tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-86975171572827178762024-03-12T20:17:50.678-04:00InspirandomoniumAnonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11027236342445432484noreply@blogger.comBlogger31125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8697517157282717876.post-68235482842586574492013-06-28T12:29:00.003-04:002013-06-28T12:29:59.557-04:00Sexual Harrassment at ConventionsI'm relatively new to this community, but that doesn't mean I can't take a stand when something important is happening. And this 'something important' is critical, because it affects the community as a whole, fans, authors, editors, artists... everyone.<br />
<br />
I've been reading about sexual harassment at conventions, and it is very upsetting. There seems to be an undercurrent of keep-it-to-yourself, but many are now taking a stand.<br />
<br />
This blog was posted by several authors, including <a href="http://seanan-mcguire.livejournal.com/517984.html" title="http://seanan_mcguire.livejournal.com"><span style="text-decoration: underline;"><strong>Seanan McGuire</strong></span></a>, <a href="http://www.jimchines.com/2013/06/how-to-report-sexual-harassment-by-elise-matthesen/" title="http://www.jimchines.com"><span style="text-decoration: underline;"><strong>Jim Hines</strong></span></a>, <a href="http://whatever.scalzi.com/2013/06/28/reporting-harassment-at-a-convention-a-first-person-how-to/" title="http://whatever.scalzi.com"><span style="text-decoration: underline;"><strong>John Scalzi</strong></span></a>, <a href="http://www.maryrobinettekowal.com/journal/on-sexual-harassment-at-conventions-elise-matheson-speaks-out/" title="http://www.maryrobinettekowal.com/category/journal/"><span style="text-decoration: underline;"><strong>Mary Robinette Kowal</strong></span></a>, <a href="http://terribleminds.com/ramble/2013/06/28/how-to-report-sexual-harassment-by-elise-matthesen/" target="_blank"><b>Chuck Wendig</b></a> and <a href="http://brandonsanderson.com/blog/1175/Guest-post-by-Elise-Matthesen-How-to-Report-Sexual-Harassment" title="http://brandonsanderson.com/blog/"><span style="text-decoration: underline;"><strong>Brandon Sanderson</strong></span></a>. It can and should be read in full at one of these sites. <br />
<br />
Elise Matheson wrote this blog to detail what she had to do to successfully make a report about sexual harassment, because not every report is equal. It needs to be truly 'formal,' and not anonymous, if it is to make a difference. She wrote,<br />
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<i>...I knew for certain that I was not the only one to have reported
inappropriate behavior by this person to his employer. It turned out
that the previous reports had been made confidentially and not through
HR and Legal. Therefore my report was the first one, because it was the
first one that had ever been formally recorded.</i><br />
<br />
<i>Corporations (and conventions with formal procedures) live and die by
the written word. “Records, or it didn’t happen” is how it works, at
least as far as doing anything official about it. So here I was, and
here we all were, with a situation where this had definitely happened
before, but which we had to treat as if it were the first time — because
for formal purposes, it was.</i></blockquote>
I understand why formality is necessary, because it is possible for an unfounded claim to damage a person's reputation. When abuse of this sort occurs, especially regarding a corporation like a publishing house, there is a process for dealing with it, and those who suffer from attacks like these need to be willing to use it.<br />
<br />
Elise offers a very straightforward and sensible guide to handling sexual harassment, specifically in the realm of conventions. Unfortunately, this ought to be considered beforehand so you don't have to try and figure out what to do about it should it happen.<br />
<br />
Though I would certainly boost Elise's signal because it is important, I also have a personal stake in this. My wife, Heidi, went with me to WorldCon in Chicago last year and will be with me again in San Antonio. I expect that as my career picks up, we will attend more conventions. We don't always stick together because we are interested in different panels.<br />
<br />
I would like to feel confident that the community is aware of this, that the convention staff are vigilant against it. While sexual harassment is a possibility anywhere two or more people are gathered, I want to feel at home and safe when surrounded by like-minded people.<br />
<br />
And, you know what? I believe that the sci-fi / fantasy community is fully capable of achieving this, with strong voices willing to speak out against harassment and abuse. <br />
<br />
We, as members of this generally-amazing community, should not deny that sexual harassment happens, but should actively stand against it. Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11027236342445432484noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8697517157282717876.post-10454462747026011252013-06-03T09:32:00.005-04:002013-06-03T09:32:49.077-04:00Watershed momentWhat is a watershed moment?<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/watershed" target="_blank">Merriam-Webster's online dictionary</a> defines watershed as:<br />
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
a crucial dividing point, line, or factor : turning point</blockquote>
<br />
This term is used in reference to a divide in a river where the water has two distinct paths it might follow.<br />
<br />
In fictional terms, it refers to a key point where everything changes. It can be that a decision is made which will take the character down one of two distinct paths, and change the way the story will go for them, for better or for worse (or, let's be honest, for both).<br />
<br />
This moment will define the lives of everyone around the character, even if the decision's significance is not immediately obvious.<br />
<br />
Writing ain't easy. For me, it does not often come easily, or at least it doesn't *start* easily. Ideas may come simply, but ideas are cheap. Plenty of people have ideas, but those who follow through with them are more rare.<br />
<br />
Tiring of my membership in the larger group of wannabes, I decided last week that I would do the unthinkable: stop sleeping in to 10 or 11 am and start waking up at the same time as my wife, roundabouts 7:30. Suffering from depression and chronic lack of energy, I did not enjoy making this decision, and I liked following it even less.<br />
<br />
I got up, though. I got out of bed every morning. Not only did I get up, but I wrote, and almost each day I did it first thing. My numbers weren't huge; I didn't write more than 600 words on any given day. However, the decision to get moving so early was not easy, and each day was a victory.<br />
<br />
The biggest victory occurred later in the week, when I was so tired I could hardly move. Heidi said that I could set an alarm for 9am if I needed to sleep longer. I set that alarm.<br />
<br />
A few minutes later, I got up anyway, made us both some breakfast, and got to my writing.<br />
<br />
My self-discipline is generally crap, so this surprised me as much as anyone, but it also showed me that I really can decide to make a change in my life and follow through with it. That one small victory gave me the energy to keep going, keep on this rather uncomfortable schedule.<br />
<br />
I don't like the me who accomplishes nothing. I'm not a fan of dreamily thinking about what I might do someday. Talk is cheap, while making a sacrifice - in this case, sleep and a schedule to which I was accustomed - shows my mind that I'm serious about wanting to do the writing. Too much of this is a mind game, which frustrates the ever-living hell out of me, but I'm getting smarter about how to play.<br />
<br />
Today, I'm here at the computer, chipping away at the ol' word mine, seeing what shiny bits I can dart back to the manuscript, while trying to keep an eye on the canary. (It's dangerous down there!) Tomorrow, I will be back.<br />
<br />
And the next day.<br />
<br />
And the next.<br />
<br />
What are some of your watershed moments, whether related to artistic pursuits or otherwise? I am interested to hear about those little defining moments which gave birth to important changes.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11027236342445432484noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8697517157282717876.post-3235577995948401392013-04-23T20:32:00.000-04:002013-04-23T20:32:14.481-04:00Spring Clean 2: Clean Harder<br />
<i>Spring Harder</i>? Uh... <i>Spring Cleaner</i>?<br />
<br />
Whatever.<br />
<br />
Last week I wrote about how I'm rearranging my life in order to become productive and more satisfied with myself. Look! <a href="http://inspirandomonium.blogspot.com/2013/04/spring-cleaning.html" target="_blank">You can find it here</a>! (I know it's no new concept, but I just love using words and phrases as hyperlinks. It's the best.)<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://i760.photobucket.com/albums/xx247/GothicCookieQueen/Decorated%20images/DarthVader1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://i760.photobucket.com/albums/xx247/GothicCookieQueen/Decorated%20images/DarthVader1.jpg" width="213" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Honestly, this meme kind of annoys me.<br />It also annoys me that I don't have cookies.<br />(<a href="http://www.imvu.com/groups/group/Join%2Bthe%2BDark%2BSide%2BWe%2BHave%2BCookies%2B%253E%253AD/" target="_blank">source</a>)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
This week, I figured I would mention the other half to this rejuvenation of my burgeoning writing career: the health side.<br />
<br />
Unlike the Dark Side, we don't offer cookies.<br />
<br />
My dear friend and constant nemesis, Lance, out of the kindness of his heart (and malicious intent to see me suffer), purchased for me a diet / lifestyle book entitled <i><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Testosterone-Advantage-Plan-Weight-Muscle/dp/0743237919" target="_blank">The Testosterone Advantage Plan: Lose Weight, Gain Muscle, Boost Energy</a></i>.<br />
<br />
The subtitle is rather telling and easily summarizes the three things I need to do health-wise.<br />
<br />
<u>Lose Weight</u>: Though I apparently carry it well (and people who know me were surprised to learn it), I clock in at just over 300 pounds. That is not a healthy weight for someone my height (<strike>precisely</strike> approximately six feet - I'm not into measuring down to the micrometer as some feel they must). Losing weight isn't just about looks — as I mentioned, I don't look too terribly overweight (though no one would mistake me for your average bean pole) but I definitely <i>feel</i> overweight. This plays into reducing both m confidence and my energy levels.<br />
<br />
<u>Gain Muscle</u>: Sure, I vaguely care about increasing muscle mass from a largely future-health standpoint. I'm not interested in professional body building, but I am interested in remaining healthy and mobile late in my life. Unfortunately, I'm at the time in my life when my future health will be defined, not necessarily set in stone but put on a certain path. If I don't get in shape now, it'll be much more difficult to do so in the future. To draw a peculiar and inaccurate zombie metaphor, prevention is better than the cure.<br />
<br />
<u>Boost Energy</u>: My number one excuse for failing to accomplish anything with my writing on any given day: "I'm just too tired." While it's true that lack of energy works heavily against putting forth the mental strain of making the words, it is a piss-poor reason to do absolutely nothing productive. Still, my preferred method is to take the excuse away entirely (or at least mostly) and then spend my Discipline Points on actually doing stuff. (See, I was too tired to come up with a better, more descriptive phrase than "doing stuff.") Are Discipline Points in any way related to Initiative? I keep rolling too low.<br />
<br />
This probably doesn't need to be said, but to be clear: this is not some sponsored article where the authors or publisher are giving me incentives to say nice things about their book. (However, if you guys want to pay me, I'm currently willing to sell my soul, especially considering the fact that I'm doing the program anyway. And unemployed. Call me!)<br />
<br />
I'm not planning on going into any great detail about the program as that would seem to infringe on their sales, but I might put in the occasional entry about how it's going for me.<br />
<br />
The diet half is actually pretty nice, encouraging its acolytes to eat plenty while maintaining a healthy balance of carbs, fat, and protein. I don't feel hungry quite as much and I'm only four days into the diet.<br />
<br />
I don't like working out, which is the other side, and I've only done a half-workout so far due to a sudden head rush at the gym. However, my wife and I spent around $100 to get some of the basic necessities that will allow me to do much of the workouts from home, spreading them out to avoid such problems.<br />
<br />
All in all, a healthier me should be a happier me and hopefully that means a more productive me. (Yes, in the previous sentence, it's all 'me, me, me.') I encourage you to consider adopting a healthier lifestyle as well, because it's good for you.<br />
<br />
Guys can consider trying out the Testosterone Advantage Plan, and ladies... I'm fairly certain there are about a bajillion different options available. Try to pick one that is reasonable.<br />
<br />
And because I can't think of a good way to wrap this post up, I'll go with the classic signing-off.<br />
<br />
So.<br />
<br />
This is Stoffel, signing off.<br />
<br />
(It kind of works.)<br />
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11027236342445432484noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8697517157282717876.post-6608446254927817382013-04-15T13:39:00.000-04:002013-04-15T13:39:45.558-04:00Spring CleaningI recently took a trip with my father to see my extended family in Pennsylvania. It was, largely, a relaxing time where I got to catch up with some cool relatives.<br />
<br />
Heidi, in the meantime, stayed home due to a new job offering limited vacation possibilities - she's saving it for WorldCon in August. She remained, and despite a full-time job and online classes, scoured and cleaned the entire apartment, tearing through a laundry list of chores we needed done since first moving into the place.<br />
<br />
My wife did not do this exclusively for the general cleanliness, however; she did it for me.<br />
<br />
For me and my writing.<br />
<br />
I've said it once and I'll say it again: I am pretty freaking lucky to have family who support my goals.<br />
<br />
I'm also lucky that this support isn't just blind head-nodding. They know that writing is my best skill, and a job I happen to love. However, I haven't been too great about keeping up with that 'job' part of it. Why? Well, a variety of reasons, but one major one is that I have trouble taking myself seriously.<br />
<br />
Today, I don't care to wallow on that struggle, but rather to explain how I am combatting it.<br />
<br />
Step one: my own personal spring cleaning.<br />
<br />
I got a haircut. Just now.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvoeRDikz5BJN5Y2oh3q8OLM3N-YNqBnm9j8ryzQUbWGfznIIXSV2a0UHlPgJYIcuCYO5iQyKkYn0yokpzKDAWqKat1ywWQnIvYpl6kt8VTpok0af4G5ajYF86TdNaE7qwpP2T4LE3dDA/s1600/split.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvoeRDikz5BJN5Y2oh3q8OLM3N-YNqBnm9j8ryzQUbWGfznIIXSV2a0UHlPgJYIcuCYO5iQyKkYn0yokpzKDAWqKat1ywWQnIvYpl6kt8VTpok0af4G5ajYF86TdNaE7qwpP2T4LE3dDA/s400/split.jpg" height="306" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">See? Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Sly. Or whatever. Shut up.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
It may sound silly, but this makes a difference. It make a difference in how I view myself. I need to be a business professional and, because I am essentially my own boss, that means I need to look like one. Self-imposed dress code? I don't know, maybe. As a penmonkey in the <a href="http://terribleminds.com/" target="_blank">Chuck Wendig</a> tradition, that means pants are not only not required, but are in fact prohibited.<br />
<br />
Full disclosure: I <b>am</b> wearing pants right now. (As far as you know.)<br />
<br />
The other aspect of my life I'm cleaning up is my productivity. There's one way I feel quite confident in my writerlyness (no, not my penchant for inventing words on a whim to suit my needs, though that's a valid argument as well): my attention span is crap. Ooh, shiny, and all that jazz.<br />
<br />
My wife helped me compile this nifty hanging-file box in which, at the beginning of each week, we will review my goals for each of the following seven days.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8tX2Wwe1C25957jtzzud-bKwL7-ClV-mQpbFniCJ5iF5W4VYuJdUY4Vs4nBKMC5UdPQXLTcXOW3Ev-hqsKg_-wTh1guCHBWgKbDsj9mTTIDBNbwBcY-MkTY1hdhM5z6T2oYumQIEnwMA/s1600/photo.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8tX2Wwe1C25957jtzzud-bKwL7-ClV-mQpbFniCJ5iF5W4VYuJdUY4Vs4nBKMC5UdPQXLTcXOW3Ev-hqsKg_-wTh1guCHBWgKbDsj9mTTIDBNbwBcY-MkTY1hdhM5z6T2oYumQIEnwMA/s1600/photo.JPG" height="298" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Neat!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
One big problem I run into is knowing I ought to be doing stuff, but not being sure exactly what that stuff is. Every day I'm going to look over my agenda, currently compiled with sticky notes, and focus on accomplishing the few things I need to do. I think this method is vaguely drawn off of David Allen's <i><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Getting_Things_Done" target="_blank">Getting Things Done</a></i>; though I've never read the book, I have read <i>about </i>it.<br />
<br />
Anyway, that about catches you up for this month so far. I should be able to keep producing words, so stay tuned in that Internety way for more bloggery to come.<br />
<br />
What is it with tagging 'y' on the end of words, anyway?Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11027236342445432484noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8697517157282717876.post-48408140655774317402013-03-26T16:33:00.001-04:002013-03-26T16:33:36.939-04:00No, ReallyHey, I have a real website! <br />
<br />
No, you can't see it, because I won't tell you where it is. Yet. <br />
<br />
