Rude Bugs

Posted by Piscis on February 20, 2016

snail2

Around the corner there’s a snail
Who only wants to see you fail.
So grab that slimer by the shell
And softly whisper, “Go to hell.”

Inside the pantry there’s an ant
Who’s apt to tell you that you can’t.
So sweep it underneath the table.
Show it that you’re more than able.

At the window there’s a fly
Who’d kind of like to have you die.
So swat the silly thing away
And tell it that you’re here to stay.

Among the flowers there’s a bee,
But this one wants to set you free.
So drink its honey, blaze a trail,
And don’t let ruder bugs prevail.

Do not listen to the snail.

Bene scribete.

Flowstate

Posted by Piscis on February 7, 2016

I’ve written before on blast-writing exercises and zero-drafting, so my interest was certainly piqued when I heard of an application designed to viciously facilitate that process.

The idea behind Flowstate is simple. You pick the length of time you wish to write for, then start hammering away on those keys. If at any point you stop typing for more than five consecutive seconds before that time is up, everything you’ve written is erased.

How’s that for motivation?

The downside is that it is currently only available on Apple ecosystems. The downier side is that the Macintosh version is $15 and the iOS one is $10, which in the mobile market is a pretty steep ask for such a rudimentary program.

I’ll keep an eye on it, though, and probably snag it for the iPad when it comes down in price. Sounds like just the sort of thing to keep the don’t-stop discipline in check and help curb those pre-editing tendencies.

How about you? If you find yourself struggling to get those initial words out, would you consider trying a run-or-die method like this?

Bene scribete.

A Stick in the Road

Posted by Piscis on January 31, 2016

stick

Once upon a time, there was a stick in the road that nobody liked.

“I very much dislike this stick,” muttered John.

“And who are you to make such a proclamation?” asked Lydia.

“I’m John,” said John.

Lydia raised an eyebrow. “I see. I’m Amy.”

“Are you, now?”

“No. I’m Lydia, actually.”

“I was hoping you’d say that,” John sighed.

“It is a rather awful stick, isn’t it?” Lydia crossed her arms and stared distrustfully at the little piece of wood lying in the middle of the street, doing no one any good at all.

“Quite so. If I had to guess, I’d say it’s worse than the half-eaten sandwich my employer threw at me in a fit of anger earlier this morning.”

“That does sound dreadful.”

John put a hand on Lydia’s arm, appreciating the sympathy. “What would you say should be done about the stick? We could give it to a dog, I suppose. Or put it in a museum.”

Lydia shook her head. “I think that would be a disservice to both dog-kind and society as a whole. No, I think it must simply be done away with.”

“But how?” John frowned, shifting awkwardly as he let the thing re-enter his field of vision. “How does one get rid of such an unpleasant stick?”

“I have a pistol at home,” Lydia offered. “Perhaps we could shoot it?”

“Maybe. Maybe…”

Collin strolled by the two, sneering at the road as he passed. “Lousy, good-for-nothing stick.”

“Who was that?” whispered Lydia.

“I think it was Collin,” John decided.

A small yellow vehicle pulled up to the stick, paused, then reversed and backed up the way it came.

“Whatever it is,” Lydia insisted, “something must be done.”

“You’re right.” John swallowed, tugging nervously at his collar, then stepped out into the street and approached the stick.

“John?” Lydia called. “What on Earth–”

John picked up the stick and tossed it into the brush on the other side of the road, then returned to Lydia’s side.

“Oh, thank heaven,” a woman in front of a flower shop called as a portly man down the sidewalk said, “About time,” and a few other onlookers submitted their chorus of relief.

“Well done, John,” Lydia beamed. “I dare say that stick won’t be bothering anyone any longer.”

“It was truly a despicable thing,” John agreed.

“Do you think we ought to be married, now?”

John nodded gravely, gazing off into the horizon. “I believe so, yes.”

They linked arms and walked off down the street, and no one knows what became of them, as they were not very important.

Bene scribete.

Speaking of Reindeer

Posted by Piscis on December 27, 2015

I hope everyone had a wonderful Christmas! But it’s just not quite complete without reminding everyone to go check out some weirdtastic Finnish reindeer drama:

Reindeer Drama

You can’t always strike gold when absently perusing Netflix, but sometimes, you might strike…reindeer?

Don’t strike reindeer, though. That’s terribly rude.

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Reindeer Drama: Part -1

After seeing the second movie, tracking down the first became a necessity.

It does not disappoint.

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Glory in their madness, and have a happy new year!

Bene scribete.

Holiday Sale/Giveaway from Shauna Scheets

Posted by Piscis on December 6, 2015

Shauna Scheets's Holiday Sale

My good pal Shauna Scheets has discounted all of her eBooks (including the Caillte Saíocht series and the Steampunk Serials) to 99¢ for the holidays!

You can pick them all up on Kindle and other eBook retailers, or you can even get them for free on Smashwords via name-your-price.

Here’s a great chance to check out her work if you haven’t yet!

Bene scribete.

Dincton Flatt and the Crime Scene Place

Posted by Piscis on November 21, 2015

Time for some more nonsense?

Is a crimes

Dincton Flatt strode handsomely through the quaint French doors of 29 Cherry Grove Street, his robot coyote trotting alongside him. He adjusted his collar and surveyed the scene, expression insisting on his own importance.

