9000 Words

Now that school is done and my evenings are free (at least until the girls) I've challenged myself to write at least 500 words every day until I reach 9000 words.  9000 seems a random digit, but there is a method to the madness.  For my long story (which still needs a better title) there are three "books" with ten chapters each, so a total of thirty chapters.  Each chapter somewhat unintentionally averages around 1500 words; some are longer and one or two are shorter but not by much.  9000 words then should finish out the seven remaining chapters of Book 3 and finish Volume One.  As of today I am sitting at 7103 words remaining.  Here's a sample of what I wrote today:

“Major Dair has your assignments.  We attack at first light and the night’s almost gone, so get some rest.”  Dair and the others wandered off to discuss the battle plan, Line waited for them go out of sight before slumping to the ground.  “Mined Veir and his mined Junger,” he muttered to himself, the pain obvious on his face.

“Liam, would you and Jove make sure the men are settled?”  Both men nodded and went away.  “Colonel…”

“My mind is made up Captain, I shouldn’t have to defend that decision to you or Major Dair.  The command is mine and I will lead it as I’ve always led it… from the front.”

“Do you need to be quite so forward?”

Line laughed a little at that.  “Can’t lead from behind and besides, how can I expect them to do it.  I have two hundred exhausted, hungry, and broken men to do the impossible Mr. Ores.  If their exhausted, hungry, and broken old commander won’t fright, why should they?  I don’t have a death wish if that’s what you and Truvant are worried about.

“I just don’t see any other way.  They told me it was much the same for my daddy.  He was a miner and there was a cave in.  My uncle said he could have gotten out, but he went back to save some others.”  Line stopped to take a deep breath before he added, “Stupid must run in my blood.”

Avin laughed at this.  “What do you want me and my men to do sir?”

“Captain Ores, this is going to sound duplicitous after what I just shared, but you and your men will remain here and guard the wounded.”

Avin took a moment for the news to sink in.  “What?!”

“When’s the last time you slept Ores?  You’ve been on your feet for days, fighting and marching your way from Lyden, and then dragging your sorry butt back here.  You may not feel it, but I can see it, you’ve got nothing left.  You boys will be useless to me in a fight, even more so than I.  If something, Mother and Daughter forbid, happens to us I want you to get the wounded to safety.  Can I count on you Mr. Ores?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good, now leave me alone so I can get some rest.”

Its been helpful to just write to get through a few writing blocks by focusing on the word count and to be more lenient on my self-correction.  I've always self-corrected as I write and I've had pretty good results, so multiple drafts is a pretty foreign concept to me.  What I've read and noticed in my own writing though is that I write in fits and starts instead of the words and thoughts just flowing.  As I said to my wife once when she was especially hard on herself, "Have some fricken grace."  (This comment received the death glare of course.)  My intention is to finish the first draft very soon and hopefully have it proofread and work started on it before the fall.  Then I'll take a cue from my good friend Ryan Partlow and submit it to a publisher - just to receive a rejection letter, cry a little bit, and then sell it as an eBook.  Who knows, maybe it'll pay for college? 

Bellingham SciFi

If there is one reason to by the Bellingham Herald this summer, let it be to get the Science Fiction Serial written by local authors including myself.  I am writing part #3, which should be in print early August.  My turn to write just came up and I'm excited/overwhelmed with the possibilities.  Its a six part series, so part #3 holds a sort of anchor position.  From here the story should have it's focus and direction so it can come to a successful conclusion in part #6.  Eight Hundred words seems far to sparse for what I'd like to do or what I could do.  I think what I will do is write two versions and see which makes me happier.

In "Fields of Ores" news (which still needs a better title, readers) I got a spark and finished Book Three, Chapter 3.  I also came up with the naming convention for this book's chapters.  Each book has its own style for chapters names; like Book Two uses "The [appropriate noun for the chapter]" convention.  Book Three steals from Robert Kirkman and his convention for the Invincible TPB.  Adding nerdy little things like this is fun to work in to the works, but it has to meet my rule of not being shoehorned in.  If the nod or wink is to overt and just doesn't seem natural then it doesn't fit.  At one point I had Avin and Liam meet an old hermit named Old Obi; looking back even I roll my eyes.  I plan to still use Old Obi as a name check sometime in the future, but not as a throwaway character with an overly nerdy name.  Such things should be more subtle or at least intertwined into the world (such as your character isn't the only one who wears a Fedora in the whole universe, Mr. Weber).

