Flash fiction and the challenge of "Candice"

I feel as though I should clear something up. I wrote "HI MY NAME IS Candice" as a way to explore the puncturing of a balloon. I wanted to take take someone to whom image and status is very important and make sure sure the audience knew he was a pompous, condescending snob. Then, I wanted to not only make him partially sympathetic, but to put him in a situation where he would become VERY sympathetic.

It's not an unusual plot arc to have a disagreeable character become a form of anti-hero, but it was an exercise I thought would be instructive. I wanted to show some vulnerability beneath an MBA exterior, to show that real human connection is something that money and status can't buy. Actually, my real intention was to interlace a lot of erotic imagery as the key to forcing a basal, carnal attraction. That would slice through all the confounding layers of civilized distancing that keeps him from making connections with people, even people he VERY MUCH wants to connect with.

However, the slapstick with the splashing Coke Zero seems to have drawn everyone's attention away from the erotic images I put in. More importantly, a funny thing happened with that story. The overwhelming majority of comments said, "Oh, he's blown it with her now, too bad". I don't know why this reaction surprised me. True, I'd been thinking of connection in purely sexual terms, not in romantic terms. In the unfocused back of my mind, I saw this as a way to bridge the divide between them. For almost all of the readers to think otherwise made me wonder if it that was really possible.

I mean, ANYTHING is possible - as the author, I'm the shaper of this world. But is it likely? Is it believable? Once you write the scene out, the nebulous ideas about characters and situations become the reality of that world, the details become set in concrete. The people in there now have to actually deal with a cotton-poly uniform shirt soaked in Coke Zero and adhering closely enough to show off every piece of lace on Candice's bra.

Given this guy, with his specific flaws and personality traits, and given this woman, with an as yet only hinted-at character, was it really possible to get them back to a point that an amicable relationship was possible? True fact: I once deliberately dumped a cup of ice water down the front of a girl's prom dress, then talked my way back into her good graces before the end of the night. Was there any way to let Christopher recover his chances with Candice?

So I wrote "Candice on the Couch" as a way to explore that very thing. The big thing I would have loved to hear from people is whether they thought this was at all believable. Even with the cock-up by Blogger and the splattered nature of the reading and commenting of Friday Flash in general, I'm pleased that some folks thought it all worked, and even to the extent that they were hooked by these two.

That is really great news to hear, since this was a tricky thing to pull off, especially since I played around with the chronology pretty extensively. A straight narrative going from A to B to C in chronological order would have been impossibly ponderous and lurching into the unbelievable. I felt that if you already knew that they're together, it would trick you into seeing the various stages as being reasonable, when you might not see them that way if they came on in sequence. A few people took issue with the different tone of this story than the previous, but not really with the plot arc. As scenes in a novel, this would be disastrous, but since they're two different stories, they can have different tones.

However, a funny thing happened with this story, too. It's my own damned fault, of course, and I should have seen it coming. People started asking if this is the start of a serial. They were hooked by the characters, they love Candice, mistrust Candice's motives, see Christopher as on the verge of something great, just know that Christopher is going to blow it with a ham-handed move when the movie is over...

I suck and I'm unintentionally mean, because I didn't intend this as the start of a serial. Having teased you, I'm going to disappoint you. I already have one serial I had to put in moth balls, and I still have people mad at me for leaving Patricia Lonnigan in the lurch. Odds are, I'd have to do the same to Candice. It seems I have time to write blog posts and some poetry, work on my novel and do Friday Flash. I don't wish to suborn my Friday Flash time for he sake of a serial, since experimental writing is a good way for me to grow as a writer.

Still, I don't want to leave you completely on edge. Candice is using him. She's the check-out clerk at his supermarket. She sees the high-end groceries he buys, always in single-serve portions. She sees the Patek Phillippe on his wrist, the BMW he drives and the expensive clothes he wears. He's babe in the woods, and she knows it. Despite the somewhat opportunistic way she'll date him for his money, she does come to like him and they both start to feel real love, grown outward from the infatuation on the one hand and the gold-glitter on the other. Money can't buy love, but it needn't stand in the way of it, either.

However, after one of his co-workers sees him "slumming" with a check-out girl, Christopher will revert to his social-climbing ways and dump Candice. Then, after an unsatisfying fling with a woman at work, who is just as superficial and distant as he used to be, he tries to go back to Candice. She refuses him, and he has to prove that he's not just another rich jerk. In the end, he encourages her to get an accounting degree at the community college, and she gets a job as a claims adjuster for an insurance company. They live happily ever after.

What do you think?

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#FridayFlash: Candice on the couch

HI MY NAME IS Candice: Candice on the couch

by Tony Noland

read PART ONE

Christopher watched Candice as she laughed. He was utterly taken by the way she gave herself over to the laughter, the way she threw her head back and put a hand on her stomach as she shook with it. “Ghostbusters” was one of his favorite movies, and he’d bought it on VHS, then DVD, then the widescreen version on HD-DVD and again on Blu-Ray. He could quote practically the whole thing, line for line.

Candice had never seen it. When she laughed out loud when Venkman shocked the guy in the psych experiment, Christopher’s own laugh had been more in nervous relief. All the best bits, so familiar to him that he only smiled at them when he rewatched it alone, were cracking Candice up completely. Venkman getting slimed, Ray sliding down the firepole, Egon saying “it would be bad”… they were only halfway in, and she loved the movie.

She loved “Ghostbusters”. Incredible.

He turned his eyes back to the screen and sipped his Jack and Coke. Actually, it was Maker’s Mark and Coke Zero; it wasn’t half bad, even though it was mixed much more stiffly than he usually drank. Candice had rolled her eyes when he offered her a glass of wine with dinner. Fortunately, she’d done it before he’d had a chance to casually mention that he recently secured a case of Frog’s Leap Cabernet from 2002, and at a very good price. He felt liked he’d dodged a bullet. The fact that he didn’t have any Jack Daniels prompted another eyeroll. When he said he didn’t have any Coke either, because he only drank Coke Zero, she crossed her arms over her chest and scowled at him.

“Yes,” she said. “I know.”

He’d paused, a frozen microwave dinner in each hand. The moment stretched, held, then broke when her lips twitched upward into a hint of a smile.

“Yeah, well, I’m almost out, though. I was going to pick up some more today, but… something happened.”
She smiled a bit more. He smiled back, and soon they were both laughing.

Now, as he sipped his second drink, he watched her laugh, sitting over on the couch, wearing his Yale sweatshirt and a pair of his gym shorts. It all felt surreal… not in the Dadaist, “conceptual art” sense, but more like “how the hell did I get here”. Or maybe “this is a scene from someone else’s life”. As he thought about it, this marked the first time in more than ten years he had watched “Ghostbusters” with anyone, and the first time he had ever watched it with a girl – woman! – in his living room.

Back in the grocery store, he’d tried to say something, anything to her, but she was so angry she wouldn’t listen. Standing amid the gathered crowd, soaked in soda pop, her eye inflamed, she was like an angry elemental, one of the ancient Greek furies. The manager, a bony woman with frizzy, bright red hair, was quick to tell Candice to let go of his shirt and to calm down, which made her even more angry. The turning point came when the manager apologized to him for Candice’s “atrocious” behavior, and then snapped at Candice to apologize as well.

