Meeting Louis Darrul

Miranda was right, as usual. It wasn’t raining the next morning, though the forecast said thunderstorms later. So I bopped out, holding a mug of scalding coffee. I rather suspected I’d need the caffeine; and it’s handy as a weapon if the mug is big enough–or the coffee hot enough. I reasoned a crossbow firing toothpicks wasn’t likely to be out of coffee-flinging reach, either.

What? Yes, I do occasionally reason, my friends. Not often enough, to hear my exes talk, but hey, there’s a reason they’re ex.

Miranda: HELLO, DEAR.
Me: Good morning, Miranda. How are you?

(She, like me, prefers a little formality.)

Miranda: RATHER SHORT ON SLEEP. WE STAYED UP LATE, TALKING. BUT I’VE CONVINCED LOUIS TO MEET YOU, AT LEAST. HE IS…SOMEWHAT SHY.
Me: Im sure his habit of shooting at people doesn’t help.
Louis: THEY AIN’T PEOPLE, MA’AM.

Me: JESUS CHRIST.
Miranda: LANGUAGE, DEAR.
Louis: FUCK!
Miranda: *rather loudly* LANGUAGE!
Me: What the hell are you?
Miranda: LANGUAGE, DAMMIT!
Me: *shifting backward on my haunches, lifting my mug* Yeah, yeah, language. I repeat, who the hell are you, dude?
Louis: *eyeing my coffee mug warily* LOUIS DARRUL AT YER SERVICE, MA’AM.
Me: You’ve been shooting at my backyard residents?
Louis: FRIEND OF YOURS SENT ME.
Me: *bracing self, with a sinking sensation* Oh yeah? Who?
Louis: A MISS MEL. I WAS…WELL, HER CHICKENS ARE KIND OF…LOOK, I DIDN’T KNOW SHE KEPT THEM FOR EGGS, ALL RIGHT?
Me: *digging for my phone* Oh, hell no.
Miranda: IF YOU TWO ARE GOING TO USE IMPROPER LANGUAGE, TAKE YOUR CONVERSATION ELSEWHERE.
Me: *texting furiously* Miranda, you are the backyard oracle, and due respect, but for right now, my friend, shut up.
Louis: DON’T TALK TO HER LIKE THAT.
Me: I will settle your hash in a minute, Mr Darrul. Be quiet.

Now I shall present to you, my friends, an excerpt from the text conversation with my lovely, wonderful, mischievous writing partner, the Selkie.

Me: WHAT. THE FUCK. MEL.
The Selkie: What?
Me: You sent me a hillbilly with a crossbow?
The Selkie: Oh, yeah, him. He was irritating my chickens.
Me: FOR GOD’S SAKE.
The Selkie: What? You like zombie hunters.
Me: He thought your chickens were zombies?
The Selkie: It’s a long story. Enjoy.
Me: I swear I will get you for this.
The Selkie: *smiley face*

I stuck my phone back in my hoodie pocket and eyed the fellow. He eyed me right back, and his tiny finger twitched.

Me: Don’t even, dude.
Miranda: HE NEEDS A PLACE TO STAY.
Me: Oh, of course. Of course he does.
Miranda: IT’S NOT HIS FAULT, HIS HOME WAS OVERRUN BY–
Me: Oh, sure. Sure. I’ve got ceramic squirrels, a koala in a corset, a fucking Batman, what’s a psycho with a crossbow? Sure, great, wonderful, welcome to the goddamn backyard, Louis.

I was not very graceful at that point, I guess, but can you blame me? My nerves were somewhat shot. Miranda, thankfully, did not tell me to watch my language. I suspect she knew I would not take the suggestion kindly.

Louis: I WON’T MAKE NO TROUBLE, MA’AM.
Me: You are going to have to stop shooting at Willard. And at Joe.
Louis: WHO? YOU MEAN THE…BUT, MA’AM, THEY’RE UNDEAD.
Me: They are productive citizens of the backyard realm, sir.
Louis: …YOU SURE?

I tipped my head back, my jaw working. I could feel my teeth groaning under the strain.

Miranda: YOU SEE? DESPITE HER TEMPER, SHE IS A VERY GOOD RULER.
Me: I doubt I’m in charge here, Miranda.
Miranda: WELL, NOMINALLY, AT LEAST.
Me: *bringing my chin back down* I suppose I deserved that one.
Miranda: *quietly* YES, YOU DID.
Me: Okay. Fine. Sure, what the hell. If you stop shooting at Willard and Joe, Mr Darrul, you can stay.
Louis: WHAT ABOUT THE SQUIRRELS? THEM’S TASTY, AND A MAN’S GOTTA EAT.
Me: Oh, good Lord.

