Some words are funnier than others. I’m betraying no secrets of the International Humorists Guild to tell you this. If you want to get a laugh with a joke or a piece of prose, or even with a poem, word choice is critical.
“Turkey” is funny. “Chicken” is not.
“Salami” is funny. “Ham” is not.
“Agony” is funny. “Pain” is not.
Why should this be so? It’s not simply the number of syllables, or the familiarity of the object or sensation being referenced. Granted, salami is arguably less common than ham, but “zipper” is funny, while “button” isn’t. There’s nothing particularly more familiar about zippers vs. buttons. On the other hand, “hematoma” is funny, while “bruise” is not. There is no clear association.
Is it the way the sounds of the funny word can be stretched out in delivery for comic effect? Is it the prevalence of hard vs. soft vowel sounds?
“Numb” is funny. “Dead” is not.
“Purple” is funny. “Blue” is not.
“Constipation” is funny. “Diarrhea” is not.
Even things which aren’t particularly funny can be classified as such, in one category or the other. Does this mean that words are not inherently funny, but only become so because I predispose the reader to agree with me? Are readers looking for a laugh, and willing to accept my categorization, not because it’s correct, but because it doesn’t actually matter?
“Soup” is funny. “Hamburger” is not.
“Sleepy” is funny. “Tired” is not.
“Stabbing” is funny. “Burning” is not.
Perhaps there’s an onomatopoeic component which underlies the humor quotient. “Scream” is funny, “shout” is not. “Cry” is funny, “weep” is not. On the other hand, “collapse” is funny, while “fall” is not.
These thoughts have been on my mind of late. What is the best way to make something funny?
I am the daughter, I am Rumpelstiltskin, I am the king
All writers think about the niceties of presentation and narrative. Usually, we are called on to exercise our skills with words and metaphor the way chefs are called upon to work magic with chicken bones and leeks and salt. We feed others and ourselves with our efforts at combination and recombination.
Sometimes, though, we are called on the way the miller’s daughter called on Rumpelstiltskin. Locked in the tower, at the end of everything, we are reduced to simple, tearful pleading.
The twisted little man comes to us in the middle of the darkest night of our lives and we beg, “Please, please, you are my last hope. Cold and dark as ever night was, and terrifying, too, this night will be my last unless I find some way to turn all of this straw into gold. Please, you must help me. Death comes for me in the gray morning light if you do not prevent it. I swear, I will believe in magic or anything you wish of me. I will promise you anything, anything at all. I cannot survive the night if I am left hopeless amid all of this worthless refuse.”
And the little man with the hard eyes says, “It is true that if I do this, if I take your dark room full of straw and use my magic to spin it into shining gold, it will see you through this night and save your life. But know this, child: the king will not love you for it. He will love only the gold, and will lock you back here again so that he may get more of it. He cares not for your suffering, only for the gold that comes of it. Suffering is temporary; gold is eternal. Do you still wish me to work my magic?”
“If I cannot hope that my suffering can be turned into something else, something pure and fine and golden, then I would as well not wait for morning, but die now. Work your magic, little man, and I will pay your price when I may.”
Dry old hands rub together with sadistic glee. “Spoken, sworn and done!” With a blur and a whir, he sets to work. Soon, where once was filth and dross, pain and suffering, the little man has spun basket after basket of finest gold.
In the gray morning light, the king is well pleased. “Never have I seen such a miracle!” he says to his advisers. “Prepare an even larger room for tonight!”
And the miller’s daughter weeps afresh.
Sometimes, though, we are called on the way the miller’s daughter called on Rumpelstiltskin. Locked in the tower, at the end of everything, we are reduced to simple, tearful pleading.
The twisted little man comes to us in the middle of the darkest night of our lives and we beg, “Please, please, you are my last hope. Cold and dark as ever night was, and terrifying, too, this night will be my last unless I find some way to turn all of this straw into gold. Please, you must help me. Death comes for me in the gray morning light if you do not prevent it. I swear, I will believe in magic or anything you wish of me. I will promise you anything, anything at all. I cannot survive the night if I am left hopeless amid all of this worthless refuse.”
And the little man with the hard eyes says, “It is true that if I do this, if I take your dark room full of straw and use my magic to spin it into shining gold, it will see you through this night and save your life. But know this, child: the king will not love you for it. He will love only the gold, and will lock you back here again so that he may get more of it. He cares not for your suffering, only for the gold that comes of it. Suffering is temporary; gold is eternal. Do you still wish me to work my magic?”
“If I cannot hope that my suffering can be turned into something else, something pure and fine and golden, then I would as well not wait for morning, but die now. Work your magic, little man, and I will pay your price when I may.”
Dry old hands rub together with sadistic glee. “Spoken, sworn and done!” With a blur and a whir, he sets to work. Soon, where once was filth and dross, pain and suffering, the little man has spun basket after basket of finest gold.
In the gray morning light, the king is well pleased. “Never have I seen such a miracle!” he says to his advisers. “Prepare an even larger room for tonight!”
And the miller’s daughter weeps afresh.
#FridayFlash: Reconciliation
Reconciliation
by Tony Noland
The fat man limped onto the stool next to the thin man, eliciting a crinkling noise from the almost new plastic. Everyone sitting at the counter made the same noises as they shifted and swiveled, eating and turning this way or that to face their companions. People spoke, silverware clinked, seats creaked. The thin man didn't turn to face the fat man.
Cup and saucer already in hand, the waitress asked the fat man if he wanted coffee. He said yes, he did want a cup of coffee, please. She poured it for him, refilled the thin man's cup, then left.
The fat man looked at the menu for a moment longer, then set it aside.
"I liked this place better before it was no smoking." said the thin man.
The fat man shrugged. He stirred his coffee, though he'd put neither cream nor sugar in it.
"Was a new owner made the change. I been comin' here a lot, last couple of years. If it wasn't for that, I'd have maybe said a different place." said the thin man.
The fat man sipped, said nothing.
"It's just..." the thin man said, "breakfast don't taste the same without a smoke afterwards, you know?" His fork and knife were crossed on top of the rye crusts, forming a perfect right angle in the middle of his plate. Traces of yolk spiraled around the edges, drying into a halo above. The thin man wiped his lips, set his paper napkin on the plate.
"So." said the fat man. "You called me. I came."
The thin man turned his cup, back and forth.
"It's been a long time, Michael. A long time."
"Cut it. What do you want?"
The thin man swallowed. "I was hoping that we could maybe work something out."
"We? Who exactly do you mean by 'we'? You and the boss?"
The thin man swallowed again, said, "Michael... I was hoping maybe you could talk to him. Kinda let him know I was sorry, you know? That I... well, you know what I mean."
"You want me to tell him that you want to come back to the family? That you want to come home?"
"Yeah, something like that."
The fat man sipped his coffee. The waitress returned and the fat man asked for eggs and ham, please, no toast. She took the order and left them.
"Michael, please..."
"Forget it. I vouched for you when you ran away, remember? I stood before the boss and I vouched for you, you son of a bitch, because I thought all you'd done was steal. Anybody can make a mistake, I said. He got too full of himself but he's basically a decent guy, I said. Stupid ass fuckin' me. I didn't know you'd been makin' a power play, tryin' to overthrow the boss and get the big chair for yourself."
"Mikey, I'm sorry."
"Don't call me Mikey. Now you tell me, how do you think I looked when they told me what you'd done? There I am vouching for you, and I get that little piece of news. Tell me, genius, how do you think the boss was feeling on that day? Listening to me vouching for you, the favorite lieutenant, the one who was like another fuckin' son to him, who had just tried to cap him and take over. Tell me, whadda you think, good mood or bad mood for the boss? Whadda you think?"
"I'm sorry!"
"Not half as sorry as I was. It took me a long time to convince the boss that I was just a dumb ass who got taken in by you, you fuckin' snake. Care to guess what the boys were doin' to me as I was beggin' for my life? Me, the boss' go to guy, on the floor beggin' for my life, all because I vouched for you, for my good friend, you rotten piece of shit?"
"Michael, please, I'm sorry! You're my only hope! I want to come home!"
"Fuck you." The fat man stood and tossed a tenner onto the counter.
"Hey," the fat man said, turning back. "I got an idea. If you want to come home so bad, why don't you try going to see the boss directly? Tell him to his face that you're sorry?"
The thin man paled and shrank.
"Yeah, I didn't think so. You got no balls, you lyin' coward. You never did. If the boss wants to see you, he'll send some of the boys down to get you. He knows where you live."
The fat man picked up the thin man's mug and quietly spat into it.
"You made your own hell, Lucifer, now you can fuckin' well burn in it. Don't call me again."
==========
Comments and constructive criticisms welcome. Other #FridayFlash pieces can be found here.
by Tony Noland
The fat man limped onto the stool next to the thin man, eliciting a crinkling noise from the almost new plastic. Everyone sitting at the counter made the same noises as they shifted and swiveled, eating and turning this way or that to face their companions. People spoke, silverware clinked, seats creaked. The thin man didn't turn to face the fat man.
Cup and saucer already in hand, the waitress asked the fat man if he wanted coffee. He said yes, he did want a cup of coffee, please. She poured it for him, refilled the thin man's cup, then left.
The fat man looked at the menu for a moment longer, then set it aside.
"I liked this place better before it was no smoking." said the thin man.
The fat man shrugged. He stirred his coffee, though he'd put neither cream nor sugar in it.
"Was a new owner made the change. I been comin' here a lot, last couple of years. If it wasn't for that, I'd have maybe said a different place." said the thin man.
The fat man sipped, said nothing.
"It's just..." the thin man said, "breakfast don't taste the same without a smoke afterwards, you know?" His fork and knife were crossed on top of the rye crusts, forming a perfect right angle in the middle of his plate. Traces of yolk spiraled around the edges, drying into a halo above. The thin man wiped his lips, set his paper napkin on the plate.
"So." said the fat man. "You called me. I came."
The thin man turned his cup, back and forth.
"It's been a long time, Michael. A long time."
"Cut it. What do you want?"
