Excluding this post, I have created 44 new pieces, comprised of 18 short stories and 27 other blog posts; a combination of reviews and various ramblings. However, 8 of the 45 were partial works. Chuck Wendig (you are reading, his blog, right?) issues a flash fiction challenge every Friday. The latest one was a five-parter.

Chuck’s five-part … more → ]]> John Anealio issued a challenge in January of 2013: do 23 creative ‘things’ in 2013. John was very flexible about what ‘counts’ to meet the challenge (read his post for details). This is the announcement of my totals.

Excluding this post, I have created 44 new pieces, comprised of 18 short stories and 27 other blog posts; a combination of reviews and various ramblings. However, 8 of the 45 were partial works. Chuck Wendig (you are reading, his blog, right?) issues a flash fiction challenge every Friday. The latest one was a five-parter.

Chuck’s five-part challenge involved everyone writing 200 words of a 1,000-word story. Then you write another 200 words of someone else’s story, etc. It was fun, and I contributed to 8 different stories over the five weeks. Since each entry is one fifth of a story, I am combining all 8 into 1 for purposes of the 23-challenge.

In addition, I’ve added another thirty-thousand words to several longer works.

And I have submitted fiction to 25 markets

18 short stories, 25 submissions, 26 blog posts, 30k words added to longer works.

Achievement unlocked.

Thanks, John. Without the spur of your challenge I doubt I would have done as much last year.

By the way, whether, John formally re-issues the challenge or not, I am going to treat it as a repeating challenge. 23-in-’14, here I come!

“Yes, this penthouse view is quite breathtaking,” I turned to the luscious blonde before me, “but not nearly as lovely as—”

A thunder clap, and then I was standing in a small, glowing circle, surrounded by a gaggle of chanting fools in robes.

“Oh great Sorasel im Palat, lord of fire and … more → ]]> Chuck Wendig’s Latest Flash Fiction Challenge. Part five of Meagan Wilson’s story of demon summoning. I think someone titled it “Stewart”, possibly in one of the other threads. I’m kept that here just for the sake of convenience. Total word count: 979

“Yes, this penthouse view is quite breathtaking,” I turned to the luscious blonde before me, “but not nearly as lovely as—”

A thunder clap, and then I was standing in a small, glowing circle, surrounded by a gaggle of chanting fools in robes.

“Oh great Sorasel im Palat, lord of fire and darkness, fell devourer of the innocent, conqueror of—” Arcane symbols covered the speaker’s robes, nearly obscuring the heavy crimson fabric.

“Yes, yes, get on with it.” I gestured with my gin martini.

He paused, then finished in a post-pubescent squeak, “We invoke thy true name and bid thee do our will.”

“Oh you do, do you? Well I want you to send me back. I was having a smashing time, and that girl may not have two brain cells to rub together, but she looked quite likely to do some rubbing together. If you know what I mean.”

The robe-wearers shuffled, and whispered amongst themselves. The leader piped up again.

“O great Sorasel im—“

“Stop that, stop that,” I interrupted. “Only my dad calls me that. I prefer my middle name. If you must speak, call me Stewart.”

More shuffling and whispering from my summoners.

“Oh great and mighty…Stewart….” the leader—whose pasty face was mostly spots—began again. “We bind thee to our will.”

I took a sip of my martini—extra dirty, extra olives—and raised an eyebrow at the little prat. Summoners used to know what they were doing. I looked at the floor where their demon trap was sloppily drawn with what smelled unmistakably like fresh, store-bought spray paint. I sighed. What happened to the blood of a virgin? Or even the vital fluids of an unwilling Christian priest?

I noticed their silence; I could practically smell their fear—a mixture of piss and that foul deodorant that promised them flocks of women. I took another gulp of the martini—it was perfect. Almost as flawless as my blonde client who was no doubt currently working her minimal intelligence into a sweat in an effort to find me.
“Well? Get on with it.”

