#FridayFlash: Aspirations


by Tony Noland

"You can do better than that, Billy. Try harder."

B's weren't A's, A's weren't A+'s and straight A+'s meant the classes must have been too easy.

Honor Roll wasn't Dean's List, Dean's List wasn't Magna Cum Laude, Magna wasn't Summa and Summa wasn't Valedictorian.

"You can do better than that, Billy. Try harder."

An honors B.S. wasn't a M.Sc., a M.Sc. wasn't a Ph.D and a Ph.D. wasn't an M.D.-Ph.D.

Brown wasn't Johns Hopkins, Hopkins wasn't Harvard, Harvard wasn't such a big deal as everyone made it out to be.

One million wasn't two, two wasn't four, four wasn't eight, and talking about money was crude, for heaven's sake, didn't he know that by now?

A four bedroom, two-and-a-half bath wasn't a 5/3, a 5/3 wasn't a 6/4.5 and sure it has 6/4.5, but just look at the neighborhood - who would want to live with all those snobs? Besides, who did he think he was anyway, buying such a big house when he was all alone? Any half-witted idiot on the street could find a girl and settle down, for heaven's sake, how hard is that? Especially for a boy with such regular features, it was just a matter of applying one's self.

The college professor, the nurse, the real estate agent, the speech therapist, the old college friend, the neighbor down the street, the nineteenth, twenty-sixth and forty-third matches from the dating website... all wrong.

"You can do better than that, Billy. Try harder."

Suffocation wasn't poison, poison wasn't electrocution, electrocution surely wasn't a shotgun blast to the forehead, but he'd never owned a gun in his life, didn't even know how to fire one, didn't think he could do it anyway, didn't think he could face her to do it, sleeping or awake. He didn't know how to hire someone for it, even who to talk to about the possibility.

But then...

Headaches and fatigue wasn't a lump, a lump wasn't a tumor, one medium-sized tumor wasn't metastasized breast cancer, spreading fast and drilling into bones, kidneys and lymph nodes.

A double mastectomy wasn't chemotherapy, chemotherapy wasn't chemotherapy plus radiation, hospital wasn't hospice, and hospice wasn't dead. Not yet.

He wasn't free. Not yet.

"You can do better than that," he thought, almost echoing her as she gasped out her latest round of dissatisfaction, rattling between pulses of the respirator. To his ally, working away within her, he said, "You can do better than that. Try harder."

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How to cross-post your blog to Facebook

Set up Networked blogs in Facebook.

Authorize syndication of your blog to your Facebook profile(s): personal, author page, writing groups, or a combination.

And, um... that's it. I think.

Actually, this is really just a test post to see if I did it right.

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Three Word Wednesday: buckle, evade, wedge

The words for today's Three Word Wednesday are: buckle, evade, wedge.

Buckle and boots are all shined,
Warrior, lean and refined.
A Marine's the thin edge
Of our armed forces wedge.
As he tried to evade, bullets whined.

Happy New Year.

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My Top Ten blog posts for 2010: rants, zombies, superheroes and fountain pens

Here are the funniest, scariest, most intelligent and/or stupidest things I've said all year.

1. 11 Ways You Can Stop Pissing Me Off On Twitter. This rant about how you (yes, YOU) can be a better user of Twitter is, by a large margin, the most popular thing I've ever done. Note to self: rant more often.

2. Aftermath of the Boxer Rebellion. A period set-piece which describes an attack, a victory and the birth of a legend.

3. Just Enough Power. The #FridayFlash that began the serial. A science-fiction, noir thriller about a dangerous woman who uses her gifts with deadly skill.

4. Rule #1: You Must Write. A discussion piece about writing, and what it takes to write the kind of prose that people will want to read.

5. "Parker 51." I bought a pen at a garage sale because I liked the way it looked. I paid a dollar; it turned out to be worth much, much more. This is the story of that pen.

6. Romeo And Juliet Are Dead. You know how at the end of the play, Romeo and Juliet both die? Well, what if they weren't really dead? This is a touching, sweet tale of eternal love among the zombies.

7. Bones Don't Burn. In the future, when everything is destroyed, there will still be bones, bones that tell the story of the people who once wore them.

8. Verbosity's Vengeance. A funny superhero tale, starring the Grammarian. This story was the basis for my 2010 NaNoWriMo book, which is my current large-scale WIP.