The thin man swallowed. "I was hoping that we could maybe work something out."
"We? Who exactly do you mean by 'we'? You and the boss?"
The thin man swallowed again, said, "Michael... I was hoping maybe you could talk to him. Kinda let him know I was sorry, you know? That I... well, you know what I mean."
"You want me to tell him that you want to come back to the family? That you want to come home?"
"Yeah, something like that."
The fat man sipped his coffee. The waitress returned and the fat man asked for eggs and ham, please, no toast. She took the order and left them.
"Michael, please..."
"Forget it. I vouched for you when you ran away, remember? I stood before the boss and I vouched for you, you son of a bitch, because I thought all you'd done was steal. Anybody can make a mistake, I said. He got too full of himself but he's basically a decent guy, I said. Stupid ass fuckin' me. I didn't know you'd been makin' a power play, tryin' to overthrow the boss and get the big chair for yourself."
"Mikey, I'm sorry."
"Don't call me Mikey. Now you tell me, how do you think I looked when they told me what you'd done? There I am vouching for you, and I get that little piece of news. Tell me, genius, how do you think the boss was feeling on that day? Listening to me vouching for you, the favorite lieutenant, the one who was like another fuckin' son to him, who had just tried to cap him and take over. Tell me, whadda you think, good mood or bad mood for the boss? Whadda you think?"
"I'm sorry!"
"Not half as sorry as I was. It took me a long time to convince the boss that I was just a dumb ass who got taken in by you, you fuckin' snake. Care to guess what the boys were doin' to me as I was beggin' for my life? Me, the boss' go to guy, on the floor beggin' for my life, all because I vouched for you, for my good friend, you rotten piece of shit?"
"Michael, please, I'm sorry! You're my only hope! I want to come home!"
"Fuck you." The fat man stood and tossed a tenner onto the counter.
"Hey," the fat man said, turning back. "I got an idea. If you want to come home so bad, why don't you try going to see the boss directly? Tell him to his face that you're sorry?"
The thin man paled and shrank.
"Yeah, I didn't think so. You got no balls, you lyin' coward. You never did. If the boss wants to see you, he'll send some of the boys down to get you. He knows where you live."
The fat man picked up the thin man's mug and quietly spat into it.
"You made your own hell, Lucifer, now you can fuckin' well burn in it. Don't call me again."
==========
Comments and constructive criticisms welcome. Other #FridayFlash pieces can be found here.
More drugs, please
It turns out that the pump that was sending marocaine into the incision site was doing me some good after all.
How do I know this?
Because the process of removing the three inch catheter that had been stabbing me in the belly was only slightly excruciating. Most of the area was pretty numb.
After it was removed, the numbness faded, to be replaced by the kind of feeling you get after someone extinguishes a cigar onto your inner thigh. Not a little cigarillo, either. One of those big, thick Churchills, the kind with a glowing cherry end as big around as a quarter.
Gosh, I miss that huge needle, with it's slow drip of modern medicine.
Today has been a bad day.
How do I know this?
Because the process of removing the three inch catheter that had been stabbing me in the belly was only slightly excruciating. Most of the area was pretty numb.
After it was removed, the numbness faded, to be replaced by the kind of feeling you get after someone extinguishes a cigar onto your inner thigh. Not a little cigarillo, either. One of those big, thick Churchills, the kind with a glowing cherry end as big around as a quarter.
Gosh, I miss that huge needle, with it's slow drip of modern medicine.
Today has been a bad day.
Drugs, needles and two cups of coffee
Twenty four hours after my hernia repair surgery, and I feel like a new man. Note that in this context, "new" does not mean "better". If it weren't for the vicodin and ibuprofen, I'm sure I'd be feeling a lot worse than I did before the surgery. I'm sure of this because everything I'd taken last night had worn off by the time I woke up this morning.
Right now though, I feel pretty good. I've had a handful of pills of varying colors and two cups of coffee. I'm sitting quietly in a comfy chair, tapping away on the laptop.
I have a needle inserted near the incision site, connected to a pump and a reservoir of something called marocaine, a novocaine derivative. It's set to deliver 1ml/hr of local anesthetic to the area, keeping it more or less numb for the first 48 hours.
Great concept, except that I'm mostly immune to novocaine and its derivatives. The surgeon hooked it up anyway, on the expectation that it will provide some partial pain blocking. Maybe it is, maybe it isn't. I'm not willing to take it out to test it.
The surgery itself went fine. I was shifted from the gurney onto the operating table, and my legs were strapped in place. The anesthesiologist injected something to start me off to dreamland. She said that the drug caused a burning sensation, so they mix in some lidocaine, a novocaine derivative, to block that. As noted above, however, that little addition to the cocktail didn't do me much good.
They had to hold me down for a few moments as the drug started to spread through me; I was thrashing around with the feeling that I'd been set on fire. It was especially intense in areas with high concentrations of nerve endings. It is left as an exercise for the reader to guess exactly which body parts I'm referring to.
Fortunately, that feeling didn't last long, less than a minute. After I settled down, the nurses and the resident re-tightened the straps. When the surgeon came in, the anesthesiologist gave him an account of my reaction and they had a little discussion about how to proceed. I'm a little fuzzy on the details.
After a little while, I was given a mask to breath from. Three deep breaths later and it was all over. I have fragmentary memories of lights moving overhead as I was wheeled into a recovery area.
In coming out of general anesthesia, it's pretty common for people to become, shall we say, unguarded in their speech. I was apparently extraordinarily witty in my conversation as I was coming around. In addition to whatever else I'd said, the recovery nurse told me that I'd offered to sing for everyone. She was trying (and failing) to suppress a smile as she told me that I was a funny guy.
I vaguely recall noting that tenors get all the good parts, much better than what baritones get to do. I also recall beginning a travelogue about a trip I'd taken recently; I have the idea that I tapered off into silence before I actually finished.
In vino veritas. I guess it speaks well of me that when doped right up to the gills, I'm a witty and charming raconteur.
After a bit, my wife came back into the recovery area. The surgeon had given her the details of the procedure itself, that all had gone according to plan. The hole in my abdominal wall was about the size of a lime; it's no wonder I'd had to keep poking my intestines back into place.
Anyway, after I'd recovered my senses a bit, I got the first round of pills, along with some apple juice and crackers. Once they started to take effect, I got dressed and we left. I slept through a lot of yesterday afternoon, watched movies through most of the rest of it.
My plan for the next few days is to rest, keep up with my pain meds, and don't try to be a tough guy idiot and do more than I'm capable of. Sounds simple, except I'm someone that gets bored easily; inactivity doesn't come naturally to me.
Thanks to everyone for all of your support, in the comments and good wishes you left as comments here and as tweets and DMs on Twitter. It means a lot to me, and I appreciate it.
Testicular atrophy
Tomorrow's the day I go in to get this hernia repaired. Just for fun,
I thought I'd relay for you one of the risks associated with this
surgery:
I thought I'd relay for you one of the risks associated with this
surgery:
"3. ISCHEMIC ORCHITIS & TESTICULAR ATROPHY: In males, on occasion, the
blood supply to the testicle can become compromised. This can lead to
painful swelling of the testicle which may take a few months to
resolve. It is rare that the testicle needs to be removed because of
this problem."
Dungeons & Dragons draws a distinction between "rare" (19 or 20 on a
d20) and "very rare" (20 on a d20), if I remember my 2nd edition rules
properly.
Not that I necessarily need to know the odds here. After all, I am
known in eleven timezones as the man who laughs first and loudest in
the face of danger.
I just would have preferred a "very", that's all.
Strange, isn't it? As a writer, I go "very picking" all the time,
trying to expunge the word from every piece of prose I come across.
Now, a "very" would be rather comforting.
--
___________________________________
http://www.TonyNoland.com/
Follow me on Twitter: @TonyNoland
Interview: Tony Noland
Nepal Klipps, Reporter for MSNBC: Tony, thanks very much for agreeing to speak with me and answer a few questions about your writing and also about your blog and website.
Tony Noland: You're very welcome, Nepal. I'm happy to help in any way that I can.
NK: Tell me, is that because you feel a sense of obligation to your legions of fans?
TN: To my... what did you say?
NK: Tony, don't be so modest! It's no secret that millions of people love your work and look up to you as an inspiration. You're one of the most prolific authors of the last decade, with six novels on the New York Times bestseller list. I need hardly add that four of them were made into very successful Oscar-winning films, including "Heart of Stone" for which you won the Oscar for a screenplay adaptation.
TN: What the hell are you talking about? I haven't finished revisions on either of my novels, let alone had them published. My fiction gets rejected all over the place. Look, I was flattered to be asked to do this interview, but you've obviously got the wrong guy.
NK: No, it's you we want to talk to. Authors all over the world have been begging you to share your method for writing compelling, heart-felt yet humorous prose.
TN: Is this a joke? Am I being set up for some kind of reality TV show? Because if it is, I gotta say, this shit isn't funny.
NK: Being funny is one of the things I'd love for you to talk about. Every year since 2017, your website has been in the Google-Salon "Top 100 Blogs" list, first under "Humor", but more recently under "Creativity & Innovation". Tell me, Tony, what is the secret of your success?
TN: I don't have any success! And my blog isn't listed or rated anywhere! I'm purely a wannabe! Nobody's read anything I've written. Nobody even knows who I am, except my friends on Twitter.
NK: Ah, Twitter, that's where it all began for you, isn't it? Where you first got your start.
TN: My start? My start at what, writing?
NK: Of course! You were one of the early adopters of Twitter, one of the first to leverage social networking into commercial success.
TN: You're hallucinating. I only started using Twitter after I read about it in the New York Times or something. That's not early adopter.
NK: But you were one of the first to use the Twitter hashtag system to get word of mouth going about the fiction you were writing.
TN: You mean the #FridayFlash? That was Jon Strother's idea. He's the one who organized it, supported it, devoted a hell of a lot of time to fostering it every week with his listings and link pages. It never would have gone anywhere without his energy and creativity. As a matter of fact, I was late in coming to that party. It had already been going on for a long time before I even found out about it. People like Laura Eno and John Wiswell had been writing flash fiction stories for it for months.
