tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-57508323459123094962024-03-05T06:14:44.342-07:00Dave Butler WritesJoin Me in My Daily StruggleDave Butlerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00294284507031694093noreply@blogger.comBlogger297125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5750832345912309496.post-69921537112140114232011-11-27T08:05:00.002-07:002011-11-27T08:05:55.862-07:00This Blog Is Dead!Long Live This Blog!<br />
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Taking the training wheels off, folks. Come find me at <a href="http://davidjohnbutler.com/">http://davidjohnbutler.com</a>.Dave Butlerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00294284507031694093noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5750832345912309496.post-72435812580929002492011-11-27T07:15:00.000-07:002011-11-27T07:15:00.223-07:00Boinga!More excellent kids' show music. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><object class="BLOGGER-youtube-video" classid="clsid:D27CDB6E-AE6D-11cf-96B8-444553540000" codebase="http://download.macromedia.com/pub/shockwave/cabs/flash/swflash.cab#version=6,0,40,0" data-thumbnail-src="http://0.gvt0.com/vi/OsISQLgP3_w/0.jpg" height="266" width="320"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/OsISQLgP3_w&fs=1&source=uds" /><param name="bgcolor" value="#FFFFFF" /><embed width="320" height="266" src="http://www.youtube.com/v/OsISQLgP3_w&fs=1&source=uds" type="application/x-shockwave-flash"></embed></object></div>Dave Butlerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00294284507031694093noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5750832345912309496.post-5145523207908205822011-11-26T09:21:00.004-07:002011-11-26T09:21:00.546-07:00MonkeyHa! One of my favorites.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.youtube.com/embed/--szrOHtR6U?feature=player_embedded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div>Dave Butlerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00294284507031694093noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5750832345912309496.post-7134342118734748962011-11-25T09:03:00.003-07:002011-11-25T09:04:09.998-07:00Happy Black Friday<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMRVZs8RFOlDAxz_SiHImlxImnclIan83B6kAtN-uC5bf2q3NUdA-l7NiXL3rxk53WQo7KIod_bFEaZ7ijuNlfXm9D_DYHGzTWrOcS262lqw1E-jpEmNPqMm6UFCrgfNAUgCHwDBJ8kec/s1600/bella%2527s+turkey.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMRVZs8RFOlDAxz_SiHImlxImnclIan83B6kAtN-uC5bf2q3NUdA-l7NiXL3rxk53WQo7KIod_bFEaZ7ijuNlfXm9D_DYHGzTWrOcS262lqw1E-jpEmNPqMm6UFCrgfNAUgCHwDBJ8kec/s320/bella%2527s+turkey.jpeg" width="294" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div>Dave Butlerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00294284507031694093noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5750832345912309496.post-9022590021040970882011-11-24T08:37:00.002-07:002011-11-24T08:37:27.374-07:00ThanksgivingI'm going to take a break today, and be thankful for it.Dave Butlerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00294284507031694093noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5750832345912309496.post-47611405665915312232011-11-23T08:59:00.000-07:002011-11-23T08:59:41.433-07:00Telling Characters ApartDay three of revision work on <i>City of the Saints</i>, and I think it's going well. <br />
<br />
<i>City</i> has six POV characters, and I want each of them to sound distinctive in his speech and feel distinctive in his POV. What are some of my tools?<br />
<br />
<ul><li>Vocabulary (some think; others reckon).</li>
<li>Elision and contractions (for some it's not; for others it ain't).</li>
<li>Oaths (Jumpin' Jehoshaphat! Rostam's mace! Jebus! Egad!).</li>
<li>Wordiness. Correctness and precision of grammar.</li>
<li>Slang (one character is a carny).</li>
<li>Use of foreign words or phrases.</li>
<li>Long versus short words.</li>
<li>Subject matter obsession.</li>
<li>Lyricism vs. prosaicness.</li>
<li>Gnomic speech, folk wisdom.</li>
<li>Interjections and contentless words, er, that is to say, et cetera.</li>
<li>Speech impediments (at one point, one of my characters gets his <i>dose broked</i>).</li>
<li>Specific memories / references unique to the character.</li>
</ul>Dave Butlerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00294284507031694093noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5750832345912309496.post-72094495893571664022011-11-22T12:51:00.002-07:002011-11-22T12:51:32.641-07:00What Is Steampunk? (Steampunk Christmas)<a href="http://www.hawksmoorsbazaar.net/?p=515">Check this out.</a>Dave Butlerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00294284507031694093noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5750832345912309496.post-44965787936806591402011-11-21T07:30:00.017-07:002011-11-21T07:30:02.486-07:00Revisions!Sitting down to revise <i>City of the Saints</i>. I get comments from the Story Monkeys weekly and revise as I go from the beginning of writing, so I never feel like my "rough" draft is really, really dire, but I want to straighten up its tie and wash its face before sending it off to the mines to earn its keep.<br />
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Here are my revision objectives:<br />
<br />
