hands off Nugget, and were very lax in bringing my wine, so they lost some points there.
Drinks: The wine, when it came, was of a high standard, with overtones of raspberries, dandelions and cornflowers, and hinted at undertones of elm. Superb!
Ambyance: The weapons crossed over the hearth were a bit dwarvern and barbaric, but with the banditos in the area, I can understand. The grounds however, are its strongest selling points.
Overall: Three and two third acorns.

Reviewer: Me
Starf: dey woz good.
Drinks: dey woz good.
Ambyance: it woz good.
Overall: 3 rocks.

GSK: Opinyyons?
N: Hot damn, I'm gonna retire from the paper and set up a mine near there!
Y: You are an animal. Beastly, just beastly!
N: Nah, its merely me animal magnetism shining through. If I had any more of it, I'd even be beating even the elven lasses off with a stick.

Next we keep followying de parf parst tha hill ov de wanderererer, and we get to Windhaven. It has a sleepy little bar, and we see wot it like.

Reviewer: Nugget
Starf: A bit listless since the last one.
Drinks: A small range, it'll do. Nothing stood out as great, but not too much was watered down.
Ambyance: The last place was better, maybe we can swing by there for one for the road?
Overall: 2 hammers

Reviewer: Yarrow
Starf: Helpful as they could be with their limited stock.
Drinks: A paltry selection of ales, so Nugget was less then impressed, but they managed to dig up a gem of a vintage for me. It sung with a joy de virve and was refreshing to the palate and the senses. Kudos to the wine waiter, extra points!
Ambyance: Little furniture, apparently there had been some trouble with patrons a while back, and business had been slow since, making it difficult to refurbish.
Overall: Three and five sixteenths of an acorn.

Reviewer: Me
Starf: dey woz good.
Drinks: dey woz good.
Ambyance: it woz good.
Overall: 2 rocks.

GSK: It woz good. Dat sums up de pub.
Y: If it wasn't for that bottle of wine, it would have gone bad for them.
N: Can we go back to the last place? I think the little filly fancied me. I have a spell to make a beard grow, you can just leave me there if ye like.
GSK: Wear is yur cents of jurnalistic integgeretty? We hav to do dis, and finish, otherwise we will hav to hang ower heds in shame. Yu want dat?
Y: But we're not reporters.
GSK: Dat don't matter. I am, and we gotta do dis for de loyal reeders. On to de next placye!

De eleven settlemettlement of Swaying Bows is in the Forrest of Splender is closed to outsiders, but dat not stop dis plucky jurnulist, and his meri band of reviewers.
N: Oi, why we stopping here? This is a tree-hugger forest, not a bloody town!
GSK: But it hav a bar.
Y: You can't go in there! It's forbidden to those who aren’t Children of the Treemother!
GSK: Dat OK, if me see any, I tell dem to go away.
N: Yer not getting me in no panty-waist elf town, bar or no bar!
GSK: Why? Yu scared dey can drink better dan yu?
N: Them's fighting words!
GSK: Go on, pruve me rong den!
N: Right! Watch me then! No road block will keep one of the Short Folk from his ale! Stand back.
Y: I can't let him in there alone, I'm going in. But if anyone asks, I don’t know either of you.
GSK: Now my turn. Hrm, I need a dis guys to trik de gards.
*Rustle Rustle*
Border Patrol: Halt!
GSK: Hi, Me Grunt Smash-Kill... errr..., Hi, me called Leef. I is a elf. Can I come in? I need to, uh, climb a tree. Yeah, dat it. And pat a fluffy bunny too.
Border Patrol: You're an elf huh? That's why there's a branch on your head?
GSK: Wat? Oh, dat! I not notice it, me elf, I ar used to trees all de time.
BP: Yeah, right. No go, buddy.
GSK: Wot if me say me is Grunt Smash-Kill, de reporta for de Bludaxe Cronnykuls, can I come in den? I am doing a story on elfses and stuff.
BP: Nope.
*Clunk*
BP: Urgh
*Thump*
N: Will ye stop yammering, Grunt? You've got the funds for the trip. Hurry up.
GSK: Tanks, Nugget.

Reviewer: Nugget
Starf: Goddamned dirty, stinking, filthy tree-huggers!
Drinks: No ale! No spirits! Only Wine! Why have you forsaken me, Great Smith?
Ambyance: Trees, grass, animals. Yuk.
Overall: 0 hammers

Reviewer: Yarrow
Starf: Courteous, polite, well mannered, cultured, refined - in short, all the upstanding virtues you would expect to find in the Children of the Treemother.
Drinks: From famous vintages such as Birches to boutique drops such as Waning Moon Chardonnay, this place has it all. Huzzah! Huzzah for the fine folk of the Inn of Swaying Boughs!
Ambyance: Superb and stunning, the indoors and outside blend in a way that heightens and highlights nature in all its glory.
Overall: 40,000 acorns. No, no, I take that back. A sacred grove of majestic oak trees.

Reviewer: Me
Starf: dey woz good.
Drinks: dey woz good.
Ambyance: it woz good.
Overall: 3 rocks.

Y: I thank you Grunt for bringing me on this trip, it has been far too long since I relaxed in the sacred Forest of Splendour. My soul has enjoyed a surfeit of the balm that is fellowship with my kind again.
N: Shut up yer whiny elf, after drinking with your kin, hearing you gabble on like that is enough to make me puke.
Y: Haha, I wager it is because you cannot hold your liquor good dwarf!
*Clunk*
Y: Urgh
*Thunk*
N: Ye asked for it. Any more blathering and ye'll get it again where your torso forks, and next time I'll have me helmet on. Get up ye whiny baby, it was a mere tap with me forehead.
GSK: Lucky de next place is close.

On de side of Merchents Rowd, neer de damp cave where dey stor dere drinks, is the Lost Way In. Not menny peepil stop heer, insted pusshing on to de next town.

Reviewer: Nugget
Starf: A personable enough crew, especially after the last place.
Drinks: Black Orc Brew, and Black Orc Brew only! Praise be to the gods of drink!
Ambyance: With a drink like that, who needs atmosphere, only a place to convulse!
Overall: 4 hammers

Reviewer: Yarrow
Starf: A surly mob, just shy of outright hostility.
Drinks: They only had Black Orc Brew on tap, not a scerrick of vino to be found. Foolishly I tried it, on the urgings of Nugget, his hammer and his forehead. I seem to have lost the power of sight, and all control over my bowels. This is the end, I hear You calling me on to my rest. Treemother I commend my spirit unto Your hands. Nugget tells me this must have been a weak batch, especially watered down for me.
Ambyance: Using the word dive to describe this place misses the opportunity to label it with the often misused phrase "pestilential cess-pit".
Overall: Burn this place, and get a druid to exorcise the ruins, pay them as many acorns as needed.

Reviewer: Me
Starf: dey woz good.
Drinks: dey woz good.
Ambyance: it woz good.
Overall: 3 rocks

Y: I'm gonna be sick. Again.
N: Heh heh, here ye go, pointy ear. Use me helm, ye'll need to cover the eyeholes with yer hand, and mark me, it better be clean when ye return it to me. Yer not such a bad sort, after all.

Dat concludes de pubcrawl. Of corse, dere are more in de Relms, but we are out of munny. So pleese by dis ishu of de paper lots of times, so we can continue reserching for yu. Dis is Grunt Smash-Kill singing off.

Present Tense: Why the hell not?

2012-02-09T16:14:00.000+07:00

A late entry - due to Tet and no internet at home. Chuck Wendig's soon to be released book Blackbirds is all about death, and written in the present tense. So he asked us to write in the present tense too.

Why the hell not?

"Same again," I mumble to the barman, my gaze skittering away before I can catch the knowing sneer in his eyes... the same drink, and the same shitty luck trying to pull a bird. I probably should head home instead of having this roadie, as there's not likely to be anything apart from swamp donkeys still out at 2 AM - especially in this joint - but hope has gotta spring eternal. A swig or two, and I decide its time to have a slash. I've learnt my lesson from previous evenings here, and take my beer with me. The dunny is none too clean, but that's better than some dickwit making off with my drink.

As usual, the pisser is covered in chunder. More than one person's spew, by the amount. I go into the cubicle, but of course the door doesn't lock. The usual cigarette butts are accompanied by a huge turd bobbing in the bowl like a baby hippo on a mudflap. Its moments like these I'm glad I'm a bloke. I light a smoke and glance around at all the graffiti. There's something new from last week, its not just the same old I FUCKED YER MUM bullshit. Down low, scrawled in bright red lipstick is For a good time call... a number, and then Why the hell not? Why the hell not? I think to myself. It'll probably just be a random number, some geezer with his teeth in a glass on the bedside table, but should still be good for a laugh.

I fish my phone out of my pocket, and use the motion to give my todger a shake dry. I punch in the number, cackling to myself. "Why hello, there," a voice purrs in my ear, all throaty and suggestive. My jaw literally drops, and the durrie falls unmourned into the toilet. My. Fucking. God. I pull myself together, it's probably just a bloody phone-sex chat line, and I'm racking up a bill of five bucks a minute or something. I look at my phone, and the number, but no, it's legit. I stutter and stumble through a conversation that’s almost incoherent due to her sultry tones. As luck would have it, she’s out tonight too, just a few blocks down from here, so I’m off like a bullet, hand’s shoved into my pants to conceal my boner as I walk out the door, smirking at the bloke behind the bar.

The sea breeze helps to sober me up somewhat as I trot along the foreshore, but I needn’t have worried as the bouncers here don’t do much unless your shirt is caked with chunks. A casual nod as I walk in then I’m scanning the bar for someone fitting her description, black hair, red outfit. There by the bar is a vision in fuck-me-boots, a short skirt and a top laced up the back like a corset. I’ve just the right amount of dutch courage in me, so I saunter up all casual like and say “Hi. I’m Steve, we talked on the phone...” hoping against hope it’s her. She smiles and leans in so she can be heard above the music, pressing her boobs against me “Hello there, I’m Nikki!”

We shout a bit back and forth for a while but while it seems she’s digging my company it’s hard to carry out a conversation like this. “Do you want a drink?” I yell, thinking maybe we can move to a table away from the music and yarn. She nods and smiles then shouts something to the barman. When her order arrives, she lifts her skirt scandalously high - but I’m not complaining - and pulls a twenty from a flame-red garter belt, waving away the change. She passes me a shot glass, and a feel a twinge in my guts... tequila and I haven’t been on speaking terms since my graduation party. But watching her jam the slice of lemon between her tits I’m raring to go. I come up smiling (of course), loving the jealous looks from all the other guys around. She puts another slice in my mouth, and throws back her shot, kissing me hard on the lips. “Lets get out of here, go somewhere a bit more quiet, yeah?” I nod hell yes, draping my arm around her waist and chance my luck giving her arse a squeeze.

We go down the steps and start heading towards the obvious destination - the beach. I’m trying to think of angles I can use to try and get her home. But even though she seems keen I’m worried she’s a hooker, because I’ve drunk most of this week’s pay already. Luck like this isn’t normal for me, so it feels strange. We walk over the dunes, towards the lighthouse and I say the first stupid thing that pops into my head “It’s a shame we don’t have lighthouses that warn us from bad decisions isn’t it?” Nikki laughs quietly and I rush on, trying to cover up, “Sorry... I was just trying to be romantic.” With a shrug she pulls me into a kiss and we tumble down onto the dunes. That tequila must have hit me harder than I think, as I follow up with this clanger “Sorry Nikki, but I’ve gotta ask, what’s your job? You’re not a prostitute are you? I’m broke.” I grin sheepishly, going red with embarrassment. Another small laugh escapes her lips, and I look up, hopefully. “No,” she answers “I’m a succubus!” Her eyes glow red and a mouthful of fangs are the last thing I see.

*****

The start for me was a doddle to write, as I know the inside of all sorts of bars, some quite well. An easy part of write what you know. Picking someone up in a bar? Not such an expert. I know what my face looks like, so I rarely bothered in the past, pretty certain I'd get shot down. And its not like I want to practice it now, seeing as how I'm happily married and all. So the end of my story feels a lot weaker to me. And while I speak with a fairly foul mouth, I don't often write fiction with it (I do in emails and instant messages and such), so that was a change too.