If you've read, reading, or want to read what I have so far let me know if you pick up on any of these nerdy references and whether they are to overt and distracting.

Booking

I would like to say that I've been busy writing, but that's only partly, mostly, kinda true.  However what I have been writing is I think turning out pretty well, with my focus on completing the first three "Books" of my Avin Ores' series.  Books One and Two are done, but they need some TLC, so I've asked friends and family to read them over and give some feedback.  Thus far, from those that have read it the response has been very favorable, even my wife who doesn't read fantasy or adventure novels enjoyed it (she might be biased though).  Still, I could always use more feedback, so if you (random stranger that you are) are interested in reading Books One and Two of the soon to be retitled "Fields of Ores" then please leave me a comment, message, or email.

The goal is to eventually self publish the work, make millions of dollars, and retire young (or feed my family for a few months), so any help reaching this goal would be fantastic.  In addition to the Avin Ores' story there are hundreds of other stories waiting to be written/finished, so I plan to continue to work on those here and there throughout the rest of the year as well.  I'm especially excited for the Starflight Mystery and Babbage to get started.

In the grand tradition of Ex Nihilo I leave you with a snippet from a story I've begun working on temporarily entitled "Wall of Sound".

We were the last to arrive, our gentle hum drowned out by the great cacophony of sounds rising and falling from the individual fires of the camp.  Drums from all over the countryside, never having played together before, kept the same riotous beat; bagpipes, the pride of tiny hamlets, and the threadbare strings of violinist matched melodies to create a single organic sound that ebbed and flowed as one player stopped to rest and another went to take their place.  As we wound our way deeper into the camp the tune was at first mirthful, then ecstatic, and now turning mournful.

Most had arrived days before from the villages and cities close-by, while we of the Spring-Song Abbott were the notes-come-lately owing to the fact that we had traveled the farthest.  The early revelry was fading away as those soulful notes sung or played by more mature soldiers began to dominate as the eve of battle loomed and the soul turned to introspection.

We found our place near the center of the camp; close to the Regent Lord as befit the honor given to our trade.  The lowest of us took to the care of unloading our packs and setting our tents in the flickering firelight of the camps around us, we would again be eating cold rations as we had been all these days marching southward.

 Maestro motioned for me to follow him to the great pavilion arrayed in the dead center of the camp, each panel a brilliant color that flowed easily into the next like a seamless composition.  The inside was as bright as day, the light a soft white beaming from a great ball at the height of the pavilion.  The vivid colors outside paled in comparison to the colors the eye surveyed inside.  Right lords, high elders, and powerful maestros were gilded in reds as dark as clay, blues the hue of the sky, yellows like melted buttercups, browns the color of tree bark, and whites as pure as snow.

Most wore their instruments, finely crafted lyres intricately carved, drums sturdy and stout, goat horns spiraling in impossible ways, and of course the Lord Conductor and his peerless cavalier made of the darkest cherry wood, to look into its grain was to look into the abyss.  The Maestro and I carried no instruments, save for the small flute I’d carried since childhood; our voices were our contribution to this great host.  We stopped to listen to the decadent play of the herald’s songs, each one delicately weaving the virtue of their lord or master into the greater song that was the Regent Lord’s.

Bullwark Bullworthy saw us out of the corner of his eye, which was more than we wanted him to see of us.

“The healers from Spring-Song!”  His voice a boom that overpowered all others and a bass that shook the very earth they stood upon.  Bullworthy pulled Maestro into a great hug, which I was fortunate to avoid, thanks to my lowly status.

“How many,” Bullworthy asked.  He held Maestro to his sizable chest with round muscular arms that seemed for too long for such a wide chested and short man.  He peered at Maestro with blue eyes over rosy cheeks and a course black beard.