“We bound you, oh great Sora—er—Stewart.”

“I heard that part. So,” I made sure to smile with all of my teeth. “You’ve bound me. Congratulations. Now, what do you plan to do?”

“Jaime, this was your idea.” One of the other robed figures poked the leader.

“Yes…Jaime? You masterminded this escapade?” I drained the martini, and stared directly at Jaime.

“Oh great Stewart, we sumoned you because…um…” Jamie looked sheepish. “We want to get laid, like, a lot.” The chuckleheads voiced their agreement with grunts and high fives.

“You seriously summoned me because you want sex? Personal hygiene and asking a girl on a date didn’t work, so you decided ‘Meh. Let’s just summon a demon’?” A couple of them laughed, but were quickly silent.

“Well, you’ve taken the trouble to bring me here, and I’m bound to your will, but just because I’m feeling generous, I’m going to give you a short primer on demon invocation.” They looked at each other warily.

“There are five elements of a proper invocation. Three you have managed admirably. You have consecrated the space. I personally would have used something a little more visceral, but there’s no accounting for taste. I’m here, so obviously you have successfully invoked me, and of course, you have bound me to your will.” I looked down my nose at Jaime.

“The fourth element, however, is constraint. You must constrain the actions of the demon. That, my young friends, you have not done.”

I took a step outside the glowing ring, and the five of them shuffled back like frightened animals. Jaime and the leader exchanged a glance, and their faces grew serious.

“Take him down!” cried the leader. Within a single second they were all shouting like crazed warriors and rushing me. They flung their smelly bodies onto me, clinging to my back, arms grappling my neck, the weight of five preteen boys dragging me down. I leaned forward slightly to keep my balance, then brought two fingers to my lips and kissed them.

A low, sharp rumbled filled the windowless room, like the heavy bass of a speaker, and the boys, still hooting like maniacs, flew in five directions and thunked nearly in unison onto their backs. I took a sip of my martini. Not a drop had been spilled.

I paced toward Jaime, who scrambled upright, his eyes wide with terror.

“You really want to know what it’s like to get laid by a demon?” I hovered over him, grinning, the fingers of my left hand glowing bright orange and smoking.

“Muh… Muh…” he stuttered. I turned my ear toward him, cupping it. “MOM!”

“You’re calling for your mommy little boy?” I sneered.

I heard footsteps pounding closer, so I turned to the door and put on my most fearsome demeanor. This should be fun.

The door slammed opened and a woman charged through. She took in the tableau in one quick glance. I opened my mouth to welcome her to my clutches, but before I could say anything, she made a throwing motion and shouted a single word that made me cringe.

The summoning ring flared a bright red behind me and a force grabbed me and yanked me back inside.

I stared at the woman who now had her arms around Jamie stroking his hair. She looked vaguely familiar.

“Jamie, I told you, you weren’t ready yet.”

“Sorry, Mom,” the boy said. He scuffed his foot on the floor.

The woman sighed and ruffled his hair. “Maybe it’s for the best,” she said. She looked at me. “Yes, I think it’s time.”

She drew the boy closer so they faced me across the barrier.

“Stewart, I would like you to meet your son, James.”

I’ve continued the back-and-forth POV.

Another shot glass slammed down as Toops flashed her big, black eyes at me. “Are you going to black out.” Her tone as dry as the desert planet we had left.

“I never black out. “ I grinned motioning for another shot. “I’m only resting my eyes.”

Toops rolled her eyes and crossed her arms. “Yeah, I believe you, Lancer. I really do.” Her scarred fingers pushed her still … more → ]]> Chuck Wendig’s Latest Flash Fiction Challenge. Part four of the untitled story about galactic mercs, started by Fatma Alici

I’ve continued the back-and-forth POV.

Another shot glass slammed down as Toops flashed her big, black eyes at me. “Are you going to black out.” Her tone as dry as the desert planet we had left.