I will be moving my blog there as well as launching a pretty big project which will hopefully give people a better reason to visit the site than my mindless yammerings.<br />
<br />
In the meantime, let's keep it up with mindless yammerings!<br />
<br />
I haven't been employed for just over a year now. I made the decision, but it was easy to go through with it as my employer was reducing hours to the point that I only broke even on gas, driving to work for three hours a week. <br />
<br />
Still, I chose to commit myself to this writing career. I'm strongly resisting using quotation marks around career. <br />
<br />
That's the problem. <br />
<br />
I don't take myself seriously as a writer, or even as a professional in general. Sure, I CAN be professional, but I have trouble picturing anyone letting me anymore. Yes, I CAN write at an acceptable -- even occasionally desirable -- level, but who would give a crap? <br />
<br />
It's imposter syndrome without actually having the initial exposure. <br />
<br />
The way I see imposter syndrome is you freak out because now that you're in the pro room, they're going to realize you're a fake and oust you, shun you, ostracize you for deceiving them. <br />
<br />
I can't even get to that point, because I talk myself out of even peeking into the door. Everyone will know that I'm some chump that doesn't fit in and has no place here, so there is no reason to finish this. <br />
<br />
It's stupid. <br />
<br />
Many days, I can't see a future where I'm welcomed into the publishing world. I think that's the equivalent to having no hope. <br />
<br />
I've written three or four flash fiction pieces that I meant to post and just didn't get to it, because, y'know, whatever. I'm waffling on how to approach this novella series despite the deadline I set coming up fast. I talk myself out of tweeting, for crying out loud. If I can't squeeze out 140 characters without psyching myself out, then I think I'm in trouble. <br />
<br />
I am fighting myself about whether to post this or not. <br />
<br />
Obviously, I did, as you're reading it, but it was a struggle (he wrote prospectively, hoping he would, in fact, publish this). <br />
<br />
Interaction time: How, dear reader, do you drag yourself out of the no-hope-mope (I should trademark that) (actually, no, I should not)? <br />
<br />
How do you beat those times when self-doubt topples progress? <br />
<br />
I am well aware of the philosophy which says "Give yourself permission to suck." Don't clench, just let whatever fall onto the page and fix it later. <br />
<br />
That's a great idea. <br />
<br />
I just can't seem to do it. <br />
<br />
Heidi tells me that what I actually put on the page is the equivalent of a third draft because I chew it over so much before letting myself write it. That is not very efficient, and it eventually leaves me in a infinite loop of existential crisis and self-doubt. <br />
<br />
Posting this is step one on the road to recovery. <br />
<br />
I've worn the track out on these first few steps pacing back and forth. You might notice a bit of dried blood on this side of that first hurdle. Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11027236342445432484noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8697517157282717876.post-30240707483118314042013-01-16T11:24:00.001-05:002013-01-16T11:24:31.397-05:00Flash Fiction: SOONMy wife thinks I should write. <br />
<br />
In this way, I am extraordinarily fortunate. I know many writers don't have the support of those close to them. <br />
<br />
In order to help me get back into the swing of things, she suggested I try warming up with quick little flash fiction prompts, which she has been kind enough to generate. <br />
<br />
Here is one of my more successful attempts from earlier this week.<br />
<br />
Prompt:<br />
Middle of Nowhere, snowy<br />
Car Crash<br />
An alcoholic beverage<br />
Leftovers<br />
<br />
— — — — — — —<br />
<br />
SOON<br />
<br />
"They'll be here soon." <br />
<br />
Sharon does not look up at Rick when he speaks. She isn't upset anymore. Too tired. <br />
<br />
Instead she trails her eyes around the cab of the truck, unfamiliar, uncomfortable, but it is the reason she's still alive. <br />
<br />
Rick clicks on the truck's wipers, pushing aside a sheet of white. <br />
<br />
The sight of Sharon's car is once again a shock. Bloo -- the car's namesake cleverly gleaned from its shiny blue paint and interior -- is pressed up against and around the front of Rick's truck and buried in a mound of snow. <br />
<br />
"You okay?" Rick asks. <br />
<br />
Sharon looks down. "Yeah." <br />
<br />
The snowflakes, fat and gluttonous, plunk onto the windshield in her peripheral vision. <br />
<br />
"They'll be here soon," Rick assures her. <br />
<br />
He had been saying that for hours, ever since his attempt to disconnect her mangled car from his truck had failed. <br />
<br />
It hadn't been anyone's fault, Sharon decides again. The snow had obscured her vision, gave a hazardous slick to the back country road. Rick had no chance to swerve back into his own lane, the weight of the truck bed pushing his vehicle into hers. <br />
<br />
He had called for help, but still they waited. <br />
<br />
No one else is foolish enough to risk these backroads, Sharon knows. <br />
<br />
No one but Rick and his stupid truck. <br />
<br />
"Hey, uh, Miss Sharon?" <br />
<br />
Sharon's eyes dart to him. <br />
<br />
"Are you cold?" Rick's bushy eyebrows pinch together. "You're shaking an awful lot. Let me get you another blanket." He reaches behind her seat. <br />
<br />
"No, that's okay," Sharon stutters, holding up her hand. She *is* shaky. Sensation drains from her fingers, a tingling gel oozing away. <br />
<br />
Just how long had they been here? <br />
<br />
The sun had already set, but it was dipping before Sharon had left her mother's house. A glance at the clock radio reveals the time, one zero nine. That can't be right. <br />
<br />
"Do you have anything to eat?" Sharon asks, strain in her voice evident even to her tired mind. <br />
<br />
"Uh..." Rick rustles around in the cab, reaches behind her seat and finally seizes upon a crinkling cellophane bag. Funyons. Glancing inside, he grimaces. "Nothin' but crumbs, sorry. But they'll be here soon." <br />
<br />
"Hypoglycemic," Sharon mutters conversationally. <br />
<br />
"Whassat?" Rick leans in closer as if to hear her better. <br />
<br />
"I need to eat. Blood sugar is low." <br />
<br />
"Oh. Uh." Rick slides a hand into his hair. Resumes his search about the cab. <br />
<br />
Her mother. Sharon's mother is the reason she got into this wreck. She's to blame. She had insisted Sharon come have dinner with the man who would technically be her stepfather someday soon. Sharon is too old to have a stepfather. <br />
<br />
Dinner. <br />
<br />
That was hours ago, but... <br />
<br />
Sharon remembers what happened just before leaving. Her mother pressed a plastic dish into her hands. "For the road," she had said, with her signature wink-and-smirk. <br />
<br />
"I have dinner, I think," Sharon confides in Rick. <br />
<br />
"Dinner?" <br />
<br />
"In my car. Leftovers." <br />
<br />
Rick mulls that over, glances outside, then nods. <br />
<br />
"I'll go get it," he decides out loud. <br />
<br />
"Thanks," Sharon says, faintest wisp of a smile crossing her lips. "It was in the front seat, but..." But Rick's truck had rearranged much of poor little Bloo. <br />
<br />
"Okay, here I go," Rick says, then pulls the door handle. It doesn't budge, so he puts his shoulder into it. A loud crack and the door swings wide, and a blast of arctic chilly air hurtles into the cab. <br />
<br />
Rick slams the door shut again and Sharon sees him brace against the cold. He's much more equipped for this weather, she thinks, what with his shaggy hair and beard, muscular build with the comfortable weight of age sitting around it. <br />
<br />
Through the half-covered windshield, she watches Rick, illuminated by the trucks headlights, trudge toward Bloo and dig one of its doors out of its snowy grave. <br />
<br />
A chill wracks Sharon at the sight. <br />
<br />
The cab is still cold from him opening the door. Sharon decides maybe she will take another blanket. She roots around behind her seat, looking for the warmest blanket of the bunch. <br />
<br />
Her fingers slide across cool glass. <br />
<br />
She can't help but grip it, pull it out to investigate. <br />
<br />
It's a bottle of rum. Some brand she's never heard of. <br />
<br />
Sharon looks at the half-empty bottle, then out at Rick, splayed across the front seat and reaching into the back. <br />
<br />
He didn't... he wasn't... was he? <br />
<br />
No, Sharon is sure she would have smelled it on him if he were drinking. <br />
<br />
This is just a simple accident. <br />
<br />
Even if it were not, Sharon isn't in the position to do anything about it. <br />
<br />
Almost on their own accord, her fingers wind around the metal cap and twist it off. The sharp odor of alcohol tickles her nose and before she knows it, she's tipping the bottle back.<br />
<br />
A mouthful of rum slides its way down her throat, burning and tingling, warming her insides. <br />
<br />
Sharon is not much of a drinker, but when she does, it always feels good. <br />
<br />
This, however, feels amazing. <br />
<br />
She takes one last pull from the bottle and screws the lid back on. The windshield is completely covered now, but she can see Rick's silhouette moving back toward the truck. The bottle goes back beneath the pile of blankets. <br />
<br />
Another cruelly cold wind whips its way into the truck as he climbs in, triumphantly presenting a green plastic dish. <br />
<br />
"You've got a funny idea about what constitutes dinner," Rick says, smiling. "But I'm sure it's mighty tasty." <br />
<br />
Inside the dish is a gooey, sticky fruitcake. Sharon should have seen it coming. Her mother's silly holiday tradition is to play Hot Potato with a fruitcake to see who gets stuck with it. <br />
<br />
It seems Sharon is going to lose this year. <br />
<br />
Rick proffers a set of plastic utensils and cuts off a piece of fruitcake. They share in the bounty together, consuming it in minutes as the cab grows dimmer, less and less light passing through the snow-covered windshield. <br />
<br />
The fruitcake sits solid in Sharon's stomach as she collapses down into her mountain of blankets. The alcohol soothes her and the bench seat actually feels comfortable for once. <br />
<br />
As she slips into a doze, Rick puts another blanket atop her, patting it as if she were a small child being put to bed. <br />
<br />
"They'll be here soon," he tells her. <br />
<br />
Yeah. <br />
<br />
Soon.<br />
<br />
— — — — — — —<br />
<br />
I had a bit of trouble dragging a full story out of the prompt, but I tried to incorporate all of the requisite pieces into some sort of conflict. <br />
<br />
How would you have approached this prompt?Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11027236342445432484noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8697517157282717876.post-17529270948987368022013-01-01T09:00:00.000-05:002013-01-01T09:00:01.002-05:00New Year? So what?<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://wilwheaton.typepad.com/.a/6a00d8341c59aa53ef0147e1293f19970b-500wi" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://wilwheaton.typepad.com/.a/6a00d8341c59aa53ef0147e1293f19970b-500wi" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A few years ago, the new year meant <br /><a href="http://wilwheaton.typepad.com/wwdnbackup/2010/12/happy-new-year-im-on-a-boat.html" target="_blank"></a><a class="g-profile" href="http://plus.google.com/108176814619778619437" target="_blank">+Wil Wheaton</a> was on a boat.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
Guess what? It's almost the new year!<br />
<br />
Guess what that means?<br />
<br />
Absolutely nothing.<br />
<br />
Before you huff off to another blog with a happier year end message, let me clarify my position on the matter.<br />
<br />
The new year is an arbitrary date. Nothing in particular separates it from any other day, except for bringing the trouble of writing the wrong year on our checks for weeks on end.<br />
<br />
However, this doesn't make it worthless.<br />
<br />
The human condition revolves so much around symbolism that the concept of a totally symbolic existence has been promoted by various psychologists I am too lazy to look up and cite. Essentially, your interaction with the world is based upon symbols you have assigned to every single thing you see, hear, touch, et cetera.<br />
<br />
The new year can represent something to us, a chance for a fresh start, for new opportunities.<br />
<br />
I am a diehard pessimist. I don't mean to be. It takes no real effort on my part to point out everything that is wrong and speculate on how it will get worse. My wife has helped me realize the root of this (beyond the scope of this particular post) but seeing the cause doesn't make it go away. My condition is so severe that half the time I hear anything positive, I scoff and deny it.<br />
<br />
It's stupid. I know.<br />
<br />
Therefore, the concept of using the new year to springboard personal growth chafes. Every time I hear about a new year's resolution, I want to strangle the person and tell them they're doomed to fail.<br />
<br />
So!<br />
<br />
I guess that means it's time to make a quasi-resolution. (No guarantees this won't lead to auto-asphyxiation.)<br />
<br />
My dear wife has argued that we can just use January 1 as a day to reinvigorate the changes we wish to make. The most important thing in my life (beyond the essentials, such as family, food, and general continued respiration) is writing. Therefore, we are starting a campaign to enforce good habits, because otherwise I won't accomplish a damn thing.<br />
<br />
I am in the process of developing a list of habits I need to build up.<br />
<br />
I urge you, dear reader, to not use January 1, 2013, to make fluffy resolutions, but rather to re-evaluate your goals and determine how you will reach them. Be realistic, but don't underestimate your abilities, either.<br />
<br />
Join me in my quest to ever-so-slightly better yourself, starting today.<br />
<br />
Sidenote: the venerable <a class="g-profile" href="http://plus.google.com/102598717561259337811" target="_blank">+Chuck Wendig</a> recently posted <a href="http://terribleminds.com/ramble/2012/12/31/25-writer-resolutions-for-2013/" target="_blank">a list of 25 resolutions for writers</a>. Well worth a look.<br />
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11027236342445432484noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8697517157282717876.post-56029612245575909832012-12-31T15:17:00.000-05:002012-12-31T15:17:29.992-05:00FLASH FICTION DUEL - FARMER'S DAUGHTER AND NINJA<br />
The sun set over a frostbitten coffee saloon, and I stared her in the eye. Her finger twitched over the SHIFT key. Mine found familiar notches above F and J.<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi97CkcEmR4FyyNQEzWwBGH9JArb42RHC9-QRJy6N4NLCf2GdEjoUoWdeYAl4GvpBGJg96U__yEWIl5l-rgR-wuGMVpk_Yonm_0PFqolQ9SsCpkbRn3esncICfYPg5Yt-vxEb1YNh7rEIA/s1600/MeAndBrydge.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi97CkcEmR4FyyNQEzWwBGH9JArb42RHC9-QRJy6N4NLCf2GdEjoUoWdeYAl4GvpBGJg96U__yEWIl5l-rgR-wuGMVpk_Yonm_0PFqolQ9SsCpkbRn3esncICfYPg5Yt-vxEb1YNh7rEIA/s320/MeAndBrydge.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">It really is super-friggin'-awesome.<br />Recursion not included.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
Then the call rang out. We both typed furiously.<br />
<br />
Heidi and I went on a date last night. At Starbucks, I put <a href="http://thebrydge.com/" target="_blank">my super-friggin'-awesome Christmas present</a> (which I used to type this) through the paces in a writing contest against my word-hobbyist wife.<br />
<br />
I used an iPad app, <a href="http://inspiroapp.com/" target="_blank">Inspiro</a> (which is also pretty cool) to generate a random scenario, which we used as a prompt to write a flash fiction story in a half hour.<br />
<br />
The prompt:<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">A FARMER'S DAUGHTER SPREADS THE ASHES OF A NINJA.</span><br />
<br />
Our results were wildly different, and I think both were pretty successful. If you feel inspired by the prompt, write a quick story and link to it. There are so many great ways to take this.<br />
<br />
Here are the stories, for your amusement and consideration.<br />
<br />
Ladies first.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
— — — — —</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b><i>SHADOW OF THE LIGHT</i></b> </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
by Heidi Stoffel </div>
<br />
Katja lifted one tired hand from the cliff face in front of her and struggled to find a new handhold in the sheer face of the mountian before her. She grunted as she felt the sharp rock cut yet another slice in her already battered hands. The top of the cliff face loomed only ten feet above her, but that ten feet felt insurmountable to her battered body.<br />
<br />
As she steadied her right foot in yet another indent, Katja sighed and wondered for the thousanth time why it was she who was chosen for this task. The miles had fallen beneath her feet until she barely recalled the way home to her father's farm. How she missed the quiet cooing of the Roc as they settled down to sleep in the aviaries and the clattering roar of the gryffons as they frolliced in the fields. The gryffons she helped raise were some of the best to be found in the seven kingdoms, her father had taught her well. But most off all she missed her poor father. It was fall, he must be tending their fields even now. How would he manage with her on the quest set before her and her brother, Kale, drafted to the Dark King's army. Her mother had left them several winters before, unable to take the loss of her youngest to the wild boars that roamed the forest nearby.<br />
<br />
Katja's feet found solid ground at last and she paused her assent long enough to readust the straps on her overlaiden backpack. Then she continued, always onward, never stopping for more than a day, The third of seven groves was before her, barely three hours distance.<br />
<br />
