ai continued

The story continues!

Updated story you say?  Hmm...let's have a look.

Now is the winter of my disconnect!

(I haven't had internet access for a week)

I hope everyone is staying warm and drinking lots of spiced cider.  Tis' the season to mix eggnog with whatever alcohol you have available (tequila, sweet-tea vodka, raspberry schnapps, etc) right in the carton.  Shake it up and drink it that way.  Jolly folly.

Here's a short story I'm writing.  I'll be adding a new part to it every few days in this same post until it's complete.

Abi remembered being trampled after every recess.   She was the quiet kid, sitting on woodchips at the edge of the playground.  She used the chips and rocks and gravel and sand to build little towns.   The chips would be buildings and small rocks were people.   The look and feel of the rock was the character of the person.  She often had a handful of rocks - ones that were very dear in her world - kept safely in her pocket.  There was the Chief:   He was brown flint, and looked like an unfinished arrowhead.  He painted beautiful outdoor scenes of mountains and waterfalls, and he wove fabric for tapestries and  for his wife to wear.    The Chief's wife was called Sis, for she was the sister that Abbi always wanted.   Abi couldn't marry The Chief, because she was too young, but Sis could. 

                Sis was everything Abi wanted to be when she grew up.  Sis was smart, but sweet.   She never let anyone talk mean to her or tell her to do something she didn't feel right about.  Sis was strong too, and she and The Chief would ride horses and chop firewood together.  Sometimes Chief and Sis would play at archaeology.  Although neither was trained, their dig-sites in the playground sand could yield fantastic things.  Old bones and Spanish Galleons were unearthed many noontimes. 

                "I swear," The Chief would confess to Sis and Abi, "This is the finest dig yet, and we've only just begun!"  There was the whole universe to uncover and learn about, down in the sands of time, under the redwoods and California sun.

                Then the bell would ring.  Recess would rush and scream and shout in a wave of shoes on pavement right at Abi.  She would run to the safety of the school entrance, but they always caught her somehow.  They pushed her down and they  even stepped on her back and legs.  Once, she was kicked in the face, and blood poured out with tears.  She never, ever dropped The Chief or Sis.   They were held tight in her fist as she fell, and even when her hand was stepped on she wouldn't let them go.

Part 2

-------------------------------------------------------------------

"I'll tell you what Hunter, it's Abi's moods that keep me up at night."

               "Which ones?"  Hunter was two meters of man bred solely for the rigors of space.  His handshake felt like a promise of violence, but he was docile and logical by nature.

               "All of them.  Shit, Hunter, she's not human, but I can feel her thinking about me."  Cali said this in a conspiratorial whisper, leaning across the smooth plastic table where they were hooked for lunch.   Her arms were corded olive branches - she came from two lines of Italian families that could trace their ancestry back to Renaissance Sienna.  She always wanted a name to reflect that.

               Her mother had been a lovely flower-child who ended up in Redondo Beach and transitioned to valley-girl around the same time Cali was born.  She'd spent the last thirty years of her life with her blonde head stuck in textbooks.  In college and beyond, Cali soaked up physics, artificial intelligence research, and a healthy amount of science fiction.  She did this to dispel stereotypes.   She was imaginative, and her vibrant green eyes sparkled with intelligence.

               Hunter looked at her for a while, then laughed gently and looked past her to the viewport.  It showed the distance between stars.  These stars had a blue-shift hue to them, making this their preferred room for meals, study, and meetings.  The whole ship was a mile-long needle with Windsor-Halleck Potential Drives spaced evenly from front to back.  Each drive had a reactor dedicated to it, and a backup generator of hydrogen fuel cells linked in to the extensive water and cooling system.  "Not full of yourself at all today are you?  Her job isn't to think about us."

               Cali laughed with him at herself,  closed her eyes, and took a deep breath.  Hunter knew she had more to say, and that his slight jab would only make her more adamant.  "I think we're on Abi's mind now more than ever before." She started out, toeing her way carefully through a streambed of thoughts.  She knew there was a big, slippery Wrongfish swimming here, and she wanted to catch it and show it to Hunter.

ai

Now is the winter of my disconnect!

