I Stood in the Prow

  • by jenAnswer: Not much.
  • blocked nearly all the sunlight
  • desperately tired of seeing naked shoes
  • Welcome to… Aberdeen
  • ice skating on the frog pond

Tune in next time part 227                           Click Here for Earlier Installments

I stood in the prow of the locust until it slowly became a hovercraft and I realized that I had been hallucinating. I asked Cleopatra how much sense I had been making. Answer: Not much.

We were in the middle of the ocean, zipping along in a cloud of spray that blocked nearly all the sunlight. There wasn’t much to look at, but that was actually a relief because I was desperately tired of seeing naked shoes on people’s hands and overdressed fish circling their heads.

Cleopatra coaxed me away from the railing and we went to the cafeteria. She bought me a huge plate of non-psychoactive haggis and said, “Welcome to… Aberdeen.” Then she made me eat the whole thing and wash it down with a glass of peaty scotch. She meanwhile enjoyed a BLT and a coke.

After our meal we still had many hours to kill before our hovercraft would deliver us to our destination. Cleopatra had reserved a cabin for us, so we went there and I showed her a sex position that came to me during my mushroom trip, something that I could only describe as “ice skating on the frog pond.” Her prosthetic butt will never be the same.

I still didn’t fully trust her, but I needed her to think I did.

In the afterglow I said, “So where is this hovercraft taking us?”

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Write Like Your Parents Will Never Read It

… But, um, they probably will.

It all depends on your subject matter, and on your parents. In our case, with books featuring so much vivid sex, profanity, violence, drug use, and trashing of religion, we felt pretty confident encouraging our moms not to read our stuff. (That didn’t work. It probably never does.)

Despite all our subtle warnings, our moms still wanted to read the books. So, we had to hand them over. Jen told her mom, “Kent wrote all the yucky parts,” and Kent told his mom to blame those sections on Jen.

The weirdest thing happened. Our moms liked the books.

Sure, they sort of have to. It’s in the mom job description. Of course they’re proud of us as writers. But we knew — or thought we knew — that our content wouldn’t be to their tastes. First of all, they don’t read much science fiction. And as mentioned above, it’s all stuff we’d never bring up in front of them. And we surely wouldn’t use such caustic language with them. They’re our moms!

We just don’t quite know how to process all this, and we probably never will. Happy to have happy readers? Absolutely. Glad not to have upset our moms? You bet! Wondering how well we really know these women? Little bit.

Having a writing partner means being able to disavow the parts your mom doesn’t like.

A Handful of Mushrooms

  • by Kentdozens of nails
  • impromptu vacations and picnics in the park
  • “Let us go and present ourselves to be killed.”
  • eventually they finished eating
  • my temples throbbing with excitement

Tune in next time part 226                           Click Here for Earlier Installments

A handful of mushrooms was more effective as an appetizer than a snack, but it was certainly better than nothing. I worried that the employees would be upset about me taking some without paying, but they just smiled.

I crammed the fungus into my mouth and chased after Cleopatra.

She held up one hand as I approached. She was probably checking for spies again, but I was distracted by her fingers. Each one had dozens of nails, a trait I’d failed to notice before. It was beautiful.

The stop at her apartment was very quick. Gordon kept asking to be let out of the bathroom. In Italian. Apparently Cleopatra didn’t speak Italian because she showed no sign she understood.

On our way to the hovercraft depot, we saw families of purple giraffes and levitating hippos having impromptu vacations and picnics in the park. Cleopatra was too intent on our travel plans to appreciate the scene. She was dragging me by the hand, so I pulled her to a stop and pointed out the amazing spectacle. One of the giraffes saluted me with his beer can.

“Oh shit,” Cleopatra said. “Those weren’t maitake mushrooms. Come on, we have to hurry.”

Turned out that what they were calling a hovercraft was actually a giant lawnmower. Passengers disappeared into it, and since they didn’t seem afraid I decided I wasn’t either. “Let us go and present ourselves to be killed.” Cleopatra just rolled her eyes. And we survived the boarding process, so I decided I could trust her. Her butt was fake, but she was honest about everything else.

Now I realized our vessel was not a mower, but a gigantic locust. There were others like it, all grazing on the reeds by the shoreline. Eventually they finished eating and set out over the water. I stood at the bow, watching the horizon, my temples throbbing with excitement.

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Cleopatra’s Eyes Darted

  • by jenJoe, I know it’s not shit
  • dutifully packing the egg cartons
  • want to play Road Warrior
  • propel a converted atomic submarine into space
  • now dating his ex-girlfriend

Tune in next time part 225                           Click Here for Earlier Installments

Cleopatra’s eyes darted around the street, searching the shadows for spies. “I can’t talk about that right now. I left my prosthetic butt at home,” she whispered.

I sighed at all the Svenborgian nonsense.

She gripped my hand in a way that would look tender to any casual observers, and led me into a small grocery store. In the back room, a handful of Tibetans were busy sorting mushrooms into piles.

