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I have been tagged! Yes, it's an electronic tag, but not in a Lindsay Lohan way. It's a virtual tag, and Jen Brubacher got me. I get to answer eight questions and tag five other bloggers. Will it be you?!
1. If you could have any superpower, what would you have? Why?Teleportation. Like Nightcrawler, only not blue. Or Dr Manhattan, only not blue. Hey, wait a minute... No seriously, I would. I'd never have to use public transport, and visiting people would be so much easier. It would solve a LOT of problems for me!
2. Who is your style icon?
I don't have one. I don't emulate anyone's clothing style, and I have favoured authors but I don't seek to emulate their styles either. I can name people who I think are A style icon, but not for me.
3. What is your favourite quote?
"Outside of a dog, a book is a man's best friend. Inside of a dog, it's too dark to read." Groucho Marx
4. What is the best compliment you’ve ever received?
Probably when a guy who'd read one of my stories on Everyday Weirdness emailed me to say how much he'd liked it, and that my style reminded him of Neil Gaiman and Ray Bradbury. That, or that one of my male gay friends told me I'm the only girl whose Facebook photos he'll look through because he loves my style.
5. What playlist/CD is in your CD player/iPod right now?
Nothing. I'm doing this at work, so no music. My mental DJ, however, has chosen to play Huey Lewis & The News all morning.
6. Are you a night owl or a morning person?
Morning, very much so. I often stay up late at night but I'm far more productive between 8am and 1pm. Once it gets to 4pm, it all starts to go downhill.
7. Do you prefer dogs or cats?
I like things about both of them but I have a natural affinity with cats, so I'll say them.
8. What is the meaning behind your blog name?
Icy's Blunt Pencil? It's actually a crude reference to the mathematician who is having issues with constipation and choose to approach it the same way he does his equations - by working it out with a pencil. I've also been writing for around twenty years and a lot of my first efforts were done in pencil. It's a tool of the trade, and it being blunt rather than sharp is to signify how much use it gets. Blah blah blah.
TAG! You're it.
Grace Crone
Sam Adamson
Adam Byatt
Pamila Payne
Danielle LaPaglia
Thursday, 30 September 2010
Wednesday, 29 September 2010
News from Vertigo City
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I've been doing a lot of thinking about my Tales from Vertigo City project, and after much discussion with my favoured creative confidantes, Carrie Clevenger and Jimmy Misanthrope, I have decided to pull The Second Tale. Initially the concept worked well in outline form for the serial, but now I've started writing, it's blossomed into something much larger than my chosen serial format will allow. Therefore I will be working on it as an illustrated novel.
This has also forced me to rethink the entire concept behind the Tales from Vertigo City project, and I have had to redefine this, too. Originally the plan was to have nine different tales, set in alternate versions of the City (in effect, my own multiverse), yet all starring Liss as a recurring character in her form of the Spirit of Vertigo. This has become too unwieldy and I would rather not do it at all than get halfway through and realise it's not working.
In addition, I've become too attached to the characters and world I created with The First Tale. It would be unfair to them, and myself, to leave them as they are in order to move onto the next incarnation of Vertigo. Therefore the Tales project will now consist of the adventures of those characters you've already met, in the form of novellas and regular flashes about them.
The Second Tale will still proceed under the heading of Tales from Vertigo City, albeit a Vertigo City a century or so after the original First Tale. It will have a name change, and I'll post snippets on the Vertigo City blog. I hate to be a tease, since The Second Tale had received a good reception, but this way, I get to do these stories justice.
As a result, I'll be bowing out of the Tuesday Serial for the time being, unless any shorter stories demand to be told in such a way. In the meantime, I recommend you check out Carrie Clevenger's Crooked Fang, Grace Motley's Fire and Water, Jason Coggins' The Courage of Others, and Sam Adamson's UCF Chronicles.
This has also forced me to rethink the entire concept behind the Tales from Vertigo City project, and I have had to redefine this, too. Originally the plan was to have nine different tales, set in alternate versions of the City (in effect, my own multiverse), yet all starring Liss as a recurring character in her form of the Spirit of Vertigo. This has become too unwieldy and I would rather not do it at all than get halfway through and realise it's not working.
