Rune Skelley and the Secret of the Hidden Bookcase

We do most of our writing in the aptly named Writing Cave, but from time to time, especially in the winter, we like to hole up and work in the Auxiliary Writing Cave. It has a fireplace, you see, which makes it extra cozy. It’s also the only room in our house we hadn’t gotten around to redecorating. This year we’d finally had enough of the dingy yellow paint, and a decision was reached: it was time for a change. Once we hauled out all the mammoth bones and gave the place a good sweeping, we decided a little bit more than a coat of paint was needed. We would update the fire. As part of the process, we had to put in a false wall.

In the past when we’ve done projects around the house, we’ve written messages on the backside of drywall before installing it, and on the floor before tiling over it. Fun little surprises someone might discover in the far future. This time we got a little more creative.

The fireplace redo is the first major renovation project we’ve done since self-publishing our Divided Man books. Jen thought it would be fun to hide signed copies of the books inside the wall for some future homeowner to find. Kent heartily agreed.

We inscribed all three books.
Kent installed a hidden shelf between the 2x4s.
Up went the backer board.
Then the tile.
Voila!

We think it looks amazing. It’s hard to imagine anyone ever wanting to replace the tile, so perhaps our secret hidden bookshelf will never be discovered.

I Heard the Distinctive Tromping Cadence

  • by Kentdiplomats of any rank
  • dissolved into just the notion of an omelette
  • having an extra nipple
  • recover hope all ye who enter here
  • mind-bending music

Tune in next time part 456      Click Here for Earlier Installments

I heard the distinctive tromping cadence of a guard patrol in the corridor.

“Don’t move!” I barked at Arlo. Then I hauled the door open and summoned the guards into the room. “Arrest this foreign agitator!” I ordered.

“Who, the yeti?” asked the first guard.

Arlo had put the furry mask back on over his shiny bald head. Fine.

“Yes, the yeti!” I said. A smile crept onto my face. “Arrest it, or, treat it in the customary manner. I am told that in the Paradoxica region, you use every part of the yeti.”

“Never mind that,” said the second guard. “But might I inquire as to your business in this tape storeroom? The signage clearly indicates–”

“I am a general, and I am in command of this fortress. That’s my business in this and every room. Is that clear?”

“Crystal, sir. Except, you see, while diplomats of any rank are free to peruse the tape stockpile, military personnel, including all officers, must be properly escorted.”

I pinched the bridge of my nose. “Fine. Take the yeti and chop it up and throw it in the larder. Better yet, it’s fresh. Why not make stock? Simmer it until its bones have dissolved into just the notion of an omelette. I’ll worry about the glitter storm tape later.”

They rousted Arlo to his feet, him still making his pathetic imitation animal grunts. I was surprised he maintained the charade, given my suggestions for how to deal with a ‘yeti’ like him.

“Bit short for a yeti, isn’t he?” asked the first guard.

“Oy, ew!” exclaimed the other. “Can’t cook with any shrimpy yeti having an extra nipple. Too gamey!”

The yeti costume worn by Arlo was indeed equipped with a supernumerary nipple. And in the armpit, a tattoo reading “recover hope all ye who enter here.”

I harrumphed. “In that case, let’s go back to where we started: arrest him!” And I yanked on the costume’s headpiece. It didn’t come off, and Arlo made sad whimpering noises.

“No disrespect, sir, but we do try not to mistreat the yetis. We hunt them for sport and meat, sure. But we never pull their hair.”

“This is no yeti,” I insisted, but they were openly doubtful. We were all interrupted by a new sound from the corridor, mind-bending music like a swarm of wasps skimming the inner contours of a sousaphone.

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Like Any Good Bureaucracy

  • by jen(read: glitter storm)
  • visited the forbidden basement
  • I almost gasp
  • murmured to the trembling creature
  • “Gimme a fucking break, girlie!”

Tune in next time part 455      Click Here for Earlier Installments

Like any good bureaucracy, Contraria makes liberal use of red tape. But only in the low country during the week of the new moon every other leap year. The University of Pittsburghistan offers doctorate level studies in proper tape usage, and without a degree from that hallowed institution it’s impossible to enter the diplomatic corps.

