Robot Wrestlers In Space – Writing My First Novel?

I might be writing my first novel, but I’m not entirely sure. 

 

The word “Novel” might be five letters long, but to me it is one of the biggest words because it represents a great unknown for me. It is the summit of Everest, it is the Challenger Deep, a potential Pandora’s box of plot-holes, loose ends and unrestrained waffle. 

I am a writer of short stories. They’re easier for me because once I start to write them I soon find myself stumbling into the ending. But what if ‘Robot Wrestlers In Space’ doesn’t develop an ending? What if, once started, it sucks me into a self-replicating vortex of tangential plot generation from which I never escape, inevitably leading to a coffee-soaked demise, slumped in a chair smothered in cat hair and the crumbs of old biscuits? 

I often talk myself out of things. I think most of us do. But I have already written the first 5000 words of this for my MA degree spring semester. The next 14,000 words shall constitute my final dissertation. Will I finish the story by then, or will I be left staring into the gaping jaws of an unfinished narrative? An orphan fragment of something potentially greater?

My lecturer told me not to concern myself, and to “let the story be what it wants to be.” 

‘Are you crazy?’ I thought. It’s going to eat my life. ‘Robot Wrestlers In Space’ will tear a hole in my existence; I will wind up 94 years old, scrawling the last paragraph with what remains of my blood using an old quill pen on the thick padded walls of my own personal hell.

Or, you know, the whole process might turn out to be rather fun and rewarding. 

 

 

Venturing into Kindle Direct Publishing (KDP)

 I have dipped my toes into the seething, bubbling ocean of digital publishing for the first time. 

I’m a bit lost guys and girls. 

 

My first babies to fly the nest are a couple of shorts I wrote for my masters degree at the university Nottingham – ‘Voodou and the Machine’ and ‘Lab Rats.’ I uploaded them both onto Amazon Kindle as a combined package for the minimum price I was allowed to – $2.99 (£1.80 GBP). I shared my venture on the ol’ Bookface, and one kindly soul agreed to bite and check it out. That’s £1.30 of royalties in the back for Jack. Strange how much that one sale means, you know, that someone actually shelled out some hard-earned cash for some stuff I made up in my head. Feels good, I tell ya. 

At the time of writing – stardate, the 11th May – it’s the only sale i have. That’s because I’ve only done half the work. Writing fiction and getting onto KDP is the first step, but then you’ve market the darn thing. This is where I find myself just treading water. In my professional life I’ve flogged a ton ‘o junk for other folks, but never something of my own creation. 

The ocean stretches far and wide, and all I have this rubber dinghy and a Fischer-Price telescope with which to navigate its choppy waters. It time to learn to ride the waves. 

If there is anybody out there, this is my S.O.S. Let’s ride those waves together. 

 

http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00JDL4B8Y is the golden link. If you like Scifi, Steampunk and the like, with dark tendencies then I’d really appreciate you checking out the free preview to Voudou and the Machine. It’s an attempt at a strong female protagonist from the 1st person, something I don’t feel I’ve seen enough of in the genre. 

 

Have a nice day, WordPressers and let me hear your thoughts! 

 

 

 

 

 

Trifextra Writing Challenge: ‘On the count of three…

“This weekend we are challenging you to write 33 of your own words to build upon the following:

On the count of three…

You can choose to include those words if you want, but they do not count toward the 33 words of your own”.

Challenge accepted.

 

Four,’ said The One.

‘You were supposed to tear its heart out,’ said Void.

‘Its beat is stronger than I,’ said the One. ‘The Music cannot die.’

The Void let loose the bagpipes.

http://www.trifectawritingchallenge.com/  made me do it.

‘A Thaumaturge In Love: Part One’

A randomly-generated story plot courtesy of http://www.seventhsanctum.com

“This story takes place in a university town on a world artificially created by magic. In it, a pragmatic fire fighter falls madly in love with a nun in love with someone of another species.”

This is Part One. There will be more.

A Thaumaturge in Love

‘Fire! Fire!’ The words shouted by a disembodied voice brought John Steinman running into the cavernous thaumadrome, where his apprentice squad were co-summoning a vectorcraft in which to speed them on their way. Holding out his hands, he shot out purple-red sparks, pooling his mana with theirs to hasten the build.

In less than a minute, the thaumaform was ready to take the fire fighters to the scene of disaster at the Cloister of the Sacred Star. The four-strong crew climbed in to the shiny red airship, cast the necessary runes of protection, and shot away.