9. Straight and True My Arrow Fly. Forbidden love attracts the attention of a supernatural being, with unexpected consequences.

Tied for 10. Shirts and Skins. A gym class, a few basketballs and a strange, solemn boy who just doesn't fit in. --AND-- How to blog effectively: a guide for writers. This is my response to some advice by the wonderful Jane Friedman. Read the comments, and you'll see Jane herself stop by to give her response to my response (it was a very recursive sort of day).

Note: Although Ode to the Semicolon is my most successful poem ever, and would have been the #2 most visited page this year, it was posted in 2009. It's in the Hall of Fame, but doesn't make the list for 2010. Ditto for How Many Ways Can You Say Zero?, which would have come in at #8. Frankly, I have no earthly idea why one this is such a perennially popular post.

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Don't bother reading this

I know you're out there. It's Sunday and it's the day after Christmas, whether you celebrate it or not.

I know you're out there, and I know you're not reading this blog post.

Oh, maybe if you get this via RSS, it came across the screen along with the other 1487 blogs you read. You have 1486 pre-written, pre-formatted and pre-scheduled blog posts that scrolled along.

Plus this one.

You're not reading this because you have better things to do than read random scribblings from me. Even if they are fresh from my fingertips, that's no guarantee of quality.

I didn't write this last week before I went on vacation, or last year, when I thought of a FANTASTIC idea for a post-Christmas blog post, but thought of it too late. I didn't write this yesterday in some sort of Christmas depression, or during a break in the festivities in some sort of Christmas exuberance.

I'm writing it now. Today. Sunday morning. I'm unshaven, unshowered and slightly hungover. I ate enough yesterday to keep two and a half villages in a positive calorie balance. This morning, as penance and in an attempt to get some fiber to offset the chocolate, pistachios and cinnamon-apple roast pork loin, my breakfast was one bowl of Quaker Oats Oatmeal Squares(TM).

The box would have tasted better, but it would have had less fiber.

No, I'm writing this now, today. I'm writing this because I have other writing to do today, and this is a way to prime the pump. I'm writing this in a stream of consciousness manner, zipping from Christmas to RSS to dietary fiber to recursive self-reference because that is the way I get the juices flowing, the way I uncork my creativity, the way I unleash the muse, the muse that doesn't exist outside of my own mind but whose existence is no less real for all of that.

It's not about a muse. It's about me. It's always all about me. Didn't you know that? Even when it's not about me, it kinda is, at least in a small way.

In that sense, I'm the muse, not the writer.

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#FridayFlash: I'm Telling You Why

I'm Telling You Why

by Tony Noland

"Hey. Hey, pal."

The skinny guy at the bar turned away from the woman he was trying to talk to, impatient with whoever it was that was interrupting his moves. The woman looked relieved.

"What?" He sized the other guy up with a glance, the black leather jacket cut like a roomy sportscoat, the French blue shirt open to show gold chains, the chest hair and man tits. The skinny guy started to sneer, thought better of it. Maybe he was impressed with what he saw, maybe not. "What do you want?"

The big man leaned forward, beer breath preceding his words. "I just wanted to know if you was from the midwest."

"Am I from what? What the fuck are you talking about?"

"It's just, I heard you talking just now," the big man said, his voice loud and overly precise, the way a man speaks when he's trying not to slur his words, "and when you was talking to the lady, I figgered you was from the midwest, from your accent."

"No, pal, I ain't from the Midwest." He shook his head. "I was born here in Trenton, but you? I know you're from the Midwest, ain't you? Kansas or Ohio or some damned place? Am I right?"

"ME? What the fuck? I don't have no Midwest accent."

"No, no, it ain't your accent," the skinny man continued, "it's the fact that you smell like a pile of horseshit, and you gotta face like the ass end of pig. Get the fuck away from me, you drunk bastard." He turned back to the lady, just in time to see her grab her cigarettes off the bar and leave. "Oh, goddamn it, come on, sweetheart! Come on!" He clenched a fist in frustration and turned back to the interloper, just in time to catch a punch to the face.

He fell off the bar stool, surprised and knocked off balance more than actually hurt. The big man had been aiming the punch to the side of his head, and his own sudden movement made the blow land at a glancing angle, without much force. With a snarl, he bounded up, fists flying forward. He caught the big man one solid blow to the chest before he got tangled up in the other's forearms, held up for defense. As he drew back for a roundhouse right, the big man shoved in and up, knocking him sideways onto one of the empty tables by the jukebox.