This being the Paradoxica Mountains, and the moon being a waxing crescent, with the barometric pressure falling, I needed pale blue tape with multicolored sparkles (read: glitter storm). Enigma Fortress kept their tape in an underground vault behind a door marked “No Admittance: Authorized Personnel Only.” Being the highest ranking officer in the fortress I decided I was authorized, and so visited the forbidden basement to get the consecrated tape and other stationery supplies to file my report.

I almost gasped when I flipped on the fluorescent lights and beheld a shaggy white bear-like beast huddled in the corner. It looked for all the world like a yeti, but that was obviously ridiculous. I approached slowly and murmured to the trembling creature, hoping to get a better look and determine if it was actually a dog or what.

Its growls sounded like a person imitating an animal more than an actual animal. I screwed up my courage and tugged on the furry head. It came right off, exposing the pink bald scalp I had hoped to never see again.

“Arlo!” I spat. “I knew you were behind the poisoning attempt. Why are you disguised as a mythical creature?”

“Gimme a fucking break, girlie!” my nemesis cried. “Everyone knows that yeti are real!”

“I’m assuming you don’t know what they do with yetis here in the mountains.”

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2020 Vision

As we sit here in the Writing Cave, planning out our next writing moves, it’s becoming clear that 2020 might be a year that very little actual writing gets done.

We set January 31 as the deadline for Sibling of Music Novel, a target which seems easily reachable. There are two scenes in progress, and five more after that waiting to be written. Easy peasy. After a small champagne toast, the rest of the month will be spent going back through the manuscript and filling in the placeholders, fixing things we changed our minds about halfway through, and addressing all the other little fiddly things that we know need attention. It will still technically be a first draft, but it will be a pretty clean one. That’s how we like ’em.

To celebrate the completion of the Music Trilogy we’ll pop open the BIG bottle of champagne.

As of February 1 (assuming all goes according to plan) we will have four completed novels that are in need of major edits. For the past few years we’ve concentrated heavily on the writing side of the equation, and now it’s time to turn that around and get some things polished up and gorgeous.

We have two Music Novels and two Science Novels to edit, and we have yet to decide what order we’re going to do them in. On the one hand, we’re pretty immersed in the Music story world at the moment, so it makes sense to stick with that. On the other hand, Sibling needs some time to rest before we can effectively edit it, so it makes sense to switch our attention to the Science story world. Plus that’s the one that our critique group is looking at right now. But the Music Novel is the one our agent is shopping around, so maybe we should stay focused on that?

Around and around we go.

Wherever we decide to start, each novel will go through several stages of editing, and will rest in between.

And in the background we’ll still be tinkering with ideas for the Ghost Series. Jen is a little concerned about what our workflow will look like if we finish up everything else before we start on the ghosts. At various stages of our process we find it helpful to switch our attention to a different project to let our batteries recharge. What will happen if we don’t have anything else to turn our attention to? Kent is a little concerned about having an ever-increasing pile of first drafts that never get readied for publication, and he points out that there will inevitably be projects after the Ghost Series, so when we need a break we can figure out what the next one will be and work on that.

These best laid plans might all fly out the window when our agent sells Music Novel, because then we’ll have plenty of distractions, what with selling the movie rights, and going on all the talk shows, and hobnobbing with celebrities, and buying yachts and all that.

Happy 2020 to all of you!

“Soap Poisoning?”

It’s New Year’s Eve! What better excuse for another joint writing prompt? Unfortunately the most famous traditional song for this particular holiday has very few lyrics that anyone would recognize, and half of those are in Scottish. So we went another way with our inspiration. Can you guess it?

Once again, Jen goes first with Kent batting cleanup.

Next week we’ll return to our usual schedule of one prompt each. Happy New Year!