NK: But as soon as you knew about it, you didn't hesitate. You just jumped right in, that very first week.
TN: Well... yes.
NK: You didn't dither about whether your story was good enough, or if it fit in with what everyone else was writing. You just posted it and started tweeting the link, isn't that right?
TN: Yeah, that's right.
NK: Why? What made you so confident? Did you realize even that first week that your story was genius?
TN: Hardly. That first story was a meandering, atmospheric mess. No plot at all, and way too many adverbs. It wasn't confidence that led me to to post that story. It was the comfort that comes with anonymity. So the story sucks - who cares? There are a million crappy stories written every day by newbie fiction writers. Adding my single grain of sand to the beach was not exactly a momentous occasion, you know?
NK: But it was for you, wasn't it? It was one of the first times you posted something publicly and told people about it. It was your entre into the FridayFlash community.
TN: Yes it was, and everybody was very gracious and polite about welcoming me. Some people said that they really liked the story, which was thrilling beyond belief. Others were gentle with faint praise, stuff like, "I liked this. Good work.", that kind of thing. As I recall, one or two people said that they didn't understand what was going on in the piece, what the guy's motivation or history was. That made me realize that I didn't know either, since I hadn't thought about it.
NK: And was that painful to hear?
TN: Not at all! Well, OK, maybe just a bit, but it was so incredibly *important* for me to hear. What that did for me was to make me realize that I needed to understand my characters. Every one of them has a life. They have have hopes, fears, likes, dislikes, the whole gamut of everything we all have. These stories I tell about them are just a little window onto one moment of their lives. Even though I'm not showing their entire lives, all of that has to be there to make them believable in this little vignette. For them to have solid and authentic dialogue and responses, I need to know who they are. It's Rosencranz and Guildenstern, you know?
NK: So you work up entire life histories for every character that appears in your FridayFlash stories?
TN: Not detailed ones, no. There isn't time. But I think about who they are, where they come from, how old they are, what they look like. I try to get a sense of them, so I can get a better sense of how they'd act and react to the plot stuff I throw at them.
NK: And it's been smooth sailing in writing fiction ever since.
TN: Yeah, right. That was lesson number one. One down, ten billion to go. I've been crossing them off the list as I internalize each one.
NK: That's tremendous advice, Tony. Tell me, what would you say is the most important lesson in writing good fiction?
TN: There are two, actually. First, don't be afraid to experiment for fear of writing something crappy. An experiment is only a failure if you don't learn anything. Second, don't ever, ever, EVER pull one of those "...and then he realized it had all been a dream" endings. That's hackneyed tripe. I'm proud to say that I have never done one of those stories.
NK: Until today, right?
TN: Yes, until today. Wait, what?
Tony Noland: You're very welcome, Nepal. I'm happy to help in any way that I can.
NK: Tell me, is that because you feel a sense of obligation to your legions of fans?
TN: To my... what did you say?
NK: Tony, don't be so modest! It's no secret that millions of people love your work and look up to you as an inspiration. You're one of the most prolific authors of the last decade, with six novels on the New York Times bestseller list. I need hardly add that four of them were made into very successful Oscar-winning films, including "Heart of Stone" for which you won the Oscar for a screenplay adaptation.
TN: What the hell are you talking about? I haven't finished revisions on either of my novels, let alone had them published. My fiction gets rejected all over the place. Look, I was flattered to be asked to do this interview, but you've obviously got the wrong guy.
NK: No, it's you we want to talk to. Authors all over the world have been begging you to share your method for writing compelling, heart-felt yet humorous prose.
TN: Is this a joke? Am I being set up for some kind of reality TV show? Because if it is, I gotta say, this shit isn't funny.
NK: Being funny is one of the things I'd love for you to talk about. Every year since 2017, your website has been in the Google-Salon "Top 100 Blogs" list, first under "Humor", but more recently under "Creativity & Innovation". Tell me, Tony, what is the secret of your success?
TN: I don't have any success! And my blog isn't listed or rated anywhere! I'm purely a wannabe! Nobody's read anything I've written. Nobody even knows who I am, except my friends on Twitter.
NK: Ah, Twitter, that's where it all began for you, isn't it? Where you first got your start.
TN: My start? My start at what, writing?
NK: Of course! You were one of the early adopters of Twitter, one of the first to leverage social networking into commercial success.
TN: You're hallucinating. I only started using Twitter after I read about it in the New York Times or something. That's not early adopter.
NK: But you were one of the first to use the Twitter hashtag system to get word of mouth going about the fiction you were writing.
TN: You mean the #FridayFlash? That was Jon Strother's idea. He's the one who organized it, supported it, devoted a hell of a lot of time to fostering it every week with his listings and link pages. It never would have gone anywhere without his energy and creativity. As a matter of fact, I was late in coming to that party. It had already been going on for a long time before I even found out about it. People like Laura Eno and John Wiswell had been writing flash fiction stories for it for months.
NK: But as soon as you knew about it, you didn't hesitate. You just jumped right in, that very first week.
TN: Well... yes.
NK: You didn't dither about whether your story was good enough, or if it fit in with what everyone else was writing. You just posted it and started tweeting the link, isn't that right?
TN: Yeah, that's right.
NK: Why? What made you so confident? Did you realize even that first week that your story was genius?
TN: Hardly. That first story was a meandering, atmospheric mess. No plot at all, and way too many adverbs. It wasn't confidence that led me to to post that story. It was the comfort that comes with anonymity. So the story sucks - who cares? There are a million crappy stories written every day by newbie fiction writers. Adding my single grain of sand to the beach was not exactly a momentous occasion, you know?
NK: But it was for you, wasn't it? It was one of the first times you posted something publicly and told people about it. It was your entre into the FridayFlash community.
TN: Yes it was, and everybody was very gracious and polite about welcoming me. Some people said that they really liked the story, which was thrilling beyond belief. Others were gentle with faint praise, stuff like, "I liked this. Good work.", that kind of thing. As I recall, one or two people said that they didn't understand what was going on in the piece, what the guy's motivation or history was. That made me realize that I didn't know either, since I hadn't thought about it.
NK: And was that painful to hear?
TN: Not at all! Well, OK, maybe just a bit, but it was so incredibly *important* for me to hear. What that did for me was to make me realize that I needed to understand my characters. Every one of them has a life. They have have hopes, fears, likes, dislikes, the whole gamut of everything we all have. These stories I tell about them are just a little window onto one moment of their lives. Even though I'm not showing their entire lives, all of that has to be there to make them believable in this little vignette. For them to have solid and authentic dialogue and responses, I need to know who they are. It's Rosencranz and Guildenstern, you know?
NK: So you work up entire life histories for every character that appears in your FridayFlash stories?
TN: Not detailed ones, no. There isn't time. But I think about who they are, where they come from, how old they are, what they look like. I try to get a sense of them, so I can get a better sense of how they'd act and react to the plot stuff I throw at them.
NK: And it's been smooth sailing in writing fiction ever since.
TN: Yeah, right. That was lesson number one. One down, ten billion to go. I've been crossing them off the list as I internalize each one.
NK: That's tremendous advice, Tony. Tell me, what would you say is the most important lesson in writing good fiction?
TN: There are two, actually. First, don't be afraid to experiment for fear of writing something crappy. An experiment is only a failure if you don't learn anything. Second, don't ever, ever, EVER pull one of those "...and then he realized it had all been a dream" endings. That's hackneyed tripe. I'm proud to say that I have never done one of those stories.
NK: Until today, right?
TN: Yes, until today. Wait, what?
#FridayFlash: Philly's in the house
Philly's in the house
by Tony Noland
Left.
Right.
Left.
Right.
God, that pile's bigger than I thought. That broken concrete's gonna hurt.
Damn straight it will. Forget it. Burn that bridge when you come to it, pal. Yeah, funny guy, won't be so funny trying to climb it. Never mind, figure out a way up once you get there. Climb it, get to the light, get out. One, two, three.
See those sharp edges on the exposed rebar, Danny boy? Better protect the leg. Snag it on one of those and the pain's gonna be a showstopper. Yeah, right, protect it with what? Never mind. Figure it out when you get there. Leg hurts bad enough just to drag it.
Pain would help wake you up, though, wouldn't it? Can't feel the elbows anymore, too torn up from the rubble. Gotta rest my arms for a minute. Gotta rest. I'm so tired.
So tired.
And cold.
Thirsty.
But not hungry.
Not hungry.
Hungry.
Snickers bar... pistachios... pizza...
... so tired ...
WAKE UP!
Wake up, god damn it, wake up! Focus, you idiot, focus! Come on, chop chop, get moving, count 'em off, almost there. You can do this, Danny boy, you can do this, get your arms out there and pull, just get moving.
Left.
Right.
Four more, then climb the pile and follow the light. Don't rest, just count 'em off.
Left.
Right.
Left.
Right.
Christ, you lying bastard, it wasn't four, it's more like ten. Yeah, yeah, whatever. It's like that half marathon, OK? The Memorial Day thing, back in 2031? Couldn't have done that without lying to yourself about it, huh? Focus, just do it one mile at a time. OK, no problem, just rest for a minute. Elbows are taking the worst of it, and they'll probably heal. Just rest. Catch your breath, then get up there. Come on, you can do this.
Rest just a minute. Just, just for a minute.
So cold.
Yeah, I know. You're cold and hungry and thirsty, and big fuckin' earthquakes aren't supposed to hit the East Coast and it's not fair and blah, blah, blah, and people in hell want ice water. Get over there. Use your arms, crawl god damn it, right now. Now, Danny, now!
Left.
Right.
Left.
Right.
Almost there.
Left.
OK.
OK. OK. Now, push up and get up there. We got water and blankets and food up there. Yeah, Danny, there's coffee and fried chicken and rum and cokes and pie and ice cold martinis with three olives and
WAKE UP!