<ul><li>Resolve all collected and not-yet-resolved comments.</li>
<li>Make each POV character's inner monolog, and all characters' spoken lines, consistent and distinctive.</li>
<li>Make sure each POV character has at least one crisp sub-plot running all the way through and clearly resolving, and clear, sympathetic and true-to-life motivations throughout with respect to the main plot.</li>
<li>Add steampunkiness! (Victorian dress details, machines!)</li>
<li>Smooth narrative flow, eliminate infelicitous word choices, and increase vividness of prose generally.</li>
</ul><div>I plan to work all the way through one time for each POV character. I am hoping to get through each character's work in one day, which would make this a six-day task. In bocca al lupo!</div>Dave Butlerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00294284507031694093noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5750832345912309496.post-36717238883868187152011-11-20T17:30:00.001-07:002011-11-22T10:11:55.870-07:00Chocolate JesusRounding out a Tom Waits weekend, in honor of his recent release, which I have been listening to just about non-stop. At twelve years old, this has just about become a classic.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.youtube.com/embed/1wfamPW3Eaw?feature=player_embedded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div>Dave Butlerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00294284507031694093noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5750832345912309496.post-43932942925429585182011-11-19T07:41:00.002-07:002011-11-19T07:41:00.159-07:00Bad As MeThis song is the most surprising, and true, love song I've heard all year.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.youtube.com/embed/B6Ta3H-ck6s?feature=player_embedded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div>Dave Butlerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00294284507031694093noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5750832345912309496.post-32063121611940037522011-11-18T07:14:00.001-07:002011-11-18T07:14:01.376-07:00If You're Willing to Stoop<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>They walked down South Tabernacle. In the five days since Brigham Young’s return to his office, the street had been repaired and most of the windows, but the street’s many trees remained blasted and withered stumps, or bare baked earth, and much of the old plascrete still had black scorch marks on it, obscuring the sparkle.<br />
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“If only you Americans had put in your Transcontinental Railroad or your telegraph earlier,” Burton commented as they neared the Lion House, “we’d be spared the journey.”<br />
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“There won’t be a railroad,” Sam said, “and Young still isn’t convinced about the telegraph. Young doesn’t really want either of them in the first place, and, at least for a little while, he’ll need to keep outsiders out of the Kingdom, to avoid giving away his bluff. Besides, don’t you want to get home to your fiancée Isabel? And to writing your books?”<br />
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“I do,” Burton admitted. He looked slightly embarrassed as he said the words. “I have in mind a memoir of this journey, though I don’t know whether anyone would believe it.”<br />
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Sell it as fiction,” Sam suggested. “I think you’ll find you can tell a lot of interesting truth, if you’re willing to stoop to writing novels.”<br />
<div><br />
</div>Dave Butlerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00294284507031694093noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5750832345912309496.post-63126817197403686002011-11-17T08:10:00.001-07:002011-11-17T08:10:00.869-07:00What Is Steampunk? (Steam-Trucks)<i>City of the Saints</i> features a lot of action on and around steam-trucks, steam-powered, rubber-wheeled vehicles. Check out this real one.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.youtube.com/embed/8ox1Cb9uoy8?feature=player_embedded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div>Dave Butlerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00294284507031694093noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5750832345912309496.post-37000586199925987632011-11-16T08:22:00.006-07:002011-11-16T08:22:00.160-07:00Integrity<div class="MsoNormal"></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 32px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Your road ahead is shadowed and perilous,” muttered the gypsy. He held Sam’s right hand clutched in his own, which were armored in fingerless black kidskin gloves, and peered closely at the creases in Sam’s flesh. Close enough, Sam thought, that the man could just as easily be smelling his future as seeing it. “Your future is one of failure, disaster and great sorrow. You should reconsider your course, sir. You should turn back.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 32px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>The gypsy fell silent and arched an eyebrow at Sam, as if underscoring the fearfulness of his message. The silence between the two men was filled with the babble of the saloon around them.