(I haven't had internet access for a week)

I hope everyone is staying warm and drinking lots of spiced cider.  Tis' the season to mix eggnog with whatever alcohol you have available (tequila, sweet-tea vodka, raspberry schnapps, etc) right in the carton.  Shake it up and drink it that way.  Jolly folly.

Here's a short story I'm writing.  I'll be adding a new part to it every few days in this same post until it's complete.

Abi remembered being trampled after every recess.   She was the quiet kid, sitting on woodchips at the edge of the playground.  She used the chips and rocks and gravel and sand to build little towns.   The chips would be buildings and small rocks were people.   The look and feel of the rock was the character of the person.  She often had a handful of rocks - ones that were very dear in her world - kept safely in her pocket.  There was the Chief:   He was brown flint, and looked like an unfinished arrowhead.  He painted beautiful outdoor scenes of mountains and waterfalls, and he wove fabric for tapestries and  for his wife to wear.    The Chief's wife was called Sis, for she was the sister that Abbi always wanted.   Abi couldn't marry The Chief, because she was too young, but Sis could. 

                Sis was everything Abi wanted to be when she grew up.  Sis was smart, but sweet.   She never let anyone talk mean to her or tell her to do something she didn't feel right about.  Sis was strong too, and she and The Chief would ride horses and chop firewood together.  Sometimes Chief and Sis would play at archaeology.  Although neither was trained, their dig-sites in the playground sand could yield fantastic things.  Old bones and Spanish Galleons were unearthed many noontimes. 

                "I swear," The Chief would confess to Sis and Abi, "This is the finest dig yet, and we've only just begun!"  There was the whole universe to uncover and learn about, down in the sands of time, under the redwoods and California sun.

                Then the bell would ring.  Recess would rush and scream and shout in a wave of shoes on pavement right at Abi.  She would run to the safety of the school entrance, but they always caught her somehow.  They pushed her down and they  even stepped on her back and legs.  Once, she was kicked in the face, and blood poured out with tears.  She never, ever dropped The Chief or Sis.   They were held tight in her fist as she fell, and even when her hand was stepped on she wouldn't let them go.

Another Poem?! Eeeeeeee!!!!

 
Here's another great, glistening, tanning-oil lathered, beach volleyball playing poem for everyone.  Belly Bump!

Bon Pain (submitted)

A monkey with a whistle

screeches bad math at every thistle.

Every thorn and every missed cue

prompts deafening equations to issue.

A red-faced coach with several strokes

Screams hints at mighty oaks,

On how to play safe.

On how to save face.

The first lie

Your body ever told you

Was that you and it are the same thing.

POST REMAINDER REMOVED, PLEASE LEAVE A COMMENT IF YOU WOULD LIKE AN ELECTRONIC COPY OF THIS STORY.  THANKS! -A

Gravitate

Thanks for all the comments on my last story!  I'm still considering whether or not that one is strong enough to submit.  I'll update if I decide to.

Here is a brand new poem I wrote this week.  I've been thinking about unifying theories of physics a lot lately.  This poem wrote itself very quickly because of that, I think.  I've already submitted this one and one I will share later this week.  Enjoy!

Oh, and there was no Monday Madness because I had nothing to recommend.  I went through about 10 webcomics looking for inspiration, but came up empty-handed.

 

Gravitate

What is down among the dark?

Where well-walls dank with condensation stop,

at water black but blue but not.

Unseen fathoms reach down below,

where eyes and noses cannot go.

You and I stop miles before

the weight of everything atop itself.

Slabs and boulders pushing down,

to crowd an exit never found.

Where a point of constant yearning,

fixed but churning, burns and aches.

POST REMAINDER REMOVED, PLEASE LEAVE A COMMENT IF YOU WOULD LIKE AN ELECTRONIC COPY OF THIS STORY.  THANKS! -A

Resplendent Bagginess Part 2

The gripping finale to part 1.  Really though, from now on I think if I just have a normal fiction/literature story and not something with a twist or suspense I will just put it all in one blog post.  Without suspense, the order of blog posts doesn't make sense.

So here is the entire story instead of just the second part.  I'm learning here, folks :)

A brown Silverado, dented but not rusted, pulls into the parking lot of Safeway.   It's an early morning, and cold too; the short dirty skirt of mudcicles on the running boards won't be coming off any time soon.   

