A strongly worded letter

Happy 31st of November! I gave the month an extra day to give me better winter weather.

2011-12-01T20:57:00.000Z

It failed. Roll on the 32nd.

Okay, November has been and gone, many moustaches have been brought to life and then mercilessly cut down in their prime (Cruel bastards. A moustache is for life, not just for Movember!), NaNoWriMo has finished, won by many inspired people. As of 23:59, 30th November, I had-

Seven thousand, five hundred and seventy eight words.

It goes by the alias of forty thousand four hundred and twenty two words short.

Yeah, this is going to become a regular thing for me. I've got the start, I can start like a champ (most of those words were over the first two days)... but I get distracted early on and forget which race I've entered. Marathon or hurdles? Won't know untisthatasandwich?

Anyway, I got distracted doing my best to be a buttock-clenching curmudgeon for the benefit of my employers, and in practise for old age. Any elaboration would be thoroughly unprofessional. So, to cut a long story short- .

So, since I'm the master of unfinished business, I've decided to declare this day, the 31st November, formerly 1st December, Monthmas. And my Monthmas resolutions include

updating my blog at least once a month (next Monthmas, formerly known as New Year's Day)
continuing with my current NaNoWriMo projects (that's three now)
Continuing with my other projects (eight others), which may be merged together as they grow
Increasing my vocabulary so I can insult people like my comprehensive English teacher, Mr Walker (glorious man)
Reading more (bring on the Kindle. I've decided I want one. Simply for the portability.)
Making more lists
Enjoying a final, content free, bullet point.
???
Profit!

On another note, where the actual balls has winter gone? In blighty, the weather is unseasonably warm (this time last year, inch-thick ice, this year, warm and damp. Moist, even.)

Well, I've discovered the shocking truth. Due to the recession, Old Man Winter has been victim to cutbacks, and laid off. Mother Autumn will be taking on his responsibilities. It's sad, but Old Man Winter has taken to unemployment hard, and has hit the bottle. After apologising to the bottle for his violent outburst, he drank its contents, and defrosted.

I will post more chapters later, but for now I need to wind down from work.

Mike
AKA Master of Loose Ends
AKA Crotchety Bastard
AKA Just rediscovered the 'Tags' section on blogger.

Et voilà! Je reviens! No I don't speak French.

2011-11-02T21:57:00.000Z

I only speak English, double Dutch, gobbledygook and pretentious twat.

It's been more than a year since my last post. Apologies for that. Explanations will arrive shortly. To give you a clue to the outcome, I'm sat on a very uncomfortable chair at a train station in Devon, typing on a netbook, wearing one full length stocking (as hilarious as it sounds), and a sleeveless vest. Fortunately I'm wearing clothes over them otherwise I'd look a tit. And be arrested for indecent exposure (I always said I was terrible at photography... *cricket*).

I just realised what year it is. I was about to start my story much further back than my last post. Much, much further back (Zounds! When a man doth love a woman verily...).

Shortly after my last post, I grazed my leg whilst carrying out a formerly wheeled bin from work to the skip (I say formerly, it was supposed to be a wheely-bin, but the wheels disintegrated), when a gust of wind blew said bin into said leg. Specifically my varicose vein-riddled leg. At first, this graze amounted to nothing. Then myself and my housemates looked after a dog whilst her owner went travelling. This dog suffered terrible separation anxiety. Over the period of two months, while we were at work, she damaged half our doors, ate 1 extension lead, 6 pairs of shoes (I'm UK14/US15... I can't just pop into a shop to get more), 1 umbrella, 1 stressball (the housemate whose brother owns the dog suddenly needed it), the rear droplinks of a Mk2 Ford Mondeo, 1 bicycle helmet and 1 pair of bicycle gloves.

When I sit down on a sofa, my long legs often means, in the presence of a coffee table, I have to slightly cross them to best utilise the space available. Dog with separation anxiety proceeded to repeatedly stand on the graze in an ill-conceived attempt to jump onto my lap-but-not jump on (she was a bit pillar-to-post). The next day the healing graze broke down, bled out (ruined a pair of trousers), and formed an ulcer the size of a two-pound coin.

In a typical manly/pseudo-northerner fashion, I looked at it, washed it, found the biggest plaster I could, and pretended to the nagging voice in my head that would heal over again. It still hasn't. The next month, in increasing pain, I went to see a doctor (the way her eyes suddenly widened suggested I should have made an appointment sooner), who looked at it, swabbed it, checked I wasn't diabetic, put a temporary dressing over it, and sent me to see the nurse for a proper dressing. The nurse recommended compression, so I was prescribed a class II compression stocking (below knee), and told to wear it pretty much all the time.

The pain certainly prevented me from feeling creative and my mind became a little addled. By February, it had still not healed, so I was signed off work for a month to keep it rested and elevated. By now I was mixing my painkillers for best results.

A few months back I was eventually seen by a specialist who recommended a different dressing (a 'short-stretch' compression bandage), and surgery to remove the varicose vein feeding the ulcer (stagnant blood. Delicious). I had an ultrasound scan which revealed a varicose vein the entire length of my leg. The vein is so big that my operation last month only closed off half of it. I have to go back for the rest in a few weeks (when they get round to giving me an appointment). As a result of the operation, however, I now wear a full-length compression stocking (colour- nude. The black one is on order. I declined the lacy band around the top), which is strapped around my belly by the wonder product that is velcro. The most uncomfortable thing I have ever worn. I've started wearing vests so that the strap doesn't scrape my skin off my belly.

Anyway, the long and short of it is, after a year of having a crater in my leg big enough to sit the largest coin England's currency has in it, I haven't been in the mood for communicating in general. Apologies for that. I have barely been writing, which is the main reason I bought a netbook.

Also, my shift pattern has changed at work. I now work such an awkward shift I leave at 18:30 and get home (20 miles away) at 23:30. I can no longer hop on the last bus direct to my home town, I now have to travel to the nearest town to work, and wait a few hours for the next train home. Winning.

So here I sit. On a metal bench at an empty station, wearing a single 'nude' coloured full-length stocking under my clothes, listening to the rain patter on the corrugated steel roof above my head. Actually that's a lie. I have a second, knee-length stocking beneath the full-length stocking.

Who decided 'nude' would be a colour people wanted to buy? It's worse than beige. At least beige suits certain things... like old chevy pickups... If I were to paint a car 'nude', it would be vandalised within the week. On my leg it looks like someone has thrown it up prior to me wearing it. Actually, 'vomit' is probably a more apt description. If I wanted to wear shorts, what the actual balls would go with it? I have black shoes and boots, and brown trainers and boots. 'Vomit' does not go with black. Black. The saviour of many a fashion disaster. Black, which goes with everything. Except 'vomit'. Brown? Vom 'n' brown. Opening the sluices at both ends. Just what I wanted to step out in on a hot Indian Summer's day.

While I'm ranting, the weather in Devon is currently- 'Perpetual Precipitation Preoccupying People Permanently. Parkas Persistently Percolating'. It rains so much here it required an alliteration (I managed to use 'percolating' without referring to coffee. As pleased as I am with myself, I suddenly want a stove-top percolator). Last year, a gigantohunormous freeze after such downpours left ice an inch thick across the pavement.

As a pseudo-northerner (North Lincolnshire), I've seen such ice before, can deal with it, and found it very amusing the reaction in the south of "What in sod is this?". Some people I work with had never seen such a harsh winter. They were skidding along, falling on their arses, and sometimes walking in the middle of the road to avoid the ice. As the self-proclaimed 'Polar Bear of the South', I shall hereby reveal my secret.

Stamp. If you use your entire foot to propel you instead of just your heel or ball, you get much more traction. If you suck at this, YakTrax. I do have a pair, but the ice turned to slush for the remainder of a very disappointing winter before I could use them.

The other option is develop a skill in delegation. Send others into peril and remain toasty warm at home.

Anyway. I'm going to try to engage myself in NaNoWriMo this year... I have already started, and I intend to utilise the time waiting for my train. It's going to a be a struggle, and I may find myself with yet another unfinished project, but not trying is the first step toward failure. Admittedly, I've found many, many other varied and lengthy paths toward the same destination, sometimes hitting concrete with a thud (as with my recent attempt to get back on a bicycle after 15 years. Rib spasms are not fun), but at least I get to take a glimpse at the success of others. And sometimes pass a bakery. I'm very easy to please ("IS THAT A SANDWICH?!" I don't watch much Friends, but that line stuck in my head).

Anywho, without further ado, or maybe a little more ado as is my wont to waffle. At least part of chapter one of The Tower. It's fantasy, yes, because real life baffles me so. "No I have no idea what it is that I'm doing that is illegal officer, but I'm sure you're about to tell me" (NEVER say that if you're ever in a similar situation, and we shall never speak of this again). "If you wanted me to do it, why didn't you say? I don't speak fluent sarcasm, I have to use a phrasebook" (not true). "Calling me up every hour for results isn't going to make the bacteria grow any quicker."

I'm no good with people. Can't understand them. I want a dog.===============================

It was called 'The Tower', although it was not a tower according to popular preconceptions. There were no windows to shed light on the long, damp corridors, no spectacular views over all of Creation. There were no balconies, no guttering, no rooftops, slated, tarmacked or otherwise present to direct the rain elsewhere. In fact the only thing a passer-by could see was a steel hatchway, just big enough for a small lorry to sink into, in a sea of concrete. The remaining sixteen stories were below ground. The students who dwelt within referred to the Tower instead as the Pit.

Those who dwelt within where referred to as 'Tower Magi', though they were not the Magi of popular preconception. They did not, usually, conjure balls of flame, or, usually, speak with gods. They did not wear extravagant clothing or predict the birth of royalty, or wander around healing the unfortunate. They were called 'Tower Magi', because many people, even those who had met one, still felt shivers at the term 'Necromancer'. The name suited the masters perfectly. There were only ever thirteen necromancers, the students did not hold the title, and many never would. Every necromancer in the Tower had a student they would teach in preparation to replace them when the time came. Nobody knew what would happen if the number of necromancers fell too few, or grew too large. The older masters had no intention of finding out. The other magi were students of simple magic, usually other diving arts such as bibliomancy, many did not learn magic at all and were in fact privileged history students.

Of course the Tower didn't stop at its base. Beneath the Tower lay the sprawling maze of decrepit tunnels and tombs of the Catacombs, where hundreds of people, students, mentors and archaeologists alike have walked in and failed to return. The slowly rotting oak and iron doors at the entrance had since been shut and chained as a result of these disappearances. Aluna La Croix was not concerned with the lost, as she delved through the archives held with the catacombs. In her hand, as she searched, was another hand, severed at the wrist, yet still determined to shuffle the papers she was reading. The hand was found amongst the remains of the hallucinating young gentleman who had fought the last revenant plague, and had died a pitiful and horrifying death. The hand was not his own, and records suggested he had in fact won it in a game of poker, why it was bothering her now was beyond her comprehension.

Rolling up the scrolls, she put them, with a little resistance from the severed hand, into a map case and pushed it through the small hole in the wall leading to the next room. Behind her were two badly damaged skeletons. They had been sealed in this room many centuries, for reasons long forgotten. Now the only way in or out was a gap in the ancient wall which had been opened up, perhaps by time, and was barely large enough to squeeze even her own diminutive frame through. Exhaling as much as she could, Aluna pushed herself through, wriggling when she became stuck, and breathing only when she had reached the other side.

The hand had followed her since she stumbled across the Delusional One's sarcophagus, where it had remained motionless until she was close enough to leap onto. Aluna was spared embarrassment thanks to her being alone in the catacombs, though she had no idea how far her rather panicked scream had travelled. She was solving that problem by wandering for a few more hours until anybody who could have heard had forgotten. It appeared not to be malicious, just mischievous, with a sense of humour as warped as one would expect from a severed hand.

Aluna was short, barely three inches over five feet in height, and slender. She was underweight to the point of being flat-chested and gaunt in the face. Add to this her clean shaven head and the burn scarring up the left side of her face disguising her facial structure somewhat, she was often mistaken for a boy in his early teens. She didn't care. Her weight kept the Baron out of her head. Baron Samedi preferred more buxom women, though for some reason he still frequented Aluna's mind despite her shortcomings.

She struck a match against the craggy wall and lit a cigar while she pondered the nature of the hole in the wall. The wall itself was limestone, like much of the catacombs, but was considerably newer. It was obviously intended to keep the unfortunates in the room. At the other side of the sealed room had been a solid ebony door, which appeared to lead down to a lower, unexplored level of the catacombs. The door itself was hanging off its hinges, whatever it was hiding had broken through long ago. Whatever had broken the door was probably the cause of the damage to the wall also.

Aluna sighed. Her master would probably want to hear about this.

“Hear about what?” A well spoken voice pounced on her from the darkness, followed by a gloved hand wafting the smoke away from the immediate breathing space. George Sampson, former GP and Number 2 of the thirteen stepped out into the light of the torches.

“Do you really want me to say, or do you already know? Seeing as you're reading my thoughts.” Aluna took a long drag of her cigar.

“Surface thoughts only. I was rather hoping for an explanation as to why you are crawling around in an area which students are prohibited from entering. As well as how you entered without removing the chains from the door.”

“A girl's got to have some mystique, doc.”

“Then the first explanation will do.”

“Tr- sorry, Master Rowles asked me to find some manuscripts. He said they'd be in the archives.”

“Mr Rowles is aware of the restrictions. The Catacombs are off-limits to students. Have you found what you were looking for?”

She held up the scroll case as a response.

“Then kindly make your way back to your master.”

As she moved past the doctor to leave, he put his hand on her shoulder.

“One more thing. You have a bad habit there,” he pointed to her cigar, “the smoke contains hydrogen cyanide, amongst other components.”

“The Baron likes them. Either I smoke them or he smokes them for me. Not big on his manners or free will, the Baron.” She stepped past him and walked as calmly as she could until she had reached her third corner.

Checking to make sure the doctor was no longer watching, she thrust the scroll case toward the ceiling, tapping a stone, then another. With a soft rumble to confirm she had touched the correct stones, a rush of fresh air entered the room. Walking forward revealed a door had unveiled itself in a previously unbroken wall. It stuck out like a vagrant at a formal party, a modern pine folding door with chromed sliders and handle. She pulled it open and stepped into a meadow.

The meadow itself was an idealised version, perfect tall grass, with perfect red poppies and wild flowers dancing to a perfect breeze of perfect temperature. The sun was neither too dull nor too bright, and the sky was an impeccable azure with nothing but wispy cirrus clouds to break the blue. The meadow was surrounded by craggy old English oak trees which had a mossy patina and occasionally ivy growing up the trunk, without strangling the tree. In the centre lay her master staring up at the sky, smiling.

“Trevor?” She slowed her pace as she neared him.

“Mmmf?”

“Trevor?”

He giggled and rolled over to face her. “Mmmyes?”

“Are you high?”

“Definitely. Scrolls?”

“Right here.” She tossed to case over to him.===========================

The Tower by Michael Barlow is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.
Based on a work at fpduck.blogspot.com.
Permissions beyond the scope of this license may be available at http://fpduck.blogspot.com/.

Mad Cows and the Summer of Glove

2010-08-01T21:02:00.004+01:00

It's been a miserable summer so far, hasn't it? (For those experiencing coiderably better weather than me, the answer I'm looking for is yes). I went to Brighton for a couple of days with a friend, and it nothing except rain and blow a gale during the day, and bake during the night. Of course, this meant we had to keep the windows open to stay cool, and in Brighton, the gulls are at their most active at night. One actually landed on the sill and screamed into our room.

I'm amazed at the inanity of the news about our new prime minister and his (mixed result) foreign diplomacy. A few days ago I heard a wonderful news report on the radio- Our Prime Minister enjoyed a hot dog with the Mayor of New York City. The Mayor had mustard on his, whilst Cameron had his plain.

My first thought was "Great, they're human. When they start eating human hearts and devouring placentas, then give me a call. Until then, FIND SOME NEWS!"

My second thought was "Only mustard? No onions? No other embellishments? What kind of American is he?"

I could picture the follow up to that award-winning story- "We discovered a Cabinet Minister enjoying a full English breakfast at his local cafe. He enjoyed his eggs over-east, and sprinkled black pepper on his grilled tomatoes."

Before I present chapter 5 (which has actually been ready for some time, I just haven't been bothering to post. Don't worry, I've already slapped my wrist), I will furnish you with yet more information about myself. That way, when I'm famous, I can hold a jousting tournament to see who wants to write my biography badly enough.

I have a tea cupboard. No matter if I'm running out of food, this cupboard is always well stocked with nearly ten varieties of tea, both leaf and bag. Lots of Twinings, and lots of Whittards of Chelsea (that store will be the death of me). I've just furnished the cupboard with three tubs of their instant teas so I can make ice tea without the fuss of steeping leaves in cold water overnight.
I heard once someone say that sarcasm was the first line of defence for the insecure. Not so with myself. It's about the third line. My first line is the moat I dug around my house on money pilfered from my neighbours. I'm so close to being elected MP.
Yesterday someone said "If Mike doesn't know the answer, then there probably isn't one." It's amazing how much bullshit people will accept as truth.
On a related note, I study Kung Fu. Specifically the Path of the Bull. It's a rather verbal style that leaves a nasty smell.
My housemates and I had a lodger who left for the Middle East recently. When I told him I was going back up to t'North, he said "say hi to Meadowhall for me." Taking his word probably more literally than I ought to have, I did. 27 of the 30 shopkeepers I bothered talking to didn't know who he was, or why he wanted to say hi. The other three smiled, nodded and said "bye now" in a rather condescending tone.
We have a cow a few hundred metres behind the house who won't shut up. I'm not bothered by it, but she wakes up my housemates at 4am. Lovely.
The reason I'm not bothered by it, is because I can sleep through anything. I slept through the largest earthquake Lincolnshire had suffered in living memory, my housemates having a party, and my own alarms, including my housemates shaking me to tell me to turn my bloody alarms off. My parents tell me that when I was very young, I slept through fireworks displays, and feeding time at the Howler Monkey enclosure at Twycross Zoo.
This week I've been asked strange questions, most notably- "Are you German? Because you look German." (by a Spanish girl I had been speaking English to).
I've also learned something- the separation bags we were forced to use at work because we ran out of regular bags for the samples, burn very quickly. We discovered this when a new girl set fire to an alcohol wipe and dropped it in a tub full of said bags (accidentally, of course. At least, I didn't hear her manical laughter). The flames were three feet high in 12 seconds.
My work place is going to force me to wear a beard net. Beats shaving, I suppose.
I comb my beard. Everytime I have to check to make sure I'm not about to erradicate a new species of tiny monkey that may have spontaneously popped into existence while I wasn't looking.
In front of me now, is my computer. Oh, and a jug of iced tea, my phone several letters, bus and train tickets that really need throwing away, scraps of paper, a plier-mulitool, a can of second skin, and for some reason yet to be discovered, a can opener.
Everyone has an OCD. Mine is picking up slips of useless bit of paper, and tearing them into perfectly straight, ever shrinking strips of paper. Then, I stack the strips to make sure they are as straight as they could possibly be. Then, after all that effort, I tear them into confetti. The neatest damned confetti you'll ever see.
My feet are UK size 14, US 15 and EU 49. I have to go downstairs sideways, otherwise my gargantuan feet don't fit on the stair properly, and at speed I slip.
I own 5 stainless steel mugs for the sole purpose that no-one can break them unless they really want to.
I suffer what The Times called 'Bibliomania' (when they were pointing how easy it was to make up a random mental illness based on the newest version of the DSM). A few days ago, I walked past a bookshop, thinking- "You've got plenty of books, you don't need any more. Just keep walking." And I did, I sailed past the bookstore. I was really proud of myself, until I stopped for a coffee and realised I had in my hands a bag with the bookshop's logo, and three books inside. I didn't even realise I'd been in. Oops.

Any way, onto Chapter 5-

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This document is licensed under the Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 2.0 UK: England & Wales license, available at http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-nd/2.0/uk/.

Chapter 5

“Where is that Bender?” The thickset, sinewy woman known as Trisara snapped at Scrape as he stepped out of the airlock into the station.

“Derrick Bender is no longer employed by myself,” Scrape responded with a reply he had rehearsed as the Rising Phoenixwas docking, “and is no longer on the vessel.”

“Now how is it that I don't believe you?” Trisara folded her arms, her biceps bulging over her hands. She shook away a lock of greasy auburn hair as she stared down the captain.

“Excuse me,” the ambassador glided past the captain before he could answer and walked toward the merchant Trisara, “I am Tolta, ambassador to the Kanjavar. I am in need of a few items and I hear you would be most able to aid me?”

Her expression changed to that of surprise as he spoke, and she hesitated before responding. “An ambassador? Well, theDordan is a big ship, with plenty in it. I'm sure we'll be able to find what you need.”

“I have a list, I first need a central phase sequencer, and if you have a cyclic wrench, I would be most grateful. My arms are in dire need of maintenance with the proper equipment.” He looked at the merchant with dead eyes, “it seems dreadfully quiet, are you the only one on this vessel?”

“Not the only one, no,” she responded as she led him further inside the station, leaving Scrape and the crew to their own devices, “My husband is outside, repairing the hull. We had a hell of a meteor storm last week. Only just got safe enough to go walking yesterday.”

“It is just the two of you?”

“Most of the time, we get the occasional drop-off, and then we act as a sort of pseudo-halfway house,” Trisara paused to open an elevator, “mind your step. This week we've got a young lady from New France, looking to travel a little. I'm sure Mr Cheapskate and his crew will be delighted to take on another paying passenger.”

“You are not keen on the captain?” He asked.