  • all is quiet
  • world in white
  • with you night and day
  • nothing changes
  • be with you again
  • under a blood red
  • crowd has gathered
  • arms entwined
  • newspaper says it’s true
  • torn in two

Tune in next time part 453 & 454      Click Here for Earlier Installments

“Soap poisoning?” I felt queasy. “Drinking soap wouldn’t be good for you, but surely it isn’t fatal.” I hoped.

“I’m just telling you what the autopsies show,” said YoYo. “And don’t call me Shirley.”

I belched again, releasing a fusillade of bubbles. Not wanting to take a chance with something so dire, I ran to my luxurious ensuite and made myself vomit into the alabaster commode. I rinsed my mouth and returned to my bedchamber where YoYo stood, looking puzzled.

“I think my Ovaltine was tainted,” I said. “It disagreed with me.”

YoYo pressed her ear against my stomach for a few seconds. “All is quiet now, General,” she said.

“I think that’s a good sign. Assuming I survive the night, what further duties might I be expected to perform?” I was beginning to wonder if the rank of general was purely ceremonial, and if I would be tasked next with parading around the world in white shoes or something equally meaningful.

“The Royal Contrarian Mountain Police will arrive this evening in their sled pulled by mountain goats. They will work with you night and day to determine who it was who poisoned your predecessors.” She crinkled her nose and shook her head. “But don’t get your hopes up for actual justice. These investigations are all for show, and nothing changes no matter what they uncover.”

I crossed the room to my wardrobe and began a perusal of the many uniforms it held. Which one should I wear for my first meeting with the RCMP and their goats? Contrarian tradition is very particular.

YoYo cleared her throat.

“Dismissed,” I said.

“But General,” she simpered. “They won’t arrive for several hours. There’s time for me to be with you again so that you can learn to love me like the cards said.”

“Thanks for reminding me,” I said over my shoulder. “Take those cards with you.” She looked crestfallen. But, much as I enjoyed YoYo physically I couldn’t afford to indulge her outlandishly romanticized ideas about us. I turned to face her. “Take those cards with you, and that’s an order.”

I stared imperiously until she complied, then turned back to the selection of military finery in my closet. Maybe I should have tried to bargain with YoYo for advice about the proper uniform for the occasion, but it was too late now. I was on my own, so I decided to wear the one with the indigo vest under a blood red tail coat. It looked both pompous and outdated, so it probably projected a great deal of authority in Contrarian culture.

There were so many epaulettes and sashes and ribbons and medals and sock garters, it took the better part of half an hour for me to dress myself. Once fully decorated, I left my quarters and attempted to retrace my steps to the courtyard. Along the way I met the yeoman yodeler who had brought me my soapy beverage. He looked quite surprised at my appearance, and I snagged him by the collar and placed him under arrest. Perhaps the RCMP would not be needed after all.

I shouted orders and a military tribunal was quickly convened. “The crowd has gathered samples of soap from every corner of this fortress,” I said. “We’ll see which matches the residue in my Ovaltine glass.”

The glass had been sent down to the fortress’s basement laboratory, along with all the soapy samples. When the analysis was complete, the results were brought to the hall of tribunal by a cadre of alchemists who entered the hall in ascending order of height — arms entwined — until the final member of the retinue had to duck to pass through the door.

“Tell us,” I declaimed, “what you have ascertained about this vile assassination attempt!”

The alchemists began to sing in four-part harmony. They started with ‘Sweet Adeline,’ as per tradition, and eventually came around to the results of their analysis: the soap was unlike any found in the fortress, and was in fact Svenborgian in origin.

“Arlo,” I muttered. “That dick.” He must be making another play for Fleur.

While the alchemists continued their concert, I had the yeoman yodeler thrown in the brig, then telegrammed my wife at home in Funkistan, warning her of the Viscount’s treachery.

Her reply was, “I won’t believe it until the newspaper says it’s true.”

I sent another message, a long rant about her blindness to Arlo’s nefariousness. The telegrapher’s wrist was aching by the time he sent the whole thing. Then, of course, per Contrarian security protocols the entire message had to be calligraphed as well, for the express purpose of being torn in two so that each piece could be burned separately to ensure it didn’t fall into enemy hands.