The Silverado arcs to the spot farthest from the Safeway entrance, rocks once, and three baggy piles of hand-me-downs rustle out.   They each lose and then find their footing on the dirty ice and begin a trek of ordered chaos:  The largest, a brown duffel-bag finds it easiest, and stretches out in front of the other two.  The second, a rumpled backpack, struggles but makes his boots work like blocky skates somehow.   The third, the smallest - not much more than a satchel of funny-looks from head to toe falls and falls again.  By the time satchel meets duffel and backpack he has become the dingiest, and everyone is huffing steam from various indignities.

The whole experience of a grocery store sends the bags into another cacophonic symphony:   They split off as soon as the doors slide open to the ocean of warm smells within.  Backpack cruises down the bread aisle to the bakery.  His head reels from the fresh scents of baking and frosting.  Duffel sets out for the pharmacy, inhaling the medicine and bandage aisle as the chemistry and coats wait for him ahead.   Satchel slinks off toward the toys, which are shelved in a small nook next to magazines and cheap books. 

Satchel looks at the toys for a long, long time.   He runs his mind over the textures without touching or opening anything.  He shifts from foot to foot, knocking off caked dirt around them in boot outlines.  he wipes his runny nose with the back of his ratty leather glove and stares at the G.I. Joes.   The leather smell increases as he takes the gloves off and stuffs them in too-small pockets.   Sense-memories of grand dreams float through Satchel's mind, and his eyes glaze.  They are clear amber eyes, and he reaches out with fine piano-player hands to the Joe with the most gear.  This one is head-to-toe a ninja, sporting enough bandoleers, pouches, and extra weapons to be functionally immobile.

There is a brief flight inside Satchel's mind, where he imagines that he becomes Joe, and flip-kicks his way out through the roof, bounding tree-to-tree  to the river, where a speedboat waits, bobbing in water the same color as the Silverado.   He remembers where he is and pulls back from touching the plastic view-box of the package.  Duffel whisks by, trailing the pharmacy-odor with him and proclaiming "not today."  Satchel's heart does a told-you-so bounce off the floor.

"But how does sledding sound?"

Satchel slips his gloves on and grins.

Out above the town, fifteen miles north on a plateau with nothing but farms and fields, there is deep powder.  It is the straw and nothing patchwork where horizons are the exact curvature of the earth.  Backpack and Satchel take turns on a steerable ski-sled towed behind the Silverado.  Duffel fishtails around roads and empty fields.  The powder blows up and back behind them like a powerboat's wake.

Falling out of the sled is like falling through a cloud.  Satchel gets whipped off a drift and flies through the air before jetting through the snow.  He feels safe and warm, even when thrown through snow doing thirty plus, even in winter gear that wicks up water like wearing paper towels.

POST REMAINDER REMOVED, PLEASE LEAVE A COMMENT IF YOU WOULD LIKE AN ELECTRONIC COPY OF THIS STORY.  THANKS! -A

Thanks for Reading

New short story - Resplendent Bagginess

Sure is quiet in the land of blogs.  I know on my end it is because I've spent too many weeks away from the computer, not keeping up with my end of things.  I'll be working back up to it as time allows.

Here's the first part of a new story.  I used the word association method I mentioned in Blossom Archer to write it.

 A brown Silverado, dented but not rusted, pulls into the parking lot of Safeway.   It's an early morning, and cold too; the short dirty skirt of mudcicles on the running boards won't be coming off any time soon.   

The Silverado arcs to the spot farthest from the Safeway entrance, rocks once, and three baggy piles of hand-me-downs rustle out.   They each lose and then find their footing on the dirty ice and begin a trek of ordered chaos:  The largest, a brown duffel-bag finds it easiest, and stretches out in front of the other two.  The second, a rumpled backpack, struggles but makes his boots work like blocky skates somehow.   The third, the smallest - not much more than a satchel of funny-looks from head to toe falls and falls again.  By the time satchel meets duffel and backpack he has become the dingiest, and everyone is huffing steam from various indignities.