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 32px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“That’s refreshing,” Sam quipped, chomping fiercely on his Cuban cigar. The air inside Bridger’s was heavy with smoke, but it was the smoke of cheap American tobacco rolled into cheap cigarettes, mixed with gas lamp emanations and the occasional ozone crackle of electricity. Sam filtered the stink, as well as the rancid smell of sour, sweaty human bodies and the drifting odors of horse and coal-fire, through a sweet, expensive cohiba. Nothing, he thought, beats a government expense account.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 32px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>The gypsy stared at him. His gray-streaked black mustache hung asymmetrical under his bulbous nose, and was no match for Sam’s fine, manly soup-strainer. His jaw looked misshapen, too, sort of hunched sideways into the thick, mostly gray, beard that veiled it. Above all the facial hair and the badly-cast features, though, the man had dark, intense eyes, with baggy pouches under them, and those eyes stared at Sam in surprise. “Did you hear me right, sir? I told you that your future is bleak.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 32px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Yes,” Sam acknowledged. “Your honesty is marvelous. Most fortune-tellers would take my two bits and tell me what they thought I wanted to hear. Beautiful willing women, rivers of smooth whiskey and horses that run faster than the sun itself are in your future, sir! Come again soon.” He grinned, took another suck at the cigar and winked. “I respect your integrity.” </span></div>Dave Butlerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00294284507031694093noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5750832345912309496.post-86515655841607840792011-11-15T13:39:00.002-07:002011-11-15T13:39:52.206-07:00Aboard the Ammon<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"> “There’s no one aboard the other two, either,” Poe said. “How on earth is Pratt controlling them?”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"> They looked together at the control panel, and Poe immediately knew the answer to his own question. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">“Hunley,” he gasped.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">The controls looked simple enough. There was a wheel like on any terrestrial ship, and beside it a binnacle, glowing blue around its rim and containing a simple compass whose needle was a stylized brass bumblebee. There was a broad, wool-padded belt-and-shoulderstraps harness that bolted into the center of the wheel for the pilot. Beside the wheel was a small knob-headed lever marked <i>PITCH AND YAW</i> that appeared capable of moving in all directions; next to it was another level like a steam-truck’s throttle, currently at the lowest position in its range; and from a solid block of brass beside the ship’s wheel protruded a monkey’s head that Poe knew all too well.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">“What do you think this does?” Roxie asked, touching the <i>PITCH AND YAW</i> lever without moving it.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">“Controls pitch and yaw, is my guess,” Poe suggested dryly. “That would let you alter your elevation, as well. And there you have acceleration. But I find that the monkey is the interesting thing.”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">“How so?”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">“Because Horace Hunley made it, and three others like it, and this is the one that I smashed against my cabin door in the <i>Liahona</i>.”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><i>ZOTTT!<o:p></o:p></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">Poe looked up from the controls to the Phlogiston gun, but it was dormant, and he knew from the reddish light playing against its side that a Phlogiston weapon must have been fired on the mooring tower.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">“So what?”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"> “So,” Poe said, “I think this is how Pratt is flying the ships. This is what Horace Hunley did—he built four devices that communicate, somehow, with each other. Ether waves, maybe. And one of them is the master and the other three are slaves—forgive the expression—so that the person in the right ship can control the other three.”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"> “So Pratt can pilot the entire fleet by himself. So he doesn’t need anyone else to help him get his revenge.”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"> “Yes.” Poe looked at the controls again. “But I must have damaged the monkey-headed jar, so hopefully we’ll have local control of this craft, whatever it’s called.”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"> “It’s called the <i>Ammon</i>, actually.”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"> “As in the Egyptian god?” Poe was amused. “Identified with the sun and with Ra? You Mormons love your Egyptian things, I must say. Robert was wise to suggest that I disguise myself as an Egyptianeer.”