So I ended up gingerly closing my hand around Louis’s middle, trying to avoid the crossbow–

Louis: CAREFUL, WOMAN. THAT’S MAH KNIFE.
Me: I could hold you by your head.
Louis: *extremely quiet*
Miranda: VERY GOOD, THEN.
Me: Sorry for cussing, Miranda.
Miranda: THAT’S ALL RIGHT, DEAR. YOU WERE IN SOMEWHAT OF A SITUATION. OH, YOU’LL NEED BURN CREAM.
Me: For…? *standing up, a bit too quickly* Oh, fuck.
Miranda: THAT.
Louis: BE CAREFUL, DAMMIT!

I’d forgotten just how hot my coffee was. I swore all the way carrying him inside, ran my hand under cold water while swearing, and introduced him to Fred, George, and Tiny!Batman in a rather perfunctory fashion. George got him a cuppa, Fred clucked over the state of his boots, and Wendy did not take to him but she was polite.

Later, of course, I found out he really was a good ally in the event of squirrel attack. But that’s (say it with me) another story.

Frustration Saturation

October hath arrived, that most blessed of months, wherein I can finally buy house decorations and candy comes in reasonable bite-size pieces BY THE BAG LOAD. Also, pumpkin spice. I love me some pumpkin spice. Not the chemical syrups, no, but ground nutmeg, clove, cinnamon, all in a handy shaker. It’s like crack, I put it in my coffee, in my morning gruel, in pies and other baked goods. PUMPKIN SPICE EVERYWHERE.

The world is burning, but Samhain approaches, the turn of the witch’s year. I have a lot to think about since the last time the Wheel reached this particular spot.

I took some time off in September to luxuriate in the aftermath of a creative frenzy. Now I’m itching, and I long to get back to work. The pressure behind my eyeballs has reached its normal level, so to speak. There’s the zero of Roadtrip Z’s Season 3 to finish, edits on Steelflower at Sea, and I’m sure now that Afterwar is up for preorder I’ll be getting copyedits and proof pages soon. That’s apart from the epic fantasy I’m currently being consumed by, and now that the weather is cooler I really want to finish the zero of Dog Days.

There’s no shortage of work, and forcing myself to take two weeks of 200-word days, as wearing on my nerves as that was, means I’ll be able to do it more effectively now.

I’d talk about the current fascist mess, but I just can’t. I’ve hit frustration saturation. My resistance today is self-care. And working. It feels wrong to be joyous about Samhain, candy, and work, but I need that joy to get through to bedtime, now more than ever.

I hope you have some joy to get you through your day too, dear Readers.

Moss, Miranda, Bactine

When we last spoke, dear Readers, I had decided to visit Miranda. It’s kind of hard to keep a straight face when you’re cleaning off a statue’s tatas, but I managed.

Miranda: THANK YOU, DEAR.
Me: *peeling moss from well-formed breasts* Miranda, someone’s shooting at Phil and Willard.
Miranda: JUST WILLARD.
Me: …okay. *brushing away dirt and polishing her shoulders* And Joe.
Miranda: YES, WILLARD AND JOE. THANK YOU, DEAR.
Me: And putting moss on you. *pointing at the dead campfire* And building fires.
Miranda: I BELIEVE HE THOUGHT I MUST BE COLD.
Me: *gathering all my patience* Miranda, he shot at me too. This isn’t good for the backyard community.
Miranda: NO, I SUPPOSE IT ISN’T.

That’s the thing about having an oracle in your backyard. They’re sometimes a little frustrating to talk to. At least there were no more crossbow bolts winging by. So I gathered my patience again.

Me: *brushing off her skirt* Miranda? Do you happen to know who this person is?
Miranda: OH YES, DEAR. IT’S LOUIS.
Me: *finally feeling like we’re getting somewhere* Lewis?
Miranda: NO, LOUIS. SPELLED FRENCH, PRONOUNCED OTHERWISE.
Me: How did you know I spelled…oh, never mind. Look, so where can I find this Louis-pronounced-otherwise? I really need to explain some things to him.
Miranda: I CAN INTRODUCE YOU, IF YOU’D LIKE. HE CAMPS HERE AT NIGHT, OFTEN.
Me: Good Lord. Okay. When?
Miranda: COME BY TOMORROW MORNING.
Me: *remembering weather report* It’ll be raining.
Miranda: NOT WHEN YOU COME BY. ALSO, YOU’RE OUT OF BACTINE.
Me: You mean I’m going to need it?
Miranda: *nods, smiling gently*
Me: Oh, fuck.
Miranda: LANGUAGE, DEAR.