You bought her what... on Wednesday

2012-02-06T20:40:00.000+07:00

Back from a cold Tet with questionable food (such as boiled tongue and intestine, which always made me wonder what the hell happened to the rest of the pig) here's a double entry for Julia's Place, the Wednesday one and you bought her what.

Waffles

Wednesday was always waffles. Waking early, we’d wend our wandering way, walking to Wally’s. Warmly welcomed (as always) we waited, while whistling wafted in with the mouthwatering scents. Watching for a wink or other sign of the present, I would listen to whispers of another time, way back in the past. Where there’s a will there’s a way they say, but Alzheimer's can sap your willingness - make you wish for what is fleeting, like a whimsical wisp of smoke writing wavering words. The rest of the world could wait. For the pair of us, Wednesday was always waffles.

*****
Go Jump

As we’re cleaning up the empty bottles, we can’t help but spill the beans. The details from the original agreement are hazy due to a similar drinking session - we’re not sure if it was making her a mother-in-law or presenting her with a grandchild that got the guernsey, but through teaming up we’ve covered all bases. “Go check your credit card details, we put it on yours, of course!” Some tandem parachute tickets, as was suggested in jest at last year’s birthday. Dad can’t help sniggering - until we inform him that we got some for him as well.

*****

We didn’t actually cross the line for this one before the timer (mum’s 70th) ran out. But we still threaten it from time to time.

Full house

2012-01-20T13:06:00.000+07:00

Since I’m new to Julia’s Place and the 100 Word Challenges, I figured what better way to introduce myself than by doing this week’s challenge (of critiquing someone’s story from last week) than by writing about everyone’s story. It helps that I love the sound of my own voice - or should that be the gentle patter of my fingers on the keys - and I’m full of boundless optimism. It’s a slow week at work too, so plenty of typing time.

Rather than critiques that can be taken to heart and cause anguish, these are more uplifting nice comments, either about the piece itself, or what it lead my train of thoughts to. If I’ve only tangentially touched on an entry it isn’t a case of “If you can’t say anything nice say nothing at all,” more that that piece got my mind going on a different topic.

Too saccharine, overly gushy and a one-eyed one-man cheer-squad? Quite likely guilty as charged but I figure we all need more happiness and support in our life. Due to the naming, I’m still not sure if it’s meant to be 100 words or less, or exactly 100 words, so I went with the latter to be on the safe side and each one is 100 words on the dot. Don’t feel obliged to wade through the whole shebang though. If you haven't read that story yet, click on the title and it should take you to it.

This was a fun exercise and gave me something to shoot for before heading off to the in-laws for Tết, where I’ll try to distract myself from the lack of internet connectivity by pitting hypothermia against insobriety.

*****

Acceptance Speech

It rings true for me, I can remember being in a nativity play as one of the three other kings (we had a big class, I wasn’t one of the wise kings, I was more along the lines of Curly from the Three Stooges). I tripped on my robe, and a button fell off, and I remember wagging my finger at it and telling it off rather loudly while an angel was supposed to be centre stage declaiming. The stage doesn’t call to me though, I have a good face for radio, but the voice of a silent movie actor.

*****
Blockbuster

A damn fine piece of writing! Like pretty much all the commenters on his page said, it definitely reads like a movie blurb... but we mean that in the best way possible. Nailed the format, good choice of wording, and the potted summary suits the 100 words we are allowed changing it from a limitation to something that just feels right. The choice of actors makes it interesting too, maybe an older movie of his that went straight to video, or maybe they’ve kissed and made up and are cashing in on the punters counting on sparks flying once more.

*****

It Falls

Generally, poetry doesn’t do it for me, but I was really impressed by the extra effort (or maybe creativity is a better word to use for It Falls. I do like alliteration though, but I agree that when the seeding idea is so similar (all those A’s!), its going over the top doing too much, and it’ll cause it to grate on the ear. The swap from bird to plane was a nice touch and make you think differently about it right at the end. The five words are slotted in to the poem well, without feeling shoehorned or forced.

*****
Aquamarine

Planes in the first paragraph, yet whisked away by magic in the end - but done deliciously without a whiff of deus ex machina. Instead, it draws the reader in along with all that such a combination implies. The poise of the heroine makes her a very strong lead (and in such few words too) especially when the blokey bloke (maybe a servant, as he is the only one devoid of a title) thought he was taking her under her wing for protection. This is one where I definitely want to read more, it is a very enticing short story.

*****

Survivor

This is one of those pieces where less is more. The first few days penned by our chronicler were probably hectic. The next fortnight or so are likely unpleasant for those of us that don’t like horror. Skimming the comments everyone is complimenting the writing, saying how the implied actions he has carried out are creepy and unsettling but I can’t help thinking... in the the previous story, we had a strong female lead, and there’s the only pronoun the scribe uses is I... what if it’s a lady that’s doing the deeds, does that make it even more disturbing?

*****
Agatha

Wow, I wasn’t expecting the ending there. I must admit I’m a sucker for a happily ever after (and why the hell not? I’m living one right now and intend to for the rest of my life!) and so I’m glad there’s relief mixed in with her tears. I like the extra sartorial detail, it adds to the story. The first line is really powerful, sucking you into the action right away. The seed words are used early on in the piece, allowing more freedom with word choices towards the powerful ending. Green highlighting should be aquamarine though, I reckon.

*****
An Unplanned Descent

We are jolted out of a nice peaceful start by a serious (but only small) problem. At first I was thinking of doing something similar, but with the plane splattering over the landscape - I’m glad I didn’t as this is much more powerful as it’s grounded in reality. It’s also refreshing to hear that the pilot got lauded for saving everyone - rather than lambasted and dragged over the coals in a multi-party law suit for technical difficulty as may well be the case today. Harking back to Blockbuster, I wonder if Tom Cruise would take this role too?

*****

Cocktails

Modesty prevents me from flapping my gums about this entry. It's OK, I already know how awesome I am.

*****
Weight a Minute

I’m metric so 175 pounds sounded like a lot until I converted it... merely 80kg. But even then I’ve only got a hazy grasp of weight as I’m a bloke so naturally oblivious. But I can hear my wife’s plaintive cries, especially as she’s entering her third trimester and is skyrocketing. It isn’t the batteries fault, nor the scales fault, but my fault. I love the way the internal voice keeps on ratcheting up the equivalent size to get something more appropriate. But you know what, I don’t really think aquamarine was your colour, I think turquoise is more you.

*****
Dangerous Creature

I love the additional “photoshopping” done to the picture, it really adds to it. I especially like the two-tone tail - it makes it looks like it’s snapped off and grown back a few times making me think that it’s been in a few scraps before and is an experienced brawler. I agree with the commenters, acting inappropriately is a fantastic word choice. I also like lizard-like and can only hope that It Came From Outer Space... dun Dun DUN! There’s probably a more mundane explanation of where it is from. But I can still hope. Keep watching the stars!

*****
Translation Issues

Nicely done poking fun at language! It is interesting seeing teaching jobs advertised over here in Vietnam when they’re looking for Native English Speakers. There’s no anti-discrimination laws of any sort over here, so they can specify all sorts of things they’d get sued into oblivion back home. Because I look the part, they’d rather my slang-stained Aussie accent over obviously more qualified and competent teachers simply due to their nationality, irregardless of their linguistic ability. It drives us wild especially when our own company does it and should know better, we’re trying to change their thinking from the inside.

*****
Departure Gate

The descriptive clothing is a great start, and sounds like something I’d wear too (though my wife has hidden a lot of my more striking pieces - taking a leaf from my mother’s play-book as she burned a heap of my fathers clothes when they married). I agree with what some other people said, it flows on nicely from my entry too. I’m also pleased that her imperious attitude wasn’t enough to bring back the plane. It’s good when even minor villains get their comeuppance. Cleaning the planes with a toothbrush was a nice, pouty touch to the temper tantrum.

*****
The Celebrity

After the last diva spat in Departure Gate it is good to see someone more interested on mending fences at the end of the flight. Though depending on the size and breed of the dog, making amends might not be too effective - yes for something cute but maybe not as popular with a Great Dane. Traveling with animals can often be tricky, we did a five hour bike trip once with a couple of live chickens lashed to the back in a wicker cage due to their breed being especially tender and juicy but I couldn’t taste the difference.

*****
Life in Hollywood: Advertising

I like Aeroplane Jelly, Aeroplane Jelly for me! Being overseas for an extended period, the main thing I miss is food. My parents visit once a year, I’ve been back a couple of times, and friends are still an email or IM away, just like when I was out bush. But food, ahh... food. That is a completely different kettle of fish! Especially when some essential ingredients or tools are scarce here. Every time I go home it is with a long list of food I either want my mother to cook for me or dishes to order and enjoy.

*****

Mile High Meltdown

A prime example of write what you know. I’m thinking if it’d been me then physical violence, not words, would have been my response to snooty cow. Yes, it sucks for other passengers when there is a cantankerous kid on the flight, but it has to be much worse for the parents when everything they try fails to have any effect and they have to deal with snide comments and accusatory glares while still trying to pacify their kid and put out the fires. I’m glad that in the end she fell asleep, and gave you some much needed respite.

*****
The Aftermath...

Nicely done, it expressed sadness and humour tinged with love. It must be difficult for people whose loved ones go through such changes on so many levels. I especially liked the sausages, but in person hearing the description of the milk would have me guffawing with laughter, making it tricky to explain away any chagrin. I occasionally get flashes of similar situations since my kids are largely ESL... “Can you spell redacted?” “uhh... care to put that in a sentence? … Oh, you mean peanuts. An elephant likes eating peanuts! You weren’t saying the male appendage for procreation after all.”

*****

Swim or Die

I loved this entry, as it has the feel to me of some hard science-fiction a la Robert Heinlein even though there’s nary a spaceship in sight. I like the way she’s taken the word marine in aquamarine and run with it, it gives her story a different direction. With planning like this though, I’m wondering just how seasoned the grizzled veterans are. I have to thank Buddhafulkat for showing me Julia’s Place and introducing me to these fun challenges. She’s a fan of the hundred word format, and is going to be cranking out lots more of her own.

*****
The Perpetrator

Excellent cold descriptive imagery in this one that give me chills of fear down my spine. I definitely love the way the eyes have been singled out for attention. This is not someone with whom I’d like to cross paths - at least at the moment. Maybe normally she’s sweet and kind and was driven to to something completely out of character, but still I’d prefer to keep my distance. I’ve noticed a recurring theme in the about me blurb - there’s an awful lot us teachers participating in these hundred word challenges! I wish my class had the ability.

*****

All The A’s

This is a good example of alliteration focusing on one letter done well. A task that is easier said than done. I hope that her sense of excitement and happiness remains - that she uses her new found magical powers for good, not evil. I first misread it as Andy acting unphased about it, but I’m sure that given a demonstration he’d be a wide-eyed convert. The choice of anklet instead of the more usual magic ring was a good touch. I wonder how she worked out that the anklet was magic, since the place of purchase was so mundane.

*****
Its Not Lupus!

A unique take on the prompts that is most effective. The reader ends up full of sympathy and can feel the annoyance caused by the quacks poking and prodding. Hopefully it all gets sorted soon without medical textbooks devoting a chapter to her in the future as they discuss her rare case. After the banter with the comments, I took a liberty to title the piece rather than name it after the blog - but due to the vagaries of TV programming over here, I’m unfamiliar with it - but it sounds like a running gag (something that everyone enjoys).
*****
How I Met My Husband

I love it! Another one based on fact, with a fairy-tale happily ever after ending. Such serendipitous stories are fantastic stories for the retelling to loved ones. The author’s unsureness at the beginning is completely understandable, as the wonderous buoyancy property of the waters of the Dead Sea fly in the face of what you’re used to. The seed words are fitted into the story seamlessly. It is nice that such a kind, simple gesture lead to something amazing, and sets a good example for all of us to improve our interactions with others... who knows where it may lead?