In addition, I've become too attached to the characters and world I created with The First Tale. It would be unfair to them, and myself, to leave them as they are in order to move onto the next incarnation of Vertigo. Therefore the Tales project will now consist of the adventures of those characters you've already met, in the form of novellas and regular flashes about them.
The Second Tale will still proceed under the heading of Tales from Vertigo City, albeit a Vertigo City a century or so after the original First Tale. It will have a name change, and I'll post snippets on the Vertigo City blog. I hate to be a tease, since The Second Tale had received a good reception, but this way, I get to do these stories justice.
As a result, I'll be bowing out of the Tuesday Serial for the time being, unless any shorter stories demand to be told in such a way. In the meantime, I recommend you check out Carrie Clevenger's Crooked Fang, Grace Motley's Fire and Water, Jason Coggins' The Courage of Others, and Sam Adamson's UCF Chronicles.
Monday, 27 September 2010
A Tidy Writer is a Productive Writer
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A few weeks back, blogger Ali Hale of Aliventures posted an entry about clutter and creativity. What, I hear you ask, is a post about tidying doing on a blog loosely dedicated to writing and other creative endeavours? Well, I've come to realise that it's difficult to be truly creative when you're drowning in a sea of your own junk.
You see, I live in a studio flat. I know, I know, I've just shattered the illusion that I've made my supervillain lair under a volcano or in an abandoned tube station (or have I? maybe this is all just fiction......no, it's true) Problem is, studio flats are notoriously short on storage space - think of me as a lonely writer in a cold London garret, if that's what butters your muffin. I admit that I'm lucky since my landlord provided two wardrobes and a small chest of drawers, but the other storage units (and copious bookcases) are my own. Without them, I'd be wading through piles of books, DVDs and electrical items every time I wanted to cross the room.
Trouble is, despite this storage, I still seem to have clutter. I'm reasonably logical so I've divided this clutter into piles, clustered around the perimeter of the room, but lately it's really been getting to me that I have so much stuff - most of which I probably don't even need. I've noticed its effect on my output, too. I find that I write more on my lunch hour because the office is tidier. There's more of a sense of order, particularly in the room where I have my lunch. I'm not distracted by piles of books or photos that I have yet to put in my album. At home, any fleeting sense of order created by dividing the piles by 'theme' or 'content' is very much undermined by the chaos of having these dratted piles of things in the first place.
I've been telling myself for months now that I will "tidy up a bit" but then I've found myself distracted by something else. I'd find myself leaving work, all fired up to go through the flat like a dose of salts, only to get home tired and cross after a hellish commute (particularly those three hour commutes when the damned tube staff decide to go on strike). I'd look at the clutter, sigh deeply, and then pull out my sketchbook and start drawing instead. I think the only thing in my flat that I managed to tidy successfully was my yarn collection, though I think practicality was a large factor behind that particular adventure. (Ever tried to detangle fine mohair yarn? My tip? Don't.)
But lately I've been getting antsy about it all, so armed with Ali's post and infused with a sense of just simply 'wanting more space', I sat back and contemplated the contents of my flat. I like to point out that there is method to my madness and that if I desperately need something, I remember exactly where it is. Trouble is, there are lots of piles of things on the floor, and I can't remember what's in most of them because the stuff isn't important enough to remember. My logic ran that if I couldn't remember what was in the pile, chances are, I didn't need it. If I had, I would have stored it either with like objects, or kept it to hand. Still, the road to hell is paved with good intentions, so I decided I needed The Battleplan.
I've divided my flat up into nine 'clutter zones', and I aim to tackle them one by one. As I clear them, my flat will therefore look tidier, providing more motivation to keep tidying, but it also makes it seem like less of a gargantuan task. I've cleared two of these, and I found myself recycling 80% of the contents, throwing away 15%, and keeping just 5%. (If you're wondering, it was all old magazines, newspaper clippings, countless coffee shop receipts or padded envelopes from things I've bought online, which I reuse when selling on eBay or Amazon) Those two spaces already seem massive, and it's such a good incentive for me to move onto the next one.