“Haven't talked to the crew much, have you?” She paused to take out a map of the station, “he only ever buys second-hand equipment. That poor Phyllis is being run ragged because the vital life-support systems keep failing.”

“That's also on my list. An air purifier and three plasma pumps.”

“You want to pay to repair the ship? Fair enough, since you are travelling on it, but personally I'd insist Scrape uses your pay more wisely....” She prodded at the map, “most of it will be on deck seven. New or second hand?”

“New, if possible. Although I hear most of your supplies are brought in from scavenger vessels,” he paused to scratch his left arm, “how much of your stock is new?”

“'Bout thirty five percent. A decent chunk. Y'see we get plenty of ships who want real spares, not spare spares that used to be secondary primaries.” Clearing her throat, she continued, “I never recommend using the second-hand equipment to repair space-faring vessels. Ground level, they may work fine, but interstellar travel increases the magnitude of the stress, see?”

“So I understand,” they continued in silence for a while before Tolta spoke again, “may I inquire as to what you have against this 'Bender' fellow?”

“He stole some conductive miasma last year,” Trisara grumbled, “it's a gaseous plasma used in ionic reactor drives, which the Phoenix doesn't have.”

“So why would he steal it?”

“Can't do anything but speculate. He could've wanted to sell it, or inhale it.”

“Inhale it?” Tolta expressed mild surprise at the last remark.

“It's possible, for a human anyway, to get high from the fumes. Like sniffing glue.”

“You're suggesting he may have stolen this conductive miasma for use as a drug?”

“Wouldn't put it past the thieving wretch,” she opened a sealed door, releasing a rush of stale air, “here we are. I'll get that air purifier for you. New one's cost eighty thousand dollars.”

“Do you accept credit transfer?”

“Only way to do business these days, too many different currencies. Doubt we'll see a unified currency in our lifetime, though.”

“Quite so. May I ask, if you think so poorly of the crew, are you afraid of leaving them alone?”

“Not this time,” she chuckle as she controlled a robotic arm, pulling a large piece of machinery onto a floating pallet, “they'll be in for a shock if they try anything. Got some new security installed.”

******************

“And where do you want transport to, miss...?” Harry Lime had been pulled to one side by a lithe young human female, possibly in her mid twenties, and interrogated about the ship. He wasn't particularly impressed with her enthusiasm, nor her questions. He was however very good at feigning interest, a skill which he considered a curse, but the captain encouraged him to use around potential clients.

“Actually, I have no specific destination, I just want to travel,” she played with the sleeves of her woollen turtle-neck sweater as she spoke, “is your ship available for general charter? I can pay. If not I'll get off at the nearest port.”

Lime smiled, somewhat falsely, as she did not exude the impression of wealth, but he had been wrong before. “I'm sure it'll be fine. Let me just go check it over with the captain. We are taking another passenger to Earth first, if you're okay with that?”

“That'll be fine. I haven't seen Earth for years. It would be nice to see how they've progressed.”

“I'll be back shortly.” He walked off to find the captain, leaving her to her own devices.

She sighed and rolled her eyes as he walked away, seeing through his façade. As her eyes came to a rest, some movement caught her eye, and turned to see Trisara and a dark-skinned male walk towards the airlock with a stacked floating pallet in tow. It appeared quite the shopping trip for a passenger, the pallet being loaded with an array of machinery. Looking behind her, she saw an antique air compressor, rusting and virtually useless for its original purpose. However, it provided a perch, and so she sat and waited for a response to her enquiry.

******************

Phyllis watched the pair load the machinery onto the ship. Without so much as a grunt the ambassador offloaded the purifier and placed the device on the floor, shuffling it into a neater position, surprising both her and Trisara. He didn't look weak, his enormous jaw muscles made sure of that, but he most certainly did not look superhuman.

“Is that what I think it is?” Phyllis shook off the awe and wandered up to the purifier and inspected its exterior.

“An air purifier. Brand new,” Trisara smiled at the engineer and fiddled with the pallet's controls, “now perhaps you can sleep without fear of suffocation.”

“Huh,” Phyllis frowned at the device, “Scrape said we couldn't afford a new one.”

“Actually I paid for it,” the ambassador looked blankly in the engineer's direction, “I was informed the captain had not been using my payments to repair his ship. And considering the amount of these payments, he has plenty for new components.”

Phyllis stared at the ambassador, hesitating to respond. Eventually she managed to maunder, “thank you.” She was not used to such generosity, or any generosity for that matter. She often felt as though she had to work simply to justify her very existence, never expecting or receiving a helping hand. Only Sage and Mork ever provided her with aid, and Mork was the only one she would consider a friend.

Trisara chuckled and handed her a plastic box, “three new plasma pumps as well, love.”

“Who told you?” Phyllis span around to face the ambassador, enraged and struggling to hide it, “Mork?” She had been brought up to believe that asking for any significant help was a sign of weakness, and on this ship she could not appear weak. On the Phoenix the weak were first to die, driven mad or mauled. Her predecessor had deliberately lodged himself in the plasma vents, and boiled himself alive. Her first job upon gaining employment on the vessel was scraping away the remainder of his flesh that clogged the pipes.

“Mork?” The ambassador frowned, “I'm afraid I haven't been introduced. It was Madam Rose, the Eridu priestess.”

“Rhiarla?” Her expression dropped to a sheepish gaze, “I'm sorry, ambassador. I didn't mean to sound ungrateful. But it should be the captain paying for these.”

“Please, call me Tolta,” the ambassador said, “and they're not entirely free. I would appreciate a favour in return.”

“I think I can stretch to that, what do you have in mind?”

“I would be most appreciative of a little extra humidity in my quarters, if possible. My home planet is ninety five percent water, so I am not accustomed to such a dry atmosphere.”

“Done,” Phyllis smiled, “I'll fit these immediately and see about your quarters. Thank you, ambas-” she paused to correct herself, “Tolta, sorry.”

“Not to worry. I also have a central phase sequencer for the far aft stabiliser. Could you please pass it to whomever is in charge of propulsion maintenance?” He pointed to a small crate on the floor.

“That would be Amorka Pabhan, or 'Mork' as I rather rudely mentioned previously. I'm sure he will be very grateful, as will our pilot. Does the captain know about this?”

“Ah, let him spend his money for nothing,” Trisara rolled her eyes, “he deserves it the miserly git.”

“Thanks, Trisara,” Phyllis said, and before she could stop herself the words- “Derrick's hiding in the stasis chamber,” escaped her lips.

“I knew it! That thieving bastard,” she clenched her fists, “he's gonna get what's coming to him.”

Trisara shifted her bulk astonishingly quickly out of the cargo bay and down the corridor. Phyllis grimaced at the ambassador before chasing after her.

“Trisara!” She shouted after the merchant, “stop!”

******************

“So where were you wanting to go, miss-” Scrape asked the girl, pausing to allow her to fill in the blank.

“Eva, just Eva, thank you. I just wish to travel, anywhere you can take me.” She looked around the docking bay, her eyes half-closed, “I hear you're going to Earth, and I will be happy to start there!” With a smile she adjusted the neck of her sweater, looking to the floor, “I am more than able to pay, by direct credit transfer if required.”

“Unfortunately in this day and age, it is required,” Scrape smiled, thinking of the extra income, “too many currencies to deal with.”

“I deal in dollars, euros, and British pound sterling. If you would prefer cash of a specific denomination, I will happily oblige.”

“Sterling?” Lime frowned at Eva, “I didn't think that was used any more.”

“Quite heavily in the European colonies. New France is no exception.” Eva said, raising her eyebrows at the pilot, but still not looking him in the eye.

“Credit transfer will be fine, thank you.” Scrape scratched his chin, “I haven't taken a general charter in many years, so the prices may change, but I believe I used to charge one thousand dollars per week base rate, varying with distance travelled and number of stops. Of course the ship has seen better days, so some repair charges may enter into-”

“That's fine captain,” Eva interrupted with a polite smile and a wave of her hand, “I assume an up-front fee is necessary?”

“First payment, if you don't mind.”

“Let's say two thousand,” Eva handed him a card, “that should cover any excess charges and inflation, no?”

“Right, I'll get this to our accountant and I'll come back to you with an exact charge.” Scrape walked off and boarded the ship, almost dancing as he did.

“Will you be needing any help with your bags?” Lime looked around her general vicinity for luggage.

“Oh I only have the one, and it's quite light, thank you.”

“Just one light bag? I've heard of travelling light, but we're talking interstellar travel. A journey can take months, even years. You'll be needing more than one bag.”

“Oh, I know. This won't be the last trading post we pass on the route to Earth, I'll purchase more items along the way.” She swaggered over to the airlock to which the Rising Phoenix was attached, a backpack slung over her shoulder.

Chapter 6

Through sulphurous clouds of debris a shadow lurked, illuminating the ground below. The unregistered interstellar vessel known as 'The Valkyrie' searched the craters which peppered the surface of Apep Prime. It hovered over each, cleared the dust and paused, before stalking to the next. It finally came to the largest of craters just within the boundaries of what was formerly the main colony. A quick blast from its secondary atmospheric drives cleared the miasma and cooled the magma which seeped up into the chasm.

"No doubt, captain. Spectrometers shown trace amounts of heltant steel and we're picking up excess chronons." The Valkyrie's science officer turned to face his superior, "he was here."

"Where he was is useless." The captain replied with a coarse voice which sounded about as viscous as treacle, "I need to know where he is now. Send out the tracker."

The captain was an imposing figure, standing a full head height above most of his crew, with the exception of the tracker. Most people did not look him in the eye, instead choosing to watch his hands closely, or rather, his fingernails which were thick and filed to a point to resemble claws. These claws were not purely an intimidating fashion accessory, but had a practical use. In combat these claws could tear through plastic and steel, and saw no obstacle in flesh and bone.

The contours of his face were, for the most part, hidden by a thick mouse-brown beard and full head of unkempt hair. His eyes were narrow, often half-closed, and his brow, when it could be seen, was harrowed. A deep hairless scar ran through his right eye from his brow to his chin, leaving the eye opaque and dead. His nose was large with flared nostrils, and was quite capable of separating smells, much like a dog. This was one of the reasons he was known as The Wolf.

His tracker was a neurotic human drifter who only ever referred to himself as Ersatz, and had frequently claimed to be older than The Wolf himself, who was nearing his first millennium. Ersatz, who most of the crew had taken to calling Mr Fake after they looked up his name, stood over the captain by a brow, and was essentially a wall of muscle. He carried a rusting gladius and wore tatty clothes from multiple eras, some of which only the captain was aware of. The details of his appearance were moot, as few saw past his stare. Ersatz never really 'looked' at anything. He glowered permanently. One eye suffered a cataract, whilst the blood vessels in the other had burst, colouring it an inflamed red. Whilst his appearance alone was enough for the crew to humour his rants, those who doubted his age were often taken aback by his memories of Earth, which had not been habitable outside of terraforming units for nearly five hundred years.

A hatch opened in the side of the Valkyrie which allowed Ersatz to leap down to the surface. He rolled as he landed, narrowly avoiding a pool of molten rock which spewed sulphur, making the air dense and uncomfortable. He crouched by some marks in the ground.

"He landed here," he brushed his hands across scores in the rock, "but did not remain. He seems to have been dragged."

As he climbed out of the crater, the ground shook, forcing him to take any foot and hand hold he could reach to prevent himself from falling in. With a grunt he unsheathed his blade and stabbed into the ground, using it to pull himself up, away from the lava beneath him. He stood unsteadily as the tremors stopped, and began to follow the trail once more. He came to the end, just two hundred metres from the crater.

“Looks like a scavenger craft, small, just forty metres. Judging by the lack of scorch marks it used a tachyon launch drive.”

“That's a bit expensive for a scavenger,” the captains voice crackled over the radio, “are you certain?”

“Without a doubt,” Ersatz looked at the marking closer, almost pressing his nose against the ground, “forty by fifteen, tapering to a cockpit just seven wide. Retractable stabilisers for landing away from port, and made from heavy materials. Classic scavenger profile.”

“And the engine?”

“No scorch marks, vertical take off, and the dust is finer here. No large debris. No other engine would do that.” Ersatz had to restrain a growl as he spoke. He hated his skills being questioned, although even he was not one to aggravate The Wolf. He had seen the captain do - unpleasant things to certain former members of the crew. Ersatz had seen many horrible things in his incomprehensibly long lifetime, but the actions of his current employer shook his constitution. The Wolf, the antediluvian tracker believed, was a creature bred of pure hatred.

The Wolf sighed, and turned to his science officer. “Can we trace it?”

“We'll need to recalibrate the sensors. I'll get on it before the trail goes cold.”

“Fine. Ersatz, return to ship.”

**********************************************************
And so- there it is. Chapter 7 is still half way done, because it is being written from scratch rather than being mostly amalgamated from paragraphs written during my 'write whatever pops into your head' phase. It also introduces The General, mentioned in chapter 3. Although he's an old character to me, I'm having trouble fitting his personality into the setting, in the way many people complain about having nothing to do when they retire.

Ah well, until next time,
Mike 'pleasegoddontlettherebeanotherfireohchristIshouldnthavesaidthatcanIsmellburning' Barlow

Half a year later...

2010-06-01T22:15:00.006+01:00

Like a badly edited plot jump in a made-for-television movie, I return!

I can't put my finger on what's going wrong with chapter 3. Perhaps the characters are moving too fast.

On the bright side, I started writing again! On the flip side, the first thing I wrote was the murder of my favourite character thus far. I watched as the body was hidden in the ship, but I didn't see how they died. It ruined my mood, I'll tell you that much for free.

Talking about free information I figure it's probably about time I posted some trivia about myself. Consider the following embarrassing information an apology for losing myself in a thought. That's the trouble. I'm useless with street names, so it takes me a little while to get back to reality.

I greet every magpie I see. Not because I'm superstitious, but because it's polite. I also greet sparrows, blackbirds, robins, wrens and other species of crow. Not geese though. They greet me. LOUDLY. On the topic of birds, at the front of my house there is a sparrow which sometimes perches on the bay windowsill and watches television for a few minutes. I call it peeper. At the rear of house a house marten sometimes hovers in front of the patio doors and looks in our fridge when we open it. Sometimes I take out a block of cheese and wave it in front the closed window.
I moved into this house in November last year, and I'm still living out of boxes. I have more stuff than furniture. As a result my personal space is an absolute mess.
Last month I talked to myself with a Liverpudlian accent. Still not sure why.
I'm a fire marshal at my lab, and my colleagues accidentally start fires on an almost daily basis. Usually when all the marshals are so far away that by the time we reach the incident, it's been dealt with. I think I taught the little pyromaniacs well.
Upon purchasing a bottle of spirit, I drink half the bottle within the week, and then forget about it for a month or two. As a result my 'collection' always looks bigger than it actually is.
I can build my own computer (if I had the money), but still refuse to buy a digital camera. I have three 35mm cameras- 2 SLRs, one from the 80's and one modern, and my pride and joy, a Yashica Electro 35 GT rangefinder with lens kit (these stopped being made in 1984, but my dad tells me he bought it before he was 30, so it's a mid-70's camera). I used to fiddle with it when I was a kid. My father gave it to me shortly before I went to university. It's still the most beautiful machine I've ever laid eyes on.
My beard currently extends my face by several inches, and refuses to be neat. The resulting look would make an 1850's gold prospector proud. People stare when I try to drink a cappuccino, because most of it ends up in my moustache. I gauge drinks by how many napkins I'm going to need to drain my facial hair.
I actually like some Uwe Boll films as low-quality cheese, but am still too ashamed to actually buy one.
I tried ordering my DVD collection in alphabetical order of the hexadecimal code of the colour of the sleeve. After several hours working it out, I crammed them all in boxes, and I still can't work out where everything is.
I'm concerned that some of my characters represent certain individual aspects of my own personality. As a result, I struggle to make them appear normal, because I myself do not have 'middle ground' emotions aside from abject apathy. I've been trying to instill a sense of ambivalence in each one.
I've considered giving up talking altogether. I often see myself as an educator, but my advice is usually met with disdain and mocking. From my friends.
I once bought an item from a store because I didn't know what it was. I took it apart and to this day I am none the wiser. The copper wire came in handy though.
I occasionally buy dragon fruit because they look wonderful, despite finding their flavour to be lacking... in anything.
My party trick is picking apart smells until I can work out the ingredients. I do it with stews. It's also how I find the herbs and spices aisle of an unfamiliar supermarket. It's considerably more difficult since I developed hay fever.
It takes me five hours to wind down before I can sleep. Which means I have to start the moment I leave work.
Alcohol has the exact opposite effect on me to which I expected. When I am tipsy, I am considerably more alert than after taking caffeine. Of course, the coordination still suffers somewhat.
I wander around in the winter without a coat. My favourite response to the hoards of thin people who ask 'aren't you cold?' is 'No, I'm fat.'
If I'm not paying attention when walking in my town and get lost, I work out where I am by the most prevalent species of crow. I actually scolded a pair of jackdaws for ruining my system and nesting in magpie territory.
I understand when people reassure me that everybody talks to themselves. What they don't understand is that I debate with myself. And on more than one occasion had a blazing row with myself.
It's 23:12, 23°C in here, and I've just realised why I'm so warm... I haven't taken my raincoat off yet.
I can believe it's not butter. Really.
I'm addicted to a dried produce store called Julian Graves. I struggle to walk past them. They make the best bombay mix.
Last time I shaved, I used up a full battery on my clippers, and blunted an entire pack of razors. Shaving is expensive when your facial hair is made of spring steel.
I tried making my own moustache wax, partially because I want to curl it into handlebars, partly because I'm fed up of eating my facial hair. It turned out to be more wax than I had hoped. Trial and error will eventually ensue.
And finally- I laugh like a hyena. Which is odd, because my voice is quite low. I was particularly embarassed by this whilst at school and started laughing silently. People wondered if I was epileptic.

Okay, onto the chapter. Phyllis is still my best character here, but the bridge scene seems... odd. I think perhaps it is too fast.

*******************************************************************************
This document is licensed under the Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 2.0 UK: England & Wales license, available at http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-nd/2.0/uk/.

Chapter 3

With a flicker of recognition, Kabe D'Roni spotted the red light blink over the pilot's shoulder.

“Harry, your far aft stabiliser is overburning again.”

“Duly noted,” the pilot mumbled his words lazily, before adding with a uninterested tone, “don't fret about it. It does that from time to time.”

“Which would suggest it's in need of repair.” Kabe waved his hand over the table that sat over his legs, opening a holographic map, “you may want to actually talk to Amorka this time.”

“Like that furball actually knows what he is doing. I will go and fix it tomorrow.”

Harold Lime was a superlative pilot, but his inability, nay refusal, to see the potential in others made him appear bigoted and close-minded. A middle aged human, he was always impeccably tidy in his appearance. His moustache was groomed and oiled, and his blond hair was neatly trimmed and oiled back. His navy jumpsuit was ironed on a daily basis, and he kept a small bottle of eye brightening solution in his pocket.

“That furball as you so adroitly put it, is a world class propulsion engineer who has previously worked on vessels such as the Leisure Vessel Flagstone. We are lucky to have him.” Kabe rapped his fingers on the table in irritation.

“Still a furball,” Daikah Byrne, the First Officer, grunted from the captain's chair, “he got kicked off Flagstone because he nearly had one of the ionic reactor drives go critical. We have him because no one else will work on this ship.” He mumbled in his mother tongue as he absent mindedly prodded a few buttons on the control panel in the chair arm.

Daikah's hairless bony exoskeleton scraped as he moved. It gave him the appearance of a crudely carved statue, with angular features which rarely moved. It was often difficult to tell whether he was awake or sleeping, although it was often a sure bet that he was awake. He rarely slept, he often claimed it was because his species was less inclined than others to do so.

“Flagstone got vaporised just yesterday.” The communications officer spoke up whilst spinning in his chair.

Kabe faced him with a start, “how?”

“It was attacked by a platoon of Miaphe manned fighters.” The communications officer Ted Plymouth stopped spinning and brought up a news article, “they finished it off with a nobelium warhead.”

“A nobelium warhead? I thought they banned those.” Kabe closed his map and focused his attention on the young auditor.

“They will now.”

Daikah growled and mumbled in his mother tongue before nodding to the pilot, “I bet that little shit was trying to sabotage it when they kicked him off!”

“Hold it Daikah, that's too far!” Kabe pulled up the schematics for Leisure Vessel Flagstone, “why would they even attack? The Flagstone is not the most advanced virtually defenceless ship around, and it is not linked to any military. Where was it destroyed?”

“Above Apep Prime in sector zero zero two three four alpha. The planet got razed by debris.”

With another wave of his hand, Kabe opened a map of the sector. “It's nowhere near Miaphe territory, and they've never been known to stray far before.”

“Perhaps they wanted a passenger?” Harry suggested as he twisted the blinking light to disconnect it.

“Which means Amorka could not have been a saboteur,” Kabe continued, “because the passenger would not even have been onboard when he was thrown off, and he also designed part of the ship's propulsion system.” He pointed to a segment of the ship schematics to back up his statements.

He turned his chair to the First Officer, “do not make such wild accusations without evidence. Amorka has done nothing to deserve such vehemence.”

“Being Miaphe is enough,” Daikah grunted, “don't you have maps to check, cripple? The captain wants us at the nearest trading centre as soon as possible.”

“I am no cripple, Daikah. I can move perfectly well,” Kabe waved up maps as he spoke, “and even give you a challenge in combat.” Ignoring the laughs of the bony plated grouch, he continued, “although I would only have time to pass my infestation over to you before it consumes me.” He transmitted his map over to the pilot's station, “coordinates to Orbital Station Dordan.”

