Ganymeder

Gregory marveled from inside the biodome. He would never get used to the beauty of a Martian sunset.

*image courtesy of OSU Special Collections & Archives via Flickr. No known copyright restrictions.

Play or download episode *here*

Welcome to My Writing Niche, a podcast for new writers. Today I’ll talk about inspiration, as well as read my latest piece of flash fiction, Captain P.

Thank you, as always, for your time. Polite feedback is both welcomed and appreciated. Have a lovely week.

**image courtesy of hiddedevries via Flicker.

***Slow Burn from the album Blues Sampler courtesy of Kevin MacLeod via Creative Commons Attribution license. More of his music can be found at FreeMusicArchive.org or at http://incompetech.com.

Captain P

When he’d first been exposed to the toxin, the doctors’ incredulity matched his own.

Perry had never been extraordinary in any way. In fact, his coworkers might have described him as ‘easily forgettable’ if they had given him any thought whatsoever. Work related accidents were an infrequent occurrence in his profession, but then he rarely took his students on a tour of the local research facility. However, his natural clumsiness, a toxicologist’s workstation, and a student’s poorly placed whoopee cushion inevitably led to disaster.

He survived.

Whether or not tragedy was averted depends largely on your point of view.

To his doctors’ amazement, his internal physiology evolved to incorporate the new chemical, though his outward appearance remained the same. His physicians tested him repeatedly. However, he had never been wealthy, and his increasing hospital bills soon forced his doctors to discharge him.

Perry returned to his meager apartment, relieved at the prospect of resuming his normal routine. However, he soon faced an angry landlord and puzzled plumbers as the result of his recent near-death experience became alarmingly clear. Faced with eviction, he returned to the hospital and demanded that something be done.

Fate, however, was not kind. The very day he returned ‘for further testing,’ a distraught mental patient took Perry hostage along with several of the hospital’s staff. At the point of a gun, they were herded into a first floor storeroom and locked inside. It seemed hopeless.

Perry’s doctor nudged him. When the patient shook his head, the physician shot him a meaningful glare, which he resented.

“Alright, FINE,” he said, and unzipped.

Everyone stood safely behind him and watched, in fascinated horror, as he created an exit. Soon, despite their shock, the sound of nearby gunfire convinced the hostages to flee through the freshly smoking hole in the hospital’s side. They had escaped the mad gunman, though the trauma of the escape itself would remain with many for the rest of their lives.

Perry had finally managed to become unforgettable.

With mixed feelings, he took the reward money (along with custom-made undergarments, courtesy of the hospital). The mayor managed to keep the details discreetly out of the papers.

#

Perry bid the contractor goodbye and stepped into his new log cabin. The view from his modest home was spectacular, here at the summit of Schmidt Mountain. From the front window, he surveyed the countryside, imagining himself master of all he saw. Luckily, the State Park Service – whose property he overlooked- couldn’t read his thoughts. It would have disturbed even the most hardened bureaucrat.

The reward money had allowed him the financial freedom to live in near isolation – near enough to avoid the penury from nonstop plumbing bills; yet his condition had proved as much a blessing as a curse. That’s what he told himself as he scanned the headlines of the newspaper neatly pinned to the wall of his newly installed outhouse.

He crumpled the latest headline with one hand while shaking himself dry with the other. Then he tossed it into the steaming hole and wondered what his Superhero name should be. Somehow, “The Urinator” didn’t have quite the right ring to it.

-

*This story was inspired by one of our weekly D&D sessions, where we frequently spend large amounts of time debating Superhero abilities.

**If you are interested, I also have a review of ‘Ender’s Game’ up at the Functional Nerds website.

**image courtesy of Bigfoto.com

Bertha couldn’t stand it. Ever since Edith and Hilda had died, they’d been insufferable camera hogs.

*image courtesy of National Media Museum via Flickr. No known copyright restrictions.

** Yesterday I didn’t post one of my incredibly inspiring writing prompts, so I am making up for it today. I felt guilty depriving you of my sparkling wit, though it was for a noble cause. Also, I plan on posting a new #FridayFlash this week, so I hope you will tune in again tomorrow!