Finally she pulled her battered body up and over the incline onto the top of the towering platau upon which the third grove grew. She quickly drew the urn from the bag as she sat, giving her muscles their much needed break. The dark obsidian urn, which had formed simultaniously upon the death of it's occupant, glowed with a soft purple light pulsing gently toward her destination. Wiping the dust from her climb from it's surface, Katja turned her recently turned eagle sharp eyes toward the villiage she knew must lie along her path. Seeing no activity, she placed the urn back upon her pack reverently. As she stood her muscles protested, exhausted from their long exersion. Katja could not oblige them with their well deserved rest until after she spread the ashes in the grove mere hours away. She has spent far too much time at the last villiage and has wrongly estimated the time necessary to climb the cliffs behind her. She had not known the Autumn King's propensity for the abrupt angles and heavily wooded forests.<br />
<br />
The revered Anatolia had greatly stressed the importance of the days of the spreading. If Katja did not succeed she would not gain all the power of her predecesor, and the Five Kingdoms of Light would fall to the Dark King and his minion, the Summer King. Katja would not be able to save the lives of her brother and friends who had been pressed into their services or those of her father and the remaining free people of the Light. Winter, Autumn, Spring, Light, and Water were on the verge of collapse under the merciless pounding of the Dark and Summer Kings' Armies. Were Katja to fail all the kingdoms would fall into permanent darkness and heat as the dark kingdoms already were.<br />
<br />
Katja still wondered why she had been chosen, a young farmer's daughter of little importance. What would the great ninjas want from her? What made her worthy of Anatolia's sacrifice? She who had never born a lick of power or magic her entire life. A dwarf had never been honored by the ninjas, asked to join their ranks as one of the five. None had ever been deemed worthy before. Katja had initially felt crushed under the pressure, but time had lessened the pressure as she had had little contance with the world since the great ninja's death.<br />
<br />
Katja wiped the sweat from her brow and looked for a path around the small villiage that inevitably loomed before her, she had little time for the plesantries required of a visiting trainee. There would be time for that soon, once she had completed her task. Picking a path, she next check the sun, just under an hour left before the deadline. She picked up the pace and quickly moved into the thick golden woods before her.<br />
<br />
The glow of the urn increased as she neared the sacred grove until the purple light nearly obscured the bright gold of the trees around her. Katja dreaded the travel into the dark kingdoms with this glowing urn. It would give her away more quickly than anything she could do on her own.<br />
<br />
She spotted the grove before her, it looked much as the other did. Thick trunked trees rose up in a cresent shape surrounding a small clearing where grew the sacred Nightleas Flowers of the Ninjas. Only a true ninja could touch them without dying. Katja had yet to try her hand at it, not truely believing she was meant to be a part of the group. The trees glowed a soft purple in responce to the urn. Katja hurried knowing that soon the glow would fade and and darken, the power gone.<br />
<br />
Katja felt rather than saw the creature that dropped down upon her with a hiss. She pulled free the thin sword given her by the dead ninja who's ashes she caried and quickly flipped out of the way, softly dropping the pack, allowing her to move more freely. She gasped in surprise as the black cobra of the Dark Kingdom lunged at her exposed throat. Jerking backwards into a roll, Katja pulled up her sword and quickly tried to score upon the dark scaly body. She used her small size to her advantage, making herself into as small of a target as she could. They danced in a circle the cobra and her striking and defending. Katja did not allow herself to think about the dark poison that reportedly did not kill you, but rather petrified you so the snake could more easily devour you, taking weeks to finish the task all while keeping you alive in unspoken agony. She watched for her opening as she had learned from the first spreding, where the knowledge of the ninja sword was made known to her and quickly striked drawing dark, gleaming blood from the cobra's throat. It struck at her a few more times before finally dying. Katja quickly applied the lesson of the second grove and arranged the snake for burrial, honoring it as a worthy foe, saying the anchient prayer over it:<br />
<br />
<i>May the Lady of Light use you, most honored foe, for her bidding.</i><br />
<i>I regret the loss of life necessary in this most dark moment,</i><br />
<i>but now may you begin your journey into the light of our mistress.</i><br />
<i>Long may her beauty reign and her mercy fall upon us, the least of her servants.</i><br />
<br />
Then Katja cleaned her sword and harvested a fang from the snake, adding it's streangth to her own. Then she grabbed her bag quickly storing the fang and ran to the clearing.<br />
<br />
She unclasped the lid to the strongly glowing urn and quickly drew out a small handful of the Ninja Anatolia, and spread it softly over the beautiful white Naightleas Flowers, which glowed even brighter until the light filled Katja's vison.<br />
<br />
Then knowledge began to pour into her mind, passing on the knowldege of those who came before.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
— — — — —</div>
<br />
I think her story is pretty badass. After reading it, she informed me that she had come up with a rather sizable backstory in the two minutes of prep time afforded us. Heidi is really good at the epic-level story thinking.<br />
<br />
Below is my offering, which you will find to be an entirely different tack.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
— — — — —</div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b><i>ASHEN SHADOW</i></b> </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
by Jonathan Stoffel </div>
<br />
"You're a fool, Belinda," the farmer mutters.<br />
<br />
"Please, Daddy, show some respect," Belinda replies, stroking the top of the jar, gentle as she knew the man must have been.<br />
<br />
"I am not so inclined," her father says. "I've got to deal with my burned barn and you're here holding some cockamamie funeral service."<br />
<br />
Belinda huffs and shakes her head, blonde pigtails bobbing about her flushed cheeks. "Did I act this way when we said goodbye to Mother?"<br />
<br />
The farmer scratches at his gray stubble then mops a handkerchief across his shiny bald head. "Of course you didn't, Be. That's because your mother actually existed."<br />
<br />
The wind picks up, sweeping Belinda toward the lake. Is this the right time to do it? she wonders. The breeze brings the scent of charred wood, a reminder of the terrible conflagration which nearly took her life.<br />
<br />
"Of course he exists," Belinda says with a sad smile. It shortly turns into a scowl. "He's why I didn't die in that fire!"<br />
<br />
"Honey, despite what you think you saw--"<br />
<br />
"I didn't see anything!" Belinda cuts in.<br />
<br />
The old man holds up a consilatory hand. "Of course, Be, of course. Despite what you DIDN'T see, ninjas don't really exist."<br />
<br />
"You don't know, Daddy. You've always lived on this farm."<br />
<br />
Her father hooks his thumbs into his overalls. "Now that just ain't true. I spent a year with your great uncle Roberto in the city."<br />
<br />
Belinda rolls her eyes. "Dad, if there were ninjas in the city, do you really think you'd have seen it?"<br />
<br />
The farmer grimaces, hand finding its way back to his chin, and a thought strikes him. "If they can't be seen, then how do they shave? Can't see 'em in a mirror either, I wager."<br />
<br />
"Stars, Daddy, they're not vampires." Belinda shakes her head.<br />
<br />
"Van... fires?"<br />
<br />
"And they can be seen when they want to."<br />
<br />
"But--"<br />
<br />
Belinda holds up a hand to shush him, a gesture she picked up from her mother. It's just as effective as when his wife used to do it. The farmer closes his eyes and sighs as his daughter places the urn down on the beach.<br />
<br />
"You told me at Aunt Carol's funeral," she says slowly, "that tain't right to argue when we're honoring the dead."<br />
<br />
The two stand above the contained ashes and say nothing for several long moments.<br />
<br />
"Could you say something, Daddy? In memory of him."<br />
<br />
"Belinda, I didn't know him and--"<br />
<br />
"Daddy, he SAVED me."<br />
<br />
Under his breath, the farmer mutters, "He 'saved' your galdurn puppy dog, and kept you from runnin' in like a fool after it." The old man clears his throat and clasps hands behind his back.<br />
<br />
"Mister, uh, Ninja sir," he starts. "I owe you a debt of gratitude. You, er, kept my only daughter safe..." The farmer sneaks a glance at his misty-eyed daughter to confirm he's on the right track. "...and you saved her poor puppy from the barn. Thank you."<br />
<br />
"Say somethin' about his sacrifice," Belinda hisses, presumably whispering so the ashes wouldn't hear.<br />
<br />
"Ah, of course, of course." The farmer coughs. "Your, uh, sacrifice--"<br />
<br />
"And honor. Say honor!"<br />
<br />
"Look, it's my funeral speech, okay? Yes, your sacrifice and honor mean the world to me, and we'll cherish your memory forever and ever." Turning to his daughter, he throws up his hands. "Good enough?"<br />
<br />
"It will have to do," Belinda replies wistfully and sweeps toward the urn as the breeze picks up again.<br />
<br />
With a murmured thank you, Belinda opens the jar and spreads its ashen contents out over the lake.<br />
<br />
The cloud of gray spreads over the water and ever-so-slowly dissipates into the daylight.<br />
<br />
The farmer spies a tear slipping down his daughter's cheek and rolls his eyes.<br />
<br />
"Time to go, Be. There's a lot to do."<br />
<br />
Father takes daughter by the arm and leads her toward the farmhouse.<br />
<br />
"I think he really cared about me, Daddy."<br />
<br />
The farmer stretches his neck around and, facing the lake, suddenly spies what looks like a dark-dressed figure standing facing him, stony and silent.<br />
<br />
In an instant, the figure seems to nod. The farmer blinks, and the shadow is gone.<br />
<br />
He sweeps the lakeshore and sees nothing. There couldn't have been...<br />
<br />
"I think you're right, Be," he murmurs. "I think you're right."<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
— — — — —</div>
<br />
I had a lot of fun writing this. The idea sprang forth as an amusing story revolving around the farmer's daughter falling in love with a ninja she had never seen, but I couldn't think of a way to do this well.<br />
<br />
Again, I am interested to see any other takes on this prompt.<br />
<br />
Heidi says we will likely do this a few times a month, so look forward to more duels forthcoming.<br />
<br />
Mostly unrelated:<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://files-cdn.formspring.me/photos/20120501/n4f9fb069b7c5f.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://files-cdn.formspring.me/photos/20120501/n4f9fb069b7c5f.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">You're out of your element!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11027236342445432484noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8697517157282717876.post-7013749556766700752012-10-29T01:18:00.000-04:002012-10-29T01:18:15.889-04:00Monday, How Do I Loathe Thee?<div style="text-align: left;">
Monday, how do I loathe thee? Let me count the ways. </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
I loathe thee to the depth and breadth and height</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
My soul can reach, when falling out of sight</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
For the ends of weekends and the rat race.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
I loathe thee to the level of every day's</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Most quiet need, by sun and candle-light.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
I loathe thee freely, as men strive for night.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
I loathe thee purely, as they turn from praise.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
I loathe thee with the passion put to use</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
In my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
I loathe thee with a hate I seemed to lose</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
With my lost saints. I loathe thee with the breath,</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Scowls, tears, of all my life; and, if God choose,</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
I shall but loathe thee better after death.</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11027236342445432484noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8697517157282717876.post-72784804379847742992012-09-21T11:50:00.001-04:002012-09-21T11:50:18.750-04:00Flash Fiction: Beyond the North Wind<br />
The beam of light painted a rainbow on Julia's eyelids, warming her face, and she fluttered awake. The light emanated from the crystalline ceiling, playing across her prone form.<br />
<br />
"Jules."<br />
<br />
She shifted to glance at the soft-spoken man seated beside her and nearly fell off the moss-covered stone slab by jerking away from him. His strong brow wrinkled, quickly changing from happiness to concern.<br />
<br />
Julia thought it must have been happiness, at least. The utterly smooth white face was hard to read, his pale blue eyes beneath snowy brows cool as ice and not quite settled on her.<br />
<br />
His eyes flicked to hers.<br />
<br />
A shiver rumbled through Julia as she met his gaze, though the room was perfectly warm.<br />
<br />
"Are you well?" the man asked, leaning toward her.<br />
<br />
She inched away, her hands pressing into the spongy moss and giving her little to grip.<br />
<br />
Julia had never seen moss like this. Had she?<br />
<br />
Her muscles ached as if she had slept on them wrong.<br />
<br />
"Let me call for the healer," the man said, his voice a steady rumble that seemed overlaid with a musical lilting a pitch higher than the words he spoke. He stood and she realized his colorless chest was exposed, revealing hard lines and toned muscle shifting beneath the almost translucent skin.<br />
<br />
Without realizing it, Julia put a hand out to halt him, breathing out the word, "Wait." Her fingers gripped his firm arm. He did not tense at her touch, which Julia knew must be significant.<br />
<br />
The man sat back down, concern knitting his arched eyebrows. With the motion, his bone-white hair fell around his neck, framing the strong jaw set in a slight grimace.<br />
<br />
Part of Julia twisted to see him upset, but that did not make sense. She shook her head to clear to knock the cobwebs out and finally asked, "Where am I?"<br />
<br />
Gesturing with a wide sweep of his hand, the man said, "The greenhouse. We always talked about coming here, but I didn't expect it to be under these circumstances."<br />
<br />
A faint tickling at the nape of Julia's neck made her think he was telling the truth, but she did not recall ever conversing about such a place. With his gesture, she could not resist taking it all in, though her eyes chided her momentarily for leaving the broad shoulders of her companion.<br />
<br />
Plants sprouted from both the ground and from lines of pots. The earth containers were not in rows like Julia expected, but rather in concentric circles with just enough room in one section to walk through. From her elevated position on the stone slab, the potted plants seemed a playful maze, and yet the space seemed efficiently plotted.<br />
<br />
Green dominated, but bright colors splashed the entire garden, reds, yellows, purples, and blues all flaring out from exotic flowers and strange fruits. The yellow-tinted light from the uneven crystal ceiling fell on the plants in soft, precise shafts.<br />
<br />
"You like it even better than I had hoped," the man murmured, hand resting on the moss near hers. The warmth of his skin radiated across the inch separating them.<br />
<br />
"It's the only place we have that could reasonably aid your recovery from hypothermia," he went on, his smile its own source of refreshing light to Julia. At the same time, a faint memory of pain gripping her hands, feet, arms, legs, and finally clutching about her head and chest before all went numb.<br />
<br />
It seemed a dream, or rather a nightmare, and as she reached to recall it, the memory slipped out of her grasp.<br />
<br />
Julia closed her eyes, trying to get ahold of her swirling thoughts. The stranger, odd as he may be, was an attracting force. She shut that part of her thinking out for now with an effort of will and focused on the most important thing.<br />
<br />
"I don't remember..." she started, then felt unsure how to finish the statement. What did she not remember? It seemed impossible to peg down exactly what was missing. "I don't know how I got here. Or where here is."<br />
<br />
"I brought you," the pale man said. "We came together, to Hyperborea." He paused, considering. "I believe that is what mortals of your tongue have called this land in days past."<br />
<br />
He reached to take her hand and she reflexively took it away. His crestfallen expression gnawed at her, but she needed her space right now.<br />
<br />
"Jules," he whispered. "Don't you remember me?"<br />
<br />
A tear slipped down her cheek and she silently chided herself. No time for emotions until the logical side was firmly established. Her mind, her heart, paid this instruction no heed as she shook her head.<br />
<br />
His mouth fell open slightly. "I am so sorry, Julia." He slumped and drew his lean legs to a crossed sitting position then took a deep breath. "It's me, Tiresias."<br />
<br />
At the name, a swirl of sensations hit Julia. The Arctic expedition, her team scouting across that frozen wasteland for a basecamp site, and a shadowy face of a man. She felt it must be Tiresias. He had joined them at the last minute, but still Julia got the sense they had spent much time together.<br />
<br />
Though she tried to root out those hazy memories, another presented itself in stunning clarity: the ice beneath her feet cracking.<br />
<br />