“Dordan? It's supplied by scanvenger vessels. That's the best you can do, cripple?” Daikah mocked.

“You wanted the nearest. Unless you want to tell Scrape that you want to travel another parsec to a likely more expensive trader colony on New Charon, perhaps?”

Daikah fell silent for a moment before responding, “To the witch then. Plymouth, make it known.”

******************

“Mathis!” Phyllis gingerly stepped over cables as she entered the programmer's den. In the centre, next to the deactivated mechanoid known as Sage, was a small paunched human, hunched over a desk before a bright screen.

“What?” Graham Mathis, Computer Engineer aboard the ship, turned away from his coding and scowled at his colleague.

“You should've finished Sage's maintenance days ago!” She moved some cables aside with her foot, “this ship is falling apart and we're missing our chief engineer because of your laggard attitude.”

“I've been busy, okay? Serving your needs is not my only purpose.” He turned back to his screen and continued typing.

“Your priority was Sage. How much else did you have to do?”

“My operating system needed a complete overhaul. I don't work well with a clunky system.”

“You don't work well with a clunky system?!” Phyllis raised her voice, “I don't work well without a sufficient supply of oxygen, and neither do you I suspect!” She bunched her fists, “and if you want to continue breathing, you'll get Sage up and running and helping me fix the damned air recycler!”

“What gives you the right to threaten me?” Graham didn't stop typing, “your warnings hold no sway with me!”

“My warnings? How about I get the General down here so you can explain to him why his breathing allowance might be cut short this month?”

“You-”

“Consider that he was in deep freeze until last month, so he's still a little grouchy.” She loured at him, “get your finger out of your arse, and get Sage up and running.”

Without another word, she walked out. As she wandered back to her quarters, the youthful tones of Ted Plymouth resounded throughout the ship over the speaker system embedded in the ceiling.

“We will be docking with Orbital Station Dordan in fourteen hours. We will be staying approximately three hours, so if you need anything, don't be slow about it. Everybody knows the drill- lock down all quarters before we dock, and hide Derrick in the stasis chamber.”

She rolled her eyes at the last comment. The middle aged behemoth who lived on that station always tried to look for their Cargo Storage Officer ever since he stole a flask of conductive miasma from her. The others knew he was a liability, but the captain was too lazy to search for new staff, and the Quartermaster always spoke up in his defence. No one contradicted Yvan the Quartermaster. Not even the General, the captain's pride and joy of a security officer, could avoid his wrath if incurred.

She made her way back to the air recycler, which was central to the ship, towards the rear and connected to propulsion engineering. The recycler was a simple but power-hungry machine, so it was connected directly to the generators running off the engines. By breaking the covalent bonds in carbon dioxide, it essentially 'scrubbed' each molecule clean of carbon until it became oxygen. It then pumped the carbon through a conversion tube which added spare recycled water to create a rough hydrocarbon fuel, which was in turn used in some of the smaller steering engines.

Of course, the recycler still functioned without a conversion tube, but without converting the excess carbon, the heat produced by the recycler quickly reattached it to the oxygen, and instead formed carbon monoxide. Phyllis checked over her work carefully, listening closely for gas leaks. Satisfied that it was holding up, she looked it over again carefully, confused that it was lasting so well. She quickly recognised several welds that were not hers.

“Mork?” She looked upwards to see the hirsute engineer again using the roofing panels as a hammock, “is this your work?”

“Phyllis worried with tube break. Mork made fresh. Good not as Phyllis, but last far enough.”

“I had no idea you knew how to repair the recycler.”

“Mork know not. Saw Phyllis work. Learned with eyes.” Mork presented what could be perceived as a smile, his brow stiff and his lips parting to bare the teeth.

“You have too much time on your hands, if you've watched for that long.”

She pulled out a tool roll from underneath the recycler and attached it to her belt. Lying down on the floor, she looked back up at Mork and smiled.

“If you're in need of any parts, you'll have to pass me a list. The station isn't a safe place for your species.”

“How so?” Amorka tilted his head to one side quizzically.

“Lots of junk piles. Sharp edges everywhere. Trisara and Derrick aren't the most organised of people.”

“Mork careful. Sharp ship. Dangerous engines.”

Admittedly, being elbow deep in a functioning engine was probably the most dangerous thing Amorka could miraculously survive. The Miaphe were notoriously thin-skinned and fragile, meaning they were largely a peaceful people simply out of necessity. They were thereby more famed for their intellect than their physical prowess or military might, the latter of which was virtually non-existent.

“You wouldn't know how to reactivate Sage, would you?”

“Mork no watch Mathis. Mathis always sit. Do nothing.”

Phyllis sighed. Mathis was notoriously lazy, but few were willing to work on the Phoenix because of the reputation of the captain, ship and crew. Those who did work on her were not happy about it, and were usually only there because they were desperate or indebted, or on the run. Mork's reputation was ruined because of a minor failure aboard the Flagstone. Phyllis would have been penniless and homeless. The General was hiding from the United Council, in case they wanted to re-draft him upon discovering his newly regained status as 'alive'. Mathis saw easy work, whilst Kabe's condition black-listed him from many ships. Only the captain was aboard willingly and without grudge, but only because it was his ship.

Sometimes she wondered if it would be better to leave the ship to fall apart, to prevent other lost souls being trapped there. But it was just a flight of fancy, as she wasn't paid nearly enough to survive away from the ship for long, and with the ship tarnishing her reputation, she would struggle to find work elsewhere. Many women in her position had been forced to whore themselves, but Phyllis wasn't certain if she was one of the lucky ones. The Rising Phoenix was probably more likely to kill, injure or disfigure her than any undesirable customer.

Chapter 4

“He hasn't said a word since the event.” The psychiatrist observed Akhiret's body language as she spoke to him. He was erratic, stratching occasionally, his eyes darting around the room, his focus not falling on anything in particular.

“Perhaps,” Akhiret began rapping his fingers on his leg, “perhaps he is too afraid of what will happen, yes.”

“Are you certain that he is the Mavat, sir?”

With smooth, but lightning quick movement, he had pushed the psychiatrist across the room and pinned her against the wall by her throat. Breathing lightly, he pressed his nose against hers and stared into her eyes with an unhinged glare.

“Do not doubt my word, whelp,” he whispered, his voice quavering, “he is the Mavat, yes. He will bring this order back to its feet, yes.”

“Y-yes sir.” She tried to retract her head away from his, but was blocked by the wall behind her, “but I'm not sure how long it will take to have him speak again. Such trauma,” she paused for breath as he loosened his grip on her throat, “such trauma can take weeks or even months to get over.”

“Let me speak to him, yes.” Akhiret released the psychiatrist and walked towards the door, “he will sing again.”

“I'm not certain that's-” she had to rush towards the door to catch up with him, “sir!” The door slammed closed as she reached it, leaving her to brace herself for impact.

Without pausing to listen to the loud thump on the door, Akhiret pushed aside the guards and marched down with hallway. He came to a halt before a room sealed by a thick steel door. He carefully placed his left hand on the door and rapped his fingers against it, moving his ear closer to hear any reply. He gradually turned the rapping into a knock, to the beat of a war drum. He sighed, growing bored of waiting for a response.

“Mavat?” He opened the door, grasping it with both hands and peeked into the room.

Inside was a basic, but comfortably furnished living quarters, with the sleeping area and bathroom at the far side from the door, and the general living area taking up the remainder. Antula sat on the bed, his head buried in his hands, silent.

Without a word, Akhiret stepped into the room and gingerly walked closer to the broken man, his hands up and preparing to defend from an expected assault that never arrived. Gaining confidence, Akhiret twisted his neck in attempt to look at Antula's face, wiggling his fingers as he did so. Failing to see any form of response, he tried gaining the colonist's attention once more.

“Mavat, yes?”

“Why,” Antula's quiet words were interrupted by a look of alarm as Akhiret leapt backwards with his words, “why do you call me that?”

“Because that is who you are, who you were, and who you shall be, yes.” Akhiret twitched as he spoke, “because that is your name, yes.”

“My name is Antula Fret, of Apep Prime. Why do you call me Mavat?” His voice increased in volume as he grew ever more angered by the madman's antics. As he reached the end of his question, a metal flask on the table beside the bed shattered. Akhiret leapt backwards again.

“That is why you are the Mavat, yes. The Mavat is the opposite to the Canisariad. Canisariad heals, Mavat destroys. She, heals worlds with touch, you destroy them with voice, yes.” He seemed to dance around Antula, leaping lightly from one foot to the other, never resting on one for long.

“I-” he lowered his voice as he sat down, “I didn't realise the Canisariad had an opposite.”

“All things have opposites. We just have to know where to find them.”

“I thought the Canisariad was found and chosen at birth?”

“Correctly thought.”

“Then why not the Mavat?” He tried to look Akhiret in the eye, which was a more difficult task than it should have been, as the madman's eyes darted around the room.

“People,” Akhiret began, “creatures, sentient beings everywhere do not want a destroyer of worlds, no. So the order, the White Hand, chooses not to seek out the Mavat, letting him live a normal life, yes, unaware of the shadows, the gifts, the power that bubbles within, waiting to boil over, to speak metaphorically. The Canisariad is sought and discovered at birth, yes, hailed as a beacon of faith throughout the cosmos, unaware they have a natural enemy. Of course, Mavats have sprung up before accidentally. Some destroyed whole systems before they were intercepted, yes.

“The last one they were unable to put down, no, so they had to imprison him, trap him. Some theorise he still lives today, yes, they can live many many years.” Akhiret calmed down somewhat, and pulled a chair closer to the bed to sit down.

“So what will become of me?” Antula's heart sank at the madman's words.

“You will be free. Free, unimpeded, yes, let go.”

“Free, but why? I thought the Hand wanted the Mavats 'put down' as you said?”

“Times have changed. The Canisariad has rebelled, become Mavat, yes. Perhaps, with time, Mavat becomes the Canisariad, yes?”

“I don't understand.” Antula couldn't think what Akhiret meant by his words.

“Your colony, Apep Prime. Destroyed by Canisariad, yes, she provoked the Miaphe into attacking that vessel, which destroyed your home, yes.”

“I thought she was still a child, why would someone that young do such a thing?” Dust poured down from the ceiling as Antula raised his voice again.

“She may be young, just twelve of our years, but has a wicked heart, yes. She grew bored of healing, yes. It could be that her guardian led her astray, we cannot be certain, no. But what is certain, yes, most definitely, is she, the Canisariad, has killed nearly as many, equivalent to that she has healed, repaired, yes.”

“Her guardian?” Antula was no expert on the Canisariad, but virtually everybody knew of her. As a 'living goddess', she was the most celebrated sentient entity throughout the galaxy. She did not have a private live to speak of, as her every move was watched, and every word listened to. It was a lot of pressure to take from birth, so it was not inconceivable that she may have cracked under the burden. But the guardian was different. It was well known that the guardian was genetically engineered specifically for each Canisariad, to act as a bodyguard, friend, playmate, cook, teacher and any other function he needed to fulfil. The guardian's primary overriding purpose was to keep the Canisariad alive and healthy, so it seemed strange that he would allow or even partake in such activities, “I thought the guardians were engineered, why would he encourage such evil?”

“We know not. Perhaps if we were to capture them, yes, we would discover the root of it, yes. But we are certain, yes, they need to be stopped, and soon, yes, before they can destroy more lives.” Akhiret leaned in close to Antula and attempted to look him in the eye, but could not keep his eyes steady enough, “we must stop them, yes. As Mavat, it is your destiny, yes.”

“Why should I do what you ask?” Antula stood up and glared at the madman, “why must I follow this destiny?”

“Because, yes,” Akhiret smiled esuriently, “because she will leave more like your wife in her wake as she travels across the galaxy, yes.”

Antula did not abide the thought of his late wife for long, the memories still caused pain with every moment's cerebration. He cleared his mind and turned to Akhiret.

“What do I have to do?”

*************************************************************
And a bonus chapter! Chapter 5 still needs a little tweaking, but it generally fits.

Everthing I post is pre-edit. I don't believe I'm anywhere near the editing stage yet.

Anywho, I must be away. G'night.

Mike
AKA Mr Magpie
AKA The Bird Man of Ivybridge
AKA Big Mike

With all the strength, agility, charisma and social ability of an epileptic ground sloth, Mike is here to save the day!

2010-01-01T21:53:00.002Z

.... Yes. Ground sloth. That's my excuse for not posting since June. I was bitten by a radioactive ground sloth and every time I see vegetation I transform into.... it.

Now sitting in a vegetation-free room, I can live again!

Now... where was I? Ah yes. I'd just posted chapter one. Well, you'll be pleased to know, I'm still working on it, and it should be completed sometime at the end of the Mayan calendar.

To be honest, life got in the way. I moved 400 miles south just last month, and am now living in sunny, snowless, but ultimately not flat (! This last point was very important to me. I'm a hill walker! South Lincolnshire is all river basin.) Devon. Just 10 miles north of Plymouth to be exact. So I've running around like a blue-arsed fly, or any other simile you can come up with, sorting things out and generally running low (very) on funds. So I haven't been interwebbing much of late.

I'm also virtually alone down here. I'm living with two friends and colleagues, but the only people who actually made me feel good about myself are now nearly half the country away. I hate using the phone because conversations do not come quickly to me, so phone calls tend to short and full of awkward silences. Emails are emotionless. I can't sing songs from Team America via facebook (you probably don't get that, but I'm So Ronery made someone laugh very hard every time).

But, I've got a week off later this month, so instead of locking myself in my room and typing like I usually do, I'm actually taking a holiday... back up North to see the janitors of my sanity.

As I've said previously, slow down, let life flow around you, good things come to those who wait. And I'm very good at waiting. Since moving I've felt the lowest moods I've ever had, and each time I've pulled myself through believing that eventually all the torture will be worth it. And it will.

It's a brand new year, a brand new decade! And like every year, I'll feel great for the first quarter of it, then realise applying logic to the world doesn't work, get frustrated, depressed and lonely, and then feel good again the moment I hear Tom Jones sing The Midnight Hour during Jools Holland's Hootenanny at midnight on new year. Every goddamned year. Why don't I learn? And what will I do when Sir Jones is gone? Or heaven forbid, Jools?

I suppose I'll just have to watch my dvd of Muppets Christmas Carol. Ah nostalgia, brings so much more warmth to the soul than any glass of sherry. Wait! That doesn't mean I don't want the sherry...

Anyway, enough of these thought experiments. Schrödinger's cat needs feeding.

On to chapter 2! A relatively short chapter, introducing a few members of the (reluctant) crew aboard the Rising Phoenix. I'm not happy with chapter 3 yet, so I'm going to rewrite some of it (some of the crew seem to be acting strange to me... They're not themselves, so I've got to get them back into character). I've also realised 'glower' has become one of my favourite words. I think use it too often.

====================================================================

From the Ashes pt. 1

Chapter 2
This document is licensed under the Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 2.0 UK: England & Wales license, available at http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-nd/2.0/uk/.

The scream reverberated throughout the cargo vessel known as the Rising Phoenix. Its chief Life Support Engineer threw down her soldering iron and stormed toward the bridge. Her eyes, bloodshot as they were, glowered at everything and anyone who dared step across her path as she marched forward.

“Scrape!” She screamed as she reached the bridge doors, “we need to talk, now!”

“Shh..” Captain Buriash Scrape waved his hand dismissively as he looked upon the screen embedded in the arm of his chair.

“Good morning Phyllis. He's a little distracted, as always.” A floating metal cockpit turned to face her, displaying the Stellar Cartographer Kabe D'Roni. “I take it by your vehement visage that we are only breathing by your own good graces?”

“We are only breathing because I managed to make a conversion tube out of spare circuitry and metal panels from the ceiling.” Phyllis Walsh punched the wall, then raised her voice for the captain's benefit, “if our good captain doesn't loosen his purse strings and buy a new one soon, we'll be dead within the week!”

Scrape looked up from his control panel and sighed, “what's wrong now, Walsh?”

“Your damned air recycler has clapped out again.”

“Then fix it.” Scrape went back to his control panel.

“I did fix it. Using scrap and chunks of the ship. It will last four days, maximum.” She rushed over and looked the captain in the eye. “I need a new one, preferably before we all suffocate.”

Scrape sighed again. “How much will it cost?”

“New conversion tubes cost about two thousand dollars. But we need a new recycler- they cost around ninety eight thousand dollars.”

“No chance of a new recycler. Can't afford it.” Scrape thought for a moment, “we'll stop by the nearest trading post and pick up another tube.” He turned to a squat, boney plated humanoid, “Daikah, sort it with the accountant.”

As Daikah turned to leave, he called him back. “No, on second thoughts, I'll do it. I could use the exercise. Take the helm.”

Daikah watched the captain leave before muttering under his breath in a language Phyllis could not understand. He then sat down at the main command console and waved his hand dismissively at the crew.

“You know he's going to set a tiny budget for your new buy, right?” He didn't even look at Phyllis as he spoke to her.

“That's what I'm afraid of. I may have to convince Avery to stretch it a little further.” She leaned against the wall, and thought for a moment. “Does it feel cold in here?”

“Now that you mention it, it is cooler than usual.” Daikah looked at the control panel, “It is below standard ship temperature by three degrees.”

She tapped the back of her head against the panel behind her in frustration. “If it's those bloody plasma pumps again I'm going to murder someone.” Turning to storm back to the engineering section, she added, “you know these ones are second hand? Our good captain thought refurbished models would suit this rust bucket down to the ground.”

She jogged out of the bridge, scowling. Phyllis Walsh, chief Life Support Engineer aboard the Rising Phoenix, was a plump, wide-hipped female humanoid. She was, in most senses of the term, human, although her parentage was questionable. Her turquoise eyes drooped toward the distal corner, giving her a rather sad appearance which was not helped by her mood. Her long hair was dark enough for the streaks of engine oil to be virtually unnoticeable when light was not shining directly on it, and was tied back.

Her overalls were once a fluorescent orange, though were now covered in brown, black, red and green stains from around the ship. She scratched at one of the scores of patches she had repaired them with, and had to physically stop herself from picking at the stitching.

She hauled her canvas tool bag out from underneath a set of pipes near the door and leapt down a small flight of stairs toward a small hatch in the floor. A few twists of the bolts and she had the hatch open and venting steam. Phyllis stared towards where the mechanisms the hatchway hid were supposed to be displayed, but instead were hidden by vapours.

“Judging by smoke, pumps broken again?” A gruff, broken voice attempted to speak a language it was not built for speaking.

Above her, laying on the pipework, was a silver furred creature with four arms dangling down over the pipes as it watched her work. Amorka Pabhan was the Propulsion engineer aboard the ship, and was very good at what he did, leaving him plenty of time to do what he did best- relaxing.

“It's not smoke Mork,” she responded through gritted teeth as she strained with a spanner, “it's steam. One of the-” she grunted as the pipe she was trying to release suddenly pulled free and sent her toppling over. She threw it to one side and flicked a hair away from her face, “one of the damned plasma pumps is venting where it shouldn't be.”

Amorka peered over into the hatchway and strained his neck forward to get a closer look. Seeing nothing but steam, he grabbed the pipes he was laying on and swung down to the floor.

“You need help?” He queried as he wafted the steam away from his face.

“Can you make another?” Phyllis looked at her colleague with a frown.

“Probably. Without proper material wouldn't last.” He shrugged, then clapped his lower hands together as he often did when he had an idea. “Sage build better than us!”

“Sage is being repaired. Won't be ready again until Mathis gets his finger out of his arse.”

“Ask captain for new?” He helped her remove the shoebox sized pump from the hatchway.

“I've just asked him for a new conversion tube, and to be honest-” she glanced back at the doorway, “I think Scrape's gonna get another second hand one. He's refusing to pay more than he has to.”

“How say- false money?”

“False economy. Yeah, he's a miser, but he's not bright enough to know these things.” She prodded at a small hole on the pump's surface which was not meant to be. “That'll need welding. Pass the torch, and a small slither of metal. Mind your fingers on the edges.”

Amorka passed the tool and scrap over delicately. “Perhaps passenger help were captain not?”

“I can see it now,” flicking down the visor on her welding goggles, she motioned Amorka to look away before she set at repairing the hole, “I know you've just got on board, and you're paying us to travel to Earth and all, but would you mind shelling out a few grand for a new plasma pump so we don't choke on ice crystals? You see, our captain's a bit of a twat.”

“What twat?” Amorka asked.

“It's just an insult Mork. Don't say it to anyone's face, mind.”

“Noted.”

Phyllis turned off the torch and looked at her handy work. Amorka turned back to check the weld.

“How long last?”

“I'll give it a week. Then I'll be repairing it again.” She yawned and set at replacing the pump in the hatchway.

“Sleep.” Amorka tapped her shoulder.

“No time,” she groaned, “That jury-rigged conversion tube needs checking every hour or so to make sure it doesn't disintegrate while I'm not looking. Then the circulation control down in habitation needs looking at. Circuits might need replacing.”

“Need sleep.”

“I'll sleep when I'm dead. I don't think I've got spares either,” she started mumbling to herself, “so I'll either to repair or build a new PCB from scratch. Mork?”

“Mork do it. Phyllis sleep.”

“No, it's okay. But can you check if I have any spare five-way tag strips?”

“Mork plenty circuit board spares. Phyllis sleep, Mork work.” He gripped her left shoulder and looked her in the eye, “Mork spare time.”

Before she could respond, he snatched the spanner from her hand and secured the pump and replaced the pipes above it. Seeing the futility of arguing, she stood up and stretched.

“I suppose I could use forty winks. Thanks Mork.”