*****

The Glider

Vibrant and lyrical in the description, you can feel the pilot’s exultation and enjoyment in their hobby. It seemed tempting until things began going wrong - but luckily there’s the option of restarting or reloading... if only Real Life had that, too. We have definitely come along way graphics-wise since games like Pong and Asteroids. But even with all raw power in video cards and processing power maybe the graphics in text based adventures like Zork are still better - how could mere polygons and pixels render something more impressive than the grue you conjure up yourself? Imagination trumps CGI.

*****
The A Challenge

These sort of stories are always fun to read to my students, particularly when introduced as “we’ll just have a quick story then go on excursion/to PE/our computer class/early play time” and watch the ripple of understanding spread out amongst them. The starting scene captures the weather in the doldrums very well sticky and unpleasant - that’s part of what makes the water so much more appealing. I hope after they go round and round a few times they manage to get to the bottom of what actually did happen, which I hope is nothing too serious.

*****
The Monster from the Deep

First thing I saw that blew me away was the professional banner. Wow, it looks great, and makes me want to have a rummage in your back catalogue of posts to find some gems. I know people say don’t judge a book by a cover, but we almost always do. Horror isn’t really my cup of tea though, so I might have to click away quickly, but it does draw me in. The mist from the lake is a great touch - one I thought was poetic license until this year when my new route to work wended past one.

*****

Autumn’s Auction Shocker

Having a troublesome kid can be difficult at any age, and bankrolling their exploits with cherished family heirlooms adds an extra level most people don’t have to deal with. Surely desecrating a burger bar by turning it into a vegetarian joint would be enough mischief? If someone I loved did that, I’d be furious (but then again I’m a raging carnivore and have jammed a wide range of animals into my slavering maw than just about anyone I know - missing out on cat recently since this is still the Year of the Cat so chowing down would be unlucky).

*****
Be Careful What You Wish For

It’s a commonly enough expressed wish, not to croak in a nursing home. I’m sure Jane is a competent pilot but nature and events conspired against them making what would normally be a a harmless flight of fancy (both verbally and physically). Of the options of strange places to die, I’ve heard “someone else’s bed” the most often. I like where this story is going if there is a chance for them to be dragged into some sort of urban-fantasy slash magical crossover as that waterspout was rather sudden in its appearance. Not so interested If they die horribly, though.

*****
The Letter

This one flew over my head at first, being new to Julia’s Place. But I figured it was something of an in-joke, so after a bit of sleuthing I put together enough clues to at least grok some of the edges. I like the tongue-in-cheek attitude of this piece, and would suggest that the appropriate response would be to get yourself elected in his stead, ousting him from his seat. I’m certain you could do a better job, though you may not enjoy it much. But think of all the good you could do, all the wrongs you could right!

*****

Blue Engagement

I like that the swain knew his best beloved well enough to forego the more popular diamond for an aquamarine. Engagement rings aren’t really done here, as you need family permission first, so we did the wedding ring shopping first, and then later I went to a jewellery shop I like and had one made: They melted down my One Ring (the Lord of the Rings Ring) and took my opal out of my custom Quake necklace and bunged on a few small diamonds. My wife doesn’t like wearing it much, but she loves the thought I put into it.

*****
Drowning

A fateful end full to an adventure that started out with altruistic good-will. Without the calming influence of his twin, I hope Karl doesn’t further self-destruct. Maybe this tragedy will bring them closer together whereas the accident seems to be forcing them apart. It is touching to see such a caring sister drop everything instantly to hurtle to their aid. I feel sorry for all of them, and wish that things could turn out for the better. Personalised sadness like this is effective writing - there would be other people on the plane, but their untold stories move us less.

*****

And that's a wrap! Much obliged if you read all the way to the bottom. A Happy Tết to you, Chúc Mừng Năm Mới!

Under a Mackerel Sky

2012-01-10T22:15:00.000+07:00

Yet more finishing old stuff that I started but didn’t complete. I’m gradually getting their numbers down. I decided that I was going to start all projects in and Unfinished pieces folder and only move them after I've finished them. That way they gang up and glare at me balefully. So instead of skipping merrily off with a new project, I need to slink off shamefacedly, suffering the accusing stares of things that need just a few hundred more words, or a couple more paragraphs.

This challenge was was go to an online dictionary and pick a word or phrase you liked. I chose Mackerel Sky, thinking back of a photo of mine (which it seems I have lost due to my erratic system of backups... damn). My picture wasn’t exactly a mackerel sky - but a rainbow effect in the clouds that I’ve seen twice in Vietnam... without an overly abnormal amount of booze in my system.

To give you an idea of what a mackerel sky looks like here you go:

Obviously not my picture. Tho says I am a rank amateur with a camera. Picture taken from here

Under a Mackerel Sky

Old Man Johnson looked to the horizon. “Gonna be a damn fine sunset,” he said, and spat. The gobbet of tobacco and phlegm spattered on the wooden boards, causing him to smile. Lukey grabbed a twig, and started poking it - and that made him smile. Being only seven, Lukey was easily amused. He could find endless entertainment in this activity, at least until dragged away. Rita let him have his fun for the time being. The moment he began reaching out an inquisitive finger, she grabbed him by the shoulder and took him in back to “help” her get a top-up for the old-timer. When they returned, the stick and the sputum were forgotten. Old Man Johnson smacked his gummy lips appreciatively. As his rheumy eyes swung back to the clouds, the mug made frequent trips to his mouth, barely causing a pause in his rambling monologue. Rita, too, returned to what she had been doing - peeling potatoes. There were always potatoes to be peeled, and the repetitive action went well with the mindless background noise of Old Man Johnson’s slurps and mutters. “Keep where I can see you,” she said to Lukey. But just as she was only barely aware of her customers’ conversation, so too was the boy’s focus elsewhere.

Lukey loved the bar at this time of day - the lengthening shadows and random piles of scrap were adequate fuel for all sorts of adventures to his fertile imagination. Currently, he was hopping excitedly from stone to stone in the garden, tracking an early cricket that had started tuning up before the performance of the evening’s symphony. In his mind, he was stealthy - like a ninja creeping towards an unsuspecting target. His footsteps were hardly silent, and even if they were, his giggles would have given him away. Before long though his noble opponent had conquered his attention span. Here, by one of the paving stones, was the last wildflower of the season, small and blue but so easy to overlook. Reaching out, he plucked it from the stem carefully, to give to Rita later.

“Git yerself up here boy! Quick now, afore it goes!” yelled Old Man Johnson from the porch. Turning, Lukey ran, hopping and jiggering up their stairs on alternate legs his arms pin-wheeling for balance. Patting the stool next to him, Old Man Johnson had ceased his continuous ruminations to look up at the clouds. Lukey sat down, eyes nearly as wide as his open mouth. “That’s what I’m talking about boy. You remember that sort of beauty for the rest of your life. It’ll get you through some scrapes and scares that will.”

The heavy folder of the Antwerp account thunked into Lucas’s desk, derailing his happy daydreaming. “Report due Thursday,” his supervisor sneered, walking off. Shaking himself from the heady combination of nostalgia infused with daydreaming, Lucas tried to bring himself back to the world of spreadsheets, cubicles and grey dividers. Dragging some printouts towards him he reached for a pencil and tried to focus. He swivelled morosely on his chair, looking to exorcise joyful thoughts with numbers and order forms, before realising that he had things back-to-front. “After work I’m going to go visit Old Man Johnson,” he muttered to himself “and I’m going to walk in the park afterwards!” The guys across the walkway from him looked up at the sound of his voice but Lucas just smiled, happy with his new direction in life.

Cocktails

2012-01-10T18:36:00.000+07:00

A list of five “A” words, with 100 words extra to flash out a story. This weeks 100 word challenge. At first I was thinking of doing a crash, but screw that, let’s extend our stay on a tropical isle! And just to get you in the mood if its winter in your neck of the woods, here’s a picture:

Picture source here

Cocktails

Ahhh... beaches. What could be better? A hammock, cocktails, and a limitless aquamarine ocean. Serenity at its best. So what if the aeroplane leaves soon? We still have plenty of time! After another drink or two, we can think about heading back to the hotel and packing up.

As always, two drinks turned into more. Suddenly aghast, we’re late! A scene (cause by all the cocktails) at the reception desk of the hotel and an altercation with the taxi driver slow us even more. Yet at the gate when we’re told “I am sorry ladies, your plane has already departed,” you acted shocked!

Imagozen

2012-01-06T12:30:00.000+07:00

I’m going through my backlog of stuff I started, and finishing it. It took a while to fish out all the little scraps and put them all in one spot, but now I’ve got them nailed down, I can tick them off when I get them done. This one is from ages ago, July by the date in the link (holy shit, that can’t be right, can it?). We need an apocalypse, but a different sort from one that’s been done to death.

Imagozen

Everything was on the up and up. Things were going swimmingly... the Middle East wasn’t exactly at peace but there was some progress. The stock markets were up, logging of the rain forests was down. Man was on his way to Mars, and most amazing of all, Cleveland is in with a chance to win the World Series. See? Not too shabby. A shame that was all about to change...

For this is not the only place where life is to be found. Yeah yeah, I know what you’re thinking - those fine fella’s in the lab-coats haven’t found proof of what I’m saying, so why take me at my word? Just listen patiently, and when this story’s told think back and see if I’m right. I bet this is the last great tall tale ever told. That’s unfortunate on two counts... it’s not that great, and it’s the truth, honest injun.

Like I said, the Earth ain’t the only place where thought goes on, and humans are not even the top of the heap. Its not like they thought back in B-grade movies, they’re not coming here to eat us or mine our atmosphere. Nor is it going to be a case of Kirk making sweet love to a range of alien women each week. They won’t be bringing a message of universal peace love and happiness and all that malarkey. Apart from a few wild stories like mine that most likely won’t be believed (though they’re completely legit my friend) that’s about all the “evidence” there will ever be.

Those old black and white flicks were nudging towards the right sorta idea. Technically what those tentacled sumbitches are up to doesn’t hurt humans, its more a quality of life thing, see? There’s only so much imagozen sloshing around the galaxy - it’s a finite resource. And the bug eyed monsters don’t really feel like sharing. Scratching your head wondering what’s imagozen? I’ll tells ya: it’s that spark of inspiration and creativity that some people call a muse, or the bolt outta the blue. It’s the bit that made Edison so sweaty, Curie so curious, what gave Picasso his gumption and Henry Ford his moxie. James Joyce had the stuff dripping outa his ears if he turned his head too sharply. Elvis probably died of an overdose of it, the poor bloke.

A solid definition imagozen is a wee bit tricky... it’s hard to pin down kinda like how light is a wave and a particle - or how a cat is dead yet alive. Element? Nah. Force? Not really. Energy? Eh... kind of. Something spiritual or spooky... nooooo, not quite. But you get the idea of what I’m groping for, right? If not just nod your damn head so I can continue for the sake of the rest of the peanut gallery, attention spans these days are getting shorter.

Where was I? That’s right, cutting off the imagozen supply to Earth. It’s not fatal, but you can see its effects everywhere. Don’t believe me? You must not have cable TV my fine friend. I hear they now have a show called The Skunk Whisperer. Look at what the latest “innovation” was with the iPhone - releasing it in white. What a breakthrough! Didja ever hear tell of that infinite number of monkeys banging away on typewriters, trying to do Shakespeare? Seems they’ve run out of steam, and won’t ever get back up to speed. I tell ya, them aliens have won. I should know, as now the job of me and my colleagues is done, we can finally get off this ball of rock you lunk-heads call home. Not that it wasn’t fun at time, but I miss the good life that imagozen provides. Enjoy your reality T.V. and cookie-cutter boy bands.

Songbird

2012-01-05T09:29:00.001+07:00

After rummaging through the always awesome website of Buddhafulkat I found a simple, new writing challenge that is perfect for banging out quickly... weekly 100 word challenges at Julia’s Place. This week is a Christmas themed one: You are to write as the Santa arrowed...

Picture obviously pinched from their website

Here’s my entry, 100 words on the dot. I’m not sure if we’re meant to write exactly 100, or 100 and under. I’ll work it out eventually though.

Songbird

Everyone else in the choir is laughing and smiling, but they’re just backing vocalists compared to me. It was my solo that carried it, and I nailed it. Really knocked it out of the park. I’m a goddamned virtuoso. Someday, there’ll be a gold star above my name. Melanie the Diva they’ll call me.