In protest of the Stop Online Piracy Act and the Protect IP Act, I will not be posting any writing prompts today. For more information on why, please visit Wikipedia (which is blacked out today and will redirect you to their message concerning this legislation) or Google.

Thank you.

In my quest for new and more ergonomic ways to write with my laptop, I’ve come across The Airflow Lapdesk. Since writing in bed is something I’ve desperately missed since my neck and arm pain started, finding this at the local Barnes and Noble seemed like serendipity. Whether or not this works as a viable way to write in bed without excruciating pain remains to be seen over time.

Since early 2011 I’ve had chronic neck and arm pain, most likely due to poor posture, especially when I do activities that involve looking down and using my hands – such as knitting (which I’ve given up) and typing on my laptop (which I haven’t). I mention this simply because the pain lessons when I work ergonomically, which makes it a great gauge for how ergonomic a product is.

What initially attracted me to this product was the way the desk can tilt up to raise the laptop screen. The most ergonomic position to type in, at least for me, seems to be with my arms bent at a 90 degree angle for typing and the screen positioned so that I can look straight ahead. When I look down, that puts stress on my neck, resulting in pain if I stay in that position for longer than a few minutes. And while there are tricks to working with a laptop without having to look down, this lapdesk doesn’t quite cut it. The screen is higher, yes, but not high enough. Still, I can keep my head positioned properly and just look down slightly (like someone wearing bifocals).

Another nice feature is the built-in fan for keeping the laptop from overheating. Though my computer’s gotten hot in the past, it’s never overheated. However, the fan is quiet and it does keep my lap nice and cool. The cushion on the bottom is attached with velcro, making it removable for easy cleaning. The detachable mouse platform can be attached for use on the left or right side, and also stored inside the desk itself when not in use.

So, after testing this product, what is my recommendation? After using the desk for a couple hours, I experience a little tenderness in my neck, but that varies with how I position myself. When using a Bed Rest Pillow along with the desk, my arms rest at a slightly downward angle from 90 degrees and the screen is a bit too low but manageable (as long as I keep my head positioned properly). It’s possible to sit at a comfortable angle and write much more ergonomically than just sitting in bed typing on a conventional lapdesk. And while the price is a bit high, the versatility of being able to write in a semi-reclining position makes the cost worthwhile.

The god stood, scratched himself, and wondered why his monument had fallen into such disrepair.

*image courtesy of Alyx Dellamonica via Flickr. Some rights reserved.

**Many thanks to Paul Weimer for pointing out that this beautiful photo would make a wonderful writing prompt.

*** I take full blame responsibility for the text portion of the prompt.

Play or download episode *here*

Welcome to My Writing Niche, a podcast for new writers. Today I’ll talk about Classics versus Tropes. I’ll also mention current projects, the Choose Your Online Adventure Zombie story, and National Novel Reading Month.

Thank you, as always, for your time. Polite feedback is both welcomed and appreciated. Have a lovely week.

**image courtesy of hiddedevries via Flicker.

***Slow Burn from the album Blues Sampler courtesy of Kevin MacLeod via Creative Commons Attribution license. More of his music can be found at FreeMusicArchive.org or at http://incompetech.com.

A Little Bit of Sugar

Grandma smelled.

She didn’t smell like cookies or fresh baked bread, but rather a sour combination of old lady, body odor, and Bengay. Billy could barely stand to set foot inside the old woman’s trailer, but his parents insisted that he do odd jobs for her as part of his weekly chores. He sat and watched Grandma Moira lower herself into the lazyboy in the tiny living room. The wallpaper had long ago faded to the sepia of old photographs.

“So, how’s your mom and dad?”

Billy shrugged. He preferred not to get into discussions with the old woman. She tended to wax nostalgic at the oddest things, and avoiding conversation meant he finished sooner. “What would you like me to do, Grandma?” He stood up. “Wash dishes? Vacuum the floor?”

The old woman stared up at him with dark, moist eyes. The skin of her face sagged under the weight of eighty years, yet intelligence still lingered in the depths of those eyes.

“Not just yet, Billy,” she said, nodding at the couch. “Why not sit and keep an old woman company?”