John upbraided his apprentices whilst the ship punched through the clouds separating the university students from everybody else. ‘Who is going to explain to me, then, why I find a vectorcraft being summoned in the thaumadrome whilst the alarm is sounding?’

John waited as the three youngsters wilted into their seats, stretching the moment out until somebody broke. Worth Fowler, a pale young man sitting in front with curly brown hair said something like, ‘Mumblemrmbr…Inebriziono…’  Barnabus Brent punched him hard in the ribs.

‘So I’m to assume’ said John, ‘that the future of this nation’s lifeline division has been up all night, drinking potions, smoking scrolls, and having careless, unlicensed sexual relations?’ A telling silence followed. ‘And how is the future of this nation’s lifeline division feeling today?’

An unconvincing chorus of ‘not bad’ formed the reply. Worth was sick into his hands.

‘And where, exactly, are the Noctorum twins? In fact, I don’t even want to know. Not after last time.’

The Cloister was consumed with thick black flame, spilling blood-red thaumasmoke into the burning night sky. Hundreds of fire-fighters were already there, pouring their purple mana into the building, negating the accumulated dark energies that had caused this blaze. John hustled his apprentice squad, the 145^th division, to the front.

Various ecclesiastical figures spilled out of the high-vaulted edifice of conjured stained glass and steel, their tall hats clutched in one hand and robes hoiked up with the other as they ran for their lives. One particularly distressed high-priest had been ignited, his vestments billowing around him with the black fire before a trio of fire fighters pinned him down, wrapping him in thaumaphagic foil.

The immense size of the fire was the perfect opportunity for John to teach his apprentices some valuable fundamentals; how to pace yourself, with controlled breathing, pooling your mana accurately with your team, focusing  the mind to keep your energy pure.

Jozy Teaguin showed herself to be the most promising apprentice. The quietest among them, she simply got the job done, maintaining a steady, controlled stream of mana most of the time. Blind in both eyes, Jozy had an intimate knowledge of her surroundings, and had learned to diversify her magical talents to an alarming extent given that she was only 18. Beastlore was her favourite, but John was concerned that some way down the line, this careful, soft-spoken prodigy would come to step on the wrong person’s toes, and things would go badly for her.

John lamented the lost cause that was Barnabas Brent. ‘Barn’ was a giant of a young man, and had picked up the brazen habit of ‘shouting’ his mana; that is, expelling the purple-red magic material through his mouth rather than channelling it properly. A popular practice amongst young lads mostly, ‘shouting’ had the unfortunate side-effect of, over time, turning one’s insides to the consistency of bladderfish stew.

And then there was Worth. Poor, pale little Worth. The first time John Steinman saw Worth he declared, on the spot, that the boy had ‘The inherent magical ability of a soggy bunnysprout.’ Not exactly Lifeline Division material, but Worth had very wealthy parents.

Hours later, architects were hard at work putting the place back together. Spires rose up out of green mana streams, curling upwards into twisting cone shapes, becoming sometimes steel, othertimes glass, with occasional blackbrick. Seeing things being built would always hold a fascination with John. His father had been an architect, and whenever he saw them at work, it always got him to wondering.

As they sat, lunching on a park bench and soaking up the sun only a few lengths away from the steaming cloister, John and the 145^th division were approached by a clutch of breathless nuns, clucking with gratitude, compliments, and prayers. There were about eight of them, their faces looking like little white eggs wrapped in blankets.

Wicker-hatch baskets brimming with meats, vegetables, fruits and confections appeared from somewhere in their many layers of habitments and were placed at John’s feet while he sat there feeling absurd and awkward, nodding his head and smiling a whole lot. Barn and Worth both had a bit of a chuckle to themselves at John’s discomfort, but Jozy just nibbled an apple, her mind elsewhere.

John thanked the nuns for their kind words, prayers, and perishable gifts, and replied that the Sisterhood of the Sacred Star would be in his prayers also. John was a religious man himself, up to a point, this being the point at which nobody was looking. He had no real faith in the Great Benevolent Star-King, but figured that, logically, it was only practical to make the occasional sacrifice and supplication just in case he was wrong.  Also, with the way things were these days, it never hurt a man’s prospects in the land of the living to be seen as being conspicuously pious in public. In this way, John had both his immortal soul and corporeal body pretty well covered.

As the nuns eventually bowed their heads and took leave to go off and do their holy duties, one of them hung back just a little longer than the others to sidle up to John and whisper something fleeting into his ear.

Part Two coming soon.

Victory. A Trifecta Writing Challenge Piece. With Clockwork.