Reformation of Contrarian military comms procedures suddenly leapt to the forefront of my goals for how to use my influence. But, later. I had other things to tend to first.

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Toodles, 2019!

At the dawn of 2019, we predicted that we would write Sibling of Music Novel this year, and we did! Almost all of it! We also predicted that we would probably move on to work on another project after we finished, and that is where our prophetic faculties let us down. Even though we didn’t complete a novel this year, we’re very happy with where things stand. It was a busy year.

In January we were betwixt and between. Kent was putting the finishing touches on Grandson of Science Novel while Jen tackled the outline for Sibling of Music Novel. We didn’t start composing the new novel until almost the end of February.

Our time in March was divided between writing the Music book and discussing our next project, the Ghost Series.

We were steaming right along in April, writing song lyrics for inclusion in the novel, and researching many diverse topics to round out our characters.

The merry month of May on the blog was dedicated to a deep-dive recap of events in our chain story. In the background we were still writing the novel (when we weren’t visiting the Arctic Circle or The Village), and things ran smoothly until June. That’s when we started encountering bottlenecks. And of course the mandatory fretting about word count reared its head.

In July we talked in depth about Stubs, and shared our template. In August we drank Red Bull. For research. The effects have mostly worn off by now.

We crossed the 100,000 word line with Sibling in September, with no end in sight. So of course we fretted a little harder about what the final word count will be. Then we spent a little bit of early October in NYC for some hands-on research and to meet our agent, and we batted around the idea of setting a deadline.

In November we got a good idea of how much work is left, and admitted that we were unlikely to be done by the end of the year.

Now it’s December again. When our house isn’t full of guests we’re making great progress. Despite that, Sibling of Music Novel will not be done by the 31st. It was more important to us to spend time with our kids than to lock ourselves away in the writing cave and stress about a deadline. We don’t want to be totally laissez-faire about things, though, so we’ve set January 31 as our completion date.

Next week we’ll talk about our plans for the new year. And the new decade.

Happy New Year!

“And in Conclusion”

Happy belated Solstice!

For this year’s Skelleyverse Holiday Extravaganza On Ice, we’ve decided to combine forces and gift you with one bonus-size edition of our chain story, instead of the usual two smaller entries. Our prompt phrases this time all come from a single source: beloved movie A Christmas Story.

Jen will start. She’ll write until she works in the first phrase, then hand the keyboard over to Kent. We’ll alternate until we get to the end of the list.

Have a joyful season, however you choose to celebrate.

  • I can’t put my arms down
  • Only I didn’t say “fudge”
  • Not a finger!
  • you’ll shoot your eye out
  • this thing in the stock which tells time
  • Be sure to drink your Ovaltine.
  • soft glow of electric sex
  • It’s a major award!
  • I triple-dog-dare you!
  • It was… soap poisoning

Tune in next time part 451 & 452      Click Here for Earlier Installments

“And in conclusion,” YoYo said, “That’s how I know that ‘twins’ are merely a trick done with mirrors.”

“That’s preposterous,” I said. “I myself am a twin.”

YoYo made an elaborate show of looking around the room, lifting the blankets to peer under them, craning her neck all around. “I see only one of you.”

“Jason’s not here,” I said. “We’re identical, not conjoined. He’s off somewhere causing trouble, no doubt.”

YoYo sighed sadly. “I had hoped that you would see things my way and that I would be able to finally stop this endless struggle and lay my weapons aside, but I can’t put my arms down yet. Not so long as people like you are out there denying the truth of yetis and lying about the existence of twins.”

“All I can tell you is, I have never seen a yeti but I have seen lots of twins.” Arguing about this was making my head feel soft. “Maybe we just need to accept each other’s differing views, and move on.”

YoYo pointed to her tarot spread. “You denied this, too. You told me I don’t love you, despite the clear message in these infallible instruments of prophecy!”

“Oh, fudge,” I said. Only I didn’t say “fudge” — what I said was a word in Olde High Contrarian that doesn’t really translate but sounds just like “fudge” and means, basically, “please drop this tedious conversational topic, put your clothes on, and give me a few minutes alone to think.”