“I never black out. “ I grinned motioning for another shot. “I’m only resting my eyes.”

Toops rolled her eyes and crossed her arms. “Yeah, I believe you, Lancer. I really do.” Her scarred fingers pushed her still full glass back and forth across the metal bar top. “Didn’t you say we have a man coming in to offer us a job?

“You handle all the contracts. I’m your simple minded muscle.” I winked at her. “Me big man. Me hit things hard.” The burning fire scalded my throat as I took another shot.

Her hand snapped out faster than my eye could follow. Those strong fingers crushed mine into my palm. “Do not call for another shot. I swear I will break your fingers right now.”

A hearty chuckle rumbled up my throat. “Alright, alright boss lady.”

My fingers were released. “We are partners.”

“You say that now, but once the client gets here you’ll change your tune.” She couldn’t deny it. It was true.

The mark joined us not too long after that. I know they’re supposed to be clients, but I can’t help thinking of them as marks. Lancer likes to think of us as noble ruffians, taking on jobs to help the weak and disenfranchised. Truth is, we take on the jobs that pay the most. Sometimes that means we take the client for a bit of a ride.

Lancer was right about one thing: when the client arrives, I play boss. Pretty much have to; no one would buy me as the hired muscle – at least no one with all their bits in tact. Marks are always weary of a girl without a purpose. They’ll buy me as the brains, but not the brawn.

Lancer brought this one in. I let him do that once in a while because it makes him feel like we’re equal partners. More importantly, it makes the marks think that I’m hot stuff. They’re so lucky to get me, I send one of my peons first to see if they’re worthwhile instead of going myself. Doesn’t always work, but when it does, it’s a much bigger payday.

The man they called Helix walked into the bar, the sunlight rushing past his entourage, harshly drowning out the dank ambiance so welcoming to the regular patrons. I had met him through an old corps buddy whom I usually only call upon in the most dire of business droughts.

As predicted Toops straightened out immediately, her strength radiating from her core, demanding an elevated level of respect. She had a knack for nonverbal communication, in more ways than one.

“Not exactly discreet is he,” She said in a disapproving whisper.

“It’s a paying job. Rodge made it sound like it would be of particular interest to us.” I finished under my breath as the group neared, my lips spreading into an awkward greeting. I am just the muscle…or I’ve had one too many…or both.

“Ms. Toops I presume,” Helix smiled, suave and somewhat greasily as he took her hand. He was dressed in a slick suit, all grey, matching tie, extravagantly out of place in this corner of the ‘verse. His three companions were obviously hired security.

“All presumptions aside, where they belong, I’ve heard you have work suitable for our expertise.”

Helix’s slimy smile grew, looking to me with positive regards to my choice of partners.

As soon as I saw Helix’s smile I mentally doubled the price we’d ask. I’ve seen smiles like that before. They never bode well. I also made a mental note to have a chat with Lancer. This buddy of his needs a talking to.

“Let’s move to a table where we can talk in private,” I said. I didn’t wait for an answer, I just turned away and headed for a corner table I had reserved earlier.

When I slid into one of the back chairs, I could tell Helix didn’t appreciate me turning my back on him. Lancer eased himself into the other back chair leaving the mark to have his back to the door.

“Well,” the slimeball said heartily, “what are we drinking?”

“We’re here for business,” I said, “what’s the job?”

“Nothing wrong with a little social interaction, is there?”

The way he said it, I knew exactly what kind of interaction he thought he was getting here. I tripled the price.

I tapped my ring on the table until it drew his eyes. It was just to derail his thoughts. Not many knew what it represented, so I was surprised when his eyes widened.

