Monthly Archives: June 2015

Writing Whimsy: AfW’s Sunday Write Up

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Aside From Writing’s Sunday Write up!

http://asidefromwriting.com/2015/06/28/sunday-write-up-june-2015/

Using the words: alone     growing     slowly     life    beautiful

There’s no sense, at first, of where I am. Nothing to cause me any alarm. Just static in my left ear. Either my eyes are closed, or I’m blind; there is darkness absolute.

I inhale, feel something constrict my chest. I move my hand towards my body – I have a hand, it seems, and an arm and a body still connected together. The hand is gloved, a thick binding. Somehow I know I will be unable to remove it, that it would be dangerous to try.

Something similarly thick covers my chest. I’m aware of a hissing now, in time with my breathing; some pump below my head. I know this is oxygen, bringing me life and taking the carbon dioxide away.

A panic there. Why did a cold spike run through me then? Oxygen. Growing panic at the word. Why?

Nothing. I try and grab at the memory, but there’s only the darkness and my breathing.

My hand tries to touch my face and comes across a barrier. Smooth and hard, curved.

I’m wearing a helmet. How do I know this is a good thing?

I try to blink, to feel the sensation of my eyes closing, the muscles moving. Barely there. Not much to tell between open and closed. The same darkness. Am I blind?

My body next, anyway. I contract my stomach muscles, bracing myself on my arms. Sit up. A sense of myself now, the life inside me still strong. Hands flow down my legs. Two. That’s good, I think. A good number.

There’s something on my arm, buttons by the feel. Muscle memory pushes one, and the universe opens for me from the bottom up, a slowly opening eye. Grey rocks, intense black shadows are the only colours. I’ve never seen anything so beautiful.

Until I raise my head, and see a marble of purest cerulean and green sitting in a velvet bed of black. So near I could touch it, but so far away it might as well be the other side of the galaxy.

I remember now. The emergency visor slamming shut when the errant sunlight hit it. The darkness that descended instantly, the stumble, the fall, the skidding slope.

Another muscle memory moves my hand across the buttons on my arm. The static clears, but there are no welcoming voices, no emergency beacon. They must have searched for hours until they gave up, until they were forced to leave without me.

I am alone.

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Writing Whimsy: Fearsome Fred and the House of Red

Over the furthest mountains to the west, past the highest cloud and over the deepest ocean, just past the Post Office and up the hill, there once stood the house of the most terrible of ogres, the King of Ogres, the Lord of Ogres.

His name was Fearsome Fred.

Fearsome Fred was so terrible, so ogre-ish, that when mummy and daddy ogres put their little ogre children to bed (Ogres generally don’t like people to know they have a nicer side, or their reputation would go right out the window and down the street screaming), they would tell them to misbehave or Fearsome Fred would come and sort them out. It was every ogres dream to be half the ogre Fearsome Fred was. He really was that bad.

Fearsome Fred lived in the most terribly red house you could imagine. Everything was red, bright red, traffic light on a clear night red. Windows painted red, walls, floors, ceilings, gardens full of red roses, those little fiddly bits where the underside of the roof sticks out that people are always coming round and asking to fix. All of it: red. Fearsome Fred didn’t really set out to make his house so red, but he got a job lot of red paint from a ghost down the street who did some scaring work a few years before, and red was all that was left.

When he saw the paint, Fearsome Fred shrugged his Scary Shoulders (He held the patent on Scary Shoulders and had done very well out of them selling them to wimpy Ogres), and got on with it.

One day, a man from the council came to Fearsome Fred’s door. “You can’t possibly paint it so red!” he said.

Fearsome Fred growled, and the man from the council fled.

Then a handsome knight came to his door, his silver and gold starred chainmail flashing. “I come to slay you for having such a vile house!” he said.

Fearsome Fred growled, and did something with the knight that doesn’t bear repeating. He was, after all, the most terrible of terrible ogres.

By now, the tale of his house had got out, and people from all around came to see. They gumpled through his garden and over his red grass, trumpled over his red roses and generally made a fuss and bother of themselves.

Fearsome Fred was furious, but when he roared at them, they raised their cameras and took pictures. When he showed them what he did to the knight with the flashing armour, they ooohed and ahhhed and took even more pictures. Fearsome Fred, the most terrible, the most awful ogre, hid and sulked inside his red house and fumed.

Then the beautiful Princess Pringle showed up, a fiery maiden of red hair and a redder dress. Prince Pringle was going to come, but he had an invite to the wedding of someone called Kate and Will, and before that had the Dramatic Dragon of Dartmoor to dispatch, so he was pretty tied up.

Fearsome Fred thought Princess Pringle was like the others at first. She knocked on his door like all the others, so he ignored her and made himself some red tea from his red teapot, and poured it into a red cup. Then she knocked on his kitchen window. This was really too much for Fearsome Fred, who stormed outside and gnashed his teeth at her.

The Princess stood her ground. “Like what is your problem, chick? What’s with the gnashing?”

Fearsome Fred was taken aback. This was new. Most people just fell to their knees and waited for death. Or took pictures.

