C.M. Simpson's Blog, page 214

Chuck Wendig Challenge Response: Should the Mum Divert the Drill?

The Theory behind the Challenge  Chuck Wendig’s flash fiction challenge on the Terribleminds blog, this week was to write a short story, in 1,000 words or less, in response to, and including, a prompt created by this random sentence generator.My random sentence was: Should the mum divert the drill?I received the sentence on the morning of the 11th of March, 2013, and completed a rough hand-written draft of the story at around midnight, just before I went to bed, after spending the day mulling it over, in fits and starts. I made very few changes when I typed it up on the 12th.I admit to being a little consternated as to where the story was in this sentence, but then I broke the sentence down. A ‘mum’ could be a mother, while ‘mum’ also had the meaning of ‘silence’, as in to ‘keep mum’. If you really stretched it, ‘mum’ could also be considered a diminutive of the term for mimes, or actors in silent plays, known as ‘mummers’. I decided that all these terms could be used to refer to a race, or sub-species, of human, who could not speak.‘Divert the drill’ posed a slightly greater problem, until I thought of how drills could be used. In this case, I chose construction over dentistry, and then had to work out the cause for why, or why not, the mum would need to divert one, in the first place. I also had to consider what might be at stake, if the drill was not diverted, and that gave me the story’s problem. I think, though, that I was more interested in the concept of ‘the mum’ than in anything else, and that comes through, so I’m not sure this story is as strong as it might be.The Story: Should the Mum Divert the Drill?  No one knows where the mums come from. Some say they’re a genetic aberration unique to Freon, but no-one’s ever been able to discover the cause. Others say they’re proof the aliens interfered with the earthlings—or vice versa. There’s no evidence to support either theory, and the mums themselves aren’t saying.They’re mute, the whole sub-species, all very capable, but utterly devoid of the ability to make a single sound—and, as a race, as completely uncooperative in advancing the scientific understanding of their race. Obstructive even, the whole lot, from the newest born to the crustiest survivor.Our mum was no different. She drove the drill, and ruled the rest of the plant equipment with an iron fist—and the largest spanner she could find. No one hid her spanners to save the machinery, not since Jansen tried, and we found him, head wedged under a maintenance hatch with mum kicking his backside in voiceless outrage, as she calibrated the engine, one solid body-bouncing thump after another. It had taken Jansen a month before he could walk in a straight line, three, before he could breathe engine fumes without gagging.Some said the mums were psychic. I can’t say, for sure, if that applied to ours, but she could suss the cause of an engine problem out in minutes, and get to the root of a plant failure in under half an hour. She was something, but I’m not sure psychic describes it. Attuned, maybe, at one with machines, earth-moving zen.The mums are mostly female, or the strongest, most caring males I’ve ever met. Gay? Maybe; I’ve never been game to ask, not that it matters; they’re all mothers right to the core—in both senses of the word. We should never have asked ours to ignore what was in front of the bit and keep drilling.They might be mute, hence the name—‘mum’, short for ‘mummers’, or ‘keeping mum’—but each one is a bone-deep mother-and-a-half to deal with once their mind is set. Company profit be damned.So, we’re building a new toll route, express, all the bells and whistles, and our mum hits a chunk of something more solid than earth, but not rock. Foreman says keep drilling. Mum gives him a look, but gets back in the cab, and soon we’re moving forward again. Not quite on schedule, but close enough we can catch up.Next thing I know, there’s a high-pitched squeal as the drill bites through metal, shrieking its way through a hull built for deep space and star-length journeys, and the drill rattles to a stop. This time, the mum stays put in the cab.I figure, if she were all human, we’d hear her cussing a mile-wide streak of blue. As it is, we hear the keyboard, as she lights up the boss’s message screen. He sure as hell starts cussing a blue streak, one that rapidly shades to purple.We’re not supposed to tunnel through alien artifacts. We’re supposed to shut down the site, re-route construction, and the super-lucrative, one-of-a-kind-express-super-highway toll route be damned—along with everything cent invested into it. Not if the boss can help it.I run the scan, confirming this is the biggest damned artifact on record. Boss says, artifact be damned, we got a road to build, and a deadline to meet, and no horse-hockey artifact is going to stand in the way. We can put the metal through the crusher, seed it into the road surface. No one need ever know.Mum belts out two words, making the keyboard shake, making me shake, too: ‘lifeforms’ ‘stasis’. When she gets no response, she adds: ‘Drill diversion possible’, and follows it with a series of equations and 3D diagrams that just prove she’s been spending too much time with the engineers.We don’t have a hope in Hades of stopping her. She might be a real mother to work with, but she’s got a mother’s heart. Looks to me like she’s just adopted a whole new bunch of kids, and wants the old ones to play nice.I remember Jansen’s foray with the engine hatch, and glance over at the boss. It’s protocol; someone has to ask it. Ain’t gonna be anyone else, so I just open my mouth and say it.“Should the mum divert the drill?” I ask. And now it’s on the record—even though the response won’t be. The boss just nods and shrugs. From the look on his face, he’s remembering Jansen, too, and the way our mum wields a spanner. Profits be damned. If our mum wants to enact out a well thought-out diversion, it’s not up to us kids to get in her way. We’ve been taught to listen to our mum.Even when she doesn’t speak a word.

