In Communist Russia, Kindle reads you!

I’ve been doing some very basic research on Kindle Direct Publishing — and I’m curious, what do you WordPress illuminati think about it?

This is how books are made!

Personally, I’m very intrigued — it seems like a fascinating tool to self-publish, completely doing an end-run around the paper-publishing brontosaurs.

Ultimately, this is all Top of the Mountain stuff, while I labor mightily on the slopes — but still rolling it around in my mind palace. [Sherlock reference — sorry, thought this was Tumblr for a second.]

Thoughts – opinions-actual experience?

Glass Dogs

The latches of his guitar case were brass, but they hadn’t closed properly in years. The case was cracked red leather – an elaborate network of twine kept it shut for travel, and generally he had plenty of time before  a show to tease loose the knots.

Running through the midnight streets, breathing hard, with seven ghost-faced dogs on his heels, Max wished he had scraped up the coin to get the latches fixed.

He tumbled over a cart full of purple pears, and watched as the guitar case went skidding across the cobblestone street. He ignored the cries of the cart’s owner, and the blood coming from his scratched hands, and crawled after the case desperately. He laid one hand on it, as the first dog skidded to a stop.

Someone had spent a pretty purse on their construction, brass tubes vented steam, and through its transparent skin Max could see the fierce engine cackling and turning. The dog’s hide was mostly turtle-glass, with strips of steel binding the seams and joints. It opened its crystal jaws, and growled – the sound of breaking crockery.

Max’s face stretched into a smile, and he ran a hand through his hair. It was silver-gold this month, and looked absolutely absurd and didn’t go with the electric blue of his long leather coat. Max had a deep, abiding belief in absurdity. I’ve got to get this damn case open, which means I have to…oh, Sid and Nancy.

He pulled his case close, and barreled his way towards the burning-glass dog, trying to angle his shoulder protectively.

Glass dogs are hard.

Max managed to carom off the construct’s left flank and spin into the street. Just in time to see the other six tear around the corner, and point their glass-snouts at him.

“Aaaaaaaah.” he said, quieter than he would have preferred. He was still sucking in air after hitting the first dog.

Max stumbled forward, and climbed up on the first high point he could find. A jewelry stand, made from a couple of boards stretched across two empty metal drums. The shopkeeper screamed at him, but fled upon seeing the glass dogs. Max quickly dug into the front of his black slacks, and fished out the small knife he kept for emergencies. He sighed as he laid the knife to the first knot. These are going to be a devil to re-tie.

The old guitar case popped open, dirty twine falling on top of his blazing green boots. It had cost a month’s wages to have them actually light up, but Max had never regretted the purchase. Great art, requires great sacrifice.

It was red. Strings and steel, and love and pain. His guitar.

Max pulled the strap over his head, and turned to face the seven glass dogs. He nodded to them, as courtly as a queen — and hung the travel amplifier from his belt. Thumb on the power switch, all the lights turned green.

The bard pulled the pick from behind his ear, and tightened his Gamma string. The lighting on this street was less than optimal, but for an impromptu performance it would have to do.

He could still put on a show.

Max raised his hand to the heavens, then brought the pick down across the strings.

A roar of sound  – a beginning. Cracks appeared in the faces of the first two dogs.

A quick arpeggio to loosen up his fingers. One of the dog’s steam engines began to suck in exhaust — condensation and fire forming inside the transparent creature.

A moment of silence, to gather his audience in — the glass dogs howled and leaped forward.

Max momentarily considered his song choice. These were lifeless machines sent to tear out his throat, they didn’t really have a say in the matter. Maybe he should go easy on them.

Then he remembered the cut knots. And he smiled.

Max played ‘Eruption’ and the dogs exploded. A thousand shimmering shards of glass and steel flew backwards from his music. Max played his guitar in the midnight streets, and the glass dogs were no more.

“That’ll teach you to tangle with a rock and roll god.” he said to the rubble, and did his best to correct the tangle of his hair.

“Yeah. A god.” he added, and stepped down off the stage.

 

[A story on demand for HereThereBeSpiders. I hope you enjoy it!]

[Here’s a link to the Van Halen song I referenced, if you are woefully uneducated. ]

 

 

 

A Prompt Prompt

I’m at my parent’s house this weekend, in the Elven Forest — and the internets are a weeeee little trickle, so probably no posting today or tomorrow.