JDFitch:
God, how she hated dance music. Tony blared that crap every day at work, and after four years, she couldn’t take it anymore. Most had their I-phones or mp3’s and earbuds to stuff in their heads. The rest of them had to suffer. Her fist smashed the bread dough with a vengeance. One fist beat the soft, yeasty mass over and over.
“Screw this.” [Gloria] reached and ‘touched’ the electric plug that asshole’s antique radio was plugged into. Sparks crackled from the outlet, … more → ]]> Chuck Wendig’s Latest Flash Fiction Challenge. Part Three of JDFitch’s story: Unpredictable Magic.

JDFitch:
God, how she hated dance music. Tony blared that crap every day at work, and after four years, she couldn’t take it anymore. Most had their I-phones or mp3’s and earbuds to stuff in their heads. The rest of them had to suffer. Her fist smashed the bread dough with a vengeance. One fist beat the soft, yeasty mass over and over.
“Screw this.” [Gloria] reached and ‘touched’ the electric plug that asshole’s antique radio was plugged into. Sparks crackled from the outlet, the acrid smell of burnt plastic ripped across the room.
“Judas Priest!” The sift super rushed over and yanked the cord from the wall. “Tony, this piece of crap is gone. You understand me? Three times in one week? Burn it, burn your own house down, but keep it out of my bakery.” Allen rammed the offending device into Tony’s chest before stalking off.
Gloria could not help the smile that crossed her lips. Then common sense took over. Shit.Why did magic have to be so unpredictable? Two years, and she still could not predict the outcomes, not like her teacher. Who would no doubt taste the magic in the air around her.

Life sucked chunks.
***************************************************
She had to be more careful or else be caught by the Authorities. They might taste the magic she leaked after tweaking the radio.

Most kids were screened by preschool to see whether they had talent – somehow Gloria had been missed.

Good thing Claudia had seen her magician’s performance at a child’s birthday party. Everything had gone wrong that day – instead of a rabbit, she pulled a python out of the hat. Of course, the party had been for boys, so that went over well. But it didn’t go over with the parents when her bra and panties had pulled out of her sleeve along with the handkerchiefs. Not sure how that happened.

Claudia had tasted the taint and offered to tutor her if she promised to stop playing magician.

Gloria needed to control herself first if she wanted to control the magic. Otherwise, some Telemage would catch a whiff and she would be slammed into a Control Chair. Then some Docmage would fry out her brain section that created magic – and they weren’t too careful about what else was around, like body functions or reasoning. She didn’t want to spend the rest of her life drooling in the corner of a closed ward, finger-painting.

Part Three (Paul Baughman)

It hadn’t always been this way. Once magicians had been an accepted, if not welcome, part of society. The Magic War was hundreds of years in the past, but the results have echoed down the years into the present. The old saw about bad apples still applied.

Time to try out some of Claudia’s tutoring before a passing patrol sensed what she had done. Gloria let her hands continue working the bread dough on autopilot. She let her mind drift until she could sense the magic crackling in her skin, vibrating in her bones, and even curling off the end of each hair. When she had the feeling solidly nailed down, she sucked it all into her hands and grounded it to the earth.

The sense of magic vanished. It worked! She smiled happily. It was the first time she had successfully used one of Claudia’s techniques on her own. Maybe now she wouldn’t have to worry as much about getting caught.

The happy, proud feeling faded as she realized the bread dough she was working felt odd.

She opened her eyes and looked down to find her hands buried to the wrist in the finest cake she had ever seen.

Blood, the taste of blood in her mouth? Running her tongue along the inside of her lip, Sylvia confirmed it. Her blood. Stiff muscles knotted with pain while her nose brought the scent of twisted metal and smoke. Their spaceship, it must have crashed. Clearing her eyes of the gummy residue of fallen ash and protective tears, Sylvia climbed to her feet and surveyed the crash site.
The long nose and proud, cupped wings … more → ]]> Part Three of Chuck Wendig’s Latest Flash Fiction Challenge. Part Three of Angela Barry’s story: Sylvia’s World.