At the other end of the bar, the bartender reached under the counter, passing up the 12 gauge shotgun in favor of the baseball bat. He'd gotten hold of the scarred old Rawlings, nicknamed "the peacemaker", when he felt someone grip his other arm. He looked up. The hand was liver spotted and wrinkled, but steady and firm; one of his best customers was reaching across the bar, shaking his head. The bartender paused, looked over at the brawlers, then back at the old man. After a moment, he shrugged and straightened up, leaving the baseball bat where it was.

With a shout, the skinny man picked himself up from the table and again threw himself at the big drunk. This time, he came in low and fast, feinting at his opponent's head before landing a flurry of body blows to the other's soft belly and groin. Grunting in pain, the big man brought his knee up for a clumsy snap kick. It wasn't pretty, but it hit hard enough to make the skinny man jump back and swear. Snarling, he whipped out the buck knife from his belt and snapped it open to show five inches of well worn and workman-sharp steel. He clutched at his side where the kick had contacted, flicking the knife back and forth. He waved it at the big man, making little feints in the air at his face.

With a stupid, drunken expression, the big man watched the knife glinting and flashing in front of him, then reached into his leather coat and pulled a .38, a blued-steel revolver that looked expensive. He raised it, pointed it at the skinny man's head and dramatically drew back the hammer. For a moment, the skinny man was frozen in fear at the escalation of the fight. Then, in a thoughtless panic, he drew back the knife and threw it at the big man.

The knife spun through the air, turning and glinting in the dimness. Its razor edge was almost in the big man's face before he reacted and pulled the trigger.

Both men jerked backwards in physical shock, knocked to the floor by the thudding impact of twin snowballs. Icy slush exploded in their faces, big, grapefruit-sized masses of dripping wet slop that hit hard, running into their collars, up their noses and down their shirt fronts. They both thumped down, gasping and coughing as they wiped the freezing mess from their eyes, mouths, necks.

Back down the bar, the old man heaved his bulk up off his stool and made to throw a bill down next to his mug. The bartender waved it away. "It's on me, Nick," he said. The old man cocked his head to one side, then nodded his thanks. He began to walk toward the door. The bartender continued, "Hey, you want another coffee to go? It's a cold night."

"No, thanks, Jimmy," the old man said, "I've got no cupholders in that old thing." Smoothly, almost gracefully, he stepped over the big drunk on the floor and got his coat from the rack by the doorway. He shrugged into it, a dirty old thing that could once have been any color, but had obviously seen many, many years of use. As he made to pull the door open, the bartender called out, "Hey, Nick. Have a good shift tonight, huh? Don't work too hard."

The old man turned back and smiled. He laid a finger against his nose and winked at the bartender. "Work's not work when you enjoy your job, Jimmy. And as for you two," he said, turning his gaze to the men on the floor, "you'd better watch out." Snow swirled into the bar as he left, huge diamond flakes that settled gently to the floor when the door closed behind him.

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Video: Get Tony On Ellen!

Was there ever a more ill-conceived, ill-fated idea?

Oh, Carrie... don't get caught up in my madness, I beg you. For your own sake, I beg you.

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Three Word Wednesday: educate, object, silence

The Words for today are: educate, object, silence

"So that's what they want me to do."
He'd object with silence, I knew.
My prayers of late
Serve to educate
And illumine the path straight and true.

"When God responds to your prayers with silence, it means that you already know the answer to your question." - Rabbi Chaim Ben-habbekah

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Excellent advice from Neil Gaiman

Neil Gaiman is so absolutely spot on with this:
Writers put off making wills (well, human beings put off making wills, and most writers are probably human beings). Some of us think it's self-aggrandising or foolish to pretend that anyone would be interested in their books or creations after they're dead. Others secretly believe we're going to live forever and that making a will would mean letting Death in a crack.

Others make wills, but don't think to take into account what happens to our literary estate as a separate thing from the disposition of our second-best beds, which means unqualified or uninterested relatives can find themselves in control of everything the author's written. Some of us are just cheap.

He's done a good deed by posting this.

Get a will. It lets you see that your property, your money and your young children are distributed, cared for or disposed of according to your wishes and not the wishes of the court.