Despite my unglamorous descent into fanfiction last weekend [thanks for the trolling, Jonathan.] – I still really dig the Story on Demand each weekend. So, throw a comment on this post with a bit of micro-fiction you’d like me to write. Setting, characters, genre, any other weird little wrinkles you want to throw on top.

I had been writing the story for whoever commented FIRST. But, this time, I’ll leave it open for 12 hours or so, and just pick the one that seems the most fun.

Simon Garamonde and the Lady Forechance III

And then it was over.

A brace of nights, a lace of days. And the night she met him at the window, kissed his forehead and laid two fingers on his chest.

Her true lord was fair and wise, her true lord was bright and strong, her true lord was a good man.

And he had returned from the fields of battle – through pain and death, through doubt and fear.

Simon knew this man. He knew her words were true. He made himself nod, and climb back down the ivy wall.

He should have made himself smile for her. It would only have cost him everything.

A month later she was married. Simon stood in the back of the temple, and knew the agony of stone. Silent, bleak stone that can only stand.

Her husband walked her out into the sunlight, and she glanced. She smiled for him one last time, and was gone.

Simon made a promise. Simon was a promise.

Years and days and roads and mountains of stone, in the dark shadows of Iax his lips moved and spoke it again.

I will remember.

[END]

Buddy Holly

Reading about “fair use” and copyright law is depressing.

I completely understand the concern – as someone who wants people to give me money for my intellectual

"That'll be the day -- waoo-hoo...."

property at some point — but it’s so clutching, and grasping — little fences hammered in everywhere, and zealous wardens sharpening their blades.

And it means I can’t have Buddy Holly lyrics in my fantasy novel.

Which is a deep, abiding tragedy.

 

Simon Garamonde and the Lady Forechance II

These moments found him, in every corner of the world. Not every day. But some.

Turning a corner, or opening a door, or with a fork halfway to his mouth. There she would be.

Not her precisely. Just a feeling, sun-warm on his face. And he would remember the squint in the corner of her eye, and the smell of her hair, and the time she.

Artist: Sir-Fish

The time she.

Cavalier and crass, he’d pulled himself through her window. The moon burned through white curtains.

Simon Garamonde was a well-made young man, and she had laughed at his boasting – laughed at his jibes – laughed at the wine running down his chin, covering her own with a slender hand. The drink burned, and the feast hall dimmed as he promised the night.

This was not the first ivy wall he had climbed, or eager bed he had tumbled into. But this time was different.

She had expected him, pushing the curtains away with a grin. Earnest and unimpressed, she scolded him like the family cat — even as she pulled him closer.

Gold. Like gold pouring over him. Her smile and gold.

In later times, in drunken rhymes, he’d tried to explain to a few comrades. The gold. The moon and the gold. Pouring over him, and burning — but cleaning, the meaning, the cold, the gold, and the moon.

Ah, it broke him. Broke him right in two.

Empathic

GAH. Having quite a time working on my “emotional” piece. Normally, I’m just looking for the quickest route to a cool image, or ninja fight scene.

I don’t trust emotions in my real life — wrangling them into my writing is proving to be a hurdle.

I’ll keep working on it, and should have the next chunk up later today.

Simon Garamonde and the Lady Forechance I

The black halls of Iax stretched on out of view, sunflower torches seeming to absorb more light then they cast.  Simon pressed himself hard against a column, and waited for the quiet footfalls of the patrol to pass him by.

He breathed shallowly, and tried to ignore the condensation sliding down the inside of his goggles. Their

Realm of the Forest King by `lone-momo

tourmaline lenses magnified the ambient light, allowing him to move easily in the near-abyss of Iax – but the leather strap was itchy, the sweat pouring down his forehead abominable. Simon desperately wanted to rip them off, wipe the lenses and mop his forehead with a free sleeve – but the movement would instantly alert the Tyr-Elves of the passing patrol. Their eyes glowed a clammy blue in the distance. He leaned his head back against the pillar, and felt the sharp edges of the stone.

Then he thought of her.

Really, Simon? Now? You are four miles below the earth, tangling with Shadow elves –show some decorum.

Simon grinned. A magic grin with a broken piece in it.

He turned his head slowly away from the patrol, so they wouldn’t see the shine of his teeth, or the light in his eyes.