Blood, the taste of blood in her mouth? Running her tongue along the inside of her lip, Sylvia confirmed it. Her blood. Stiff muscles knotted with pain while her nose brought the scent of twisted metal and smoke. Their spaceship, it must have crashed. Clearing her eyes of the gummy residue of fallen ash and protective tears, Sylvia climbed to her feet and surveyed the crash site.
The long nose and proud, cupped wings of the space-atmos jet were crumpled and broken in two. Neither Derrick or Tom were in sight. Alice should have been nearby but if she was thrown out, but Sylvia didn’t see her. Sylvia realized just how far she had been thrown. Maybe she shouldn’t be standing yet.
Looking down at her legs, Sylvia found the fabric rent and bloodied. Scratches, small gashes, and dirt covered her knees. She filed it away for now. More importantly, she realized she was holding her left arm straight, unconsciously bracing it with her right. Sylvia’s eyes traveled and saw a slight swelling under the skin.

Her gaze lifted to the ship. Was that a hand? Moving forward something else registered. Nothing looked right. They were on the wrong planet.

(2 of 5) Hank Petterson

Sylvia made her way to the lower access hatch that entered the landing bay. After entering the code it opened slowly and stopped halfway. She saw the small shuttle crumpled in the front of the bay. She managed to get in and made her way to the damaged shuttle. The front shield was toast; it hung from the frame in defeat. Gingerly she crawled in and withdrew the med-kit. After applying the nano-meld to her left arm, she injected herself with a booster shot and made her way back out to the crash site.
She made her way to the split in the fuselage and peered in. There was smoke gently wafting from the engine nacelle and a few wires were hanging out. She walked to the front of the mortally stricken ship.
The JadeStar was history, her crew were nowhere to be found and the last thing Sylvia remembered was receiving a distress signal.
She looked around at her new environment and heard a light humming sound coming from the other side of a small incline.
She returned to the shuttle and took an away pack and strapped on a small assault pistol. She looked around the Jadestar one last time and headed to the sound.

(3 of 5) Paul Baughman – 196 words

What Sylvia thought was a little hill was actually the rim of an immense crater-like depression about five miles across. The bottom half of it was a black substance that flowed down to meet a spire made of the same material.

Sylvia started down into the depression. The moss she walked on had a strange shifting feel, as if the ground it grew from was unstable.

She knelt where the black substance started and rubbed a gloved hand over the slippery surface.

Something caught her eye and she leaned forward, studying the edge. She gripped the moss and pulled. It lifted easily, exposing more of the black material. The stuff must continue all the way up to the rim. The moss must have grown down the slope in a mat. She froze.

Still on her hands and knees, she turned, but even that careful motion was too much. The moss ripped free around her and she started sliding. She scrabbled for any purchase to slow her down, but the black glass seemed to have no friction at all.

She was still scrabbling frantically when she shot into an unseen hole in the spire and started falling.

Angel?
I woke up the other morning with wings and thought,’what the fucking Hell am I supposed to do now?!’
Like many of the tales I’ve told this one begins with……Once when i was pissed….

Once, when I was pissed I decided to mix as many different spirits I had in my kitchen in a pint glass. Gin,vodka,rums of white and dark,some
weird dusty bottled supermarket liqueur and some bourbon.
And after a couple of glasses of foul tasting … more → ]]> Part Two of Chuck Wendig’s Latest Flash Fiction Challenge. A continuation of Matt Cash’s story: Angel?

Angel?
I woke up the other morning with wings and thought,’what the fucking Hell am I supposed to do now?!’
Like many of the tales I’ve told this one begins with……Once when i was pissed….

Once, when I was pissed I decided to mix as many different spirits I had in my kitchen in a pint glass. Gin,vodka,rums of white and dark,some
weird dusty bottled supermarket liqueur and some bourbon.
And after a couple of glasses of foul tasting brown sewer water I fell asleep on my sofa watching a Freeview adult channel, failing to maintain an erection so settling with a ‘Come Dine With Me’ omnibus.
All that was my average Saturday night so nothing out of the ordinary there.

