Blog

Writing update

Posted on by Patrick

I’m try­ing to work on a cou­ple of projects, with some suc­cess. I’ve got a new site set up for a project I’m call­ing Cin­der, and some­day, maybe I’ll fill it up with con­tent. Right now I’ve got a cloud of ideas, but I want­ed to get the design right. Ok, I want­ed to play in Pho­to­shop and/or the GIMP.

I’m also work­ing on a longish short sto­ry (9000 words, right now, but it may expand or con­tract; first drafts, you know) set in Ukraine, titled “Between Heav­en and Earth”. It may be one of the dark­est things I’ve ever writ­ten, and I think it may get dark­er before it’s done.

And I’ve still got my zom­bies vs. pirates sto­ry on the go, and I also want to work on my nano win­ner from a cou­ple years ago.

Well, back at ‘er.

Snow

Posted on by Patrick

The roads were dry, the side­walks clean, the lawns show­ing brown. Then we got a big dump of snow the oth­er day, and more today.

Curs­es.

At least I have a Mex­i­co-themed par­ty to go to tonight.

Mexico Party

So I got myself an ear­ly start.

Rejected again

Posted on by Patrick

So I got this email just now:

By the time you read this, your man­u­scripts will have already been rejected.

There’s no sense in ask­ing me why or what you could have done dif­fer­ent­ly, because I’ve already moved on to oth­er stories.

It was­n’t you. It was me. I — Awww, who’m I kid­ding… it was part­ly you. You did­n’t make me feel like you were real­ly inter­est­ed in mak­ing this rela­tion­ship work. I did­n’t feel any sparks between us. You did­n’t make me laugh.

This sto­ry was­n’t a match made in heav­en, but the next one may be. Sub­mit again. If you don’t, you’ll regret it. Maybe not today. Maybe not tomor­row. But soon. And for the rest of your life.

Sin­cere­ly,

On the Brighter Side [the mag­a­zine I sub­mit­ted to –Ed.]

PS: I’m keep­ing the ring. 

I like when I get amus­ing rejec­tion let­ters*. But noth­ing has yet topped being called “Ms. Johan­neson” by the now-defunct scifi.com.

____

* By which I mean, if I must be reject­ed, I pre­fer to be reject­ed by some­one with a sense of humour. (Though I must say that con­struc­tive crit­i­cism trumps laughs.)

Nage-no-kata

Posted on by Patrick

…or “What I had to do for a sil­ver medal”.

I’m the one being thrown.

Enjoy!

The throws are, in order:

Uki-oto­shi (“float­ing drop”)
Seoi-nage (“shoul­der throw”)
Kata-guru­ma (“shoul­der wheel”)*

Uki-goshi (“float­ing hip throw”)
Harai-goshi (“sweep­ing hip throw”)
Tsuriko­mi-goshi (“lift­ing-pulling hip throw”)

Okuri-ashi-harai (“side­ways foot sweep”)
Sasae-tsuriko­mi-ashi (“block­ing lift­ing-pulling foot throw”)
Uchi-mata (“inner thigh throw”)

Each one is per­formed right-hand­ed and left-handed.

__________

* Which impress­es every­one, but real­ly isn’t that bad of a land­ing, if you know what you’re doing.

Flickrblogging — 0463

Posted on by Patrick

“Mar­garet?”

“Yes, luv?”

“Next time you buy tis­sues, would you be so kind as to buy the kind with the lotion in ’em?”

“And why’s that then?”

“See, luv, when I get a cold, usin’ them reg­u­lar tis­sues is kind of like usin’ sand­pa­per to blow my nose.”

“Oh Hubert, you exag­ger­ate so.”

“I ask you, wife of mine, do I look like I’m exaggeratin’?”


“Oh my.”

IMG_0463.JPG dis­cov­ered in Elliott les yeux grands fermés’s Flickr photostream.

______

Flick­r­blog­ging explained.

My Leap Day ficlet

Posted on by Patrick

Writ­ten today, the 29th of February:

She plant­ed the seed and wait­ed. After a while rain came down from the sky, pelt­ing her skin, chill­ing her. She shiv­ered but did­n’t leave, not yet.

The Sun came out, warm­ing the soil, dri­ving the cold from her bones. She wait­ed. Clouds scud­ded by over­head, in a hur­ry for some rea­son. The moon rose, stars wheeled, and then the Sun rose again.

She did­n’t just wait, of course. She prayed, she sang, she read the old sto­ries, the myths and the leg­ends. On the sev­enth day she snoozed under a cloud­less sky, wak­ing only briefly when a drag­on­fly hap­pened to touch down on her nose. She observed its cathe­dral-win­dow wings, irrides­cent with refract­ed sun­light, and drowsed once more after it left her.

Rain, Sun, moon, stars: she endured them all. The seedling broke the soil with a quest­ing green curlicue, look­ing for all the world like a ques­tion mark in the Old Tongue. She sat on it and wait­ed more: days, months, decades.

A boy came along and asked her why she’d climbed to the top of the tree.

“I did­n’t,” she said.