The whole experience of a grocery store sends the bags into another cacophonic symphony:   They split off as soon as the doors slide open to the ocean of warm smells within.  Backpack cruises down the bread aisle to the bakery.  His head reels from the fresh scents of baking and frosting.  Duffel sets out for the pharmacy, inhaling the medicine and bandage aisle as the chemistry and coats wait for him ahead.   Satchel slinks off toward the toys.  It's a small nook next to magazines and cheap books. 

Satchel looks at the toys for a long, long time.   He runs his mind over the textures without touching or opening anything.    He shifts from foot to foot, knocking off caked dirt around them in boot outlines.  he wipes his runny nose with the back of his ratty leather glove and stares at the G.I. Joes.   The leather smell increases as he takes the gloves off and stuffs them in too-small pockets.   Sense-memories of grand dreams float through Satchel's mind, and his eyes glaze.  They are clear amber eyes, and he reaches out with fine piano-player hands to the Joe with the most gear.  This one is head-to-toe a ninja, sporting enough bandoleers, pouches, and extra weapons to be functionally immobile.


...To be continued in Part 2 (I'll post part 2 on Friday the 3rd)

Editor's note:  Whoops, sometimes I'm an idiot:

And that's why I blog before I submit now!

Monday* Madness with Questionable Content

 

Hello again blogosphere!

In case anyone was wondering, the holidays that had been sneaking up on me finally pounced.  I've been away from internet for days now, and when I got back home the internet was down.  Well it's back up just now.

Questionable Content is dear to my heart, as webcomics go (you can't let them get too close or the pixels will poke a valve).

The first time I read it, I read it front to back in one sitting.  This was when it was already past 500 comics.  It's meant to be read start to finish, as the stories and jokes continue and build.   The art of creator Jeph Jacques (sweet name huh?)  has changed a lot since QC started.  It can be great fun to watch the art improve over time, if you like that sort of thing.  I do!

Here is the comic that introduces the main character, Marten Reed:

More questionable content (literally) coming from me soon.  I've got a few stories in the works, as well as some random writing-related things to share too!

*I'll get back to actual Mondays soon, I promise!

Monday Madness with The Oatmeal!

Still feels like Monday to me!

The Oatmeal makes me laugh until I cry, literally.  It also has informative topics, such as how to correctly use words like "literally".

Sample topics include:

The Oatmeal creator Matthew Inman describes his ability to write consistently hilarious material as using what everyone is thinking about but not articulating.

And it works for him too - The Oatmeal generates millions of pageviews each month.

Published!

Am I dreaming?  

I've worked at being published for the last six years, writing and writing.  I thought perhaps it would happen in the next 5 years, or even after.  I thought I would collect hundreds of rejection letters before this...

Midwest Literary Magazine just published my short story, Morning Glory!! 

You might remember reading it earlier on this blog as Blossom Archer, where I was looking for feedback on how to put finishing touches on it.  Well, they took it without much editing, and I am in shock.  It's available in MLM's November online collection, as well as their November print magazine, and in a new collection titled Bearing North:

 

When I got the email, I just sat there staring at the screen for many minutes, and then I ran around shouting and dancing.

Life Goal #1 complete!

I'm looking at it as the start to writing salable fiction.  I think I'm lucky they took it, and that I can now set my sights on trying to write more and better.

It's a huge relief though, to have confirmation that I'm doing the right thing at least some of the time.

What's possibly even crazier:  This blog was the safe testing-ground for that story.  I would never have written it if I didn't feel like I had a good outlet for my work.  This blog has sparked a lot of good ideas for me, and now it's making my dreams come true.  It just takes some time, hard work, patience, finding the right outlets, and heaps of luck.

Onward!

Friday Update: Fitting new song for Fat Friday on Everything Else - Enjoy!

A (mine)crafty post.

Wednesday Update

I've got a new post up on Everything Else, and I will be posting some good news soon! 

...................................................................................................................................

One of my life goals is to build a castle with my own hands.

Like this

I have books on Masonry, stone building architecture, and even one on the type of castle I want to build; a Scottish L-Plan Castle.  It's basically just a big house made of stone that you call a castle.  It is feasible if you have a little bit of land and access to field-stones.  It takes a few years of hard work.

I've had the whole thing planned out for a while in my mind.