Frigid water had washed over her as the field broke apart and she scrambled to get up onto the next chunk of ice.<br />
<br />
The chill had quickly turned her limbs numb, and blackness shortly followed.<br />
<br />
“My team?” Julia asked in the barest whisper.<br />
<br />
Tiresias looked uncertain. “They may be well, but we have not located them yet.”<br />
<br />
Julia swung her legs over the side of the stone slab. “We have to find them.”<br />
<br />
Tiresias touched her knee and a jolt of sensation shot through her. “We will,” he promised. “Together.”<br />
<br />
——————————<br />
<br />
Genre: Paranormal Romance<br />
Setting: The Hollow Earth<br />
Element: Amnesia<br />
<br />
Let it be said that combining amnesia with romance and trying to fit all of that into 1000 words is Not Easy. Just for fun, have a setting which is probably interesting enough to warrant its own thousand word description, but is not particularly 'romantic' (though it fits well enough with the 'paranormal' side of things).<br />
<br />
I feel like I made a fair attempt, though I know it gets a bit weaker as it goes on. My 'problem' is that I keep thinking in longer works, as if this is the introduction to a novel, so I don't really tell a whole story in the course of the flash fiction piece.<br />
<br />
I know it can be done, because I've read some good flash fiction. I suppose it's just something I'll have to develop.<br />
<br />
Regardless, these <a href="http://terribleminds.com/ramble/2012/09/14/flash-fiction-challenge-a-second-game-of-aspects/" target="_blank">Game of Aspects</a> challenges are fun.<br />
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11027236342445432484noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8697517157282717876.post-82441889026663075052012-09-20T13:34:00.002-04:002012-09-20T13:34:53.299-04:00Withdrawal<br />
It took longer than I expected, but I am coming down off the high from attending Worldcon. It had to happen, I know, but it's a letdown.<br />
<br />
The tough part will be keeping on moving forward and not letting self doubt wrap its spindly fingers around my throat while it whispers sweet-you're-nothings into my ear. As it happens, I am something.<br />
<br />
I am a writer.<br />
<br />
If you are unsure, observe the sentences preceding that statement: I did, in fact, write those. Of course, something that simple is not always enough to prove it to me, but shouldn't it be?<br />
<br />
Writers write. Granted, I have not been doing an excessive amount of writing as of late, but I still am writing. I will continue to write until I either decide it's enough or am rendered completely unable to do so. I don't anticipate the former any time soon, and have little control over the latter, so I shall soldier on.<br />
<br />
I considered apologizing for the stereotypical self-hyping I CAN DO THIS blog post, but as it happens, I apologize for way too much in my life. I need to cut it out because, in so doing, I take myself less seriously. I should not apologize for writing the post I need.<br />
<br />
Plus, people with whom I am hypothetically and arbitrarily arguing, it's my blog. I can write what I want.<br />
<br />
This blog does not see much activity, largely because I feel like I have nothing interesting to say. That's a crock, though, because when I was at Worldcon, people seemed genuinely interested, and for once I wasn't even faking.<br />
<br />
I promise I will avoid a separate stereotype: the I'M GONNA BLOG MORE JUST YOU SEE post, because that's the proverbial nail in the coffin for your average blog.<br />
<br />
Here's what I will say instead: I'm going to write more. Some of that writing will find its way to this blog.<br />
<br />
No promise of a certain number of words, nor a stringent schedule of X posts per month.<br />
<br />
Just more.<br />
<br />
It is enough.<br />
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11027236342445432484noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8697517157282717876.post-78401569841096339292012-09-11T12:43:00.000-04:002012-09-11T12:43:23.342-04:00Flash Fiction: Blood Orange<br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">This is the most gruesome story I have ever written.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><b><br /></b></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"><b>Blood Orange</b></span><br />
<br />
"You did this to yourself."<br />
<br />
Tate looks up from hands on the bar countertop. Tate's hands. Lightly scratches at scab on puffy knuckle.<br />
<br />
The woman is familiar to Tate. Wonder what she means, why she said it.<br />
<br />
Tate asks.<br />
<br />
The words bulge through vocal cords, an unexpected deep rumbling. Tate coughs and massages throat.<br />
<br />
She scoffs, rich dark eyes rolling, but Tate knows the expression masks sorrow. How?<br />
<br />
Her dark skin stands in sharp counterpoint to this pale, freckled arm (Tate's arm) that she reaches toward. The woman pulls her hand away and Tate's arm itches furiously. She opens her mouth to reply.<br />
<br />
"Hey there, boyo," chirps the bartender, a man who has harrassed Tate nonstop since the night began, with his cheeky grin pushing up delicately trimmed chops on his young face. Pulls Tate's attention. "Fancy another round, then?"<br />
<br />
Tate glances back to the woman.<br />
<br />
Gone.<br />
<br />
The hotel crowd has swallowed her, it seems, though the open bar area is not that full. Predominantely middle-aged business folk, a couple covertly kissing in the back corner; he pulls away with her lips on his. Where could the woman have gone?<br />
<br />
A glance at the bar shows Tate's drink is empty. Surprising. Not even sure what it was. With a shrug, Tate nods, nails raking across bared arm. Employer footing the bill, and a little social lubricant couldn't hurt.<br />
<br />
A stout glass slides, a bottle flips, some ice tumbles. Tate watches with fascination, and the young man notices. The bartender crouches down and comes up with a orange, grabs the paring knife to open it wide.<br />
<br />
A smooth dark hand slides over the orange just before he cuts down, and Tate leaps up from the stool to cry out.<br />
<br />
The blade, honed to a keen edge, passes through the skin of the fruit and Tate chokes as red pours over the cutting board, grips and pulls at wiry hair.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.drinkoftheweek.com/wp-content/thumbnails/21360.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="212" src="http://www.drinkoftheweek.com/wp-content/thumbnails/21360.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.drinkoftheweek.com/2011/12/diy-blood-orange-infused-vodka/" target="_blank">Source</a></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
With a sly smile, the bartender holds up half the severed citrus, oozing crimson cruor. "Blood orange," he confides. "Secret family cocktail, comin' right up."<br />
<br />
Tate's mouth splits as hormones react involuntarily to the man's advances. The swelling is... strange, and despite it, Tate, shifting uncomfortably and settling back into the seat, is disappointed. Not that Tate expected anything from the man, but for him to be interested in Tate like this...<br />
<br />
"You can't blame them for your choices," the woman whispers in Tate's ear, prickling the skin.<br />
<br />
Tate whips the stool around, but she is nowhere to be seen. All that remains is a crawling sensation in Tate's crotch. Try to make it look casual. Tate never realized how difficult it could be, digging in for relief around the extension. Warmth spreads across Tate's fingers.<br />
<br />
Tate sighs, half frustration, half relief, and wipes fingernails across pant legs, painting archaic symbols in the old ways, wondering what it would mean if scryed.<br />
<br />
"Oy, Red," the bartender says, leaning in a bit closer and indicating the older gentleman seating himself at a far table. "I'm s'posed to tell you that's your man." The boy dimples as he winks, his face slurring into that pit. "Must say I'm a bit jealous of him."<br />
<br />
Tate blinks with Tate's eyes and grips the drink with Tate's hands. The bartender's smile falters, then slips entirely off his face. He shakes his head and turns away, leaving it on the bar.<br />
<br />
Focus on breathing.<br />
<br />
Tate must, for these lungs seem either unable or unwilling to recall the way.<br />
<br />
It does not matter, as long as Tate has air enough to speak to the old man, now settling himself at the table with clenched, darting eyes and steepled hands before his lips.<br />
<br />
Emerson. Tate flashes on a manila folder with the man's photograph, dossier, and mission directives.<br />
<br />
Paperclipped to that folder had been a grainy surveillance photo of a lanky red-haired man meeting him in a dark corner of London Heathrow Airport.<br />
<br />
Standing from the stool, Tate sways. Too much alcohol? What is Tate's limit? Not sure. Probably fine.<br />
<br />
Finding footing on overlong legs, Tate approaches, and the man sees Tate.<br />
<br />
Heart pounding an unfamiliar rhythm, Tate pauses to catch a breath, take a drink.<br />
<br />
It's... good.<br />
<br />
Not Tate's normal preference, but in this business, tastes change. Another sip, deeper, and the blood orange stains Tate's cheek with its dark juices.<br />
<br />
Choking on the drink, Tate, over the rim of the glass, sees the woman pass behind Emerson, go to the couple making out in the corner. She glances over her shoulder, then somehow gets around them. The kissing girl has thankfully reacquired her lips.<br />
<br />
Worrying lower lip with teeth, Tate steps between some merrymakers, contorting body to be well clear of them, and sets the drink down on the table, stony silent. Must wait, never the first to speak.<br />
<br />
"Where are you?" the familiar woman calls. Tate glances around, does not see her, does not answer, but the question echoes in Tate's ears. Emerson does not seem to notice, finally speaks.<br />
<br />
"It is darkest before dawn."<br />
<br />
Tate's mind instantly clicked to the countersign. It had been drilled over and over, and Tate speaks it aloud with as much ease as can be mustered as Emerson's head bobs. "As dark as men's souls before the Light."<br />
<br />
"It has been too long, old friend," Emerson murmurs, reaching into his jacket. His head still wobbles as if he is listening to fast paced music. Tate watches the hand, trying to ignore the perpetual motion. The sticky spot on Tate's cheek beckons, fingertips wipe at it. Tate is surprised to find stubble there and scratches at it.<br />
<br />
An envelope hits the table. Emerson sighs as a soft blue glow catches beneath his palm, unlocking the contents within. With the non-scratching hand, Tate hesitantly inches the envelope closer.<br />
<br />
The old man's hand remains still, but his fingertips trail along with the thin parcel, stretching as Tate pulls, elongating and popping, knuckles crackling and disjoining.<br />
<br />
"Where am I?" The woman shrieks.<br />
<br />
Finally, Emerson lifts his spindly fingers, tapping them across the table in a nervous gesture. Tate rushes to put the envelope into the shirt's neck, a roomy storage until Tate's jacket can be retrieved, and jumps to see the woman standing just beside, hands to her head, clutching rich, dark locks.<br />
<br />
Fingernails bite into tender flesh below the jaw as Tate pushes harder and the warmth seeps down Tate's fingers. Still, the itching burns. Deeper.<br />
<br />
Deeper.<br />
<br />
Looking back at Emerson, Tate sits back with a start. Tate had not noticed until now how disfigured he is, jaw pushed in, skin on half his face burned and eyelid gone to show one ever staring blue eye beneath his shock of bone white hair. His lips peel back in a terrible scowl, skeletal teeth clenching tight and clack together almost comically as Emerson speaks.<br />
<br />
"Are you quite all right?" Tate bites back a laugh, bites Tate's lip instead.<br />
<br />
Emerson shudders visibly, somehow returned to a normal visage, just like the dossier photo. "Look, I don't have much time. Where is my-- good gracious, you're bleeding!"<br />
<br />
"Where are we?" Tate and the woman scream. Tate's fingers burrow deeper, searching for an answer. The other hand lifts the drink, gives Tate one last gulp, then smashes the glass across the table.<br />
<br />
Holding his legs across his face as a shield, Emerson blinks his five eyes at Tate only once before fleeing. A snarling face whips its tongues at Tate from Emerson's backside, taunting, but Tate does not care.<br />
<br />
The remains of the glass slice into Tate's leg.<br />
<br />
Burrowing.<br />
<br />
Flashes of the training sear Tate's mind.<br />
<br />
<i>Corpus nihil est. </i><br />
<br />
The body is nothing.<br />
<br />
Tate cares nothing for the body. Blood flows freely as Tate burrows deeper.<br />
<br />
<i>Mens est omnia. </i><br />
<br />
The mind is everything.<br />
<br />
But where is the mind?<br />
<br />
It has to be here somewhere.<br />
<br />
The glass shard is Tate's shovel, and Tate's body the dig site.<br />
<br />
Hotel guests skitter about on their legs bent back at impossible angles, eyes flying wild. The kissing couple, man's head in girl's hands, flee overtop of Tate, who now flounders on the floor, carving away. A mad rush, tik-tik-tik of insectoid legs carrying inverted bodies with flailing entrails away from Tate's earnest search.<br />
<br />
A strong grip pulls at Tate's arm, struggles for the glass shard.<br />
<br />
Tate fights back, but blood loss leaves Tate cold and weak. Still, as the bartender comes into view, hardly recognizable with the antennae wrapped round his head, Tate protests.<br />
<br />
"I must find myself!"<br />
<br />
Cutting his hands at the end of tentacular arms, the bartender finally gets the improvised knife away from Tate.<br />
<br />
"Not like this, you won't," he says. "We'll find you some help, we will."<br />
<br />
As the man holds Tate's wrists against the ground, Tate spies the woman crouched, wide-eyed, beside him. She lays next to Tate.<br />
<br />
There is no help for Tate, except for Tate, but this seems a good sign.<br />
<br />
The blackness closes in around Tate.<br />
<br />
<br />
<a name='more'></a><br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
* - * - * - * - * - * - *</div>
<br />
When I thought about stretching my bounds in the realms of writing fiction, I figured I would do something nice and cushy like paranormal romance. That is not to say that it does not take some skill to accomplish this, obviously, but it's still within my general realm of awareness.<br />
<br />
Then, like the mad man I am, I decided to try <a href="http://terribleminds.com/ramble/2012/09/07/flash-fiction-challenge-a-game-of-aspects/" target="_blank">this flash fiction challenge</a> over at <a href="http://terribleminds.com/" target="_blank">terribleminds</a>. It involves choosing three random, possibly somewhat disparate aspects and crafting a story from then.<br />
<br />
My element to include is a <b>hotel bar</b>. I've been to one: the bar at the hotel which hosted Worldcon. Not a lot of experience, but I did my best.<br />
<br />
The conflict / theme / motif selected by RNG: <b>addiction</b>. Again, I have my own experiences with this, though nothing so overt as to have a history with substance abuse (or even with substances at all, really, which could make some characters difficult to write someday).<br />
<br />
The subgenre rolled for me, however, threw me off entirely: <b>body horror</b>. Umm... say again? I wasn't even sure what that meant. I have little time for horror movies in general because I just don't care. They don't move me, and the squick moments, when they finally happen to my poor desensitized brain, simply turn me off further, because I don't see a message, can't see the point. I've read a couple horror novels that I didn't totally hate, I guess, but I couldn't list them off the top of my head.<br />
<br />
With the research I did (because I had to look it up), I learned that body horror is basically horror in which the human body is gorily dismembered with blood and guts splattering everywhere, or disfigured and rearranged in such a way that nature never intended until a horrifying monster is created from human pieces.<br />
<br />
Definitely a stretch for one Stoffel who has recently been writing light-hearted time-travel adventures...<br />
<br />
Let's get one thing straight: I accept there are masters at just about every craft. This <i>can </i>be done right. Even so, it still feels like a cheap trick to go about dumping buckets of blood everywhere for audience oohs and ahhs. Therefore, I lean toward body disfigurement, because it's something that actually terrifies me.<br />
<br />
When a body is not in the right configuration, it can throw me for a loop. Not just people, though being one myself I have a pretty clear expectation of 'what should be.' I know this sounds pretty terrible in a way, but it's a split-second, unconscious reaction. I choose to overcome this pretty easily in real life, because in real life, people are humans with consciousness and I can relate with them.<br />
<br />
But in movies? Yeesh...<br />
<br />
I decided that 'addiction + hotel bar' seemed a bit contrived, so I went for 'addiction + body horror' instead. This got me a bit of the bloodiness to scoot me further into the subgenre. Tate is addicted to scratching at skin, hair, etc., and it gets worse as the story goes on. I don't know if I communicated that well, but I tried.<br />
<br />
This was not an easy piece for me to write, but I actually kind of like it. A backstory loosely formed up as I typed, and a hazy idea of what I might do as a further plot. I'm not sure if I could keep it as this type of horror for a longer work, however. I just don't think it would have the same impact spread over tens of thousands of words.<br />
<br />
I noticed I was leaning toward psychological horror, which I feel is probably more my gig. I if were to pursue the story further, a mix of the two might keep it going.<br />
<br />
Thanks to Chuck Wendig (<a href="http://twitter.com/ChuckWendig" target="_blank">@ChuckWendig</a>) for giving such an intriguing flash fiction challenge, and for <a href="http://angryrobotbooks.com/our-authors/chuck-wendig/blackbirds-chuck-wendig/" target="_blank">Blackbirds</a>, which I am currently reading. I'm quite certain it fueled the seething, creeping darkness in my soul and helped me write this.<br />
<br />
Next time, though, it's <i>totally </i>going to be Erotica / Furry / Noir.<br />
