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One Day


The hangover was bad, and I needed coffee before the meeting. I got off the bus and looked around. There was a small kiosk I had never tried. Someone was walking away from it carrying a cardboard tray with four coffees, it smelled divine. I hurried over.

“Americano, strong, black, please.”

The strange hooded figure inside nodded, and said in a gravelly, inhuman voice, “One day.”

“One day?” I repeated, wondering what payment app this referred to.

“One day of your life. I’ll give you the coffee you crave, and you will die one day earlier than you would have.”

“What?! Who would trade...”

The vendor gestured for me to step aside with a wave of its... talons, as a woman hurried over.

Ignoring me, she addressed the vendor, “My car keys. Original, please, not the spare.”

“One day.”

She held her hand over a contactless reader until it beeped.

The vendor held out a small basket, from which she retrieved a set of car keys, nodded, and hurried off.

“Wait, the price is one day for whatever I want?”

“For whatever you need.”

“I need to pay my mortgage,” I tried.

“I don’t deal in money,” it said.

I tried to focus. I didn’t get hangovers so easily when I was younger. Hmmm...

“I’d like the health I used to have, before...” I paused, and the vendor waited.

“I’d like the health and constitution I had when I was 22,” I said decisively.

“One day.”

“That’s all? I’ll be as healthy as I was twenty years ago, and it’ll only mean I die one day sooner? No catch?”

It nodded, so I put my hand over the reader, and felt a slight jolt as the reader beeped. I felt vigorous, and my back pain was gone. The hangover was still there, but felt less threatening.

“Bargain,” I said.

“You’ll be back,” said the vendor.

“Never, life’s too short as it is. And youthful health is all I need to enjoy it.”

I began to walk away with a swagger, then stopped. I still really, really wanted some coffee.

#stories #microfiction #writing #coffee
 

One Day


The hangover was bad, and I needed coffee before the meeting. I got off the bus and looked around. There was a small kiosk I had never tried. Someone was walking away from it carrying a cardboard tray with four coffees, it smelled divine. I hurried over.

“Americano, strong, black, please.”

The strange hooded figure inside nodded, and said in a gravelly, inhuman voice, “One day.”

“One day?” I repeated, wondering what payment app this referred to.

“One day of your life. I’ll give you the coffee you crave, and you will die one day earlier than you would have.”

“What?! Who would trade...”

The vendor gestured for me to step aside with a wave of its... talons, as a woman hurried over.

Ignoring me, she addressed the vendor, “My car keys. Original, please, not the spare.”

“One day.”

She held her hand over a contactless reader until it beeped.

The vendor held out a small basket, from which she retrieved a set of car keys, nodded, and hurried off.

“Wait, the price is one day for whatever I want?”

“For whatever you need.”

“I need to pay my mortgage,” I tried.

“I don’t deal in money,” it said.

I tried to focus. I didn’t get hangovers so easily when I was younger. Hmmm...

“I’d like the health I used to have, before...” I paused, and the vendor waited.

“I’d like the health and constitution I had when I was 22,” I said decisively.

“One day.”

“That’s all? I’ll be as healthy as I was twenty years ago, and it’ll only mean I die one day sooner? No catch?”

It nodded, so I put my hand over the reader, and felt a slight jolt as the reader beeped. I felt vigorous, and my back pain was gone. The hangover was still there, but felt less threatening.

“Bargain,” I said.

“You’ll be back,” said the vendor.

“Never, life’s too short as it is. And youthful health is all I need to enjoy it.”

I began to walk away with a swagger, then stopped. I still really, really wanted some coffee.

#stories #microfiction #writing #coffee
 

One Day


The hangover was bad, and I needed coffee before the meeting. I got off the bus and looked around. There was a small kiosk I had never tried. Someone was walking away from it carrying a cardboard tray with four coffees, it smelled divine. I hurried over.

“Americano, strong, black, please.”

The strange hooded figure inside nodded, and said in a gravelly, inhuman voice, “One day.”

“One day?” I repeated, wondering what payment app this referred to.

“One day of your life. I’ll give you the coffee you crave, and you will die one day earlier than you would have.”

“What?! Who would trade...”

The vendor gestured for me to step aside with a wave of its... talons, as a woman hurried over.

Ignoring me, she addressed the vendor, “My car keys. Original, please, not the spare.”

“One day.”

She held her hand over a contactless reader until it beeped.

The vendor held out a small basket, from which she retrieved a set of car keys, nodded, and hurried off.