Settle down! OK that’s enough of that sort of thinking for now Mel. This is a house of God, and pride is a sin. Let’s practice some humility here. Eyes downcast humbly, a slight smile and accept the lions’ share of the applause as my own.

Tokenistic New Year News

2012-01-05T09:19:00.000+07:00

Paradoxically, I do less writing when I'm on holidays. Since the amount of leisure time is greater, I spend more of it with Tho - not a bad thing in my mind at all. A fair chunk of my writing I do in down time at work, when the kids are at PE or after they've gone home. Obviously, that gave me little chance of completing Nano, but that's OK, I knew it was going to be the case. I still plan on finishing the story, by doing about 2K a week or so on it, a modest, manageable goal. I'm also looking around for more flash fiction things to try my hand at too, so if you know any sing out. And I also intend on doing some more short pieces off my own bat, thinking of my own ideas rather than just flailing around waiting on others to give me topics. Finally, I've started using various software for making lists and writing down ideas. I used to think they were a load of bollocks, but after trying a few, I've found them to be pretty useful.

In which I exploit my students for my own nefarious ends.

2011-12-09T11:33:00.000+07:00

Using bribes and blandishments, I bludgeoned the children under my care into creating a second entry. After all, alliteration is educational, and enjoyable. Broaching the topic with a bout of brainstorming, the tiny tykes took to it with great gusto - displaying the Double Dead dust-cover roused roars of approval (graphically you’re good in the 8 - 9 group). The little fella’s had fun, and found that they could ignore irritation enough so that illustrators (such as girls and others of that icky ilk) were worth working with without worry. Wendig Education: Easing the educators load with lively lessons.

There’s only so much Christmas stuff you can do at this time of year, and we’ve pretty much hit the limit, so why not alliteration I thought.

My unruly horde of ~~demons~~ third graders have a wide range of ability: one kid when doing his information report about Cheetahs wrote something along the lines of “A cheetah is graceful and flexible, like a girl doing yoga” (he’s going to be a lady-killer when he’s older, he already has an impish smile) right down to kids who will maybe sharpen their pencil three times and write their name down before it’s time to stop and listen to a story instead. Since we’re in Vietnam, we also have a range of English ability, but not so bad as other years... no clutching their crotch and grunting (well, sometimes they do but that’s just when they’re being surly, they have the ability to string a sentence together asking permission to go to the toilet). They liked the assignment well enough, especially when they were allowed to form their own groups, but loved the chance of winning great glory for me, in the form of the book. That caused a reshuffling of the groups so they weren’t just formed on friendships, but more on ability (with plenty of helping of the ones that were struggling by the sharper ones, and the best kid at drawing in both class roving round and giving pointers)... so pretty much a win-win situation, education-wise.

The boy thinks that bats have bones. Good, alliteration and paying attention in our unit on vertebrates

Bees like banana and butter. I’m glad I got a completed work sample from this kid, it is a bit of a rarity.

Black bears are bad. The crown says I am the queen of angry

My brother has a big blue balloon

Cao Hung is hunting the hippo

A triumvirate of Cao Hung dancing hip-hop in his house. I guess he is celebrating his successful slaughter of the hippo

Two people digging for dead dinosaur bones

My Dad and Mr. David (that's me!) like to kill dragons

I dreamed about dragons in my dark bedroom

The duck is drinking durian juice. Yuck. I can eat pretty much any animal presented to me, but durian I find pretty rugged.

Eleven elephants learn English

Linh loves to lick little lollipops... so much she did it quite a few times.

The lion ate a lollipop and lizard.

Mr. Mark is eating mangoes on his trip to the mountain

Mum made a moon cake. Due to drawing style, mum is a bit of a MILF too.

Oops! There is an octopus in the Arctic Ocean

The owl is staying on the ox... this kid arrived late both days we were doing alliteration, so she only had a hazy grasp of the concept, but she got there in the end.

People are watching the penguin finish playing the piano

Pink Panther is playing with the purple pig

Thanh Tung is playing with his teddy bear

The Viking is playing the violin. I said I wanted at least three occurrences of the letter, but this kid came up with his entry off his own bat, in a group of one, and once again, I'm glad to get something from them.

Three zombie/zebra/Zhao Hung combinations, with the zombies heavily influenced by Plants V’s Zombies which is huge with my kids (as is Walking Dead, but that is way too scary for me).

And because there’s always someone who doesn’t listen to the instructions, a vampire entry. But he did at least listen to the bit about the book: Double Dead is coming to our world. I showed them the cover like I said, and they loved it, and wanted to know what it was about “I don’t know much about it yet, but I might soon if you win it for me. All I know is there is a vampire who has to fight zombies for who gets to eat the people.”

Scenes from a Stellar Skirmish

2011-12-06T21:05:00.001+07:00

Well, the less said about Nano the better. November is a rough month for free time, what with it being prime wedding season here. That doesn’t mean my book is dead and buried, it just means it’ll take longer.

Alliteration, that’s the challenge for this week. I wasn’t sure if it was meant to be just the title, or the whole shebang, so I figured it was safer to go with lots of alliteration. I’ve always been a fan of epic poems, which often tend to have quite a bit of alliteration in them. They’re writing in hard mode, as they’re often translations, so it can be tricky to stay true to the idea being expressed and find the right word to represent it.

I decided to go with space for my short story - a titchy wee one, as there’s quite a bit of alliteration going on. I’m neither Virgil nor a skald, and they tended to limit themselves to three repetitive sounds on a line, mixing it up with normal words too.

And since it’s space a space theme, I might as well throw in a nice picture, which has a special place in my heart. In Star Control 2, this is the main image we’re presented of the race of aliens called the Spathi. One of their pilots is called Snelopy, a name I liked so much I added an extra l to and took it as my own.

Scenes from a Stellar Skirmish

As always, the attackers approached from Andromeda. Sweeping silently through space, shields set, the squadron started to intercept. Descending on the dreadnoughts, determined to dispatch them... Flying in formation, fighters at the fore, with the frigates following - the foe failed to flee. Commands were cried out, combat codes cleared: crews at the ready.

We waited, weighing up the odds for our exact time to engage the enemy. My units mission: maneuver in amongst their ships, seeking to snare one before it was blasted to bits. Force fields fell to phaser cannons and concussion charges.

Time! Twenty troops touched down, hacking into the hull, hewing hunks off. Gaining egress, guns up, eyes guarded, we blasted bulkheads until they buckled. Klaxons clanged, interspersed with the chittering and clicking that made up their speech.

Finally, we faced our foes in the foredeck, vulcan cannons and the vacuum giving them vacant eyes, tentacles twitching as they twisted round the levers and lights that comprised their control panel. Proud of our prize, we hauled it into our hold and headed home, hyperdrive humming.

Nano!

2011-11-03T22:23:00.000+07:00

Its November, so I should be writing. I've started, but its time for a distraction... To the good old days of There and Lost Again.

That's out the front of Thunder Bluff

Right, back to writing!

Gumshoe

2011-10-10T21:43:00.000+07:00

I started this one here, but didn't finish it. To recap: Based off this picture, write something.

Now that this one is finished, I can move onto the next one. Progress, and baby steps towards getting in the habit of completing things.

Gumshoe

"Same again, thanks sweetheart" I say, waggling my empty coffee cup at the dame in the waitress uniform. She sighed, and came back with a fresh cup of joe. I'd had two already, and a third would mean no sleep for a week, but when you're on a stakeout, you gotta look the part. I slurped off a mouthful and then surreptitiously turfed the rest out in the potted plant. With a generous pour from my hip flask, I refilled the cup with the good stuff... just enough to counteract the caffeine high. In this line of work, you need steady hands. It's not so bad, being a private dick. Sure the hours are longer than back when I was on the force, but I'm my own boss. I don't have to answer to no-one no more.

I notice a twitch at the curtain to the room the mark is in, and like a shot I'm engrossed in the funny pages... head down, just a regular schmoe having a break. This dive of a flop-house is more up market than his usual haunts, so business must be on the up and up. I am sure the boys in blue would be interested in that, but they’d just scare off the big fish. In the reflection of the glass, I see him heading out the door, so I throw down a five spot to keep the waitress sweet on me tomorrow and hoof it after him. I've got a knack at being a subtle tail, after the time I put in down in the Bronx, but a New Orleans Jazz band could be banging and blaring away for all the care he's paying. Can't say as I blame him, as its bucketing down and the wind is making sure that your birthday suit gets soaked.

Down to the wharf, and into a little hole-in-the-wall bar... not his usual stomping ground, so maybe he is working tonight after all. I give the area the once over then head on in. I order a beer and a bourbon, and hunker down at a table with my back to him, but close enough so I can hear what he's saying, and fish out my deck of cards and get all engrossed in a game of solitaire. Our chum is getting nowhere fast with the skirt behind the bar, and I think the evening may be a complete washout. Then bold as brass, in waltzes one of Harvey's boys. So I'm back to earning my keep, as even if these hours ain't billable to my current client knowing what Harvey is up to is always bankable.

Next morning, bright eyed and bushy tailed, I'm warmly greeted by the dame in the diner. I take a stool where I can see the hotel out the front window, and order the blue plate special. I think I'm gonna haveta linger over coffee yet again, but once more there's the twitch to the curtain, so I shovel the last of the eggs and hash into my gob, and wolf it down. Telling her to keep the change, I'm out the door and after him like a flea on a dog. After last night's conversation, I definitely don't want to lose him so I stay as close as I can, doing my best not to be too conspicuous dodging the puddles. We go by Shanks' Pony over towards Brooklyn and in my head I'm already counting the notes, crinkling that filthy lucre in my fingers and trying to decide if I should pay my overdue rent or splurge.

He darts down an alley furtive all of a sudden, and I worried I’ve blown it. I turn my collar up and keep on walking, only glancing out the corner of my eye. Its not as bad as I thought, he’s just taking a leak on some trashcans. And there was me, thinking I was losing my edge! I lean against a nearby bus stop sign and get busy fixing a smoke. Before long our fine upstanding pillar of the community heads on out, doing up his fly.

We head east, and I for one am getting sick of all this leg work, but there ain’t nothing I can do but grin and bear it. Finally we get to the joint he’s interested in, and I walk on by. I come back a few minutes later and give some scratch to a couple of winos loitering nearby to get the lowdown on the building. The coherent bits of our conversation stink of Harvey all over, so I make myself scarce as he’ll have eyes all over the place.

Sooner than I thought I see him schleping past again so I down my drink and shadow him, all discreet. I figure I can knock off early today, as all he did is buy some hooch and head back to his two-bit flea-pit motel. Back in the office I start going through some paperwork with a few fingers of scotch as lubrication, when who comes knocking but O’Casey. Still drunk as a skunk since they took his badge off him. A damn shame about that kid, There but for the grace o God and all that jazz. I give him some simple shoe leather stuff outa sympathy, but I make sure it ain’t nothing that needs subtlety.

Later still the door bangs open, I holler we’re closed, but it’s the client I’m working for. I wasn’t expecting to see him for a while. Says he’s come to an arrangement and my services are no longer required. I start to protest but he wordlessly dumps a pile of cash on my desk, much more than what I would have racked up even with padding my expense account. It seems fishy to me, but who am I to argue with a big pile of dough? I bow to the logic that the customer is always right, and wave him out as I begin to count it. I only said I wouldn’t report to him, not that I’d lay off my lead. Tomorrow’s gonna be a busy day.

Blue Lagoon

2011-10-06T21:11:00.001+07:00

This flash fiction piece was based off Chuck Wendig’s Cocktail prompt. I only got a wee way into it and then it fell through the cracks. It was set way back in April. I wasn’t planning on making it a thousand words, but shorter. I think it might be just a vignette (which at first I thought isn’t so bad) but I remembered a book that I bought that was just vignettes and how shitted off with it I was... nothing happened, nothing went anywhere. Rereading the prompt he says don’t just do a vignette, and we only had 500 words after all. So back under the hood I go (I write the intro after I finish the story. Back in a sec)... OK Done. All better now. No longer an icky vignette.