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"> “Mostly we identify him with chopping off arms,” Roxie said. Poe didn’t know what she meant, but he was happy to be with her and she smiled at him, so even though he was dying and he didn’t understand the joke he threw back his head and laughed.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"> <i>ZOTTT!<o:p></o:p></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"> A bright flash of blue light snapped behind them—<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"> and the <i>Ammon</i> hurtled directly upward, into the morning sky.<o:p></o:p></div><!--EndFragment-->Dave Butlerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00294284507031694093noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5750832345912309496.post-13226246149926369152011-11-14T08:16:00.001-07:002011-11-15T10:19:02.030-07:00Essential Classics: The KalevalaFollowing up on Friday's comments dialog: the <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Kalevala-Tradition-L%C3%B6nnrot-Oxford-Classics/dp/0199538867/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1321283368&sr=8-1">Kalevala</a> is the national epic of Finland. It looks at first glance like it might be a single unified poem, a la Homer, but is in fact a family of sung poems about the same mythological / heroic characters (who rejoice in such improbable names as Kullervo son of Kalervo, Vainamoinen, Ilmarinen and Lemminkainen... and I'm not even putting in the umlauts), first collected in the nineteenth century by <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kalevala">Elias Lonnrot</a>, a physician. This makes it a little like the Eddas and a little like the work of <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bascom_Lamar_Lunsford">Bascom Lamar Lunsford</a>. <br />
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The Kalevala is mythic-funky, shamanic and wild. Like the Mabinogion, it is probably the post-Christianization disguised telling of old pagan mythologies, and <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Hamlets-Mill-Investigating-Knowledge-Transmission/dp/0879232153/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1321283757&sr=1-1">it has a surprising connection to Shakespeare's Hamlet</a>. Highly recommended.Dave Butlerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00294284507031694093noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5750832345912309496.post-74262739750274458762011-11-13T06:44:00.003-07:002011-11-13T06:44:00.425-07:00David Byrne"Girls on My Mind". If this isn't from the Monster in the Mirror tour, it's from the same album and time, anyway. I went to this concert -- it was terrific.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.youtube.com/embed/1mbhJ7cE65w?feature=player_embedded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div>Dave Butlerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00294284507031694093noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5750832345912309496.post-73956617377303686012011-11-12T08:11:00.000-07:002011-11-12T08:11:00.376-07:00Cyndi LauperYou've heard this song. You may not have heard it like this.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.youtube.com/embed/JPE1lr1pcUc?feature=player_embedded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div><br />
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Bonus: dulcimer!Dave Butlerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00294284507031694093noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5750832345912309496.post-49899050837726764272011-11-11T07:51:00.022-07:002011-11-11T07:51:00.881-07:00Essential Classics: the EddasThey are the basic sources of our knowledge about Viking mythology, and there are two of them, readily available in English translations.<br />
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The <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Poetic-Edda-Lee-M-Hollander/dp/0292764995/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1320977074&sr=8-1">Poetic (Elder) Edda</a> is a collection of Old Norse poems, mythological, apocalyptic and heroic. It's the older of the two, and the poets are anonymous and unknown. Read it closely, and find the names of Tolkien's dwarves!<br />
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The <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Prose-Edda-Mythology-Penguin-Classics/dp/0140447555/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1320977102&sr=1-1">Prose (Younger) Edda</a> is the work of the medieval Icelandic poet (and historian and politician) <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Snorri_Sturluson">Snorri Sturluson</a>. It is a how-to manual for skalds and includes in one of its sections, the "Tricking of Gylfi", our best prose source for Norse myth.<br />