“Wait, the price is one day for whatever I want?”

“For whatever you need.”

“I need to pay my mortgage,” I tried.

“I don’t deal in money,” it said.

I tried to focus. I didn’t get hangovers so easily when I was younger. Hmmm...

“I’d like the health I used to have, before...” I paused, and the vendor waited.

“I’d like the health and constitution I had when I was 22,” I said decisively.

“One day.”

“That’s all? I’ll be as healthy as I was twenty years ago, and it’ll only mean I die one day sooner? No catch?”

It nodded, so I put my hand over the reader, and felt a slight jolt as the reader beeped. I felt vigorous, and my back pain was gone. The hangover was still there, but felt less threatening.

“Bargain,” I said.

“You’ll be back,” said the vendor.

“Never, life’s too short as it is. And youthful health is all I need to enjoy it.”

I began to walk away with a swagger, then stopped. I still really, really wanted some coffee.

#stories #microfiction #writing #coffee
 
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A Gift for You!


The election has us all stressed. Here is a massive book I wrote on plant medicines FREE 11/8/20 only! You can access it through Kindle (app works on most tablets and phones). Enjoy!

https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B078XNZ7JQ/ref=dbs_a_def_rwt_bibl_vppi_i0
#writing #plantmedicine
 

NaNoWriMo 2020 - Hunting Blind

#NaNoWriMo #Writing #rpg

Illness means that I start out a bit behind, but I'm now 2000+ words into my entry this year.




I'm writing an adventure this year, supplementing it with a long-ish story as I'm sure the adventure itself won't get me to 50k.
 
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SoMe... some... some


Trying to get back on that SoMe mount, riding it over those large, hilly plains of cats, and Trump, and vlogger's voices.

Large dark clouds of weary misanthropy drift towards me from the west while I try to dominate the insane creature beneath me – only a binary saddle between us. Many times I have fallen from that saddle, but this time I am continually being thrown off, by the meme-sprouting beast.

She is large! A mane of indignation, and horns of petty anger grown in rooms of blue light and Coca Cola, cake and sadness. The whole limited horizon of human existence is collected, sorted, and presented in distilled streams flowing from her mouth of exhausted moans. But only through her glistening breast and strong legs will I be able to remain in contact with humanity.

Without her I would be left in the dark woods of solipsist nature, old prints, sun scorched skin and cold, cold sea water.

#random #writing #mywork #drawing #krita
 

Pancake Day


I’m sure it said baking powder

Sunday morning confession: When I’m alone, I don’t bother with a recipe or measurements for pancakes. I mix some egg, flour, milk and a few other bits and bobs, and poor it into the big frying pan. As long as the result is in the omelette – crepe – griddle cake continuum, it’ll taste good.

They sometimes look odd though; once my creation stiffened and curled up at the edges like a Yorkshire pudding, but it was still nice. Was I meant to put in baking powder, I wonder, or maybe it was just too much egg whisking?

Shortening means oil, right?

But since he’s coming to brunch today, I decided to look up the recipe and make proper pancakes. I opened the falling apart cookbook to the stained page with my mother’s recipe. It’s been a while. What’s an ounce when it’s at home? Does shortening mean oil, or any type of fat? I have some margarine. I try to remember how this worked when I was a kid, watching and helping make pancakes, but mostly eating them.

Can I use orange juice instead of milk?

A sudden panic: does he eat dairy? Who knows these days.

An old Jewish secret: you can use orange juice instead of milk, this was done well before soy and other ‘milks’ came on the scene. This served many Jewish housewives well when baking cakes to be eaten after meat meals (they had to be dairy free to keep kosher). Would my new goy-friend understand this?

A bit of cinnamon will spice it up

Mixing cinnamon and sugar was the affordable pancake topping you’d never get away with today. Best leave that one in the past. A bit of cinnamon in the batter will do nicely.

As I fried the pancakes, I remembered the fake maple syrup we had when I was a kid, that was almost all sugar anyhow.

The doorbell rang. He’s early, I complained to myself, hurrying to pull off the dull brown apron.

I hope he doesn’t mind some sugar

“It smells lovely in here,” he said. “I hope you haven’t gone to too much trouble.”

“Not at all.” I feigned graciousness. He looked good enough to eat.

“I brought some orange juice,” he said, opening his satchel. “And prosecco, of course.”

“Thank you,” I was smiling too much. I took them from him as he took off his coat.