Insert or attach this codicil to the will which specifies the disposition of your creative works and derivative works arising from them. Or take it to a lawyer and have something comparable drawn up.

I have a will. Do you?

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My blog posts over the next few days

Next few days, as I'll be feasting and festing:

I have a sweet & funny story ready and waiting for this FridayFlash on Christmas Eve.

I've also got a little something for you all on Christmas Day.

On the 28th, I'll post a list of my top 10 pages from 2010.

Then on New Year's Eve, I'll have my final FridayFlash of the year.

There'll be other stuff mixed in there, too, so spend your holiday here at Landless. You'll have a great time, or you'll get your money back.

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Getting on the Ellen DeGeneres show

On the subject of getting on the Ellen DeGeneres show:
(click on the image to embiggen it ---------->)

And so, after a bit of thought:

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A new book that will turn a writer into an author

Peevish Penman Presents: the Handbook of the Writer Secret Society.

Someone you know is a major contributor to this book. I will give you one guess, just one, as to who that person is.

Purchasing info is right here.

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12 Days: "Up North"

My story, "Up North" appears today at "12 Days - 2010". Check it out.

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#FridayFlash: Island of Stability

Island of Stability

by Tony Noland

"Prepare to leave orbit, Lieutenant. It's time we went home."

"Yes, my lord."

Captain Luraleth hooked his way to his cabin, passed through the
curtain and sealed it behind him. He stretched out of his uniform
collar and bent backwards, straining until he felt the vertebrae pop
and the skin crack underneath his dorsal scales. Too long on this trip,
he thought, far too long.

Hanging from the ceiling loops, he looked at himself in the reflection
pool and knew that he was lying to himself.


The fact was, he was too long in this job, too long in the service of
his queen... too long as a male. It was time, he thought. Time to go
home, to go down into the deep caverns and surrender himself to the

The captain let himself go limp, felt the loops cut into his talons,
digging into his flesh and helping him to relax. Yes, he thought, he'd
seen fifty years in this body, and fifty-five in his last one, also
male. Would he come out of the LifeDeath as a male again, or as a
female? There was no way to know. It was a gambler's chance one way or
the other.

He hoped it would be female. He'd heard that being female was easier.
Not that he'd ever been afraid of hard work, far from it, but... he
was tired. They'd been on this boring damned survey mission, hiding
above this boring damned planet for two years (more than eighteen
local years). The aliens were stupid, misshapen and ugly, as always.

With a sigh, he reached for the nosemask of his private methane tank.
He was almost out, had been hitting it harder than he have should of late.
Even off duty, it was no way for an officer to behave, let alone the
captain. Yes, he thought again, it's time to go home.

Four local days later, the ship made ready to break orbit. The
lightdrive engineers slotted in the reprocessed fuel rods for the
condensed fusion generators and confirmed that all was working
properly. They cycled the airlock and dumped the slag from the
reprocessing reactor core, a loose, pebbly grit of useless heavy
elements. With a twisting of space only faintly detectable to the
alien's satellite network, the ship was gone.

The slag fell and incinerated in the atmosphere, reduced to
microparticulates of dust. One hundred and fifty thousand feet above
the ground, one microscopic mote ran into an ice crystal, melted and
refroze, sticking fast. At one hundred thousand feet above the ground,
the ice crystal grew and fell through the troposphere. At fifty
thousand feet above the ground, the ice crystals extended uniformly in
six directions, accreting and growing still heavier, falling faster
through the cold air.

And at five feet, ten inches above the ground, it fell onto the
outstretched tongue of Kyle McAllister, much to the shrieking delight
of his four year old daughter, Henrietta.

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I would like to thank the Academy

I'm late.

Not just late, but very late.

Months late.

Monstrously, hideously, late.

Embarrassingly late.

The question is... am I disastrously late?

Irretrievably late?

Unforgivably late?

I hope not.

Thank you!

So many months ago, I was honored by Marisa Birns, Maria Protopapadaki-Smith, John McDonnell, Gracie Motley and Icy Sedgwick with blogging and fiction awards. As I was on the road at the time, and almost entirely off-line, I couldn't respond very well over my phone, but I promised to follow-up as soon as I got back to a computer.

However, life came at me with teeth bared and claws outstretched. "Soon" became "real soon" became "this weekend" became "oh my God".