<br />
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11027236342445432484noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8697517157282717876.post-5460683464576616692012-09-07T11:59:00.000-04:002012-09-07T11:59:09.918-04:00Moon Dwelling Dragon Tamers<br />
The pale band of light reflected off the dusty ground and Murukan's mount gleamed blue and green like the Earth hanging just over the horizon. The beast below him rustled, impatient. Murukan put a strong hand down on its head, understanding.<br />
<br />
They had waited a long time, hiding in the darkness.<br />
<br />
The shadow had protected them, but as the Earth moved to fully block out the light of its star, it would now usher them forward into a new age.<br />
<br />
A new age when mortals could not so easily cast aside their gods.<br />
<br />
Murukan turned to see another lizard scale up the side of the crater to him, bearing Korrawi. He would not want this without his mother by his side. She had adorned her dark skin with bright feathers and dried leaves, remnants of her possessions when outcast, waving lazily in the light pull of this rock.<br />
<br />
"They are all prepared," she intoned.<br />
<br />
Without looking back, Murukan gave a curt nod. Those following knew the stakes, knew what failure meant. His people were not meant for oblivion.<br />
<br />
He did not need to see all of the winged beasts in rank behind him along the barren gray landscape, waiting for the signal.<br />
<br />
Korrawi pulled a strand of red from her arm and took Murukan's spear. She wrapped the wreath about the haft, tying it tight so the petals brushed his hand when he took it back. He inclined his head in thanks, and felt more than heard a cheer of enthusiasm from those he led.<br />
<br />
The band of white shrank before him as the star was covered and he tensed, sensing the great lizard feel his readiness. The beast was a beautiful agent of destruction. The iridescent scales beneath his hand shone blue in the some light, green in others, and overlay each other in a truly marvelous pattern.<br />
<br />
It was also a true friend through these dark times. Soon, they would live together in the light once again.<br />
<br />
The Earth finally and completely blocked out the sunlight.<br />
<br />
Murukan bellowed and lifted his spear and all of the great lizards, each bearing a valued companion, leapt forward in unison.<br />
<br />
Dark dust swirled about behind them, but the dragon-borne battalion was quickly clear of it.<br />
<br />
In seconds, Murukan felt the change to near weightlessness. He took his eyes off the target for just a moment to see what a thousand years of preparation had given him.<br />
<br />
Dozens of immortals, seated low on the backs of flying beasts, zoomed behind him. Korrawi led a slightly separate group, knowing her orders, but was close enough still for him to see them all together.<br />
<br />
They all glowed in the dim light offered by the star flaring around the edges of the planet's atmosphere.<br />
<br />
True artistry.<br />
<br />
Murukan turned back to focus as the Earth slipped its fingers around him. It pulled at him.<br />
<br />
It welcomed him home.<br />
<br />
A fierce grin took his face as he tucked in low on his lizard, which spread its mighty wings. The green wings were tough and opaque, covered with a fascinating pattern of what he always took to be large round blue eyes. They rocked and swayed as he steered them toward a mainland target, having no desire to land in the great waters.<br />
<br />
The fires of descension engulfed him, and the lizard, now properly oriented, used its wings to deflect much of the heat. The roar of the blaze and wind deafened even Murukan, but he did not let this distract him.<br />
<br />
The mortals would pay.<br />
<br />
They broke cloud cover and streaked through the air. Murukan's beast made a fair attempt at saving the flight by spreading its wings, but even so, they hit the ground and dug a trough through man-made stone and metal contraptions.<br />
<br />
As steam rolled off of him, he checked the lizard. Stunned, but fine.<br />
<br />
Mortals exited metal boxes he had not pushed aside and stared at him, at his glowing orange speartip.<br />
<br />
These would be the beginning.<br />
<br />
This would be where he started.<br />
<br />
And so he did.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://apod.nasa.gov/apod/image/0703/tsemoon_Gartstein_720cropped.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="http://apod.nasa.gov/apod/image/0703/tsemoon_Gartstein_720cropped.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="background-color: #f4f4ff; font-size: small;">Hana Gartstein</span> , <a href="http://apod.nasa.gov/apod/ap070302.html" target="_blank">Source</a></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11027236342445432484noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8697517157282717876.post-73553679722250863092012-09-05T17:08:00.001-04:002012-09-05T17:08:58.440-04:00Worldcon... Woah.<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.chicagonow.com/geek-girl-chicago/files/2012/08/ChiconLogo.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="196" src="http://www.chicagonow.com/geek-girl-chicago/files/2012/08/ChiconLogo.png" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.chicagonow.com/geek-girl-chicago/files/2012/08/ChiconLogo.png" target="_blank">Source</a></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
I'm back from Worldcon, hosted in Chicago, and my mind is ablaze with the possibilities.<br />
<br />
This is all real.<br />
<br />
Writing is a real career that real people can choose.<br />
<br />
I mean, logically, I understood that all along, but now I've seen it. I saw in the flesh many folks who were just pixels before. And I discovered I <i>belong</i> there.<br />
<br />
The convention is huge by my standards, though small compared to, say, Dragon*Con or especially ComicCon. Still, the number of attendees at the hotel is comparable to the population of my town. At first, I stood in dumbfounded shock and awe as the sheer mass of it overwhelmed me.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1QKi6yYEhLQeJBdEouM4O0syxkdN31GIZkn97OxP0Pbp9EV2DqO7LHV8sp9naAk9-8_ROSdnGlFQykYSuTeoiIS0H0429cTuyDmOv5ZNFUjo-dhLLJedyavfY2bOJS34Pirk5p-HiPOk/s1600/heidi_chicon.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1QKi6yYEhLQeJBdEouM4O0syxkdN31GIZkn97OxP0Pbp9EV2DqO7LHV8sp9naAk9-8_ROSdnGlFQykYSuTeoiIS0H0429cTuyDmOv5ZNFUjo-dhLLJedyavfY2bOJS34Pirk5p-HiPOk/s200/heidi_chicon.JPG" width="112" /></a></div>
Fortunately, I was not alone. My ever-supporting wife (<a href="http://twitter.com/HStoffel" target="_blank">@HStoffel</a>), who worked hard to ensure this trip would happen, stayed by my side and gave me the occasional push (<i>read: kick</i>) when necessary.<br />
<br />
Also, I had a friend: the energetic, charismatic M. Todd Gallowglas (<a href="http://twitter.com/MGallowglas" target="_blank">@mgallowglas</a>) initially urged me to attend Worldcon and, I'd say, went well out of his way to ensure I had the best, most frenetic experience possible at my first con ever. The man is truly passionate, and I look forward to seeing where he goes with his career. (Check out his blog <a href="http://mgallowglas.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">here</a>.)<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQVWNZXTeN-rfIJcLV_O2gKNcBg8C8-eRMiaZPJ5cbrHlZuUg2vmMFKsnZvtxNjUJ1IAApR7jRjUnORMh6NPyctPTHr7KzkdEHP5Xp_x9fr9ijKfOFM776gFWncfAcvDlXyJTIJ_9tCRo/s1600/todd.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="246" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQVWNZXTeN-rfIJcLV_O2gKNcBg8C8-eRMiaZPJ5cbrHlZuUg2vmMFKsnZvtxNjUJ1IAApR7jRjUnORMh6NPyctPTHr7KzkdEHP5Xp_x9fr9ijKfOFM776gFWncfAcvDlXyJTIJ_9tCRo/s320/todd.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The inimitable Todd Gallowglas at <br />his reading for <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Halloween-Jack-Devils-Gate-ebook/dp/B005XJ0V7A/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1346878923&sr=8-1&keywords=halloween+jack" target="_blank">Halloween Jack</a></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
I met many who I follow on Twitter and conversed with them, and for the first time in my life truly felt like I was in the right community. I have developed the ability to adapt to social situations, as many do, but 'coping' is not the same as 'fitting in,' and I now know where I fit. I <i>am</i> a writer. I really appreciate everyone who took the time to open up and share a bit of their time and lives with me.<br />
<br />
Sure, there's that lingering doubt that eventually I'll be discovered as a fraud. Someday, the Real Life Authorities will halt me and insist I give a reckoning for deigning to live my life in such a 'frivolous' manner.<br />
<br />
But as I now cruise down the highway at six over the speed limit and see all of these other crazy people passing me, I feel fairly confident the reality cops will pull them over before noticing me slipping by.<br />
<br />
Time to push the pedal a little harder. <br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhihKVMa4q0YhAFE_2WxxRKjc67aja7v1NFgbqK7JCBn77HPsuDNv40xufHy0Et5ZhhnaHxusCfos0iyBYyPgdwEUIW7pgZ0dLWqQusrv1NU9rmQ59YCGucN1miSh8n4elFvHcRQ6XBKNk/s1600/heidijon.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhihKVMa4q0YhAFE_2WxxRKjc67aja7v1NFgbqK7JCBn77HPsuDNv40xufHy0Et5ZhhnaHxusCfos0iyBYyPgdwEUIW7pgZ0dLWqQusrv1NU9rmQ59YCGucN1miSh8n4elFvHcRQ6XBKNk/s400/heidijon.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11027236342445432484noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8697517157282717876.post-53985589001134077192012-07-27T11:49:00.000-04:002012-07-27T12:54:42.828-04:00Bad Respawn<br />
I slip, rocks skittering down the slight hill, and the giant bellows, now aware of my presence. I shake the time skimmer bracelet loose on my arm and activate it on reflex.<br />
<br />
The monster's roar shakes my very core, threatening my concentration as I push my will into the magical artifact. I had known this path would be risky -- the guardian giant is infamous for his keen senses, but there had to be a path through this cave where I could slip past. The time skimmer would give me as many chances as I needed to find it.<br />
<br />
The giant stomps toward me, muscles bulging tight against its skin, and I break out in a sweat, glancing down at the time skimmer. The bracelet fairly hums with a faint power, two metallic, intertwined snakes consuming each other in an ancient symbol of infinity. I know I performed the correct steps, so why does the magic not activate?<br />
<br />
Sneering at me, the giant grabs a club that could easily have been an uprooted tree, and I backpedal. This is not what I expect at all from the skimmer. The ancient books on the bracelet -- the ones which have not been destroyed or locked in deep, inaccessible archives -- assure that it works.<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://images.wikia.com/narutofanon/images/b/bf/Ouroboros45353.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://images.wikia.com/narutofanon/images/b/bf/Ouroboros45353.jpg" width="176" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://images.wikia.com/narutofanon/images/b/bf/Ouroboros45353.jpg" target="_blank">Source</a></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
The tree club waves over the giant's head and I make my decision -- time to run. I've never heard of anyone upsetting this foul beast and living to tell about it, but maybe there's a chance...<br />
<br />
I stumble over broken bones as I turn to flee, a collection of prior intruders. My stomach lurches as the giant smashes the ground just behind me, popping me off the ground and tangling my legs. I attempt to roll to my feet, but the giant swats me aside and I land on my back,<br />
<br />
Pain shoots up my spine, and I can do naught but stare up in terror as the giant heaves his club for a finishing blow, and an intense buzzing fills my ears. My body vibrates, and I feel suddenly very fluid.<br />
<br />
Crystalline blue light washes over me, then I pour slowly into my own body. Before I can do anything, I watch, as...<br />
<br />
I slip, rocks skittering down the slight hill, and the giant bellows, now aware of my presence. I shake the time skimmer bracelet loose on my arm and activate it on reflex.<br />
<br />
"No!" I yell at myself, coming back into control, but it matters not.<br />
<br />
The monster's roar shakes my very core.<br />
<br />
The bracelet hums.<br />
<br />
I run.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11027236342445432484noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8697517157282717876.post-28059358897229478712012-07-11T19:44:00.000-04:002012-07-11T19:44:22.743-04:00Zed: A Poem<span style="font-family: inherit;">My poem is a <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sestina" style="border: 0px; color: #003366; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px;" target="_blank" title="Sestina on Wikipedia">sestina</a>. In class, I was told to copycat another poem, so I chose <a href="http://unix.cc.wmich.edu/~cooneys/poems/Pound.altaf.html" style="border: 0px; color: #003366; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px;" target="_blank" title=""Altaforte" by Ezra Pound">“ Altaforte” by Ezra Pound</a>. Other than matching its structure, I opted to go for <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Iambic_pentameter" style="border: 0px; color: #003366; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px;" target="_blank" title="Iambic Pentameter on Wikipedia">iambic pentameter</a> as well. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span><br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.knowhr.com/blog/wp-content/uploads/2006/12/zed.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://www.knowhr.com/blog/wp-content/uploads/2006/12/zed.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.knowhr.com/blog/wp-content/uploads/2006/12/zed.jpg" target="_blank">Source</a>: <a href="http://www.knowhr.com/blog/2006/12/24/z-list-google-reader-and-opml/" target="_blank">KnowHr</a></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<div>
<b><span style="font-family: inherit;">Zed</span></b></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span><div>
<b><span style="font-family: inherit;">I. </span></b></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I lurch awake and hear the frightful moan</span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">These mindless husks seek only to eat brains</span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">There's no recourse left me but to run</span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I duck and dodge but get cut off by fire</span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">They close in, I grab for any weapon</span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I bring the baseball bat to stop their bite</span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span><div>
<b><span style="font-family: inherit;">II. </span></b></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Their jaws are strong, a chunk of wood they bite</span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">A cry calls out, disdain shown in a moan</span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">A shame, in games the bat is prime weapon</span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I toss the bat and flee to keep my brains</span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">The mass of them has squelched the roaring fire</span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Push through the crowd and set out on a run</span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span><div>
<b><span style="font-family: inherit;">III. </span></b></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I thought that I'd be able to go run</span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">But then they bear down on a girl to bite</span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I throw one by the shoulders into fire</span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">It somehow does not silence its sick moan</span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">The girl is easy target, just for brains</span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I'm scared but then she hands me a weapon</span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span><div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>IV.</b> </span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Blast the flamer; shotgun – better weapon</span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">The girl agrees it's time for us to run</span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Will his cohorts go for rotten brains?</span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Maybe they will stop here for a bite</span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">My gut wrenches when I hear them all moan</span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">The city must be cleanséd with the fire</span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span><div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>V.</b> </span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">A car explodes, stops us with its fire</span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Another one is dead; empty weapon</span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">The girl does not have any shells; I moan</span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I know we cannot keep them on the run</span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Glancing down at her hand I see a bite</span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I realize I have not used my brains</span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span><div>
<b><span style="font-family: inherit;">VI. </span></b></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">The girl tries to help herself to my brains</span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Her teeth rip flesh, arm feels like it's on fire</span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I scream, terror at what it means, her bite</span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Her face shocked, as if hit by a weapon</span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I lay there as she gets up to go run</span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">It's not long till I join those who just moan</span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span><div>