As I was saying, the idea was to name your story after a cocktail and give the recipe afterwards. This prompt was set ages ago, so why am I dredging this old one up now? Exhibit A please, last line:

(From the inestimable Mr. Wendig, go buy his shit)

Nano is coming. I want to enter. Last year I didn’t finish, and this year I will. So I have to get in the habit of finishing. So I’m having a go at a lot of little quick writing things (which I also intend to continue with through November and beyond, as they're only little) so I get in the habit of finishing stuff, and giving it the once over rather than just chucking it up there. And I also intend to finish the shit I already started before nano. Sure, there’s still more planning I’d like to do, but I’ve got a good amount so far so I won’t just be pantsing all the way.

Blue Lagoon

Days here felt endless, but that’s not a bad thing when life is so pleasant. It did mean they tended to run together and get a bit sameish, but that was OK. Whoever said you can have too much of a good thing was our of their mind Zeke thought. How could you complain to waking up to the gentle susurration of waves lapping the sands? That never got old.

Relaxation, peace, bliss.

Zeke stretched, looking around his house. Sure, it was small, but it was a prime piece of beachfront property. He ambled outside and was greeted by the first rays of the morning sun, glinting on the breakers on the reef that protected his cove. He wandered down to the high tide mark, looking for anything new or interesting that had washed up during the night. Meandering past the occasional strand of seaweed he kept his eyes peeled but there was nothing extraordinary - there never was.

To cheer himself up, Zeke decided to go for his morning swim, and daintily dipped a toe into the water. The slight chill to it was pleasantly refreshing and he revelled in the feel of it. Always he was amazed at the varieties of colourful little fish that swam about. Sometimes they were together in a school, then they would suddenly spread out haphazardly, like a rainbow’s reflection in a mirror shattered by a hammer.

Later in the day after a nap, Zeke headed to his favourite rocky promontory, to fish. It was rare that he would catch one, but he didn’t care. To him it was more a time of introspection and thought somewhere out of the direct rays of the sun.

Sighing contentedly, watching the moon rise amidst twinkling stars Zeke the hermit crab drifted off to sleep next to his favourite rock pool.

I named it after a Blue Lagoon, but it could just as easily be a Blue Hawaii. They look immensely similar, and taste nearly the same. The lagoon has something carbonated making it lighter on the palate, and the Hawaii has coconut milk making it creamier, but the main point is they both have vodka and blue curacao. The last is the most important ingredient in my mind, because if you drink enough it turns your tongue blue, and your shit lawn green in the morning. So when you wake up hungover and look in the mirror and the can, you think you’re dying - until you remember what you were drinking.

Recipe for Blue Lagoon
Recipe for a Blue Hawaiian (and the picture is also lifted from here)

Who is a hero?

2011-10-05T20:24:00.000+07:00

Jeff brought this topic up one day at after work beers, fishing around for who people would say. Some famous names were thrown in the ring, as well as some personal ones (a grandfather in the first world war, for example). I can’t remember what I suggested at the time, but I’m going with an unsung and under-appreciated hero: The Henchmen.

Heroes: The Henchmen

Sure, the “hero” of the story is important, but you can’t be the chosen one without a challenge. Admittedly, hordes of incompetent and faceless minions rarely seem to pose a threat, but like you and me, henchmen are just doing a thankless task, trying to make ends meet.

I’m not talking here about anyone who has a speaking part... unless its along the lines of “Two more tankards of ale, wench!” I mean the ones who may not even be named - in the book or the closing credits of the movie. This guy is no Jackie Chan, he’s played by the extra, in many different guises:

Ruffian with a mustache. Guard holding a pike. Soldier responding to the alarm by running down the hallway. Sentry at the main gate. Patron in the bar in the duke’s livery so your lovable rogue can steal the keys. Faceless grunt who takes an arrow to the chest as you storm the castle.

That guy. All those guys. They’re not the face of evil, they’re just bulking up the enemy numbers, being part of the body count. You could probably get by with only hiring three different guys and giving them a selection of false noses and different coloured helmets and you’re done. Their time in the story is short, but it speaks to all of us... Our work day week isn’t demonic, its more of a ground-down-grey. We’re not black-hearted, we’re just doing our thing, as ordered. Nuremburg all over again, but with our hopes and dreams going to the gas chamber.

But if we identify with these fellows - who don’t even get a second paragraph - why don’t we mind that they come to such a gristly end? I’ll tell you. Just like we see ourselves in them, we see our colleagues too. That guard who gets stabbed while the hero is escaping the dungeon? Jones in accounting. The one who cops the frying pan swung by the plucky kid sister? Obviously it’s Sue under all that chainmail. The Henchman is you. The Henchman is me. Henchmen are the true Everyman. Not the chosen one. Not a prince whose true lineage is kept hidden. Not an orphan who spent years training is secrecy with some wizened old master. Who can identify with that? Henchmen reflect our struggles, our humanity. In every skull shaped fortress, through miles of endless corridors, doing pointless and degrading drudge work, Henchmen hold the true mirror up to ourselves. We don’t like what we see and that makes their job even more thankless.

When there’s someone to be silently garroted then stripped so their livery can be humourosly worn by someone three sizes larger... Henchmen are there.

If there’s a fist to be clenched in salute before stamping off to hours of guard duty in front of a barred portcullis... Henchmen are there.

Should a messenger be needed to tell the dread lord that the princess has been rescued... Henchmen are there (at least until the decapitation scene which shows the inhumanity of said dread lord).

A lax watch needed to be kept so that shackles can be slipped... Henchmen are there.

Henchmen are the true heroes. The pay is lousy, they often die horribly, and they get no respect. But still, they do their job. Next time some joker in a furred loincloth with a dirty great sword makes a rampart out of underlings, spare a thought for their families. Not so heroic on the part of the main character, is it?

Picture shamelessly pinched from Shoeboxblog

First times, second attempt

2011-09-29T22:54:00.001+07:00

I already did one entry for Jeff's First Time one, but there was an obvious second story that needed telling.

First times

Ahhh Paris, the city of love. Or is that Amsterdam, with its Red-light district? I spent some time in Paris and there was this girl I liked. The price seemed a bit steep, but it was my first time and I wanted to try it. It was good, but over so quickly. If I am honest, that was my first time, but it doesn’t really count, does it?

Like any young adult, I was curious. I tried it a lot on my own, but it wasn’t very fulfilling that way. It’s not the same if you do it by yourself, so I don’t really classify all those fumbling attempts as my first time.

Occasionally I tried it in a group... the booze flowing, everyone laughing and reaching, hands all slimy. That too was fun, but it still didn’t seem right. Everyone else was having a great time, but something still seemed wrong to me.

The first time I did it properly was only recently. The setting made all the difference. We’d gone up-market, the furnishing were much better than usual, and the light was subdued yet flattering. My wife and I were impatient for it to begin... looking across as each other giggling and laughing.

Slowly, we shed outer layers. My wife proffering hers to my waiting mouth. I took it in - savoring it - rolling it over my tongue. I returned the favour, sporting an impish smile. She pulled back playfully but then looked at me in horror... “Yuck! That isn’t how you do do it Silly! That part of it is dirty, it is full of of shit! Disgusting! Throw that away, this is how you eat ốc!”

So finally, after many years I finally ate ốc the way it is meant to be. It tastes much better now that I know you don’t get every little bit out and stick it in your gob. A good three quarters of it is grit, shell and fecal matter that is crunchily unpleasant. And there I was thinking I didn’t have a very refined palate and I was missing something.

*****
OK ốc is a generic catch-all term for most shellfish, and a bunch of them I had eaten long before coming to Vietnam. And the snails in France were different again. But why let facts get in the way of a good story?

First Times

2011-09-18T20:49:00.001+07:00

This has been sitting around for a while, needing a last couple of sentences and a once-over to check for editing. Jeff said about doing a first time story, and two ideas leapt out at me. This was the first, my first day of teaching. Especially since Amazing Superpowers did such a great cartoon of it (which I also redid, for one of their competitions... my version is after the story).

http://www.amazingsuperpowers.com/2009/04/the-first-day/

Chalkie

Nature. The Great Outdoors. The countryside. I’m so not a fan. Nature is just a euphemism for being amongst hordes of biting and stinging insects with no electricity. The Great Outdoors aren’t. Sure, I like building a sandcastle at the beach, but that’s the extent of it. And as for the countryside, I like towns and cities. Chickens should be frozen or deep fried, not covered in feathers and clucking. So it seemed to be counter-intuitive when I applied to the Northern Territory for work. But not really, as if I had tried getting a teaching job back in Canberra or near where I’d gone to Uni, I’d be unlikely to get anything permanent, and I was too lazy for the extra effort that is incorporated into relief teaching - plus I wanted a steady income. Besides, my parents had met in a small town in the NT, so how bad could it be?

It turns out it can be pretty bad. It didn’t take long for me to be offered a job via email. I tried looking it up on a halfway decent map... no dice. I had to write back for some more information so I could locate it. It turned out the school they were suggesting for my first teaching gig was a one teacher, multi-age and class school in the middle of the Simpson desert. I’d be the teacher, principal, and do all the paperwork, in a small, dry (as in no alcohol!) aboriginal community. I know taking that would be setting myself up for failure, and knocked them back, knowing that would put my name on the bottom of the list of applicants. Bummer.

Luckily though, the list of applicants was humourously short, and within a fortnight, I was offered another job, this time in a town called Borroloola. At least I’d heard of this town before, and the school and the town sounded OK. A lot of our friends got phone calls for job interviews while playing Quake, and the same happened to me, an auspicious sign so I thought. In hindsight though, when we were in our rooms we were either playing Quake or asleep, so I guess it wasn’t that surprising really. The interview with the principal went well, and I accepted the position he offered me at the end.

I had a farewell to civilisation party with all my mates, and headed up north. I met the other teachers at the local pub, and told them I was into reading, computer games and a bit about myself. Little did I know they opened a book on how long I’d stay, with the longest bet being a week (I showed them, by sticking it out for three years).

The first day of my first teaching job, I handed out what I thought was a quite reasonable test to my 4/5 class, to gauge their ability, starting out with half a butterfly and the instruction to finish the picture by completing the other side along the axis of symmetry. A few hands shot up, and I was getting ready to answer the question “What does symmetry mean?” Instead the kid asked me how to spell his name. He wasn’t the only one. I sighed, and collected the tests, reeling back my expectations. Instead, I picked a picture book at random and started to read. It was called Toby, and was about a dog, a golden retriever. Page one: This is Toby, my dog. Page two: Toby died yesterday. It continued on, a sad paean singing the praises of a little boy’s pet. I think I was in tears by page 5.

As a first time, it wasn’t great. But really, isn’t that what you want? For something to suck badly at the beginning, so each day is an improvement... no sense peaking too early.

I did a hidden comic for this one (like many of the ASP ones, done lightly in blue) but they didn't post it when I got a commendation, so I guess it didn't make the grade.

Experimentation

2011-09-16T18:31:00.002+07:00

Friday again, and another micro flash fiction. Use 3 of the 5 seed words: enzyme, ivy, bishop, blister, lollipop and do it in 100 words. I picked ivy, enzyme and blister. 100 on the dot.

Experimentation

To: Lab07
From: Backer3
Initial tests of batch 208-P show promise. Proceed to stage 4.

To: Backer3
From: Lab07
Acknowledged. Resulting enzymes in 208-P have been cross-pollinated then introduced to a selection of plants... ivy, rhododendrons, gladioli and holly. Awaiting further results.

To: Lab07
From: Backer3
The administration is getting antsy - it looks like funding could be rescinded any moment. Speed it up, skip animals... go straight to human trials. Repeat, begin human trials immediately.

To: Backer3
From: HandlerCrew
Problem has been liquidated. Minimal injuries our end. A few cases of slight blistering after contact. Handler Crew standing down.

Flash Fiction: Bloodfeud

2011-09-05T20:40:00.002+07:00

The entry for this week is just a wee little tacker, only meant to be 100 words at most on the topic of revenge. I'll shut up now so the into can be shorter than my entry.

Bloodfeud

Like a pack of inhuman monsters they had attacked us, howling for blood and death. Terrible to behold, and without pity. They had driven families from ancestral homes and put them to the torch, slain elderly and those who could not protect themselves. A blight ravaging the countryside. A stand had to be made.