On the Sunday morning I woke up faced down on the hallway carpet,again this didn’t faze me as I’m not a stranger to intoxicated somnambulisms. The first thing I noticed when I got to my knees was that my flat had been trashed…..Again,nothing new there,I was a perfect candidate for ‘How Clean Is Your House?’.
But the first unusual thing was that there were white feathers everywhere,which was unusal as I have allergies to eiderdown pillows and feathery shit so try and stay away from that kind of thing.
The hallway looked more trashed than normal,like I’d chucked a mad ‘un. Everything had been upended,picture frames askew,pot plants unearthed, you get the idea.
My livingroom was in a similar state and as I stood in the centre of the room gazing in horror at my hifi system lying smashed in the fireplace my first thought was that i’d been burgled. Then when I looked in the mirror above my fireplace and saw great big fuck-off wings behind me I think was incapable of anything other than staring slack-jawed and making a ‘whaaaa’ noise.

(Continued)

Ok, I thought, after I finished whaaa-ing, this is obviously the DTs. What I need is more drink. I headed back to the kitchen for a hair of the god–dog! I meant hair of the dog.

The kitchen was, if possible, in worse shape than the living room. I closed my eyes and turned away. I would sleep it off and when I woke up the hallucinations would be gone. I hoped.

I stopped dead in the bedroom doorway.

The bed was a mess. The kind of mess that made me wish I could remember what happened there. But the figure sleeping on it was the most gorgeous one I could ever have imagined. No, infinitely better than any human imagination. A single leg of perfect proportions. A hand with long, tapered fingers. The profile of the face of an angel, half hidden by hair the color of wildflower honey. Just the hint of a swell of breast.

The rest of the figure was covered by wings of snow.

“Buy me a drink,” he said, bloodshot eyes meeting mine from further down the bar, “and I’ll tell you how I broke the world.”
I gave a snort, took a long swig of my G&T, and turned my attention back to the game being shown on Joe’s decrepit TV.
“Go on,” he insisted, in a voice ravaged by years of strong alcohol. “It’ll be worth it.”
Glancing around, I looked for help, but none of the … more → ]]> Part Two of Chuck Wendig’s Latest Flash Fiction Challenge. A continuation of Mr. Urban Spaceman’s story: Joe’s Bar.

“Buy me a drink,” he said, bloodshot eyes meeting mine from further down the bar, “and I’ll tell you how I broke the world.”
I gave a snort, took a long swig of my G&T, and turned my attention back to the game being shown on Joe’s decrepit TV.
“Go on,” he insisted, in a voice ravaged by years of strong alcohol. “It’ll be worth it.”
Glancing around, I looked for help, but none of the other patrons of the grotty bar were paying attention to me being pestered by the old loon, and the bartender was very focused on cleaning a glass. The old man’s eyes bored into me from beneath his dirty mop of hair, and in the dim light of Joe’s Bar I saw the dark red stains on his grey trenchcoat.
“Alright.” The game was dull anyway. “What’s your poison?”
“Scotch on the rocks.”
I nodded at the barkeep, and the old man watched hungrily as the amber nectar was poured.
“Go on then,” I prompted him. “Tell me how you broke the world.”
He took a sip of his drink, gave a happy sigh, and looked up at me with those bloodshot eyes.
“It all started in 1939…”

Part 2

“Wait,” I said. “1939? That was over two hundred years ago!”
“This is the story you paid for,” the old man grumbled. “Let me tell it.”
I nodded for him to continue.
“I could see what was coming,” he said after another sip of his scotch. “It was obvious. So I did what I did to cut it short.”
He shuddered. “I forgot about consequences. No, that’s not right; I thought about consequences, I just didn’t think they’d be this.” He waved behind us.
I glanced at the only unique feature of Joe’s–the window–and jerked my head back. Everyone looks out that window, and no one can stand the sight of the shattered planet hanging above the lunar surface for more than an instant.
I drained my drink desperately and waved at the bartender for a refill. He cocked his head at the old man and I nodded for his refill too.
“Do you believe in magic?” the old man said quietly.
“No, of course not,” I said.
He jerked his head at the window.
“That’s not magic,” I said, “that’s just physics we haven’t discovered yet.”
He snorted his derision. “That’s what everyone says, but no one has yet explained the physics.”