Come on, Danny, doctors can't fix you if you don't get up there, can they? There's doctors and nurses and EMTs and all kinds of people. Leg's a loss, it's gotta be, but if you get up there, they can take it off clean, get you a nice clean stump to work with. They got blood and morphine and antibiotics up there, don't they? And if you don't get up there, an aftershock's gonna get you, boy. You hear me? Aftershocks gonna bring down this whole slab. Cheap ass parking garage concrete ain't gonna last forever, man.
Come on, you lucky bastard. Everybody else was crushed flat, but you got eighteen inches. Eighteen inches, floor to ceiling, you gonna gripe about it? Waste it? More than anybody else got. You even got some rainwater to drink. You been lucky for three fuckin' days, jerkface, you think it's gonna last forever? Are you from south Philly or not? Philly's in the house, man. I bet Baltimore and New York got hit, too. Betcha they're climbing in New York. You just know they're climbing out of the rubble up in New York, you know that, don't you Danny? You gonna let New York show us up? Come on, Philly, whadda you got? Get up there. Get up there, Danny. Get out. Gotta get up there.
I will. I will. I just need to rest for a minute.
Just for a minute.
Just a minute.
So tired.
Tired.
Cold.
==========
Comments and constructive criticisms welcome. Other #FridayFlash pieces can be found here.
by Tony Noland
Left.
Right.
Left.
Right.
God, that pile's bigger than I thought. That broken concrete's gonna hurt.
Damn straight it will. Forget it. Burn that bridge when you come to it, pal. Yeah, funny guy, won't be so funny trying to climb it. Never mind, figure out a way up once you get there. Climb it, get to the light, get out. One, two, three.
See those sharp edges on the exposed rebar, Danny boy? Better protect the leg. Snag it on one of those and the pain's gonna be a showstopper. Yeah, right, protect it with what? Never mind. Figure it out when you get there. Leg hurts bad enough just to drag it.
Pain would help wake you up, though, wouldn't it? Can't feel the elbows anymore, too torn up from the rubble. Gotta rest my arms for a minute. Gotta rest. I'm so tired.
So tired.
And cold.
Thirsty.
But not hungry.
Not hungry.
Hungry.
Snickers bar... pistachios... pizza...
... so tired ...
WAKE UP!
Wake up, god damn it, wake up! Focus, you idiot, focus! Come on, chop chop, get moving, count 'em off, almost there. You can do this, Danny boy, you can do this, get your arms out there and pull, just get moving.
Left.
Right.
Four more, then climb the pile and follow the light. Don't rest, just count 'em off.
Left.
Right.
Left.
Right.
Christ, you lying bastard, it wasn't four, it's more like ten. Yeah, yeah, whatever. It's like that half marathon, OK? The Memorial Day thing, back in 2031? Couldn't have done that without lying to yourself about it, huh? Focus, just do it one mile at a time. OK, no problem, just rest for a minute. Elbows are taking the worst of it, and they'll probably heal. Just rest. Catch your breath, then get up there. Come on, you can do this.
Rest just a minute. Just, just for a minute.
So cold.
Yeah, I know. You're cold and hungry and thirsty, and big fuckin' earthquakes aren't supposed to hit the East Coast and it's not fair and blah, blah, blah, and people in hell want ice water. Get over there. Use your arms, crawl god damn it, right now. Now, Danny, now!
Left.
Right.
Left.
Right.
Almost there.
Left.
OK.
OK. OK. Now, push up and get up there. We got water and blankets and food up there. Yeah, Danny, there's coffee and fried chicken and rum and cokes and pie and ice cold martinis with three olives and
WAKE UP!
Come on, Danny, doctors can't fix you if you don't get up there, can they? There's doctors and nurses and EMTs and all kinds of people. Leg's a loss, it's gotta be, but if you get up there, they can take it off clean, get you a nice clean stump to work with. They got blood and morphine and antibiotics up there, don't they? And if you don't get up there, an aftershock's gonna get you, boy. You hear me? Aftershocks gonna bring down this whole slab. Cheap ass parking garage concrete ain't gonna last forever, man.
Come on, you lucky bastard. Everybody else was crushed flat, but you got eighteen inches. Eighteen inches, floor to ceiling, you gonna gripe about it? Waste it? More than anybody else got. You even got some rainwater to drink. You been lucky for three fuckin' days, jerkface, you think it's gonna last forever? Are you from south Philly or not? Philly's in the house, man. I bet Baltimore and New York got hit, too. Betcha they're climbing in New York. You just know they're climbing out of the rubble up in New York, you know that, don't you Danny? You gonna let New York show us up? Come on, Philly, whadda you got? Get up there. Get up there, Danny. Get out. Gotta get up there.
I will. I will. I just need to rest for a minute.
Just for a minute.
Just a minute.
So tired.
Tired.
Cold.
==========
Comments and constructive criticisms welcome. Other #FridayFlash pieces can be found here.
Tuesday Next
Right now, my focus is on Tuesday next. No, this is no relation to Thursday Next, the heroine of Jasper Fforde's novels. Jan 26, Tuesday next, is when I get to go have my belly sliced, patched and re-sewn.
Day. Can't. Come. Soon. Enough.
Injury is in the groin, but the pain extends from my mid-thigh up to my chest, as all the muscles around the injury are starting to fail from the fatigue of compensation.
Lying absolutely still is merely uncomfortable. Everything else actively hurts. Sitting, standing, walking, breathing, talking, eating, pissing, shitting... the only bright spot is that sitting and typing doesn't hurt anymore than just sitting. Which means I can share this experience with you.
I feel like I have the snipped and sharp end of a red hot wire, the thick high-current kind, jammed deep into the flesh next to my scrotum, set to give me an electric shock with every heartbeat. Everything around it feels like a four day old bone bruise, the kind that kaleidoscopes through blacks and greens and purples.
I am so utterly NOT comforted by the inescapably character-building nature of the five days remaining between me and the nadir of this experience.
Day. Can't. Come. Soon. Enough.
Injury is in the groin, but the pain extends from my mid-thigh up to my chest, as all the muscles around the injury are starting to fail from the fatigue of compensation.
Lying absolutely still is merely uncomfortable. Everything else actively hurts. Sitting, standing, walking, breathing, talking, eating, pissing, shitting... the only bright spot is that sitting and typing doesn't hurt anymore than just sitting. Which means I can share this experience with you.
I feel like I have the snipped and sharp end of a red hot wire, the thick high-current kind, jammed deep into the flesh next to my scrotum, set to give me an electric shock with every heartbeat. Everything around it feels like a four day old bone bruise, the kind that kaleidoscopes through blacks and greens and purples.
I am so utterly NOT comforted by the inescapably character-building nature of the five days remaining between me and the nadir of this experience.
Anthology: 12 Days
I received a copy of the "12 Days" anthology, edited by Jim Wisneski. This is a print edition of the blog version of this story collection. My story for that collection was "Eight Maids a'Milking". Click on the pics below to enlarge - enjoy!
The book:
The story:
The book:
The story:
How long does it take you to write a story?
Recently, there have been several people who have been interested in how long it takes me to write a story. For a flash fiction piece, it might take a little while to get the idea or it might come in a flash (no pun intended). Once I've got the idea, though, it takes an hour and a half, maybe two hours to write the story. I try to let it sit overnight, then tweak before posting.
Short stories (~4K) take longer, of course, simply because the plotting is more involved and there's more to check & correct. I haven't timed that, but probably 10-12 hours to write it, then more time to tweak and edit.
Does that seem slow? Fast? When the writing is going well, hours and hours can fly by without my noticing. When it's not, it's like breaking rocks, every quarter hour is a pain.
So, for the FridayFlashers in particular, how long does it take you to write your ~1K stories?
Short stories (~4K) take longer, of course, simply because the plotting is more involved and there's more to check & correct. I haven't timed that, but probably 10-12 hours to write it, then more time to tweak and edit.
Does that seem slow? Fast? When the writing is going well, hours and hours can fly by without my noticing. When it's not, it's like breaking rocks, every quarter hour is a pain.
So, for the FridayFlashers in particular, how long does it take you to write your ~1K stories?
#FridayFlash: Pot of Gold (revised)
#FridayFlash: Pot of Gold
by Tony Noland
Captain Charlton took a careful sip at the straw before he stuck the mug of coffee to the side of his console. Floating out there in the silence, a quarter of a million miles away from the Barack Hussein Obama, was the alien device some politician had dubbed the "pot of gold". The telemetry said it was charging up; whatever it was supposed to do, it would happen soon. Hence the mug. Nothing helped calm down a nervous bridge crew like seeing the old man drink a cup of coffee. His crew was the best, but waiting was hard on young people.
He'd been a cadet when the original signpost artifacts were discovered floating out at the Sun-Earth LaGrange points. That was the biggest event in the history of mankind, up until today. Inert, with no internal mechanisms, they were just hollow dodecahedral blocks of diamond-coated titanium. The thousands of glyphs etched into the twelve faces contained references to universal physical constants, mathematical relationships and astronomical data from the solar system.
More than a million years ago, someone parked them in a stable orbit that would be a natural stopping point for any technological culture that happened to develop on Earth. They were clearly a calling card, but it had taken years to interpret the pictoglyphs. Once the scientists realized that the glyphs indicated something wonderful awaited among the Trojan asteroids at the hindward Sun-Jupiter LaGrange point, that was that. Sending a mission to go get the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow became Earth's top priority.
And so, finally, here we are, the Captain thought. Waiting. The signposts had given specific instructions on how to activate it, the radio frequencies and codes to use. Now, an hour after he'd sent the signal, it was clearly waking up, sparks of blue-white light flashing across the surface of the massive reddish-bronze sphere. It wasn't at all clear what would happen; the pictoglyphs had been incomprehensible on that point. Whatever it was, it was drawing a lot of power from somewhere. The readings on screens all over the bridge were starting to blink red.
Charlton detached his mug from the velcro and sipped at his coffee, making a point to slurp audibly. At that moment, his central control panel started to flash. He replaced his mug so it wouldn't float away.
"Captain!"