For months, this has been an unresolved item on my to-do list, a flagged e.mail in my inbox, carried forward and carried forward and carried forward again.

These folks deserve better treatment than that!

But, how to handle this? Clearly, I dropped the ball on acknowledging and reciprocating. Now, months later, what should I do? I got a variety of answers, but this sums it up best:

I know they've moved on and I'm probably making too much of this. I do that kind of thing a lot. Still, my obligation remains. So, let me offer my thanks for these awards. I encourage everyone to go check out their fine blogs and online fiction, and to buy them a drink if you ever meet them in a dimly lit pub.

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New Fiction: Cliche of the Titans


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Three Word Wednesday: drabble, lean, utter

The words for today's Three Word Wednesday are: drabble, lean, utter.

One hundred word fiction's called "drabble"
A form in which I don't dabble,
Lean writing's a scream,
But that's too extreme,
I'd utter naught more than pure babble.

Heh, that's not bad, is it?

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A Secret Santa Surprise

A Secret Santa Surprise for @babelonandon

A normal link just wouldn't do
Ms. Riggs, this poem's for you,
Got your name from Sabrina
(Secret Santa mas fina),
Happy Holidays and New Year, too!

Thanks to @introvertedwife for the organizational excellence!

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Should I be on Facebook?

Actually, I already am, but Ziggy Kinsella is wondering about it. He's a thoughtful guy, so go check out the discussion.

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Guest writing today at the NOT

I'm guest writing today at Michael J. Solender's blog, "not from here, are you?". The story is titled "Home Cure", and it was the basis for my 2009 NaNoWriMo novel about a man coming home from World War One to confront a mystery, solve a crime and prevent a tragedy.

You can read the story here.

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Goals for 2011

In 2011, I will:

1. Take my NaNoWriMo firmly in hand and make it the primary focus of
my writing. I'll do this by extending this first draft and finishing
the next roguh draft. I'll revise, edit, re-edit and line edit it by
July. I'll have it beta-read and proofread. I'll revise and finish the
book. I'll write a good hook, a good letter and start submitting it to
agents by the end of the year.

2. Have perfect attendence at #FridayFlash, and stop letting other
concerns trick me into being a rude jerk. I'll read and comment on the
stories of my pals and the people who comment on mine. I'll do this by
making #FridayFlash exist beyond Friday, reading and commenting
through the week.

3. Lose twenty pounds. I'll do this by eating salads instead of
sandwiches for lunch, by limiting myself to two desserts a week, one
drink a week. I'll resume the exercise program I had to completely
abandon when my hernia made it untenable.

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#FridayFlash: The Time Is Now

The Time Is Now

by Tony Noland

"Nothing, sir. No distress signal, no activity on any frequency."

"Acknowledged, Uhura. Analysis, Mr. Spock."

"The vessel appears to be derelict, Captain. Scanners indicate only minor power fluctuations in the impulse engines."

"And the crew?"

"The ship's life support appears to be functioning at minimal levels, but there are no life readings, sir."


"That would seem logical, Captain. The configuration of the ship would suggest that it possessed escape pods, but none are present."

"Hmmm. Mr. Chekov, weapons status?"

"No readings, Keptin. Their varp core is off-line, their shields are down and their veapons are deaktivated. Hull integrity is von hundred percent, sir. Eet does not seem that they vere in a fight."

"Hmmm. Mr. Spock, what do you make of her? She's too big to be a crusier, too small to be a cargo ship."

"The configuration of the vessel does not match that of any ship in the computer registry."

"No, she's a puzzle. Speculations?"

"Speculations based on insufficient data are frequently inaccurate, Captain."

"Yes, Mr. Spock. Well, let's go get some more data. Scotty?"

"Aye, Cap'n?"

"Meet us in the transporter room."

"On mah way, Cap'n."

"Mr. Sulu, match course and speed. Lt. Uhura, Mr. Spock, Mr. Chekov, you're with me. Mr. Sulu, you have the conn."

"Aye, sir."


"Sulu, what the blue blazes is going on up here? What are you doing to my life support?"

"Nothing, Doctor! That is, I don't know what's happening! After the Captain and the others transported over to that derelict ship, the computer just shut down."

"These damned machines! Nothing but a tangle of wires and trouble making circuits! Can't you get Scotty to come back here and figure out what's wrong?"

"I can't raise them, Doctor. There's been nothing but static since they transported."