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Stop reading bad summaries written for kids -- go to the source today!Dave Butlerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00294284507031694093noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5750832345912309496.post-12192494510485559202011-11-10T12:40:00.001-07:002011-11-10T12:40:10.819-07:00Cretan RecursionThis post is false.Dave Butlerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00294284507031694093noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5750832345912309496.post-27476637186573138612011-11-09T07:37:00.007-07:002011-11-09T07:37:00.853-07:00Horse de Combat<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> Jed saw two men, one mounted on a clocksprung horse and the other trying to mount up—<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> he thumbed the vibro-blade’s switch to <i>on</i> and hurled himself through the air.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> <i>Hummmmmmmm</i>, sang Sam Colt’s deadly blade.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> Jed landed in the empty saddle of one of the horses. While the man whose mount he’d boarded cursed and reached for a pistol, Jed swung the vibro-blade in a neat arc—<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> slicing through the head of the other horse—<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> and cutting off one leg of its rider.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> Jed wasn’t used to fighting with knives that met no resistance, and his own blade pulled him forward and off the horse. He scrabbled with his free hand at the sculpted metal saddle horn and missed, tumbling to the ground and narrowly avoiding impaling himself on his own humming weapon.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Aaaagh!” the mutilated rider screamed, and fell backwards onto the ground in a spout of red blood. The horse kicked aimlessly with its back feet, then kicked again, and again, trampling its own severed head with its razor-sharp metallic front hooves. Jed rolled, narrowly avoided being crushed by the clocksprung horse, and then the other cavalryman got a bead on him with his pistol and started firing.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> <i>Bang! Bang!<o:p></o:p></i></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> Jed threw the vibro-blade. It wasn’t meant to be a throwing weapon, it wasn’t especially balanced and it wasn’t weighted in the tip. But Jed was a carny who had done his time at every conceivable kind of joint, including throwing knives at beautiful girls, and Jed knew the secret of throwing any kind of knife at all, even one that would chop your finger off if you so much as touched its tip.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> Jed threw the vibro-blade by the handle, overhand, so the blade launched out from his shoulder in a straight line, and not tumbling like a weighted knife. He let his extended index finger drag along the knife’s hilt as he threw, truing up his aim at the center of the cavalryman’s chest by simply pointing at him.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> <i>Bang!<o:p></o:p></i></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> Pain lanced through Jed Coltrane as a bullet hit him in the stomach.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> <i>Fhoomp!<o:p></o:p></i></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> The vibro-blade slammed straight into the center of the man’s gray-breasted uniform, punched a hole right through his entire chest, and hurtled straight away like a perfectly pitched baseball, into the air.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> “Aaaagh!” One-Leg kept screaming, thrashing around in a growing puddle of his one arterial spray.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The standing soldier dropped his pistol, stared down at the bloody hole in the middle of chest, looked at Jed with something that was half-accusation and half-puzzlement and then toppled forward, crashing face-first into the grass.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> “Aaaagh!”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> Jed grabbed the dropped pistol and turned on One-Leg.<o:p></o:p></span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> “Shut up!” he yelled, and put the man out of his misery.</span><!--EndFragment--> </span><br />
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<div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">* * *</span></span></div><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Okay, Sara, did I get the knife-throwing right?</span></span>Dave Butlerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00294284507031694093noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5750832345912309496.post-18618745757219317222011-11-08T06:07:00.001-07:002011-11-08T06:07:00.188-07:00Export the ImportEXPORT the IMPORT<br />
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There was a guy named Person who imported stuff to Venice. Person was entering Venice one day, delivering monthly milk. Three fourths of the way through a tiny black hole fell onto the water, close to the ocean liner, and even with her mighty engines in reverse, the ocean liner was pulled further and further into the canal. So Person took some stuff like the motor. He put them together, and that made a sort of mini raft. Person threw it out of the boat, jumped out after it and swam away. The water was white from then on, due to milk flooding. It also happened that Person lost his job, he made up for it with water racing. <br />
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THE END.<br />
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<div style="text-align: center;">* * *</div><br />