As usual, she was right. (Don’t ask. It had to do with a frightened cat, Odd Trundles, and leftover spaghetti. I SAID DON’T ASK.) Not about the language, but about the…well, anyway, the next morning I checked the iron-clouded sky, sighed, poured more coffee, and sallied forth.

TO BE CONTINUED…

Imagination Doesn’t Hobble

So yesterday, not ten seconds into my morning run, Miss B thought she heard another dog, lunged, took out my knees, and sent me to the ground in a singularly un-graceful fashion. I was bleeding so badly I had to take her home, deck myself with sticking plasters, and head out the door again (alone, for which she did not forgive me for hours) to run six and a half kilometers. Then, in the middle of the run, my nose started to bleed and my email notification dinged for some not-quite-pleasant news.

In short, it was a Monday.

Today, aching in various places, I essayed interval training, and took B along. I mean, what was the worst that could happen? I was a little smarter than yesterday, because I put her in her harness, which she hates. She hates it, you see, because she can’t pull while she’s in it; the marvels of modern design mean its collection of straps and buckles redirects her attention to the human holding her leash. Or the human with the leash knotted about her waist.

This is, in Miss B’s estimable opinion, Not How Things Should Roll.

Anyway, she’s sacked out in the hallway, sleeping the sleep of a very tired (and hence, well-behaved) dog while Odd Trundles, upset because my bedroom door is closed and he can’t trundle in to sleep on my bed (long story, suffice to say I grew tired of washing my coverlet daily) is groaning and grousing. Eventually he will settle on the SUPER EXPENSIVE, soft as a cloud, FANCY-PANTS DOG BED in my office, the one with the WASHABLE MICROFIBER COVER.

Truly, the life of Trundles is a harsh one.

I can’t yoga to stretch all the stiffness out, since my palms are shredded and my knees look like I knelt on frozen peas until the skin broke. I know, first-world problems. Some days I grouse like Trundles.

Tomorrow is yet another interval training session, because clearly my capacity for punishment is wide and deep as the seas.

But for right now, my imagination doesn’t limp or hobble. I can write the scene where the all-girl traveling group in the zombie apocalypse administers sweet bloody revenge to a Certain Character. Oh, and I should probably do my regular enshillening of my book wares at some point today. Marketing waits not for the slow, nor for those who loathe it.

Trundles has settled on the FANCY DOG BED and is beaming grouchy sleep-beams at the back of my office chair. I’m glad I painted it with nap repellant earlier, and further glad I have another tankard of coffee to get me through the first half of Tuesday.

Over and out.

Gnome Protection Program

So last week I told you about finding poor Willard facedown, and the mystery of the plastic crossbow bolts. I wasn’t quite worried, per se–the things were hardly more than slivers–but what if the Mad Shooter escalated? Besides, Willard is made of concrete. It takes some extraordinary event to topple him, much less throw him a few feet in any direction. And poor Phil was all but vibrating in place.

I couldn’t turn around fast enough to see who shot at us. So I headed across the yard, after rigging up a little shelter for Phil and Willard–the tiny table isn’t ideal, but it’ll keep slings and arrows off them.

Or so I hoped.

Anyway, I got to the back corner near the shed, and I began to be a little alarmed until I heard a faint hiss and a low, conspiratorial “OVER HERE.”

Me: Uh, I’ll tell the Princess to trim the green, since it’s her–
Emphysema Joe: NO! DON’T DO THAT! THIS IS THE GPP!
Me:
Emphysema Joe: THE GNOME PROTECTION PROGRAM. SOMEONE’S TRYNA PICK US OFF AT NIGHT. I ONLY GOT A GLIMPSE OF HIM, BUT HE’S SCARY.
Me: So you saw what happened to Willard? Phil’s shaking, he’s so upset.
Emphysema Joe: DAMN RIGHT I SAW, AND I AIN’T TALKIN EITHER. I’M HIDING. SO, YOU KNOW, NICE TO SEE YA AND I’D LOVE TO CHAT, BUT…

PING!