Before she could respond, Christopher blurted out, “Are you kidding? I don’t blame her a bit!” Whatever Candice had been about to say, she bit it off and stood silently fuming. Everything moved fast after that. The manager told her to go home, and to be sure to clock out.

Candice yelling at him in the parking lot, making sure he knew that she not only had lost almost an entire shift’s pay thanks to him, she now had to stand in a chilly, windy evening for an hour to catch the next bus home, only so she could listen to her snotty roommate laugh at her sorry state.

His apology had evolved from an offer to pay for dry cleaning of her clothes, to an offer of a ride home, a place to clean up before she went home, as he did not live far from the store. She was angry and vengeful, and had accepted everything he’d offered and demanded more. It was only after they’d pulled up at his house that the actual logistics of it all became more real.

Yes, a chance to “clean up before she went home” was fine, but what did that mean? Once they were in the house, it was clear that just giving her some clean clothes wasn’t enough. Soaked and sticky, from her hair to her shoes, what she needed was a shower. As bizarre as it felt, he got her a towel and some clothes to wear while he ran her clothes through the washer and dryer.

It all blurred together in his memory, how one thing had led to another. Her coming out with damp hair, her face clean of makeup, her brown eyes unadorned, the left one still bloodshot. Standing in the kitchen, barefoot and in his oversized clothes, she looked younger. She also would have looked more innocent and somehow sweet if she had not looked so defiant. It was then that he realized that throughout it all, she had never seemed humiliated or embarrassed. If someone had spilled a bunch of soda pop on him in a public place, Christopher knew he would have wanted to sink into the earth forever. He never got that sense from her, not in the store, not in the kitchen, not when she was looking over his DVD collection while waiting for dinner to cook.

He had an insane urge to ask her how she did it, how she was so self-possessed. Instead, he sipped his drink, watched her laugh at the Stay-Puft marshmallow man and wondered what he was going to say when the movie was over.

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UPDATE: Read my author's discussion of this story.

"Igor, bring me a fresh brain" - creating characters

Today over at Write Anything, I talk about creating characters. You get the best monsters when you put in the strangest brains.

Take a look!

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Actually ironic

The song "Isn't It Ironic" is a favorite of writers, because the situations depicted, while bittersweet and tragic, aren't really ironic. To make the point, here's a video that interposes a few additional lyrics that make the situations actually ironic. Example: a traffic jam when you're already late... to get an award for having reduced traffic congestion.

Enjoy.



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Pay no attention to that mouse behind the curtain

I have a complex inner life. It usually doesn't well up so profoundly that it spills over into a blog post. Yesterday was one of those days when it did.

It's good to know my writerly issues are neither unique nor insurmountable.

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Honesty in writing, dammit

You want honesty? I'll give you some honesty. I'm tired of pretending that I know what I'm doing with all of this shit.

I don't read enough fiction. There, I said it. With the flood of stories my friends write, the books recommended to me or given to me, articles on the internet and magazines I get, I can barely manage ten hours a week spent reading fiction. The list grows, longer and faster than I can possible keep up with. I've given up a lot to get more time to read and write, and it's still not enough. It would be great if I could spend all my time on this, but I can't.

The "holy crap, this novel SUCKS!!!" phase of my WIP is not a one-and-done, not something that I went through and got over. Friends talked me in from the ledge when I was whining about this during NaNoWriMo, and have periodically offered again to kick me in the ass again if I ever felt like quitting. This feeling does not arise from a sense that this is too HARD to do, that I'm shying away from the sweat and effort of it. It's a recurrent fear that I'm wasting my time on a book that no one will read or get, a book that no one will think is at all engaging or funny. It doesn't help that several of the people I've told about this WIP have responded with a confused headshake. Yes, I KNOW it's not like anything you're familiar with - that's the whole point! It's different! If I wanted to knock out a trope ridden "farmboy finds a magic book, learns to be a magician" thing, I would. I've got 15,000 words of that novel sitting in a drawer, OK?

Yeah, it would be great if I were to return to "Just Enough Power" and write out the rest of the plot. It's all there - Patricia Lonnigan gets beaten up, gets to have lots of slippery, angry sex, she gets to kill lots of people, and she gets revenge on all the people who wronged her, but she has to pay a heavy price for it. You know what? I'm deliberately NOT writing that so I can FINISH MY DAMNED WIP. You think I don't feel the lure of every other half-finished fucking story I have sitting on my hard drive? You think I don't hear those voices that say, "oooh, that one is MUCH better than this one."? I do, believe me. But I've committed myself to this WIP. The Grammarian comes FIRST, Patricia Lonnigan comes NEXT. It has to be that way, or I'll go crazy flitting around from flower to flower.

It's really hard to sustain enthusiasm for a WIP when these doubts and fears set in. Hard, that is, until I actually take a deep breath and open my work again. After re-reading three pages, I KNOW this is a good book, or could be. I can make this thing shine, make it the kind of book I want it to be. I just wish I could be sure that the readers will see the same kind of thing in it that I do. Yes, yes, it's a non-random event - it's not up to the reader to make the book great. They'll see whatever I put in there, and it's up to me to MAKE it happen. It takes an effort of faith, in the story, in the system, and above all, faith in my own abilities as a writer.

I'm not a very trusting person. That has consequences for me as a person, and as a writer. The thing is, though, there's a difference between confidence and faith. Confidence is based on data, and deals with the known. The tables say that a 10"x10" pillar of No.1 grade oak will support 6500 pounds. If I load it with 5000 pounds, I can be confident of its performance. It's when I load it with 6800, or 7000 or 8000 pounds that I need to have faith in its performance.

I'm confident I can write good flash fiction. I need to have faith that I can write a good novel.

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#FridayFlash: HI MY NAME IS Candice

HI MY NAME IS Candice

by Tony Noland

More than once, Christopher told himself it was not only creepy and low class, but undignified to be so taken with this girl. No, he thought, not girl. Young woman. Aside from being less condescending a term, it was more accurate. She had to be at least late teens, maybe early twenties, what with a pair of... with a full figure like that. The mental correction of his own thoughts was automatic. He berated himself for almost objectifying and depersonalizing her based solely on her female anatomy.

If he were the sort of person who used words like "captivating", "lush" or "hypnotic", he would certainly have used them to describe Candice, one of the checkout clerks at the supermarket near his new house. However, Christopher W. Pennefield never used such words, and never read the kinds of ridiculous, time-wasting novels that contained them. Her black hair, her pale skin, her... full figure. Just as water is wet and fire can burn, it was an objective fact that she was unlike anyone else he had ever seen. She was captivating, lush and hypnotic, but he made himself think of her as merely pretty.

Besides, as attractive as Candice might be, especially when she used blue, green or black contact lenses to make her eye color match her eye shadow, Christopher reminded himself that she was just a checkout clerk. Even if he did find himself doing his shopping when he knew she'd be working, and going through her line even when others might have been faster, he knew it was ridiculous. He had an MBA from Yale and was on his way to being a rising star in his new company; he should be focusing on his own peer group for romantic opportunities. There were surely professional women he could start a relationship with; he just hadn't made the right connections yet. After all, he'd only just moved here for the job very recently, just last September.