“Shoes!” I said, pointing down, as I closed the door behind him.

#story #fiction #writing #pancakes
 

Pancake Day


I’m sure it said baking powder

Sunday morning confession: When I’m alone, I don’t bother with a recipe or measurements for pancakes. I mix some egg, flour, milk and a few other bits and bobs, and poor it into the big frying pan. As long as the result is in the omelette – crepe – griddle cake continuum, it’ll taste good.

They sometimes look odd though; once my creation stiffened and curled up at the edges like a Yorkshire pudding, but it was still nice. Was I meant to put in baking powder, I wonder, or maybe it was just too much egg whisking?

Shortening means oil, right?

But since he’s coming to brunch today, I decided to look up the recipe and make proper pancakes. I opened the falling apart cookbook to the stained page with my mother’s recipe. It’s been a while. What’s an ounce when it’s at home? Does shortening mean oil, or any type of fat? I have some margarine. I try to remember how this worked when I was a kid, watching and helping make pancakes, but mostly eating them.

Can I use orange juice instead of milk?

A sudden panic: does he eat dairy? Who knows these days.

An old Jewish secret: you can use orange juice instead of milk, this was done well before soy and other ‘milks’ came on the scene. This served many Jewish housewives well when baking cakes to be eaten after meat meals (they had to be dairy free to keep kosher). Would my new goy-friend understand this?

A bit of cinnamon will spice it up

Mixing cinnamon and sugar was the affordable pancake topping you’d never get away with today. Best leave that one in the past. A bit of cinnamon in the batter will do nicely.

As I fried the pancakes, I remembered the fake maple syrup we had when I was a kid, that was almost all sugar anyhow.

The doorbell rang. He’s early, I complained to myself, hurrying to pull off the dull brown apron.

I hope he doesn’t mind some sugar

“It smells lovely in here,” he said. “I hope you haven’t gone to too much trouble.”

“Not at all.” I feigned graciousness. He looked good enough to eat.

“I brought some orange juice,” he said, opening his satchel. “And prosecco, of course.”

“Thank you,” I was smiling too much. I took them from him as he took off his coat.

“Shoes!” I said, pointing down, as I closed the door behind him.

#story #fiction #writing #pancakes
 
In a departure from my recent light #writing, something more serious and personal, as I’m marking a year since my father’s #death. Here’s a #poem I wrote several months ago as part of my #grieving process.

A few months after my father died,
One day I choked up inside
at a horrible thought:

To whom will I say I love you?

You see,
My brothers and I don’t say it to each other.
Maybe we should, could, would,
But it would sound strange.
Habits of over forty years don’t easily change.

My parents are gone.
I have no kids and I never will.
I am single, that could change still
But I’m not holding my breath.
And in the meantime,
After my father’s death,

To whom will I say I love you?

You can say it to your friends,
You love their quirk, their charm,
That thing that they do
Or just that they’re there for you.
And that’s fine, that’s swell,
But unless you know me really well,
Don’t tell me you love me when this is through.

Now,
It’s not about loneliness, this is something else.
And I want to explain myself,
I have thoughts to share
So through the modern magic of the screen
My brother and his family are there,
My little nephew is keen
As the adults talk, he bounces in and out of view
And then out of the blue,
He says “Uncle Noam, I love you!”

The frozen smile on his mother’s face
Her outstretched hand
Tell me this was not planned.
And for a spell, at least,
Something is unleashed,
Something I thought broken is intact,
My gob is... unsmacked
And I reply,
“I love you too.”

https://storystag.wordpress.com/2020/09/11/594/

#poetry #family
 
In a departure from my recent light #writing, something more serious and personal, as I’m marking a year since my father’s #death. Here’s a #poem I wrote several months ago as part of my #grieving process.

A few months after my father died,
One day I choked up inside
at a horrible thought:

To whom will I say I love you?

You see,
My brothers and I don’t say it to each other.
Maybe we should, could, would,
But it would sound strange.
Habits of over forty years don’t easily change.

My parents are gone.
I have no kids and I never will.
I am single, that could change still
But I’m not holding my breath.
And in the meantime,
After my father’s death,

To whom will I say I love you?

You can say it to your friends,
You love their quirk, their charm,
That thing that they do
Or just that they’re there for you.
And that’s fine, that’s swell,
But unless you know me really well,
Don’t tell me you love me when this is through.