Trifecta Challenge

www.trifectawordchallenge.com

 

The prompt is:

 BLIND

a : having no regard to rational discrimination, guidance, or restriction <blind choice>

b : lacking a directing or controlling consciousness <blindchance>

c : drunk

 

 Victory

 Blind, but for the prayers of dreamers, shoots a cherished bronze dart from the heavens through billowing soft steam clouds.

Filigree fingers float on hope to rest on treasure heaps to be. A kingdom, perhaps, or a single heart.

An aviatrix on air-light wings. A clockwork dragonfly dream, awoken with the freshly fallen sweat of mortal toil.

Waiting to Live: My first ‘Inspiration Monday’ flashfic.

Kobra Kyle sat on the windy pierhead, drinking ale and ruminating on cold consequences. Chiquida, his copperplated palm-pilot, had climbed out of his coat pocket and wandered over to a couple of black crested gulls, who were fighting over half a bloatfish.

Daggerhand Dave finally turned up, folded himself into a sitting position beside Kobra and dangled his gimpy legs over the pier.

‘I’ve got fresh juice for you,’ he said.

‘Thanks,’ said Kobra, taking the unspent silver hydropump and screwing it into his rusting wrist socket. The colour from his face melted from red to grey. He opened his eyes.

‘We found her,’ said Daggerhand. The wind whipped his coat into sudden schizoid shapes. Chiquida, the palm-pilot, atomized the fighting gulls with its Gauss magnet. The small red mist of their remains dissipated into the gale.

Kobra Kyle turned to his partner with wide, alert skyblue eyes. ‘How much uptime on a borrowed heart?’ he said. ‘How long?’ Chiquida came over to nuzzle his antenna against his master’s beard, making tinny ‘tweedle’ sounds.

Daggerhand Dave took the other Guardian’s hand in his, and, with a subtle shake of the head said, ‘Kobra, my brother, must you proceed down this path? It is a long afterlife, waiting to live.’

Thank you for reading. I have used all five Inspiration Monday prompts from BeKindRewrite, and it has forced me to write outside the box. Which is great. I hate being inside the box. It’s dark, I can’t stretch my legs, and it’s starting to smell.

If there’s anything you don’t like, please please let me know. Punish me.

‘Who Says Necrophilia’s Dead?’ An Undead Dating Show, for ‘Five Sentence Fiction.’

Lillie McFerrin: Five Sentence Fiction

“Five Sentence Fiction is about packing a powerful punch in a tiny fist. Each week I will post a one word inspiration, then anyone wishing to participate will write a five sentence story based on the prompt word. The word does not have to appear in your five sentences, just use it for direction.”

If zombie-based fiction were a steak brought to my table at a restaurant, I would not complain that,  ‘It’s a little on the over-done side,’ rather I would say, ‘Garçon, from which infernal pit did you dig up this abominable lump of carbon and why has it been set on fire?’ Or something not remotely like that sentence at all.

The point being, zombie fiction has been done and done to the extent that it often comes across as burnt steak to me.
However, steak being delicious, and all, sometimes the hunger just proves too much to bear and you just have to dig in and ravenously savour the succulent morsels. Um, yeah…right. So. To the fiction-mobile!

Who Say’s Necrophilia’s Dead?

Welcome to ‘Who Says Necrophilia’s Dead?’ – the smash-hit undead dating show that everybody’s moaning about.

Today, our love-bones from last week, Mordecai and Rottie, tell us how what started with an innocent buffet breakfast at the local shopping mall turned into a romantic flesh-eating hunt for two at the hospital.

“Well Die-Anne, it was as sweet as the flesh of the newborn; Mordecai was such a gentleman, he even let me chase down the patients from the geriatric unit while they hobbled over to the escape chopper where he waited for them with a bunch of “Get well soon” begonias.

.”That sounds mortifyingly magical, Rottie, but I know that what our shamblers in attendance today and the hordes watching at home really want to sink their teeth into is the juicy gossip on what happened in the crypt that night.”

“As a man no longer in the flesh of his prime, I’m not sure if what I did to Rottie that dark stormy night can described as sex anymore, it’s more a case of rubbing together and seeing what comes off, I guess, but mark my words there were moans and groans from Mordecai’s Mausoleum fit to raise the dead.”

The life of Osmium Mechspanner: Scientist. Misanthrope. Chef – Part 1.

Mechanical squid consignment no.66 sat shining in its grey steelglass box, ready to be shipped out to Lord Fortune. Their creator, Osmium Mechspanner, flipped open his wristmount. It made a soft ‘whom’ noise, waking up with a cool blue light.