Strangely, by the time I've finished tidying, I feel fired up and ready to write again, as if removing the physical clutter in the room is enough to remove the mental clutter that blocks my motivation to write. Maybe it's the extra exercise, adding endorphins to the mix. Or maybe I'm just weird.
You see, I live in a studio flat. I know, I know, I've just shattered the illusion that I've made my supervillain lair under a volcano or in an abandoned tube station (or have I? maybe this is all just fiction......no, it's true) Problem is, studio flats are notoriously short on storage space - think of me as a lonely writer in a cold London garret, if that's what butters your muffin. I admit that I'm lucky since my landlord provided two wardrobes and a small chest of drawers, but the other storage units (and copious bookcases) are my own. Without them, I'd be wading through piles of books, DVDs and electrical items every time I wanted to cross the room.
Trouble is, despite this storage, I still seem to have clutter. I'm reasonably logical so I've divided this clutter into piles, clustered around the perimeter of the room, but lately it's really been getting to me that I have so much stuff - most of which I probably don't even need. I've noticed its effect on my output, too. I find that I write more on my lunch hour because the office is tidier. There's more of a sense of order, particularly in the room where I have my lunch. I'm not distracted by piles of books or photos that I have yet to put in my album. At home, any fleeting sense of order created by dividing the piles by 'theme' or 'content' is very much undermined by the chaos of having these dratted piles of things in the first place.
I've been telling myself for months now that I will "tidy up a bit" but then I've found myself distracted by something else. I'd find myself leaving work, all fired up to go through the flat like a dose of salts, only to get home tired and cross after a hellish commute (particularly those three hour commutes when the damned tube staff decide to go on strike). I'd look at the clutter, sigh deeply, and then pull out my sketchbook and start drawing instead. I think the only thing in my flat that I managed to tidy successfully was my yarn collection, though I think practicality was a large factor behind that particular adventure. (Ever tried to detangle fine mohair yarn? My tip? Don't.)
But lately I've been getting antsy about it all, so armed with Ali's post and infused with a sense of just simply 'wanting more space', I sat back and contemplated the contents of my flat. I like to point out that there is method to my madness and that if I desperately need something, I remember exactly where it is. Trouble is, there are lots of piles of things on the floor, and I can't remember what's in most of them because the stuff isn't important enough to remember. My logic ran that if I couldn't remember what was in the pile, chances are, I didn't need it. If I had, I would have stored it either with like objects, or kept it to hand. Still, the road to hell is paved with good intentions, so I decided I needed The Battleplan.
I've divided my flat up into nine 'clutter zones', and I aim to tackle them one by one. As I clear them, my flat will therefore look tidier, providing more motivation to keep tidying, but it also makes it seem like less of a gargantuan task. I've cleared two of these, and I found myself recycling 80% of the contents, throwing away 15%, and keeping just 5%. (If you're wondering, it was all old magazines, newspaper clippings, countless coffee shop receipts or padded envelopes from things I've bought online, which I reuse when selling on eBay or Amazon) Those two spaces already seem massive, and it's such a good incentive for me to move onto the next one.
Strangely, by the time I've finished tidying, I feel fired up and ready to write again, as if removing the physical clutter in the room is enough to remove the mental clutter that blocks my motivation to write. Maybe it's the extra exercise, adding endorphins to the mix. Or maybe I'm just weird.
Friday, 24 September 2010
Friday Flash - The Dead Calm
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Today's Fiction Friday prompt from the Write Anything website was;
I decided to use it to tell the story of how Captain Scarlight got his ship. For more stories about Captain Scarlight, click here.
The rain pattered on the roof of the makeshift bar. Four men sat around a table. They clutched cards, and glared at each other. Nobody in the bar dared speak; all eyes were fixed on the card game in the corner.
“Whaddya got?” asked one man. Captain Jacob Gnarley. Thick blond hair curled down his back. Scars criss-crossed his face and arms. He kept stroking his goatee beard, and tapping the table. Sam Scarlight suspected it was his ‘lucky’ nervous tic.