He looked around at the supermarket decorations, changed over from Memorial Day sales to the Fourth of July sales. Nine months? Had it really been that long? His house was here, in a decent suburb. It was much bigger and nicer than he needed, but he bought it expecting to be entertaining clients and co-workers, schmoozing with the higher-ups. It hadn't really worked out that way, though. Aside from one time when a couple of guys came over to watch part of a football game, he'd had the place to himself. He hadn't even met most of his neighbors yet. That was partly because of the long hours he'd been working, right from Day One. You didn't climb the ladder by sitting down on the bottom rung. Partly, too, it was that when he was home, he was either working in his den or trying to catch up on much-needed sleep. The yard guys took care of the yard, the pool guys took care of the pool.

As he began to take items out of his cart and place them on the conveyor belt that would bring them within Candice's reach, he tried to remember the last time he'd spoken to someone outside of work. The guy at the car wash place? The barista at the Starbuck's in the food court of his building downtown? That candidate for city council who'd been canvassing before the primary elections?

His mind occupied with the task of memory, his fingers slipped, and he lost his grip on the 2-liter bottle of Coke Zero. It dropped onto the belt and the cap cracked, just at the seam. Soda pop exploded out in a wide circular spray as the bottle fell forward, bouncing off a box of Low Sodium Wheat Thins. He shouted and held up his hands to shield his face from the spray, just as Candice screamed and did the same. She caught the brunt of the assault as the bottle, propelled by the jetting fluid, bounced once, then flipped over and landed in front of her.

Horrified, Christoper grabbed at the slippery bottle, but only succeed in knocking it over into the well of the bagging area in front of Candice. When the bottle thumped down on its bottom, hard, the seal of the cap gave way completely. The cap itself rocketed upward and hit her squarely in the left eye, while the foaming contents of the bottle fountained upwards, soaking her face and chest. Candice screamed again and began clawing at her eye with both hands. Her elbows out to her sides, she threw her head back and squirmed in pain as she desperately tried to remove the contact lens that the cap had knocked to the side of her eyeball.

Her back arched, her hair flung backwards, her Coke Zero-soaked chest thrust outward, Candice was hopping and shaking, her torso waving and weaving as she tried to pluck the contact lens. She began growling and stomping her foot in animal pain and frustration as the lens dug into her eyeball. With each stomp, a shock wave rippled up and down her captivating, lush and hypnotic anatomy, every seismic nuance laid bare in soaking wet high definition. Christopher couldn't move, couldn't speak.

Finally, she hooked the edge of the errant lens with a fingernail and tugged it out from the edge of her eyelid. She doubled over forward with the instantaneous release from the searing pain. Both hands over her left eye, she sobbed involuntarily, just once. Then, with a wild, feral expression on her face that Christopher had never seen on the face of anyone, man or woman, she looked up. Among the crowd that had already gathered, she saw him standing, still struck dumb and motionless by what he had just witnessed. He cleared his throat and tried a nervous, apologetic little smile.

With a snarl, Candice leaned over the counter and grabbed Christopher by the front of his shirt. She pulled him across the counter, pulled his face down close to hers, until he was within breathing distance of her. One eye, medium-brown and already bloodshot, and the other, brilliant green and beautiful, locked onto his own as she spoke through gritted teeth.

"There. Are. Better. Ways. To. Get. My. Attention. You. ASSHOLE!"

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UPDATE: Read the sequel, "Candice on the Couch"

Blood Picnic now available at Amazon

I'm pleased to announce that "Blood Picnic and other stories", my new anthology of flash fiction, is now available for the Kindle at Amazon.com:

Click to enlarge. 28 stories of fantasy, horror, lit fic and magical realism.

Kindle books can be read on the Kindle e.book reader, or on your Mac, PC, iPhone, iPad, Blackberry or Droid smartphones. Just download the Kindle reader app from Amazon, on the same page where you view and/ buy Kindle books.

You can get "Blood Picnic and other stories" from the US Amazon website, or from the Amazon sites serving the UK and Germany. Prices are $2.99, £2.06 and EUR 2,32 respectively.

There are no reviews on the US site yet, so if you'd like to be the first, act fast!

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Renegade A to Z in tweets

For everyone who didn't participate in the A to Z blog series in April, Reginald Golding is orchestrating a Renegade A to Z blog post series for May. I responded to the challenge last night:



A is for Absinthe, specifically the bottle I've had sitting in my liquor cabinet for five years, but am too much of a coward to drink.

B is for "Blood Picnic", my new anthology, now on sale for Mother's Day. See blog for details.

C is for Cunnilingus. (Bet you didn't see *that* one coming, did you?)

D is for Dirk Pitt, the most overwrought (and over-written) protagonist ever.

E is for Elfquest. Remember Elfquest? I do.

F is for Friends
. Remember Friends? I don't, because I never saw it.

G is for Golllum, who got a much better treatment in the movies than in the books.

H is for Hansel, locked in a cage, waiting for Gretel to rescue him. Girl power, yo.

I is for Isolation
, which I need to write.

J is for the Justice League, who would get their ASSES KICKED by the Avengers.

K is for Kobolds, the most annoying monsters ever to have to kill as a 2nd level Fighter.

L is for Lucy van Pelt, that bitch.

M is for Mariachi Music, which is surprisingly danceable after you've had enough tequila.

N is for Noland. Tony Noland.

O is for Orpheus
, the original tourist who ended up in the wrong bar.

P is for Perfect
, which I will never be, and which I'd be happier if I stopped *trying* to be.

Q is for Quintessence
, a perfectly lovely word that I almost certainly won't get to use in conversation any time soon.

R is for Regional accents
, which add so much to writing when done well, and which make you want to kill the author otherwise.

S is for Sam Spade
, the rootstock of all hard-boiled detectives.

T is for Tequila. (See "Mariachi Music")

U is for UberTwitter
, which became UberSocial after Twitter turned asshole. (Good luck, @TweetDeck).

V is for Very
. There... I said "very". Edit that, pal.

W is for Wollstonecraft
, steampunk before her time.

X is for Xylologist
, someone who studies forms of wood. Scrabble, anyone?

Y is for YA
, a genre which will probably not welcome my novel, but what the hell, I have to call it something!

Z is for Zelda
, a game I've heard a lot about but have never played. #loser

n.b. My original tweets for D and M didn't come through. As @Farfetched58 pointed out to me, "D or M are both DM commands. http://t.co/QG1Lkdn I could txt "D TonyNoland xyz" to 40404 & you'd get it." You learn something new every day, if you pay attention.

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Wednesday #Poetry: Grace, Jitter, Thin

Welcome to my regular Wednesday poetry corner, brought to you by Three Word Wednesday and One Shot Wednesday.

Today's words are Grace, Jitter, Thin.

May grace of God's goodness abound
Which sometimes seems thin on the ground
No jitter could save
Him from a wet grave
bin Laden's no longer around.


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Mother's Day sale on "Blood Picnic"

If your mother is anything like mine, a diverse collection of thrilling flash fiction would make a GREAT Mother's Day gift. So, I'll make it easy for you. From now until Mother's Day, May 8, you can get "Blood Picnic and other stories" at a special sale price of $0.99 using the code NU66H.Wondering if this book is right for your mom? Here's some more info:

Ebook Short Description
The versatile Tony Noland has gathered some of his best flash fiction and short stories for this diverse collection. These 28 stories range in style from fantasy and horror to magical realism and literary fiction. Whether you’re looking for potent true-to-life tales or want your fiction full of zombies, flying carpets or deals with the devil, this collection will amuse, delight and surprise you.