“It’s like that, is it?” said YoYo. “Fine, General. Have it your way.” She stood and whipped the blankets out from under the tarot cards like a magician denuding a dining table, leaving the intricate card configuration undisturbed upon the mattress. She gathered the blankets around herself like a robe and gave me a particular kind of salute that used only a single finger. Not a finger! How insubordinate!

“I hope that’s not your trigger finger,” I quipped. “Cuz you’ll shoot your eye out on the target range if it is.”

YoYo flounced from the room in a swirl of bedding. I wondered how she would feel about twins after giving birth to some.

Exhausted from my afternoon’s sweaty exertions, I fell asleep. I was awakened sometime later by the fortress’s dinner bell. I was starving. As I rolled out of bed, I noticed that the tarot cards had been shuffled about by my naptime thrashing (my legs tend to be quite restless). Maybe their new message would dissuade YoYo from the ridiculous notion that she was in love with me. I barely had time to put my pants on before the door swung open and a soldier entered, bearing my meal on a tray. It was a simple meal, merely a small loaf of bread and a bowl of thin soup. I prodded the soup with my spoon and discovered this thing in the stock which tells time. That is to say, a pocket watch. Who could have slipped such an item into my dinner. And why?

I was so hungry that I ate the soup anyway. As I dipped the bread to soften it and then gnawed the soggy loaf, I took a shot at decoding the disarrayed tarot cards on the bed. To my amazement there seemed to be something there, if I treated it as an instance of the soothsayer’s code. B… E… S… U… Maybe I was mistaken about it being meaningful, but I plowed on, spiraling into the center of the chaotic spread. R… E… T… O… And eventually, I had a complete phrase.

“Be sure to drink your Ovaltine.”

Just then came another knock on my door, and a soldier entered bearing a glass of what looked like rich, creamy, chocolate milk.

At this point I became unsure that anything from the past several hours had actually happened. Perhaps those mushrooms hadn’t been aphrodisiac purple rangers. Perhaps they had instead been hallucinogenic purple paladins. But the soft glow of electric sex emanating from my groin told me that at least some of the events had indeed occurred.

“Do you ever have one of those days?” I asked the soldier. “I feel like I’m losing my mind.”

“You should apply for the Lost Marbles. It’s a major award! Only the most tragically insane have a shot at winning, but from what the rumor mill is saying about you, General, I think you should enter.”

I surged to my feet in outrage as the yeoman yodeler said, “Enter the contest, General. I triple-dog-dare you!”

The presumptuous soldier quickly set down the glass and darted backwards from my quarters, pulling the door shut behind him. I retrieved the beverage and raised it to my lips, but something about its aroma halted me before sipping. I swirled the drink and took another whiff of the odd bouquet, trying to identify it. The salty broth of my soup, after so much perspiration earlier, had left me quite parched. Whatever type of smoothie the concoction was, it didn’t seem very thirst-quenching, but it was probably better than nothing.

I pinched my nose and chugged it.

There came yet another knock on my door. I burped and said, “Enter.”

It was YoYo. I was very surprised by her return, so soon after our rancorous conversation. She said, “I forgot to tell you this earlier. As I’m sure you know, the last four generals who ran Enigma Fortress died mysteriously.” I did not know this. “The autopsy results have finally come back.” As she spoke, she dug in her pocket and then squinted at a crumpled paper scrap to read it. “It was… soap poisoning.”

I burped again, emitting three tiny bubbles into the room.

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Beginnings and Endings

As we close in on the end of both our novel-in-progress and 2019, we’ve been thinking about endings. And beginnings. The opening and closing scenes of a novel are arguably the most important. With two of us writing, how do we divvy those up?

Fairly evenly as it turns out.

Of our nine novels, Jen has written three 1st scenes and six last scenes, while Kent has written six 1st scenes and two last. If he writes the last scene of Sibling of Music Novel when we get there, we’ll have a lovely sort of symmetry.