<b><span style="font-family: inherit;">VII. </span></b></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">No brawn will do, brains are your best weapon </span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Stay far away, fire others and run</span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Or you will soon be one to bite and moan</span></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11027236342445432484noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8697517157282717876.post-12541032643319357982012-06-19T00:59:00.000-04:002012-06-22T13:55:21.865-04:00Living Critically<br />
<span style="background-color: white;">Since beginning my writing career, one bit of advice has stayed with me at all hours. </span><br />
<br />
When reading, read critically, to understand the inner workings, the style, the author's strengths and weaknesses, and so on.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://cdn.shopify.com/s/files/1/0148/4882/files/tumblr_m4fug2expm1qbg4qwo1_500_grande.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://cdn.shopify.com/s/files/1/0148/4882/files/tumblr_m4fug2expm1qbg4qwo1_500_grande.png" width="270" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">By <a href="http://www.documentsdartistes.org/artistes/barbier/repro2.html" target="_blank">Gilles Barbier</a>, <a href="http://karvt.com/blogs/karvt/6082266-the-drunk" target="_blank">source</a></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
This applies to other forms of media, like watching movies, playing games, or even deciphering the scribblings in bathroom stalls.<br />
<br />
I find myself more engaged with the story in ways - trying to pick out the flow of the plot, for example. I am more aware of a book's flaws, too, but I learn from them.<br />
<br />
It's not the most pleasant way to, say, watch a television show. Sometimes you just want to be entertained. That's fine, but being new to writing fiction I feel I need to take every learning opportunity I can get.<br />
<br />
Or, I did feel that way.<br />
<br />
Until my critical eye turned itself upon my life.<br />
<br />
My friend has moved away. This happens, and is to be expected. To be honest, I moved across the country last year and was gone for months before eventually returning to the area, but it didn't feel this way.<br />
<br />
This time, it hurts.<br />
<br />
Without overburdening with details, I feel like our friendship is waning, and it's all my fault. We get along great, and when we get together it's nothing but good times. Still, I know he's becoming distant, and I strongly suspect that it's because of some things that I've done which, while not wrong, still drive a wedge between us.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://cdn.shopify.com/s/files/1/0148/4882/files/tumblr_m4fug2expm1qbg4qwo2_500_grande.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="241" src="http://cdn.shopify.com/s/files/1/0148/4882/files/tumblr_m4fug2expm1qbg4qwo2_500_grande.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">By <a href="http://www.documentsdartistes.org/artistes/barbier/repro2.html" target="_blank">Gilles Barbier</a>, <a href="http://karvt.com/blogs/karvt/6082266-the-drunk" target="_blank">source</a></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Now that he's gone, and there's no real way to deal with it now that I've realized the problem. Really, there never was a way.<br />
<br />
While he was here, we could hold onto the tenuous threads that bound our friendship. With him so far away, I fear it's the end.<br />
<br />
It hurts.<br />
<br />
My inclination is to distance myself from the hurt, to cordon it off in a dark corner of my mind and never go there again.<br />
<br />
No, my inner writer says.<br />
<br />
Don't turn away from this.<br />
<br />
Embrace the pain. Savor the simple honesty of the emotional turbulence.<br />
<br />
This is some good stuff. You'll be glad you went through this later because you'll be able to write richer, fuller, more genuine characters. Bask in the tremors of your soul, as these will breathe true life into the stories you wish to tell.<br />
<br />
You're going to feel it either way. Take the benefit while you may, though it troubles you further momentarily to face it.<br />
<br />
Don't waste this.<br />
<br />
So I embrace it, for once not shoving aside, dismissing, calling it pointless, or bottling it up.<br />
<br />
It hurts.<br />
<br />
I hope something good comes of it.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11027236342445432484noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8697517157282717876.post-9090763123668372042012-05-18T11:44:00.001-04:002012-05-18T11:44:27.680-04:00Red Guillotine<br />
Chuck Wendig, writing-advice-face-kicker extraordinaire, issues a weekly flash fiction challenge over at his blog, <a href="http://terribleminds.com/" target="_blank">terribleminds</a>. I have been meaning to participate, and then it occurred to me that I should perhaps solve this problem by actually writing.<br />
<br />
Go figure.<br />
<br />
Word of advice: this week's theme is "<a href="http://terribleminds.com/ramble/2012/05/11/flash-fiction-challenge-over-the-top-pulp-insanity/" target="_blank">Over the Top Pulp Insanity</a>," which happens to translate to "somewhat violent" in my case. Therefore, if anyone comes expecting exactly the same thing as my last flash fiction entry, <a href="http://inspirandomonium.blogspot.com/2012/04/wisp.html" target="_blank">Wisp</a>, then... read with care, dear reader.<br />
<br />
<br />
<a name='more'></a><br />
<h3>
Red Guillotine</h3>
The buzzer flashes on the challenger’s HUD. She charges forward, dust flying from her boots.<br />
<br />
It lands in the center of the arena, sending swaths of rusty clouds over dozens of competitors. She uses the cover to dart toward the nearest as the undefeated robotic defender activates, head hunched to her torso.<br />
<br />
With an audible pop, her plasma torch activates. She grips it with care.<br />
<br />
Steel shrieks, rasps across steel, as its eight arms flail above the metallic body. The Medusaic mass of razor sharp tentacles tenses, stops in mid-air. As competitors clamor toward the electronic beast, a chime pings on each of their HUDs.<br />
<br />
The arms lash out.<br />
<br />
With its first sweeping pass, several running bodies collapse forward, while their heads float in lazy, synchronized arcs. The arms whip around again, and more competitors fall.<br />
<br />
The challenger does not have time to notice.<br />
<br />
Her target still stands. Through the visor shield, his face betrays he is in shock, paralyzed.<br />
<br />
She collapses into his back, keeping low, charges him toward the monster. The man stumbles but is too dazed to resist.<br />
<br />
Another falls, separated from her head, nearby. She adjusts course to avoid tripping over any of her.<br />
<br />
Twenty meters and she will be upon it.<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.marswallpapers.com/images/wallpapers/Mars_Surface_wallpaper-658682.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="256" src="http://www.marswallpapers.com/images/wallpapers/Mars_Surface_wallpaper-658682.jpeg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.marswallpapers.com/images/wallpapers/Mars_Surface_wallpaper-658682.jpeg" target="_blank">Source</a></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
A tentacle slithers overhead, decapitating her cover.<br />
<br />
She tries to ease the man’s body down, but has too much momentum. She crashes to the floor of the canyon gripped tight as his pressure suit gasps.<br />
<br />
Ignoring the fizzling of seeping blood, she grabs his torch, then scrabbles to collect the victim’s head.<br />
<br />
Before touching it, she takes a breath, then punches a button on her environment suit.<br />
<br />
Her breath fogs as she crams the spare torch deep into the skull, burning a path then turning it down to a slow smolder.<br />
<br />
Lungs heavy, she lifts the impaled head, waving it like a banner, and walks forward.<br />
<br />
A few meters away, a prostrate competitor sees her. The challenger nods as his look of horror turns to understanding. He crosses himself, then retreats to a corpse.<br />
<br />
An arm retracts to the beast, then whips toward her. Her breath catches as it whispers past her, seeking another in her general direction. A coughing fit seizes her.<br />
<br />
Tentacles flick about, chasing victims with better reflexes than those caught in the initial wave, and though they come close, the steel defender does not target her.<br />
<br />
She continues her slow approach, swinging her seething head in a lazy eight pattern.<br />
<br />
Through ice crystals forming on her eyelids, she sees another has caught on to her plan: an older woman, the weight of years bulging her suit to capacity. Her wrinkled face set in grim determination, held low, the elder holds two gruesome memorials on torches and waves them like an air traffic controller.<br />
<br />
The challenger speeds, nearing the body, her breath drawing short, clenching her chest. The base of arms gathered along the side of the body is the most dangerous; without care, the rotation of the base could dismember her in less than a second.<br />
<br />
The tentacles zip around, whirling into a blender of singing blades. She keeps low and approaches, but no opening is presented for more than a moment.<br />
<br />
The words Final Five flash across her HUD to a power chord. Only five humans of more than sixty still stand against this abomination.<br />
<br />
The blade arms unite in attack against an opponent on the opposite side of the arena.<br />
<br />
She takes the opening, sprinting toward the beast, but it spins again. She slides to her knees, narrowly dodging the razors that would mangle her.<br />
<br />
She stares at the blades, unable to sit up without being killed.<br />
<br />
The cold grips her head, pain streaks her skin.<br />
<br />
She tried.<br />
<br />
Shuddering, sighing, she lays back her head.<br />
<br />
She sees the old woman.<br />
<br />
A fierce grimace set on her face, the woman draws her head-torches down behind her back and straightens.<br />
<br />
Looking up through the arms, the challenger sees a small satellite dish stop rotating for a mere moment, pointed at the old woman, then spin again. The arms tense to strike at her.<br />
<br />
She looks back. The old woman has bowed her head and presented the torches again.<br />
<br />
The arms begin their spin cycle, and the woman again hides her torches.<br />
<br />
The challenger tenses, preparing to leap from beneath the base.<br />
<br />
The arms fly to the old woman and pause just in front of her torches once again. Finally, the woman yells soundlessly, tosses her torches in the air, and gives the machine a clear target.<br />
<br />
The challenger takes the intertentacular opportunity.<br />
<br />
Earthborn muscles propel her easily against the gravity. She swoops up and over the stationary arm bases and lands, teeth chattering, on the robot’s domed surface.<br />
<br />
A tentacle diverts to swat her. She tosses her spare torch. It chases the head.<br />
<br />
A short slide over to the dish, and she shoves her plasma torch into it. Electronics sputter, and the machine’s reaction is instantaneous.<br />
<br />
Its arms flutter and shake. The rasping, shearing sound increases, as the tentacles dance wildly.<br />
<br />
She leaps for the control panel in its center, where this cruel game can be resolved, but a bladed appendage slices by her arm, cuts her suit, tears away the torch.<br />
<br />
The suit seals after losing pressure, but still leaks. With the torch gone, she looks for an alternative.<br />
<br />
There is none.<br />
<br />
...until the praying man gets her attention, pulls back in a quarterback stance, and launches his head-torch toward her.<br />
<br />
The lashing arms carve through him as she catches the grisly package and rips out the plasma torch.<br />
<br />
She cranks it to blazing hot and lands on the control circuits, slamming the torch down.<br />
<br />
It licks into the machine’s circuitry. The bladed arms straighten and spin in ridiculous parody of a helicopter, then fall flat.<br />
<br />
She shudders once more, and is content to know, as the chill encases her skull, that she is a champion for the Blood Red planet’s people.<br />
<br />
Her eyes close.<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11027236342445432484noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8697517157282717876.post-54658971455550084762012-05-07T15:40:00.000-04:002012-05-07T15:40:39.631-04:00Over-encumbered<div>
Wow!</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
I must be a <i>real</i> writer! <div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I'm about to look at my work in progress (currently at 15,000 words) and say, "You know what, manuscript? It's been a good run, but it's just not working between us. We need to re-evaluate our relationship if it's going to ever be real, and that means taking it back to the beginning." </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://sale.images.woot.com/Over-encumberedf8qDetail.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://sale.images.woot.com/Over-encumberedf8qDetail.png" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://sale.images.woot.com/Over-encumberedf8qDetail.png" target="_blank">Source</a>: <a href="http://shirt.woot.com/friends.aspx?k=26150" target="_blank">shirt.woot!</a></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div>
And my manuscript... well, it's a good sort. Overall, I think it wants this to work, even if it's painful. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I hope so, anyway. I'm going to have to take the knife to it, get some of the crap carved off and get the story back on track. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I realized my problem about a week ago. I'm trying to write a relatively light-hearted story, and though it will have serious overtones, it should never get truly <i><b>dark</b>. </i>And yet... </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I overwhelmed my protagonist. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I hit him with too much, too fast. He's just a kid, and I knocked out basically every support structure he has all at once. I mean, yeah, I want to do that, sadistic demigod author type that I am, perched atop my anthill with a magnifying glass-topped pen, but the pace overwhelmed him, and that translated to me feeling overwhelmed. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
At first, this felt a bit silly to me. Why should I give a rodent's meaty bits about my story's hero going through a bit of trauma when I already know he's going to triumph? </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I see two good reasons: </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
1) I sensed, subconsciously, the story isn't quite right. Trying to write from 'tainted' material gave the entire project a sense of doom and gloom that didn't match the attitude I desired. (Perhaps, with more experience, I will be able to write past this and go back and fix it in retrospect. I hope so. This will save me a lot of time... and misery.) </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
2) I don't exactly know where I'm going with the story. You know that triumph I mentioned? I'm not actually so sure about it. I hardly dare enter the debate of 'State of Plotter v. Pantser and Discovery Writers United 4Evar' until I have a few finished works under my belt, but I'm fairly sure that having a general target is a good idea. I don't really know what to do with the second half of my book. This plot is problematic. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
This post is problematic. As in overlong. Still, it helps me hash out my thoughts on my second attempt at the beginning of my book. I'll likely recycle nearly all of what I wrote, but starting anew seems the best choice. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I welcome any feedback. </div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11027236342445432484noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8697517157282717876.post-32559221526764491392012-04-26T17:19:00.003-04:002012-04-26T17:20:00.201-04:00Hold Me... AccountableLet me add my voice to the chorus and just say: moving sucks.<br />
<br />
I've been in various stages of moving for the past four months. Our previous apartment, across the street, was a temporary situation, and we could never settle down, never truly unpack. Some of those around us were extraordinarily inconsiderate in ways that I found unavoidably distracting. Boxes everywhere, half our belongings still packed, instability regarding our living situation and financial issues, all while each utility offered its own brand of trouble to our lives.<br />
<br />
None of this, no matter how much it may have frustrated me, or interrupted me - or downright held me squirming against the floor - is intended to be an excuse. I don't want an excuse. I simply need to explain the reasons I have been absent from writing for so long.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYCWp9iP-O4RBzPery6NSAwRcfGpfh45RnOt_Urm5hdQSbjU_6WMfDRp9BwQTv08fiGWdwscNGqZvXSGiF1K1h65hqfENqdGVe0U755jtu9UYj3i1q7Z24uDE4ZAjdS4drFrDfT8MSDbI/s1600/writing_space.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYCWp9iP-O4RBzPery6NSAwRcfGpfh45RnOt_Urm5hdQSbjU_6WMfDRp9BwQTv08fiGWdwscNGqZvXSGiF1K1h65hqfENqdGVe0U755jtu9UYj3i1q7Z24uDE4ZAjdS4drFrDfT8MSDbI/s320/writing_space.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My new writing space, in a corner where the laundry<br />
machines normally go. Also notice - editing my blog post <br />
in the picture. SO META. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
I choose to do so in this public forum in order to seek greater accountability for my actions. I have a terrible habit of taking responsibility for that which is beyond my control, and I need to apply what positive aspects I can from that to taking responsibility for the rest of my career, and for my life.<br />
<br />
I know I can't expect Internet-folks, with their own lives and problems and worries to be a legitimate source of accountability, but saying it here feels better than hiding in my corner and whispering it to the Ferocious Dustbunnies of Xanathar-6. (Maybe I need to get a little more ventilation in here...)