Now,
It’s not about loneliness, this is something else.
And I want to explain myself,
I have thoughts to share
So through the modern magic of the screen
My brother and his family are there,
My little nephew is keen
As the adults talk, he bounces in and out of view
And then out of the blue,
He says “Uncle Noam, I love you!”

The frozen smile on his mother’s face
Her outstretched hand
Tell me this was not planned.
And for a spell, at least,
Something is unleashed,
Something I thought broken is intact,
My gob is... unsmacked
And I reply,
“I love you too.”

https://storystag.wordpress.com/2020/09/11/594/

#poetry #family
 

Patron


“The award for newcomer goes to...” the emcee paused for effect. “Dilelle! Dilelle with their unique burnt wood sculptures.”

There was enthusiastic applause.

“As you know, last year’s winner Jemm chose this year’s newcomer. Artists helping each other out and all that.”

“Good tradition,” I said to Jemm, who was smiling as Dilelle collected their prize. I was new in town, and grateful to be invited to the event.

“And now, the final award, Arts Patron of the year. As you know, the winner is chosen by next year’s winner,” the emcee opened an envelope.

“Wait, what?”

“It makes sense,” Jemm whispered, “Next year we’ll know who assisted other artists most this year.”

I blinked. “But you can’t know who next year’s winner is.”

“Exactly.”

“So who wrote—”

“Lord Mayor! You are the winner. It seems you are headed for a philanthropic year,” the emcee's voice boomed.

More applause. I scratched my head.

“Jemm, who won Arts Patron last year?”

“I believe the mayor did.”

“Hmmm... does the mayor win every year?”

“Now that you mention it...”

#microfiction #stories #writing #future
 

Patron


“The award for newcomer goes to...” the emcee paused for effect. “Dilelle! Dilelle with their unique burnt wood sculptures.”

There was enthusiastic applause.

“As you know, last year’s winner Jemm chose this year’s newcomer. Artists helping each other out and all that.”

“Good tradition,” I said to Jemm, who was smiling as Dilelle collected their prize. I was new in town, and grateful to be invited to the event.

“And now, the final award, Arts Patron of the year. As you know, the winner is chosen by next year’s winner,” the emcee opened an envelope.

“Wait, what?”

“It makes sense,” Jemm whispered, “Next year we’ll know who assisted other artists most this year.”

I blinked. “But you can’t know who next year’s winner is.”

“Exactly.”

“So who wrote—”

“Lord Mayor! You are the winner. It seems you are headed for a philanthropic year,” the emcee's voice boomed.

More applause. I scratched my head.

“Jemm, who won Arts Patron last year?”

“I believe the mayor did.”

“Hmmm... does the mayor win every year?”

“Now that you mention it...”

#microfiction #stories #writing #future
 
If you don’t read this story to the end, you will die.

A bit heavy handed, but as opening lines go, there were worse. I read on. A normal plot: a hero had to save the day from a synthetically flavoured evil.

I liked the element of story within a story. The hero found a small cursed book, the opening lines announcing that he’d die if he didn’t read it to the end.

He read calmly, but the last page was missing.
The curse, I thought, what would happen to the hero?

I turned the page to find—

#microfiction #writing #stories #curse
 

Endgame


This morning I went to get spruced up! No painfully resizing, thankfully, just a polish. It’s important to look one’s best on special occasions, and I sensed one coming up.

I’ve been in the family for seven generations, and only once refused. Personality matters, of course, but the right engagement ring can make or break the deal.

This is the first time a woman has taken me out with such purpose, though. After cleaning, she took me to see a man. But I wasn’t put on his finger, he just eyed me up closely.

Oh dear. I’m being pawned.

#microfiction #writing #stories
 

Endgame


This morning I went to get spruced up! No painfully resizing, thankfully, just a polish. It’s important to look one’s best on special occasions, and I sensed one coming up.

I’ve been in the family for seven generations, and only once refused. Personality matters, of course, but the right engagement ring can make or break the deal.

This is the first time a woman has taken me out with such purpose, though. After cleaning, she took me to see a man. But I wasn’t put on his finger, he just eyed me up closely.

Oh dear. I’m being pawned.

#microfiction #writing #stories
 

Endgame


This morning I went to get spruced up! No painfully resizing, thankfully, just a polish. It’s important to look one’s best on special occasions, and I sensed one coming up.

I’ve been in the family for seven generations, and only once refused. Personality matters, of course, but the right engagement ring can make or break the deal.

This is the first time a woman has taken me out with such purpose, though. After cleaning, she took me to see a man. But I wasn’t put on his finger, he just eyed me up closely.