Billy looked uncertain, but she insisted. “Just for a few minutes.”

He sat.

“I know you’ve probably got better things to do, but-”

“Grandma, I-”

“Now, now,” she said. “Don’t bother denying it. You’re young, and it’s perfectly natural that you’d want to spend time with other kids your age, not hanging out with an old woman.” She looked at the floor.

Billy squirmed, sinking further into the plush, faded fabric of the couch.

“I’m sorry. I was just thinking of Mr. Tinkles,” said Grandma Moira. “He hasn’t been by in several days. You haven’t seen him; have you?”

“No,” said Billy, struggling to lift himself from the cushions partially swallowing him.

“That’s too bad,” said Grandma. “I thought maybe you might have passed him on the way here.”

“Why ask me?” said Bobby. “I just came over to help.”

“Well, of course you did,” said Grandma, in her most soothing tone. “You’re a good boy. Why else would you spend all this time with me?”

Because my parents make me, thought Billy, but he bit his tongue.

“Well,” said Grandma, slapping her hands on her lap and hoisting herself out of the bulky chair. “You might as well get started on those dishes, and then you can go play with your friends.”

Billy almost leaped off of the couch, except the suction from the cushions prevented it.

“You might as well have this,” said Grandma Moira, offering him a rose-colored candydish, “so you can throw it in with the other dishes.”

The boy reached for the last piece of candy, but hesitated.

“Oh, go on,” said Grandma Moira. “It’s just a little bit of sugar.”

The boy grabbed the candy – a small, rainbow-colored pebble – and tossed it in his mouth. It dissolved instantly.

Grandma’s eyes hardened, two bright specks of coal in a face like fading paper. She pushed the boy back onto the couch, and he fell – as limp as a ragdoll. “It’s your own fault, you know,” she said.

Billy’s eyes remained fixed upon the terrifying figure that towered before him.

“I didn’t want to resort to this, Billy, but you left me little choice.”

His eyes widened.

“What really happened to Mr. Tinkles?”

The boy felt his mouth open, the words pouring out before he could stop them. “I ran him over on Tuesday with the riding lawnmower.”

Grandma Moira pursed her lips, considering. “Was it quick?”

“No.” The word was out before Billy knew he was speaking.

She squeezed her eyes shut and leaned heavily on her cane, its gnarled wood supporting her weight. “Poor Mr. Tinkles,” she murmured. “You were the best familiar I’ve ever had.”

Billy’s jaw slackened.

The old woman slumped once again into the overstuffed chair, contemplating her worn slippers. After a few minutes, she seemed to remember the boy’s presence.

“Oh, yes,” she said, directing another piercing stare at the boy. “Worried I cast a spell on you; aren’t you, boy?”

Billy cringed, digging himself further into the sofa cushions.

The old woman cackled. “Don’t worry, boy. I did no such thing.”

Billy wanted to run, but his strength had already fled.

“I drugged you instead,” said the old woman, getting up and retrieving the empty candydish. “Witches dabble with herbs anyway,” she droned on, picking bits of trash off the table. “You might say pharmacology is an interest of mine.” She hobbled over to the garbage can and threw away the trash. “Though, the candy coating was a nice touch.”

Billy struggled to extricate himself from the cushions, but they held him firmly. He would not escape.

“No, boy. You’ll find yourself extremely open to suggestion for the next few hours,” said Grandma Moira. She stretched, cracking the muscles in her back. “Which is why I’m calling your parents, and you’ll confess to them what you did to my cat.” She snatched the receiver from the cradle of the old-fashioned phone.

Billy sagged, and the old woman cackled again. “To my kind, boy, spells are prayers.” She fixed him with another steely stare. “And I wouldn’t waste my prayers on you.”

THE END

*This flash was inspired by the writing prompt That’s not candy in Grandma’s candy dish, taken from Eric J. Krause’s Writing Spot. Thanks, Eric!

**image courtesy of George Eastman House via Flickr. No known copyright restrictions.

Madge had been holding the pose for only ten minutes, but to her aching arms it felt like eternity.

*image courtesy of New York Public Library via Flickr. No known copyright restrictions.