“Heaven’s grace, Flatt!” blurted Abberson Watley, one of his top agents. “It’s been three hours – where on Earth were you?”

“He felt the need to take a detour for a spot of chair shopping,” Featherby offered.

Flatt raised an eyebrow at his coyote. “A man must see to the needs of his posterior, you’ll agree.”

“Mr. Flatt, I’m glad you could join us at last,” a familiar voice floated in from another room.

Flatt nodded in greeting as the other approached. “Constable Billiardsman. What precisely are we looking at?” Jeborah Billiardsman was one of the more competent officers he had worked with, but his attire sported a preposterous amount of buttons.

“It’s Detective Inspector, Mr. Flatt, as I’ve told you many times.” He gestured toward the middle-aged woman who lay motionless in the center of the sitting room. “Hiddia Ribbenstern, forty-three years of age, found at 10:30 this morning with her body cut off.”

“Her entire body?” Flatt grimaced, eyes sweeping over the woman’s corpse.

“I’m afraid so.”

Flatt shook his head. “Savages.” He knelt over the body. “Do we have any leads?”

“None yet,” Watley sighed. “Who would commit such a heinous act in such a well-kept and well-priced little chalet? To so wantonly devalue it is the real crime, if you ask me. Have you seen the kitchen? Real marble tops and new, stainless steel appliances. Solid maple floors throughout. And such a short distance from the station.”

These last comments were directed toward Billiardsman, who held up a hand. “I’m not here to house-hunt, Mr. Watley. Merely to investigate a murder.”

“Yes. Yes, of course…”

“And on the topic of said murder: how much do you know about the owners, Mr. Flatt? Why are they selling? Any financial difficulties?”

“The Hollyrakers? I don’t believe so. She’s expecting, and they purchased a larger property last month.”

“One represented by Flatt’s Flats, of course,” Watley added.

“Naturally.” Flatt smiled at his reflection in the metal clasps of the deceased’s handbag, running a hand over his short, impossibly blond hair. “No, I doubt they were involved in this. Perhaps the culprit was incensed by the victim’s fashion.” He stood up, gesturing to the bowler that lay askew on the floor, a half meter from the woman’s head. “That bag with that cap? No, madame, I fear not.”

“I hardly think–” Billiardsman began.

“Did anyone notice her mobile?” Featherby chimed in. He had been nosing around the woman’s body, and was fishing the device out from under her frame with a paw.

Watley retrieved the phone and looked through it. His eyes widened. “My god!”

Flatt stepped over. “Watley?” Watley showed him the screen. Ms. Ribbenstern had written a note to herself, and Flatt read it aloud for the officer’s sake: “I am not wearing a hat today.”

Billiardsman blinked. “No hat? You’re certain? Then, that means…”

“That our killer must be some–some sort of hatleaver.” Flatt frowned. “Watley – call Ms. Franklin and have her cancel my dentist appointment for this afternoon.”

“You do not have a dentist appointment today, sir,” reminded Featherby.

“Ah, yes. Watley – call Ms. Franklin and have her schedule an appointment with Dr. Clamb for 5:00.”

Watley’s features contorted. “But, Flatt, we–”

“And then have her cancel it.”

Watley was silent a moment before asking, “Whyever for?”

“We haven’t the time to indulge in the luxuries of oral hygiene, Watley; we have a murder to solve.” Flatt turned to Billiardsman, who had scooped up the cap and was turning it over studiously. “Have that checked for hair and prints, Constable. Meanwhile, we’ll start looking for anyone who appears to have recently parted ways with a hat. And committed homicide.”

“Detective Inspector,” the officer sighed. “And I assure you, Mr. Flatt, that the CID is quite capable of handling this investigation. You are merely here as a courtesy and character witness–”

“Nonsense, my good man.” Flatt clapped him on the shoulder. “I’ll have this dastardly hatleaver brought in forthwith. And this property will sell in no time at all.” He turned and beckoned to Watley and Featherby. “Come, gentlemen; let us get to work.”

“Mr. Flatt, that isn’t how–” Billiardsman was calling after him, but Flatt stopped listening. He was too busy playing at a bicuspid with the tip of his tongue. Alas, there were signs of a chip.

“Watley – ring Ms. Franklin, if you would I think I’ll keep that appointment after all.”

Bene scribete.

The Dastardly Pumpkin

Posted by Piscis on October 31, 2015

Hope everyone’s having a great Halloween! Here’s a story.

Writin' Fish

There was once a pumpkin – an evil pumpkin. It was so evil that, when passing it by, people would say, “Hey, look at that pumpkin, Jim; I bet it’s evil. Rotten to the core.”

(Everyone who passed by it did so with a man – or, in one case, a woman – named Jim.)

One day, a spider approached the pumpkin. Apparently, it was an unreasonably enormous spider.

“Pardon me, Mr. Pumpkin,” the spider began, all politeness, “but I wonder if you might tell me why it is that you are such a dastardly fellow. Do you resent that holes were carved into your face? Or perhaps that your innards were torn away to make a pie?”

The pumpkin did not respond, for it was a pumpkin, and pumpkins cannot speak in the slightest.

(“Then why can the spider talk?” I hear you asking, but I shan’t be answering…

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