Chuck Wendig Challenge: Random Sentence

This Week's ChallengeSo, my random sentence for this challenge is: Should the mum divert the drill?

And now I have 1,000 words to play with, and a deadline of 15 March 2013.
The Why behind the ChallengeSo, why, when time is so short, am I back to undertaking these challenges again?
Because I miss them;Because I can; Because they're fun;Because they challenge me to try something different;Because, when I was going through the work published last year, the pieces created for the Wendig challenges were amongst the better pieces produced;Because I get to see how others tackle the problem and learn from them;Because I get to hang, even if it's only virtually, with a bunch of other writers; Because, with a little time management and prioritization, they're achievable within the timeframe set; And because the challenges make me write, and complete, something every week.Seriously, as a tool for actively working to develop your craft, these challenges, or something very similar, are a good way to start. I'd recommend giving them a go. And for those of you who have trouble completing what you start, or need practice meeting deadlines, well, here's one way to practice.

Goals, Tiers and Wishlists – My how things change

The TheoryWhen I wrote my goals for the year, I tried to make it so I could cover each genre I wrote in, at least in passing. Because I write in so many genres and under so many pen names, I realized I had to plan my time carefully. In doing that, I also realized it was not physically possible for me to have four releases a year in each genre for each pen name… at least, not while holding down a full-time job. So, I came up with a set of tiered goals and wishlists. Tier 1 is the minimum of what I think I can do. At the end of the first week, it seemed to be holding. At the end of two months, not so much; I’m way ahead of schedule, but I’m not producing new words <sigh>.Tier 2 was what I hope to achieve in good conditions. Tiers 3-4 were my dream tiers, the projects that I really wanted to do, but couldn’t work on, due to time constraints.So, every week, I planned to advance Tier 1 by a revised chapter or 1,000 words a day, Tier 2 was the same progression, if I could reach it, and Tiers 3-4 got whatever was left over. Everything else was prioritized around that.The Original Mark-2 ListI spread these goals out over the next four years. Lumped together in a chronological order under each tier, they looked like this:
Tier 1 (all are novels between 80-100k words in length)
Shadow’s Rise (scheduled 30 January 2013; released 01 January 2013);Shadow Trap (scheduled 05 July 2013; released 02 March 2013);Shadow’s Fall (scheduled 15 December 2013)+1 book/year thereafter

Tier 2 (all are novels between 60-75k words in length:
2 releases per year for Madeleine Torr
Tier 3 (a mix chapter books up to 5k words in length, and novellas between 30-50k words in length. As this list is very broken, right now, I’ll only go to the very start of 2014):


