drillbit

For a twelve foot tall robot with industrial drills instead of hands, there were worse gigs than being the heavy for a criminal mastermind.  Sure, work was sporadic and the law was always on their tail, but the pay was good and he never had to worry where his next tune-up was coming from.

“Drillbit!”

That was his cue.  He walked through the ragged opening where the lobby doors to the bank had stood moments before.  His boss, Doctor Dystructo (the papers were always spelling it wrong), stood in the middle of the lobby wearing his usual black get-up, fists on his hips.  Dozens of people huddled on the marble floor amidst the rubble from the blasted doors.  He didn’t pay them any mind. Crowd control was someone else’s job.

The Doctor raised one hand and pointed to the far wall, beyond which, if their blueprints were correct, the vault was located.  He then yelled, “Drill!” and released a sinister laugh that only madmen could pull off successfully.

Drillbit could do without the theatrics, but that was the Doctor’s style.  The robot cranked up his cone-shaped drills and they whirred into life.  He walked through the lobby and swung his arms wide to loosen the joints.  People screamed and ducked their heads to avoid being hit by the deadly drills.

Okay. Maybe he liked a little theatrics, too.

The wall was reduced to a pile of plaster and masonry in a matter of minutes.  He then dug his drills into the smooth surface of the gleaming vault.  Metal shards rained down around him as his drills sank further and further into the three foot thick door.  He figured at this rate, they would be back at headquarters in plenty of time to catch most of the “Lost In Space” marathon on cable.

Drillbit could tell by the change in vibration that he was inches from punching through the vault door.  Digging in for the final assault, he heard a commotion and turned to look back into the lobby.

Damn. It looked like he was going to miss that marathon after all.

Cops in riot gear swarmed the bank.  The Doctor was face down on the floor with a cop’s knee in his back.  Two more cops had their guns trained on the Doctor’s head.

If he had shoulders, Drillbit would have shrugged. Their guns couldn’t hurt him.  He’d just continue drilling into the vault, grab some bags of cash, then plow through those cops and stroll out the front door.  He was about to return to his work when he felt a tap on his right side.  Looking down, he saw a female officer grinning up at him.

“Give it up bolt-bag,” she said as she waived her high-powered taser in his face.

Drillbit was about to show her what this “bolt-bag” could do to a human skull, when she pulled the trigger and released 100,000 volts into his metal hide.

The last thought to flash through his circuits before they fried to a crisp was that subway construction might not have been such a bad career choice after all.

Crime doesn’t pay, y’all.  Just ask poor Drillbit.

This one turned out a bit sillier than I intended. And no one died. My muse is getting soft.

If you’d like to see pictures of my previous paper robot pals and read their stories, please visit my Robot-A-Month page.

jackpot

The pan-galactic pleasure cruiser, Andromeda Dream, had just buzzed by Alpha Centauri when Muriel decided to try her luck in the casino. She normally wasn’t the gambling type, but the champagne cocktail they served on the observation deck left her feeling a bit adventurous. Besides, Hal would have enjoyed the casino and she intended to keep her promise to live life for the both of them.

Muriel stood at the entrance to the Shooting Star Casino overwhelmed by all the flashing multi-colored lights and the competing melodies and chimes from the electronic games. The walls were covered in dark wood and the plush carpet featured a swirling design in blues and greens. The burnished brass ceiling tiles reflected the whole scene and gave the room a golden glow. She wondered if her simple yellow dress and orthopedic sandals were too casual for such a place, but she fluffed her gray hair with her fingers and forged ahead.

A pretty waitress with a dazzling smile offered another champagne cocktail which Muriel gratefully accepted. As she sipped her drink, she circled the room, searching for an entertaining way to lose a few bucks. She knew the rules to blackjack, but the thought of playing with a table full of strangers intimidated Muriel. She’d only ever played cards with Hal. She also knew how to operate a few of the electronic games, but she was overwhelmed by row upon row of blinking, chiming machines.

“May I be of assistance?”