Listening Post

Greg Evans slapped off the com alarm while he was still prying open eyes gummed shut by sleep.

The vacc-suited figure in the screen was standing at the near relay station, by the visible background.

“Lieutenant J.G. Jenna Ballard,” the woman’s voice said. “I have an emergency and I need directions to your station.”

“Uh,” Greg said. “Just follow your inertial tracker.”

“I don’t have a tracker,” the lieutenant said.

“Who sent you here without a tracker?”

“No one sent me!” the woman shouted. “I told … more → ]]> (a chained story writing prompt from Chuck Wendig’s blog: http://terribleminds.com/ramble/2013/11/22/flash-fiction-challenge-200-words-at-a-time-part-one/ )

Listening Post

Greg Evans slapped off the com alarm while he was still prying open eyes gummed shut by sleep.

The vacc-suited figure in the screen was standing at the near relay station, by the visible background.

“Lieutenant J.G. Jenna Ballard,” the woman’s voice said. “I have an emergency and I need directions to your station.”

“Uh,” Greg said. “Just follow your inertial tracker.”

“I don’t have a tracker,” the lieutenant said.

“Who sent you here without a tracker?”

“No one sent me!” the woman shouted. “I told you it’s an emergency!”

“Listen, lieutenant, protocol is that anyone coming here be equipped with a tracker. What was base thinking of?”

“Shut up, you civilian moron! Base is gone! It was cracked by a meteor strike and I’m only alive because I was out on a maintenance run when it happened. I’m down to ten minutes of gases and I need directions now!”

Greg could feel his face go white. “It’s an hour’s walk from there to here.”

“Listen, he said after some frantic thought, “there’s an emergency tank in the base of the relay. It’ll give you an extra ten minutes. Take it and head sunward through the canyon. I’ll meet you.

There’s the initial high (snorting comet dust); followed by second-guessing yourself when no one seems to notice; no reviews, no sales numbers, no responses to your guest posts; followed by … what the heck, Chuck says it much better than I could, especially since I haven’t sold a book yet.

So if you are a writer (potential, wannabe, novice, semi-pro, professional) or someone who supports a writer (spouse, fiancé, SO, or just friend) go read it.

I’ll be pulling out some choice bits … more → ]]> I just read Chuck Wendig’s latest post: http://terribleminds.com/ramble/2013/07/17/so-you-just-had-your-book-published/ about what happens after your first book is published.

There’s the initial high (snorting comet dust); followed by second-guessing yourself when no one seems to notice; no reviews, no sales numbers, no responses to your guest posts; followed by … what the heck, Chuck says it much better than I could, especially since I haven’t sold a book yet.

So if you are a writer (potential, wannabe, novice, semi-pro, professional) or someone who supports a writer (spouse, fiancé, SO, or just friend) go read it.

I’ll be pulling out some choice bits to post on my monitor:

“You soon are reminded that you can edit a bad page, but you can’t edit a blank one.”
Nail, meet Hammer: BAM!

“You don’t write to be published but rather, you write to write, and to be read.”

Some spoilers below.

World War Z is a fun, action romp, if you can ignore some logical inconsistencies.

Brad Pitt delivers an excellent performance as Gerry Lane, a man who gave up a globe-trotting life of adventure as a U.N. investigator in order to settle down and concentrate on his family–wife and two daughters. When the zombie apocalypse breaks out, he is forced back into his previous life in order to safeguard the family that means more to him than anything else.