"Come on, man! It's been more than an hour, we can't go on like this. We'll run out of air if we don't get the computer to turn the life support systems back on."

"You're right, Doctor, of course. I can only think of one solution."

"Well? Do it, man, or we'll all die!"

"Initiating full computer reactivation sequence in 5... 4... 3... 2... 1... REBOOT!"

And in a massive red and blue flash, the derelict spaceship exploded, killing everyone aboard.

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The 12 Days of Christmas

In honor of the 12 Days - 2010 fiction anthology (for which I'll be contributing a story on the theme of "Four calling birds"), I thought it appropriate to get into the holiday spirit.

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Three Word Wednesday: judge, nightfall, safety

The words for today's Three Word Wednesday are judge, nightfall, safety.


The Judge said, "Hang the man high!"
Tomorrow at noon's when I'll die
But come nightfall he'll see
What rage lives in me
No safety on land, sea or sky


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Writing 12 Days

I've written my story for the "12 Days - 2010" anthology, on the theme
of "Four Calling Birds". Need to edit and perhaps line up a beta
reader or two who can give me a 24hr turnaround.

Any volunteers?

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Deciding what to write

There are several things vying for my attention at the moment. Most
pressing was the line edits for the Choose Your Own Adventure book for
whic I'm an associate editor. That's now essentially done - shots
fired, target down, body removed. I just need to sweep up the shell

The "12 Days - 2010" story is next, then get back to writing a few
more episodes of "Just Enough Power", then I can probably revisit my
NaNo novel draft about the Grammarian.

Three more #FridayFlash stories and I will have kept my New Year's
resolution to have perfect attendence. 52 new flash stories, in
addition to all of the specials for holidays, etc.

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#FridayFlash: Copperhead


by Tony Noland

Every time he spit, the taste was moldy paper, plaster dust and bits of old glue. Blood snaked down his arm from the gash, but grime and grit thickened and slowed it, made it divert across his forearm in its course toward his wrist like a million-year-old river staggering down the slope of a see-sawing continent.

Anyway, not enough of it got to his hands to make his grip get slippery, at least, no worse than what the sweat was doing. The duct tape around the handle of the hammer was about as old as he was. The long, heavy crowbar was bare metal, rough enough that it cut him as he swung it, even through the calluses.

He spat again, paused to wipe a chunk of something from his eye, the good one.

The bar made its low, musical cough as he tore out another section of the wall. Not sheetrock. Cheap-ass thin stuff was behind sheetrock, or, god forbid, plastic. No, this was good old plaster and lath, a hundred, maybe a hundred and fifty years old. Smooth, with a dozen or more different layers of wallpaper, silken shreds of emerald, sapphire, gold, rose, ivory, all in patterns of flowers, vines, pineapples for Christ's sake, intricate diamonds, more flowers. The layers made the wall come down in easy chunks.

And there among the mouse turds and sawdust ran the copper. Thick old pipes and heavy wiring, many times more robust that they needed to be, than the efficient newer places had.

Fiber optic cable was worthless, but this? With a find like this, he could eat for a week.

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The martini - the sophisticated drink for the serious drinker

This tweet was not the most widely re-tweeted thing I've ever said, but it's struck such a chord with some people, that it deserves to be repeated.

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How to overcome nanowrimo hangover fatigue

What is the best way to overcome NaNoWriMo hangover fatigue?

Five simple steps:

1. Take December 1 off.

2. On December 2, re-read the last 10 pages of your nanowrimo. Not the whole thing, mind you, just the last 10 pages.

3. Set it aside and write something else. A flash, a poem, a blog post, anything.

4. Read the first 10 pages of your nanowrimo. Again, not the whole thing, just the first 10 pages.

5. Think about how different the book at the end is from the book at the beginning. Consider how to connect the two in revision.

Is this the best way to get the energy back, or what?

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Three Word Wednesday: demise, effort, revival

Good lord, today's Three Word Wednesday is practically the story arc of my 2010 NaNoWriMo experience. The words are: demise, effort, revival

It was on the ropes, that's for sure,
But demise of my book? Premature!
My effort so vast
Of writing real fast
That revival was joy, clear and pure!

The 7,000+ words I wrote yesterday to push my NaNo over the finish line for a win? That was a personal record for single day writing, and the ~12K for the Sunday-Monday-Tuesday was also a personal 3-day best.


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