So show your mom how much you love her, and give her my book, in a variety of e.book formats. But don't be a cheapskate about it, OK? With the coupon code, it's only $0.99, and she's worth more than that. Get here something else in addition to my book. Like flowers. Or scotch.

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Wordles as a top-level overview

This is the wordle from "Blood Picnic and other stories".

Wordle: "Blood Picnic and other stories"

It's more balanced than I would have expected. There aren't any repetitive phrases that overwhelm everything else. Since this is a collection of stories, rather than a novel, you might expect a certain heterogeneity. I avoided the overuse of the words "that", "very" and "suddenly". However, it seems that I like the word "just" quite a lot, perhaps too much.

Compare that to the wordle for my novel WIP, "Goodbye Grammarian".

Wordle: Goodbye Grammarian

I'm guessing a novel about Batman would emphasize the words "Batman" and "Bruce", so I'm not too worried about the massive preponderance of "Grammarian" and "Alex". Oh, and the love interest is named Kate. Can you tell?

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What's wrong with stories set in the Old West

Someone who purchased my anthology, "Blood Picnic and other stories" asked why I didn't include one FridayFlash story she particularly liked. It was a creepy Western, complete with a dusty saloon, a mysterious stranger, an arrogant rancher and a strong dose of the supernatural.

Why didn't I include it? What's wrong with stories set in the Old West?

Well, nothing, really. I wrote that story to try my hand at the genre. The story came out alright, but that's not really a setting that speaks to me, so I don't have much of a body of work in that vein. The stories in "Blood Picnic" are divided into fantasy, horror, literary fiction and magical realism. Slotting in one western was problematic, even with the supernatural element.

I'm working on putting together an anthology devoted exclusively to science fiction. It'll be priced the same, $2.99, and will be about the same length, 28K words. It should be out soon.

Honestly, though, unless I get a call from a publisher asking me to do one, don't expect an anthology of western stories.

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Who had the cancer?

An interesting phenomenon seems to have developed about my FridayFlash, "Romance... With Lasers". If you haven't read it, go do so, then answer me this:

Who had the cancer? The man or the woman?

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#FridayFlash: Romance... With Lasers

Romance... With Lasers

by Tony Noland

She ran her fingernails across his chest, idly playing with the stands of gray among the black. Well, no, she thought, not idly. Janine wanted to let Skip rest a bit, but also to stay awake. He was the best man in the world, but he was a man after all, and liable to fall asleep after sex. Neither of them were as young as they used to be. She knew that he needed to pace himself, especially these last few years.

Gently, she tugged his chest hair and dragged the edge of a fingernail across one of his nipples. Under her hand, she felt his goosebumps rise, and his hips twitch, just a bit. No, she smiled, this was just a breather, not the end of the evening. She wanted him, needed him to be ready for a third round. It was their last night together for a long time, and she wanted as much of him as her body could hold. Everything about him was precious to her and if she could, she would be saturated with him. His laughter, his enthusiastic (if not terribly graceful) dancing, the way he had always been so patient with the kids...

The tears started again. No, goddamn it, no! She'd sworn to herself that she wouldn't ruin the evening this way, that she'd be strong. Her eyes closed tight as she fought to hold them back. She felt his arm shift on her back as he pulled her into a closer hug. When he lifted his other hand from her arm to stroke her hair, she lost the fight and wept. She took her hand from his chest and covered her face, shaking with her sobs. Tears ran down her nose, matting his chest hair. It brought out the smell of him, the smell of his skin that she knew so well and would miss so much.

She knew he was making comforting noises, shushings and murmurings of love and kindness that she could hear through the sound of the blood pounding in her ears and her own hoarse breathing. After a bit, he shifted under her, twisting away from her. She sat up to let him go, then realized that he was only reaching for the box of tissues on the bedside table. He turned back with not just one tissue for her, but had brought the whole box.

"I thought you might need more than one," he said.

A fresh flood of tears made her double over and she clutched at his hand, pressing it between hers. She kissed his fingers, held them against her cheeks and kissed them again and again. After a bit, she let go so she could wipe her eyes and blow her nose. It took half a dozen tissues. When she finished, he leaned forward and cupped her cheek with his hand, tilting her face up towards his.

"Now, then," he said softly, "I know you have a lot on your mind. But if you're interested, I believe I might have strength left for another trip 'round the park. What do you say?" She laughed and the tears started again. "Ah, nope, sorry," he said, "no crying allowed during sex. Unless it's cries of passion. I'd take that as a compliment to my technique."

Janine leaned forward and locked both hands behind his head, crushing her lips against his in a bruising, primal, lover's connection. He hugged her in close and they fell back on the bed.

It was the tingling of her bruised lips that she focused on all the next day. The drive to the hospital, the paperwork, the ill-fitting gown, the endless delays. Throughout it all, the only thing that seemed real was the diffuse ache in her lips, the feeling of puffy soreness. She clung to the feeling as though it was a shield.

Six separate times they'd had the procedure explained to them, by the resident, the surgeon, the neurologist, and others whom she didn't know. Shave the scalp, peel back the skin, remove the top of the skull, use scalpels to slice out the big chunks of cancer, use lasers to burn out the tiny chunks of cancer, replace the skull and scalp and then... wait.

During the surgeon's explanation, Skip told him to be sure to change the oil and the timing belt while he was in there. Skip smiled. Janine smiled. The surgeon didn't.

And, to be strong, Janine focused again on the dull pain of her bruised lips.

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Poetry for the Royal Wedding

William and Kate, lovely pair!
They each have their burdens to bear
Will gets the throne
But AFTER Charles (groan!)
While Kate gets to pop out an heir.

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Twitter Fiction: "Channeling the Pros"
















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Wednesday #Poetry: Foolish, Mercy, Relish

Welcome to my regular Wednesday poetry corner, brought to you by Three Word Wednesday and One Shot Wednesday.

Today's words are Foolish, Mercy, Relish.

'Twas foolish (with waistline expanding)
To eat with such relish commanding.
Though he knew he'd feel worse, he
said, "Good lord have mercy!
These chili-cheese dogs are outstanding!"


Foodbeast.com










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10 Ways To Feel Like A Failure Forever

10 Ways To Feel Like A Failure Forever

1. Set unrealistic goals. Make plans to lose 50 pounds before your high school reunion. Write three novels this year. Begin exercising AT LEAST an hour every day, beginning tomorrow. Double your income. Get your mom to stop being such a nagging harridan. Whatever someone else took thirty years to achieve, make plans to do it in one. Then, when it doesn't work, wallow in that failure until the next unrealistic goal setting.

2. Set stupid goals.
Take an honest look at your life and compare it to someone on TV. It could be a rich and beautiful celebrity in the slam on her latest drug charge, it could be the star of a reality show where contestants compete to see how many Trichinae worms they can eat before suffering a perforated intestine. Promise yourself that you will match the performance of your new role model before the beginning of summer. That way, even if you succeed, you fail.

3. Dismiss your successes.
"If I were a REAL writer, I'd have a novel done by now, not just an anthology of fantasy, horror and lit-fic." Whatever you do, DON'T celebrate anything. By denying all successes, even the initial ones, you habituate yourself to deny ALL successes. Perpetual failure!