I waited, late one night, reduced to skulking in the shadows. After closing time in the tavern I approached a wine-sotted reveller. “The Count sends his blessings to you and your village!” I whispered as I sunk my fangs into his neck.

Swords and Cybery

2011-08-27T10:32:00.000+07:00

This week's Terribleminds entry was to combine two genres in a story. I chose sword and sorcery and cyberpunk.

Swords and Cybery

Grelt the technomancer disconnected the electrodes from his staff, retracting them back into his tearducts with a grimace. “We must hurry, for the minions of Parity Decay will be here soon.” Shouldering their gear once again, the pair of them set off up the steep scarp. It had been months since they had been this way, yet the path was familiar. Soon, signs of the enclave became noticeable, and they picked up speed, impatient to be home.

The Temple of Dajin was crowded. Expectant faces looking for a sign of hope. Grelt and Dreen passed amongst them giving the occasional nod in acknowledgement. For a moment, Dreen stopped and swept her son into her arms. Sspinning him around and making him smile she put him on the ground andcontinued to the interface of the satellite link that surmounted the altar. After lighting a censer of incense and scanning her sub-dermal RFID chip, she opened a heavily encrypted channel to the orbital in the Lagrange point where the Avatar of Dajin dwelt.

Blessed by His presence, Grelt began. “It is as we feared. The Shigamorori Conglomerate will soon come to an understanding with Parity Decay.” A groan went up from the listeners, but he waved them to silence. “There is still hope. We may be able to prevent their union, if we act quickly. We have also heard that our allies - the dwarven clan Silverstrike, devout followers of Dajin... Blessed be He... have seen a great improvement in the skills of their craftsmen. They inform us that soon they will be able to create the weapon spoken of in the prophesy: the Rune-etched monfilament blade! Spread the word, my friends, that soon the lands will be free!”

Crouched under a camouflage net, Dreen clutched at the amulet of far seeing, and scanned the road. Through the heat haze, she could make out the vanguard of the skeleton horde, the bulk of Parity Decay’s forces. After some tense moments waiting, they had advanced enough that the armoured palanquin which bore the offerings for Shigamoroiri Corporation came into sight. Dreen spoke into her throat mic “Grelt, do you read me? It is go time, I repeat, it is go time!” In his summoning cirlce within the temple, Grelt completed his ceremony by sprinkling powdered capacitors and nanite statues of Daijin’s Avatar onto a smoking brazier.

Appearing low on the horizon, an emerald beam shot out, stirring the clouds into into fearsome shapes above the skeletons. With a roar, Daijin manifested in the aspect of a circuit dragon, and fell upon the forces of Parity Decay. Being mindless, they did not flee in fear, but their counterattack was useless - railguns and explosives could not punch through the scaly hide of the God, and the spells of their mages were paltry compared to the glory of Daijin.He quickly seized the palanquin betwixt his teeth, and ground it to pieces. With a swipe of his forepaws he decimated the skeletons, before dematerializing, and returning to his Orbital. Their attack successful, Dreen shifted form into that of an eagle, and flew back to her friends, hope stirring in her heart once again.

The Bazaar of Bokhara

2011-07-31T18:05:00.002+07:00

I was planning on doing a bunch of writing these holidays, but so far I've been sidetracked but in a good way ;) I started on Chuck Wendig's Unicorn one last week, but didn't get it done. The one for this week is about shopping at a flea market. After rendering down the unfinished Unicorn one, I worked it into: The Bazaar of Bokhara. So it's sort of shoe-horned into a two for one combo deal, weighing in at 888 words.

Ulf Magnusen sighed with contentment when he finally caught a glimpse of the tents and awnings of the Bazaar of Bohkara. Tucking his russet beard into his belt, he drew his ermine fringed robe about him, contemptuous of the sweltering heat. Muttering in Old Eldritch, he thumped his gnarled staff of the cobblestones and threw some blue feathers into the air, spitting on them. A hazy figure coalesced in front of him, unnoticeable to an untrained eye. Bowing subserviently, it slowly led Ulf towards the marketplace.

The mage wended his way amidst the bedazzling throng, ignoring the raucous calls of hawkers and merchants. His nebulous guide hovered attentively, waiting for its master when the crowd separated them momentarily. They came to an ornately plumed tent, and the being dissipated in a puff of sweet smelling smoke.

The wizard Magnusen was unimpressed by the spaciousness of the tent's interior, nor by its eye-catching stock. Glancing about quickly he smiled to himself. Surely, if any could locate such a beast, Abdul Ibn Wazik would be the one. Upon his entry, a wizened and bent servant gave him a brief nod, and shuffled into to the one of the many rooms branching out from the entry hall. After a short period, an impassive man in a bright green turban entered, accompanied by another who was ostentatiously moustachioed and berringed. The latter bowed, and began speaking. It was an unintelligible mishmash of growls and vowels to Ulf - the incomprehension was obvious on his face. The man ceased speaking, and waited. Annoyed, Ulf reached into his pouch and brought out his babelstone. Although its powers were on the wane until the next neap tide, it should be able to handle the pleasantries.

The stranger stroked his moustache, then began again. “A thousand blessings upon you, O Traveller, and welcome to the humble stall of Abdul Ibn Wazik. My master wishes me to regretfully inform you he has pressing business in Damascus. But I, Akheem, his unworthy servant am authorised to act upon his behalf. If you will but return on the morrow, then I am sure we can come to a most felicitous agreement.” With a curt nod the wizard left wordlessly, smiling to himself. It had been a long journey from the fjords of his homeland but he was willing to wait another day for such a treasure.

Ulf’s good mod left him while he was trying to organise a room. With a flare of ochre light from his babelstone, the harsh and guttural local language once again abraded his ears. Communication became impossible but money speaks all languages. He was offered a less appealing room and simpler fare than was his wont, but he made do after summoning a succubus to take his mind away from such suffering.

The following day he returned to the bazaar, which was just as chaotic. Ulf paced a complex route that formed an intricate rune amongst the stalls, before arriving at the tent. The old bearded servant met him outside, and in Old Eldritch reminded him once again that infidels were not permitted to speak words of power within, on pain of permanently losing their sanity. Dispassionately, Ulf waited to be ushered inside.

Once again the man with flowing moustaches was waiting. When Ulf did not produce the babelstone, Akheem went to a wicker basket and withdrew a snake from within. The serpent coiled around his arm, and he dulled the iridescent scales with charcoal, barking short phrases in southern Magetongue. Its form shimmered, and changed into that of a Naga.

Looking around the tent lazily, the being licked its lips, and had an extended conversation with Akheem. Finally, it turned its attention to the wizard Magnusen and explained it would act as translator. Knowing Naga to be treacherous, Ulf went into great detail about the beast he sought, so as there could be no confusion. Echoing various phrases, the Naga nodded and smiled. “Noble, yesss,” “Virginsss, offf courssse,” “Rare, defffinitely,” “Yesss, pure, and ssserve the righteousss.” When he had exhaustively described the creature, the conversation turned to price, but there was little room for haggling. On the finely woven rug, the wizard Magnusen completed the rune that he had walked that morning, and reached through the thus-completed portal. He handed over a fragment of unmelting ice from the heart of a glacier, the scrolls of Trin and a rope woven from the beard of a frost giant. The Naga smiled and informed him that what he sought would be provided to him in three days.

At the allotted time, Ulf impatiently returned to the stall of Abdul Ibn Wazik. The old servant invited him in Old Eldritch to take his comfort on a mound of cushions. Leaning his staff against a table covered in books, Ulf picked idly at sweetmeats until Akheem and the Naga came into the room with an effeminate, prancing dandy. The Naga watched the newcomer intently as he looked at the wares on display with mounting horror. With a bow towards his guest, Akheem snatched a jewel encrusted dagger from his belt, and lunged at the stranger’s waist. His hand’s came away bloody and the stranger began shrieking uncontrollably, writing on the floor. “Compliments of Abdul Ibn Wazik, one Eunuch’s Horn,” the Naga said with a sneer.

Steampunk Superheroes

2011-07-01T09:59:00.000+07:00

Friday has rolled around again, that meant it's time to offer up my entry for Chuck Wendig's Flash Fiction. This week, we had to pick two of:

Steampunk.

Superhero.

Noir.

Erotica.

Farce.

Men’s Adventure.

And write something. Nice! But it meant that my usual slacking off of reading other people's entries at work can't be done, as I don't want to have something NSFW on-screen when a kid asks me how to stop spelling banananana.

I chose Steampunk and Superheroes - and depending on how you like your superheroes, possibly farce, too. If you like them all broody and deep, with hidden layers and tortured souls, then you ain't getting that. If, instead, you love the Adam West Batman Show (be warned that link is to TV Tropes) then this is for you.

“Good evening, all of ye meritorious members of the Mechanascience Association! As I take the podium for tonight’s meeting, to espouse to you the progress of my latest predilection - a flight of fancy based upon the works of that most eminent scientist, Mr. Charles Darwin.” With a flourish, The Technomancer gestured to Sprockette to draw aside the curtain. Sketching a chaste curtsey she did so, and he reveled in the startled gasps and the smattering of applause before continuing. “I humbly present to you: Monkey Wench! An estimable fusion of biology and technology she will no doubt be instrumental in our efforts to thwart those rapscallions in the Clockwerk Alliance!”

as always the presentation was followed a more informal gathering in the smoking room. Feet up on an ottoman, The Technomancer puffed contentedly at his cigar. He listened with half an ear to Monkey Wench eloquently holding forth to an interested knot of listeners, including some of the Mechanascience Association’s inner coterie. The peace was short lived though. With a clattering bang, the door was thrown back and a breathless street urchin came in. “Parden me, sirs an’ ladies, but yer needed down at the wharfs! It’s them Coalstack Boyz!”

“They’re causin’ all sorts o’ trouble!” Instantly, the room sprang to attention, focusing on the impressive bulk of The Steamhammer, waiting for his lead. “Righto my lads and lasses, Forge and Foundry Division will field this one. Let’s see,” he rumbled, glancing about. “I’ll take The Wind-Up Kid with me, Mr. Lectric, and I would be honoured if you would grace us with your presence, ma’am” he finished, winking at Monkey Wench who blushed furiously. Pausing to throw a ha’penny to the boy, The Steamhammer led his team out of the building.

Slowly, the team spread out, but kept within hearing distance of each other. Regrettably, this meant they could all listen to The Wind-Up Kid complain. “The Coalstack Boyz! What a waste of time for all four of us! Why, I could take ‘em on me own! Come on, they don’t even have a catch-phrase, and barely have a costume! Not one in three has a cape!” He was right of course, The Coalstack Boyz were the lowest level in that insidious amalgam - The Clockwerk Alliance. Little more than henchmen and hired goons, The Coalstack Boyz ran the minor rackets and did all the grunt work... they had to prove themselves before being initiated into the higher levels of Evil. Our brave and plucky heroes come upon them, pilfering goods from one of the loading bays.

Shouted Mr. Lectric, striking an inspiring pose. “For the might of the Mechanascience Association is here to foil your foul deeds!” The incorrigible bounders that made up The Coalstack Boyz threw their ill-gotten cargo at Mr. Lectric’s head, and sprinted for the shadows. As luck would have it, most of the boxes were too heavy to make the distance, yet he still spectacularly dodged to the side to avoid them. The Steamhammer closed in on the miscreants and was about to come down on them hard, as only he could...

thick, ropey tendrils shot out of the blackness, and lashed round his bulky figure, holding him immobile. A sonorous clanking echoed repeatedly from the darkness, and the mechanical legs of Spinning Jenny appeared. Cackling manically to herself, she started to wind him in towards her massive mandibles.

Monkey Wench leapt into action with a lady-like (albeit slightly feral) grunt. Bringing her fore-paws to bear with their massive Stilsons, she attacked one of Spinning Jenny’s joints. With a

of rending metal, the leg dangled uselessly. Shrieking the spider-thing turned from her attack on The Steamhammer, and focused her attentions on Monkey Wench instead. Things looked grim indeed for our heroine, until her allies returned from routing The Coalstack Boyz. Mr. Lectric charged in, with shocking effectiveness. Battered and beaten into submission, Spinning Jenny ejected from her carapace of brass fulcrums and whirring cogs, and made off over the rooftops.

retired to the hallowed halls of the Mechanascience Association, where Monkey Wench was lauded for her fine showing on her first outing. Yet all is not well in our fine city. While the Clockwerk Alliance was stymied on this outing, they still imperil us all... Deep in her underground lair, Spinning Jenny raises the speaking tube to her mouth, and whispers throatily into it “Dr. Phlogiston? I will require your services once more...” In the darkness a whistle sounds and massive governor balls begin to spin once again with malicious intent...