The youngest looked at me and said, “What are these damn ‘shrooms called again, Joe, I know it’s not shittake.”

Why did he think my name was Joe? “Maitake,” I said.

“That’s it!” he said, snapping his fingers, then went back to dutifully packing the egg cartons in front of him with the frilly fungus.

Cleopatra pulled me into the corner. “Joe?” she demanded. “I thought your name was–”

“I want to play Road Warrior,” I interrupted. “I want to drive a car that’s got a booster big enough to propel a converted atomic submarine into space.”

I watched as Cleopatra decoded that. Her face looked like she just found out her father was now dating his ex-girlfriend‘s sister, daughter, and niece all at the same time. Or at least that was the look I had when my father did that.

“If what you say is true,” she finally said, “we need to get the hell out of Harmonia immediately.”

I agreed.

“Grab a handful of those mushrooms to tide you over. We’ll have to stop at my apartment to get my butt and my passport, then we’ll go straight to the hovercraft depot.”

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Our Nest Feels Empty

There’s a certain silence in the Writing Cave these days. Fewer characters are clamoring for attention, plot complications are down by a third, our writing lives have fewer distractions. And yet, the feeling is bittersweet.

As we mentioned last week, we’ve just released the final book (so far) in our Divided Man series. We’ve been living with Fin and Rook and their friends, family, and enemies for a long time and it’s distinctly weird to be done with them. That parenthetical “so far” up there at the top of this paragraph hints at our separation anxiety. Maybe we aren’t entirely ready to let go of the Tanners after all.

It feels a little like sending our kids off to college. We prepared them as best we could, and when the time came we launched them out into the world. We miss them, and the house feels distinctly empty without them around, but it was time for them to strike out on their own, to make their own marks.

New characters will come along to fill the void left by the Tanners and Tenpennys and talking lava lamps, it will just take a while for us to get to know them and become attached to them in the same way.

When our sons left home, we got a dog. Is it a coincidence that now that our first series is complete we’re talking about getting another?

I Would Have Enjoyed

  • by Kentenjoyed a few hours’ sleep
  • emerging from the kennel
  • using massive metal golems
  • your footprints may not complicate matters
  • flinging discretion to the chilly wind

Tune in next time part 224                           Click Here for Earlier Installments

I would have enjoyed a few hours’ sleep, but there were too many things demanding action and attention. For example, I needed to figure out who Cleopatra really was.

I followed her out into the hall, mainly just to keep her where I could see her. She went into the bathroom and released Gordon, and the goose emerging from the kennel was not a happy one. He flapped angrily, his large wings churning the air and smacking the walls in the small room. Cleopatra yelped and jumped back, slamming the door to contain Gordon’s tantrum.

“I hope you have another bathroom,” I said.

“No,” she sighed. Gordon started honking. It was alarmingly loud. “He’ll calm down eventually. His voice can’t see my bones.”

The weird turn of phrase made the hair on my arms stand up. It was an old Svenborgian proverb! I suddenly understood the significance of the words inside her fake butt, which must have been manufactured there. And that would explain how she knew who the Viscount was, and knew he was a dick.

I had a terrifying thought. Cleopatra might be a Golem Rider. Regular Svenborgians were dangerous, but the members of that apocalyptic cult were especially so. They believed they would one day overthrow the current world order using massive metal golems that lived in their many extinct volcanoes. They even had a sitcom starring those gleaming giants. One of them had the catchphrase, “your footprints may not complicate matters,” which he always said after one of the others had stepped on a bunch of people on the sidewalk.

We had left her apartment building and were hiking up the boulevard. A storm was closing in, and perhaps its ominous backdrop inspired my next move. Flinging discretion to the chilly wind, I asked her, “What’s the Svenborgian-Tibetan connection?”

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By the Time Isaac was Done with Me

  • by jenwonder if you even miss me
  • people thought they had a far more sinister meaning
  • dressed in a Hazmat suit
  • mixture of ferocity and jocularity
  • nonetheless churning with anxiety

Tune in next time part 223                           Click Here for Earlier Installments

By the time Isaac was done with me I had learned that her real name was Cleopatra, and I was exhausted from my efforts both conversational and carnal. My mind was nonetheless churning with anxiety over the sinister Tibetan chocolate bar, which manifested in my actions as an odd mixture of ferocity and jocularity. The last time I felt that way I dressed in a Hazmat suit and went to the White House to talk things out with Thor. The thing about Hazmat suits is that most people thought they had a far more sinister meaning than I intended. I was just trying to be funny, but you try telling that to the Secret Service.

I digress.

There were no Hazmat suits in Cleopatra’s apartment so it was easy enough to avoid that misstep this time, despite my compromised mental state. As I was getting dressed in the clothes I’d gotten from Jim’s closet what felt like ages ago, Cleopatra turned on the TV.

“We need to make sure your father’s return hasn’t hit the news yet,” she said, flipping through the channels until she landed on the Contrarian News Network showing footage of my heavily pregnant wife Fleur and her retinue, all laughing at the antics of a troop of mimes.