Muriel turned toward the deep, soothing voice, relieved that one of the porters had sensed her distress and was coming to her aid. But when she looked around, she didn’t see a smooth-faced youth in a burgundy uniform. Before her stood a blue robot with a large square head and rectangular body. His mouth was a glowing white bar and the yellow bulbs of his eyes were set within a red housing, giving him a startled expression which belied his calm voice.

“Oh. Hello.” Muriel managed to reply after her initial shock.

“You appear hesitant,” said the robot. “It is my pleasure to assist you or answer any questions you may have.”

The cocktail probably helped, but Muriel found herself liking this robot. His formal speech was charming and she always did love the color blue. “I have no real experience with casinos,” she said. “I have no idea where to begin.”

A door slid open on the robot’s body revealing three spinning panels common in old-fashioned slot machines. Pictures of stars and planets and rockets rotated in and out of sight. “Are you familiar with the rules of this type of game?”

“Yes,” said Muriel. “But I haven’t seen one in ages.”

“If you like, you could try your luck with me. There is no prize, however the outcome will determine where in the casino you venture first. ”

Muriel smiled. A game to decide which game to play. How wonderful! “I would like that very much, thank you,” she said.

“It is my pleasure.”

Muriel knew his responses were programmed, however his lovely deep voice made him sound genuinely pleased. For the first time since she boarded the ship alone two days ago, she felt at ease.

“All you must do,” said the robot, “is say the word ‘stop’ and this will pause the tumblers. Whenever you are ready, you may say the word.”

“Okay,” she said as she set her empty cocktail glass on a nearby table. She then walked up to the robot, closer than she was before, and clasped her hands to her chest. The panels spun round and round and she knew it was impossible to try to anticipate which picture would be shown.  After a short pause she said, “Stop.”

One by one, three red rocket ships settled into place across the front of the robot. Muriel knew that if this were a real slot machine, she would have hit the jackpot.

“Congratulations,” said the robot. “You have selected the Ruby Rocket game. It is quite simple to learn and has statistically some of the most lucrative payouts in the whole casino.”

Muriel clapped her hands and laughed. “That sounds wonderful!” she said. “Will you show me where it is and get me started?”

“Of course,” said the robot in that low, soothing voice of his. “And if you find that the Ruby Rocket is unsatisfactory, I could show you one of several other games that you may enjoy.”

The robot walked down the aisle of games and Muriel followed. “Oh, my Hal would have loved this,” she said as she took in all the excitement blinking and buzzing around her. “He was always doing fun things. Even joined a barbershop quartet once.” Without realizing, she had wrapped her hand around the robot’s metal arm, allowing him to lead her like an old friend. “He was a baritone,” she whispered with a smile.

Don’t adjust your browser. You’re at the right place. I know it’s hard to tell since no one died and nothing exploded. I am capable of writing stories with happy endings. I just don’t do it often. I suppose the few days I just spent at the beach with all the red wine I could drink put me in a good mood.  Don’t get used to it.

If you’d like to know what all this is about, please visit my Robot-A-Month page.

 

it’s like “Where’s Waldo” only way easier

I’ve been neglecting my little corner of the Internet. I have many good, solid, reasonable excuses, but you don’t want to hear all that and I’m too busy to type them all out anyway.

But, I have been up to stuff. Some of it quite fun.

First of all, I was chosen by the wise and lovely Hippie Cahier to partake in a little venture she started called The Oma Today Project.  I got to play host to a cute, gray robot and post about his adventures. Check it out! Tell your friends! And sign up to host The Oma yourself!

Second, the publisher I am interning for, Musa, asked me to contribute a post to their blog. And it’s all about my favorite subject: Me! So, if you’d like to read about my attempts to tackle crushing insecurity and my fear of babies then clicky here.

Between my part-time gig being an editing intern and trying to write my novel about pan-dimensional monsters, I will not have much time to post new stuff here.  However, I do promise to continue my Robot-A-Month posts. I enjoy them too much to let them languish un-assembled with their story untold.