He tried snorgling. Snorgling is a noise most people never hear, since it’s the sound of an ogre swallowing. Usually, you’d be the one being swallowed, which is why most people never hear it.

“Snorgle? Hang on, let me Google that.” The Princess pulled out a red phone and her fingers danced over it. Fearsome Fred was rapidly turning into Puzzled Fred, which didn’t sound right to him. Puzzled Pete already had the exclusive rights, you see.

The Princess had finished doing whatever she was doing with her phone. “So what’s the prob babe?”

Fearsome Fred waved a hand at the crowd, and the wind from the gesture knocked several of them over. “These…these…people.” He lowered his voice to a mere Greek God volume. “They keep bothering me. I wouldn’t really mind, but they trumple on my roses. I love those roses. Took me years to get them the same colour as the house.”

“Oh…that’s terrible. I do like a nice red as well. Such a pretty colour house.”

Fearsome Fred was astounded. “The man from the council didn’t think so.”

The Princess waved a hand. “Feh. Men, what do they know? Let me see what I can do.”

She turned to the crowd. She tried yelling, but they ignored her. She climbed on Fearsome Fred’s Scary Shoulders™ and tried shouting up there, but they still ignored her.

She climbed down and scratched a beautiful cheek with a beautiful finger, the nail a beautiful scarlet. Finally she turned to Fearsome Fred and said: “Right, here’s the plan…”

***

The next morning, the crowds gathered at the bottom of Fearsome Fred’s hill. They gasped in amazement. A huge wall had gone up around his house overnight, bright red. At the single gate, the Princess stood, dressed in red, charging admission, while Fearsome Fred sold red T-Shirts and red mugs from a red concession stand. The Princess was so charming and beautiful, the people paid without a thought, and they were so terrified of Fearsome Fred, they paid for the red T-Shirts and red mugs without a complaint.

It was such a roaring success, The Princess and Fearsome Fred started giving tours of the red house, so they moved into the Post Office down the hill and painted that red as well.

And you know what? The roses outside matched it perfectly.

Rambles: A front end for KindleGen

For those of you going, huh? at that title, you can skip this post. The Kindle authors out there can dig in and enjoy…

Last year, I had to demonstrate to a small group of people the way to create a .mobi file. I’d been using Calibre (http://calibre-ebook.com/) for a while, but it seems like Amazon are tightening up on creating files without using KindleGen (Certainly the last time I used Calibre, the Amazon uploader kicked it back out).

The only choice was using the lousy Amazon command line KindleGen program (Seriously, what is this, 1998?). But trying to explain command lines and file paths in DOS to a group of people who had barely used a computer was really out of the question.

So I Googled and searched around for a while…and I wrote my own front end for KindleGen in .hta and VisualBasic.

Untitled

 

It’s pretty self-explanatory. Tell it where the KindleGen application is, tell it where the document is you want converting to .mobi. It takes that input, makes a compound statement and spits out the .mobi at the end in the same location as the document in the second box.

No fuss, no bother.

I really have to wonder if someone with as little coding experience as me can make something simpler than fighting your way through DOS pathways – in less than a week – why couldn’t Amazon?

Feel free to modify it as you like, but let me know if you make it all singing and dancing – I’d love to see it (Especially if someone figures out a way of adding a cover).

Download it here.

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Writing Whimsy: Aside from Writing’s Sunday Write up.

Aside from Writing’s blog (http://asidefromwriting.com/2015/05/31/sunday-write-up-may-2015/) is having a little Sunday Scribble…Just for fun.

The prompt for this week are the five words:

follow     missed     bird     delivery     eye

My hand shook as I extended it towards the door, rattling the handle. I snatched it back, trying to still my nerves, spreading the fingers wide to steady them.

From the corner of my eye I saw Lisa lean towards me and she hissed a warning. “Quiet. They’re roosting at the minute, but if you keep making that much noise –”

“I know, I know. God, you think I don’t know what’s at stake here?” Taking in a breath and holding it, I tried the door again, rotating the handle as slowly as I could. The hinges groaned with a horror movie scream as I eased the door slowly open.

I took a step down, but as I was staring at the closest bird – perched and sat on the railing beside me – I missed the step and stumbled. I gave out an involuntary cry and lurched forward, my balance gone. The bird beside me squawked and flapped away, ascending in a flurry of dusty wings. The rest of the birds follow, so we’re instantly surrounded by a thousand beaks.

Lisa screamed and covered her eyes. I reached back and grabbed her hand, dragging her down the steps and further into the avian mass that flapped and flurried around us. Squinting against the brush of wings and feathers, I made it to our destination, almost crawling by the time I finally reached it.

“Are they there?” Lisa screamed. I yelled back an affirmation and reached into the nests, pulling out the freshly laid eggs, still warm. I stuffed them into a box and we hauled ourselves back to the steps and out of the coop, back into the real world. I slammed the door closed and panted for a second or two, the eggs clutched to my chest.

Lisa, however, was not amused. “Jeez, I thought being the delivery driver for this job was hard…next time, you get the eggs from the chickens on your own.”