We didn’t consciously set out to divvy things up this way. Kent more often writes the opening scene due to logistics. After the plot rainbow, the prose outline, and the traditional outline, the next step in our highly structured method is for Jen to write the stubs. Once she gets a couple of those lined up, Kent can jump in and start the actual prose composition while Jen knocks out a bit more of the pre-writing.

As to the endings, Jen seems to be drawn to them. She’s better at wrapping things up (just ask Kent who’s better at wrapping presents), and since Kent’s shift started sooner, it makes sense for Jen to be the last one out the door.

Of course no scene is ever the property of just one of us. We both edit. We both poke and prod and add and clarify and remove. As our unpublished novels make their way through editing, it’s possible that the beginnings and endings will change and this whole beautiful symmetry we’ve got going on will fall apart. We’ll find out next year.

Happy Solstice!

I Assumed YoYo

  • by Kent“the butterlike secretion”
  • growing use of the current slang
  • applied his forefinger to his forehead
  • seems a bit hypocritical
  • their nefarious schemes

Tune in next time part 450      Click Here for Earlier Installments

I assumed YoYo was just being spitefully dramatic, but she was serious about her disbelief in twins. I could only shake my head as she worked herself up into a rant about the myth of multiple births, spread by the ruling class to further their nefarious schemes.

“It seems a bit hypocritical of you to jump into bed with someone like me, if you’re so opposed to what the fat-cats are up to.”

“But don’t you see? I’m trying to liberate you from their clutches! Free you from your sham marriage. As for the whole ‘twins’ thing, that all dates back to a legend that says William Penn II applied his forefinger to his forehead while his concubine applied her forefinger to his foreskin. The wordplay is quite droll in the original, but sadly it doesn’t translate.”

My Olde High Contrarian was pretty good, actually, and I had read the legend of which she spoke. Hers sounded like a heretical interpretation to me. “Are you part of a faction?” I asked her. “Trying to convince high-ranking military officers to defect?”

She nodded, then shook her head, then shrugged. “Everybody’s part of a faction, when you come right down to it. I mean, there must be a faction that would have me, right?” She rambled some more about her ideology and I struggled to make sense of it. Her speech was rife with contradictions and peppered with unfamiliar figures of speech. At least she didn’t seem to join in the growing use of the current slang term “the butterlike secretion” to refer to any disagreeable political view.

I had to find out if there was anyone at Enigma Fortress I could trust. Including YoYo.

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YoYo Cradled the Tarot Deck to her Bosom

  • by jenany persons who might be within hearing
  • Don’t you know that I love you?
  • “Hadn’t you better come and ask yourself?” she asked, demurely.
  • melts beautifully on the tongue
  • one of those times we just did oral

Tune in next time part 449      Click Here for Earlier Installments

YoYo cradled the tarot deck to her bosom, closed her eyes, and said, “I call out to any persons who might be within hearing, but who are dead, to guide me.” She then laid one last card in the final position of the spread before her. “The matchmaker! Well, that’s unexpected.” She looked at me and said, “I suppose you’ll have to get divorced.”

“What? Why?” I asked.

“Don’t you know that I love you? It’s written in the cards. There can be no other interpretation.” She tilted her head and squinted. “In truth I don’t feel it yet myself, but the cards don’t lie.” She shrugged.

I was alarmed. “Ask the cards what the Warlord would say if I tried to divorce his daughter.”

“Hadn’t you better come and ask yourself?” she asked, demurely.

“There’s really no reason to,” I said. “I won’t be divorcing Fleur, and you don’t actually love me, no matter what those pieces of painted ivory say.”

“These cards aren’t ivory! How barbaric!” YoYo shuddered. “They’re carved from yeti bones!”

“Yeti bones?”

“In the Paradoxica Mountains we use every part of the yeti. The meat is a specialty, served only at high festivals. It melts beautifully on the tongue…”

“Yeti’s aren’t real.”

YoYo gasped. “Blasphemer! I can’t believe I had sex with a nonbeliever 27 times (even if one of those times we just did oral) and am carrying his child!”

“It’s probably twins,” I said. “They run in my family.”

“I don’t believe in twins,” YoYo spat.

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