“Thirty.”

“Aye!  Thirty!  We’ll have no need of them of course! Let me show you.”  Without waiting for leave to do so, Bullworthy held Maestro tight and walked him to the north end of the pavilion.  There a model of the surrounding land had been formed down to the last detail and upon a great rise was placed the flag of the Regent Lord.

“We’ll take the heights here, the Regent Lord in the center, while myself will lead a portion of the left… percussion of course.”

“Of course.”  Maestro looked the terrain over; taking in far more than a man like Bullyworthy would give him credit for.  I too surveyed the coming battlefield, noting the roll and baffles that were unique to that piece of land.

“Do you suspect they will use the Orff Gambit,” Maestro asked.

The Bull’s response was predictable.  “They haven’t the ensemble, let alone the voices to even attempt the Orff.  No they’ll use the Schubert for certain.”

“The opinion of a percussionist is as insightful as the ….” Interjected a lithe young woman standing across from them with cascading golden curls, pale white but smooth porcelain-like skin, and dark green eyes like two emeralds embedded in coal.

“Minerva Volfsoong,” Bullworthy managed to say through gnashed teeth.

“I’m surprised my name even lodged itself inside that mind of yours and that you’ve resisted the urge to droll in my presence.”

“I’d sooner cut out my tongue than salivate at the presence of a harpy such as yourself.”  With that he released Maestro, who had remained in Bullworthy’s tight grip the whole altercation, and went in the opposite direction of Minerva Volfsoong.

For her part, the woman gave Bullworthy’s passage only the slightest sign of interest, but her eyes watched playfully as he stormed away.  “Delicious,” she said lowly, perhaps hoping none heard her, but more than likely not caring if they did.

“You worry about the Orff’s Gambit Maestro Nutone?  In this case the brute was correct; they haven’t the resources pull off such an audacious move.  But I sense you already know that and see the same that I see.”  Her translucent white hand pointed towards a small ravine that ran along the right side of the hill the Lord Conductor intended to make his stand upon.  “The ravine here is protected from the acoustics, the perfect avenue of attack.”

“Indeed it is.”  The Lord Conductor, dressed in ivory white shirt, vest, pants, and even ascot, was a vision of refinement.  Not a hair was out of place either upon his slicked-back jet black hair or upon his immaculate mustache.  Behind him stood his equally famous bodyman, the Cymbalist of Venna, (translate into Spanish Music is movement or some such); a large man, devoid of all hair, and as stern as a Choir Mother.

“The field is the parchment upon which we write the battle’s song, the battlefield is never perfect but we make the best use of it that we can.  The King commissioned this composition and we will play our roles… …despite the flaws.”  The Lord Conductor turned his dark brown eyes on me, a smile touching them.  “Isn’t that right brother?”

“Of course, my lord.”

Before I realized, my brother had closed the gap between us and swept me up into a powerful hug.  “Blood first, brother.  Blood always first.”

“Of course, brother.”  This elicited a hearty laugh from my brother, six years my elder.  Releasing me from his embrace, he kept his arm around me and led me away from the others.

“How is your time at the Abby?”

“Well.”

“And your flute?  Do you still have it?”

“I do.”

“I see.  And did they clip your tongue besides the top of your head,”  My brother ruffled the hair around my tonsure.  “So that I can expect only simple answers from my younger brother?”

“No. I…”

“Think your brother your better and seek to stay in your lowly place before his radiance… yes, I get that a lot.”  My brother looked down at his feet, an old habit that came out whenever he was troubled or uncomfortable – which was rare.

“Well, my lord, you are the Lord Conductor, most high soloist and defender of the realm, master of the cavalier and other titles, ad nausium.  Few know that you’re afraid of heights, ate worms on more than one occasion, and generally were a troublemaker of, what did Fenley call it?”

“A trouble maker of the highest order.”

“Another title to add to your impressive array.”  We both stopped to remember our father’s batman and our teacher, gone now ten years.

Who Are You?

“Who are you?”