“No thank. Just sleep.”

******************

“You must prepare yourself for what you will see when we reach our destination.” Rhiarla Rose, the priestess and counsellor aboard the ship, sat gracefully on the chair across from the passenger. She moved most elegantly for her species, a race of unwieldy bipeds who resembled trolls of Earth mythology.

Although she, nor any of her kind, had eyes, she always seemed to be looking in the correct direction. In this case she was looking at the passenger, a tall dark skinned male of human appearance. His hair, cropped short, was coloured in odd unintentional patches of blond and brown. This diffused the unusual symmetry of his facial features somewhat, but they were more exacerbated by the large temporalis muscles rounding out his jaw line. He wore a white linen suit, and looked at her with dead grey eyes.

“As an ambassador to the Kanjavar collective, I am most definitely aware of the tragedy which has befallen Earth.” He scratched at his left arm before continuing, “that being said I much appreciate the forewarning. Thank you.”

“You know what many citizens of this galaxy know. But the crew aboard this ship have seen first hand how the planet limps on.”

“And I intend to analyse how strong it's crutches need be.”

“A most admirable aim, ambassador. But the Earth is dead. It does not need crutches, it needs rebirth.” Rhiarla took a recherché sip from the glass in front of her.

“It needs that much aid?”

“On the path of progression, each habitable planet will come close to total destruction at the hands of it's dominant species. Many will draw back and mend their ways before it is too late.” She began to wave her left hand in a circular motion, “humans, however were, and still are too individually disparate to form such a collective rescue. They razed their planet's surface, and left it dead. Although they have a collective effort to terraform the planet, to make it habitable once more, they lack the cohesion and finance to succeed.”

“How likely is it to succeed, if money were not in short supply?”

“During their fifth world war, parts of their planet were turned to glass. Large portions of their oceans are home only to rampant nanotechnology- the cost of progressing without understanding. Even if they had all the backing they need,” she inhaled the aroma of the beverage, “it would be optimistic to say it would take centuries. But it will succeed.”

“Then I shall see where my people can help.” The ambassador reached for a damp cloth which lay on the table in front of him, and wiped his brow. “Who would I ask for a little more humidity in my quarters?”

Rhiarla laughed, a deep, throaty chuckle. “That would be Phyllis Walsh, our Life Support Engineer. I am certain, with persuasion, she would be most eager to see you comfortable.”

“Persuasion of what kind?”

“A new plasma pump, perhaps parts for the air purifier, and she would be eternally grateful.”

The ambassador hesitated to respond. Believing she had perhaps offended him, Rhiarla continued reassuringly.

“Although, as you are already paying for transportation, we cannot possibly request such extras from you. Please think nothing more of it.”

He sipped his own glass before responding, “your captain is not using my funds to repair his ship?”

“I cannot speak ill of the captain to a customer,” Rhiarla smiled, baring a row of sharp teeth, “it would be most unprofessional.”

“Quite. I shall see what I can do.” He stood up and began to walk awkwardly toward the door, “excuse me. It was most pleasurable speaking with you.”

She bowed her head in response, “and you, ambassador. Perhaps later we should talk some more?”

“Perhaps.”

====================================================================

I hope you've all had a happy Christmas (mine was spent with another family... really awkward. Felt like I was intruding, despite being in my own house), and I wish you all the best for the year to come. You wonderful people you.

And remember, too much nostalgia leads to brain rot. Sentimentalise responsibly.

Warm, toasty feelings,
Mike.
AKA Were-sloth.
AKA Melon-faced Man!
AKA Spartacus

Chapter 1

2009-06-12T23:07:00.003+01:00

The first and only time you will meet the original Anathema, a disturbed engineer who can see through time and is contaminated with time itself to the point his mere presence encourages decay. To prevent harm to those around him, he wears a containment suit which also acts as a protective atmosphere for himself.

Anyway... I haven't looked at it much since I started, but I haven't posted anything either. So here it is, in all its raw glory-

This document is licensed under the Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 2.0 UK: England & Wales license, available at http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-nd/2.0/uk/.

Chapter 1

"Antula, come quick! You have to see this.” Tayla shouted to her husband from the front door of their home. She beckoned to him excitedly, as he begrudgingly stood up and wandered slowly to her. Taking him by the hand, Tayla dragged Antula outside into the street, where scores of their neighbours were stood looking upwards in awe.

The orange skies of Apep Prime were sparkling in what seemed to be a meteor shower. Every so often a flash would flare up, outshining the sun, and a slight crackle would reach the ears the audience below. Antula gripped the hand of his love and looked back toward her.

“It's beautiful.” He gently pressed his lips to her forehead, “now make a wish.”

Tayla closed her eyes and thought deeply, before sighing and gazing upon her husband.

“Your turn.”

“I made my wish years ago. I don't need another.”

“Did it come true?”

Antula smiled as he looked skyward, “you're living proof that it did.”

******************

Above the planet, in far orbit, the Leisure Vessel Flagstone was attempting to defend itself from an onslaught of small, three man fighter craft which had launched an ambush as it fell into orbit around the planet below. The fighter craft displayed the markings of the Miaphe military, and were preparing the make another sweep. Inside Flagstone, the Timekeeper by the name of Anathema was frantically putting the finishing touches onto a new suit of armour as emergency lighting flashed around him.

“Damned Whiteshirts. They're a full thirty seven minutes early. I thought I had more time.”

Anathema could not be seen, as he wore a rusting hermetically sealed extreme environment powered armour. It was bulky, and lacked finesse, but it allowed him to move freely without damaging his surroundings. The mask covered his entire face, leaving only small panels for him to see through, which themselves were sealed using a material known as Kersaw Glass.

The ship was not a dangerous place; Anathema could easily survive outside of the suit, but he chose to never take it off. This was due to a massive contamination of Chronons, the elusive time particle, which poisoned everything it touched. If he were to step outside of his suit, the walls would quickly rust, wood would rot, and living things would wither and die. Yet he seemed virtually immune to the effects, achieving a lifespan of a full millennium despite this contamination.

“Might I ask a question?” The new armour he was building hummed to life as the artificial intelligence indulged it's sentient curiosity.

“You may. There's little else you can do until I complete your motor systems.” Anathema began soldering the final set of cables in the back of the armour.

“Why are we under attack?”

“There's some religious icon or other on board. They want her dead.” He began welding the final plate in place, “can you move autonomously?”

The suit jerked it's left arm and twitched the fingers. “Quite easily. Do you wish me to remain autonomous, or will you be wearing me?”

“I'll be wearing you. Check systems”

“Systems are running optimally, and I am ready for and capable of total hermetic sealing.”

“Good,” the suit Anathema was currently wearing cracked open with a hiss, “open up.”

The haggard human form of Anathema stepped out of his old suit, and onto the floor below, he paused for a moment to catch his balance as the floor corroded beneath him. Coming to his senses, he darted into the new armour.

“Begin sealing procedure.”

The new armour clamped shut, and with a slight hiss, sealed Anathema in. The new armour was a whole foot taller than the old suit, and had no space in the mask to see out of. Instead it relayed video signals from the sensor strip on the front to the inside of the helmet. The armour itself was made from a material referred to as Heltant Steel, a metal used for shielding against all forms of radiation. Expensive, but necessary. The fingers, despite being larger than those of the old suit, were more dextrous, and acted much like a large human hand. Anathema smiled to himself as he flexed the digits. This would do nicely.

“What will you do with your old suit?” The new armour asked.

“I may have to simply leave it here, too bulky to carry. Pity though, I would have liked to have used it for parts, but that's what you get when people are early.”

“Perhaps you were mistaken in the timing?”

Anathema glared at the screen which displayed the outside world.

“Thirteen seconds,” he responded, and braced himself.

“Until, what exactly?”

“Another nine seconds and you'll find out! Bloody hell I thought I programmed you with a modicum of patience.”

He paused and waited for the smart reply, whilst bracing himself for impact.

******************

Tayla's smile disappeared as a loud crack followed the largest of the flares. The audience began to disperse as the awe was rapidly replaced by dread.

“Antula?” She gripped her husband's arm tightly as the realisation struck her, “it's not a meteor storm, is it?”

“I think it may be better if we went back inside,” Antula smiled at her empathetically.

Antula was a tall narrow male of a humanoid species referred to as Tyasurn. The Tyasurn were a widespread species, although they had no empire to speak of. Instead they tended to drift, or plant small self-sustaining colonies which had minimal impact on universal affairs. Their home planet, Verte, was ruled over by a theocratic order known as The Hand, whose reputation made their species respected throughout the galaxy.

The Tyasurn species itself had heavily pigmented skin, although Antula was an albino. This made him somewhat of a curiosity to all who met him, as such mutations had very low life expectancies, due to the levels of solar radiation which rained down upon their home planet.

He took Tayla by the hand and led her back inside.

“There's no point in letting it affect us,” the warmth of his smile comforted Tayla little, “there's nothing we can do.”

“But what if people are getting hurt up there?” She sat down, directing an occasional worried glance to the windows.

“Unfortunately I feel that will be unavoidable.”

“But what-” she was interrupted by Antula's fingertips pressing against her lips.

“We can do nothing. We have no skills that would aid them, and most of all we have no transport. They might as well be on the other side of the galaxy.” He sighed as he sat down beside her, “it saddens me to think of it, but we cannot help them. But we are not obliged to watch them suffer.”

They sat in silence as another thunderous roar bellowed across the sky.

******************

Anathema was following the stampede of passengers who were panicking their way to the escape vessels, slinging the occasional straggler over his shoulder and carrying them out of harms way. He had to be careful as he ran, as his armour was sufficiently large enough to crush the life from any unfortunate soul caught beneath his feet.

“Oh dear,” his armour began very loudly, as though it was deliberately broadcasting itself throughout the ship, “don't these people realise panicking only causes more problems, without actually solving anything?”

“That was rude,” Anathema chastised the AI, “and personally I don't care. But we need to get off.”

“I'm not sure you want to hear this, but I stand over 8 feet tall. I don't think we'll fit in the escape vessels. Especially considering they're Lances. Not really designed for larger folk like me.”

“Point well made,” Anathema hurled a screaming squid like creature into the nearest available escape hatch, “alternatives?”

“Well,” the suit paused with a slight hum as Anathema wrenched open a sealed door which had automatically closed due to fires, but was blocking the evacuation effort, “considering the nobelium warhead approaching the ship at nearly twice the speed of light, I still wouldn't recommend jumping.”

“Your sensors reach that far?”

“Not really, I'm using the ship to boost the signal.”

“How long do we have?”

“Until screaming agony or total obliteration?”

“Screaming agony.”

“Just over three minutes.”

“Total obliteration?”

“A little over three minutes and twenty seconds.”

“A cheap warhead then.”

“It will still evaporate the ship!”

Anathema stopped and sat down, lost in deep thought as other passengers clambered over him. Eventually his voice returned, unagitated.

“The important ones are safe,” he stood back up, accidentally stepping on a liliputian male of a now-unrecognisable species, “I think, considering that I'm not sure you could survive a detonation of nobelium, we may be forced to jump.”

“Well, I would survive...”

“Don't be a smart-arse.”

“Hmm...” The suit, despite being just a few hours old, had acquired some quite inefficient human traits, “it would seem I miscalculated.”

Anathema paused in exasperation, “how? You're a bloody computer!”

“I would have thought you would have liked to know what I miscalculated instead of simply stating the obvious, but I am mistaken. Again.”

“Shut up and tell me the problem.”

“Which would you like me to do first?”

“The latter.”

“Well the warhead is just fourteen seconds from impact.”

Anathema didn't respond, he instead launched his armoured fists through an escape hatch, and tore the hatch wide open. The ship began to depressurise, spitting atmosphere out into the cold of space. The decompression tore the hole open wider, making it large enough for the armour to fit through.

“I said I wouldn't recommend jumping.” The suit flashed a red light across the screen inside the helmet.

“Too late!” Anathema leapt forward, and span around to face the ship as he fell.

At first nothing happened except a sea of passengers flooding out through the hole after him. They stood no chance of surviving- even if they were picked up before they asphyxiated, being exposed to UV radiation outside of a protective atmosphere would kill them. Hypothermia wouldn't get a chance. Anathema waved at another squid-like creature as it seemed to swim quite happily in the zero-atmosphere environment. He didn't know what species it was, although it appeared sentient.

“Well, he seems happy at-”

He was cut off by a shock wave which preceded the Flagstone shuddering and collapsing in on itself. He was hammered backwards, or at least what was backwards for him, and he turned around in an attempt to stabilise himself. It was then he saw what his suit was talking about.

“What planet am I falling into?”

“I'll check.” The suit fell quiet, before spreading information over the helmet's screen, “it's Apep Prime. A minor Tyasurn colony. It's mineral-rich, but they don't have the right tools to exploit it.”

“Ah the Tyasurn are a welcoming lot.”

“Thinking of dropping in?”

“Not much choice.” Anathema hummed to himself a tune from his earlier memories of childhood.

“What is that?”

“Lost in Space, I believe it was called. A wonderful television program. You'll never see it.”

“On account of you being so old?” The suit dropped it's chirpy tone for a more monotone accent. This only served to make it sound like it was hiding something.

“Did I program a teenager in there, or are you being insolent for a reason?”

“No offence intended, I wasn't mocking your age,” it revert back to it's original tone, “I was just wondering if I will never see it because it's some obscure program no-one else has watched or something that was broadcast while you were a child?”

Anathema chose to ignore the armour's excuses, instead paying attention the sweat dripping off his forehead.

“Suit?”

“Yes?”

“Can you protect me from the heat of entry? Crispy skin isn't a good look for me.”

“Why are you worrying about it now? We're almost through the worst of it. That's a yes, before you get all narked at me.”

Anathema went through the processes of searching for a handkerchief before realising he had no pockets, and no way of opening his helmet safely to wipe his brow. He missed his hermetically sealed home. It had been specially designed so that he didn't have to wear his armour all day. He sighed and tried to shake the sweat off.

“There,” the suit said cheerfully, “no more nasty atmospheric entry heat.”

“Thank you.” Anathema paused to think about his earlier conversation, “So what was the problem with jumping?”

“You didn't install orbital drop organ bracing technologies before you did.”

“Ah, so I'm going to die anyway?”

“With a resounding splat followed by, at terminal velocity, a large boom. Sorry.”

“I suppose I really should have seen it coming.” Anathema repeatedly banged his head against the screen before him.

“Probably. You being a Timekeeper.”

“Well, that puts a dampener on the day.”

“Sir?” The suit removed all irrelevant data from the screen.

“Yes?”

“Can you authorise autonomous motility function?”

“Why?” Anathema asked, “you can't help.”

“No, but at then least I won't have to stand around like a ninny until someone accidentally gets me walking again.”

“You're really not helping. Imminent death awaits and you're asking me if you can wander off when I'm dead.”

“Sir?”

“What?”

“Can I have a name?”

Anathema grunted in vexation. He was beginning to regret programming AI into his armour. His last suit simply helped him move. That being said, he couldn't actually remember programming the suit in the slightest. He released a huff before talking to his armour once more.

“Suit, how much of you did I complete whilst asleep?”

“I cannot say for certain, seeing as my sensors were not activated at the beginning of the build. Quite a lot though.”

“Typical,” he mumbled to himself. Sleep-engineering was one of his more irritating habits.

He looked down at the ground below. Buildings were starting to shape out of the rocky soil.

“Suit, is there any chance I can avoid the urbanised area?”

“Not really. You can aim for the pub though, according to maps it's on the outskirts. That might reduce total death rate by three or four.” A building was highlighted on the screen.

“Whatever. Fancy a pint?” Anathema attempted to steer himself as he fell, directing himself towards the target.

“Sir?”

“Yes?”

“What's your name?”

“Anathema. Pleased to me-”

The tavern exploded as he struck it's roof, demolishing the building with a single blow. As he collided with the ground a pulse launched through the rock, raising a wall of rock and dust which proceeded to storm across the colony, tearing down all in it's path.

******************

Antula awoke under rubble. As he struggled to free himself, he could taste iron in his mouth. He could taste iron in the air. He worked to push the detritus from his chest, and managed to stand up. He had walked into the outhouse just moments before the blast; he had been fortunate.

“Tayla?” He cried out, choking on the dust that hung in the air.

The wind carried no reply back to him. He stood, dazed and wavering, looking upon the destruction that lay before him. He could see no others standing up, though he could barely see through the dust at all. Even the sky looked grey through the cloud of debris. He began frantically shifting portions of his former home to search for his wife.

“Tayla?!” He tried to make his voice louder, but found it failing him.

A barking caught his attention. The colony was home to a single human by the name of Greg Fischer, the barking could only have originated from his dog which never left his side throughout his travels. Antula looked up toward the sound, and strained to see the silhouette of the animal digging and whimpering less than twenty metres from where he stood. He ran to where it worked.

“Where is your master, boy?” He stooped down and helped the animal dig. Beneath the detritus was the tattered corpse of Fischer. Without pausing, he grabbed the dog by it's collar and pulled it towards the remains of his house.

“Your is master is dead. Find others.” Antula remembered how Fischer and the children of the colony had played with the creature. It would follow simple commands if they were enthusiastically given.

“Find boy. Fetch!” He patted his knees playfully in encouragement. The dog leapt onto it's hind legs and barked in approval. It began to sniff around the areas Antula directed it to. Within minutes it was barking and began digging just one metre from Antula had awoken. He raced over and frenetically heaving rock and brick away from the spot.

Tayla lay, still and unbreathing. Her shoulder length black hair was matted with blood and dirt, and her normally mahogany skin was ashen and caked in dust. Antula collapsed to his knees, shaking. It was then he found his voice.

The scream cleared the dust and debris from the colony, it travelled across the globe of Apep Prime and circled the planet, leaving nothing untouched. Rocks tore from the earth, bringing with them magma and boiling brimstone. The scream scorched the plants, and mountains were levelled as dust.

As Antula rose to his feet, Apep Prime was all but dead. All but the presence he felt.

“I bet you have a wonderful singing voice, too, yes.”

That nagging little itch at the back of my head...

2009-06-12T06:40:00.003+01:00

Okay... I don't usually hibernate for that long. Sorry about that folks! I blame work for that so-dull-initiating-brain-shutdown quality. Also, I've moved in with two friends from work. Allowing for a more active social life. Now that's gradually calming down, I hope to get back to the real work.

I have gradually been adding little bits to From the Ashes, although I'm still not even quarter way through. But I do intend to get a move on. Also, I need to work out what I'm doing this November.

So to summarise... because my morning photosensitivity kicked in with a sneezing fit, and left me dazed and confused, and running out of time.

1) I'm not dead. Or lost. Call off that search party.

2)Work-eat-work-sleep. Mmm... work sandwich. Room for imagination? Maybe, but I guarantee it'll spill out and mess up my shirt.

3)I'm getting back to it. Put that whip away. That's a different kind of motivation.

4)Like a bear in the spring, I'm updating myself with your blogs again, thinking- "June!? I've overslept!"

5)I suddenly have a craving for bagels... but have none in the house! Blast you Anna!

With a hamster-like yawn,
Mike.

I am made of fail.

2008-12-06T11:33:00.003Z

I had to say it. Made of win, made of fail. I find this poor use of English amusing, unlike Chav-speak. Or text speak. Did I ever mention I knew someone who would actually say 'lol' instead of laughing?

Ahem, moving on. Well, Karen jinxed me. "How you're going fit writing in too I've no idea!"

Okay, so that wasn't fair (sorry, Karen). I didn't have nearly as many overtime hours as previous months, but overtime from previous months caught up with me and kept slipping sleeping tablets into my cup of tea.

Essentially, this year I found myself barely able to get out of bed and get to work, never mind get on the computer and type two thousand words a day. It was the work-eat-work-sleep cycle all over again.

Excuse mode cancelled. I tried at the last weekend to bump my word count up, but failed miserably. On the upside, I actually like writing this one, as opposed to Pulling the Strings, which is like trying to worm a cat. When I get a document proof towel to wrap it in, it'll be plain sailing.

That being said, perhaps I'm not the type of person who can write that fast. Won't stop me from trying each year though. So I'll keep writing until one of the bloody things is finished. I can't get back to my parents for Christmas this year (I'm working either side of it), so I'll see what I can do on the days the lab is closed.

So ten thousand words and going... Lets see if I can hit twenty-five thousand before March (which was how it went with PtS). Hell, I'm hoping I can hit fifty before the end of January. I've got 15 days of leave to use up before the end of March. I'll think I'll be able to do something. Next year I'll take a two week break in November (if I am able), give myself more time.

Anywho, I will keep you all updated.

Cheers,
Mike

P.S. Wow... I've just read that post, and I think it's probably the most disjointed post I've ever written. Still, that's how my brain works... disjointed, argumentative, and wandering off in crowded areas. I may have to put it on a leash.

Screaming Ninja Pinky of Death strikes again...

2008-11-10T22:55:00.002Z

Damn that curse...

It was the sixth of November last year I wrote about the death of my schedule (what brought it up? I've just got another comment on that post...).

Okay so this year, due to work commitments (and terminal can't-stay-awake-need-caffiene-to-stop-talking-like-William-Shatner syndrome), I'm a little behind.... By approximately 14,000 words. But I'll make it up (not literally... that would be cheating).

Unfortunately I think work is having a little more effect on my imagination than I thought it would. Or rather, my ability to express it. Every time I sit down to write, I get tired, or a headache, or both.

Perhaps this Hammer-and-a-Horlicks motivational therapy isn't working.

However, this weekend I think I worked out a minor kink in my program.

I don't think in a linear way. Far from it. I mean, I start my shift and already I'm thinking of home. Seriously though, my thoughts are a garbled mess, all over the place, from pillar to post, so to speak.