All Alone (scheduled 12 February 2013; released 17 February 2013);Novella (scheduled 15 March 2013; released)3 more chapter books by the end of 2013, and 2 more novellas   
Tier 4 (a mix an annual and roleplaying adventures; broken beyond repair):
Zombie Annual (scheduled 7 April 2013);3 x roleplaying adventures (scheduled 28 July, 8 December 2013 and 10 April 2014)
Mark 3 Change TheorySo, I’ve simplified things. Why?
Because my focus changed with experience;Because I have completed work that just needs to get out there; it does me no good sitting on a shelf gathering dust;Because I need to respond to reader interest as manifest in sales, and the schedule didn’t allow that;Because I need to keep writing something new, even while producing the back list;Because I’m working way ahead of the original schedule.
Mark 3 ChangesThese are broader, but respond to indications of reader preferences, and my own foci:
Take Tier 1 and accelerate it until I reach where I get to produce brand spanking new words, regardless of the age of the idea (From Fisherpriest 2 onwards);Keep working on the Tier 2 list, but add in titles from Pen Name 3 whose work is selling well, and whose readers will be looking for more;Tier 3 has had two chapter book titlesadded and released years ahead of time; release one non-illustrated chapter book per month, while working on sourcing a b&w illustrator. Step up the pace on the novellas for Pen Name 1.Tier 4 requires work on rules knowledge and then sourcing line work illustrators. Art work for some products can be sourced on Dreamstime. Zombie Annual on backburner.Extras: Anthology work and short stories need to continue, and, therefore, should be added into the schedule. Release rate for short stories should be around 1 per fortnight or month, which will mean older work will be released by the end of the year. Fresh work to be produced in the meantime. Dream Projects: Some work for older young adults, and completion of recently discovered earlier work that would suit that audience. This means launching Pen Name 5. Calendars.

New Release: Assassin, Not as Carlie Simonsen

Assassin, Not is a tale of choices and sacrifice, set in a fantasy kingdom. Blade is a young man, born of a long line of assassins. Placed in training at a young age, he has no choice but to take on the trade of his father, and his grandfather before him… or does he?
When Blade is assigned an assassination he does not really want to complete, he believes he has no choice. Deciding if he finds something else to be, before his dagger falls, he prepares to take down the youngest Lord Forester in the city. When a second assassin appears, and options unfold, Blade must step lightly and with speed. With a disgruntled patron on his heels, the only question is can he move quickly enough to stay one step ahead of his own?

Assassin, Not is a fantasy tale set in a land of magic and intrigue. It is currently available from Smashwords and will soon be available from Amazon Kindle, Nook, the iTunes bookstore, and Kobobooks.

First Pages: Esmeralda and the Breeze

Esmeralda and the Breeze is the third short story to be found in An Anthology of Those Who Walk Among Us . It is also available as a stand-alone short story.

Esmeralda and the Breeze: is a short story in the magic realism genre centered around a young woman finding her place in a world that largely rejects her. 

Esmeralda and the Breeze is available as part of An Anthology of Those Who Walk Among Us, and also as a stand alone title at Smashwords, Kobo, Kindle, iTunes, and Nook.

First Page: Esmeralda and the Breeze
Esmeralda sat upon the front step of her veranda. She sat and looked over her front garden, across the white-washed palings of her fence and past the pond on the village green. She sat and stared at the forest beyond.Her mother and father were worried about the way their young daughter sat and stared, for Esmeralda would stare at the forest for at least two hours each morning. She would sit and stare as the other children passed by the house on their way to school.Nothing her parents could do would induce Esmeralda to attend school beyond her first day. Nothing they could say would convince her to return to the classroom, which seemed to hold a special terror for her.When they asked why she wouldn't attend, Esmeralda wouldn't answer. She would just turn her head in the direction of the trees and stare.It didn't matter that she couldn't see the trees as individuals; she would just turn her head away from her parents and gaze in the direction of the woods. Nothing they did or said would stop her.As she grew older, Esmeralda spent longer gazing at the forest and less time doing the few other activities she indulged in.Her garden, with its variety of woodland flowers grew unruly and full of weeds. Her sketch book and its attendant pencils lay, untouched, on the bay window seat in her bedroom and the kitchen was no longer redolent with the smell of the small, spice cakes, she liked to bake.The daffodils struggled to break past the matted overgrowth of weeds in the first few weeks after winter. They pushed their spiky leaves through the weedy mat above them and stood, tossing their heads in the spring breeze as though they resented Esmeralda's neglect. END EXTRACT
If you would like to read more,  Esmeralda and the Breeze is available as part of An Anthology of Those Who Walk Among Us, and also as a stand alone title at Smashwords, Kobo, Kindle, iTunes, and Nook.