The long sequence of long and shorts vibrated in my ear; that standard answer to the question I had asked a hundred times.  It’s designation and a question in return, Why do you want to know?

“Because I’m the curious type,” I said in a whisper. 

I got enough looks for just having it on; I didn’t need anymore for talking to it.  My fellow Tram riders tried to ignore me, but their sideways glances from time to time were not lost on me.  It replied after a half-second, longer than usual.  Didn’t curiosity kill the cat?

I smiled; it and I had been together for too long, we were like old women during the downtimes.  It spoke again in the archaic language reserved for die-hard amateur radio operators, conspiracy theorists, and Conductors.  We are nine minutes from our destination.

I could now translate Morse Code at a rate of fifty words per minute; blazing fast speeds compared to when I was first recruited.  My mind no longer built the words a letter at a time, rather our conversation became like any other language you might pick up – like Spanish or Creole.

“Review target.”

Target is male, 43 years old, 5 foot 6 inches, occupation writer.  Last know address is 4508 Pleasance Ave, Apt. 5.  Walks with a limp, balding with blonde hair, and a scar on his left cheek.  Non-violent?

“You don’t sound sure,” I whispered with a grin.

The data is inconclusive.  No previous record of violence.  All of which means little when it describes humans.

“How specieist of you.”  I must have said it too loud, because the purple hairs across from me looked at me with disgust.

The data does not lie.

“True enough,” I said quietly this time.  It shifted a little to connect with my wrist computer.  Getting use to the Morse Code was easy compared to getting use to the slimy tendrils It moved and attached to different parts of my body.  It, was biological construct ACv-5b-I7, a data analyzation unit used exclusively by Federal Agents to record, analyze, and comput information agents used in the field.  The official nickname was “Parrot”, but the more common unofficial name was “Inky”.  My “Inky” I had never given a name to, simply had referred to it as It.  I had tried to not get too attached (pun intended) but It had grown on me (pun intended again).

Five minutes from target.

It had always bothered me.  The comps that I had learned Code from had all typed in the same way – very structured, very concise, very predictable.  It didn’t “speak” the same way as them; It had it own voice, its own pattern of speaking.  So whenever I had a free moment I would ask, “Who are you?”

I honestly wondered.  The biological constructs were still too new to be fully understood and their existence had driven religious leaders the world over into hissy fits.  There was even a group that wanted the Inky’s freed and allowed to live in the wild – frolicking and creeping through the tulips I guess.

The target was potentially one of them, or at least knew who had killed Agent Marlow and stolen his Inky.  The tram disgorged its riders onto the station platform and then mindlessly continued on its way.  I took the stairs down to street level, took a moment to get my bearing, and then started east down Pleasance Ave.  The streets weren’t full, but there was a steady stream of workers filtering their way back toward the Tram station and home.  A woman in a brown coat and red dress bumped into me at some speeds, nearly knocking us both over.  She kept her balanced, offered her forgiveness, and then ran off.

I checked my pockets and my holster, just in case.

Content that I was still in possession of all my possessions, I continued on.

Three minutes.

I could see 4508 written across the doorway of the brownstone; three minutes seemed a little much, “And if I take the back door?”

Nine minutes.

“Nine?”

You’re out of shape.

“Silent mode.”  It’s tendril in my ear slinked down my neck and under my collar.  I huffed my way up to the third floor, a small bead of sweat on my forehead.  Apartment 5 was the entirety of the floor it seemed; there were no doors in the hallway save for one at the very end emblazoned with the number 5.  That was… odd.

I knocked on the door, the raps echoing down the hall.  I waited thirty seconds and then knocked again, harder.  The door swung open on my last pound.

“Corbin Ouillet?  I’m a Federal Agent, the door is open and I am coming in.”

It’s tendril was quickly back in my ear… Windows.

The single word was as immediately translated as the individual dits and dahs from the code were in my mind – there were no windows in the room.  The door had swung out into a large great room the remaining length of the building.  The wall beyond once had three bay windows, now bricked over.  Florescent lighting took over where natural lighting was denied, casting the whole room in a pale green light.

