Symbioskeletal

 I know many writers go in for the art of "saying something" with their work. Personal issues, socio-political commentary, what have you. I wish I could count myself a part of that nobler lot. Fortunately, I'm a selfish pig, and rarely set out to do anything more meaningful than amuse myself.

With that said, here's a piece excavated from the archives, Symbioskeletal...

A Big Announcement: It's Cereal! No, wait, It's A Serial!

How many of you out there are writers, or love someone who's a writer? That covers pretty much everyone, right? Right. So I don't feel there's too much explanation needed when I say that, as a writer, I have one or two (or three or four) unfinished novels lazing about in various stages of undress. It's not that I'm lazy or unmotivated, it's just that...I'm a writer.

That should be a legally acceptable excuse for a lot in this world.

Alright, so what I mean to say is that, while I love all my projects like they're my children, I'm (occasionally) a fountain of ideas. And easily distracted. So it happens that projects get temporarily (I tell myself) moved to the back burner. And then that nagging, neglect-induced guilt rides into town. Just look at your children! it says. Clothed in tatters like ragamuffins and underfed. They love you and miss you terribly!

You see, it's exactly absurd tangents like these that spawn my orphans. I am going somewhere with this, just let me remember...

Yes! So, I figured that it's time to dust one of them off (I'm experimenting on one of them, the lucky darling), dress it up in its Sunday finery, and parade it about town. Or, without the nonsensical imagery, I'm releasing one of these par-baked beauties into the wild.

But that doesn't make any sense, is what I'm sure is on the tip of your tongue. That's where the cereal comes in. The serial, I mean.

The derelict darling in question is about (or maybe more than) halfway completed. More or less. Or less. Truth be told, I originally envisioned it as a trilogy (oh, how lofty and novel of me!). Holy hell, am I good at skirting a point!

Alright, on with it!

I'm releasing one of my unfinished novels as a serial. This, I'm thinking (hoping), will allow me time (and give me motivation) to fill in all those missing bits and bobs. Or pave over giant plot holes. Six of one.

I'm still unsure of how much I'll release at a time (I work in scenes, not chapters, so it's not so cut and dry), but I do know that I want to get started very soon.

I'll keep updating as I get more info (or just make shit up).

Can It Be?

Yes, it is! And because I love you, I'll tell you what I'm going on about. I've got another piece of microfiction up, published by the goodly folks over at Thaumatrope. You can read it there, but, as usual, I'll also reprint it here so you don't have to dig for it. But you really should visit the Thaumatrope Twitter page. It'll keep your hands soft and youthful.

"The bar's neon sign kept Joe awake every night. Rifle in hand, he decided it was either him or the sign. His aim wasn't good long distance."

 This is your captain bidding you a good night, and good dental hygiene.

...And Who Doesn't Love Hookers?

Is the important question, I tell you.

It's time once again for an installment of 'Angela Pardue's Twitter Fiction Circus Fantastico'. It's a working title.

Another piece of the good old Twitfic went up on Tweet the Meat (the theme was "urban"). Check it out on Twitter: tweetthemeat. Okay, and you can read it here, also. But I strongly recommend you check out the link. There's guerrilla Girl Scout's there. You won't regret it.

"Frank sat in the backseat with the hooker, who stared at his fingers. "I did say my price is 10, but I didn't mean dollars."

The moral: hookers want your digits.

There Were These Boys, You See...

So I'm late to my own party, once again. I had another piece of microfiction published with Thaumatrope last month. It's an honor because, really, who doesn't love Thaumatrope?

Of course, I recommend heading over to the Thaumatrope website to check it out, but I'll repost it here anyhow. Like Xerces, I am kind.

"They shivered in the closet together, finally heard the screeching cease. Maybe it had stopped waiting. The oldest opened the door a crack."

You can also subscribe the Thaumatrope's Twitter feed for regular doses of  the best sci-fi/fantasy/horror microfiction. It'll keep your coat shiny.

Care for A Cup?

Last night my latest piece of twitfic went up on Tweet the Meet. The theme was 'Whisper'. You can check it out on their Twitter page, but I'm posting it here also, for your reading enjoyment.

"Jane heard their whispers behind her back. Tonight, she'd show those girls what "No tits" really meant."

John Pupo said it ..."gave me the whole Carrie meets a Grindhouse flick moment!"

I post twitfic over on "the Twitter" from time to time, so come on over and see what's brewing.

New Piece Coming Up on Tweet the Meat

Next week I have a piece of Twitter fiction appearing on Tweet the Meat. I'm unsure which day my piece will be up, so keep an eye out here for updates.

Tweet the Meat is "A Twitter-based E-Zine of Horror". They publish great twitfic by a lot of talented writers, so I'm pleased to be included.

Check them out on Twitter: Tweet the Meat

On the Menu

It's Saturday, and in addition to the chocolate chip cookies I made tonight, I've got a rather large stack of unread books calling out to me. The last month's been a maniac for book acquisitions, and I already suffered from no shortage of unread darlings.

Standing in front of my bookshelves fills me with the same feeling I get when I walk into my closet every morning- there's just so much there, and everything looks equally tempting. It's overwhelming (beware the horrors of choice). So, what does one do with an unruly 'To Be Read' pile? You call them out, one at a time, and line them up firing squad style.

In the coming weeks I'm taking aim at:

The Sad Tale of the Brothers Grossbart
Queen of the Darkness
Chalice
Smoke & Mirrors
House of Leaves (the mighty bastard's been staring me down since I first cracked into it)

Bang bang.

FlitFic

Flash fiction, sudden fiction, short short stories. They all hint at the same concept: stories much briefer than what traditional short story edicts permit. How short, exactly, depends on where you're looking. To some folks, flash fiction is any piece shorter than 1,000 words, while to others draw the line at half that. To a crazed, brave group, it means fewer than 100 words. For the criminally and brilliantly insane, there's nanofiction, which typically suggests fewer than fifty words. Yes, a complete story in less than fifty words. Absurd, right? I'll do you one better.

Twitter fiction.

Twitter Fiction (also called twitfic and twiction) is capped at Twitter's built-in 140 character (character, not word!) limit, taking the concept of flash (or nano) to new heights. It's an intensive exercise in skill, because telling a story in what amounts to around twenty-some odd words is not the cakewalk it may seem.

I'm in love with the concept, and have devoted the last few days to honing my skills in this razor's-edge art. There's plenty of groups dedicated to it, and even paying markets. So if you haven't yet read any Twitfic, or tried your own hand at it, you should stop what you're doing and get started on that very thing.