"I see it, Lieutenant."
The pot of gold device blazed bright blue and then a long line of sparkling plasma shot from it, zipping outward until it was more than two miles long. The line vibrated like a trace on some enormous EKG, then split along its length and opened up. Where there had been a line there was now a circle, a huge glowing disc.
And through the disc flew a fleet of spaceships. Ugly, bulbous things, spiked with gun turrets and missile launch tubes. Through the radio static, a blast of noise came from the ships, flooding the entire radio spectrum. The whining howl repeated three times before the translators kicked in.
"- claim this system for the Chiorran Empire! Your civilization now belongs to his Highness Emperor Urchtrekkk-ahn! You will live as slaves of the Empire or die as enemies of the Empire! We claim this system for the Chiorran Empire! Your civilization now belongs -"
"Turn that off, Lieutenant."
"Yes sir! We're being scanned, sir! Orders, sir?"
"Stand by."
Captain Charlton's finger rested next to the red button on his console. He waited.
The Chiorran slaver fleet emerged and immediately turned to form ranks. As they did so, the engines of first one ship, then another, then all, flared brightly as they began to tumble and twist out of control. Two of the larger ships, caught in the grip of forces far more powerful than even their titanic drive units could overcome, crashed into each other and were torn to pieces. One by one, every ship that came through stalled, tumbled and fell into crushing destruction.
The translators couldn't keep up with the rapidly shifting shrieks and howls being transmitted.
After 30 minutes, it was over. There was nothing left of the fleet of would-be slavers and conquerors. Every ship had disappeared into the crushing depths below.
"Lieutenant."
"Sir!"
"It would appear they expected us to activate the device out among the asteroids instead of hauling it back here into a low orbit above Jupiter first."
"Sir, yes sir!"
"Send the missiles back through that gate or portal or whatever it is. Alternate conventional one hundred megaton warheads with thirty megaton fast neutron warheads, at one minute intervals. Follow up every tenth salvo with reconnaissance drones. Tell the marines to deploy immediately. Use a fast drop to get down there and get through. I want a beachhead secured on the other side."
"Yes sir!"
Charlton sipped his coffee.
"Oh, and somebody tell the diplomatic attache to stand down. We won't be needing him for a few days. At least."
==========
Comments and constructive criticisms welcome. If you think I'm just being polite here, you should know that this story is a revision of one I posted earlier. I was able to improve this version because of the comments and constructive criticism I got on that #FridayFlash. Other #FridayFlash pieces can be found here
by Tony Noland
Captain Charlton took a careful sip at the straw before he stuck the mug of coffee to the side of his console. Floating out there in the silence, a quarter of a million miles away from the Barack Hussein Obama, was the alien device some politician had dubbed the "pot of gold". The telemetry said it was charging up; whatever it was supposed to do, it would happen soon. Hence the mug. Nothing helped calm down a nervous bridge crew like seeing the old man drink a cup of coffee. His crew was the best, but waiting was hard on young people.
He'd been a cadet when the original signpost artifacts were discovered floating out at the Sun-Earth LaGrange points. That was the biggest event in the history of mankind, up until today. Inert, with no internal mechanisms, they were just hollow dodecahedral blocks of diamond-coated titanium. The thousands of glyphs etched into the twelve faces contained references to universal physical constants, mathematical relationships and astronomical data from the solar system.
More than a million years ago, someone parked them in a stable orbit that would be a natural stopping point for any technological culture that happened to develop on Earth. They were clearly a calling card, but it had taken years to interpret the pictoglyphs. Once the scientists realized that the glyphs indicated something wonderful awaited among the Trojan asteroids at the hindward Sun-Jupiter LaGrange point, that was that. Sending a mission to go get the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow became Earth's top priority.
And so, finally, here we are, the Captain thought. Waiting. The signposts had given specific instructions on how to activate it, the radio frequencies and codes to use. Now, an hour after he'd sent the signal, it was clearly waking up, sparks of blue-white light flashing across the surface of the massive reddish-bronze sphere. It wasn't at all clear what would happen; the pictoglyphs had been incomprehensible on that point. Whatever it was, it was drawing a lot of power from somewhere. The readings on screens all over the bridge were starting to blink red.
Charlton detached his mug from the velcro and sipped at his coffee, making a point to slurp audibly. At that moment, his central control panel started to flash. He replaced his mug so it wouldn't float away.
"Captain!"
"I see it, Lieutenant."
The pot of gold device blazed bright blue and then a long line of sparkling plasma shot from it, zipping outward until it was more than two miles long. The line vibrated like a trace on some enormous EKG, then split along its length and opened up. Where there had been a line there was now a circle, a huge glowing disc.
And through the disc flew a fleet of spaceships. Ugly, bulbous things, spiked with gun turrets and missile launch tubes. Through the radio static, a blast of noise came from the ships, flooding the entire radio spectrum. The whining howl repeated three times before the translators kicked in.
"- claim this system for the Chiorran Empire! Your civilization now belongs to his Highness Emperor Urchtrekkk-ahn! You will live as slaves of the Empire or die as enemies of the Empire! We claim this system for the Chiorran Empire! Your civilization now belongs -"
"Turn that off, Lieutenant."
"Yes sir! We're being scanned, sir! Orders, sir?"
"Stand by."
Captain Charlton's finger rested next to the red button on his console. He waited.
The Chiorran slaver fleet emerged and immediately turned to form ranks. As they did so, the engines of first one ship, then another, then all, flared brightly as they began to tumble and twist out of control. Two of the larger ships, caught in the grip of forces far more powerful than even their titanic drive units could overcome, crashed into each other and were torn to pieces. One by one, every ship that came through stalled, tumbled and fell into crushing destruction.
The translators couldn't keep up with the rapidly shifting shrieks and howls being transmitted.
After 30 minutes, it was over. There was nothing left of the fleet of would-be slavers and conquerors. Every ship had disappeared into the crushing depths below.
"Lieutenant."
"Sir!"
"It would appear they expected us to activate the device out among the asteroids instead of hauling it back here into a low orbit above Jupiter first."
"Sir, yes sir!"
"Send the missiles back through that gate or portal or whatever it is. Alternate conventional one hundred megaton warheads with thirty megaton fast neutron warheads, at one minute intervals. Follow up every tenth salvo with reconnaissance drones. Tell the marines to deploy immediately. Use a fast drop to get down there and get through. I want a beachhead secured on the other side."
"Yes sir!"
Charlton sipped his coffee.
"Oh, and somebody tell the diplomatic attache to stand down. We won't be needing him for a few days. At least."
==========
Comments and constructive criticisms welcome. If you think I'm just being polite here, you should know that this story is a revision of one I posted earlier. I was able to improve this version because of the comments and constructive criticism I got on that #FridayFlash. Other #FridayFlash pieces can be found here
#FridayFlash: Pot of Gold
WAIT: Don't read this one yet. Read the REVISED version. Then come back and read this one, and see how I incorporated the comments into the revision.
#FridayFlash: Pot of Gold
by Tony Noland
Captain Charlton absently thanked the deck steward and took a careful sip at the straw before he stuck the fresh mug of coffee to the side of his console. Floating out there in the silence, a quarter of a million miles away from the Barack Hussein Obama, the alien device was charging up; the telemetry said whatever it was supposed to do, it would happen soon. Hence the mug. Nothing helped calm down a nervous bridge crew like seeing the old man drink a cup of coffee. His crew was the best, but waiting was hard on young men.
They'd sent the signal more than an hour ago, in the exact sequence specified by the pictoglyphs on the original signpost artifacts. There was no way to know how long it would take for a response from the device, the one somebody had dubbed the pot of gold. It was clearly waking up, but it wasn't clear what would happen when it did. The pictoglyphs instructions had been incomprehensible on that point. Whatever it was, it was drawing a lot of power from somewhere. The readings on screens all over the bridge were starting to blink red. Charlton detached his mug from the velcro and sipped at his coffee, making a point to slurp audibly.
It had only taken a few years to decipher the signposts after they'd been discovered floating out at the Sun-Earth LaGrange points. They were inert, with no internal mechanisms even on a nano scale. They were just hollow dodecahedral blocks of diamond-coated titanium, with thousand of glyphs etched into the twelve faces - references to universal physical constants, mathematical relationships and astronomical data from the solar system.
The signposts were almost a million years old, and had been parked in a stable orbit that would be a natural stopping point for any technological culture that happened to develop on Earth. They were clearly a calling card, and they had used universal language to say that something even better and more wonderful awaited among the Trojan asteroids at the hindward Sun-Jupiter LaGrange point. It had even given the instructions on how to activate it, the radio frequencies and codes to use.
And so here we are, the Captain thought. Waiting for it to wake up. At that moment, his central control panel started to flash. He replaced his mug so it wouldn't float away.
"Captain!"
"I see it, Lieutenant."
The pot of gold device was glowing bright blue and then a long line of sparkling plasma shot from it, zipping outward until it was more than two miles long. The line vibrated like a trace on some enormous EKG, then split along its length and opened up. Where there had been a line there was now a circle, a huge glowing disc.
And through the disc flew a fleet of spaceships. Ugly, bulbous things, spiked with gun turrets and missile launch tubes. Through the radio static, a blast of noise came from the ships, flooding the entire radio spectrum. The whining howl repeated three times before the translators kicked in.
"- claim this system for the Chiorran Empire! Your civilization now belongs to his Highness Emperor Urchtrekkk-ahn! You will live as slaves of the Empire or die as enemies of the Empire! We claim this system for the Chiorran Empire! Your civilization now belongs -"
"Turn that off, Lieutenant."
"Yes sir! We're being scanned, sir! Orders, sir?"
"Stand by."
Captain Charlton's finger rested next to the red button on his console. He waited.
The Chiorran slaver fleet emerged and immediately turned to form ranks. As they did so, the engines of first one ship, then another, then all, flared brightly as they began to tumble and twist out of control. Two of the larger ships, caught in the grip of forces far more powerful than even their titanic drive units could overcome, crashed into each other and were torn to pieces. One by one, every ship that came through stalled, tumbled and fell into crushing destruction.