 

better living through reese’s peanut butter cups

We’ve all heard of Pinterest by now, haven’t we? That virtual scrapbook where we can pin all our favorite recipes, fashions, hairstyles, cute animals, funny sayings, art, and pictures of television characters with sarcastic captions.  Then, if it wasn’t enough to collect all these fantastic things, we get to share them with complete strangers. Cause that’s what the internet is for: learning more about people you’ve never met than you know about your own family.

One popular subject on Pinterest is food.  Sweet food being a major sub-set.  And, as you probably deduced from the title of this post (cause you’re a clever one, you are), I’m going to concentrate my focus on one item in particular.

The ubiquitous Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup.

Thanks to Pinterest, I have found all sorts of new ways to use this popular candy. (click on the pic to go to the pin on Pinterest)

Like disguising a sloppy frosting job.

I swear there is a cake under there somewhere.

Or making favors for kid’s parties.

No, Cindy, don't eat the paper. Oh gosh. Let mommy get the ipecac.

You can turn this drugstore staple into a treat fit for a fancy soiree.

No, Mr. Campbell, don't eat the paper. Oh dear. Does anyone know the heimlich?

Also, it seems that people will never run out of new and fascinating ways to satisfy their sweet tooth. Like sandwiching a Reese’s cup between two Double-Stuff Oreos, dipping the whole mess in chocolate, and topping with Reese’s Pieces.

Diabeetus Sandwich, anyone?

Now, not all ideas involving Reese’s cups are completely whack-a-doodle.

Reese's martini - shaken, stirred, I don't care. Just hand it over and no one gets hurt.

And some ideas are completely inspired.

Reese's infused vodka. Disgusting or genius? Only time and a few mason jars will answer this question.

***TODAY’S SPECIAL***

On this historic day, otherwise known as Wednesday, 19 of your favorite humor bloggers are staging a WordPress coup. We have banded together to address the important topic, Better Living Through Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups.

Yes, you read that right. Your eyes are fine. Well, they may not be fine – I really don’t know. But it does say “19 of your favorite humor bloggers” (or who SHOULD be your favorite bloggers). We are all presenting the same topic, each from his or her particularly unique perspective.

Why this topic? Why now?

Why not?

Click on the Reese’s Pieces link to gobble up the entire, yummy bag of 19 posts.

Bon Appetite!

The Big Sheep Blog

Childhood Relived

Go Guilty Pleasures

Fifty Four and A Half

Fix It Or Deal

Play 101

k8edid

Lenore’s Thoughts Exactly

Life In The Boomer Lane

Peg-o-Leg’s Ramblings

Refrigerator Magnate

Running From Hell With El

She’s A Maineiac

The Byronic Man

The Good Greatsby

The Monster In Your Closet

The Ramblings

Thoughts Appear’s Blog

Unlikely Explanations

don’t panic

A slab of plaster broke free from the ceiling and crashed to the floor behind us after another explosion rocked the building.  The Professor and I scrambled down the hallway, dodging falling debris and climbing over toppled furniture.  The air was thick with dust, but through a broken window I could see black rocks, some the size of Mini Coopers, falling from the sky, slamming into the south wing of the building and the surrounding grounds.  Insanely, I found myself trying to remember if they were called meteors or meteorites once they hit the planet.  Then, after an impact tremor almost knocked me off my feet, all I could think about was keeping up with the Professor.

We reached the end of the hall and half fell, half ran down the emergency stairwell to the garage level.  From there we felt our way through the dust and smoke until we came to the fortified bunker that housed some of the Professor’s larger experiments.  After heaving the thick metal door closed behind me, the sounds of explosions were muffled, but I could still feel the vibrations through the floor and walls.  Thankfully, the emergency generators were running, so the lab lights were working, although the assault outside caused them to flicker.

“Sarah, help me with this!”The professor was struggling with a tarp of some kind on the other side of the immense lab.

I ran over to him and helped pull the tarp off what was revealed to be a robot of all things.  It had a square body with arms and legs and a wide, rectangular head with two small bulbs for eyes.  “What does this do?” I asked him.