So why then do I try to write my stories in a linear fashion? I go from chapter to chapter, knowing vaguely what I want to write, and then I get stuck.

So instead, when I get my mojo back (vitamin tablets on standby! Perhaps I should turn them off to save energy...), I'll be writing random segments, and shuffling them into place once I think those segments are complete.

This means I won't be able to post chapters (because I'll be working on a section of chapter 15 and a bit of chapter 7 all at the same time), but I'll see about exerpts.

The quality this time, however, is attrocious (Last time I polished it as I went along. Which slowed me down somewhat. Eventually I had no screen left!), so I'll be a little selective.

Well, I'm going to see about writing a little more tomorrow.

Looking more and more like I'm going to have to blitz it at the weekends... (And there are three left! Ten thousand saturday, ten thousand sunday, sounds reasonable).

Cheers and good luck all,
Mike
"I can see the future.... It involves a guy in a hat talking to some person."

Day two almost over...

2008-11-02T23:24:00.004Z

Chapter one is... I'll say done, but it is far from finished. It needs some serious work.

Currently it stands at 2,855 words. It'll be much more than that when I'm finished with it.

It's more rough than I'm used to... but pah, it's done for now. On to the next chapter. By midnight tonight I want 3,000 words at least. I think I can manage 145 words in 30 minutes... Here's hoping for the 3,546 target.

On to chapter two!

Cheers,
Mike

Edit- Can't update my word count on the official site. As of 23:58 it stands at 3,173.

Day one over....

2008-11-02T00:01:00.003Z

And not the worst of starts. Last year I rounded off day one with a meagre thousand words, this year- 1321. Which isn't bad for a first day (especially considering that I've been doing all sorts of other things), and I'm going to write a little more before I go to bed.

I can't upload my word count just yet, as the official site is singing the first-day-slow blues. That's to be expected, so I'll be trying again tomorrow.

Here's aiming for 3,000 words tomorrow!

Cheers,
Mike

Edit: I managed to use the word 'Modicum'. I've been itching to use that for weeks now.

And it begins... after supper. And a snack. Salted Pistachio's on standby...

2008-10-31T18:55:00.004Z

Midnight tonight people!

If I manage to stay awake (though I've got a cold, and so have been missing out on sleep thanks to the not-being-able-to-breathe factor), then I'll be starting From the Ashes on time. Instead of after a lazy breakfast like last year. No lazy breakfast this year! I probably won't be awake until at least lunchtime.

I'm also not due back at work until Wednesday, so I've got time to pack plenty of writing in!

Despite stealing bandwidth from my parents (They'll be putting up with me for the next few days... so I'm gonna have to cook something...), posting still a bit of an issue, because firefox (my internet browser) is screwing up. Mostly because my old, disturbingly quiet (as in Norman Bates quiet), battery-less laptop is about ready to give up the ghost. So I'm shopping for a brand spanking new Tower PC tomorrow!

Also, I kind of thought of a major portion of the first chapter in early june, mostly involving a blazing row between powered-armour and it's wearer. But because I didn't write it down (couldn't- technically against rules of NaNoWriMo), I've forgotten it. So I'll be trying to remember it right up until I actually reach that section of the chapter.

Ah well. Still, head is hurting with ideas. Let's see if I get on with this more than I did with Pulling the Strings (still writing that by the way, I think it may go smoother once I actually finish chapter 12- that's the bit I got stuck on... half way through, getting in a paragraph every so often.)

They say that writer's block is a symptom of writing a situation that doesn't fit. So to solve, all you have to do is re-write it until it does (easier said than done). The situation in chapter 12 unfortunately fits fine, and to re-write it would mean re-writing earlier chapters to make them fit. So I'm having to use brute force and try and sledge-hammer my way through the obstacle.

The first chapter won't involve the Rising Phoenix at all. It will portray the attack that is supposed to claim the lives of Religious Icon and Bodyguard. Most of it will be seen from the viewpoint of another character (powered armour and wearer) who doesn't actually join the main story arc until later.

Anyway... back to preparing.

See you all at the starting line!

Mike

To err is digital...

2008-10-10T19:15:00.004+01:00

Okay... I've been trying to post since the 5th October. Unfortunately, my internet access has thus far prevented me from logging into anything. So out came the old, disturbingly silent laptop which heats my fingers in cold weather.... ah, true multitasking.

And the internet works perfectly on this (aside from a slew of pages not loading AT ALL).

However, I saved what I was trying to say as a txt file on my old, disturbingly noisy and Not In The Least Bit Irritating tower PC. So I'm going to have to run from memory.

I've been reading blogs, but have been unable to comment due to problems above, but now I've solved it (by replacing stuff with other stuff), expect to be hearing from me.

In answer to comments-

Ann, I'll be posting extracts on both, t'internet permitting. I'm actually desperate to get started, because my head is starting to hurt...

Helen, it's a relief to be back. Thanks for watching out for the new posts!

Karen, no need for a fire brigade- I've worked out how to use an extinguisher with my feet. And the pearl of wisdom was more of a witty comeback and contained a surprisingly appropriate use of the 'c' word. Yes, he swears like a sailor. It went "There's no 'I' in 'Team'." "No but there is a 'U' in ****."

If they can get away with just bleeping rude words at 12 noon on Radio One, I can get away with censoring just one word.

Also Karen, 'Librarian' is not a legally protected job title. Not only that, but librarian is defined as 'n. a person in charge of or assisting in a library'. So you're a librarian. Anyone who says differently is a snob.

Back on the topic of NaNoWriMo (oooh... I should try logging in), I've come up with a 'keep Mike entertained when he's stuck' stratagem. In stead of simply stepping back and seeing if my imagination starts again on its own, I'm going to write a second story in the background to keep it ticking over until I bypass the occlusion.

Hairspring

One thousand years after the immortal emperor Vakriss passed his vast kingdom of Ferrodown to his daughter, Marie of The Real, all is not well. Although the people generally love Empress Marie, dissent has been brewing for decades, and rumours are being spread saying she is no longer fit to rule.

The unrest has even infected her beloved Generals, who served her father before her for thousands of years. Loyal General Krygen, his Blademaster and the Knights of the Realm rally behind the queen, upholding oaths to serve the royal bloodline at any cost to themselves.

The Protector General, the warrior-priestess who drove the demon Shade from the former emperor's body nearly four thousand years previously, has begun to doubt the rule. With this split in opinion, the unrest grows into a full-blown civil war, and at the centre stands a masked traveller known only as Synchronous and His Incredible Clockwork Men.

He seems to be the trigger for disaster, and he intends to see things run like clockwork.

It came to me in a dream... I think I need a shrink, if I'm perfectly honest. I won't even go into the dream before that... it was the most lucid dream I've ever had.

I'll post more on From the Ashes and even perhaps Pulling the Strings tomorrow.

Cheers,

Mike

New stuff, work, and the art of accidentally setting glass chopping boards on fire...

2008-09-28T17:21:00.004+01:00

Yes, really. I've set my own fingers on fire (note to self- flaming scalpels are really hot), and I've also managed to set a glass chopping board on fire. Admittedly, it being washed in a 70% solution of methylated spirits didn't help.

The worse thing was, being strong alcohol, the flame was virtually invisible. So I went to wipe away the alcohol with a tissue, and set the tissue on fire. I threw the tissue to the floor and stamped out the flame, and the chopping board went out by itself.

It's been two months since my last accidental immolation, so I think I'm safe.

Lots of good news.

First, I nearly completed chapter 12 on Pulling the Strings. I got distracted though, but it's promising.

Secondly, I've managed to book Oct. 31st- Nov. 4th off from work, as well as Nov. 27th-30th. So I'll be starting at midnight, and will have plenty of finishing time as well.

Thirdly, I'm gradually developing NaNo #2 (see below), but at this rate a majority will have to be developed on the fly when I start writing. Still, better than nothing, eh?

The bad news however is this-
It's not unusual for me to do 10 hours of overtime in one week. This month I did 36 hours overtime in total, and getting home after midnight is a killer on my sleeping pattern. I only managed to get through the last two weeks through the good graces of Caffeine tablets.

Which means I'll be either asleep, or very, very tired during my free time on week days. Most of my writing will probably be done on the weekends.

But, I'm sure I'll manage.

Now, let me introduce you to the first species I have been developing- the Kanjavar (pronounced as spelt). The main protagonist, the non-human ambassador belongs to this aquatic race.

Google Docs
Word Doc (Download)

And here's the crew of the Rising Phoenix. It's a little sketchy at the moment, but I am developing the characters individually. That'll take a little while.

Listed as Occupation-Name-(Short Description courtesy of Seventh Sanctum)-Species
Google Docs
Word Doc (Download)

Find the Orson Welles reference and win an Imaginary Cookie!

That being said, I think I've worked out a general staffing structure for the larger non-military interstellar vessels. This is the maximum number of occupations related to the ship and it's general running that I think is necessary, and can be toned down to fit smaller vessels (as I did with the Rising Phoenix, which is running on slightly less-than skeleton crew).

Google Docs
Word Doc (Download)

I think I've caught them all, but if anyone can think of others, I'd be happy to hear them out.

I was going to leave you with a pearl of wisdom from a colleague, but it was too vulgar for a blog. So I decided against it.

Cheers,
Mike

Oh the pain, the pain of it all!

2008-07-04T09:40:00.002+01:00

Well, I'm not quite back online yet. This message is brought to you via the magic of mobile broadband. It's expensive, and has a cap on it so small a mouse could step on it. So I won't be doing this very often.

I actually have no idea how to set up my phoneline. You see, I live in a houseshare, and each room has it's own phoneline. As a result of no flat number, I don't know how to convey which line I want activating. So I need to call my landlord and ask for the line details.

Which is another problem. I work on a shift pattern of 1pm-9pm, Mon-Fri. Which means it's too late to call them when I get home, and usually I can't bring myself to wake up early enough to catch them before they're at work. So I'll call them tomorrow. Saturday! I mean Saturday. Not tomorrow. Otherwise I'll never do it.

Work is dull, but the people are great, and I've randomly developed mild hayfever. Which is odd, considering I've never had an allergy before, and I've always lived in rural areas.

Anyway, I'm gradually developing this year's NaNovel (and I've also promised myself that I'll try a bit more on Pulling the Strings). Unfortunately, until I've got proper broadband, I can't upload anything because of the stupidly small limits using my mobile.

I thought the best way to start developing a general plot, was to write a blurb-style plot summary. Unfortunately it came out wrong-

Earth is a barren wasteland, destroyed by climate change and biological warfare. Although terraforming projects are ongoing to repair the damaged planet, they need supplies. The solar colonies only have enough to support themselves, so the supplies must come from the prolific extrasolar colonies and outside aid.

Enter the Rising Phoenix. A rusting 700 year old cargo vessel, retrofitted with interstellar engines, and captained by Buriash Scrape, a lazy profiteer, who keeps his profit margins high by cutting his costs. He has an easy, safe job. As one of thousands of craft employed to transport supplies back to Earth, all he has to do is pick up and drop off.

That all changes when he takes up a commission to transport a non-human ambassador to Earth to assess what aid is needed. With nothing but money on his mind, Buriash happily picks up another traveller, who convinces the ambassador to take the ship off course. Around a dead planet he encounters Iskast, the Canisariad, a religious icon portrayed as a living goddess and healer of worlds.

But she's supposed to be dead, assassinated by an unfriendly race for the purposes of starting a war.

And now her life, and the lives of the others on board the Rising Phoenix are forfeit...

I think it sounds pretty good, although the captain was supposed to be a secondary character, and this blurb makes him sound like the main protagonist.

Ah well.

Until next time (which will be soon, I hope),

Mike.

Speedy Update...

2008-05-11T12:26:00.003+01:00

Chances are you won't be hearing from me for a while, since I've got a job!

Because of the shift pattern, I have to move nearby, which means finance is going to be an issue until my first pay goes in. So I won't be able to afford internet access or even a telephone line for sometime yet.

Nothing's ever easy, is it?

I'm officially starting on Wednesday, and I've signed a contract for a room within easy walking distance from work. Unfortunately, having bugger-all in funds available to me for the moment, means I'm going to have to scrounge (from my bank and government) for all I'm worth just so I can stay close enough to keep my job.

So, in a couple of months, I'll may have internet access again, and by then I might have enough material to be posting daily for a while... that should make up for it.

I definitely expect to be back online well before NaNoWriMo.

Cheers, and see you all soon,
Mike

P.S. This is where a lottery win would come in handy...
P.P.S. This is where a lottery ticket would come in handy... I'll grab one tomorrow.

The current stage of progress...

2008-05-02T18:48:00.003+01:00

As I promised, here it is. Every complete chapter of Pulling the Strings.

11 individual chapters, plus the full thing so far in PDF format for download.

Obligatory disclaimer for those that don't know- the following chapters contain language and a few even contain violence. The theme is horror, so I suppose you'd have guessed, but just in case.

Chapter 1- Google / Doc / Rtf / Txt / Pdf
Chapter 2- Google / Doc / Rtf / Txt / Pdf
Chapter 3- Google / Doc / Rtf / Txt / Pdf
Chapter 4- Google / Doc / Rtf / Txt / Pdf
Chapter 5- Google / Doc / Rtf / Txt / Pdf
Chapter 6- Google / Doc / Rtf / Txt / Pdf
Chapter 7- Google / Doc / Rtf / Txt / Pdf
Chapter 8- Google / Doc / Rtf / Txt / Pdf
Chapter 9- Google / Doc / Rtf / Txt / Pdf
Chapter 10- Google / Doc / Rtf / Txt / Pdf
Chapter 11- Google / Doc / Rtf / Txt / Pdf

And all chapters in a single PDF file- Pulling the Strings

And there it is. That took some doing... 56 links takes a while.

But anyway, if you want to comment, or criticise, please do. If you want to just read, feel free. If you want to show someone else, I won't complain.

These files are released under the Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 2.0 UK: England & Wales license, please see the information and links in each chapter (they're all under the same license, so you don't need to check them all) for further info.

I'll post new chapters as I finish them, but as I said in the previous post, more chapters may be a while.

Cheers,
Mike

And I'm back...

2008-05-01T20:38:00.003+01:00

Apologies to all, I know it's been over a month, but I simply haven't been feeling up to it. I haven't even been casual browsing on the internet for a long time.

Here's a quick update.

Truth be told, the unemployment is getting to me. Not so much the boredom, or the lack of funds, since I can just about cope with that (I'm good when it comes to a good siege mentality. I can hole up for days on nothing). But being virtually ignored by 98% of potential employers really gets my goat. Would it kill them just to send a stock letter/email telling me that I haven't been selected for an interview?

Personally, I find that incredulously rude. (Isn't incredulous a comical word? It sounds like something a cad would say...)

Besides, what is wrong with me? I have a good degree in a good subject. I understand I lack experience, but how will I get that experience if every employer is looking for experience?

I've had a total of 7 interviews to date, with big companies, and plenty of interest from recruitment agencies, which would suggest my applications and CV are not the problem.

Ah anyway. The good news is that there is a light on the horizon. After a decent interview, I'm actually being considered for a position (I've got a few days to impress them at the job itself). In a few days I may actually be employed. Wish me luck.

However, my computer is struggling for dear life. My disc drive has just given up the ghost (unless Windows is playing up again...), and I'm getting fault after fault. And I can't afford a new one.

But, in the words of Anne Davis- "If you can ride out the storm the sun will come again."

Now that my rant is over (I feel better already), onto writing.

I have attempted to continue Pulling the Strings, but I've walk into a precipice... I've no idea how to write what comes next. There's a patch of story that I've come to that unlike the rest of it, is only stored in my head as emotion. That is to say, I can feel it, but I can't understand it.
The rest of the story has always been pretty clear to me, I just had the problem of conveying it in writing. This patch, a crucial part of the plot also, is nothing but an odd blur.

And I've no idea why. Perhaps this is genuine writers block, but it doesn't feel like it. It's just... not there.

So, with a heavy heart I have to say Pulling the Strings is going to take a while (What's that? Vague understatement of the year award? I'm honoured). I'm going to keep coming back to it, but it may have to take the back burner in preparation for this year's NaNoWriMo.

I'm actually rather proud with what I've done so far. I've never written so much (and taken so long...). I have 11 complete chapters. But looking at this story arc, I'm not sure I can stretch it beyond 50,000 words (better late than never). So it may end up, when finished, a short story.

Now on to the slightly better news.

I think I was right when I said horror was not my genre. I had a look of what I had already written in SciFi (specifically the sequels to this years planned NaNovel), and I noticed that many of the chapters would have to be split in two due to their (unintentional) length. For instance, one unfinished chapter already lies at 6,000 words, and I did that in one sitting. The others are all over 3,000 words.

Understanding quantity isn't everything, it's quite clear that Science Fiction flows more easily for me than other genres. So I think I'll stick to that from now on.

Not to mention I've been having fun working out the setting for this years NaNovel. By November I'll be thoroughly ready to dig my teeth in.

It's still early days. I'm still learning what's good for me. But it seems the quiz was right... I'm a SciFi writer!

Anyway, I'll post everything I've got so far with Pulling the Strings tomorrow. Perhaps sometime in the future the precipice will fill in (maybe global warming will flood it so I can swim across), and I'll finish it.

But as I'm sure you'll agree, trying to force it will achieve nothing.

More characters for this November-

A stellar cartographer who's bound to a chair which suppresses a nanomachine infestation which is slowly and painfully turning his body into unidentified electronic devices.

A religious icon on the run from her own order who want to use her death as an excuse to start a war.

A human military general recently awakened from a thousand year cryogenic sleep, who has to adjust to a new life.

An overworked, underpaid life-support technician on a rusting vessel who is too busy to realise one of her coworkers is in need of serious help.

I'm in the process of fleshing out the species before I flesh out the characters, but I'm liking where I'm going.

Oh, and I've noticed a theme with this- I have a comatose girl with a pyrokinetic parasite in control, a non-human ambassador who's had surgery to make himself appear human, a general waking up from a long sleep, a navigator who's slowly being 'reborn' as small devices of unknown function, and a religious icon who's forced to accept she had been manipulated, all on a ship called the Rising Phoenix.

I see a pattern of death and rebirth. For this reason I've already come up with a name- From The Ashes.

This may change as I flesh out the plot.

A big thanks to Karen, by the way, for giving me a nudge. I didn't realise it had been so long.

Until tomorrow.

Cheers,
Mike

P.S. It's my birthday! And a cup of tea is waiting downstairs.

A mem... oh I can't do it. A unit of cultural transmission.

2008-03-15T16:06:00.004Z

Karen Clarke brought up an interesting... meme... which, despite being a silly word, apparently was coined by Richard Dawkins (no less!) in 1976 to mean- "A unit of cultural transmission, or a unit of imitation."

And it rhymes with 'gene'.

Anyway, linguistic gripes aside, here's the unit of cultural transmission-

1. Hardcover or paperback, and why?
Hardcover, because they're nicer to hold, and close properly after the first reading.
If only they weren't so damned expensive...

2. If I were to own a book shop I would call it…
WordsWorth (Get it? Though I bet it's already taken), and it would be a cheap second-hand bookshop similar to the Readers Rest in Lincoln.

On that note, my favourite bookstore is a tiny one in Retford called Bookworm. If they don't have it, they get it for you in a matter of days, and the staff are brilliant. If you're ever in Retford, it's near the bus station. Go browse!

3. My favourite quote from a book (mention the title) is…
I have three favourites- The first is from Terry Pratchett's 'The Truth'-
"His partner had just bought a twist of what the dealer had sworn was devil dust but which looked to Mr Pin very much like powdered copper sulphate, and this had apparently reacted with the chemicals from the Slab which had been Mr Tulip's afternoon snack and turned one of his sinuses into a small bag of electricity. His right eye was spinning slowly, and sparks twinkled on his nasal hairs."

The Second, from Justina Robson's 'Natural History'-
"'Make a wish,' Corvax said.
'I wish you'd piss off and leave me alone,' she said, 'I wish you'd kill Caspar and take his house.'
He got up and dressed. 'Keep the rock.'
'Sure.'
'If it does anything-'
She laughed. 'Baby, I'll shit bricks and build you a house.'"

And final the third (which I may not get right, since I only own the first and last of the Bromeliad), is from Terry Pratchett's 'Diggers'-
"The frog looked back and counted its companions- one, one, one and one. That made... one!"

4. The author (alive or deceased) I would love to have lunch with would be ….
Whoever came up with 'Beowulf'... understanding that it was originally an oral tale, not written. I would like to know what they were taking and where I can get some. The entire plot sounds like a drug-induced hallucination to me, and it probably was!

5. If I was going to a deserted island and could only bring one book, except the SAS survival guide, it would be…
Forget the SAS survival guide, how about a selection from the 'Worst Case Scenario' series. That or 'The New Aird's Companion In Surgical Studies'... just in case.

6. I would love someone to invent a bookish gadget that….
Would input the book directly into my head, preferably through a SD card reader or something, so that I didn't have people weirding me out because I dare attempt to read on a busy train...

7. The smell of an old book reminds me of….
A second hand bookshop... the huge ones. The Readers Rest in Lincoln has seven rooms... It may actually be bigger than either of the main new bookshops in Lincoln (but not both). I love browsing those kinds of shops.

8. If I could be the lead character in a book (mention the title), it would be….
Isol from 'Natural History'... because she's an unmanned artificially created sentient star vessel. That would rock, methinks.
That or Prunesqualor from 'Gormenghast'.