“Two pair,” replied another man. Barnabas Welmsley. A bald man who hadn’t so much fallen out of the ugly tree, as chosen to live in an orchard of them.
“You, whaddya got?” asked Captain Gnarley.
He stared at Scarlight. The other man refused to look at him, his sullen face expressing his annoyance at losing so much. Scarlight recognised Sullen-Face as Swein, Captain Gnarley’s First Mate.
“Um…er…um…it looks like I have a Royal Flush. That’s good, isn’t it?” asked Scarlight.
He laid the cards out on the pitted wooden table. Welmsley inspected them, and nodded his agreement. Scarlight did indeed have a Royal Flush. Captain Gnarley roared, and slammed his fist on the table.
“How can ye, a young pup, keep beating me so, eh?”
“Um…er…I suppose you might call it beginner’s luck?”
“Another game!”
Captain Gnarley pounded the table again to emphasise his point. Scarlight hesitated before gathering the money from the centre. Even after 'losing' every third hand, he’d more than tripled the amount he brought with him. It didn’t surprise him. Being the best poker player in London grew boring after a while, and now he hussled card games in Hong Kong. His tender age sucked in the old, grizzly players.
“Captain, you haven’t got much left,” said Swein.
“Nonsense! I am winning! Aren’t I winning?”
The mugs of beer jumped on the table when he slammed his fist down again. Scarlight affected an expression of fear at the captain’s temper, but also respect for his reputation.
It’s just a pity his poker isn’t as good as his sailing, he thought.
Swein dealt the cards. Scarlight paid no attention to his. He chose to watch the reaction of the others to their own cards. None of them understood the concept of bluffing. Swein grimaced at his cards, and Welmsley looked hopeful. The Captain looked confused.
The players swapped cards with those in the central pile. Swein almost twisted his face inside out in an effort to gain extra mileage from his grimace. Scarlight guessed his hands was worse. Welmsley’s hope turned to annoyance, while the Captain remained baffled. Scarlight looked down at his cards. His face fell.
“Are ye all in?” asked the Captain.
“No. I fold,” said Swein.
“Oh what’s the point? I fold as well,” said Welmsley.
He threw his cards across the table. Before they landed face down, Scarlight saw a three of clubs, a nine of diamonds and a six of hearts.
“Looks like it’s just you and me, sonny,” said the Captain. ”What do ye put in?”
“Another forty, I think,” said Scarlight. “Gosh, I hope I’m doing the right thing.”
He glanced from his cards to the Captain, and back to his cards. He pushed his money into the centre of the table.
“I see yer forty, and raise ye sixty,” said the Captain.
“Captain, that’s all you have!” said Swein.
“Argh, quiet, Swein. Look at his face, his hand must be terrible,” said the Captain.
“I don’t know if it’s bad or not...tell you what, I need to go soon so I’ll see your sixty, and raise you the rest of my money,” said Scarlight.
“Fine. My ship is more than equal to yer winnin’s, boy.”
“You can’t bet the Dead Calm!” exclaimed Swein.
“I can, and I am. Do ye doubt me?”
“No, Captain.”
“Show my yer hand, boy,” said the Captain. “I’ll wager ye can’t beat my Three of a Kind!”
He laid out his hand. A two of clubs, a three of hearts and three Knaves fanned out on the table.
“Looks like I’ll be going home in the Dead Calm after all!”
“Um…er….no you won’t,” said Scarlight.
He laid out his Full House. The Captain’s face fell. Swein fought a smirk, and Welmsley spluttered in amazement.
“My Full House beats your Three of a Kind, so I’ll be taking the Dead Calm, thank you very much.”
Scarlight stood up. Swein stood up with him.
“Swein! Ye would leave me here, and go with this young pup?”
“Aye, Jacob, I will. I am the First Mate, I go where the ship goes,” replied Swein. A smile hovered around his thin lips.
“So sorry about this, Gnarley, but all’s fair in love and gambling,” said Scarlight.
He headed towards the door, ignoring Gnarley’s pleas for another hand. Swein held open the door for him.
“Where are we going, Captain Scarlight?”
“The Caribbean!”