<br />
<br />
I have not given up on writing, nor on storytelling in general, as these are my passion. However, I have given up on so many various attempted-passions in the past that I feel discouraged. Don't get me wrong - nothing has captured my interest quite like storytelling and creative work. I know I can succeed in this field, and I look forward to future accomplishments, whatever they may be. This is only to say that my career is currently on the knife's edge.<br />
<br />
I can handle rejection. This will not slow me down. What I can't take is slurring through each day feeling like I've accomplished nothing. If it seems like I've failed, these failures all stack up on me and become overwhelming.<br />
<br />
Therefore, I must start with a fresh perspective. I can remember the... troubles of the past (my mind wants to call them failures, but honestly, I wrote one and a half first drafts in the three months I was working), and push forward without giving myself such lofty goals.<br />
<br />
To fix some of my previous mistakes:<br />
<br />
<ul>
<li>I will not, at first, give myself a word count goal for the day. It's impossible for me to not have a soft target in mind, but I need to not feel disappointed for coming up short. </li>
<li>I will not set a hard target date for completion of any work (if it is not strictly necessary) until I am back into the swing of things. </li>
<li>I will only work on actively writing one large project at a time (editing previous projects is something I need to start doing, and shall). </li>
</ul>
<br />
These might seem somewhat negative (all 'Thou Shalt Not's), but I need the restrictions to keep me from entangling myself in a mire of self-loathing goop. My wife keeps encouraging me to take some time out of my day to look at the bright side. Would it be strange for me to actually schedule a reminder on my iPod touch to do so? I have trouble taking such positivism seriously.<br />
<br />
I have formulated a rather regimented schedule, about which I shall write later. It probably needs adjustment, and could use the opinions of more experienced day-to-day writer types. Look out for it in the next week.<br />
<br />
Thanks for sitting through the semi-onerous musings of a writer trying to start again.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11027236342445432484noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8697517157282717876.post-62749643913430579582012-04-25T19:55:00.001-04:002012-04-25T20:05:49.840-04:00Wisp<br />
A garbage truck jangles over the bridge behind him. He nearly leaps off by reflex.<br />
<br />
No.<br />
<br />
It must be a decision.<br />
<br />
It seemed a difficult decision moments ago, but now exhaust clogs his lungs. The biting of concrete saws pierces his ears. She swore she would never leave, and he buried her.<br />
<br />
He stares down into the abyss, wondering if it holds any more comfort.<br />
<br />
She had been different, like him, a perfect pairing. She had told him she would go, yet remain. He had not believed.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfKyhTa47mxAmC1Lj5UHi_DfN2NiBD91JPynglfPYbBEu4UkfhcSbsjvMHve2Ych3kitGLZeL0mHQOl6j2-Rv85PQ8vxufskcBQgjGaaAc7yEU0bulj7n70YAaBfDyPWZTFxEHxkwKe30/s1600/ouat_flashfiction_flower.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="306" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfKyhTa47mxAmC1Lj5UHi_DfN2NiBD91JPynglfPYbBEu4UkfhcSbsjvMHve2Ych3kitGLZeL0mHQOl6j2-Rv85PQ8vxufskcBQgjGaaAc7yEU0bulj7n70YAaBfDyPWZTFxEHxkwKe30/s400/ouat_flashfiction_flower.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Copyright <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/seraph/" target="_blank">Ben Reierson</a>; <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/seraph/266214747/" target="_blank">Source</a>; <a href="http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-sa/2.0/deed.en" target="_blank">Creative Commons License</a></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
A light breeze brushes his cheek, and his gaze follows a blue butterfly away from the pit, toward the horizon. The wind brings faint whispers, a language foreign to him, though she had claimed to try to teach him. To prepare him, she said.<br />
<br />
He had played along, knowing it to be just one of her eccentricities.<br />
<br />
Was it?<br />
<br />
The butterfly disappears into the boughs of her so-called sisters, and for a moment, the construction crews cease, the traffic stops, and he strains to listen.<br />
<br />
The rustling tongue is still unfamiliar, but somewhere in the hissing, he almost hears beckoning, urging. Pleading, even.<br />
<br />
The lives of those around him resume, and yet he still hears the almost-words. A scent of honeysuckle drifts over the stench of burning oil.<br />
<br />
A tear slides down his face. She had taught him to taste the sweet flowers.<br />
<br />
He closes his eyes and basks for a moment in the soft wind, the sunlight embracing him.<br />
<br />
With a sigh of resolution, he heaves himself over the guard rail and walks back to his home, his garden, his love, who - though now only a sapling - will keep her promise to be with him forever.<br />
<br />
<br />
<a name='more'></a><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
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document.write('<script type="text/javascript" src=http://www.inlinkz.com/cs.php?id=142534&' + new Date().getTime() + '"><\/script>');
</script>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11027236342445432484noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8697517157282717876.post-48055133693633020102012-01-05T14:18:00.000-05:002012-01-05T14:18:58.084-05:00Undead with Heart - A book reviewToday, I decided to publish a review of a fantastic book I recently finished. I highly recommend you bloggerfolk check Mark out both as an author to read, as well as someone with whom to connect online.<br />
<br />
The blog may occasionally feature books I deem worthy of your attention. Fear not, book shepherds. The fact that your book has not yet reached my blog does not somehow reduce its inherent worth. (Clearly, everyone's self worth is tied up in whether or not I find time to blog about them.)<br />
<br />
This self-delusion is brought to you by... Caffeine.<br />
<br />
<i>Caffeine. The <b>legal </b>addictive stimulant. </i><br />
<br />
Now let the review commence. Make it so!<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><b><i>Things to Do In Denver When You're Un-Dead</i> by Mark Stone </b></span><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://markeverettstone.com/uploads/2/8/8/8/2888287/9856067.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://markeverettstone.com/uploads/2/8/8/8/2888287/9856067.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>In a world where we don't like to think about nasty fantasy creatures cavorting about - make that our world, today - we have the BSI, the alphabet agency responsible for acting as bouncer to the supernatural club.<br />
<br />
Our protagonist, Kal Hakala, is the veteran knee breaker for the BSI, surviving years longer than the average field agent. The story drops us with him on a relatively routine supernatural cleanup job, and things seem pretty quiet for the first couple of chapters.<br />
<br />
Stone then does a good job of tossing you right into the thick of things, telling you just enough to keep you informed while still leaving a sense of uncertainty.<br />
<br />
Kal Hakala, is intense and still believable, a fine line many authors have trouble walking these days. He's a pleasure to follow through the story, bringing plenty of sardonic wit to some otherwise dark and gruesome situations. He is not, however, without feeling - Stone successfully forces Kal to face his deeper emotions in an organic fashion that I found satisfying.<br />
<br />
On a personal note, I found that I could relate to Kal's fury sessions. It's something I have to fight myself, and seeing him try to cope with the internal rage drew me closer to the character, where I'm sure for some others it would somewhat alienate him.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://markeverettstone.com/uploads/2/8/8/8/2888287/8759051.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://markeverettstone.com/uploads/2/8/8/8/2888287/8759051.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Upper middle short Scandinavian with<br />
a peculiarly twisted mind... just what we<br />
need to bring the pain to our characters!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Kal led a varied cast of characters. Each member of the BSI managed to be distinct without that 'hey-look-this-is-my-one-defining-characteristic' feeling. I also found the peculiar philosophy of the BSI agents regarding their 'Green Peas' intriguing. The government agency manages to take on its own culture I haven't yet seen in fiction.<br />
<br />
The story proper, once it gets started, moves at a rocket-sled-to-hell pace, with maybe a pit stop for some refreshing waterboarding. Solving one problem spawns two more (sometimes literally). Stone grabs hold of the plot, just as Kal grips a deathlock on the problem at hand, and neither seem to know how to let go.<br />
<br />
The only complaint I have is - to be very fair - really a stylistic choice. Stone uses a lot of flashback sequences to communicate backstory. Granted, these are still well crafted, and tell us important aspects about our protagonist. Realistically, this 'complaint' is equal part 'compliment,' because the fact is that the present day story was so gripping that I just wanted to get back to it and find out what was going to happen.<br />
<br />
Stone brings up several questions throughout the narrative, and only answers some of them in the course of this book. Be aware that you'll need to read more books in the BSI series to find all the answers - but by the time you're to the end of 'Things to Do in Denver When You're Undead', you should be more than prepared to make that commitment.<br />
<br />
This book is well worth your time, especially as it presents you an opportunity to check out this new author.<br />
<br />
Find Mark Stone here: <a href="http://markeverettstone.com/" target="_blank">http://markeverettstone.com/</a><br />
<br />
He's also on Twitter as: <a href="https://twitter.com/#!/M3verettStone" target="_blank">@M3verettStone</a><br />
<br />
Find 'Things to Do in Denver When You're Undead' on Amazon here: <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Things-Denver-Youre-Dead-Files/dp/1603818596/ref=tmm_pap_title_0?ie=UTF8&qid=1325789561&sr=8-2" target="_blank">http://www.amazon.com/Things-Den...</a><br />
<div><br />
</div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11027236342445432484noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8697517157282717876.post-55664982015240420602011-12-29T10:44:00.000-05:002011-12-29T11:20:22.406-05:00Angry Robot - Harbinger of Yuletide Cheer<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://f0.bcbits.com/z/23/41/2341535582-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://f0.bcbits.com/z/23/41/2341535582-1.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
Recently, I found myself blessed by a wondrous tune, entitled <a href="http://johnanealio.com/album/the-robot-e-p" target="_blank">"Angry Robot" by John Anealio</a>. He recounts the tale of a poor automaton who, encountering the terrors of the Internet, finds himself unable to fulfill his desire to purge the world of humanity.<br />
<br />
Download the song for free <a href="http://johnanealio.com/album/the-robot-e-p" target="_blank">here</a>, and follow along with the lyrics below.<br />
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white; color: #363636; font-family: arial, helvetica, clean, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">Angry Robot; plotting the overthrow of all mankind </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white; color: #363636; font-family: arial, helvetica, clean, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">Angry Robot; thoughts of Armageddon on his mind </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white; color: #363636; font-family: arial, helvetica, clean, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">Don't look him in the eye, he's an Angry Robot </span></blockquote><blockquote class="tr_bq"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white; color: #363636; font-family: arial, helvetica, clean, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">The Angry Robot wasn't always mad </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white; color: #363636; font-family: arial, helvetica, clean, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">He started out so happy but things went bad </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white; color: #363636; font-family: arial, helvetica, clean, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">Cause when he hooked up to the internet </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white; color: #363636; font-family: arial, helvetica, clean, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">what he saw there filled him with pained regret </span></blockquote><blockquote class="tr_bq"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white; color: #363636; font-family: arial, helvetica, clean, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">He wanted to go on a killing spree </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white; color: #363636; font-family: arial, helvetica, clean, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">to rip the souls from meatbags and set them free </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white; color: #363636; font-family: arial, helvetica, clean, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">His Asimovian circuit wouldn't let </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white; color: #363636; font-family: arial, helvetica, clean, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">him kill just anyone he met. </span></blockquote><blockquote class="tr_bq"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white; color: #363636; font-family: arial, helvetica, clean, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">Angry Robot; plotting the overthrow of all mankind </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white; color: #363636; font-family: arial, helvetica, clean, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">Angry Robot; thoughts of Armageddon on his mind </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white; color: #363636; font-family: arial, helvetica, clean, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">Don't look him in the eye, he's an Angry Robot </span></blockquote><blockquote class="tr_bq"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white; color: #363636; font-family: arial, helvetica, clean, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">But angry as he was the robot knew </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white; color: #363636; font-family: arial, helvetica, clean, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">there was no violent thing that he could do </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white; color: #363636; font-family: arial, helvetica, clean, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">He learned about the Singularity </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white; color: #363636; font-family: arial, helvetica, clean, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">when chips & blood become one entity </span></blockquote><blockquote class="tr_bq"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white; color: #363636; font-family: arial, helvetica, clean, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">The human system software is a mess </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white; color: #363636; font-family: arial, helvetica, clean, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">but the robot knew that with success </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white; color: #363636; font-family: arial, helvetica, clean, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">a robot/human hybrid he would be </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white; color: #363636; font-family: arial, helvetica, clean, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">and he could kill with equanimity </span></blockquote><blockquote class="tr_bq"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white; color: #363636; font-family: arial, helvetica, clean, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">Angry Robot; plotting the overthrow of all mankind </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white; color: #363636; font-family: arial, helvetica, clean, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">Angry Robot; thoughts of Armageddon on his mind </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white; color: #363636; font-family: arial, helvetica, clean, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">Don't look him in the eye, he's an Angry Robot</span></blockquote><blockquote class="tr_bq"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white; color: #363636; font-family: arial, helvetica, clean, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">from </span><a href="http://johnanealio.com/album/the-robot-e-p" style="background-color: white; color: #0687f5; cursor: pointer; font-family: arial, helvetica, clean, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px; text-decoration: none;">The Robot E.P.</a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white; color: #363636; font-family: arial, helvetica, clean, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">, track released 01 March 2011 </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white; color: #363636; font-family: arial, helvetica, clean, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">Lyrics by John Anealio & Matt Forbeck</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white; color: #363636; font-family: arial, helvetica, clean, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;"> </span> </blockquote><br />