Oh dear. I’m being pawned.

#microfiction #writing #stories
 
The War God raised his sword with a battle cry. The Ogre King stood firm holding his great club.

“Why are you fighting this time?” Justice scolded them.

“We are doomed to kill each other in battle,” the Ogre King answered.

“Don’t blame us, it’s Fate,” The War God added.

“You will, but only after the moon burns,” Fate startled everyone, having been still as a statue.

The War God looked up at the moon. Too far for a flaming arrow. “When will that be?”

“Not for a long, long while,” said Time. “You might as well be friends.”

#microfiction #Gods #fate #writing
 
The War God raised his sword with a battle cry. The Ogre King stood firm holding his great club.

“Why are you fighting this time?” Justice scolded them.

“We are doomed to kill each other in battle,” the Ogre King answered.

“Don’t blame us, it’s Fate,” The War God added.

“You will, but only after the moon burns,” Fate startled everyone, having been still as a statue.

The War God looked up at the moon. Too far for a flaming arrow. “When will that be?”

“Not for a long, long while,” said Time. “You might as well be friends.”

#microfiction #Gods #fate #writing
 
If you don’t read this story to the end, you will die.

A bit heavy handed, but as opening lines go, there were worse. I read on. A normal plot: a hero had to save the day from a synthetically flavoured evil.

I liked the element of story within a story. The hero found a small cursed book, the opening lines announcing that he’d die if he didn’t read it to the end.

He read calmly, but the last page was missing.
The curse, I thought, what would happen to the hero?

I turned the page to find—

#microfiction #writing #stories #curse
 
If you don’t read this story to the end, you will die.

A bit heavy handed, but as opening lines go, there were worse. I read on. A normal plot: a hero had to save the day from a synthetically flavoured evil.

I liked the element of story within a story. The hero found a small cursed book, the opening lines announcing that he’d die if he didn’t read it to the end.

He read calmly, but the last page was missing.
The curse, I thought, what would happen to the hero?

I turned the page to find—

#microfiction #writing #stories #curse
 
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Since 2016 I've been working on my first solo novel. I've done collaborative books with other authors, but I had never been able to write an entire novel on my own. I made a commitment in 2016 to do just that. But not only that, it was the start of a series of novels, so it is something I'll be doing for years.

As of today, I can proudly share that I am in the final stages of editing and working on a book cover. The final two steps before I publish.

Here is an image using photography from the photoshoot for the cover. I've been toying around trying to hone in on the fine details before creating the cover.

#writing #amwriting #amediting #publishing #selfpublishing #books #crimefiction
 

genie tales


“What would you wish for, Genie?” I asked, rubbing my chin.

“I can’t help you there,” it answered, gently swaying like a tree in the breeze. “Only you know what your heart desires.”

“No, I meant, if someone could grant your wish, what would you ask for?”

The Genie froze in place. “Me? I’d wish for freedom from my servitude granting wishes, trapped in that lamp.”

I spoke carefully and dramatically. “I wish for freedom from wish granting and being trapped in lamps for all genies in the world!”

“All genies?!” the genie asked as it floated away from the lamp and landed softly on the ground. It had legs after all. Then I heard a soft thump, and another, and a louder one, and more.

The vast depths of the cavern were filling with genies, some gentle and blue like mine, others much larger, fiery red with huge teeth or pale as ghosts with an icy stare. Growls filled the air.

And then the army of genies charged out of the cave to seek revenge on their captors.

#microfiction #writing #fantasy

I decided to explore Genie Tales some more here:
 

genie tales


“What would you wish for, Genie?” I asked, rubbing my chin.

“I can’t help you there,” it answered, gently swaying like a tree in the breeze. “Only you know what your heart desires.”

“No, I meant, if someone could grant your wish, what would you ask for?”

The Genie froze in place. “Me? I’d wish for freedom from my servitude granting wishes, trapped in that lamp.”

I spoke carefully and dramatically. “I wish for freedom from wish granting and being trapped in lamps for all genies in the world!”

“All genies?!” the genie asked as it floated away from the lamp and landed softly on the ground. It had legs after all. Then I heard a soft thump, and another, and a louder one, and more.

The vast depths of the cavern were filling with genies, some gentle and blue like mine, others much larger, fiery red with huge teeth or pale as ghosts with an icy stare. Growls filled the air.

And then the army of genies charged out of the cave to seek revenge on their captors.