4. Question your own decisions. Once you've set a price for that anthology, let the doubts gnaw away. Did you set it too high, thereby shutting yourself out from any chance of wide sales? Did you set it too low, thereby devaluing yourself as a writer? Constant fretting will suck the joy out of everything you attempt, helping you to achieve that eternal state of "I suck."

5. Only listen to critics.
The world is full of people who are more than willing to tell you that you did it wrong, whatever "it" is. If you want to feel like a miserable failure forever, embrace these people. Hang on their every word. Go back and change what you did to implement their specific criticisms, if possible, again and again to change it back and forth among the conflicting criticisms. Remember: it can always be improved, so nothing is ever finished. And if you never finish anything, you can feel like a failure forever.

6. Only listen to friends.
Don't you deserve some love and support? Aren't you a valuable person? The fact is, by insulating yourself from the harsh truths of the real world, your little bubble of friends and supporters can create whole new realms of misery for you to wallow in. If you never even TRY to compete, it's fundamentally impossible for you to win anything at all. That's instant failure right there, a bone-deep kind of failure that, paradoxically, feels like success... at least until you see your friends start to actually succeed.

7. Do only one thing. By focusing all of your energy on one endeavor, you adopt what scientists call "social tunnel vision". This makes you incapable of conversing with other people about topics other than your own narrow specialty. If you work hard at it, you will become incapable of even understanding subjects other than your own. If you become exceptional at it, you will regard anyone who is not utterly passionate about YOUR subject to be a mouth-breathing wanker, and your condescending attitude towards the world will reflect this. You will be the failed, lonely little king of the tin-pot kingdom you've made for yourself.

8. Ignore your body.
Eat nothing but crap and never break a sweat. Never, ever exert yourself physically. This will give you less energy, less stamina and poorer health. That way, every single thing you do will be harder because it will take more effort. Soon, nothing will be worth that much effort, and you will berate yourself for being a useless slug. Failure as far as the eye can see.

9. Ignore your mind.
Avoid deep thoughts and people who have them. When it comes to politics, religion, music, or any other topic, settle on a position and don't let yourself stray from it. DO NOT get into rational philosophical discussions with people who hold differing (or opposing views). That kind of thing inevitably causes you to think. In terms of feeling like a failure, this one is subtle. You can go your entire life thinking you're OK, but then, when the end of life approaches, BOOM, you realize that you've never examined any of your beliefs. Terror sets in as you live in anguish, wondering if you've been a failure all your life and didn't even know it. A classic.

10. Spend all your time wondering if you are a failure.
The great thing about this question is that, if you ask it in the right way, the answer will always be "yes". There is always something you could have done better, faster or sooner. In a 28,000 word publication, you might have a typo or a stray comma. At a party, you might tell a joke that falls flat. LET THESE FAILURES DEFINE YOU. Focus only on what you did wrong, even if it represents less than 1% of your overall performance. Don't ask yourself, "Am I a failure?". Instead, ask yourself, "Am I perfect?". If the answer is "No", then the answer is "Yes", and you will feel like a failure forever. Congratulations!

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"Blood Picnic" anthology - now available

At $2.99, makes a GREAT gift!
Now available at Smashwords:

Blood Picnic and other stories
Ebook By Tony Noland
$2.99 Rating: Not yet rated.
Published: Apr. 21, 2011
Words: 28379 (approximate)
Language: English

Ebook Short Description
"The versatile Tony Noland has gathered some of his best flash fiction and short stories for this diverse collection. These 28 stories range in style from fantasy and horror to magical realism and literary fiction. Whether you’re looking for potent true-to-life tales or want your fiction full of zombies, flying carpets or deals with the devil, this collection will amuse, delight and surprise you."

Available for $2.99 in formats suitable for Kindle, iPhone, Nook, Playbook, PC, Mac and other e.reading platforms.

More information, including a preview of contents and a longer description, available at Smashwords.

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#FridayFlash: Now Hiring: Canine Farming Technician

Now Hiring: Canine Farming Technician

by Tony Noland

"It's... not quite what I expected."

The Operations Manager paused and looked at Henrique Marcos. "I thought you said you grew up on a canine farm."

"I did. My parent had a small operation in Florida. We ran about two hundred."

"Two hundred? Pssht," he snorted, "small is right. We've got two hundred head in this rack alone."

"Yes, I can see that. The heads, I mean. We just had... y'know, the whole body. This is just a little... well, like I said, it's not quite what I expected."

Mr. Daniels, the Manager, flicked on all the work lights and they walked into the room. Stacked floor to ceiling and swaying gently on movable shelves, row after row of human heads were secured onto steel trays, held in place with wide steel straps cinched tight over their eyes. Masses of tubes and wires were stapled onto the glistening gobbets of neck flesh at the base of each one. A large rod made of teflon-coated steel was pushed back against the molars and bolted in place, effectively holding the jaws wide apart. Every one of the pale, drawn faces twitched, making unfathomable expressions.

On this rack, every head had gaping, bleeding holes where their canines used to be.

Henrique said, "Are they... alive?" As soon as he asked the question, regretted it. "I mean, of course they're undead, I know how it all works, but I've never seen it done this way. It's just... I don't quite understand..."

"Look, kid. The operations manual you got during orientation should have explained all of this. Didn't the HR guys show you the videos?"

"I saw the safety videos and the ones about records management, HazMat regulations compliance and one about cultural sensitivity, but -"

"Oh, yeah, the cultural sensitivity thing is important. We've got some Catholics on staff who get pretty touchy on the subject of immortal souls."

"- but the file for the facilities overview video was messed up. The HR guy said I could come back and watch it another time."

"Yeah, well, don't bother. I can give it to you in a nutshell." Mr. Daniels stepped closer to one of the trays and waved a hand at the head. "OK, we keep vampires so we can extract their canines, right?"

"Sure, it's the basis of Immortality Serum."

"Right. Now, back in the old days, canine farmers would keep the vampires staked in place to a board, yank the canines out every week or so and send them off to be processed into the Serum. For little mom and pop operations like you grew up on, two hundred was about as many as you could handle, right?"

"I guess so."

"OK, so this is modern, scientific management, what the hippies call industrial farming." He took a pen from his pocket and pointed at the wet, pulsing, flesh around the grayish-pink vertebrae. "What do you see, Henrique? Or rather, what *don't* you see?"

Not wishing to be made a fool of, Henrique paused to look, then gave the obvious answer. "Um... a body?"

"Exactly! Turns out, the heads don't need to be attached to the body for the canines to regrow. They just need a source of blood and some means of pumping it through their system. Ordinarily, that would be their heart, but here, it's all pumps and tubing."

"But where's the body?"

"They're stored at a facility outside of Tuscon. The head maintains a psychic link to the body, so you can't just get rid of it. However, if you let the body flail around for a while, it uses up its reserve of energy. Then you can let it dry out, which helps the head to calm down, too. You gather up the bodies and stack them like cordwood out in the desert. The first HBS farms had a real problem with the heads going dormant, but the electrostim wiring fixed that."

"HBS?"

"Head-Body Separation. Increases the efficiency of production by a factor of a thousand or more over the old board-and-blood canine farming."

"We used cow blood back home."

Daniels shook his head. "Not here. Synthetic hemoglobin suspended in a saline matrix. Without a body attached, they don't need much in the way of nutrition, just enough calcium oxalate to keep the teeth growing. Yep, we've got around twenty thousand head in this facility, producing about a hundred and sixty thousand teeth a month. And we're not even the company's biggest canine farm, not by a long shot."