Use this lyric from Shore Leave to flavour your story: “Hong Kong drizzle on Cuban heels”
I decided to use it to tell the story of how Captain Scarlight got his ship. For more stories about Captain Scarlight, click here.
* * *
The rain pattered on the roof of the makeshift bar. Four men sat around a table. They clutched cards, and glared at each other. Nobody in the bar dared speak; all eyes were fixed on the card game in the corner.
“Whaddya got?” asked one man. Captain Jacob Gnarley. Thick blond hair curled down his back. Scars criss-crossed his face and arms. He kept stroking his goatee beard, and tapping the table. Sam Scarlight suspected it was his ‘lucky’ nervous tic.
“Two pair,” replied another man. Barnabas Welmsley. A bald man who hadn’t so much fallen out of the ugly tree, as chosen to live in an orchard of them.
“You, whaddya got?” asked Captain Gnarley.
He stared at Scarlight. The other man refused to look at him, his sullen face expressing his annoyance at losing so much. Scarlight recognised Sullen-Face as Swein, Captain Gnarley’s First Mate.
“Um…er…um…it looks like I have a Royal Flush. That’s good, isn’t it?” asked Scarlight.
He laid the cards out on the pitted wooden table. Welmsley inspected them, and nodded his agreement. Scarlight did indeed have a Royal Flush. Captain Gnarley roared, and slammed his fist on the table.
“How can ye, a young pup, keep beating me so, eh?”
“Um…er…I suppose you might call it beginner’s luck?”
“Another game!”
Captain Gnarley pounded the table again to emphasise his point. Scarlight hesitated before gathering the money from the centre. Even after 'losing' every third hand, he’d more than tripled the amount he brought with him. It didn’t surprise him. Being the best poker player in London grew boring after a while, and now he hussled card games in Hong Kong. His tender age sucked in the old, grizzly players.
“Captain, you haven’t got much left,” said Swein.
“Nonsense! I am winning! Aren’t I winning?”
The mugs of beer jumped on the table when he slammed his fist down again. Scarlight affected an expression of fear at the captain’s temper, but also respect for his reputation.
It’s just a pity his poker isn’t as good as his sailing, he thought.
Swein dealt the cards. Scarlight paid no attention to his. He chose to watch the reaction of the others to their own cards. None of them understood the concept of bluffing. Swein grimaced at his cards, and Welmsley looked hopeful. The Captain looked confused.
The players swapped cards with those in the central pile. Swein almost twisted his face inside out in an effort to gain extra mileage from his grimace. Scarlight guessed his hands was worse. Welmsley’s hope turned to annoyance, while the Captain remained baffled. Scarlight looked down at his cards. His face fell.
“Are ye all in?” asked the Captain.
“No. I fold,” said Swein.
“Oh what’s the point? I fold as well,” said Welmsley.
He threw his cards across the table. Before they landed face down, Scarlight saw a three of clubs, a nine of diamonds and a six of hearts.
“Looks like it’s just you and me, sonny,” said the Captain. ”What do ye put in?”
“Another forty, I think,” said Scarlight. “Gosh, I hope I’m doing the right thing.”
He glanced from his cards to the Captain, and back to his cards. He pushed his money into the centre of the table.
“I see yer forty, and raise ye sixty,” said the Captain.
“Captain, that’s all you have!” said Swein.
“Argh, quiet, Swein. Look at his face, his hand must be terrible,” said the Captain.
“I don’t know if it’s bad or not...tell you what, I need to go soon so I’ll see your sixty, and raise you the rest of my money,” said Scarlight.
“Fine. My ship is more than equal to yer winnin’s, boy.”
“You can’t bet the Dead Calm!” exclaimed Swein.
“I can, and I am. Do ye doubt me?”
“No, Captain.”
“Show my yer hand, boy,” said the Captain. “I’ll wager ye can’t beat my Three of a Kind!”
He laid out his hand. A two of clubs, a three of hearts and three Knaves fanned out on the table.
“Looks like I’ll be going home in the Dead Calm after all!”
“Um…er….no you won’t,” said Scarlight.