Progress Report: Week 2 March 2013

Okay, it was a very long week, and I had the flu for most of it, so not much to report this week. Publishing TasksThe following publishing tasks were completed this week:
Purchased photography and created cover for Corporate Loyalty.Formatted and uploaded Corporate Loyalty to SmashwordsFormatted and uploaded Corporate Loyalty to Amazon KindleCreated 3 blog posts for C.M. SimpsonPublishingCreated 5 blog posts for this blog
Craft Development
Attended one day of the Eyes of Skyreach convention run by the Pathfinder Society Canberra. Had an absolute blast. Thank you, Ben and Laurel, for organising it. Thank you, Michael, long-suffering DM. And thank you, Peter, Caitlin, Ben, SJ, James (?) and Ben, fellow Pathfinders, all. Apologies for any name mishaps with this post.
New Arrivals:The following ideas arrived this week. Heaven knows when I’m ever going to catch up:
Picturebook12: about a goannaRPGSupplements11A-13A: about beholdersYANovel11A: about a giant

New Release: Corporate Loyalty

Corporate Loyalty i s an short pseudo-science adventure a la the 1950’s. Its science is unlikely; its people and their motivations are not.
When a leading ‘bug’ researcher is returned to normal size early, he discovers the science which alters his size has a flaw. Can his best friend help him out of the trouble he’s in?
Corporate Loyalty is one of the short stories that will be incorporated into An Anthology of Pseudo-Science. It is currently available as a stand-alone short story, and can be found at Smashwords. It will shortly be available from Kindle, Kobo, Nook and iTunes.

Cover Created: Corporate Loyalty

Corporate Loyalty is a short story of pseudo-science fiction a la the 1950s. It has bugs… and shrinking stuffs … and bugs. And did I mention that there’s a praying mantis in there as well? Also, a glimpse of corporate politics. And it’s coming soon.

First Chapter: Shadow Trap

  Shadow Trap is the second novel in the Shadow series trilogy. The series started with Shadow’s Rise , which was released on January 1, 2013, Australian Eastern Standard Time, and will be completed by the forthcoming Shadow’s Fall .

Exchanged by the gods, so he can better suit their purpose, thargramorg priest Gilzereet Urkhrist must now travel to the distant realm of Thargood in order to discover the Old One’s prison and prevent his escape. Accompanied by Vorgren, Tara, Ailina and four apprentices, he flees the temple of his new god as the current pantheon faces down Beauwallin’s most savage attack yet. With the Old One gathering power more quickly than before, will the support of the gods be sufficient to give them a chance to contain him?