#microfiction #writing #fantasy

I decided to explore Genie Tales some more here:
 

genie tales


I had the mansion, and my youth was restored. I hesitated, wondering about my third wish.

“Genie, I was wondering...”

“Yes, you can wish for more wishes,” it began, and my eyes lit up. “... But the power of the wishes decreases exponentially with their number.”

Now I was puzzled.

“Those wishes wouldn’t be as strong. The mansion would be a large house. You’d have been restored to your 40s, not your 20s.” it explained.

“So if I ask for infinite wishes, they’d have no power at all?”

“Not exactly. It would be like every time you asked anyone for anything, they’d respond as if you'd said please very, very nicely.”

“I wish for infinite wishes, please.”

#microfiction #writing #fantasy
 

genie tales


I had the mansion, and my youth was restored. I hesitated, wondering about my third wish.

“Genie, I was wondering...”

“Yes, you can wish for more wishes,” it began, and my eyes lit up. “... But the power of the wishes decreases exponentially with their number.”

Now I was puzzled.

“Those wishes wouldn’t be as strong. The mansion would be a large house. You’d have been restored to your 40s, not your 20s.” it explained.

“So if I ask for infinite wishes, they’d have no power at all?”

“Not exactly. It would be like every time you asked anyone for anything, they’d respond as if you'd said please very, very nicely.”

“I wish for infinite wishes, please.”

#microfiction #writing #fantasy
 
I wrote a new thing.

*Dear Reader,

Some of the following is true.*

When I was a child, we lived in a house with a small a room off the kitchen. On one side of the room were a washing machine and a drier. On the other side pole shelves reached all the way to the ceiling. On them were kept big pots and pans, canned goods and sundries. When my mother spoke about something laundry related, she spoke of the laundry room. When she referred to something on the shelves, she spoke of the pantry. In my mind, laundry room and pantry were synonymous, as they referred to the same room.

Before I was born, I had a twin sister, but I ate her, absorbed her cells into mine while still in the womb. My friend Roo said that might be why I wasn’t masculine, and why I liked boys and not girls. When I was a child, being effeminate and being gay were synonymous in my mind, because that’s what society told me.

read the rest

#stories #writing #childhood #friendship #queer #lgbtq #lgbt
 
I wrote a new thing.

*Dear Reader,

Some of the following is true.*

When I was a child, we lived in a house with a small a room off the kitchen. On one side of the room were a washing machine and a drier. On the other side pole shelves reached all the way to the ceiling. On them were kept big pots and pans, canned goods and sundries. When my mother spoke about something laundry related, she spoke of the laundry room. When she referred to something on the shelves, she spoke of the pantry. In my mind, laundry room and pantry were synonymous, as they referred to the same room.

Before I was born, I had a twin sister, but I ate her, absorbed her cells into mine while still in the womb. My friend Roo said that might be why I wasn’t masculine, and why I liked boys and not girls. When I was a child, being effeminate and being gay were synonymous in my mind, because that’s what society told me.

read the rest

#stories #writing #childhood #friendship #queer #lgbtq #lgbt
 
How I Met The Spyders

I’m Apeksha Rao, a YA author from India, and I’m here to talk to you about my debut novel, Along Came A Spyder.

\#alongcameaspyder #humor #teenspies #writing
Originally posted at: https://jahangiri.us/2020/how-i-met-the-spyders/
How I Met The Spyders
 
Tomorrow Never Dies.
Tonight's #writing music is Tomorrow Never Dies theme song by Sheryl Crow.

YouTube: Tomorrow Never Dies (Sheryl Crow - Topic)

 
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The story about Torundel the Shitposter, which I have been posting here one episode a day under the tag #Torundel has been inspiration for quite a few other people on the HIve network (an off forked Steem network with many artists). I promised that I would make a title for everyone that wanted to write in the 211 words concept. So here are the different titles I have made for people...

#art #writing #freewriting #title #hive #steem #211 #words #story #
 

Forget Google Docs – Microsoft Word's new re-writing feature is a game-changer | TechRadar

Smart Compose is a tool for Google Docs that predicts which words and phrases you'll type and offers to finish them off for you. It's handy, and can be a real time-saver as it 'learns' your writing habits, but Microsoft has now gone one better with a feature for Microsoft Word that can re-write whole sentences for you.
Too smart for words?

#technology #tech #Windows #Microsoft #Word #writing
 
I wrote a #blog thing. Caution, this one is #biblical.