He laid out his Full House. The Captain’s face fell. Swein fought a smirk, and Welmsley spluttered in amazement.
“My Full House beats your Three of a Kind, so I’ll be taking the Dead Calm, thank you very much.”
Scarlight stood up. Swein stood up with him.
“Swein! Ye would leave me here, and go with this young pup?”
“Aye, Jacob, I will. I am the First Mate, I go where the ship goes,” replied Swein. A smile hovered around his thin lips.
“So sorry about this, Gnarley, but all’s fair in love and gambling,” said Scarlight.
He headed towards the door, ignoring Gnarley’s pleas for another hand. Swein held open the door for him.
“Where are we going, Captain Scarlight?”
“The Caribbean!”
Tuesday, 21 September 2010
The Second Tale arrives
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Honestly, Vertigo City is beginning to take over my life! After the release of The First Tale as an e-book last week, I've begun work on the follow-up, called City Alchemy. The story sees Liss go in search of her missing little sister, Teva, before going freelance as an adventurer-for-hire! There will be lots more of Two, for all those fans of the obedient automaton with a heart of copper.
Still, the focus this week is on the start of The Second Tale. An altogether different beast from its steampunk predecessor, The Second Tale is a more noir-ish yarn about a jaded superhero called, originally enough, The Hero.
This incarnation of Vertigo City is more in keeping with Metropolis or Gotham City, populated by dames and hoods, as well as citizens just trying to get through the day. The Hero will have to fight a battle on two fronts, as he seeks to better his superhero competition in Vertigo, all while trying to track down Le Chat Mystérieux, a mysterious and dangerous thief...
Part One is live now.
Still, the focus this week is on the start of The Second Tale. An altogether different beast from its steampunk predecessor, The Second Tale is a more noir-ish yarn about a jaded superhero called, originally enough, The Hero.
This incarnation of Vertigo City is more in keeping with Metropolis or Gotham City, populated by dames and hoods, as well as citizens just trying to get through the day. The Hero will have to fight a battle on two fronts, as he seeks to better his superhero competition in Vertigo, all while trying to track down Le Chat Mystérieux, a mysterious and dangerous thief...
Part One is live now.
Friday, 17 September 2010
Friday Flash - Time Stop
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This flash was inspired by the very lovely Eric J. Krause's prompt over on his blog. This week, his prompt was "Time stands still for everyone but you". Also, the impossibly brilliant Carrie Clevenger of Mindspeak requested more steampunk, so what better than to revisit the first incarnation of Vertigo City? Enjoy a new story featuring Liss and Caleb. I've written this in such a way that you don't need to have read The First Tale, but if you want to, the ebook is available now from Smashwords for just 99c!
The workshop smelled of grease and rust. Liss paced among the trestle tables. She picked through the cogs and battered machinery heaped in dull copper piles. Dusty sunlight streamed through the casement window onto Caleb's workbench. He sat at the table, soldering rudimentary circuitry.
"Liss, if you're bored, feel free to pester someone else. I won't be offended," he called.
"I'm not bored. I'm just curious about what all this stuff is. What's it for?" Liss examined a glass tube topped with brass studs.
"I never know what something is for when I get it, I work that out later," he replied. "I don't exactly use things in the most conventional fashion."
An automaton rumbled into the workshop. The antenna at the base of its torso wagged when it saw Liss. It plunged across the room towards her. Its heavy tread made the tables shake and the junk piles wobble. Screws pattered to the floor like metal raindrops.
"Why don't you take Two for a walk?" asked Caleb. He took off his goggles and looked at her. The automaton thudded across the room to the staircase in anticipation. It pointed up to the hatch leading into the street.
"I've already taken it out today," said Liss.
The automaton lowered its arm with an audible hiss. Its round shoulders sagged. Liss looked at it. She noticed a drop of oil running down the smooth polished copper that served as a face.
"Caleb, Two's eye is leaking again," she said.
"I'll sort it out later. I want to get this soldering done first," said Caleb.
Liss turned her attention back to the table. She recognised some of the parts, like pistons or camshafts, but others were baffling in their design. She picked up a thin rectangular metal box. Glass took up a whole side, with a single round button mounted near the bottom edge. She pressed it, though nothing happened. Her finger traced the small square engraved on the button.