Henrique whistled. "That's amazing. It would have taken us years to do that kind of production."

"Not only that, scientific farming yields a higher grade Immortality Serum. No matter what the hippies in the Local Serum movement say, the fact is, you can't supply the Serum needs of nineteen billion people without this kind of production efficiency. And I'll tell you something else, Henrique." Daniels leaned in close, as though confiding a state secret. "The company has big plans for us here."

"Yeah?"

"Yep. We're going to be testing a new kind of synthetic hemoglobin, one based on a gamma subunit. If everything goes as the R & D guys hope, it'll make a new kind of Serum, one that will let people go outside during the day."

"You're kidding!"

"Nope. Just think of it: for the first time in over two hundred years, people will be able to withstand sunlight again while still enjoying the benefits of the Immortality Serum." Daniels hooked his thumbs in his belt loops and thrust his chest out. "God, it's a great time to be alive!"

~~~~~~~

My thanks to @thefourpartland and @MarcNash for the prompts "Days came to a strange end" and "canines", respectively.

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The versatile Tony Noland



Title: Blood Picnic and other stories
Description: The versatile Tony Noland has gathered some of his best flash fiction and short stories for this diverse collection. These 28 stories range in style from fantasy and horror to magical realism and literary fiction. Whether you’re looking for potent true-to-life tales or want your fiction full of zombies, flying carpets or deals with the devil, this collection will amuse, delight and surprise you.

As Donald Trump would say, "This is the most spectacular, most amazing, most incredible sales blurb ever! Ever! It's incredible!"

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Wednesday #Poetry: Cleanse, Knead, Melt

Welcome to my regular Wednesday poetry corner, brought to you by Three Word Wednesday and One Shot Wednesday.

Today's words are Cleanse, Knead, Melt.

O sable with soft, chocolate pelt
That beauty's a bad hand to be dealt
Your skin they will flense
  Then knead it to cleanse
I'll use you to make her heart melt.














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The Big Interview

Today over at Write Anything, you can read the transcript of my interview with God Almighty. Initially, I was happy to do the show, but He had some really pointed questions for me about my writing.

Specifically, He really got detailed about my novel work-in-progress, "Goodbye Grammarian". It was a pretty tough interview, as He spared no effort in exposing the truth about what actually constitutes writing. Is editing, planning and fleshing out character motivations enough? Is that really writing?

You can go check it out here.

p.s. I had no idea that God Almighty used an APPLAUSE sign for his audience. Show business... who knew?

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RIP, Sarah Jane

Lis Sladen died today. R.I.P. Sarah Jane, one of the best Dr. Who companions ever.





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What the heck is a caltrop?

In one of my stories, I referred to a mass of caltrops, flung outward by an explosion of gunpowder. The reaction by the vast majority of my readers was, "What the heck is a caltrop? I had to Google that." This was repeated recently by one of my beta readers, who was also unfamiliar with this little gem of medieval warfare.

Clearly, just because I might be familiar with caltrops, and I know the difference between a flintlock and a wheellock, should I assume my readers are as well? While it might serve to aid simplicity by choosing another, more familiar object, it's also instructive to see how other writers have dealt with this issue. I raised this with a top-flight reference librarian, and received an answer today.

I present, therefore, a section of "One Corpse Too Many" by Ellis Peters, one of the Brother Cadfael mysteries:
"There's a herdsman's hut there in the piece where the track is in the woodland, though only along the edge, the fields still close. We were in this stretch when Nick's horse fell lame. I lit down to see, for he went very badly, and he had picked up a caltrop, and was cut to the bone."

"Caltrops?" said Brother Cadfael, startled. "On such a forest path, away from any field of battle?" For those unobtrusive martial cruelties, made in such a shape as to be scattered under the hooves of cavalry, and leaving always one crippling spike upturned, surely had no part to play on a narrow forest ride.

"Caltrops," said Torold positively. "I don't speak simply from the wound, the thing was there embedded, I know, I wrenched it out."
There you have it. I'm not sure how precise this explanation is, but you get the idea that it's unobtrusive, sharp and cripplingly dangerous. For my own story, I'll have to add in a bit more description than "razor-sharp caltrops", but not too much more. My thanks to the the reference librarian - the chocolate is on its way.

Caltrops, by the way, are still used by modern armies for anti-vehicle applications (to puncture tires), and by guerrilla warfare groups to slow the advance of non-motorized ground troops. They'll go through the sole of a boot just as easily as into a horse's foot.

p.s. I sometimes use unusual words. I don't like to make my readers work for the punchline, but I'm not opposed to it, either.

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Selling whalemeat to Greenpeace

I love this graphic guide to social media sites like Twitter, Facebook, Reddit, Tumblr, etc. Mark Ragan linked to it on Twitter. It discusses and compares how good each site is for establishing or promoting a brand, talking to customers, driving traffic to a site, etc. Best quote: "Attempting to build your brand on Reddit is like trying to sell whale meat to Greenpeace. It won't happen, and it's likely to turn very ugly if you try."

You can read the guide here. Good stuff for anyone interesting in marketing or effective self-promotion.

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Tony seemed like such a nice bloke...

I love the comment Jason Coggins left on my FridayFlash: "And there I was thinking you were such a nice bloke." In point of fact, I am a rather nice bloke, the kind of guy who tries to find the kindest possible interpretation of events. I'm the sort will buy the first round and the last if he sees you're a bit short of cash, but who wouldn't dream of embarrassing you by doing so.

However...

My work typically doesn't deal with the perpetrators of incestuous sexual abuse, or with their victims who find empowerment (and closure) via a Smith & Wesson snub-nosed revolver. I don't typically write characters who are vicious and nasty, the kind of people who make you recoil and cringe with revulsion and anger. The things I post here don't usually leave you speechless or punch you in the gut, a sentiment expressed by many of the comments on that story.

To be honest, I think that kind of writing is too easy.

It's much harder to make you laugh or to make you like a character. It's really hard to make you like someone so much that you feel bad when bad things happen to them. To make you hate someone in a flash piece is pretty easy. I just have to make them obviously despicable.

  • An old woman who slaps a small child across the face, hard and repeatedly, while hissing, "Stop it! Stop crying, be quiet! Stop it!"
  • A sweaty man who is deliberately rude to teenage checkout clerks because he knows they can't talk back to him.
  • The self-righteous couple who quietly steal the "bad" books from the library in order to protect the community from "filth" and "perversion".
  • That guy up the street, the one with the beer belly and the distorted tattoos on his flabby arms, who thinks that anybody who didn't serve in the military shouldn't have any say in how the country is run.

All of these are tropes and archetypes, of course. I could make them rude or racist, arrogant or greedy, foul with body odor or leering with unwanted sexual advances. Pretty straightforward to make them hateful, actually.

What would be harder, much harder, would be to present you with someone you instantly hate, then make you come to like them as the story unfolds. John Grisham did that with the white supremacist father on death row in "The Chamber". That's not the kind of transmutation you can pull off in a flash fiction piece; there just isn't room for it.

Rest assured, however, that in my longer works, I'm trying to do just that kind of thing. Complex characters with complicated and conflicting motivations, making the best decision possible among a collection of bad options. Sometimes they have sex (or almost do), and this can be either a good thing or a really, really bad idea, depending on the circumstances. They make mistakes, suffer, learn and grow.