I wonder if you even miss me, I thought, as she threw her arms around the neck of Viscount Arlo of Svenborgia. The damn Svenborgians were all over this mess.

“That Arlo guy is such a dick,” Cleopatra said.

How did she even know who he was?

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Happy Anniversary!

One year ago today we released our first novel, Miss Brandymoon’s Device. It’s been an exciting and momentous year for us. We’ve finally gotten our hard work out in front of an audience. The financial rewards are, so far, very modest. It’s the other, less tangible rewards that we’re basking in. We’ve racked up some reviews, we’ve added newsletter subscribers, we’ve enjoyed conversations with our readers. It’s been a really busy year, but an incredibly satisfying one.

Just a couple of weeks ago we released our third novel, Elsewhere’s Twin, in ebook format, and we’re thrilled to announce that it’s finally available in paperback, too. Since we’d been through the process twice before, we thought we were old pros. We thought that ordering a proof copy was a mere formality. So when the proof arrived and there was an issue with the cover it threw off our schedule. After a bunch of fiddling and phone calls and reformatting we finally have the cover looking how we want it. Which means it’s ready for you to enjoy!

Elsewhere’s Twin is the final book (so far) in our Divided Man series. Since we’re self-publishing, we do all the steps ourselves. Editing and polishing Divided Man has pulled us away from writing the new Science Novels more than we anticipated, and more than we like. We’re planning to slow our pace a little bit for the next set of releases so that we have ample time to make everything the best that we possibly can.

But right now we’re just basking a little bit in the glow of our accomplishment. Go Team Skelley!

The Place To Stow Gordon

  • by Kent— which, by the way, is their normal state —
  • set of handcuff keys
  • she had on those damn falsies
  • “Just pretty much the basics.”
  • sound waves, not X-rays

Tune in next time part 222                           Click Here for Earlier Installments

The place to stow Gordon turned out to be Isaac’s apartment in the building across the street. She had a rabbit hutch in the bathroom, which became a goose hutch.

Isaac took my hand and led me into the next room. “Now I need you to see if my cheeks are rosy — which, by the way, is their normal state — or if there’s any bruising or other damage.” From her cleavage she pulled a set of handcuff keys on a silver chain. She took off the chain and handed me the keys, then turned around and bent over.

I discovered a keyhole in her belt, and, hoping I was reading this situation correctly, inserted the key. Her pants fell off, revealing a foam-rubber prosthetic posterior. How would she have even felt Gordon’s nip on her rump, if she had on those damn falsies?

“So far, so good,” I said. “Although, not exactly what I expected. What’s this for?”

“Just pretty much the basics.”

That was evidently thought to be a valid response.

“Well, everything I see here is intact. Not rosy, as such.”

“You’re not done with your examination, doctor.”

Her weird foundation garment also needed the handcuff key to unhook it. At which point I could assure her that the goose hadn’t goosed her too hard. Everything looked fine. In fact, I was at a loss to understand why she wore a fake butt over such a nice real one.

One phrase was printed on the inside of the prosthesis, which I was still trying to decode when Isaac offered to examine my cheeks, just to be safe. She fluttered her eyes at me. “After all, you were in the room with that goose too.”

For the next two hours, I didn’t get many chances to concentrate. But I made sure to memorize the words I’d seen inside her artificial derriere.

“sound waves, not X-rays.”

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I Have Always Been a Man

  • by jenmistrusted his own senses more
  • What kind of candy was it?
  • I hope they jammed their fingers into him
  • “The Devil’s at the bottom of it, I’m sure.”
  • My arse is killing me.

Tune in next time part 221                           Click Here for Earlier Installments

I have always been a man who mistrusted his own senses more than most people do, largely due to all the mind games and psychedelics my parents employed in my upbringing, but I was sure that there was a candy bar strapped to the leg of Gordon the goose. What kind of candy was it? It was vitally important that I find out. It was likely the key to everything. If Esmerelda had resorted to something as dusty and disused as the washerwoman’s code, it only made sense that the confectioner’s code was also in play.

As the gander continued to rub against Isaac’s pants, I crouched and deftly unstrapped the candy bar from his scaly leg. The wrapper was unfamiliar, but the lettering looked Tibetan. Whoever sent this message, I hope they jammed their fingers into Himalayan mittens before frostbite set in.

Isaac peered at the exotic candy in my hand, her eyes wide. “The Devil’s at the bottom of it, I’m sure.”

“The Devil” is what a lot of people called my father.

Gordon didn’t like being ignored. With a loud honk he nipped Isaac. She yelped and scolded the bird, then stood rubbing her rump. “We need to get out of here, find a place to stow Gordon. My arse is killing me. You’ll need to check it for me to make sure he didn’t break the skin.”

While the thought of examining Isaac’s arse would normally have been quite intriguing, I was currently much more concerned about the chocolate bar in my hand. I remembered John’s childhood spent in the Tibetan monastery. If the message really had been sent by my father, things were very dire indeed.

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