Shadow Trap is currently available from Smashwords, Kobo, Kindle, DriveThruFiction, iTunes, and Nook.
 First Chapter:
The temple deeps were cool and quiet. Tara stalked them, hiding from the light cast by flickering lanterns, sliding from shadow to shadow in swift silence—focused on the game’s intent.Ahead of her, round that wine cask and to the left, lay her target, chosen by the master of the game, a pre-adolescent child. She risked a swift glance beyond the corner. A man stood next to another cask of fine wine, his straw-gold hair gleaming. The blue streaks that marred its sheen glistened, declaring him to have been a servant of Berveragna, the goddess of darkness and night. He was her master, and the one who had insisted they play the game, as training and something to keep their minds off their confinement. It was also part punishment for their refusal to acknowledge him as anything less than their master and superior.The man’s dark-colored cape swished around fine, black boots as he stepped away from the cask, a glass filled with sparkling amber in one hand. His gaze swept over the casks behind which Tara hid and she froze in the cloak of their shadow. There was a guard. In this game, her target had been teamed with a partner; it made the challenge harder. The guard was big, a tall man of barbarian descent, a Northlander—Vorgren.She couldn’t see the guard; the straw-haired man appeared to be alone. Tara glanced behind her, along the row of casks, just as the hairs on the back of her neck began to prickle. He was here, the big barbarian, for she knew he never strayed far from the side of his master and friend. Tara edged forward to the end of the casks. The man with the yellow hair had returned to his seat at the table, and picked up a piece of parchment. It gleamed like rich cream in the lantern light.Tara slid back behind the casks and looked for the next patch of shadow to move to. There was none. She cursed inwardly at her lack of forethought. It was a mistake her first master would never have tolerated. She couldn’t reach another piece of shelter without being seen from the table. Memories of the last time she had stalked through another cellar flickered to life in her mind, but she forced herself to block them out. There had been another northlander then—Chariuk. And his partner had possessed hair the color of silvered snow, Sussurianakshan, a shapeshifting ice dragon.Shaking her head to make the memories stay away, Tara retraced her steps. Her eyes darted along the row of casks opposite. They were stacked six casks high. A strange sense of déjà vu remained, Chariuk and Sussurianakshan…Tara stopped. Six-casks high was almost enough to touch the beams supporting floor above. Almost... She smiled. Moving as lightly and as silently as she had when she had moved across the floor, Tara turned and climbed the casks at her back. She heard someone moving at the far end of the casks—the man with the straw-colored hair. Tara paused, another shadow amongst the racks of wine. She looked down the row of casks towards the oasis of lamplight. A figure, its hair a golden nimbus around its head, stood in the gap between the two rows of casks, his gaze searching the shadows.The ex-priest paused, staring down the aisle for almost a minute. Tara froze. She was sure she’d made no noise. It was a duel of wits, his searching gaze against her ability to stay as still as the narrow shadow between the casks. By the time he had returned to the lamp’s light, her fingertips were aching with the effort of clinging to the side of her wine-barrel cliff. As the sound of his steps receded, Tara began to climb once more. She had only two feet more before the top of the casks. They were the longest two feet she had ever had to cover.When she reached the top of the casks she crouched, looking along the row to make sure she was alone. Vorgren was well-known for his ability to climb. Indeed, the northlander possessed an elegance and grace that made even the most accomplished of cat-burglars grow green with envy. With a careful look around, Tara reached upwards to the nearest beam. Her fingers found purchase on the edge of the beam and gripped. Easing her weight onto her arms, Tara hauled herself up onto the beam’s wooden surface.The barbarian grinned into her face, his green eyes twinkling with malicious delight. Chariuk! Tara gasped and pushed backwards, off the beam. Quick as she was, the barbarian was almost as fast. Tara felt his fingertips brush the back of her wrist as she dropped towards the casks. And now he was not the only danger. As she landed, she heard the soft rustle of cloth on the casks ahead of her. She knew, before she turned her head to look, who it was that was coming towards her. The master had the ears of a cat!The man’s hair had become dull creamy blur in the unlit heights between the beams and casks. Tara took a swift step backwards. The beam above her creaked, and Tara ducked. The man with yellow hair swept towards her across the top of the casks and the grace of his movements reminded her, again, of a wild-cat.Tara dropped into a crouch on top of the casks, preparing to roll over the edge. The beam above gave another creak and the barbarian’s feet touched the edge of the cask behind her. Now she stood between them. She rolled anyway, using the lightest touch of her fingertips on the edge of the cask to guide her as she dropped to the floor. Again the barbarian moved, trying to intercept her. This time he was faster than she. His hand closed around her wrist and jerked her to a halt.Someone dropped past her, the master, all of him a blur now, and not just his hair. Tara tucked her legs up, out of the reach of his grasping hands. The barbarian began to swing her out from the casks. Tara flailed vainly with her free hand as he released his hold on her and let her fall. The yellow-haired one was waiting to catch her before she landed.