I ducked, Joe almost shrieked, and I whirled to try and find the source of the noise and the tiny crossbow bolt. The quarrel was carved from cedar–not the best choice, but it told me we were dealing with someone used to roughing it and living off the land.

So to speak.

Me: *loudly addressing the yard* This is NOT proper behavior, whoever you are.
Emphysema Joe: DON’T PISS HIM OFF, FOR GOD’S SAKE. LOOK, JUST…JUST GO INSIDE. IF YOU SEE THOSE CRAZY-ASS AUSSIES, TELL THEM IT’S NOT SAFE YET.
Me: Wait, Fred and George–
Emphysema Joe: THERE’S A REASON THEY AIN’T AT HOME, LADY.
Me: Oh, for God’s sake. What does Wendy say about this?
Emphysema Joe: SHE HAS HER HANDS FULL. THAT BANE GUY GOT HEATSTROKE AND KEEPS ESCAPING HER. CALLS HER “NURSE ARKHAM.”

He meant tiny!Batman, who has a host of medical problems. Look, ninja-fighting crime makes for a lot of head trauma, that’s all I’m saying. I decided it wasn’t likely the mad shooter was going to hit me–he had pretty poor aim, it seemed–but I should probably stay on the move. The last thing I needed was something in my eye.

Me: Okay. Look, stay under cover. I’m going to go talk to Miranda.
Emphysema Joe: ABOUT DAMN TIME. AND IF ANYONE ASKS, I DON’T KNOW YOU, YOU DON’T KNOW ME. FUCKING MILITARY-INDUSTRIAL COMPLEX HAS ME MARKED, MAN.

I was not going to stay and argue with him. (That’s Phil’s job.) So I set off again, glancing nervously at the roof. It seemed like a good guess at the shooter’s location. I made it to Miranda’s corner without tripping, and found another sign of something amiss–the remains of a tiny campfire, and someone had, um, decided Miranda’s state of dress wasn’t to their liking. And had taken it upon themselves to remedy her, ah, draperies.

Me: Oh. Oh dear.
Miranda: *calmly enough* MY DEAR, WE NEED TO TALK.
Me: I…I guess we do.
Miranda: CAN YOU GET THE MOSS OFF MY NIPPLES?

To be continued…

Harmonic Edge

Today’s Thursday, the day each week when my Patreon subscribers get goodies! Chapter 45 of Roadtrip Z is now up. A tender moment, and then, ZOMBIES.

…this pleases me perhaps more than it should.

Someone in the neighborhood is running some sort of machinery, and it has a harmonic precisely calculated to set my teeth on edge, with bonus driving the dogs to distraction. I’m trying to drown out both noises with Beethoven sonatas, to little avail. Maybe I should just get some booze and start drinking to dull the pain.

Yesterday was a good day, 2k on Season 3 of Roadtrip Z falling out of my head. (Some of it involved teenagers discussing syphilis.) I’m hoping for more of the same, though I have to shift to a character I don’t much like. I have very strong tea and yapping dogs, and though there is some sunshine, the rainclouds are still strong.

Maybe I’ll have this character get bitten, but I kind of want him to be like Humperdinck–he lives. I want him to have a long life, alone with his cowardice.

I am a cruel and vengeful writer-god. We all knew that.

Anyway, if I get some good wordcount on that, it’s time to start splitting to another project. Past time, I think I might have recovered (mostly) from the latest set of hurdles in a difficult publishing process. Soon I’ll have to start final revisions on Steelflower at Sea, too.

Things are pretty good today. I’m going back to my tea.

RELEASE DAY: Cotton Crossing

Roadtrip Z

That’s right, my friends, the re-edited, shiny Season 1 of Roadtrip Z, my Patreon serial, is now available!

Cotton Crossing was a dead end, but not for Ginny Mills. She’s just marking time, getting experience in the county library system, before moving back to a decent urban environment. Then the phones stop working.

Lee Quartine knows there’s no way the pretty girl at the library will even look at him. Especially since he can’t open his mouth. He knows he’s a hick, but when the power starts going out and the woods are full of strange creatures, it’s good to have someone around who can build a fire. And kill.

Ginny, Lee, and their small band of survivors can’t stay put, and moving is dangerous. The infected are shambling in the hills and the concrete canyons of cities.

It’s gonna be a long trip…

Season 1: Cotton Crossing is now available at Amazon, Barnes & Noble, Kobo, or direct!

We’re now deep in Season 2. Subscribe here to read, chapter by chapter, as the serial is written.