The translators couldn't keep up with the rapidly shifting shrieks and howls being transmitted.
After 30 minutes, it was over. There was nothing left of the fleet of would-be slavers and conquerors. Every ship had disappeared into the crushing depths below.
"Lieutenant."
"Sir!"
"It would appear they expected us to activate the device out among the asteroids instead of hauling in back here into a low orbit above Jupiter first."
"Sir, yes sir!"
"Send the missiles back through that gate or portal or whatever it is. Alternate conventional one hundred megaton warheads with thirty megaton fast neutron warheads, at one minute intervals. Follow up every tenth salvo with reconnaissance drones. Tell the marines to deploy immediately. Use a fast drop to get down there and get through. I want a beachhead secured on the other side."
"Yes sir!"
Charlton sipped his coffee.
"Oh, and somebody tell the diplomatic attache to stand down. We won't be needing him for a few days. At least."
==========
Comments and constructive criticisms welcome. Other #FridayFlash pieces can be found here
#FridayFlash: Pot of Gold
by Tony Noland
Captain Charlton absently thanked the deck steward and took a careful sip at the straw before he stuck the fresh mug of coffee to the side of his console. Floating out there in the silence, a quarter of a million miles away from the Barack Hussein Obama, the alien device was charging up; the telemetry said whatever it was supposed to do, it would happen soon. Hence the mug. Nothing helped calm down a nervous bridge crew like seeing the old man drink a cup of coffee. His crew was the best, but waiting was hard on young men.
They'd sent the signal more than an hour ago, in the exact sequence specified by the pictoglyphs on the original signpost artifacts. There was no way to know how long it would take for a response from the device, the one somebody had dubbed the pot of gold. It was clearly waking up, but it wasn't clear what would happen when it did. The pictoglyphs instructions had been incomprehensible on that point. Whatever it was, it was drawing a lot of power from somewhere. The readings on screens all over the bridge were starting to blink red. Charlton detached his mug from the velcro and sipped at his coffee, making a point to slurp audibly.
It had only taken a few years to decipher the signposts after they'd been discovered floating out at the Sun-Earth LaGrange points. They were inert, with no internal mechanisms even on a nano scale. They were just hollow dodecahedral blocks of diamond-coated titanium, with thousand of glyphs etched into the twelve faces - references to universal physical constants, mathematical relationships and astronomical data from the solar system.
The signposts were almost a million years old, and had been parked in a stable orbit that would be a natural stopping point for any technological culture that happened to develop on Earth. They were clearly a calling card, and they had used universal language to say that something even better and more wonderful awaited among the Trojan asteroids at the hindward Sun-Jupiter LaGrange point. It had even given the instructions on how to activate it, the radio frequencies and codes to use.
And so here we are, the Captain thought. Waiting for it to wake up. At that moment, his central control panel started to flash. He replaced his mug so it wouldn't float away.
"Captain!"
"I see it, Lieutenant."
The pot of gold device was glowing bright blue and then a long line of sparkling plasma shot from it, zipping outward until it was more than two miles long. The line vibrated like a trace on some enormous EKG, then split along its length and opened up. Where there had been a line there was now a circle, a huge glowing disc.
And through the disc flew a fleet of spaceships. Ugly, bulbous things, spiked with gun turrets and missile launch tubes. Through the radio static, a blast of noise came from the ships, flooding the entire radio spectrum. The whining howl repeated three times before the translators kicked in.
"- claim this system for the Chiorran Empire! Your civilization now belongs to his Highness Emperor Urchtrekkk-ahn! You will live as slaves of the Empire or die as enemies of the Empire! We claim this system for the Chiorran Empire! Your civilization now belongs -"
"Turn that off, Lieutenant."
"Yes sir! We're being scanned, sir! Orders, sir?"
"Stand by."
Captain Charlton's finger rested next to the red button on his console. He waited.
The Chiorran slaver fleet emerged and immediately turned to form ranks. As they did so, the engines of first one ship, then another, then all, flared brightly as they began to tumble and twist out of control. Two of the larger ships, caught in the grip of forces far more powerful than even their titanic drive units could overcome, crashed into each other and were torn to pieces. One by one, every ship that came through stalled, tumbled and fell into crushing destruction.
The translators couldn't keep up with the rapidly shifting shrieks and howls being transmitted.
After 30 minutes, it was over. There was nothing left of the fleet of would-be slavers and conquerors. Every ship had disappeared into the crushing depths below.
"Lieutenant."
"Sir!"
"It would appear they expected us to activate the device out among the asteroids instead of hauling in back here into a low orbit above Jupiter first."
"Sir, yes sir!"
"Send the missiles back through that gate or portal or whatever it is. Alternate conventional one hundred megaton warheads with thirty megaton fast neutron warheads, at one minute intervals. Follow up every tenth salvo with reconnaissance drones. Tell the marines to deploy immediately. Use a fast drop to get down there and get through. I want a beachhead secured on the other side."
"Yes sir!"
Charlton sipped his coffee.
"Oh, and somebody tell the diplomatic attache to stand down. We won't be needing him for a few days. At least."
==========
Comments and constructive criticisms welcome. Other #FridayFlash pieces can be found here
Feeling overwhelmed
I'm having a very difficult time concentrating.
Not sure I'm going to be able to do a #FridayFlash this week. It's just so hard to form unbroken chains of thought.
Not sure I'm going to be able to do a #FridayFlash this week. It's just so hard to form unbroken chains of thought.
The Grandson’s Approach
The Grandson’s Approach
by Tony Noland
He thought it was too big to be a Cooper’s hawk, and he hadn’t seen a sharp-shinned hawk in years. Not since they built up the south part of Lucas Township. There used to be great birding around here. Hawks, songbirds, kestrels. He even saw a blue heron once. All gone now, though. You hardly even saw grackles anymore. Too much land around here isn’t really land, just asphalt.
He didn’t try to squint to identify it; that just made it worse. He watched the dark, blurry shape fly against the dark, blurry trees, saw it light on a branch. He tried to get a feel for what it was by how it moved, how it sat. Maybe it was a Cooper’s after all, a big one. Not a red tail hawk, though. Something about the shape of the tail was wrong. The glaucoma made it so damned hard to tell, especially since last spring. Years ago, he’d often joked with his birder friends that with a life list like his, he knew his birds by smell.
Over the years, he’d learned the hard way that God didn’t have much of a sense of humor.
The hawk, whatever kind it was, flew away. He saw one of his grandsons climbing the hill up to come get him, help him back down to the house. It was either Derek, Sam or Nathan; he’d know which when the boy came closer. He leaned against his wife’s old silver maple and waited.
=======================
Inspired by the above photo, this piece was originally posted on January 12, 2010 as entry #172 in the Silhouette short fiction contest.
UPDATE, Jan 23, 2010: I didn't win. As it happens, I didn't even place into the upper tier of stories with at least 40 points (out of a possible 45).
Ow ow ow ow
Oi fuck, that exam really hurt. Jesus, it hurts enough when I shove my
own intestines back up into my abdomen. To have the doc do it - holy
shit, doc, thanks for the apologies before and after, but god DAMN!
own intestines back up into my abdomen. To have the doc do it - holy
shit, doc, thanks for the apologies before and after, but god DAMN!
--
___________________________________
http://www.TonyNoland.com/
Follow me on Twitter: @TonyNoland
Waiting for the knife
My evaluation appointment with the surgeon isn't until tomorrow afternoon, so the earliest, earliest that surgery could actually be scheduled is Wednesday morning.
I'm having trouble concentrating on the tasks at hand.
I'm having trouble concentrating on the tasks at hand.
#FridayFlash: Truly, Deeply, Endlessly
Truly, Deeply, Endlessly
by Tony Noland
He stood as she approached. Bundled against the cold, carrying her hat in her left hand rather than wearing it, she came closer, a slightly hesitant look on her face.
"Richard?" she said.
"Yes, it's me, Richard Tollofson, although maybe I should call myself ZombieFanBoi."
Her face split into a wide smile. She laughed as she shook her head.
"Thank God! I had this image of walking around asking guys in the park, 'Excuse me, I'm FleshBiterMama...are you ZombieFanBoi?'. I guess I should introduce myself properly. I'm Melinda, Melinda Jackson."
They shook hands, and then stood, awkward in a sudden silence. Across Lake Shore Drive, a few hardcore joggers and walkers moved along the paths near the frozen beach. Lincoln Park itself was pretty empty.
"Um, so..." she said, "should we go get a coffee or something? I'll be honest, this is the first time I've ever met one of my online friends in real life for a... you know, a get-together." She blushed slightly. He looked at the ground.
"Yeah, it's a new one for me, too. Actually, I thought maybe we could just walk, you know? Talk a bit?"
She looked around the park, at the ice on the shore, the joggers, the stilled and silent tourist booths by the marina.
"Um..."
"We could go somewhere with more people around. I don't mean to make you uncomfortable. I just would rather be outside on a day like this. Do you want to go to the zoo?"
"Are you kidding? It's freezing out here!" She laughed again, pulled her hat on. "This isn't going to be much of a lunch date if we're incompatible right off the bat!"
He smiled slightly. "The cold doesn't bother me much. Tell you what, I think I saw a lunch vendor up on Lincoln. I'll buy you a cup of coffee. Between that and the walk, it'll be almost as warm as being inside."
Her eyes glanced over his shoulder, at the Starbucks sign on Clark Street, across from the park. His sunglasses were the wrap-around kind, mirrored. Her own face, stretched and distorted, was reflected back at her.
"Well... OK. But let's get moving, Richard, it really is kind of harsh out here. It smells like it's going to snow."
"Does it?" He drew in a long, deep breath, let it out. "Hmm, I'm not getting anything. What does impending snow smell like? Like impending rain, only colder?"
She laughed, her breath a fog between them.
"You goon." She dug her hands into her pockets and they set off, faces into the wind.
"So, you live north of the Loop?" she asked.