"Where did you get this stuff?" asked Liss. She dumped the thin box on the table.
"The Antiques Quarter. It's amazing the stuff you can find down there. Very little of it is actually antique but it's a good source of spare parts for the automatons," replied Caleb. "I get most of it in job lots. They don't know what it is any more than I do."
A flash of light on bright metal caught Liss' eye. She raked through the grimy machine parts in front of her. Her hand closed around a polished brass cog. About a handspan across, strange symbols ran alongside the teeth. An hourglass filled with red sand was suspended in the large hole in the middle of the cog.
"This is different. Any idea what it is?" she asked.
Caleb looked up.
"No. I got that in a job lot last week. I want to catalogue all this at some point, but that means sifting through the junk to get at the good bits. Right now, I don't have time."
"You mean you can't be bothered."
Liss flicked the hourglass. It flipped in a smooth arc, tipping upright. The red sand filtered down through the small neck. Liss stared at it for a moment. The movement of the grains proved hypnotic.
"What does it do?" she asked after a minute.
Caleb didn't reply. A quiet ticking filled the silence of the workshop. Liss looked around, unable to see a clock.
"Hey Caleb, what does it do?"
She looked at Caleb's back. He hunched over his bench, soldering iron and circuit board in hand. He didn't move. He didn't even twitch the way he did when he concentrated on his work. Liss turned to look at the automaton. Two stood motionless at the bottom of the stairs. The drop of oil froze on its face. She couldn't hear the hum of its motor.
"OK, this is weird," she said. Her voice sounded strange in the workshop. It echoed slightly, as if she stood at the mouth of a cave. She picked up a spanner and dropped it. It hung in the air. It only moved when she forced it to the ground with her hand.
Liss crossed the workshop and climbed onto Caleb's bench. She peered out of the casement window, at eye level with the street. She gawked at the tableaux before her. Passers-by stood frozen mid-stride. A gentleman looked furtive as he addressed a red-haired woman in a gaudy blue dress standing on the corner. Two children played hopscotch in the gutter. One of them hung in mid-hop above the squares. Three women in faded dresses clutched their shawls about them, heads thrown back in silent laughter.
Liss looked down at the cog in her hand. The sand poured through the hourglass with a faint hiss. She watched the last few grains drop through the narrow neck.
"How on earth did you cross the room so fast?" asked Caleb.
"I didn't, you were just so engrossed in what you were doing," said Liss.
Caleb shrugged and returned to his soldering. Liss stashed the cog in her pocket. It might come in very handy one day.
* * *
The workshop smelled of grease and rust. Liss paced among the trestle tables. She picked through the cogs and battered machinery heaped in dull copper piles. Dusty sunlight streamed through the casement window onto Caleb's workbench. He sat at the table, soldering rudimentary circuitry.
"Liss, if you're bored, feel free to pester someone else. I won't be offended," he called.
"I'm not bored. I'm just curious about what all this stuff is. What's it for?" Liss examined a glass tube topped with brass studs.
"I never know what something is for when I get it, I work that out later," he replied. "I don't exactly use things in the most conventional fashion."
An automaton rumbled into the workshop. The antenna at the base of its torso wagged when it saw Liss. It plunged across the room towards her. Its heavy tread made the tables shake and the junk piles wobble. Screws pattered to the floor like metal raindrops.
"Why don't you take Two for a walk?" asked Caleb. He took off his goggles and looked at her. The automaton thudded across the room to the staircase in anticipation. It pointed up to the hatch leading into the street.
"I've already taken it out today," said Liss.
The automaton lowered its arm with an audible hiss. Its round shoulders sagged. Liss looked at it. She noticed a drop of oil running down the smooth polished copper that served as a face.
"Caleb, Two's eye is leaking again," she said.
"I'll sort it out later. I want to get this soldering done first," said Caleb.
Liss turned her attention back to the table. She recognised some of the parts, like pistons or camshafts, but others were baffling in their design. She picked up a thin rectangular metal box. Glass took up a whole side, with a single round button mounted near the bottom edge. She pressed it, though nothing happened. Her finger traced the small square engraved on the button.