Some of my characters are happy, then sad, then happy again. Some were never really happy to begin with, although they've been successful in hiding their pain and loneliness, even from themselves. Those characters would recoil in fear if happiness were to present itself, preferring the security of their prison cell to the uncertainties of the wide, sunny world. The process of coaxing them into the light takes some time, and the telling of it takes space.

I guess what I'm trying to say is, just because I don't typically write mean, rotten, nasty stories doesn't mean I don't know how to.

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Sick

Been sick all week, so don't expect much.

My #FridayFlash for this week is "Death of the Horrible", written in response to a challenge by John Wiswell. It's not my usual type of story. In fact, it's rather... sick.

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Wednesday #Poetry: Evident, Illusion, Tragic

Welcome to my regular Wednesday poetry corner, brought to you by Three Word Wednesday and One Shot Wednesday.

Today's words are Evident, Illusion, Tragic.

An evident shine of the tragic
In blue waters, "hot" and pelagic,
The cesium glows
And iodine flows
No illusion, but simple black magic.

I'll feel better about eating Japanese seafood when the reactor gets cleaned up.

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Bruised, pierced, angry and smoking - the edgy me

Just for @nemone7, I herewith immortalize the bruised, cranky, smoking, "edgy" avatar I used today. I goes well with the story I posted yesterday in response to John Wiswell's prompt.

Booker Prize? Not likely, bub.

Note: since this was intended for a Twitter avatar, I didn't spend a lot of time on the detailing of the image manipulation. Also, it's apparent from the bruising pattern that my assailant was rather sinister, i.e. left-handed.

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Death of the Horrible

Quoth Wiswell: "Make me regret the death of a horrible person based on some relationship he/she had to a living character."

"No, Daddy. You won't touch my baby. I won't let you hurt her like you hurt me."

"Shut up, you stupid little bitch. You grew up skinny and mean, prob'ly all dried up, too, just like your momma."

"You can't scare me, Daddy. Not anymore."

"Put that gun away, Candy. You hear? Put it down, now!"

"No, Daddy. My little girl is pretty and she's perfect, and that's why you want her. Well I ain't never gonna let you set foot in this house again. You done bad, Daddy. You done evil bad to me, and I ain't gonna let you do it to Crystal."

"Why, you ungrateful, ugly cunt! I made a woman outta you when you was so pig-ugly, no boy would come near you. You ought to get down on your knees and pray God I don't slap you for disrespect! Get down on your knees, you bitch! Get down! Get -"

BLAM! BLAM! BLAM!

"AAHHH... Candy... baby..."

BLAM!

"..."

BLAM! BLAM! click. click. click.

"Daddy... oh, Daddy,... I don't care any more. I don't care 'bout myself any more. Why couldn't you see that? The doctors wanted me to come to you, said the genetics was all a hundred percent certain. You was the only one could donate them stem cells as could cure my cancer. I told them I didn't care, that if you was my salvation, I'd druther die. They didn't believe me, didn't think things could be so bad 'twixt a daughter and her Daddy."

click. click.

"I know I'm gonna die, Daddy, but you ain't never gonna touch my little girl like you touched me."

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Writing for love? What love?

I could write an angst-ridden blog post about feeling torn among various competing projects. This would focus on the difficulty in shunning bright, shiny new (or old) projects and committing to my primary WIP when I'm at the hard, sloggy part.

I could write an entirely different angst-ridden blog post about the frustration of trying to put together an anthology of flash fiction which consists of a mixture of science fiction, fantasy, horror, lit fic and magical realism. I'm a victim of my own flexibility. Fourth-fifths of the book will bore or tick off every possible purchaser. And what the hell would I title it without setting up 80% of the readers for disappointment?

I could write any number of complaints about not enough time or resources, lack of energy, inadequate focus, marginal equipment, the inadequacy of my skills as a graphic designer/editor/literary agent/promoter/social media expert/blacksmith or whatever else I need to be.

I could write about how, for some popular Twitterers, posting tweets "without filters" means being funny, sexy, provocative, outrageous, etc., while for me, "without filters" would mean being whiny and depressing on a regular basis. Do I filter myself too much? Not enough?

I could generally moan, bitch and complain about what I'm doing, not doing, experiencing, not experiencing, and so on and so forth.

Instead, I will post a funny video, about the process of creating a sequel to a popular piece of entertainment, specifically, the movie "When Harry Met Sally".


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Spock

Best straight man ever:



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#FridayFlash: Yellow and White

Yellow and White

by Tony Noland

From his vantage point on the peak of Mt. Fuji, Specialist 1-C Andrew "Banjo" Randall looked up the Big Valley to watch the first sunrise, a pinpoint explosion of white light between Kilimanjaro and Denali. Once RK-2034-B cleared the frozen haze of the rim, the glare was like looking into the navigation lights of a cargo hauler. He returned his gaze down to the valley floor, still dark with the shadows of the cliffside mountains. It had been a cold night up here, but as soon as RK-2034-A rose, the hoarfrost would sublime away and he'd be able to see well enough to detonate the charges.

Banjo checked his watch. Another half hour before true dawn. As was standard practice, days on this planet were counted according to the rise and set of the larger star. At this point in Bullseye's orbit, that meant about 11 hours of nighttime, 31 hours of daylight. Under a hotter star, such a slow rotation would have made this planet unusable, but RK-2034-A was only a yellow giant. There had been a push by some of the younger guys to name the two stars after characters in one of the historical melodramas: Romeo and Juliet, Antony and Cleopatra, Bill and Hillary. It was the usual crap born of youthful enthusiasm and off-watch boredom. In the end, almost everyone ended up using the path of least resistance that guys always ended up using around binary stars, and called them Yellow and White.

It didn't take many tours on terraforming jobs to lose the romantic idealism.

The only reason the mountain peaks had names is that some military geologist had gotten cute when drawing up the survey maps. It was just as well, though. To coordinate their assignments, the various work crews had to call the mountains something, after all. A clockwise "One", "Two", "Three", etc. would have worked just as well as Fuji, Everest, Olympus, Hood, Kilimanjaro, Denali and Vesuvius. It didn't matter, though, and it was easier for the guys to use the names already on the maps.

Living habs, workshops and loading depots had been set up on the little shoulder slabs around and between the main peaks. The crews ion-blasted the tops off several of them to get some flat ground. If these peaks had been formed by geologic activity, the foothills would have been rounded. As it was, all of it was jagged slag, a couple of billions of tons of deep-crust ejecta flash-melted by a massive asteroid strike, and then flash frozen into these leaning daggers. Twenty kilometers across, ninety kilometers long, and eleven kilometers deep at the far end of Big Valley, from orbit it looked like the kind of gouge a thrown rock makes in wet sand.

It wasn't just the most interesting feature on Bullseye's surface, it was the only feature. This was a lightweight world with a thick crust and a small, cool core. Aside from its strategic location near the Chiorrian Empire's northern frontier, the entire RK-2034 system was worthless. All it had was Bullseye, its four tiny moonlets and a few comets. No goldilocks planets to colonize or ice worlds to tunnel into, no gas giants to siphon for warp core fuel or asteroid fields to mine for minerals. The only reason mankind was developing this world at all was as a covert listening post, and, potentially, a forward launching platform for a NovaStrike salvo if the Chiorrians got ambitious again.

Yellow's dim edge peeked over the horizon, silhouetting the cliff edges. Banjo checked his watch again. The communications crews would be up on the mountains already, moving into the last phase of mounting the Planck-space sensor grids on the cliffsides. The main bulk of the personnel, the crew responsible for hiding the fusion reactor down on the valley floor wouldn't get going until Yellow fully cleared the mountaintops, at least another hour.