"Yeah," he said, "I live over in Wicker Park, not too far from here."
"How do you like it? I hear it's getting pretty gentrified these days."
"Yeah, but it kind of goes through cycles, you know? Bad, then good, then bad again."
"How long have you lived there?"
He didn't answer right away. For more than a minute, they walked in silence.
"A long time. A real long time. Look, Melinda, I guess that kind of brings me to what I really wanted to say."
"Uh... OK."
"The fact is... well, I don't meet many people. In real life, I mean. The internet is great, lets me have lots of friends online, but real life is a whole different matter."
She didn't respond, but only dug her hands deeper into her pockets as they continued to walk.
"It's not that I'm shy or antisocial or anything. I like people, like to be around people. It's just that I have a ... condition that keeps me kind of isolated. Very isolated, actually. It's not a medical thing," he said quickly. "I mean it's not a disease or a sickness or anything. It's just ... part of who I am."
They walked in silence.
"Jeez," he said, "this is hard. I didn't think it would be this hard to, you know, to tell you. It's just that... well, look, I like you. I mean I've come to like you a lot, and I just don't think it's fair to you for us to keep chatting and sending e.mails and tweets back and forth without you... knowing."
She stopped, turned to face him.
"Without me knowing what, Richard?"
He stood, looking at the ground. After a moment, he reached up and removed his sunglasses. Dead gray eyes, rimmed with bruised purple flesh stared out at her.
She took two steps back, her body rigid.
"I can dye my hair," he said, "and rub tanning solution onto my skin. I can even paint my nails a normal flesh tone. But my skin is always cold and I can't do anything about my eyes. They just don't make contact lenses for zombies, Melinda. I ... I'm sorry." He looked back down at the ground. "I was hoping you might... I'm sorry, I shouldn't have tried this. It was stupid, and I'm sorry. Christ, I'd weep if I could. I should know by now not to... I'm sorry. How could I hope that you'd understand when -"
"Richard."
He stopped, looked at her.
"I do understand. I've suspected this for awhile. Now that I know for sure... I just wanted you to know that I think it was a brave thing you did, coming out like this."
At her words, his expression of despair slowly turned into one of rising hope. She drew her hands from her pockets and held them out to him.
Twin cracks erupted from the HK 9mm pistols she held, small flashes licking from the barrel shrouds. Richard's head exploded, sending a spray of dried flesh backwards in a gray cloud. His body dropped to the ground.
She leaned into the button mic on her collar.
"Got him," she said.
==========
Comments and constructive criticisms welcome. Other #FridayFlash pieces can be found here
by Tony Noland
He stood as she approached. Bundled against the cold, carrying her hat in her left hand rather than wearing it, she came closer, a slightly hesitant look on her face.
"Richard?" she said.
"Yes, it's me, Richard Tollofson, although maybe I should call myself ZombieFanBoi."
Her face split into a wide smile. She laughed as she shook her head.
"Thank God! I had this image of walking around asking guys in the park, 'Excuse me, I'm FleshBiterMama...are you ZombieFanBoi?'. I guess I should introduce myself properly. I'm Melinda, Melinda Jackson."
They shook hands, and then stood, awkward in a sudden silence. Across Lake Shore Drive, a few hardcore joggers and walkers moved along the paths near the frozen beach. Lincoln Park itself was pretty empty.
"Um, so..." she said, "should we go get a coffee or something? I'll be honest, this is the first time I've ever met one of my online friends in real life for a... you know, a get-together." She blushed slightly. He looked at the ground.
"Yeah, it's a new one for me, too. Actually, I thought maybe we could just walk, you know? Talk a bit?"
She looked around the park, at the ice on the shore, the joggers, the stilled and silent tourist booths by the marina.
"Um..."
"We could go somewhere with more people around. I don't mean to make you uncomfortable. I just would rather be outside on a day like this. Do you want to go to the zoo?"
"Are you kidding? It's freezing out here!" She laughed again, pulled her hat on. "This isn't going to be much of a lunch date if we're incompatible right off the bat!"
He smiled slightly. "The cold doesn't bother me much. Tell you what, I think I saw a lunch vendor up on Lincoln. I'll buy you a cup of coffee. Between that and the walk, it'll be almost as warm as being inside."
Her eyes glanced over his shoulder, at the Starbucks sign on Clark Street, across from the park. His sunglasses were the wrap-around kind, mirrored. Her own face, stretched and distorted, was reflected back at her.
"Well... OK. But let's get moving, Richard, it really is kind of harsh out here. It smells like it's going to snow."
"Does it?" He drew in a long, deep breath, let it out. "Hmm, I'm not getting anything. What does impending snow smell like? Like impending rain, only colder?"
She laughed, her breath a fog between them.
"You goon." She dug her hands into her pockets and they set off, faces into the wind.
"So, you live north of the Loop?" she asked.
"Yeah," he said, "I live over in Wicker Park, not too far from here."
"How do you like it? I hear it's getting pretty gentrified these days."
"Yeah, but it kind of goes through cycles, you know? Bad, then good, then bad again."
"How long have you lived there?"
He didn't answer right away. For more than a minute, they walked in silence.
"A long time. A real long time. Look, Melinda, I guess that kind of brings me to what I really wanted to say."
"Uh... OK."
"The fact is... well, I don't meet many people. In real life, I mean. The internet is great, lets me have lots of friends online, but real life is a whole different matter."
She didn't respond, but only dug her hands deeper into her pockets as they continued to walk.
"It's not that I'm shy or antisocial or anything. I like people, like to be around people. It's just that I have a ... condition that keeps me kind of isolated. Very isolated, actually. It's not a medical thing," he said quickly. "I mean it's not a disease or a sickness or anything. It's just ... part of who I am."
They walked in silence.
"Jeez," he said, "this is hard. I didn't think it would be this hard to, you know, to tell you. It's just that... well, look, I like you. I mean I've come to like you a lot, and I just don't think it's fair to you for us to keep chatting and sending e.mails and tweets back and forth without you... knowing."
She stopped, turned to face him.
"Without me knowing what, Richard?"
He stood, looking at the ground. After a moment, he reached up and removed his sunglasses. Dead gray eyes, rimmed with bruised purple flesh stared out at her.
She took two steps back, her body rigid.
"I can dye my hair," he said, "and rub tanning solution onto my skin. I can even paint my nails a normal flesh tone. But my skin is always cold and I can't do anything about my eyes. They just don't make contact lenses for zombies, Melinda. I ... I'm sorry." He looked back down at the ground. "I was hoping you might... I'm sorry, I shouldn't have tried this. It was stupid, and I'm sorry. Christ, I'd weep if I could. I should know by now not to... I'm sorry. How could I hope that you'd understand when -"
"Richard."
He stopped, looked at her.
"I do understand. I've suspected this for awhile. Now that I know for sure... I just wanted you to know that I think it was a brave thing you did, coming out like this."
At her words, his expression of despair slowly turned into one of rising hope. She drew her hands from her pockets and held them out to him.
Twin cracks erupted from the HK 9mm pistols she held, small flashes licking from the barrel shrouds. Richard's head exploded, sending a spray of dried flesh backwards in a gray cloud. His body dropped to the ground.
She leaned into the button mic on her collar.
"Got him," she said.
==========
Comments and constructive criticisms welcome. Other #FridayFlash pieces can be found here
10 Things That Make Me Happy
Michelle D. Evans asked for ten things that make me happy, so here they are (in no particular order):
1. Hot coffee on a cold morning.
2. Filling in the last numbers on a "Gold Level"/"Black Belt"/"Impossible" sudoku puzzle.
3. The way the halves fly apart when the splitting maul strikes the log just so.
4. The smell of baking bread.
5. The feel of a rifle butt slamming into my shoulder as I squeeze off a round.
6. Reading a comment from a reader who was moved to tears (or giggles) by something I wrote.
7. Sun-warmed cherry tomatoes, eaten straight off the vine as I stand in my garden.
8. Loving, caring sex. Regular old everyday sex is nice, too, but the loving & caring kind fills your soul with joy.
9. Children singing.
10. Campfires.
And you? What are ten things that make you happy?
1. Hot coffee on a cold morning.
2. Filling in the last numbers on a "Gold Level"/"Black Belt"/"Impossible" sudoku puzzle.
3. The way the halves fly apart when the splitting maul strikes the log just so.
4. The smell of baking bread.
5. The feel of a rifle butt slamming into my shoulder as I squeeze off a round.
6. Reading a comment from a reader who was moved to tears (or giggles) by something I wrote.
7. Sun-warmed cherry tomatoes, eaten straight off the vine as I stand in my garden.
8. Loving, caring sex. Regular old everyday sex is nice, too, but the loving & caring kind fills your soul with joy.
9. Children singing.
10. Campfires.
And you? What are ten things that make you happy?
I think I skipped over "ouch"
I mentioned in a previous blog post about how I was trying to get in to see my doctor for an assessment. I did, and was diagnosed with a hernia. I now have an appointment with a surgeon.
For a week from tomorrow.
At the appointment, he will say, "Yep, that's a hernia all right." and we will schedule some surgery. There will be a delay between the confirmed diagnosis and the actual surgery to repair this. How long of a delay?
Too long.
I can feel my intestines lubbing around as they slip in and out of the hole that's been torn in the muscles of my abdominal wall. Imagine a paper cut, one of those long, deep paper cuts, the kind with the ragged edges. Now imagine someone is trying to shove a greased dime through that cut from the inside out, worming and forcing that thing outward from the torn flesh beneath the cut.
With every step you take, it goes bounce, bounce, bounce, and with every bounce, the edges of the cut get torn just a little wider.
My upper lip is not sweating with the effort of handling the pain. Not yet. But my breathing gets a little shallow after I do intense physical activity.
Intense physical activity used to mean, "finish up a three mile run with a 200 yard sprint".
Now, intense physical activity means "stupidly forget my condition and take the stairs two at a time, like I used to".
Every few minutes, I have to reach down and slip my fingers into my waistband, covering the upper part of my pubic area, reaching for that bulging mounded spot, so I can ease my intestines back up into my abdomen.