I stepped over the threshold.  The room was spartan even by spartan standards; a decorist would have probably called it Cantonese.  A single end table and chair swam alone in the emptiness of the room.  The next room of the apartment was down an open doorway and dark hallway.

I called the man’s name again, still no answer.  Cautiously down the hall I went until I reached a second great room.  The lights came on as soon as I entered and there was my target.  The room was just as spartan as the last, only a few extra amenities like a bed, a sink, a toilet, and a writing desk were additions.  Ouillet was sitting in his chair, back to me.

No.

I stepped closer.

No. No.

I ignored It and reached out to shake the man.  As I made contact It sent jolt into my ear that knocked me down.  In all our years together It had never hindered or harmed me.  The jolt stopped and I could move again.

“What the hell was that?”

No!

“Who are you,” came a whisper from the man in the chair.  From my perch on the floor, thanks to my “partner”, I could see the front of the man.  He was a man in his 40’s, balding blond, and scarred on his left cheek; Ouillet sure enough.  The inky black goo seeping from his eyes, ears, nose, and mouth on the other hand…

“Who are you,” the man whispered to no one, neither seeing nor hearing me.

ACv-3b-07.  Agent Marlow’s construct.

The final Game Off Article...

                Alright, since I failed to whelm you into submission with my last Movie that deserves a Game tie-in, I’m bringing out the big guns.  I’m here to game and chew bubble gum and I just ran out of bubble gum.

                To begin… Pride and Prejudice was written by Jane Austen in 1813 and tells the story of Elizabeth Be… Oh you don’t care!  Suffice to say it’s long, British - and by British I don’t mean Benny Hill or Monty Python - and your mom likes it.  Since neither of you can read, I suggest you watch the BBC version with Colin Firth, who’s more of a man than anyone of us will ever be.  The vision that is Colin Firth will help set the stage for a little game I like to call…

Mr. Darcy

                The goal of the game of Mr. Darcy is to remain aloof from Elizabeth Bennet by playing cards like, “Turn down Elizabeth’s invitation to dance” or “Open the door as if you did it for Elizabeth but then walk through it yourself” and other things that proper Victorian Gentlemen would do.  With each aloof act you will be wooing Elizabeth away from you and into the arms of another player who is also trying to hide their affections for the lovely Ms. Bennet.  With each successful rebuff you earn Victorian Points (get it?  Victorian Points?  Because its… You don’t get it).  Once all the Victorian Points are collected by the potential suitors the two unique Pride and Prejudice cards selected at the beginning of the game are turned over.  If two of your Victorian Points match you win!  If you have only one matching Victorian Point, than the most aloof bachelor wins… because all women love distant men.  Total play time should be somewhere between six to eight hours.

                The atmosphere around the table should be cordial and polite, but biting remarks should be used whenever a play is made against you.  Such remarks should be without vulgarity; rather they should deride the other player’s character or point out a social failing.  Most games should end prematurely with duels.

                And in one fell swoop I just made a game for not just a movie but also a book.  DOUBLE BAM!  Once you’ve picked yourself off of the floor, changed your shorts, and called your mommy I expect your surrender email, post haste.

-Game Off

Please leave a comment if you would like me to write more!

My second Game Off article, I didn't come up with any game mechanics because I was just going to use Battlestar Galactic and just photoshop the cover. 

               I’m disappointed in the two of you… either you are too foolish to realize you have been bested or you’re gluttons for punishment.  If it’s the latter then prepare to get your fill from a Movie that deserves a Game tie-in called…

FANTASTIC VOYAGE!

FANTASTIC VOYAGE IS A MULTIPLAYER COOP GAME WHERE YOU AND YOUR FELLOW ADVENTURER SCIENTISTS, MINITURIZED TO THE SIZE OF A CELL, RACE THROUGH THE HUMAN BODY TO SAVE THE PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES!  RACING AGAINST THE CLOCK AND THE DEFENCES OF THE BODY’S OWN NATURAL DEFENSES YOU’LL DISCOVER WONDERS NEVER SEEN BEFORE BY MAN!  HOWEVER, NOT EVERY ONE OF YOUR INTRIPID BAND SEEKS THE PRESIDENT’S WELL-BEING – A SOVIET SPY IS LURKING AMONST THE CREW WHO WILL STOP AT NOTHING TO SEE THE MISSION FAIL!