‘Dave-Bot,’ he said into the device, ‘you are required.’

Osmium fired up a large vat of pink body-grow, and checked the manifest on his clipboard. The order contained an embryo bulk order of 6000, 8 sentry turrets, 8000 litres of surface world Bolognese , 68 cases of red wine, a sani-droid, and the completed mecha-squids.

Sector 6 was unique in that its chief scientist was also its head chef. At 28 years of age, Osmium was more than halfway through his natural life, after which the fun would truly begin. For now, he slaved away for 16 hours a day, creating delicious meals to feed the masses, cleaning robots, building death-dealing atrocities of steel and glass for local government, and bioengineering the occasional special order.

Mechanical squids were used primarily in war. The latest chromatophore enhancement made them effectively invisible when engaged for combat or Osmium’s private surveillance initiatives in the resi-quarters. The most recent batch was also pleasingly floppy, like proper squid. Osmium currently had one on the slab to be modified as a personal companion.

The gastro-physicist helped himself to a flagon of mead from the refreshment funnel he had built into his chemical cabinet. A klaxon went off in the lab, and red flashing lights exulted into life.

‘INTRUDER ALERT! HUMANOID PRESENCE DETECTED!’ announced the robotic vocal equivalent of a spring coiling and uncoiling. This was Osmium’s doorbell, which he had installed for the purpose of keeping himself alert, and spicing up his day. A quick tap on his wristmount, and the door shunked open to reveal his visitor. It was a young woman.

The Huntress. A short poetic fiction of carnal appetite and loathing.

The only son of a long-forgotten god raised nightmares one dark, damp night, tormented by flash flooding memories of honey-sweet lips, forever lost. Harried by a hell of half-remembered smells, he danced with strangers in a strobe-struck dungeon of disk-jockeyed dirge.

Faces blurred with faces in that subterranean feast of flirtation. Flesh on flesh, sweat beading, blending, binding body to reeking body.

‘Come with me,’ he would say. And they came. Words penetrating beyond the brain, to the hot-blooded animal heart. Once and forever, the act of belonging. He worked his art, on man and woman both, all brought to bear beneath his eyes.

An ancient love lamented. Lachrymose, he sundered from naked bodies their naked souls. Strip the humans further. Bring forth the beast beneath. In their night life, with their alcohol, parties and pills, he preys. Carnal chaos among cattle.

The night dies. And with it, the last verse in a song. Tomorrow, the night’s song-smith will descend again. An artist in flesh and spirit. The orchestrator of orgiastic horrors. A hunter, without his huntress.

Mitt Romney is a fell dragonbeast born in Krakatoa.

Mitt Romney‘s true form.

Mitt Romney was born in the bubbling bowels of Krakatoa‘s molten-hot caldera, following the earth-shaking 1883 eruption of that very volcano, ripples from which were felt all the way in the English channel. This explosion resulted from the climax of the unholy coupling of Romney’s mother, Scylla Black, the monstrous six-headed sea beast of ancient Greek legend , and Surtr, the Norse fire Giant of wrath.

As we can see, his coming was foretold in old Norse poem, theVǫluspá:

Surtr comes from the south

with the scathe of branches:

there shines from his sword

the sun of Gods of the Slain.

One of six heads shown.

So, Surtr ‘comes’ (ejaculates) ‘from the south’ (Krakatoa, Indonesia) with the ‘scathe of branches’ (a metaphor for Scylla Black’s forked tongues); there ‘shines from his sword’ (his penis) the ‘sun’ (read, ‘son’) of ‘Gods of the Slain’ (Romneysaurus’ fell demonic parents themselves, or possibly the Republican party).

Thus has it been written, and so it shall be. In modern times, Scylla Black, having disguised herself in human form to enjoy a lengthy run as the host of a popular TV dating show, now resides in her nest beneath the murky brown depths of the River Mersey.

The volcanic colossus, Surtr, may well be Brian Blessed. As it is, we just don’t know.

Ragnarok is upon us, friends. It is surely all too plain to see, now, why Mitt Romney proudly boasts that Nobody has ever asked to see his birth certificate. He is mocking America, defying mankind to challenge his human credentials because he knows that anyone foolhardy enough to do so will spend eternity in a boiling vat of their own bone marrow.

People of America, take heed of this incontrovertible evidence that voting for Mitt ‘Romneysaurus’ Romney will result in the entire world being engulfed in apocalyptic flame.