"Where did you get this stuff?" asked Liss. She dumped the thin box on the table.
"The Antiques Quarter. It's amazing the stuff you can find down there. Very little of it is actually antique but it's a good source of spare parts for the automatons," replied Caleb. "I get most of it in job lots. They don't know what it is any more than I do."
A flash of light on bright metal caught Liss' eye. She raked through the grimy machine parts in front of her. Her hand closed around a polished brass cog. About a handspan across, strange symbols ran alongside the teeth. An hourglass filled with red sand was suspended in the large hole in the middle of the cog.
"This is different. Any idea what it is?" she asked.
Caleb looked up.
"No. I got that in a job lot last week. I want to catalogue all this at some point, but that means sifting through the junk to get at the good bits. Right now, I don't have time."
"You mean you can't be bothered."
Liss flicked the hourglass. It flipped in a smooth arc, tipping upright. The red sand filtered down through the small neck. Liss stared at it for a moment. The movement of the grains proved hypnotic.
"What does it do?" she asked after a minute.
Caleb didn't reply. A quiet ticking filled the silence of the workshop. Liss looked around, unable to see a clock.
"Hey Caleb, what does it do?"
She looked at Caleb's back. He hunched over his bench, soldering iron and circuit board in hand. He didn't move. He didn't even twitch the way he did when he concentrated on his work. Liss turned to look at the automaton. Two stood motionless at the bottom of the stairs. The drop of oil froze on its face. She couldn't hear the hum of its motor.
"OK, this is weird," she said. Her voice sounded strange in the workshop. It echoed slightly, as if she stood at the mouth of a cave. She picked up a spanner and dropped it. It hung in the air. It only moved when she forced it to the ground with her hand.
Liss crossed the workshop and climbed onto Caleb's bench. She peered out of the casement window, at eye level with the street. She gawked at the tableaux before her. Passers-by stood frozen mid-stride. A gentleman looked furtive as he addressed a red-haired woman in a gaudy blue dress standing on the corner. Two children played hopscotch in the gutter. One of them hung in mid-hop above the squares. Three women in faded dresses clutched their shawls about them, heads thrown back in silent laughter.
Liss looked down at the cog in her hand. The sand poured through the hourglass with a faint hiss. She watched the last few grains drop through the narrow neck.
"How on earth did you cross the room so fast?" asked Caleb.
"I didn't, you were just so engrossed in what you were doing," said Liss.
Caleb shrugged and returned to his soldering. Liss stashed the cog in her pocket. It might come in very handy one day.
Tuesday, 14 September 2010
The Launch of The First Tale ebook
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It's finally here! The First Tale e-book is now available for 99c from Smashwords. Click here to buy! The e-book collects all thirty episodes of the serial that ran over on my Tales from Vertigo City blog, although naturally it's been edited and tweaked to improve the flow, even out the tone and in a couple of places, even add a little extra action.
So now you can read the whole story of the Vertigo City Resistance and the Weimar Corporation in one go, if you so choose! It's available in all the usual Smashwords formats, including MOBI, EPUB and PDF.
As a special bonus, if you buy the e-book, there's a link on the back page to the extras I bundled together, which will hopefully add a little to the experience of Vertigo. I'm talking newspaper clippings, propaganda posters...and of course, another copy of the wonderful cover illustration of Commander Liss Hunt by the exceptionally talented Jimmy Misanthrope.
Of course, if you like it, feel free to leave me a review!
So now you can read the whole story of the Vertigo City Resistance and the Weimar Corporation in one go, if you so choose! It's available in all the usual Smashwords formats, including MOBI, EPUB and PDF.
As a special bonus, if you buy the e-book, there's a link on the back page to the extras I bundled together, which will hopefully add a little to the experience of Vertigo. I'm talking newspaper clippings, propaganda posters...and of course, another copy of the wonderful cover illustration of Commander Liss Hunt by the exceptionally talented Jimmy Misanthrope.
Of course, if you like it, feel free to leave me a review!
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