SUSPICION, DECEPTION, SUSPENSE… FANTASTIC VOYAGE!

It’s so good it had to be in bold script. The only thing left for me to do now is sit back in my chair, cigar in my hand, and say, “DANG!  I’m good.”  So, I’ll go do that then…

- Game Off

I wrote this for a Game Website some friends and I were going to make... we didn't, but at least I wrote some funny stuff. 

Alright guys, I’m kicking the door down, spry’n and pray’n right off the bat. You shouldn’t even bother trying to one up me because this movie tie-in game will knock your socks off and darned you new ones.

The movie is Red Dawn; and not the new mamby-pamby remake their coming out with, but the original Patrick Swayze masterpiece. If you haven’t seen Red Dawn or don’t remember what its about here’s a link (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Red_Dawn) but the long and the short of its is that Red Commies have invaded the heartland of the God-blessed US of A. Our only hope is a ragtag group of highschoolers, armed to the teeth with good old American boomsticks.

To pay homage to such a deserving movie you personally going to need a few things – like two to three friends. To really sell the whole thing two guys need to dress up like our 1980’s heroes, so wear things like faded and torn jeans, a jeans jacket, red head band, and a mullet. Once you’ve dressed the part of a freedom loving Wolverines! you’ll be ready to take back America from the Commies. But what about friend number three you ask, well at least Danny asks because he can count. Well he gets to dress up in olive drab, combat boots, grow a daunting beard, and gets stogie to comp on. Comrade Commie is now ready to stamp out the last vestiges of Democracy.

Now for the game itself, you’ll need a map which you’ll divide into fifteen to twenty sectors in Commie Red (Shaun can use his crayons). On the sides you need to mark off ten boxes, marked 1-5 which will denote a specific hideout for our heroes. Each God-fearing American gets five boxes, marked 1-5, and then a book or something to hide them from the prying eyes of that Commie SOB. For the two Wolverines! players they each get five markers for their freedom fighters; these should be colors like Blue for blue-blooded American or White because it’s not Red. Risk markers work for this. They also each get five markers that indicate weapons. Commie boy get fifty red markers for his troops, he’s to put one on each sector of the map and keep the rest off in reserve, and enough weapons markers to fill each sector of the map plus some extra to spread around. At the top of the board you need a board with ten markers and an American Flag – this represents the forces of freedom, taking the country back one Red corpse at time.

The Wolverines! players roll to see who goes first. Whoever wins get to attack a sector of the map, placing as many weapons markers as they want to use (up to the number of Freedom Fighters they have) in the sector. Ivan Ivanovich rolls a defensive die for each his soldiers in the sector and the Wolverines! rolls an attack die for each weapon used. Whomever has the big number (again have Danny count it or let Shaun use an abacus) wins. If the Wolverines! wins they get to take whatever weapons are in the sector and the Commie soldier dies like the pig-dog that he is. If the Socialist Scumbag wins the weapons used in the attack are taken off the board. The Wolverine! places his freedom fighters or weapons in the hideouts. Wolverines! number two gets to attack and do the same thing.

Now it’s Kremlin Karl’s turn. He gets to put soldiers back onto the board if he wants, but then he gets to attack the hideouts. Placing soldiers on one of the hideout squares for each of the Wolverines! players, two for each player (that makes 4!). If he’s placed soldiers on a square that matches the number of where a Wolverines! has placed weapons or Freedom Fighters then a single weapon or Freedom Fighter is lost. If there is nothing there the American flag at the top of the board moves one spot closer to liberation.

Play ends with the either the unlikely elimination of all the Wolverines! freedom fighters or the cowardly forces of Stalin retreating from the armies of Lady Liberty.

BAM! And that’s how you create a homage to one of Hollywood’s greats.

-Game Off