He accompanies Andrew Fassbach, a virologist played by Elyes Gabel, protected by a SEAL … more → ]]> View Date: 6/29/13

Some spoilers below.

World War Z is a fun, action romp, if you can ignore some logical inconsistencies.

Brad Pitt delivers an excellent performance as Gerry Lane, a man who gave up a globe-trotting life of adventure as a U.N. investigator in order to settle down and concentrate on his family–wife and two daughters. When the zombie apocalypse breaks out, he is forced back into his previous life in order to safeguard the family that means more to him than anything else.

He accompanies Andrew Fassbach, a virologist played by Elyes Gabel, protected by a SEAL team, to a U.S. military base in South Korea, trying to track down patient zero. Fassbach is an enthusiastic admirer of Nature as a b*tch out to get everyone. He was a welcome bit of–not light-heartedness, but reduced intensity.

When Fassbach dies in an accident, Lane goes on to Israel alone, following a lead from a CIA agent. Clues he saw in Philadelphia, South Korea, and Israel send him on to a U.N. medical research facility in Wales.

They don’t find a cure, but they develop a ‘camouflage’ technique to make themselves ignored by the zombies. This involves infecting themselves with deadly, but treatable diseases.

Lane is reunited with his family and we have a happy ending. Roll end credits.

Now for some of the logical flaws, as I saw them.

1. I am not a medical researcher, but I wouldn’t think you would need patient zero to develop a vaccine. Any infected individual should do to find the virus and develop a vaccine. This seems like a MacGuffin to allow Lane to jet all over the world. This is reinforced in Wales, when he is told about (and shown on videotape) a researcher who accidentally infects himself while looking for the virus in infected blood. Also, someone in this line of work should be more careful, knowing the consequences of an accident.

2. The zombies in this movie are single-minded (heh) in spreading the infection. They don’t eat, they bite and move on. This seems like an intelligent response, not something of a mindless stimulus.

3. The initial infection (in South Korea) took 10 minutes to develop, but Lane sees 10-second infection times everywhere. That seems like quite a jump.

4. A 50-foot wall was built around Jerusalem very quickly, probably within days, at just the first hint of the zombie plague. That seems impossible given the fast spreading nature of the virus.

5. The zombies got over the Jerusalem wall by climbing over each other, attracted by the sound of singing inside. I don’t fault that, but the Israelis should have known by now that sound was a bad thing and not allowed it to continue. Also, where were the helicopter gunships that should have been patrolling around the city? They showed up later when it was too late to stop the incursion, why not before to prevent it? This appeared to be just a way to force Lane to move on to Wales.

6. The nature of the camouflage technique is both temporary and borderline. Sure they ignore you if you have a deadly disease, but you have to cure yourself before you die of it, then you’re right back in the same boat. How many different diseases are there that will both provide protection and allow for a cure? Once you have been cured of a disease, are you immune from catching it again? If so, then you have to use a different disease next time. At some point any one particular person will not be able to use this technique.

7. How do the Zombies tell you have a disease? I can imagine smell might be one way, but the human nose can’t tell disease by smell. How does a zombie enhance a human’s basic wetware to do that? Even if they can, scenes show zombies running at full speed past, presumably diseased people. They would have to detect the disease from yards away in order to avoid the person at that speed.

8. Oh, yeah. Something that is common with all zombie movies. They are dead. No breathing, no heartbeat, no blood flow. Human cells start to die without at least oxygen. Nerve/brain cells go fairly quickly, but even the more robust muscle cells will die after a few days without oxygen, so how can they continue to function as muscles? How do the zombies move at all, much less at high speeds and with extreme strength?

Anyway, those are the logical flaws. I don’t regret seeing the movie, as I said, it is a fun action romp. Go see it, if that is your thing, and try to ignore everything I’ve said here.