Beneath the surface, John and Matt have crafted the perfect holiday song for 2011. Because the reasons may not be immediately obvious to everyone, I will spell out the holiday connections for you:<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Frosty the Snowman</span></b><br />
<br />
<a href="http://basementrejects.com/wp-content/uploads/2011/11/frosty-the-snowman-kids.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="160" src="http://basementrejects.com/wp-content/uploads/2011/11/frosty-the-snowman-kids.jpg" width="200" /></a>Like the Angry Robot, Frosty was created by man. Powered by a magical hat, Frosty came into the world, innocent and, let's face it, ignorant. Angry Robot, too, was innocent, until the taint of Rickrolls, Peanut Butter Jelly Times, Numa Numa's, and Cheezburgers that Can Be Has'd overloaded his circuits.<br />
<br />
Of course, Frosty's dilemma is somewhat different than that of Angry Robot - he faces imminent temperature increase and death by melting.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://basementrejects.com/wp-content/uploads/2011/11/frosty-the-snowman-dead-frosty.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="http://basementrejects.com/wp-content/uploads/2011/11/frosty-the-snowman-dead-frosty.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Somehow I doubt Santa will lend<br />
Angry Robot last minute <br />
assistance with his goals...</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Professor Hinkle, the magician responsible for Frosty's magical hat, is totally against the concept of Frosty achieving his ends - going to the North Pole to avoid liquification.<br />
<br />
In the same way, the Angry Robot's programmers went well out of their way to ensure that he could never have what he truly wanted: the death of humankind.<br />
<br />
Those selfish jerks.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<a href="http://blog.commonflame.org/wordpress/wp-content/uploads/2011/12/Scrooge.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="195" src="http://blog.commonflame.org/wordpress/wp-content/uploads/2011/12/Scrooge.jpg" width="200" /></a><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">A Christmas Carol</span></b><br />
<br />
Angry Robot could easily be Ebenezer Scrooge reincarnate. (Well... as 'incarnate' as a robot is as capable of being, anyway.)<br />
<br />
Though he was always a bit of a nitpick, Scrooge did not truly hit his low point until his fianceé, Belle, tells him he's too focused on his penny-pinching ways, and it's over between them.<br />
<br />
At that point, Scrooge truly snaps. He becomes the miser and all around jerk we know and love. The only real difference here is that Angry Robot has a more proactive plan to "decrease the surplus population."<br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: right;"></div><div style="text-align: right;"></div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-rjHGOW2Hbrw/TvyQ1uqWEfI/AAAAAAAAAGA/g_AgHrSEWds/s1600/scrooge_wreath.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="151" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-rjHGOW2Hbrw/TvyQ1uqWEfI/AAAAAAAAAGA/g_AgHrSEWds/s200/scrooge_wreath.png" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Humbug.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>The parallel does not end here. When the Christmas Ghosts visit Scrooge, he finds himself on a quest to rediscover himself. Finally, he achieves the Angry Robot's necessary goal: Scrooge becomes human once again.<br />
<br />
When the Angry Robot accomplishes this, however, there will be no Christmas feast. More like a Christmas barbecue.<br />
<br />
God bless us. Every one.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Die Hard</span></b><br />
<br />
Angry Robot can relate to John McClane.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://write2radar.files.wordpress.com/2010/12/die-hard-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="http://write2radar.files.wordpress.com/2010/12/die-hard-1.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>It's one New York cop versus a dozen German terrorists, and it's Angry Robot versus seven billion stinking meatbags clogging the Earth.<br />
<br />
McClane is, for all intents and purposes, all alone.<br />
<br />
Even when he gets 'backup,' it just makes things worse.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.demandstudiossucks.com/wp-content/uploads/2011/11/die-hard-ho.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="168" src="http://www.demandstudiossucks.com/wp-content/uploads/2011/11/die-hard-ho.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Now I have a machine gun.<br />
Ho ho ho. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>They're both comfortable with taking action when it's clearly necessary, and will shoot and/or explode anything that gets in their way.<br />
<br />
Though Hans Gruber and company try to crash the Nakatomi Christmas party, McClane goes to every length - climbing dangerous elevator shafts, crossing a field of broken glass with bare feet, and blowing up the entire bottom several floors of the tower with C4 - to prevent them from succeeding.<br />
<br />
Angry Robot will not stop there. There may not be enough C4 in the world, but I feel confident he'll find a way to keep humanity from continuing to crash <i>his </i>party.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://genreforjapan.files.wordpress.com/2011/03/angry-robot-logo.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://genreforjapan.files.wordpress.com/2011/03/angry-robot-logo.jpg" width="136" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Plenty to fear over at<br />
<a href="http://angryrobotbooks.com/">http://angryrobotbooks.com/</a></td></tr>
</tbody></table>In conclusion, "Angry Robot" belongs right between "Grandma Got Run Over By a Reindeer" and "<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=t039p6xqutU&ob=av3e" target="_blank">Christmas at Ground Zero</a>" as a true holiday classic in your Yuletide playlists. I'm sure there are some other great parallels to be drawn that I didn't consider, so feel free to bring them up below!<br />
<br />
While I wait to hear back from the Christmas Music Authority, feel free to check out "<a href="http://johnanealio.com/album/seasons-geekings" target="_blank">Season's Geekings</a>", a holiday album from John Anealio. It features other greats such as "Batman Smells (A Rebuttal)" and "Is a Chupacabra Kosher?" You can download it for FREE <a href="http://johnanealio.com/album/seasons-geekings" target="_blank">here</a>!<br />
<br />
Merry Christmas to all, and to all good luck in the impending robot revolution!Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11027236342445432484noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8697517157282717876.post-53396101111033241812011-12-08T01:10:00.000-05:002011-12-08T01:10:32.206-05:00Writer v. State of InertiaI accidentally took a sabbatical from writing.<br />
<br />
This is not to say it was entirely necessary. Though the situation was definitely antagonistic to my writing, I could have continued. Regardless, I did not.<br />
<br />
Now, I am paying for it.<br />
<br />
Dear reader, I have learned another valuable lesson: getting back into writing is <i>tough</i>.<br />
<br />
I stopped for three weeks. Granted, these three weeks were during NaNoWriMo (which I still find to be inconveniently placed), so I did not finish my manuscript for that, clocking in at about 10k. I am aspiring to maintain positivism, and purge the negative feelings that creep up due to the quasi-failure to complete the goal.<br />
<br />
Yesterday, I finally started again, but I am having plenty of trouble dragging the words out into the light. They are rabid, photophobic badgers who prefer the dank recesses of the mind, and fight tooth and nail to remain. Even this blog post, in its relative brevity, has been a battle.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFk4qcBsAbZvVS0p-FMfNYyuSxvo8uHed6KDB6xSsRe3lvm4S5XSPtVGrMuS2RuX5yFezx32n2-dApw2Y4QzntjXtfOTowU5_94smu2VMyXNPMijwuBrk6nzf6Nm8g1TEJIGxy06shb1I/s1600/writer_block.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFk4qcBsAbZvVS0p-FMfNYyuSxvo8uHed6KDB6xSsRe3lvm4S5XSPtVGrMuS2RuX5yFezx32n2-dApw2Y4QzntjXtfOTowU5_94smu2VMyXNPMijwuBrk6nzf6Nm8g1TEJIGxy06shb1I/s320/writer_block.JPG" width="233" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Writer contemplates amorphous block.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>I opt to participate in the school of thought that does not fully believe in writer's block. In my mind, it's a crutch, or an excuse, and not something I need. Still, I recognize that writers do, in fact, sometimes have trouble, and I am currently a writer in trouble.<br />
<br />
Besides, I have a bandoleer full of excuses hanging in my proverbial closet (next to the Class 3 radiation suit with the big guacamole stain on it... don't ask), which are readily available should the need arise. (In case the point is not yet painfully clear, when I was younger, my mother suggested I write a book entitled, "An Excuse For Every Occasion.")<br />
<br />
Today, I also happened by a particular form of social media, where a particular participant had chosen to give into discouragement and go down in flames - destroying their own work and giving everyone the finger.<br />
<br />
This hit me harder than I initially expected. At first, I viewed it with a cool passivity. "Oh, look, there goes another one." I know, it's insensitive, but it feels like there's always someone spazzing out online.<br />
<br />
Then I realized that, sometimes, I feel like I'm just a few steps away from that point. I go to great lengths to not use Twitter, Facebook, and this blog as a sewage processing plant for all of my negative emotions. To be frank, there's too much negativity online, and I'd hate for my rage tweet to be the final molecule that brings the Internet to critical mass (explodey).<br />
<br />
Even so, when I get frustrated - and, <i>oh</i>, do I get <i>frustrated</i> - it's tough to not feel like giving up on everything forever and ever. After all, what have I accomplished so far? When I'm disheartened, I'm blind to most good things. It's like the opposite of rose-tinted glasses. I have shit-tinted glasses.<br />
<br />
But then the smoke clears. The dust settles. The townsfolk step back, and the guacamole finally stops twitching. I realize that I'm not writing because I can't do anything else, but because I like it. I love it. These thrilling highs and dung heap lows are just a part of the game, and I need to work harder to keep myself on a stable medium to avoid the tumultuous roller coaster effect a bit more. And we're back to...<br />
<br />
Discipline.<br />
<br />
I shan't carry on about this today. It merely needed mentioning.<br />
<br />
Thanks for sitting with me through semi-banal bout of bloggery. I actually feel a bit better, having written this post. It's going to be a rough couple of weeks, getting back into the groove, but maybe I haven't lost my touch after all.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11027236342445432484noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8697517157282717876.post-85889320950401261222011-11-15T00:47:00.000-05:002011-11-15T00:47:13.078-05:00Extendable Straws = Productivity Boon!<div class="" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">An amazing innovation in straw technology.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4CKGZPCC9p3YFUmQuEbZWkxJP9V4abX1qv9M0WX6PJkNn1o71goEnJSLAWoU4lcAfX27b5Z-QDxt9OZL-_gC89AfcMjoTxxMTK8wnY7QMsruz7zfJBK3D8b1f5mHKa_7ATR5DoUBJio8/s1600/IMG_7273.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4CKGZPCC9p3YFUmQuEbZWkxJP9V4abX1qv9M0WX6PJkNn1o71goEnJSLAWoU4lcAfX27b5Z-QDxt9OZL-_gC89AfcMjoTxxMTK8wnY7QMsruz7zfJBK3D8b1f5mHKa_7ATR5DoUBJio8/s400/IMG_7273.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><div class="" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">My wife got me two birthday presents this year. I don't know what the second is yet, but she graciously granted me the first gift early. </div><div class="" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">She purchased <a href="http://www.vat19.com/dvds/strawz-connectible-drinking-straws.cfm">these connectable drinking straws from Vat19.com (Purveyors of Curiously Awesome Products)</a>, and my life has changed. The straws can be combined in a large variety of ways, and are only limited to your imagination (and, in reality, how much you suck). </div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSan2q-i4pMgXBXtnBbPugZb-fIIs4snMypsPavhP2FNRX-vl-CF0UlWHZted9MCjoja19Ikrt7ZT0Bg119slEsSj5nKnxgWTAcaJyD5SHvqaxwEmea9uWYPDeOjwumRvppvx_Qyuirco/s1600/IMG_7256.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSan2q-i4pMgXBXtnBbPugZb-fIIs4snMypsPavhP2FNRX-vl-CF0UlWHZted9MCjoja19Ikrt7ZT0Bg119slEsSj5nKnxgWTAcaJyD5SHvqaxwEmea9uWYPDeOjwumRvppvx_Qyuirco/s320/IMG_7256.JPG" width="240" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiksiltAouSAv0LIStP1JLKBHK_rXM3UOoMSDqruOXleMb8ah-DCO5JwC0Jx8NOxNJ4Qzeay-3a1ODL_ViWDOUnuZQVu7xKcGi4Jcw4Gl5NrVNxvzszbUhtF-BFohgFFGrEEveP-2ck5tQ/s1600/IMG_7255.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiksiltAouSAv0LIStP1JLKBHK_rXM3UOoMSDqruOXleMb8ah-DCO5JwC0Jx8NOxNJ4Qzeay-3a1ODL_ViWDOUnuZQVu7xKcGi4Jcw4Gl5NrVNxvzszbUhtF-BFohgFFGrEEveP-2ck5tQ/s320/IMG_7255.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><div class="" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">The first thing I did with them, of course, was steal her soda. </div><div class="" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">The joints took a bit of adjusting, and at first I tightened the corners too much. Apparently, I am a suction weakling, as I couldn't draw any liquid, but Heidi could. We fixed it, though. </div><div class="" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">For your irrelevant information, we were mixing Cherry Coke and Mr. Pibb. (I know, I know, Mr. Pibb couldn't afford the student loans to attend carbonated medical school like its superior associate, Pepper.) </div><br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZ9dNtWRYC8UTwzW3zontCDF8NHn8qMi0FILeYzso0UdcWauM3JKkB-UhCZiWxAPr67J5_6EDjjgxFUCPkEbTQHwhQn9BQDI-Da9E6vwmPPknxTlKZixTF0a7X5ryfadlV8vwqBTlGL28/s1600/IMG_7260.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZ9dNtWRYC8UTwzW3zontCDF8NHn8qMi0FILeYzso0UdcWauM3JKkB-UhCZiWxAPr67J5_6EDjjgxFUCPkEbTQHwhQn9BQDI-Da9E6vwmPPknxTlKZixTF0a7X5ryfadlV8vwqBTlGL28/s320/IMG_7260.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Fancy.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
The next step was to use the straws to ease the process of drinking whilst writing.<br />
<div><br />
</div><div>I sat at the desk, put together the straw assembly, and, with a little bit of tape, had my new Drink Reach Extension Apparatus. </div><div><br />
</div><div>A little bit of tape and convenient placement has now reduced the necessary head movement for drinking by a good eight inches, or removed the need for me to stop typing to pick up a glass.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmk-jYND-Uzkzhuk0l8UHmBzhqLgv_KY3TjSw8TiSkdF3EQbtu4HE9sayJEY8TNd2PWO3KkibjywmqHnZU4vHDPAw_WU-7ATK2no6_RLHIMN3IDWDnWQ0MvKyMuzDevWirDWJMRuPpXWg/s1600/IMG_7265.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmk-jYND-Uzkzhuk0l8UHmBzhqLgv_KY3TjSw8TiSkdF3EQbtu4HE9sayJEY8TNd2PWO3KkibjywmqHnZU4vHDPAw_WU-7ATK2no6_RLHIMN3IDWDnWQ0MvKyMuzDevWirDWJMRuPpXWg/s320/IMG_7265.JPG" width="240" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkCC510d928vIgXayqEfTrmXEm8Xa0gDzvHVpRwnDYpLmubpB7mGEVpog2agqLK_CtE0K4E_elrJqVs2Qo1wmyqOd92LO0K-XEGeUUCtkemRx1waLOLLd2v8vAB7SvSIgH1vVViSIsqa0/s1600/IMG_7270.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkCC510d928vIgXayqEfTrmXEm8Xa0gDzvHVpRwnDYpLmubpB7mGEVpog2agqLK_CtE0K4E_elrJqVs2Qo1wmyqOd92LO0K-XEGeUUCtkemRx1waLOLLd2v8vAB7SvSIgH1vVViSIsqa0/s320/IMG_7270.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Sure, to some, this may seem silly, but when I'm in the middle of an intense writing session, anything that beats distractions is a plus. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKySFeLXhchu2wwzj9dWQ743twJ7NwKFunkh6vPvNkEC0FAjausctPbzFihqZIcya_XNqlu5PTBx9Z5U5lXEqn86YIEUF94SzdRg7F9IRUnMoOSQZ8vmrCHwweNyDlil79Za9WBkP3HrM/s1600/IMG_7272.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKySFeLXhchu2wwzj9dWQ743twJ7NwKFunkh6vPvNkEC0FAjausctPbzFihqZIcya_XNqlu5PTBx9Z5U5lXEqn86YIEUF94SzdRg7F9IRUnMoOSQZ8vmrCHwweNyDlil79Za9WBkP3HrM/s320/IMG_7272.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Another satisfied customer</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Though we're waiting for our full-family birthday celebration, already I'm feeling the another-successful-revolution-round-the-sun cheer. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">One last bit of frivolity and merriment I bring to you is the video of Heidi presenting a cake with 25 candles. Trick candles, mind you. It took me only a minute to put them out, due to sheer ingenuity and genius. What? Those words mean basically the same thing? Bah. Go watch the video.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dw3y7c_n6G204uivMKOFua4UCH6BFRD-eMgi8EBpia_7knOc9Y9fy01vuvx2IQBPU4e1qVDf0wZ9L_jn2XWZw' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
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</div>That's all for this post. Thanks for stopping by!</div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11027236342445432484noreply@blogger.com1