Tune in next week for the next thrilling installment of:

English, Motherfucker, do you speak it

2011-06-29T10:10:00.000+07:00

We're nearly at the end of term four, and my afternoon class ALWAYS speak in Vietnamese instead of English. I couldn't help but say this (modified as the picture of course) so then with a moment in paint, I had to of course make it.

Its nearly holidays, yay! We're just slacking off around here, so I'm planning on doing a bunch of writing then (honest!)

Confessions of a Penmonkey

2011-06-09T14:37:00.000+07:00

Earlier last week I got Chuck Wendig's Confessions of a Freelance Penmonkey, and read it over the weekend while in Dong Anh. I was a bit nervous, not because of the book, but because it was the first time I'd taken the kindle there, and I was worried what our niece and nephew would to do it. They're both around 3, and love technology, as the way only a hamfisted baby can. They've killed a iphone a laptop twice, and countless other phones, cameras and other pricey electronics.

But the kindle passed with flying colours... probably because they're used to colour displays, touch screens, pictures, vibrations and sounds.

The writing was great, too. His website updates daily, so it was nice being able to read his style of writing on the weekend where I had no internet connection.

The three main things I took away from it - apart from a large dose of his profanity laced humour which I love - were:

That you should finish stuff, not just flit from shiny topic to new idea to the next great idea - something I have been particularly susceptible to recently.
Outline so you know where you're going, you will end up with a stronger story in the long run.
Leave your work for a while, like a month or so, and come back and edit it then. To be honest, I haven't done much editing of my stories at all, but it will be something that I will have to start doing - and not just by pulling out wayward commas.

So I'll shelve writing a story to do some more outlining, and then get back onto it. If I feel bogged down, I'll swap to a fable or New Hanoian review. Plus, I have 2 or 3 of his flash fiction challenges that stalled due to work or holidays or just petering out.

But soon it'll be time for that great bit of creative writing - End of Year reports.

The uninvited guest

2011-05-30T10:59:00.000+07:00

Once again, Chuck Wendig has an awesome flash fiction idea: write about an unexpected guest. For me, this topic was a doddle. There's not a lot of fiction to it, this actually happened, though I did embellish it slightly - mainly by making me more coherent and toning down the swearing. A thousand words he says, but this one tops the scales at 1600 or so. But usually mine are anemic, coming in at half way, so screw it, I'm allowing myself a little lee way. For genre, I guess it could be part of my memoirs, though I'm not writing them till we get flying cars and all the other good stuff we've been promised.

The Uninvited Guest

If you’re going to take a bunch of kids on a week long camp, then fourth grade is pretty much the best age group. Old enough that they’re not going to cry because they miss mum and dad, they’ve grown out of wetting the bed, but they haven’t developed much in the way of attitude ala “You can’t tell me what to do!” or hormones making them want to get frisky with each other. Of course, the two that shouldn’t be anywhere near each other as they drive each other bonkers end up as bunk mates, and the needy clingy kid with the whiny voice will follow you everywhere, but compared to what it could be, it’s great. Perfect. But a week away from all the comforts of home mean that you need to stock up on the finer things in life the night before, so you have good memories to get you through. My classes are always a boisterous and rambunctious lot in school, so once you throw activities like archery and horse riding in the mix, I’m definitely going to need a happy place in my head to go to.

So I have a few beers while the sun is setting and I barbecue a roo steak rare, so the juices can mingle with all the other good stuff: the bacon, the beetroot, the egg, the onions. I’ve read of salad, but I’m not a practicing member of that faith. Plus, there’s less to clean up this way. Finished off with some chocolate - even though it’ll set off my cough a bit - and that’s what you call a meal. A few more beers, a level or two of whatever game takes my fancy, and some tasteful porn, ready for an early night. Life is grand.

I often drink a fair whack of water during the night, and after an hour or so of sleep, I wake up with a tickle in my throat, and reach over for the cup. I don’t bother with the light, as I do this a bunch of times each and every evening.

I splutter a bit, some has gone down the wrong way, and I lie back down. Mumbling to myself due to still coughing, I realise I’m having some difficulty breathing; I guess having chocolate wasn’t the smartest move. Oh well, it’ll soon pass.

Only, it doesn’t. And my throat feels really weird. Like... maybe I’ve swallowed a bug. That thought brings me to full wakefulness. On a normal day, I cough like a geriatric who’s been smoking two packs a day since he was fighting in the Somme. And when I blow my nose, it’s as if Satchmo stole Saint Peter’s horn and is sounding the last trumpet. Don’t get me started about sneezing, either, I’m able to make babies cry and priests break into fits of giggles during a sermon. So while I shun sport, I have a good pair of lungs on me. This bug ain’t hanging around, I think to myself, and take a couple of really deep breaths.

Then I smack myself on the head. Retard! Deep breaths in isn’t the way to do this! What, you wanna suck the bug into your lungs? Maybe get it stuck in a bronchial tube?” So I take a few shallow breaths and then breathe out heavily. I try this a few times, ramping it up with some coughing too. I feel light headed, and lie back. Maybe there’s no bug. It could just be my overactive imagination. I try to lie back, telling myself I’m an idiot and to close my eyes. It doesn’t work. I think I can hear it moving, the sound carried to my inner via my eustachian tube or something. I’m not sure if it’d work that way, but it may do, it sounds damn convincing to me.

I sit up, and start hacking and coughing again. I get a brain flash... I know, I’ll hit myself in the throat a couple of times, that ought to dislodge it. Being a slow learner, it takes me about three or four blows before I realise this is a really stupid idea. I have some more water, and convince myself that there isn’t a bug (again) and try to sleep. This lasts for about all of thirty seconds before I’m starting to stress about my shortness of breath. I try hanging my head over the end of the bed. Is... is that progress? I think that’s better. I flip over onto my back, and try that way. Yeah, that’s better. But it sure is uncomfortable. Hey, maybe I can see it! I leap out of bed, and head to the bathroom. I open my mouth, and stick out my tongue, and try and look down into my lungs. Can I see something? Maybe. Maybe if I shine a light, that’d help.

I race back to my room and dig out the torch my parents sent, it has a bunch of bright white LEDs. Back in the bathroom with my tongue sticking out, I blind myself a couple of times, before I worry myself that it might be scared of the light, and scuttling deeper into darkness, like a cockroach in the kitchen. I need natural light, that’s the ticket! I go into the kitchen, and grab my candle for when we have blackouts, then return to the bathroom. Angling the candle, I assume the pose again, but not for long... hot wax drips from the candle onto my upper inner thigh, barely missing my todger (it’s warm in Darwin, I sleep naked). After a period of swearing, I put out the candle. I can see the lurid headline in tomorrow’s NT News: Teacher dies in bizarre sex act blah blah blah autoeroticism blah blah blah hot wax blah blah blah asphyxiation. Anyway, the light isn’t working, I must just be shining it on its arse.

I get confirmation of this fact after a few more coughs and a bit of retching. The bug starts biting me. A few more coughs and this time some progress, but not the good sort... blood in some phlegm. I take some deep, calming breaths, but realise that may suck it into my lungs. I don’t want this little fucker having to eat its way out through my soft, tender aveoli. At no stage have I thought “I should go to hospital, I’ve been at this for over an hour,” instead I think I could maybe poke it out, so I go and get a chopstick. Luckily, while I’m psyching myself up to poke it down my throat, I give a tiny feeble cough, and out comes a few legs. This is more like it! A few more with gusto, and here comes the rest of the bugger. Woohoo!

Now, I’ve always had a thing for killing bugs good and dead before this. I have had a long standing rule that spiders should be hit until they’re in at least three pieces to make sure they are dead. This guy, well, he certainly cops a flogging. I beat him with a shoe, a book, stomp on him with my boots on, the works and jerks. When I’m done, he’s a monomolecular stain on the tiles, which I wipe up with toilet paper and then set on fire. Vengeance!

And now it’s time for me to get back to sleep. Easier said than done, I’m awash with adrenaline, rage and victory. So I get up, and turn on my computer. In practically every game where you’re saving the world, there’s a bug level. So I dig out old save games and have at it, crushing chitin, pounding carapaces, and snapping limbs. I use chainsaws, hatchets, crowbars, machine guns, magic, my fists, tanks, and even spaceships on them. I feel better, even though I’m rather haggard as now it is dawn. Time to get my stuff together and go.

The first night of the camp, we’re sitting around the bonfire, and the owner of the property says it’s traditional to tell scary stories. He kicks off with a possible, but not very plausible story about a feral pig being attacked recently by a crocodile in the river. He had been harping on us not to leave rubbish out as it attracts the wild pigs, and this element adds a good reason not to go wandering off on your own, so us teachers appreciate it, but it’s not too scary. A few of the kids have a go, but they mainly tell retreads of whatever movie they saw recently, or completely over the top versions of the most scariest story ever, with excesses of blood and monsters.

One of the parents says that maybe a teacher should have a try, and with a gleam in my eye, I begin telling them of what happened last night. Of course I swap out phrases like “inbred, poo-rooting monkey fucker” with “Getoutgetoutgetout!” but the core of the story is there. I love story telling, with its facial expressions and tones and cadences, and I’m well into the swing of it with my Teachers Voice. Towards the end of the story, one of the parents is looking kind of green, one or two kids have their hands over their ears, and there’s a gaggle of girls clustered around a parent. I let my voice go rough and thoughtful as I end the story. “I’m not sure if the bug was in the cup of water,” I say, as if to myself “or if it crawled in there, while I was asleep. Maybe it was looking for a place to lay its eggs. Maybe it did.” The other teacher decides we’ve had enough scary stories for one night, and we head off to our cabins.

Recipe

2011-05-20T11:08:00.000+07:00

So I've been slack at writing, but we were on holidays. I'm slowly getting back into the swing of things. I'm part way through my entry for this week's Flash Fiction challenge from Chuck Wendig, but I got derailled by yesterday's post by him, where he was asking for a recipe for Unicorn Nipple Cookies.

*****

This is from the Eldritch edition of Cooking Light Magazine. It's out of print these days, but you can sometimes scrounge up a copy in used specialist bookshops.

Unicorn Nipple Biscuits

Ingredients:
1 cup of elf tears
3 tablespoons of ground sassafras root
4 cups of flour
2 griffin eggs
Stick of butter
Pixie dust
1/2 cup of brown sugar
1/2 cup of white sugar
2 teaspoons of honey
2 cups of mermaid's milk

Method:
The night before, soak the ground sassafras root in the elf tears. You only really need enough tears to cover the sassafras, but let’s be honest, it’s so much fun procuring them that it doesn't hurt to be extravagant in your measurements here.

The next morning, preheat your oven to the 3rd Circle - that's Gluttony for those of you still on the old Infernal scale.
Strain out the sassafras (pro tip: the elven tears can still be used to scour your hydra) and set aside.
Separate the egg whites and the yolks. The unneeded griffin yolks can be used in the summoning of a succubus to clean the kitchen afterwards.
Place the whites in a large bowl, and belabour your imp until he has beaten them to a smooth consistency, while you slowly add the white sugar.
When the mixture begins forming peaks add the sassafras.
In a separate bowl cream the butter and brown sugar.
Add two cups of flour, and 1 cup of mermaid's milk, and mix.
Smooth the surface and then inscribe the Sigil of Falgan upon it with honey.
Add the remainder of the flour, and more milk if needed.
Mix the dough thoroughly. Place it on a baking tray in bite-sized portions.
Smother it in the egg white mixture, sprinkling a pinch of pixie dust on each one.
After chanting Drison’s incantation pop them into the oven for twenty minutes.

Garnish with an iridescent scale from a lesser bronze dragon when cool.