The sluppering fluttery feeling as things slide more or less back into place is... disturbing.
Advil, please.
The next week is going to be character-building, I can tell... a real opportunity to practice restraint and forbearance.
For a week from tomorrow.
At the appointment, he will say, "Yep, that's a hernia all right." and we will schedule some surgery. There will be a delay between the confirmed diagnosis and the actual surgery to repair this. How long of a delay?
Too long.
I can feel my intestines lubbing around as they slip in and out of the hole that's been torn in the muscles of my abdominal wall. Imagine a paper cut, one of those long, deep paper cuts, the kind with the ragged edges. Now imagine someone is trying to shove a greased dime through that cut from the inside out, worming and forcing that thing outward from the torn flesh beneath the cut.
With every step you take, it goes bounce, bounce, bounce, and with every bounce, the edges of the cut get torn just a little wider.
My upper lip is not sweating with the effort of handling the pain. Not yet. But my breathing gets a little shallow after I do intense physical activity.
Intense physical activity used to mean, "finish up a three mile run with a 200 yard sprint".
Now, intense physical activity means "stupidly forget my condition and take the stairs two at a time, like I used to".
Every few minutes, I have to reach down and slip my fingers into my waistband, covering the upper part of my pubic area, reaching for that bulging mounded spot, so I can ease my intestines back up into my abdomen.
The sluppering fluttery feeling as things slide more or less back into place is... disturbing.
Advil, please.
The next week is going to be character-building, I can tell... a real opportunity to practice restraint and forbearance.
A good review of my fiction
After giving it some thought, I've come to realize that this is the first review of my fiction that I've ever gotten. Oh, I've had comments both good and bad on stories I've posted, and I've gotten critiques, to be sure. However, Valdary's review was out of the blue, unexpected and unconnected to this blog.
As is the usual practice, allow me to quote from her review of “Time's Arrow”, the #FridayFlash I published on December 18, 2009:
If you want to read some that is definitely the OPPOSITE of cool and detached, try "4:45" or perhaps "Not My Intention". Plenty of emotion in those two. Lots of other pieces to choose from as well.
As is the usual practice, allow me to quote from her review of “Time's Arrow”, the #FridayFlash I published on December 18, 2009:
Tony Noland deftly puts us behind the eyes of someone who is not quite human. ... The cold triage analysis of who to allow to live to spread the legend is a chilling insight into the mind of a killer. ... The writing in “Time's Arrow” comes across as cool and detached which may not be to everyone's taste, but that is probably a reflection of the cold and ruthless character being written about. ... it intrigues. ... very well done.Nice review, that. I was trying for cool and detached in that piece, so I'm glad it came across that way.
If you want to read some that is definitely the OPPOSITE of cool and detached, try "4:45" or perhaps "Not My Intention". Plenty of emotion in those two. Lots of other pieces to choose from as well.
Twitter is down
That little factoid doesn't really warrant a blog post, but where else am I going to post it to? Twitter?
UPDATE: Now it's OK again. Whew!
UPDATE TO THE UPDATE: ... and now it's broken again. 2010 is off to a great start.
UPDATE: Now it's OK again. Whew!
UPDATE TO THE UPDATE: ... and now it's broken again. 2010 is off to a great start.
What is teen angst, anyway?
My last #FridayFlash was "I Weep Not For Thee", a story about love and betrayal, pain and hope.
Sounds important, doesn't it? That is, until I say that it's about TEEN love and betrayal, TEEN pain and hope.
Hmmm... now it sounds angsty.
Why?
It was a comment about teen angst by P.J. Kaiser that prompted this post. I love P.J.'s writing, and am flattered that she liked my dialogue. I was going to put all of this into a comment on that story, but I thought it deserved a separated treatment.
Angst is a feeling of anxiety or apprehension often accompanied by depression. What is TEEN angst, though? Is it different for teens?
Teen angst is one of those things that seems to get tossed around as a trope, or as emotional shorthand. Overreactive angst about pimples or a date for the prom, or disproportionately equivalent angst about pimples, a date for the prom AND evil wizards or vampire love.
The thing is, when you think someone loves you and respects you, and you find out that they don't ... that hurts. That's big. Anyone, no matter what age, would feel that. Your world is turned upside down, you don't know what you can count on anymore, and you are confused, lost and saddened. It's only the lack of life experience that makes their response to that pain so muddled and inexpressible when it comes to teens.
What we see as teen angst is better described more simply: pain. Sometimes the gaping maw of that pain and humiliation is so terrifying that ending life seems preferable to trying to find a way out of it, or even to accept that there IS a way out.
This is especially true if you learn the wrong lesson from betrayal in love, i.e. that since someone doesn't really love you, that you are not really lovable. It's an easy mistake to make if you've put all your emotional eggs in one basket.
A story that would address this kind of a situation should really respect the intensity of emotions. Real emotions, real intensity.
Sounds important, doesn't it? That is, until I say that it's about TEEN love and betrayal, TEEN pain and hope.
Hmmm... now it sounds angsty.
Why?
It was a comment about teen angst by P.J. Kaiser that prompted this post. I love P.J.'s writing, and am flattered that she liked my dialogue. I was going to put all of this into a comment on that story, but I thought it deserved a separated treatment.
Angst is a feeling of anxiety or apprehension often accompanied by depression. What is TEEN angst, though? Is it different for teens?
Teen angst is one of those things that seems to get tossed around as a trope, or as emotional shorthand. Overreactive angst about pimples or a date for the prom, or disproportionately equivalent angst about pimples, a date for the prom AND evil wizards or vampire love.
The thing is, when you think someone loves you and respects you, and you find out that they don't ... that hurts. That's big. Anyone, no matter what age, would feel that. Your world is turned upside down, you don't know what you can count on anymore, and you are confused, lost and saddened. It's only the lack of life experience that makes their response to that pain so muddled and inexpressible when it comes to teens.
What we see as teen angst is better described more simply: pain. Sometimes the gaping maw of that pain and humiliation is so terrifying that ending life seems preferable to trying to find a way out of it, or even to accept that there IS a way out.
This is especially true if you learn the wrong lesson from betrayal in love, i.e. that since someone doesn't really love you, that you are not really lovable. It's an easy mistake to make if you've put all your emotional eggs in one basket.
A story that would address this kind of a situation should really respect the intensity of emotions. Real emotions, real intensity.
Resolutions for 2010
A quick reprint of my resolutions from Anne Tyler Lord's #WriterLbsOff site:
UPDATE - December 28, 2010: So how did I do?
Exercise: FAIL. Surgery went OK, but the recovery didn't go as planned. I've been in chronic pain for most of this year. After a year's worth of additional trips to the surgeon, additional procedures with a pain management specialist and lots of different drugs, the pain is now at a level that I can walk normally and can take the stairs almost normally. Frankly, I think it was the 11 months of healing rather than anything the doctors did.
Stress: FAIL. Some people might be able to endure debilitating chronic pain with a beatific serenity. I am not one of those people. Still, I think I sucked it up and didn't get whiny and maudlin about it, so maybe this is a WIN after all. Call it 50/50.
Talk less, listen more, lighten up. WIN. Without going into details, I'm a more tolerant, accepting and sympathetic person now than I was a year ago.
Lose 20 pounds: FAIL. Good lord, was this a fail. I couldn't walk at anything more than a hobble for a lot of the year, and I eat when I get stressed. Not a good combination.
Perfect attendance at #FridayFlash: WIN. I posted a fresh, new story every week for your enjoyment and/or ridicule. Most were at least OK, some were pretty good.
Creativity: WIN + FAIL. I wrote and published several short stories, was an associate editor on a couple of different projects, some of which have been published, others of which are yet to come out and/or go live. I did NaNoWriMo and ended up with the basis for what I think might be my first decent novel. However, the other two NaNoWriMos languish, needing (respectively) a complete re-write and a bullet to the brain.
So, overall, I'm roughly 3 for 6, depending on how you score this stuff.
I’ve got some hernia repair surgery to get through in the first part of 2010. Recovery from that will preclude exercise for a while. After that, though, I’ll work on flexibility, strength and aerobic capacity.And that's where I am on January 1, 2010.
I imagine I’ll feel less stressed when I’m not in pain all the time.
I’ll try to talk less, listen more, and not take myself so seriously.
I’d like to lose 20 pounds, but I’ll settle for 15.
I want to have perfect attendance at FridayFlash.
Finishing the revisions on the older of my two NaNoWriMo novels and writing more short stories will round out the “creativity” slot.
UPDATE - December 28, 2010: So how did I do?
Exercise: FAIL. Surgery went OK, but the recovery didn't go as planned. I've been in chronic pain for most of this year. After a year's worth of additional trips to the surgeon, additional procedures with a pain management specialist and lots of different drugs, the pain is now at a level that I can walk normally and can take the stairs almost normally. Frankly, I think it was the 11 months of healing rather than anything the doctors did.
Stress: FAIL. Some people might be able to endure debilitating chronic pain with a beatific serenity. I am not one of those people. Still, I think I sucked it up and didn't get whiny and maudlin about it, so maybe this is a WIN after all. Call it 50/50.
Talk less, listen more, lighten up. WIN. Without going into details, I'm a more tolerant, accepting and sympathetic person now than I was a year ago.
Lose 20 pounds: FAIL. Good lord, was this a fail. I couldn't walk at anything more than a hobble for a lot of the year, and I eat when I get stressed. Not a good combination.
Perfect attendance at #FridayFlash: WIN. I posted a fresh, new story every week for your enjoyment and/or ridicule. Most were at least OK, some were pretty good.
Creativity: WIN + FAIL. I wrote and published several short stories, was an associate editor on a couple of different projects, some of which have been published, others of which are yet to come out and/or go live. I did NaNoWriMo and ended up with the basis for what I think might be my first decent novel. However, the other two NaNoWriMos languish, needing (respectively) a complete re-write and a bullet to the brain.
So, overall, I'm roughly 3 for 6, depending on how you score this stuff.
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