The Third Arm War had ended in victory for mankind forty-six years ago when Earth used the Nova bomb to drop artificial black holes into the suns of a few of the Chiorrian colony worlds. Just over two billion people died in that attack. Well, Banjo thought, not "people" exactly. In his mind, "people" still meant humans, so technically, Chiorrians weren't people.

People or not, though, they paid extremely well when they had to. He keyed in the command to set off the charges and felt the ground jolt under him in a staccato tremor. The mountains silently shivered and began to crumble down into the valley below.

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Definitions: self-pub, indie pub, traditional pub

In light of Nathan Bransford's question of the day (Who Should Have the 'Indie' Label: Self-Publishers or Small Presses?) I thought I'd add my two cents:

Self-pub: you publish the book yourself. Even if you contract someone else to do the editing, line editing, cover, layout, etc., those are one-time fees that you pay, not percentages. You design and execute your own promotional campaign. The majority of the money that comes in on every sale goes to you, with a percentage split going to the distributor such as Amazon, Smashwords, etc.

Independent pub: you publish the book through a small press (e.g. local/ regional distribution, narrow genre range). The publishing house works with you to do the editing, line editing, cover, layout, editing, etc. for a percentage of sales (small or large, depending on your contract). You may or may not get an advance, to be repaid out of sales. You do the promotion, working with the publisher's promotional efforts. The money that comes in on every sale goes to the publisher, with a percentage split going to the distributor (which might be the same as the publisher), your agent (if you used one for the deal) and ultimately to you.

Traditional pub: you publish the book through a big press (e.g. national/international distribution, wide range of authors). The publisher does the editing, line editing, cover, layout, editing, etc. for a large percentage of sales. You may or may not get an advance, to be repaid out of sales. The publisher arranges the promotion, which you carry out in addition to your own efforts. The money that comes in on every sale goes to the publisher, with a percentage split going to the distributor (which might be the same as the publisher), your agent (which you almost certainly used) and ultimately to you.

This is how I see it. I recognize that emotional, economic and/or philosophical positions on these three methods may vary.

I now open the floor for comments.

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Wednesday #Poetry: Adamant, Fabricate, Peculiar




Welcome to my regular Wednesday poetry corner, brought to you by Three Word Wednesday and One Shot Wednesday.

Today's words are adamant, fabricate, peculiar.

From a mutant about five-foot-eight
A psychopath we'll fabricate:
With adamant claws,
He'll heal without pause.
Peculiar, but he will be great!

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100 for Queensland - cover

Just got word that the anthology "100 Stories for Queensland" will be out for a worldwide release date of May 3. Here's some cover art to tide you over until then:


Click the image to enlarge. How many familiar names can you spot?

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To the son of a bitch who wronged me: thank you

Dear son of a bitch,

I realize this open letter may come as a surprise to you, not least because I open it by referring to you as a "son of a bitch". I'm sure that, in your own mind, you not only did nothing wrong, but were, in fact, a pretty good guy throughout. This is one of the reasons I hate you.

Please believe me, I could have used any one of a number of much, much stronger sobriquets, but "son of a bitch" will do. Anyway, my point in writing this is not to vilify you, but to thank you. That, I know, would come as no surprise to you, since you will gladly take credit for any good thing, whether you had any hand in it or not. The fact that you have no idea what I'm talking about wouldn't deter you in the least from patting me on the shoulder in that condescending way and telling me that you are happy to share your insights and wisdom.

You son of a bitch, I'm not going to get angry at you all over again, because I have (mostly) moved past that. No, I want to thank you for helping me to be a writer.

It was you, you rotten son of a bitch, that made me use my writing for more than the sloppy, emo private journal spew it had been up to that point. I'm not sure of the exact alchemy that caused my inchoate scribbling impulse to crystallize into a focus on plot and character, dialogue and scene-setting, but you were in the thick of it.

In the same way that a really ferocious intestinal parasite infection can be the goad to a lifetime of healthy eating, with all the golden benefits of health and happiness that arise therefrom, I have you to thank, you son of a bitch, for forcing me to think that I could express myself through my art.

"Express myself through my art"... such a phrase would have seemed ludicrous coming from my pen, utterly inapplicable to my life before you worked your hideous, poisonous magic. Seeking to destroy me, you inadvertently created in me more joy and beauty than you could possibly know.

Please don't misunderstand. I still hope you choke on a chicken bone, preferably right in front of me in a crowed restaurant, so I can pretend to everyone that I don't know the Heimlich maneuver. With luck, the jagged edge of the bone won't kill you, but it will rip apart your trachea and prevent you from speaking ever again. How drained of venom and strength your words will be if they must be written, instead of dripped in the ears of the unsuspecting!

But still, such things are too much to hope for. You will go on doing what you do, and I? I will now go forward to do what I do, with a heart light and happy.

So thank you, you damned son of a bitch. You tried to derail me, and instead put me on a different track, the line that leads through Wonderland.

Sincerely,

Tony Noland

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Eleven things I learned from organizing GAFDFFBS

Ah, a quiet Saturday morning. The Great April Fool's Day FridayFlash Blog Swap is now a happy memory, although as of this writing I still have a number of stories to read and comment on. It was fun, it was interesting, and people had a good time.

But, of course, that's not enough. That's never enough. Every experience, the great ones the banal ones and the sucky ones, every experience is an opportunity to learn and grow, if you're willing to invest a little time and thought in an after action report. So what did I learn from organizing the GAFDFFBS?

1. It's easy to get Friday Flash authors to volunteer for fun writing things.

2. It's hard to get some Friday Flash authors to even remember having volunteered for fun writing things, let alone read the FAQ on how to carry it off, or meet their deadlines.

3. The logistics of setting something like this up aren't really all that hard. The tricky bit is communication with the participants.

4. No matter how much promotion you do, no matter how much of a pest you make of yourself in the initial call for authors, no matter how open and encouraging you are, no matter how repeatedly you remind people of the deadlines to sign up, you will still get people who want to sign up late AND you will get other people who, on the day of the event, will say, "Wow, this sounds really cool. I wish someone had said something about it in time for me to participate."

5. Whatever happens, don't take it personally. It's not about you. Probably.

6. As projects go, this was pretty straightforward. I linked people up and let them do their thing, providing instruction, encouragement and enthusiasm as necessary.

7. Where problems can be solved simply, simple solutions are the best.

8. Where problems CAN'T be solved simply, there is no substitute for hard work and creativity.

9. Empathy, proactive kindness and understanding are essential human qualities. Don't ever let someone tell you that the work is more important than the people. Projects come and go... people live on.

10. Color-coding of cells in Excel is a good way to reassure yourself of a project's status. As blank white shifts gradually to yellow, then green, it will seem that no problem is insurmountable.

11. Some problems are insurmountable. For those, you work hard, do your best, run it flat out right up to press time, then freeze the project and go to press. If it's still broken when it all goes live, paper over it with a smile and do better next time.

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