*****

Now back to some more creative writing, there's a slim chance I'll get my Flash Fiction done before I get distracted by his next post

Flash Fiction - Jake and Gran & Gruk: Attorney-At-Law

2011-04-08T14:36:00.000+07:00

Friday afternoon and I've just scraped in with getting two entries for this week's Chuck Wendig's Flash Fiction. Didn't end up doing it last night, of course I got sidetracked. The challenge this week was to pick any of these sixty random and strange pictures and write about it. There's quite a few that I liked the feel of. I might revisit some of these at a later date. For now, I've done two. Not 1,000 words each, just little lightweight ones. Gruk: Attorney-At-Law's style may be a bit of a struggle to read, but it's in the same vein as Grunt Smash-Kill and writing as him was always popular. Jake and Gran was a doddle to write too. I did it second, but for obvious reasons I figured Gruk should be posted last. It's much more like my normal style.

Jake and Gran

Jake always hated visiting his Gran. She was so old. All her stories were repetitive and boring. This trip sucked. Here it was, the start of summer vacation, and he was stuck in the car, when he should have been in front of the TV playing his X-Box. Stupid Gran.

When they got there - finally - he was still in a bad mood. Hopefully his mother wouldn’t want to stay for the whole weekend. He hated the room he slept in, full of dolls and stuffed teddy bears, and doilies everywhere. Hate was such a strong word, but when you’re fourteen, you have easy access to so much anger. Slamming the car door he skulked and slouched into the house, trailing a lace in the gravel of his Gran’s driveway, kicking up dust.

After constant badgering from his mother, he sighed, rolled his eyes and gave his Gran a peck on the cheek, wrinkling his nose at her old-person smell. He slumped into a chair, pointedly not making eye contact and grunted or mumbled all his answers until the adults moved onto topics of their own. Jake was itching for the visit to be over. He hummed annoyingly and tuned out of the conversation. It was always the same old crap anyway, about dead people and events from long ago, what a waste of time.

Surprisingly, the conversation ran down faster than normal, neither his mother or Gran seemed much in the mood for talking. Jake smiled. This was more like it. Finally the old bag had run out steam, and they’d be heading home soon! Maybe he’d be able to talk his mother into eating out on the way home - anything was better than the interminably long meals of bland, stodgy pap that his Gran always served up while droning on about the same topics she’d already gone over so many times.

Jake led the way to the door, as his mother helped his Gran out of the chair that engulfed her frail frame. As she hobbled painfully to the door, she stopped enroute and picked up a large, slightly grubby teddy bear. Impatient to be gone, Jake steeled himself on the grass for a goodbye hug. A bored look on his face as his Gran drew level with him, her bottom lip quivering,
“This is Mr. Bugglesworth,” she said, her voice cracking, “look after him for me please Jakey!”
“Gran! I’m not a little kid any more! I don’t want the stupid bear!”
At this, his mother chimed in... “Jake! Mind your manners! What would your father say?”
With little grace he sighed theatrically and presented himself for a hug.
“I guess this is goodbye, Jakey. They said its inoperable, and I’ve not got long left. I’ll miss you,” his Gran said, as she leaned her head against his, and burst silently into tears.

*****

Gruk: Attorney-At-Law

“Hi, it me, Gruk, atterny at law. I is a lawyerer, and I do lawyerring werking heer at Johnsun, Smif, Winters and Assossyates.”

“‘But Gruk,’ yew miyt be saying, ‘Yew is uh cave man! How can yew be heer, dooink all dis stuff?’”

Dat is gud kerwestion, it awl hass to do wif takkyon beem mannyypullayshun. My rowl is dat of cellyberrity tell a vishun lawyerer. Dat probberly wear yew rememember Gruk from.Heer at Jonhson, Smiff, Winters and Assyociates, we cayter to awl sorts of littygayshun. Have a complex constachushunal case? No proberlem, we hav reefined and diggernified barriersters too. On starf, we hav amybulanse chaysers, skreeching devorse harpees, serlymee co orp erate mussil, yew name it, we doods it!”

“Gruk has wun agenst such prommynent sulissiters az Cownsiller Gerrtruude de Sinkink Cow, Robo-Tron Lawinator 8500, Misster Libbertary and de Masked Lejustator. Heer at Jonsun, Sermiff, Wintaz and Assyoshiates, we onlie hiers de best!”

“Call me! Call me now! - I pick up de fone and seys ‘Hi, it me, Gruk, attorrnery at law... what yew wearink? Dat coz Gruk awlso do moonliting as sexy fown callerer too. Dat just part of de servis yew get at Jonhnsun, Smif, Winterers an Asosoiachates!”

“Wevver yew is arfter a huuj payowt, gettink off skot free, a kerippiling injunctshun or just yor tiym in de spotterlite, Gruk can help yew. Rememba de naym: Gruk... atterny at law!”

Progress, of a sort

2011-04-07T15:40:00.000+07:00

Nothing really to upload at the moment, but I have been progressing. I did a bunch of reviews for the New Hanoian, picking up one of the monthly prizes, which is I what I was shooting for. They have a little box on the main page called featured member which gives a summary of some of the past prize winners. The times I won before were ages ago, and so I wasn't in the lineup. I'm not sure if they still update it, I hope so. If not, oh well, its only vanity.

A few friends and I have been doing some collaborative writing, as well. That's been interesting and fun, especially when one of us takes it in a place the other wasn't expecting. I like it, and hope that the wheels don't fall off due to other distractions - I'm partially guilty of this what with my short attention span.

Chuck Wendig has a great flash fiction challenge up, where you go to this website, and pick one of the random, silly stock photos to write about. I've picked three I like, so I will make a start on one of them after this... unless I get distracted by something else.

I've been doing some reading as well, and found even more useful, well written and informative websites about writing - but I realise this is a bit of a rabbit hole I don't want to get sucked too deeply into... its not just about reading about how to do it, I actually have to do it, too. I'm home sick today, so I can't post the links, but someday I'll get around to it.

Plus, I've talked Tho into letting me get a Kindle (I'm pretty sure), yay!

Sky-Blue Sparkle-Pony

2011-03-25T10:45:00.000+07:00

As our school expanded, so did our playground areas, and our playground duties. I picked up one in a new area, which was forlorn and lifeless as it was just used as a thoroughfare. Practically my only companions there would be the occasional teacher passing through... and Sky-Blue Sparkle-Pony. After a while (over a term late, of course) our sports supplies arrived, and the area sprouted badminton nets and a basketball hoop, so there was an explosion in the student population. Through long months of playground duty, Sky-Blue Sparkle-Pony stood vigilant guard with not just me, but other teachers on duty, but I think she went largely overlooked. Incongruous, yet easy to miss... a light blue, with a smattering of rich dark purple stars on her hind quarters and matching hooves. Her mane, flowing free in the wind of the ether. Her face was joyous yet solemn at the same time, and she had a wistful look in her eye. Sky-Blue Sparkle-Pony had a coat that felt like suede. “Merely” a sticker, placed by some happy student on one of the windows, overlooked by most. I always greeted her as I walked past, and waved goodbye when I went off duty.

Its the little things, the silly things, that I keep looking for. Who needs a gorgeous sunset over a beach, or other magnificent sights on a grand scale, when you can have tiny patches of wonder. Lower the bar, and keep your eyes peeled for small gifts. Then your joys are abundant, and the payout is even greater when you do ser something large and awe-inspiring.

I kept meaning to take a photo of Sky-Blue Sparkle-Pony, and even though I always have my camera on my hip, I was hesitant to do so. It may have been I just wanted to hold her in my mind, pristine and ranging free, instead of corralling her in a soulless picture, miss-filed and then forgotten. Last week, when I went on duty, she was gone. That doesn’t mean she didn’t touch my life. A damp and miserable duty meant there wasn’t many kids to supervise, so I spent time daydreaming about her instead. Where she came from, and where she went, because she couldn’t have been only a sticker. I started to write a short silly story in honour of Sky-Blue Sparkle-Pony as a creative writing exercise one night, but then we went to bed after the first paragraph. Sky-Blue Sparkle-Pony was in my mind as I was drifting off to sleep, and I couldn’t help but think there was something familiar about her.

A bolt from my subconscious jolted me awake... Sky-Blue Sparkle-Pony was a My Little Pony! I wasn’t completely sure, but my hunch felt reasonable. Last night, I started poking around, trying to find out if my suspicions were true. Her form seemed similar to the ones on their website, but I couldn’t find an exact match. Maybe a knock off. Maybe I was wrong. How about an image search, with a few terms thrown in to narrow it down. I found her, my poor Sky-Blue Sparkle-Pony. Good old Rule 34 strikes again. At least it wasn’t too extreme. So after that, the wheels fell off my version of happiness for her. My inner child isn’t just an inner child, but more of an complete unit... I don’t really have much space - or use - for an outer adult (except maybe to buy booze). I’m happy and confident with my inner child, and while I don’t mind rainbows and bright shiny colours, I’m not so sure I can knock out a paean of happiness to Blue Belle the My Little Pony. To Sky-Blue Sparkle-Pony yes... but it may take a little coaxing to get her to trot back into my life. So instead, I expanded this explanation as the writing exercise. So that’s two unfinished ones in quick succession. Let’s hope that someday, the publication deals come as thick and fast and easily!

*****

Sky-Blue Sparkle-Pony

The herd stirred, and nickered softly in the glow of the Aura of Happiness. It was time for them to go out into the myriads of worlds at different periods in the timestream, taking diverse forms. The stallion whinnied in benediction, and dismissed them with a flick of his tail. Sky-Blue Sparkle-Pony galloped without motion, and after an infinitesimal moment that somehow seemed stretched, she found her place and purpose. Part of a set of children’s stickers, Sky-Blue Sparkle-Pony knew it would be easy this time for her to spread joy. Much better than last time, when the only way she had been able to do so was by being eaten. When she was depressed, she could still feel the tiger’s claws rending her. It had taken the herd many revolutions indeed to be able to summon her back into existence.

*****

Ceased due to Rule 34, even though it wasn’t overly graphic. May come back some day. I will always love you, my Sky-Blue Sparkle-Pony!

Monosyllabic - Swords at Dawn

2011-03-21T17:53:00.001+07:00

I wasn't a fan of Chuck Wendig's challenge for this week - baby noir - so I finished (well, restarted really) an idea I had a few years ago. I remember I was playing Pirates of the Burninng Sea when I thought of it, a monosyllabic story. A duel seemed the best bet (again, probably influenced heavily by the game) and I started it, but got sidetracked.

It was fun doing it, and harder than I thought it would be. A couple of times, I found a turn of phrase that was good, but it fell down when I realised something was polysyllabic. A few words are a bit dicey if they're one or two (steel, duel, wild, a few others) but I did the clapping thing like I teach my kids in class, and even after doing that, moment nearly slipped through until another read.

That's enough yammering, on with the short story.

Swords at Dawn

Dawn. First light with a glint of sun in the dew on the grass. A few days gone by words had been said and it was time to seek an end. So it had come to this, drawn swords and bare steel. They could not turn back now, a sneer on the face of one proof that this must be. Sad eyes, mad face, low bow, curt nod... duel!

Slow, step by step, they spun, to seek flesh, to cut. Tense then a thrust, the clang of steel, a curse. First blood! A small cut on the hand, just a nick, but it led to rage. A wild swing... a deep breath then calm once more. Look for a way, test with a feint, then drive the point home. A miss, this time. Their world shrunk to the blade, the eyes, the foe.

Beads of sweat drip from his face, fear in the eyes as he knows that his skill is less. Sweep the blade in an arc, and hope to hit. Aim for the head, but no luck. Fall back, give ground to a rain of blows. He is sure the end must soon come, arm sore, a hand that shakes. A cut to his arm, and his blade starts to weave as the blood runs free.

The next thrust, less of a block than a weak push. His foe grins and steps in his guard, spears his leg with the tip of his blade. As flesh is torn, so too is a cry from his lips. Red stains his pants, his groin hurts. He steps back from the lunge at his chest. Too slow, too late, pain there as well. A weak cough, blood on his lips, last words just a croak. He falls to the ground in a heap and can’t move. He does not want to feel this, wants it not to end this way. His foe wipes his sword on the grass with not a glance spent on the dead. It is done.