#Passover, #Patriarchy & #Paganism (and Politics and Pandemics)


On Passover we retell the story of the Israelites fleeing slavery in Egypt to freedom, led by the prophet Moses. Regardless of the historical accuracy of the story, the move from slavery to freedom, literal or metaphorical, is a powerful narrative.

If you know your bible, you’ll remember that there were, in fact, a trio at the helm as the Israelites wandered the desert for 40 years after – two brothers and a sister. Moses’ brother Aaron was the high priest, and his sister Miriam was named a prophet. It’s Miriam I want to focus on.

So what makes Miriam a prophet? There is nothing directly in the written text that ties her to divinity. After the Israelites successfully flee Pharaoh’s army, she leads the women in song and dance. A leader perhaps, but hardly a divine connection.

I draw on the book Seven Mothers by Yochi Brandes (שבע אמהות מאת יוכי ברנדס), which tells the stories of seven biblical heroines as you’ve never heard them before... In Seven Mothers, she uses her detective skills to show us how the patriarchal writing and editing of the Old Testament hides the stories of these women and belittles their roles. ...

#pagan #writing #goddess
 

Popular note-taking app GoodNotes launches universal version for iPhone, iPad, and Mac | 9to5Mac

The infrastructure to support universal apps has only been available for a couple of weeks, but some app developers are wasting no time linking their iPhone, iPad, and Mac apps as a single purchase. Fans of GoodNotes, the popular iPad notetaking app, is among the first to benefit from the change. A new, universal version of GoodNotes 5 is rolling out today for iPhone, iPad, and Mac. The app costs $7.99 in the US app store for use across all three platforms.
A pretty good deal for one of the best note-taking apps around, IMO.

#technology #tech #Apple #writing #GoodNotes
Popular note-taking app GoodNotes launches universal version for iPhone, iPad, and Mac
 

A friend reports a desperate situation: Attempting a book to explain $THING


My suggestions, organisationally:

* Index cards. Lots and lots of index cards. Nothing else approaches their utility.
* Rough out an outline. You'll change it, but it's a structure, even if one you abandon.
* Think in terms, perhaps, of book-as-tool. "What problem does this solve?" Which very likely is "what questions does this answer?" Starting from very basic questions and seeing where they lead has served me.
* Chesterton's fence: why has such an obviously unfit system come to be?
* Be prepared to discard, or at least set aside temporarily, presuppositions and beliefs. Shoshin, beginners' mind, is a challenging state, but useful. "Suspension of disbelief" I ... believe ... comes from Coleridge.
* When considering sources, whether you think you agree or disagree with them, consider their possible conscious and unconscious motives and biases.
* Also: their strongest (potentially most useful, or troublesome), and weakest points. As well as the crux of their argument(s), often a critical weak point, and, when so, frequently obscured or implied.
* History is invaluable. It may not have all the answers, but it has many of the questions and arguments. As well as the obvious situations and dramatis personae. Beware historians.

#writing #research #indexCards #Zettelkasten #shoshin #ChestertonsFence
 

Great Sunday Reads in Photography | PetaPixel

Spend your Sunday with some great reading. Here’s our roundup of interesting articles and content from around the Web for photographers. Enjoy!
This will keep you going for a while...

#photography #writing
Great Sunday Reads in Photography
 
#Quarantine is good for writing #stories. Here's one I wrote yesterday.

Avatars

When we went into quarantine, the animals starting coming out. In different cities, deer, foxes, and hogs were seen and filmed out and about. In other places rats plagued the streets, so to speak. Escaped cats and dogs swelled the ranks.

In zoos and aquariums around the world, penguins took the place of people as visitors, waddling around curiously. Meanwhile, live video feeds from vultures’ nests and badger sets captured our attention.

Adding cameras to individual animals was the natural next step, it was as easy as tagging the animals for identification. A spy in the herd became a real, urban animal. Drones were deployed, first to knock out the animals so people could tag them. Soon more sophisticated software and clever drones did the job on their own.

People began to donate cameras from old laptops and phones, or CCTV-types of questionable origin, to be used in the effort. In exchange they got control of the camera when it was on an animal. Others were content to find a free camera for the afternoon and follow it. It was surprisingly addictive.

As the numbers of camera-tagged animals grew, people began encountering other tagged animals as they watched. While you couldn’t control the animals, you could meet the person who’s camera it held. A new type of social interaction was born. Soon, everyone wanted to participate.