9. The most overestimated book of all time is….
Probably something I haven't got round to reading. That being said, I was terribly disappointed with 'The Silmarillion' (it read like a bible), and mildly disappointed with 'London Bridges' (but I've forgiven James Patterson for his lack of structure in his writings, seeing as he makes up for it in imagination).

10. I hate it when a book…
Loses its pages. I will eventually, when I have the time and money, going to learn to repair and bind books by hand.

So there you have it. The meme... I will get round to writing more, I promise. Unfortunately though, a recruitment company decided to spring an interview on me on Monday... which may or may not happen, but I'll only find out when I'm halfway there. I'm seriously considering asking to be taken off their records.

Cheers,
Mike

The keeping this blog alive song!

2008-03-04T21:40:00.002Z

Apologies for the lack of updates recently, but I'm afraid I haven't had much time to write at all.

I've had two interviews recently, both quite a distance away (so requiring planning, since I don't have a car... and can't drive, for that matter), and both for scientific posts (meaning I need to swot up).

I have another in less than a week, which is probably going to be the hardest, but I'm going to try and get some writing in tomorrow (Notably- CHAPTER 11... I know what I want to write, I just haven't had the motivation to write it yet).

Today's interview was in Hull, so nearly 2hours of train travel was required. On my way back, another character (smeg!) popped into my head (and I've no idea why... this one bares no relation to my week, never mind today).

What if you could control fate with the flip of a coin? And I don't mean using a coin to make decisions, or wishes a la 'Batman' or 'Queen's Nose' (god I'm such a geek... does anyone here remember The Queen's Nose? That kid's show with a magical 50p?).

I mean change the world, literally, simply by assigning opposite fates to either side of a coin in a 'heads he gets caught, tails he gets away' kind of way?

And what if, upon failing to catch the coin as it falls, it falls on the edge? He doesn't get caught, but being hit by a lorry travelling at 80mph means he doesn't get away, either.

Upon realising what you can do, would you refuse to toss a coin ever again for fear of the consequences, would you relish in the thought of 'playing God' (so to speak), or would you, rather cruelly, have someone else decide the meaning of each side of the coin before you toss it, thereby relieving yourself of the guilt without relinquishing the power?

And how would you decide which events to toss a coin for? Would it be a spur of the moment kind of thing, or for specific sets of events (e.g. minor ones that likely have little baring on the rest of the world, should you not want to cause too much damage)?

Unless I change my mind about NaNo '08, then this one ain't gonna get used for a while (though I have a potential storyline I could slot him into relatively easily).

Cheers,
Mike 'Heads you win, tails I lose.... hang on a minute, that's not right!'

No Beach Boys jokes. Anyone caught will be fined one slap.

2008-02-14T10:17:00.008Z

Well, I haven't posted for a while (really, there's been little to report).

Karen Clarke has tagged me for a meme (where in the hell does that word derive from? I always thought it was a sort of contraction of 'memory', or 'mnemonic'...), about five ways I 'raise my vibrations' (that's what I meant about the Beach Boys jokes).

Well, here goes, in no particular order-
===============================================
Being Outside
I love the outdoors. If I'm outdoors I'm happy. It doesn't have to be countryside (it frequently isn't, considering I'm unemployed and can't drive), but a quick walk does wonders. I have very fond memories of camping in the Yorkshire Moors (Goathland, to be precise) when I was younger, and every time I see the photos I took of Thomason Foss and Mallyan Spout (a couple of cataracts in the Goathland area, though I never found the third- the Water Arc), I want to get outside and see something else.

Never seen the waterfalls? Here- (forgive the quality, they were taken with a disposable camera years ago.)

Mallyan Spout

Thomason Foss

Playing with the Dogs
I'm an animal lover. I've been brought up around pets, and usually 4-6 at a time. In my lifetime I can remember 6 dogs, 9 cats (which consisted of 4 strays that I am aware of), 5 hamsters, 1 mouse, 4 rabbits (including a gigantic 12 year old grump called Splodge), and a bearded dragon. (Not all at the same time, obviously... this is over a period of 21.6 years).

Currently my family has just two dogs- an oversized Lhasa Apso called Benson, and a Pug/Lhasa Apso cross (and complete wuss) called Digby (who lived up to his name).

Benson isn't very bright (he'll be sniffing around the the floor for something that was dropped on the table) and lives for food. He has a wicked sense of humour (which normally involves him sitting on Digby... or pushing him off the sofa... or stealing his toys... or pushing him across the room), and hates builders. He also occasionally attempts to dig to China through the carpet.

I called Digby a wuss because he simply doesn't have the persistence to scare anyone off. He'll bark twice and then run away whimpering- when there's nobody around. He demands to play, and obsesses over a bright pink ball. His favourite game is to shove his favourite ball under the sofa, or welsh dresser, or sideboard, and then bark until someone gets it back out for him. And then he'll repeat the process within seconds of ball retrieval.

And if he manages to slip upstairs, he'll launch his ball at anybody at the bottom. Fun! With a capital black-eye.

Writing
Not necessarily actually writing, but working my imagination. Writing is just the only way I can get it on paper (since I suck at music, drawing, and photography). Throughout most of my free time, you'll find me concocting intricate plot lines that will never see the light of day, because they're either awful or too difficult to continue. I develop my characters in my head continuously evolving them into something more interesting, more usable in a plot. Not necessarily in their features, but their entire being. When I'm alone (because I have trouble thinking quietly), I'll consider various 'what-if's.

Music
As much as I love silence, occasionally you just can't beat getting up and playing air guitar to 'Sweet Child of Mine', although when you're on the train, it's usually best to restrain yourself. I'm not a fan of loud noises, mostly because my hearing is rather sensitive, but I have a list of songs I have to listen to loud. This list is mostly up-tempo music with high bass levels- rock, usually.

However, my entire catalogue of 1750 tracks consists of 82 genres and 528 artists. Never try and comprehend my entire collection- you'll just get a headache. Quick example- Nature Recordings, Folk, Classic Jazz and Doom Metal... on the same playlist.

So you can't accuse me of being narrow minded.

And now for something completely different-

Watching TV
Well, not exactly TV, since I always end up missing episodes (hurray for BBC i-Player!), but visual media in general. I can be rather picky about what I watch... it has to be involving from the start. Otherwise I'll have turned off before the end of the scene. Having discovered the many wonders of internet television, I've been discovering series that I either haven't seen for years (cartoons!) or have never even heard of because they've never been released in this country (The Tick- Live Action Series!). Some of it is incredible to the point of me having to sew my jaw back on.

Of course, I've only managed to watch it all because I've got far too much time on my hands.

I hate being unemployed. It makes you watch strange things out of boredom.
==============================================================

Well, I've seen this all over the place, but I don't think Anna Scott Graham has done it yet... so tag! You're it!

Cheers,
Mike

P.S. Okay... I couldn't fit this in, but a good cuppa never goes amiss, either. A guaranteed feel-good situation.

Hello future! Now leave before I call the police...

2008-02-05T13:00:00.000Z

I think I've decided on this year's NaNovel... which is good, because it's the one that needs the most development before I start writing it in November.

It's the sci-fi idea. The prequel of the prequel. The main book (which is the first of a planned trilogy chronicling the tumultuous times of a cargo vessel and its crew during war time), has a decent start, but I realised I hadn't developed the universe well enough to continue. So I started a prequel, to allow me to do this.

This prequel of two parts was to include the first official contact between humans and the various species of Andromeda (Messier Object 31) and its neighbour, M32 (not the road). This would allow me to describe the universe through the eyes of a newcomer.

But what of the Milky Way? I've never considered developing our own galaxy, so this new prequel will give me a chance to do that.

Of course I'm still deciding on the plot line (that'll come much later... it's not important yet), but seeing as the rest of the series is space-opera, it will probably involve some form of galactic conflict.

I have characters- a woman in a coma being controlled by a parasite, who's acting in 'her best interests'; an ambassador for an unknown species who looks human but has undergone extensive genetic surgery to hide his true self; a centuries old human, contaminated by time and forced to seal himself within a suit of armour to protect others from the contamination; a man whose voice alone can heal or destroy entire worlds; and a few others I am currently unable to summarise as well as those above.

So, now I've decided, whenever I am forced to take a break from Pulling the Strings, I can develop the Milky Way instead. Something entirely different, so I am not always working on the same sort of thing.

Oh, and on another note... I have an award! Given by Karen Clarke, thank you!

I think I'll frame it.
But without further ado, I'd better pass this on.

Anna Scott Graham, Elizabeth Rose Murray, and Mandifesto.

I was also about to give an award to Annieye, but I discovered she already had one. So be please with a second nomination.

There are a few others I think may be deserving, but these four are the ones that come to mind immediately. Will update the post when my brain is working later today.

Cheers,
Mike

10 days? Gordon Bennett!

2008-01-28T12:15:00.000Z

I love that profanity, don't you?

But anyway, it's been ten days since my last post so I thought I'd better do something.

I've been thinking about this years NaNoWriMo... mostly because I feel with a little more preparation, I could whomp the word count into oblivion. I know I can get a story out faster, I just need to find one that agrees with me.

During December, three ideas popped into my head. So every time I take a break from Pulling the Strings, I consider which I'd prefer to do. Never ask me to be a judge at anything... the competition would take years whilst I steadily weigh up the pros and cons of each entry.

The ideas are entirely different genres-

One is the sequel to PtS, except less subtle horror more 'Dark Fantasy'.
Another is a, for lack of a better term, a Space Opera. Its a prequel to the two other Sci-Fi projects I'm working on, and I felt the universe needed a little more development. What better way than with a prequel?
The last is total 'High Fantasy'. I've wanted to try the genre for a while, but it has never aroused my interest like the other two.

Now, my decisions can be heavily influenced by my environment, and what I see or hear. Every time I come over to option 1, something happens to set me back in the Sci-Fi mood. Hopefully I'll have decided and started to develop the idea before November, but that ain't guaranteed.

I most certainly can't do more than one, because that the main reason I've never got anything finished before. I'm not one-tracked enough yet to do multiple projects for this.

Ah well... It'll come eventually.

And speaking of eventually, here's another chapter (I'm only posting one chapter this time so I don't catch up to myself to quickly)

Pulling the Strings, Chapter 5-
Google Docs
Word Document
PDF
Rich Text Format
Text

Cheers,
Mike

Meme? No opera please...

2008-01-18T20:14:00.000Z

Rather unexpected, but I've been tagged to do a meme (q&a type thing) by Karen Clarke. I don't often do these, mostly because I'm boring, partly because I'm weird.

Ah well, here we go-

N.B. The formatting is having some sort of seizure, I think... and I can't seem to do anything about it. So, this post will look a out of kilter.

What's the last thing you wrote?
A covering letter to go with my CV. I wrote it fairly rapidly and then was unable to get through to the company by phone. I'd shake my fist at them, but they wouldn't see it through brick walls and over a mile of distance.

I know a covering letter doesn't really count, but other than that, it was chapter 11 of Pulling the Strings.

Was it any good?
It had better be. Otherwise I will shake my fist. And you won't like me when I'm shaking my fist!

What's the first thing you ever wrote that you still have?
First thing that I still have? I still have my Romanian language book from year seven. I sucked at it, and then the teacher left after one year. I kept it in case I decide to learn cryptography someday. My first attempt will be deciphering whatever the hell I wrote. Update due to next answer- it may be that poem. Can't be sure.

Write poetry?
I actually got published when I was at secondary school... twice. Not much of an achievement considering around 60 other kids from my school are in the same books. I still have one of the books. Although it just acts as further evidence that I'm not entirely on my trolley. Though looking at it now, it's not too bad considering I was eleven at the time.

Angsty poetry?
I'm rather introverted (although I appear extroverted... apparently quite common amongst introverts) to the point of being distant, so no.

Favourite genre of writing?
Fantasy and all it's sub-genres. I was a role-player from secondary school onwards, and it kind of clicked. But, whether I'm any good at it will have to wait until I actually finish something. I occasionally write non-fantasy short stories, but they're awful. So don't count.

Most fun character you ever created?
I like all my characters... a bit of a problem when I've got nearly 300 of them ready and waiting. And if I pick just one, I fear the others may lynch me... Also, I don't think my favourite has cropped up yet, his story has yet to be told...

Most annoying character you ever created?
My own personality is rather eclectic, so I've never really created a character that annoys the hell out of me. There are a few that I desperately want to get out on paper, but have yet to figure the right story for, and that's incredibly annoying. A few will appear in my next Nanovel.

Best plot you ever created?
I kind of like my current one, but I don't think I'm good enough (yet) to make it as good as it deserves to be. My problem is, I write on the fly. So my plots can take hard lefts at speed, but usually end up as a flaming wreckage after hitting a lorry or something. So I start again. Or, in the case of my Sci-Fi projects, start a prequel! And then another prequel!

Coolest plot twist you ever created?
I thought of it yesterday, and it's going to be toward the end of Pulling the Strings. It sets the stage for the next story. But I like the idea that my smelly old female hotelier keeps large psychopathic hunters in sealed boxes. And the real hotelier under the rug in the same room as said box. That happens in chapter 7.

How often do you get writer's block?
All the time. Or rather, I get writers diarrhoea... I have too much going on in my head that in no way relates to what I'm writing currently. And it can take days before I can think properly again. And like diarrhoea, most of the ideas stink.

Write fan fiction?
Nah, not really. I may do in the future, but it'll be because I'm using some RPG setting or something... Although, that Romantic Dark Science-Fiction Urban-Fantasy Lovecraftian-Horror Autobiographical Anthropomorphic Cold-War Slash Neolithic Thriller Epic Anne of Green Gables/Ghost in the Shell Spaghetti Western is pretty tempting...

Do you type or write by hand?
I'm trying to write my current Nanovel by hand, which may be part of the reason it is going so slow. I type at up to 70 words a minute, and hand write about 30wpm. But it was a valiant attempt to peel myself away from the computer. I type everything else though. My handwriting is awful.

Do you save everything you write?
No... that would leave evidence. A number of my characters were actually born (metaphorically, obviously. I didn't literally give birth to several adult figures before my GCSEs. I was too young.) whilst I was at secondary school. I burnt what I wrote back then. It was atrocious. And now the characters have evolved beyond recognition to what they were back then. So in a sense, I save the characters, but not necessarily the writing.

Do you ever go back to an old idea long after you abandoned it?

It tend to be the characters... as I said above, I revamp and rebuild the characters until I'm satisfied with them. Occasionally they're nothing like how they began.

What's your favourite thing that you've written?
It was a pun I wrote at the end of a mock-up radio play for GCSE English- "Sponsored by the Teachers Union: It's good to chalk." It was the worst gag I have ever used, and it brings fond memories. Is it obvious I'm prone to nostalgia? As for actual writing, I keep coming back to a pet project called 'The Zombie Hunter Diaries'. Which is basically a surrealist diary which as much humour (which includes puns and the earlier mentioned double entendres) as I can muster (which is why it's been sat on my hard drive for nearly a year without an update). And it has a moral about not doing drugs... or rather it will do when I finally finish it.

What's everyone else's favourite story that you've written?
Well, considering most folk have never even seen most what I've written, the best reception I've got was from the first few chapters of Pulling the Strings which I posted recently. Which is good! Because that means I can only go up! My plan is fool proof...

Do you ever show people your work?
No... It doesn't happen, except in the case of Pulling the Strings. But, seeing as I have no intention of getting published (yet), I'll be making most of my stories available online anyway. So I'll probably post a lot more. I lack the confidence to do so, though perhaps posting more of my work will help with that. We'll see.

Did you ever write a novel?
Yeah... if you count that I've written over 100,000 spread over 9 different projects... It's novel sized, but if I glued it all together it wouldn't be coherent. I have 9 projects on going, so I haven't got 'novelist' under my belt yet, but I've got a good start.

Ever written romance or teen angsty drama?
No... but that doesn't mean I won't. I get confused with people, so writing romance doesn't come naturally to me. So I tend to avoid it. But, although I won't write a romance novel, I intend to attempt to include romance in my projects in the future. A word of warning now- it will not be spectacular. Expect it to suck... badly. Now I've lowered your expectations, I can't go wrong!

What's your favourite setting for your characters?
Slightly in the future (a couple of years or so), because it allows me to write a little bit of fictional notable history without creating my own alternate time line. But if Monte Carlo really does disappear, I'll be in trouble... I tend to make locations up, since I'm not very well travelled, but they tend to be set in the English speaking West, since that's what I know most about. Though I've never been concerned too much about accuracy... I write fantasy.

How many writing projects are you working on right now?
Hmm... I read this Meme on Karen Clarke's blog, yet I failed to foresee this question... 9 projects. Two fantasy, five sci-fi (one superhero, one time travel, three space opera), one horror, one surrealist comedy... and those are the ones I've started. Once I've developed a few more characters, that number will probably increase.

Do you want to write for a living?
No... I'd never get any exercise. I'd lose all my weight through stress and insomnia instead. I need something a little less imaginative.

Have you ever won an award for your writing?
*comment deleted for being too sarcastic* Seriously, though. I've got to finish something first.

Ever written something in script or play format?
Yeah... that's... oh, project number 10. It involves an evil pineapple and Santa getting bitten.

What are your five favourite words?
Creationist Evolutionist Secular Agnostic and Pneumonoultramicroscopicsilicovolcanoconiosises (its the plural of a condition caused by the inhalation of a fine silica dust. Commonly seen in miners. At 49 characters, it's also the longest technical word in the English language). The first four are how I describe my religious beliefs, and the last is my drunk test- if I can still say it, I'm not drunk. I've yet to reach that stage of drunkenness.

Do you ever write based on yourself?
Yes, all the time. Not in the sense that the hero of every story is a tall, overweight bespectacled geek with no social life and a beard made of spring steel, but in the sense that every one of my characters is an exaggeration of one of my many personality traits. My personality is so eclectic that few people have ever known the same me. It makes me hard to gauge, apparently.

What character have you created that most resembles yourself?
Me. The diary writer in 'The Zombie Hunter Diaries' is actually a pretty close representation of myself, except a little more dense. It's certainly how I would act in the case of random kitchen utensils appearing before me in a zombie outbreak.

Where do you get ideas for your other characters?
Gah... erm, from everywhere. I actually start with a setting and a rough story, and maybe a couple of characters. As I develop the idea, other characters just pop into my head. They could have come from anywhere. Some of the characters don't even belong in the story I'm thinking about (hence my large database of characters), but they have a barely noticeable link to the characters that do belong. After I get the other characters though, it becomes a case of smashing them to pieces and rebuilding them into something that might be worth writing about. Then I take ideas from absolutely anywhere. From people I see on the street, to the lamppost outside the living room window that keeps turning off. I'm a little too here-there for my methods to make any real sense. They sort of plop into place...

Do you ever write based on your dreams?
Not any more. I don't dream very often any more, which actually disturbs me a little. But my last dream involved me attempting sudoku, which isn't particularly interesting for a story. I balls it up though, got two 9's in a column, right at the end! I had to start all over again.

Do you favour happy endings, sad endings, or cliff-hangers?
A mixture of all three. In a single ending go sad>happy>cliff hanger. Keeps the reader on their toes. Actually, I might try that... I haven't written a proper ending for anything yet. I've got a cliffhanger waiting, but the mixture of emotion? Hmmm...

Have you ever written based on an artwork you've seen?
All the time. I frequently trawl sites like conceptart.org and gfxartist.com, not just because the stuff there is awe-inspiring, but because occasionally a painting will appear that sparks an entire idea. I used art as inspiration all the time whilst running RPG campaigns.

Are you concerned with spelling and grammar as you write?
Always. I'm okay with slang and contractions, but my spelling has to be perfect. I have spell checkers running in the background to pick up mistakes on the fly. Although I'm fed up of being told Scunthorpe should be spelt 'Xanthippe'.

A quick edit- I've just spent 30minutes checking this post over for mistakes... A frequent occurrence, unfortunately.

Ever write something entirely in chatspeak? (How r u?)
Almost never. I hate chat speak. My text messages are constantly spilling over into another message because I use proper spelling and grammar. I'll only ever use partial chat speak under duress. What concerns me most is that I actually know someone who speaks chat speak. Instead of laughing he'll actually say 'lol'.

Entirely in L337?
Anyone who uses or speaks (there are a few) '1337' and takes it seriously needs to be beaten with a stick. It's moronic.

Was that question completely appalling and un-writer like?
There is no such thing as a stupid question. There are only stupid people. Unless of course you look at a 4x4 grid and ask "How did you get 16 again?" (This questions and others similar was frequently asked at UNIVERSITY. By the members of a class my course was lumped with for Quantitative Research Methodology).
Does music help you write?
Definitely. Music, like all art, is a form of storytelling. Except mainstream pop, and teeny-bop. Those genres sound like a broken record. Although the music itself doesn't promote a good environment for writing, Power Metal contains some epic stories that are severely over looked. Just listen to Nightwish, an operatic metal (sub genre of power metal) group from Scandinavia.

Quote something you've written. The first thing to pop into your mind.
"Today two more items, Mr Hatchet and Mr Shovel, appeared in my back porch. They appeared rather- second hand. So I pulled out the Mr Muscle and started cleaning. Later I had a game of Mr Bucket and watched Mr Men on the television. The rather pleasant period was unfortunately interrupted by a rude, and rather loud knocking at the door. An unwashed and foul visage of an old man stood there, asking for my brains. At first I thought he was the taxman, but then I realised no taxman I knew wore a woollen sweater in summer. "

There... done. And because I'm not sociable animal, I don't know enough folk to tag. I have a couple in mind, I don't think the latter reads this, so I'll have to pluck up the courage to ask them to do it. I would be interested to see the answers given by Anna Scott Graham and S.Y. Affolee.