“Game over,” he said as his arms closed around her.“Game over,” Tara agreed, letting the tension drain from her limbs.“My turn,” a small voice demanded, from the shadows of the rack of casks.They turned and Tara sensed the barbarian pause at the top of the casks. The shadows parted and a young elf stood before them. Child didn’t do her justice. She was past what humans termed ‘childhood’, having seen more summers than Tara’s seventeen.“Wraither!” the man snapped in annoyance.“Yes, Master?” the child replied, her face a mask of solemn attentiveness.The man glared at her but Tara could see the quiet smile that hid behind his lips. The child could see it as well but no hint of an answering smile touched her face.“My turn, Master?”The man ducked his head and Tara was reminded how much of him was not a man. The pointed tips of his ears and the angular features of his face shouted elf! to the world and the green and brown hue of his skin shrieked thargramorg!Thargramorg—a race of elves with skin the blotched color of night-struck trees. Something that should frighten her more than Chariuk and his master, the thargramorg were rumored to dwell in the darkest centers of forests, in the deepest chasms of the mountains and even in the mountains themselves. They were also rumored to be worshippers of the dark gods and of demons. They were said to be shapeshifters and, worse, butchers when it came to their raids on human settlements.Tara was not afraid. This was one thargramorg, or beast-elf, which she could not fear. She had seen him in the depths of despair, drunk and full of pain—and she had seen him loyal to friends, placing himself mortal danger to free them from an old power that sought to use their lives to fuel its freedom. Those friends were safe now, traveling with them to fulfil a requirement of the gods.Since their arrival at the temple, Gilzereet no longer tried to drink the pain of his goddess’s rejection into wine-soaked numbness. He still felt that pain and he kept it well-hidden although, Tara knew, it bubbled to the surface when he thought his companions were asleep.A thud on the flagstone floor of the cellar broke into her reflection and the barbarian landed beside her. Tara jumped in startlement and the big man chuckled.“Gotcha,” he whispered, nudging her in the ribs.“Gotcha, yourself,” she grinned back.“Your turn,” the thargramorg agreed, speaking to the child.The child, almost as much elf as the thargramorg and bearing the same splotched skin and amber-colored eyes as her master, gave a skip of delight.“Now what game shall we play?” the thargramorg pretended to ponder, rubbing his chin with his forefinger.“Why don’t you ask young Wraith what she wants to play?” the barbarian suggested.Tara smiled; she had seen this word game before, albeit between brothers and sisters of a far-distant court. Gilzereet had been right to insist they pass the time in training. She began to glide quietly back into the shadows, but the barbarian’s hand on her shoulder made her stop. He drew her back into the dim light of the walkway and shook his head at her. Tara shrugged her shoulders and sighed.“Can’t blame a girl for trying,” she said, just as the thargramorg asked the child what she wanted to play.“Stalkers!” the child shrieked in delight.The thargramorg smiled.“And who are you going to stalk?”“You,” the child answered, managing a sinister grin.“Really?” the thargramorg asked, “and what about Tara?”“Ah,” said the child, wagging a finger in front of his face, “that would be telling. Off you go.”As the thargramorg walked down the aisle of casks, the child approached Tara.“No listening,” she admonished the barbarian, as he bent down to hear what she whispered in Tara’s ear.Tara smiled at the child’s choosing of her target and stepped back into the shadow of the casks. She watched as the child whispered a name into the barbarian’s ear, but did not hear whom he was to pursue, and then she waited until he had walked away. With the child scampering after the thargramorg to tell him his target, Tara began to climb the casks. Up there, in the dust-covered shadows, she began to stalk the temple deeps once more.

END CHAPTER 1  If you would read more, Shadow Trap is currently available from Smashwords, Kobo, Kindle, DriveThruFiction, iTunes, and Nook.

Today I’m giving editing tips at the DSDU Blog

DSDU = Dark Side Down Under: A group of Australian writers of romance and other paranormal genres has kindly hosted me today on their regular Magic Thursday blog. In return I’m giving away some of the techniques I use to whip my manuscripts into shape. Feel free to come over and join me.