We’re all avatars now. Live, 3D avatars, climbing roofs, playing in parks at night, raiding bins, hissing at each other on fences, swimming in the rivers, and yes, sniffing each other’s backsides. We are vicariously repopulating our rewilding cities and towns as we stay indoors. And we love it.

#microfiction #fiction #lockdown #writing #covid19 #avatars
 
Main Theme (from The Muskateer)
Tonight's #writing music is brought to you by Nicholas Dodd.

 
Something she has to do.
Tonight's #writing music was brought to you by Philip Glass.
 
Last Dance.
Tonight's #writing music was brought to you by Sarah McLachlan.

YouTube: Sarah McLachlan - Last Dance (aYmond Kee)

 
I wrote this one some months ago, it was just waiting for a final tidy up. I think that'll do.

Feathers and Leaves

When we broke up, I needed to get away. A trip to Switzerland, neutral territory, was easy to book and just about affordable. The cleanliness and order of Zurich was a good contrast to the messiness of a relationship gone awry. Or of any relationship at any stage, really. At least mine.

When I first met Kath, there was confusion. She liked me, but she was hesitant. She believed in complete equality, yet she seemed keen for me to woo her. She said I gave out mixed signals too. Still, our attraction easily stepped over these minor obstacles.

When we moved in together, there was disorder. Logistics of shared living, cupboard space and kitchen habits, and so many things we called 'temporary' that remained unchanged for months – from the old sideboard neither of us liked, to her having the side of the bed closer to the window. We swore we'd swap places now and again.

Even our attempts to conceive were messy at first, and I’d smirk about 'trying for a baby' being a euphemism for sex. But when it didn't happen, the mirth disappeared, and schedules began. And then doctors, and tests. And then I learned that I would never father children. I suggested adoption, but Kath still wanted to give birth, perhaps a sperm donor. I felt betrayed, she gets to have a biological kid and I don't?

My hotel room had no such complications. The shutters were remote controlled, the end of the toilet roll nearly folded into a triangle, and cleaning happened only every other day. The staff were courteous and smart, but had surprisingly little knowledge about the city.

Our reconciliation was erratic and incomplete. We put off the decision about children for a year, but a space was born and grew, sometimes coming in unannounced and lying in the bed between us at night. We didn't make it for another year, and never revisited the question of children, although it lurked in the background after its bedtime. And then, after nearly two years together, we parted, without much drama or shouting.

I left the hotel and went for a walk. The River Limmat was too clean for a big city. Looking down from the coasting swans, I could see through the clear water to the stones on the riverbed as a big fish swam lazily by. I didn't spot a single piece of rubbish anywhere, not a plastic wrapper or even a floating cigarette butt. It felt unrealistic.

Then, in a swirl of the river by the bank I saw debris floating. Nothing's perfect, I thought with satisfaction as I approached. I was mistaken. It wasn't rubbish at all – only brown leaves and white feathers on the water. Maybe I could have a clean break from Kath, I thought suddenly. Maybe the mess is the illusion. We gave it a go, we loved, but it didn't work out. But there's no poison, no hatred, no dirt, it’s only feathers and leaves.

#microfiction #fiction #stories #writing #Switzerland #Zurich #breakup #relationships
 
Take a Chance on Me.
Tonight's #writing music is brought to you by ABBA. One of my favorite groups and several of their songs are in the playlist to this writing project for different reasons.
 
How about a 150-word #horror #story? Well, not sure if it's a horror story, but it gives me the creeps - and I wrote it.

#microfiction #chips #writing #fiction

CHIPS

Years ago, Rick told me Kentucky Fried Chicken had changed their name to KFC after being sued because their food didn’t contain enough chicken. I believed him and was outraged.

He was trying to fool me again. It was cold and wet, and I needed chips. Rick told me that that the local chippy had been bought by KFC.

“But... it’s chips! They can’t own that!”

I paused. “You’re full of shit. Anyway, there’s another chippy down the road.”

“They’ve bought all the chippies in town. Sorry.” Rick couldn’t hold a straight face as he said it.

“Whatever,” I went in and didn’t hold the door open for him.

I ordered a large portion of chips from the bored young woman in a red baseball cap behind the counter.

“So, you like your chips?” I asked her, just to keep ignoring Rick.

“Sure,” she answered. “They’re finger lickin’ good.”
 
Physicks.
Tonight's #writing music:

YouTube: Physicks (West Dylan Thordson - Topic)

 
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