Hmm... I miss playing tag. Even though I was usually the last to be 'it'.

Cheers,
Mike

Interesting source of inspiration...

2008-01-16T19:33:00.000Z

Though not an unusual one, I expect. I've been trawling through the Internet Archive, and found my way to its Old Time Radio section. I found a good Orson Welles series called The Lives Of Harry Lime, about a con-man who is always on step ahead of his rivals/the law. The quality of the plot is unusual for its time (considering it was a 30-minute radio broadcast in the 50's, a time of Pulp Adventure).

Though it's unlikely to help me with my current NaNovel (if I can still call it that), it may be a small help with my construction of plots in the future.

And speaking of Pulp Adventure, I've finally managed to obtain copies (electronic, unfortunately, from the same source as above) of a few Doc Savage novels. I've only ever read The Man Of Bronze, and have always wondered why this way of writing hasn't really been modified for more modern expectations.

Perhaps I'll try Pulp Adventure this NaNoWriMo. Hell, I'm going to keep trying different genres and styles until I find one that agrees with me completely.

Cheers,
Mike

P.S. I usually focus around the various (numerous, stupid quanities of) fantasy genres (which include Sci-Fi and Horror, and Pulp Adventure), because they seem to click with me. I may try something else in the future, but for now I'll probe this gargantuan genre until I decide perhaps it ain't for me after all and move on. Then I'll read Anne of Green Gables. And then everyone will be sorry... ;)

----------------
Now playing: Harry Lime 51-11-09 - Art Is Long & Lime is Fleeting iTunes
via FoxyTunes

Double entendres!

2008-01-13T17:33:00.000Z

I hate double entendres. They can be a useful comedic tool (which I occasionally employ), but when I'm writing something serious, I spot them far to easily.

For instance, when writing dialogue spoken by the old woman running the decrepit hotel, I've got interjecting- she coughed again, which she followed with a wet hawk. Meaning she cleared her mucus-y throat.

But I'm so tempted to say- and by that I don't mean a moist Merlin. And by that I don't mean a damp icon from Arthurian legend. And by that I don't mean something Guenevere kept in her bottom drawer.

And it goes on... (sorry about the Guenevere gag, but I'm still in Carry On mode. Carry On Dick is on tonight!)

I've hit a muddy patch on the road to novel-dom anyway, so I'll take another break and try again when my creative juices are flowing a little more readily. Today has been looking grimy anyway (overcast, slightly cool but stuffy at the same time...), not the most pleasant atmosphere.

Cheers,
Mike

Summary

2008-01-11T17:04:00.000Z

For those who haven't read the chapters online yet, here's a quick summary-

I've so far written 10 chapters (the first 4 of which are online, links below), so I'm far from finished.

The tale is a horror set in a fictional dying Lincolnshire town called Tullton-on-shaw (Shaw being a fictional river running along side the town). This town suffered a major loss when its prime industries- the engineering and steel works- went bankrupt and closed down, causing rampant unemployment that the area could not support. A politician by the name of John Thyme managed to heave Tullton onto crutches so that it may limp on by managing to secure a new hospital (general and psychiatric) in the town.

That was 20-odd years ago. The population now stands at below 2,000 and falling. Only a few essential businesses remain, a couple of pubs, two (decrepit) hotels, and of course the hospital. The hospital itself is running on skeleton staff and is under threat of closure.

A man resembling the image of Doktor Shnabel von Rom (the beaked doctor of Rome, the 'traditional' image of plague-time doctors wearing beaked masks and thick cloaks) has arrived in the town, and seems to appear whenever anything goes wrong.

One of the residents of Tullton, Victoria Bancroft, a synaesthete, has started to hallucinate. Words float in front of her eyes, speaking to her, and seem to respond to her and what she sees. The words begin when she first sees the Doktor, and eventually direct her to the mystery of the disappearing population. Residents have not been seen for days, and others are seen wandering in a trance like state muttering about 'wrong numbers'. She, and two other residents go searching for the elderly owner of the local General Store, and get caught up in it.

Two visiting psychology lecturers discover they cannot leave the town after their rental car suffers a mystery breakdown. Just after seeing the Doktor, and a set of numbers written on the
car window, that seem to be written all over Tullton.

And then there's the problem of Ersatz. A brawny mystery who's quite obviously off his trolley, in a violent way. He hunts the Doktor with such zeal that anyone nearby will likely be seen as an enemy.

It's not 'blurb' quality, I know... but hopefully it'll stir up some interest.

If you want to read the first four chapters (more coming up), the links are available here-
Chapters 1 & 2
Chapters 3 & 4

Any feedback would be appreciated, but it isn't obligatory. And you're allowed to be harsh. I'm not easy to offend.

Cheers,
Mike

"I want my lipped flanges!"

2008-01-10T00:39:00.000Z

Sorry about the title, but I was listening to a vintage radio comedy sketch show "Beyond Our Ken" this morning... the quote above was uttered by Kenneth Williams (Not the Ken of the show's title- that was Kenneth Horne). It's been making me laugh all day.

A quick update, seeing as it's now... this morning (0045).

I've finally got round to carrying on (no pun intended), and have finished chapter 10. Although I'm keeping an eye on my word count (I do all the time, no matter what I'm writing), I'm not going to bother making a fanfare of it. I'm going to use chapters as milestones instead.

But anyway. Victoria has been described, the Mystery Letters are being a little more chatty, and the second of the main antagonists has been introduced.

I'm too tired to do the next chapter (I started just a couple of hours ago), but hopefully I'll be writing away tomorrow.

Cheers,
Mike

Chapters 3 & 4

2007-12-31T13:12:00.000Z

I haven't got back into the groove yet, but I can feel it coming.

But in the mean time, here's chapters 3 & 4.

Thanks to Karen Clarke for the feedback last time, I'll be keeping it in mind when I get round to editing.

Chapter 3-
Google Docs (online viewer)
Word Document
PDF
Rich Text Format
Text

Chapter 4-
Google Docs (online viewer)
Word Document
PDF
Rich Text Format
Text

A little note- Google Documents isn't very good at keeping the formatting of the uploads. So it's spacing an positioning may be a little weird.

Anyway, I'll get back to it soon.

Cheers, and happy New Year,
Mike

Merry Christmas!

2007-12-24T10:18:00.000Z

It's upon us again! The riots, the punchups... ah, Xmas shopping.

Luckily, I got mine done last week. But I still went to the supermarket yesterday- for just 6 minor items. Took me an hour to get out... Reminds me of that joke about two idiots starving after being locked in a Supermarket...

Ah well. Anyway, I'm going to continue Pulling The Strings come boxing day.

Hopefully.

I might be in that frame of mind by then.

Anywho- Merry Christmas!

Cheers,
Mike

"Just remember-" "Remember what?" "I forget."

2007-12-09T11:39:00.000Z

So forgot to post the first chapter. But here it is- I'm not really keen on posting the chapter as a blog post, so I'm linking to it instead.

Here's the first two chapters- remember they're going to suck on toast, but any criticisms are welcome. Even explosive packages in the post... though I'm not going to tell you my address.

Chapter 1
GoogleDocs- http://docs.google.com/Doc?id=dczcm9vn_32hmrb2xds
.doc- http://michaelrbarlow.googlepages.com/Chapter1.doc
.rtf- http://michaelrbarlow.googlepages.com/Chapter1.rtf
.txt- http://michaelrbarlow.googlepages.com/Chapter1.txt
.pdf- http://michaelrbarlow.googlepages.com/Chapter1.pdf

NB- Don't bother trying to view my site. I'm only using it as storage for now, so you'll only get a page marker until I sort it out.

Chapter 2
GoogleDocs- http://docs.google.com/Doc?id=dczcm9vn_33wkd4qtrq
.doc- http://michaelrbarlow.googlepages.com/Chapter2.doc
.rtf- http://michaelrbarlow.googlepages.com/Chapter2.rtf
.txt- http://michaelrbarlow.googlepages.com/Chapter2.txt
.pdf- http://michaelrbarlow.googlepages.com/Chapter2.pdf

I'll understand if you're traumatised by this drivel, but scratching at your eyes and denouncing your religion may be a little extreme...

If it's really bad, I'll send you a virtual cookie and a virtual full refund.

Cheers,
Mike

"It's obsidian!" "Oh, I don't think it's that bad..."

2007-12-06T23:26:00.000Z

Alright, I need an off switch... seriously.

I've taken a break from my NaNovel, because my mood hasn't been playing game. Instead I've returned to my other "projects" (do air quotes if you like... I think that word sounds a little too official considering I'm a bit-and-bob/here-and-there type of writer) to make sure they don't go stale.

I've also thought about what to do for next year.

And that's when the problems arose- I've got three ideas already. And have added 20+ characters to my ever-expanding pile in the process. Why do I do this? At this rate some of my characters will never see the light of day (when I say the character pile, which now stands at around 260, I mean the pile of at least partially developed characters which may do well as MCs in a story, not just a pile of random characters I thought of. That pile was locked away a long time ago).

Ah well... since I'm only writing for fun, without a desire for publication (at the moment), I suppose I shouldn't worry about it too much.

I'm going to keep working on these three ideas, see which one grabs me by the hair and slams my head into the keyboard. I imagine it'll be the one wearing the Mexican wrestling mask and telling the audience how he's going to pummel me.

Cheers,
Mike

P.S. I'll post the first chapter of my NaNovel tomorrow.

P.P.S. One of the ideas is a Dark Science Fiction Urban Fantasy Thriller Epic with a twist of lemon. I'm going to see how long I can get the genre, and if I can get it long enough to use as blurb. There's fun to be had here!

Person- "Oh, you're writing? What's you're book?"
Me- "It's a Romantic Dark Science-Fiction Urban-Fantasy Lovecraftian-Horror Autobiographical Anthropomorphic Cold-War Slash Thriller Epic. It's Anne of Green Gables/Ghost in the Shell fan-fiction, set in a neolithic Moscow."
Person- backs away slowly, whimpering over their mobile phone to the police.

It's just a good job I've never read Anne of Green Gables. I think writing something like that would probably make my eyes bleed. And get me arrested for literary terrorism.

And now ladies and gentlemen, my imagination, for your viewing pleasure will- SCHLORP -implode? Wait, that's not in the script!

2007-12-02T10:17:00.000Z

Well, true to my word, I'm continuing. Yesterday I started chapter 10! So, slowly but surely, I will finish this book. Even if it means strapping myself to a chair and soldering my pen to my left hand and being fed via drip. That may be a little extreme, come to think of it.

But, in the mean time, I'll be posting a link to each chapter I've done, probably starting sometime next week when I've sorted it out. So if anyone does fancy reading bits, I'll be happy to hear any comments, even ones filled with expletives.

The most irritating thing I've discovered, is that pretty much at 11:30pm on November 30th, the entirety of the plot remainder was revealed to me in an explosion of pictures in my head. This was rather painful, as internal explosions are not the most comfortable experience, but still rather relieving. And then I wanted to punch my imagination for not letting me know this earlier, as I really want to write now.

Damn it!

Ah well, now I've got to trawl the NaNoWriMo forums, scrapbooking posts that may come in handy.

Cheers,
Mike

"One false move and I'll shave her head. I shaved mine and I'm just crazy enough to do it!"

2007-11-26T18:28:00.000Z

Yeah... ouch. I finally finished typing up my progress. I'm now definitely over 20,000 words, but wasn't yesterday. I wrote another chapter yesterday which pushed it over the mark.

Crazy is right, I'm in that kind of mood. Although I don't have the courage (or the body type to carry it off) to shave my head, I'm just at a point in the story were insanity is going to be helpful.

The last chapter involved one of my MMCs (the crazy one, Ersatz), hacking a demon to shut it up. He then proceeded to torch a church (after killing the congregation, but leaving the priest alive but crippled) because it was 'unclean'.

So as Ersatz descends into lunacy, my British FMC is about to wake up (after being knocked unconscious in a psychiatric unit stairwell) in a locked room, with another voice bouncing off the walls. There's more than one voice in her head now, except this one she can hear but cannot see (unlike the 'mystery letters', which can be seen but not heard. I've just thought of that... it may prove interesting). She's got a mirror, so I'll finally describe her (in chapter 10?)!

Cheers,
Mike

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Now playing: Within Temptation - Jane Doe [*] iTunes
via FoxyTunes

I'm giving her all she's got captain!

2007-11-25T13:37:00.000Z

Well, there's no chance I'm going to have 50,000 words by the end of the month. I think I've just scraped over 20,000 yesterday (I wrote an additional three chapters), but to do 5,000 words a day every day until the end of November simply isn't going to happen.

I'm not going to stop mind you.... I'm going to finish the damned book, whether it wants me to or not, yeah!

That being said, my characters are trying to mess me around, I swear. A secondary character and protagonist/motivation by death has turned into a puppet... much, much earlier than I had anticipated (I was going to kill him, oh well). The mystery letters (one of my FMCs has synaesthesia- she sees subtitles when people talk, except she also sees words which aren't being spoken.... sort of like a weird schizophrenia) have turned less sinister and now I don't know what the hell they are (they've actually tried to save her life... only a few chapters back they were trying to make her vomit), and Ersatz was locked in a small wooden crate (he's 6'4" by the way) for several weeks if not months. Boy, he's pissed. And aching after the other FMC kicked him in the crotch- hard.

Interesting developments.

I blame the book entirely. I planned it, had a minor unrestrictive outline, but still couldn't get on with it. I've obviously chosen poorly (just don't ask me to find the Holy Grail, whatever you do).

Next year, I'll try something that's more my style. I'm obviously not very good at subtle horror.

On the bright side, I have two writing companions (teddy bear/plush things) for next year- in the form of a monkey my parents bought me when I was 3month old. He's threadbare and slightly squashed, but what do you expect from a 21 year old toy. I thought they'd got rid of him a long time ago. Next to him is another monkey, bought at the same time, but in pristine condition because I favoured the other.

Great stuff!

Cheers,
Mike

P.S. I've got a lot of typing up to do- but seeing as I got up a little late today, I've got three chapters to write. Let's what magic I can make today, eh?

The perils of procrastination, and the dangers of feral transitional paragraphs...

2007-11-19T16:50:00.000Z

I've passed 12,000 words... which is great! I'll be writing chapter 6 today (hopefully).

I didn't write anything on Saturday... instead I played Star Wars: Knights of the Old Republic and its sequel all day. Which kind of forced me to write something instead when my right arm started spasming... it can't really cope with too much pissing around. Luckily I'm left handed, so I was still able to write chapter 5 yesterday whilst I rested my right arm.

I would have started writing earlier today, but I got confused by a job application... whatever happened to 'send us your CV'? No.... now it's 'describe you motivations, team skills, customer service abilities, psychological aberrancies, your relationship with Richard Gere and why you want to work with us. Oh, and a few educational and work experience details wouldn't go amiss, either.'

Ah well... it's posted now.

Does anyone else have problems with transitional paragraphs? Like describing movement from one location to another, that really ought to have a sentence or two for it (instead of just miraculously teleporting there) but adds nothing to the story?

There was one point where two of my MCs walked a couple of hundred metres from a garage to the train station. Due to a slight malfunction (the train had derailed slightly), they were unable to leave, so they walked back to the garage to ask the mechanic about the bus service. Of course, this gave me a problem... I had already described the journey one way, and now I had to quickly say something about them going back along the same road. I think I managed to avoid repeating myself, but you see my problem right?

Cheers,
Mike

Total word count- 12,125

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Now playing: Diana Krall - Peel Me a Grape Winamp
via FoxyTunes

Quick update....

2007-11-12T00:02:00.000Z

Remind me to never, ever, write more than a chapter before typing up my progress. My arms hurt like hell now. Because I was typing up, not continuing the story, I didn't bother taking a break, thinking 'it'll be finished in a few minutes, so I might as well keep going'.

Ow.

Anywho, I'm now at 9,758 words. Which is about what I expected.

Also, a couple of days back, I was told of a good source of Cadbury's Wispa in my home town. I thought nowhere in town sold it! I was even struggling to find it in Lincoln... but now I have a good source, I can stock up. So my cravings for retro-chocolate are sated for now (retro-chocolate, hell, any chocolate, is good for the imagination and thus, writing. Cadbury's Wispa, doubly so). Next I'll be wanting a Caramac...

Damn it! Now I do want one...

Cheers,
Mike

Singing the 'Not Updated In A While' song...

2007-11-11T15:22:00.000Z

I didn't type up my progress. So I still don't know my actual word count.

That being said, I've almost finished chapter 4, and going on the basis that I write (by hand) around 350 words per side of A4 in my lined notebook, I'm probably quite close to 10,000 words. I'm hoping to get chapter started and finished today.

I'm not getting into it as much as I could. I don't think it's my best of idea's to go for a 'subtle' horror. I quite plainly suck at it. But, if I were to change the plotline now, I would either a) ruin the story, or b) guarantee that I won't beat the deadline.

So, instead I'm going to soldier on. Eventually I may start to love my story, and when that happens I should start zooming ahead. I actually have another character I've been wanting to write about for years, so I'm going to include him.

Meet 'The Lawyer'-

An animated limbless corpse sat on a chair facing a rotting wall in a dark, decrepit room. He was murdered by a client decades ago, and is now trapped in his cadaver. He's not bitter though, oh no. He's let the decades of loneliness pass by doling out advice to passing mediums and spirits, and talking to himself. His main desire is for someone to come and turn his chair to the window so that he doesn't have to look at the Wet Rot any more.

The house itself is possessed by his client. It allows people in and out, but it won't let him leave. It continues to torment him to this day.

He's not really developed, but I've decided he's got two chapters- somewhere in the middle for a little exposition, and the epilogue. Hopefully he'll spice up the story a little.

Cheers,
Mike

'The Lawyer' character- (c) 2007 Michael Barlow.

Quick update 33 1/2

2007-11-08T00:36:00.000Z

Again, I haven't done as much as I intended. However, I've done well over 1,000 words which is nice. I'll post the actual word count when I've typed it up.

That could take a while though, seeing as I haven't finished the chapter yet, and I've told myself (in a firm voice), that I shouldn't type it up until I've finished a chapter. That way, I spend less time typing up, and more time actually writing.

I've just noticed that in three chapters I have not described what my first FMC (who was introduced in the first line of the first chapter) looks like. At all. In fact, I now have a better description of a secondary character than my FMC. That's not to say I don't have a description, I have quite a detailed one ready to tear up and piece together with magazine cuttings like a ransom note. It's just I haven't found a good space to fit it in. So I've concocted a plan... a plan so devious, Moriarty himself may have even turned his nose up at it.

Basically, whilst she's rustling through a hospital (in her next chapter), I'm going to drop a speck of dust in her eye, and force her to look in a mirror to remove it. Then I'll describe her. Until then, she's lucky she's fictional. If this were real life, she'd wake up, go to the bathroom, glance in the mirror whilst she's brushing her neck and splashing mouthwash everywhere, and think- "Hang on, I haven't got a face! I wonder why I haven't noticed that before?"

It's 12:40am now, but as fashion dictates, I'm just tired enough not to be able to write, but not tired enough to sleep.

Smeg.

Cheers,
Mike

"I was dead at the time!" Tales of procrastination

2007-11-06T22:45:00.000Z

Bonus to anyone who gets the quote.

I haven't written a word today. I've been too concerned with a rather large and daunting graduate scheme application form. I started the form on Sunday, after much psyching up, and had to force myself to finish it today. Or rather, I took all Monday training my dogs to attack me should the event arise where I didn't submit the form today. I think it's slightly less extreme than hiring a hitman to kill you for not going to the gym everyday (I can no longer find that news story... but it was hilarious).

Tomorrow, my parents (yeah, being just out of university and unemployed, I live with my parents. I really need a job...) are going to be out all day, moving furniture and boxes over to my sister's flat. Not that it'll help. I mean, if it's already flat then piling on furniture isn't going to make it more 3D.

So anyway, I've got to look after the dogs. So I'm going to take over the radio, tune into theJazz (I still want to call it Jazz FM... I'm only 21! Help Me!), and write like a chav driving down an empty street in the middle of the night.

That is to say, very quickly. Not shouting obscenities at pedestrians and blaring awful 'hardcore' dance music with so much bass the cheap 'quality' sound system can't deal with any other part of the sound spectrum, laughing idiotically at small dogs and spitting out of the window.

Erm... that's probably the longest version of that gag I've used.

Anyway, I'm to going to relax tonight and watch Mystery Science Theater 3000.

Cheers,
Mike

The Death of the Schedule (did I even have one? I don't know now...)

2007-11-06T01:46:00.000Z

Chapter 2 is finished, finally. My word count is not accurate, as OpenOffice says I've got 5,838, whilst GoogleDocs says I've got 5,799. I've been taking the lowest count so far, but I'll be very happy when the official counters are back online.

Looking around the other NaNo-ers, it would seem I'm not as far behind as I thought, but I'm still not on schedule.

So I burnt the schedule. I hated that thing anyway. As it lay in my waste-paper basket, screaming in anguish as it was engulfed by the flames of hatred, I laughed. I was watching Henry's Cat at the time... I love that cartoon. Realising that it wasn't my finger that was screaming (it usually is. Ever since that curse... I've had a screaming ninja pinky of death), but the schedule, I promptly put it out of its misery, and then shot it. Then fed it through the shredder and... did I go too far?

Anyway, to cut a long story short, I'm going to stop with what has been referred to as 'word count envy', and simply write what I can when I can. Or rather, write what I should. If I write what I can, then it may be unsuitable for human consumption.

Or canine consumption for that matter.

And schedules taste nice fried with a bit of English mustard...