ENTER MINECRAFT

If you don't know what Minecraft is, there are many, many blog and internet articles about it.  Here is an article that covers most things and links to everything else.  Basically you can use stone and dirt blocks of many types to construct...ANYTHING.  It's totally up to you.  Like being a kid with infinite blocks that stack just right and won't fall over.  Oh Yeah!

 

I can design and redesign my dreeeeeam-castle until it is exactly the way I want it to look:

Neat! Inspiring! Time Consuming! Why am I so hungry and tired?! What happened to the last four days??!?!

It is cool, but dangerous.

I've spent the last week playing Minecraft while Listening to Spunkshine and/or Your Uncle's Lap.

What is Your Uncle's Lap? Why, it's an awkward yet safe place to be.  It's three guys in Austin, TX, who record the best show in the land!

They are professional yet unpretentious, funny without trying, and always relevant in some way.  It's smart and dirty humor for us internet folk.  If you're feeling down or a little short on laughs, just fire up their show, sit back, play some minecraft (or whatever else you do with your time) and soak up the entertainment.  Guys can relate to their humor better, of course, but girls like it too, because it allows them a peek inside the mind of a twenty-something guy.  (Oh btw this podcast is not suggested for children or the faint of heart).

I suggest starting with Episode 1 or 42...or any of them really.

I can't say enough good things about this podcast, and I've got a feeling they're rising stars of internet comedy (as long as they keep making the podcasts!) 

They even have their own YUL Minecraft land!

This post was all over the place, I know.  It's just me saying "sorry, no writing at the moment."  I've been keeping up writing, but due to these distractions I have nothing coherent enough to post yet.  Soon though - I'm working on super-short fiction so that people don't get depressed just looking at the length of my posts.  Postcard and Flash fiction.  Oh nuts this was a long post too! 

Double Sorry!

Angel of the Odd

I like to read one short story per day.  Usually I'll pull one from some of the pioneers or titans of short fiction.  Poe, Chekhov, James, that sort of thing.  I have their collections bookmarked so if you want to read some you can click on their names.

(from left) Poe, Chekhov, and James out for a jaunt on the beach

Most of us were introduced to these writers in middle or high school.  For me that meant I developed an aversion to them pretty quickly.  Schools generally pound these big names into our heads with as much effect as physically throwing a book at your face.  It takes some years to get over that, but revisiting these gifted fellows is well worth it.  You'll get to do what you want with them: Add their fantastic ideas to your own subconscious, so you can sift it out for later use whenever you need it. 

Take Poe's story The Angel of the Odd for instance.  It's funny and weird because Poe is funny and weird.  He isn't some grave guy who had one story about a bird - he's a quirky alcoholic who had an extremely expansive mind and a wit that could split atoms.

In The Angel of the Odd the narrator is visited by an Angel made of booze bottles, who beats him about the head and neck.  Why?  Because the narrator (obviously Poe) has stopped believing in the odd.  He has given in to thinking that all things are mundane, causally related, and explainable.  The Angel convinces Poe that strange things are possible (Spoiler: Poe ends up dangling naked from a hot-air balloon by the end).

It's a funny and endearing way for this writer to tell us that crazy stuff happens, and that he could have lived a mundane life, but a rude and boozy angel came along and convinced him to tell the world just how odd reality can be.  That's what Poe did from then on.

Monday Madness with Dr. McNinja

 

Today I present a comic that needs (almost) no introduction.

 

So just go to the new readers page if you haven't read Dr. McNinja before, and enjoy hours of laughter and surprise (reader reaction may vary and often involves joyful weeping and/or loss of bodily control)

Oh, and if you were wondering, no webcomic from me.  You can check my other blog to learn why.

Thoreau.

Time to throw out some writers who have made a positive impact on my life and writing!  I'll present these authors in a few words, and make a suggested reading.

Today I recommend:

Thoreau's Journal

Naturalist and gifted writer/wild animal Thoreau's life, as recorded by himself.   You get to sit on his shoulder as he takes you through his life experiences.  It is like nothing else I've ever read.  He manages to express thoughts that we've all had in ways so beautiful it will make you rethink your own world.  It's available for around $15 on amazon if you follow this link.