The above is a story my eight-year-old son wrote for a school assignment. Here's why it's awesome: it focuses on a character, he has a problem, he overcomes the problem -- complete plot arc. The subplot implied by the lost job and the "water racing" is a total bonus.Dave Butlerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00294284507031694093noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5750832345912309496.post-87397481822598728722011-11-07T07:36:00.003-07:002011-11-07T07:36:00.224-07:00Two Whistles<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"> Poe blew his whistle and it made no sound at all.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"> Tam cringed back away from the man as he huffed and puffed into the little sliver of metal, ready to pop his knife out if the whistle produced anything dangerous, like, say, carnivorous beetles, or jets of fire, or flying poisonous serpents to make even St. Patrick cry himself to sleep.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"> But Poe screwed up his face in concentration and wheezed in and out and nothing happened. Not even a sound, much less anything that would actually knock down the door or kill Pinkertons or get them out of the locked room.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"> “If I tell you I’m disappointed,” he grumbled, “will it hurt your feelings?”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"> “Obviously the whistle is ultrasonic,” Burton snapped. The others all nodded their heads and Poe kept contorting his face around the whistle.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"> “Does <i>ultrasonic</i> mean <i>broken</i>?” Tam persisted. “Here, I’ll show you how to fookin’ whistle!” He stuck two fingers in his mouth and blew—<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"> <i>hyoooooo, whup!</i>—<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><i> CRASH!<o:p></o:p></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"> Something loud happened on the other side of the door, and Tam yanked his fingers from his mouth.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"> “What in Brigit’s knickers was that?”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"> “Apparently, your whistle just killed our guards,” Burton said dryly. “Go on, whistle some more. This time, why don’t you cut out all the intervening steps and just sink Pratt’s air-ships?”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"> “Ha ha,” Tam said, and got ready to spring out his knife.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"> Poe coughed long and hard. The gob of blood and mucus he spit on the floor was the size of a baby’s head, and Tam retched at the sight and smell of it.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"> “Get away from the door,” Poe suggested. He leaned on both Roxie and Burton to limp across the room himself, and Tam retreated into the far corner. Whatever was happening was beyond him, and sounded dangerous.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"> Then Poe blew his silent whistle again.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"> <i>CRASH!<o:p></o:p></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"> The plascrete door snapped in half and something big and shiny and metallic and monstrostastic, the size of a small horse but with a strange head not quite like a dog’s, punched through and slammed into the room. It landed on its four claws and stopped, staring at Poe. Tam thought he could see and hear the thing breathing, and he shook himself. It’s your imagination, you idjit, he told himself. The thing is obviously clocksprung, like any plantation worker or twenty-four-hour-mule.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"> Still, it made an impression. “Bloody-damn-hell,” he observed.<o:p></o:p></div><!--EndFragment-->Dave Butlerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00294284507031694093noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5750832345912309496.post-17543675697431387192011-11-06T10:22:00.002-07:002011-11-06T10:22:57.932-07:00I Write Like...<a href="http://iwl.me/">George Orwell, apparently</a>. Who do you write like?Dave Butlerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00294284507031694093noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5750832345912309496.post-84258188317524963802011-11-06T10:12:00.004-07:002011-11-06T10:12:00.363-07:00Meic StevensAnother grand old man of Welsh folk/pop: Meic Stevens, with <i>Y Brawd Houdini</i>.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.youtube.com/embed/WiMwm37kwU4?feature=player_embedded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div>Dave Butlerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00294284507031694093noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5750832345912309496.post-86018208709785946202011-11-05T11:11:00.001-06:002011-11-05T11:12:18.978-06:00Dafydd IwanTime for another Welsh weekend. Here's the grand old man, singing <i>Yma o Hyd</i>. Bonus: some spoken Welsh.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.youtube.com/embed/NzPbAG7SwBM?feature=player_embedded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div>Dave Butlerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00294284507031694093noreply@blogger.com0