Cheers,
Mike

Ahh, there we go. Insomnia's sweet delirium... is somewhere in the corner. Under a pile of paper and an A3 map of a fictional town. I'll dig it out another time.

Total word count- 5,799

Quick Update #2

2007-11-05T12:30:00.000Z

Well, I didn't break the 5,000 word mark. But I'm close, at 4,656 words. I can feel a very large boot coming in my direction, but my head isn't working properly at the moment.

The weird thing is, I wrote 1,244 words last night. When I started the second chapter, I wrote 1,248 words.

Despite the weird coincidences (and my amazing knack of trying to spell 'weird' with a 'q'), I'm getting too far behind schedule.

It is only day five. Perhaps I'm just a slow starter.

Cheers,
Mike

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Now playing: Bernadette Seacrest and her Provocateurs - When The Sun Comes iTunes
via FoxyTunes

Quick update...

2007-11-05T00:54:00.000Z

It's 00:55, so I'll be brief so I can go to bed.

Writing by hand seems to help a lot. As does jazz playing in the background. Considering I don't often listen to jazz, this came as a bit of a surprise. I discovered this when I grew bored of ClassicFM and when I sat down to start writing by hand on the day I bought the notebook, I switched over to 'theJazz'. They had Cleo Laine playing, and I managed to write considerably well (although still under what I had intended).

But anyway, using these methods, I've a feeling I've passed the 5,000 word mark. I can't be sure as I haven't typed it up yet.

I went into detail about the workings of the human eye, in an effort to explain congenital aphakia (absence of the lens), which was good for about three paragraphs. I might try going into detail about how things work again...

I haven't finished the second chapter yet, and I may have to wrap it up soon and move on before it becomes too long. My overview so far has actually been too short on the time scale. These first two chapters were supposed to be one (I thought I would have trouble with the beginning. I am, but not in the sense I originally thought). And now it seems the 'first chapter' will actually be three. Which is good. Makes me feel better about being behind schedule...

Now hands up who knows my definition of 'brief'!

Will post a word count when I've typed it up tomorrow.

Cheers,
Mike

[Edit] After rustling around some blogs, it's now 01:30... hands up who knows my definition of 'going to bed'.

Better...

2007-11-03T22:07:00.000Z

Well, it didn't go exactly to plan... I realised I couldn't remember how I described my characters, so I had to go back home and turn the computer on.

On the upside, I am writing the next chapter by hand. It seemed to do the trick, and I've got 1,250 more words. Not as much as I'd hoped, but it's early days yet, and tomorrow's Sunday.

After deciding that there wasn't much point to me travelling to the park to write if I wasn't going to get very far (Lincoln was packed full of people), I thought I might start on the train back. Fat chance.

Although the train was very quiet (three carriages for about ten people), a small child decided it wanted to scream all the they way to my home town. Not for any particular reason, not because it was upset or hungry or trying to get attention (well, perhaps he was trying the get attention, although his parents weren't exactly ignoring him). No, it just fancied screaming in a very high pitch. For the entire twenty minute journey. Thank goodness the journey wasn't any longer, or I would have been tempted to smash a window and use a large shard of glass in a rather nasty way.

So, it seems I'm only really going to get any writing done at home. I'll keep trying whenever I'm out, but it seems unlikely.

Cheers,
Mike

Total word count- 3,421

P.S. I think I'm going to have fun writing Plague Mask Guy... it's already made two appearances, over the first two chapters.

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Now playing: Apocalyptica - Resurrection iTunes
via FoxyTunes

And... breathe

2007-11-02T20:24:00.000Z

Screw it. My brain isn't working too well at the moment. I've written about 100 of the 3,000 words scheduled today, not even worth updating my word count for. Again, I know what I want to write, I just can't write it.

So tomorrow, I'm going to Lincoln early with my good pens, I'm buying a mock-suede journal I saw in WHSmiths, and I'm going to the Arboreteum (a park) with a cup of coffee and I'm going to write it on paper. My computer can go screw itself.

So I'm going to turn off. I'll only turn my computer on again when I'm stuck for an idea or am ready to type up.

Of course, how long that attitude will last, I don't know.

We'll see.

Cheers,
Mike

Well.... that sucked

2007-11-02T11:17:00.000Z

I have over 2,000 words (finally)!

Hopefully, later today I'll be able to write 2-3,000 more!

I'm not sure what went wrong there... but then I've always had problems with beginnings. Middles and ends I'm okay with. Beginnings, I can never think.

So hopefully, as time goes by the words will come more easily, as has been said (thanks for the encouragement).

Ah well. I'm going to take a break now and fill out some very scary application forms for graduate placements... well, not right now, but later today. I need to psyche myself up first...

Cheers,
Mike

Total word count- 2,194

Ah crap

2007-11-02T00:03:00.000Z

Well that wasn't a good start... although I've got it in my head, for some reason or other I've only managed 1,000 words today... well, now it was yesterday (1st of Nov).

Ah well, I'll just have to redouble my efforts tomorrow and write 4,000 words. That'll make up for it.

The main problem was, I didn't know how to start. I knew what I wanted to write, I just didn't know how to write it.

The first chapter involves a train ride. So I grabbed my notebook (well, it's a 2007 diary with '2007' crossed out and 'Notes' written on in silver ink) and went for a train ride.

It helped alot. But I couldn't write as much as I'd hoped because people seemed to insist on being in close proximity to me as I was scribbling away. And then I had to bring my laptop downstairs to write so that I could look after the dogs. Not the most productive of environments.

Well, my laptop will be safely back upstairs in a quieter environment tomorrow (today), so I should get something done.

I won't be able to sleep tonight, you watch.

Cheers,
Mike

P.S. The NaNoWriMo severs are being very, very, slow. So I'll have to upload my wordcount tomorrow.

Go-Go, Power Authors!

2007-11-01T10:13:00.000Z

So here it is... 2,000 words a day for the next 30 days.

And I' haven't even finished my overview yet. Ah well, I'll have to play it by ear.

Anyway, as I was bored with my blog template, I've put up a new one.

The images are my own (as you can probably tell, they're a bit crummy), but the code is from Pyzam.com (I haven't the foggiest where to start with coding). They've got some great templates ready to use straight off the bat (I modified mine from the 28 weeks later template).

Anywho, what do you think?

Back on track, the name of 'The Fourth Character' is Ersatz. And to say he's off his trolley is an understatement.

But he doesn't appear until chapter 6 (ish. Thing. Possibly).

Anywho... en garde! Good luck to all!

Going for a cuppa,
Mike

Dictionary- n. 1a. A book that consists of an alphabetical list of words with their meanings... et cetera.

2007-10-24T20:42:00.000+01:00

I bought a new dictionary today!

I have this tiny little 'Collins Gem' pocket English dictionary that's about ready to fall apart and is probably a good few years out of date.

Don't get me wrong, it's a good little dictionary; it's just a little abridged.

I was in Lincoln today, and WH Smiths had an offer on. A few (brand new, nothing wrong them) reference books were on sale at just £5! So I bought a monster- a 1,500 page 'Collins English Dictionary & Thesaurus'.

Fantastic. That'll come in handy. I'm fed up of looking things up on the internet.

I also bought a 'World Encyclopaedia', which'll come in handy when writing about other countries.

On another point- Sya has suggested my 'no longer a Federal Agent' 4th character should be left as an unknown ethnicity. I think that's a brilliant idea. So I'm doing that.

Of course, this leaves another question. His name- should it be a historically and/or nationally ambiguous single name? Or simply a job title?

And what of the guy (in a sexually ambiguous sense) wearing a medieval plague mask (hereby referred to as Plague Mask Guy) whom 'no longer a Federal Agent' hunts so fervently?

I've stated on the NaNoWriMo forums that Plague Mask Guy is developed in some sense, but s/he is playing hide and seek in my head. So random ideas would be greatly appreciated, as they may boot PMG into plain sight.

Cheers,
Mike

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Now playing: Betty - The L Word Theme (The Way That We Live) iTunes
via FoxyTunes

Characters! On a page! Well... one, actually.

2007-10-19T21:32:00.000+01:00

My most developed character is done. I'm not certain how far he'll be the 'main' character, but he was a character I'd thought of before I joined NaNoWriMo.

I'm concerned. In fact, even as I write this, I'm debating as to whether I should post the details. I'm always concerned that I'll spoil the surprise. But I've decided, and I'm not going back.

Just so you know, this character bio may contain minor spoilers- especially if you tend to work things out after a single sentence. It does not (or shouldn't) reveal anything major to the plot, however.

So there you have it, if you want to leave everything (if you intend reading it) as a surprise, then leave it be. If you're happy with a few historical spoilers, however, read on. With that, I'm giving you the full bio of Kyle Greenbelt

**Potential Historical Spoilers**
http://docs.google.com/Doc?id=dczcm9vn_13f43fsb
**Potential Spoiler End**

I'd like to know what people think. Also, he's still unfinished. I could use a few more notable memories, if anyone would like to suggest some (based off his bio, anyway), but these aren't essential.

If you think he could use tweaking, I would like to hear your ideas.

I'm also figuring out some plot points (which I don't think I will reveal). It's definitely set in an English town. A relatively small town (which has no name as yet- suggestions please), which is fairly close to a mine, but isn't a mining town. Formerly, it's primary income came from the steel works and engineering plant to the south, which has been closed since 1984. A man known as John Thyme managed to bring the town back on its feet (in an undecided, but probably unimportant way), and died in 1998.

I've been making a map of this town. It takes heavily from two towns I know very well, and am placing my home town nearby. It's a cruddy map, and very unfinished, but it should help with consistency as I write.

The story itself is set in 2009. Not because I want it to be set in the near future, but mostly because it allows for a little extra creativity.

It begins with an English woman, a synaesthetic, having strange hallucinations. The two American characters (including Kyle) are visiting lecturers passing through. Their rental car breaks down, and they have to duck into the town while it's examined and fixed. It's a cheap MacGuffin, I know, but what the hell. The town is quiet, and although capable of homing 20,000 people, there is less than a tenth there (which includes the Englishwoman).

As the weird things build up, the three investigate (not together- they don't meet until later).

And that's when the 175 year-old federal agent works his way into the story. Except he's no longer a federal agent. He's not even American. Although I'm not sure what nationality he is. I just think having three weirded-out Americans meeting in an average English town a little unfeasible.

What should he be? He's been hunting a particular element of the story for decades.

Should he be French? Or Spanish, and make him part of the new inquisition! (I'm struggling not to dig out the Monty Python sketches now...)

Or perhaps just British (English/Irish/Scottish/Welsh). I'm not sure.

Any input would be appreciated.

Cheers,
Mike

P.S. Be aware that the above character bio was written when I had (and still have) a head cold. Blocked sinuses don't exactly encourage good writing or creativity. So I think I've done rather well.

Also-
Characters and bio contents- © Michael Barlow 2007

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Now playing: Korn - Evolution iTunes
via FoxyTunes

Characters! On a plane! I'm fed up of these MFing characters on this MFing plane!

2007-10-13T22:07:00.000+01:00

They're not on a plane. Well they're on a plane of existence, sure, but not on an aeroplane.

They're somewhere in.... well, actually I haven't thought of that. The characters are American, so it's probably somewhere in the USA (or is it? I'm not so sure now... maybe Hollywood and Lovecraft have distorted my geographical personality... England is much creepier, that's for certain). Of course, the problem being with the UK, is that unless it's in scotland, cities, towns and villages are too close together to remain 'virtually disserted' for long without the entire country hearing about it.

The UK is a great place for a horror, for certain, but it's too small. Maybe that would make it creepier, that there are populated towns and villages, maybe even a military base or city just 20 miles down the road which are completely oblivious to the fact that their neighbour is dying rapidly by the hands of something unknown but potentially horrible?

Hmm... I like that. The characters are still american though (most of them. One has instantly changed to being British! Hurray for chopping and changing! Not sure whether she's English, Scottigh, Welsh or Irish though... I'll have to decide that.)

Changing the setting to England does bring up some opening possibilities... afterall, one of the characters is a university lecturer, and another is just s qualified. They could be visiting lecturers! Not certain about the 175-ish year old federal agent now. How would he fit in, if at all?

Hmm, decisions. I'll have to ponder on that. Also, you may like to know, 'hmm' is a sound that comes as naturally to me as stroking my beard (even when I haven't got one). I'm a noisy thinker. I play with my teeth too, when I'm thinking, as well pick up random objects and wriggle my fingers. And crush my hands. And pace. And talk to myself. Yeah, I'm an active, noisy thinker.

Psychoanalytical gate-opening aside, I've started to write the bios of my characters. My first, a parapsychologist known as Kyle Greenbelt, is virtually sorted. But then again, he had been developed but never used long ago. I need to write him a history now. He won't be able to keep his gun though, if he's in the UK... our gun laws are about as tight as my bank balance. He'll have to leave it at home.

The bio is set to merged copyrighted character development questionnaires from Holly Lisle's character workshop and Pookel's National Novel Finishing Month resource page. So once I've figured out how to free my content from theirs (Their two sheets have been mashed into one, see), I'll nail up Kyle! Literally! Of course, that may damage my screen, so I'll nail him to the wall of my neighbour's house and shout the details to everybody using a megaphone. At 2am. Yeah!

One thing I've found useful, when trying to figure out the physical description, is to use Body Mass Index (BMI) charts to figure out what weights would suit the height. You can call a person 'overweight', 'scrawny', 'lanky', and 'fat bastard' all you like, until you go... "they weigh... erm... 170lbs". And then someones comes back to, saying "but you said they were overweight! I think you'll find 170lbs is pretty normal for someone who's 6'2"!"

Of course, you could simply never mention their exact height. Or their exact weight. But I can't help it. As a scientist, I need numbers, dammit! It will, even if you don't put the numbers in the story (you will if someone's reading a military profile or something, and then remember muscle weighs more than fat!), help you describe their physique better. At least, it will me.

And as for my playlists- I'm on 'B' in my tracks. But I have 45 playlists! For different moods, scenes and environments. Oh the joy!

Anywho, I'm off to watch 'The Scarlett Pimpernel'...

Cheers,
Mike

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Now playing: Seether - Broken iTunes
via FoxyTunes

Pulling the Strings- The Gazebo! and other merchandise....

2007-10-12T19:30:00.000+01:00

Well, I'm kind of decided on the plot and characters. Of course, this is as likely to change as the Tory party leader before November arrives, so don't hold your breath.

Or rather do, but don't hold it 'till pass out. It's a great way of curing hiccoughs.

The general plot line involves an unnatural storm, fear of the unknown, a semi-deserted town, and a character with synaesthesia (I had to... the condition is just too interesting)! Oh, and a 175 year-old Federal Agent and plague. Yeah!

I'm still wondering how this is going to work out... Still it's better than my last plot line, which was very B-movie-ish with former USMC soldiers and everything! I'm looking for atmosphere... because I'm getting irritated with the lack of oxygen around here.

I've been forming ideas for three years based around my travels whilst I was commuting to university in my first year. I was commuting by train, and it was usually at dawn or after dusk when I'd be travelling, when my imagination really lets loose.

I'm going to be incorporating these ideas into my novel, but mostly in the first chapter.

I'll be posting an abridged version of these notes in a mo, I've just got to get the hang of google docs

Cheers,
Mike

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Now playing: Kelly Clarkson - Because Of You iTunes
via FoxyTunes *Sway with me now \o/*

Inspiration

2007-10-11T17:21:00.000+01:00

Aside from music, I find simply opening my eyes and taking in my surroundings can give my imagination a much needed boost. I remember in my first year of university, I commuted by train. I saw a lot of strange people- there was a man stood on the platform bridge at Lincoln station simply looking over a wall. Another stood up on the train and pointed, without speaking, at the powerstation. On both occasions, I couldn't find what they were looking at. What could they see that I couldn't? Then there was the crow that flew behind the elevator shaft for the platform bridge, and never appeared the other side. I wasn't very far away, and as a lover of crows, I walked around to look at it. It had gone, in the three seconds it took me to shift my position to see it, the crow had disappeared without a trace. I still can't figure out where it went; I looked everywhere for it.

At retford station, the platforms I used were platforms three and four, the lower platforms. The higher platforms were for the London/Edinburgh fast line. Once, after it had been raining, I reached the station at around 7am, and there were 217 snails on the platform, slithering around, almost synchronised. It was a majestic sight, like a slow-motion waltz. I still found it a little weird though. And then some jerk rode his bicycle through them. 74 wrere crushed. The others seemed to gather around them as if in mourning.

Don't ask me why I can remember the numbers.

Back when I used to be the storyteller of a RPG group, I used simple mundane experiences like this to make things a little weirder. I found a fantastic website, http://www.foundmagazine.com/, which has a load of strange notes and photos people have simply found lying around on the street, or in a basement of the house they've just moved into etc. It has some rather disturbing messages scribbled on scraps of paper like- "Watch what you say, Jim has had this whole house bugged from the getgo- I saw and heard the equipment- more later"

For the horror or mystery genre, the website is an aladin's cave.

Cheers,
Mike

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Now playing: Monty Python - Spam Sketch iTunes
via FoxyTunes

Title!

2007-10-08T20:55:00.000+01:00

I've decided on a title!

Whilst engaging in a life-or-death battle with my laptop (I wanted it to work, it didn't want to work), and pondering whether I should valiantly turn and flee when it hit me!

Whilst nursing the black eye my laptop gave me, I came up with a title.

'Pulling the Strings'

It's a horror. I'll reveal a little more later, as I'm still working out plot points.

Cheers,
Mike

P.S. I actually came up with the title a little while ago, but I forgot to mention it. I'm now nursing my stresses (see my livejournal) with a healthy bout of MST3k, season 5.
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Now playing: MST3K - 0511- Gunslinger Winamp
via FoxyTunes

Music to write to.

2007-10-07T13:37:00.000+01:00

I've been slowly building my playlists to write to, sorting my music into moods and scenes.

This is rather complicated, and occasionally it is hard to differentiate between one mood and another (rage and fierce determination for instance). I've also been dredging the NewGrounds.com audio portal, they have three tonne of ambient music for download. I've been noticing a large portion of my downloads have been from a member there called 'Evil-Dog' (just found his website too, although I'd recommend Newgrounds as you can preview the music in its entirety before you download) who does some great ambience as well as instrumental punk rock and metal. I'm still going through his archives at the moment, and then I'm going to look through the rest of the portal.

Of course, I also have to sort my (close to 2,000 tracks) current music as well. This could take a while.

On another note, I'm still sort of deciding on the plot outline, as well as the characters. I'll start posting bios soon.

Cheers,
Mike

It begins!

2007-10-02T12:31:00.000+01:00

Well, I'm taking part in 'NaNoWriMo', the National Novel Writing Month (which is actually the International Novel Writing Month, but InNoWriMo doesn't sound as good). I thought I might as well, despite having several 'novels' (if you can call them that) in progress, as one more won't hurt, and I may actually get it finished.

Well, I already have a blog, but for the sake of organisation (and because having a gmail account comes with a number of pre-registrations I didn't even realise), I'll put my progress here, and keep my standard weirded-out thoughts to my livejournal page.

The event isn't until November (0001 1st November-23:59 30th November pacific time, which in GMT time would be 0701 1st November-0659 1st December), but the rules allow for notes and outlines before then, just as long as you don't start writing until the start date.

So, 50,000 words or 175 pages in 1 month. Should be fun.

Mike out!

A strongly worded letter

Happy 31st of November! I gave the month an extra day to give me better winter weather.

Et voilà! Je reviens! No I don't speak French.

Mad Cows and the Summer of Glove

Half a year later...

With all the strength, agility, charisma and social ability of an epileptic ground sloth, Mike is here to save the day!

Chapter 1

That nagging little itch at the back of my head...

I am made of fail.

Screaming Ninja Pinky of Death strikes again...

Day two almost over...

Day one over....

And it begins... after supper. And a snack. Salted Pistachio's on standby...

To err is digital...

New stuff, work, and the art of accidentally setting glass chopping boards on fire...

Oh the pain, the pain of it all!

Speedy Update...

The current stage of progress...

And I'm back...

A mem... oh I can't do it. A unit of cultural transmission.

The keeping this blog alive song!

No Beach Boys jokes. Anyone caught will be fined one slap.

Hello future! Now leave before I call the police...

10 days? Gordon Bennett!

Meme? No opera please...

Interesting source of inspiration...

Double entendres!

Summary

"I want my lipped flanges!"

Chapters 3 & 4

Merry Christmas!

"Just remember-" "Remember what?" "I forget."

"It's obsidian!" "Oh, I don't think it's that bad..."

And now ladies and gentlemen, my imagination, for your viewing pleasure will- *SCHLORP* -implode? Wait, that's not in the script!

"One false move and I'll shave her head. I shaved mine and I'm just crazy enough to do it!"

I'm giving her all she's got captain!

The perils of procrastination, and the dangers of feral transitional paragraphs...

Quick update....

Singing the 'Not Updated In A While' song...

Quick update 33 1/2

"I was dead at the time!" Tales of procrastination

The Death of the Schedule (did I even have one? I don't know now...)

Quick Update #2

Quick update...

Better...

And... breathe

Well.... that sucked

Ah crap

Go-Go, Power Authors!

Dictionary- n. 1a. A book that consists of an alphabetical list of words with their meanings... et cetera.

Characters! On a page! Well... one, actually.

Characters! On a plane! I'm fed up of these MFing characters on this MFing plane!

Pulling the Strings- The Gazebo! and other merchandise....

Inspiration

Title!

Music to write to.

It begins!

And now ladies and gentlemen, my imagination, for your viewing pleasure will- SCHLORP -implode? Wait, that's not in the script!