“I designed this robot to emit ultra-sonic frequencies,” said the professor as he pushed a few buttons on the robot’s front panel. “The right frequency aimed at the meteors could disintegrate them before they hit the ground.” He turned to me and grabbed my shoulder. His white hair was tinted brown with dust, making him appear years younger. “I told those bastards in D.C. that this was coming, but they didn’t listen to me.”

A particularly large meteorite (that’s what they’re called after they hit the ground, I’d remembered) must have landed nearly on top of us, because the whole lab shifted two feet to my left.  The lights flashed and dust sifted down from the ceiling. I was thrown against a nearby desk which I clutched like a life raft.  “Professor?”

His head popped into view from behind the robot’s right shoulder.  “I’ve got him all warmed up.  All I have to do is push this red button and he’ll calibrate the frequency needed to blast the meteors into sand.” He pushed the button and stepped out from behind the robot.

The robot’s eyes glowed bright blue and a screen across its front flashed with indicator bars of different colors.  What they meant was beyond me.  Then the metal beast fell over, flat on what could be considered its face.  The Professor and I stood over the prone robot and watched, stunned, as its head and legs retreated within the body like a mechanical turtle.  All its lights and indicators then switched off and the machine just lay there, dark and silent.

I turned to the Professor for some sort of explanation, but he only scratched his head, dust falling from his hair.  I stepped closer to the robot and tried to ignore the lab trembling around me.  From this new angle, I could see two words printed below a large red square on the robot’s back.

PANIC BUTTON.

This month’s robot does a trick. He really does open up so his head and legs get stored within his body.  How cute is that? Well, not cute if you want him to save the world and all he does is panic, but we’ll ignore that for now.

If you’d like to read about my robots from previous months or just learn what the heck this is all about, please visit my Robot A Month 2012 page.

lock me down to set me free

In case you didn’t know, I am attempting to write a novel (pause for the ooohs and ahhhs). I have attempted this endeavor exactly twice before, but I was young and stupid(er) and both manuscripts are less than half finished and collecting dust on my hard-drive.

This time. It’s personal.

I am going to finish this novel if it kills someone (not me, that would be silly).

Like all new relationships, my novel and I started out hot and heavy.  I couldn’t get enough of it. I’d sneak away while at work and whisper sweet, naughty things to it. We’d stay up late, talking and advancing the plot and doing things I’ve never done before like introducing multiple character points of view.  Heady times, they were.

But I knew if I was going to sustain the connection to my novel beyond a mere tryst, we had to get serious. Yeah, I’m talkin’ commitment.  I’m talkin’: OUTLINE.

Did you hear the dun-dun-DUNNNNN music? Cause you should have.  “Outline” is a dirty word to us creative types.  We want to be all “you can’t structure my muse” or “my characters tell me where the story needs to go” or “writing is an organic process that can’t be contained.”  To that I say, and pardon my French, bull-hockey.

Writing may be organic, but STORY is not. Story needs structure. Story needs outline.

If this sounds like I’m trying to convince myself, then you’re right. I am.  I’ve never done an outline before.  But I remembered the saying “the only common denominator of all your failed relationships is you” and I figured that I needed to change.  So I started an outline. And it was hard. Really gawd-awful hard. So hard that I questioned the purpose. (Yeah, I know. You’re saying, “If it was easy then it wouldn’t be worth having.” Well, shut up. This is my blog and I didn’t ask you.)

Then, while browsing the internet one day, as I am wont to do, I came across Mary Robinette Kowal’s interview on the website i09.  In particular, this passage:

How does working within limits (puppeteering instead of acting, writing Glamour in Glass only with the vocabulary Austen actually used) improve your work?

I think that working within design constraints forces anyone to be more creative. When you can do anything, frequently there is no focus to the work. It sprawls. Take Spider-Man, on Broadway, as an example of something that could have benefited from being constrained. When I’m teaching puppet building in schools, I confine students to using only paper for decoration. If I offer them yarn or glitter, they focus on the materials rather than the effect. When they have a limited set of materials, they don’t get distracted by the shiny. It’s not that artists should be hampered in order to create art, but that being hampered forces one to rely on the innate creativity instead of throwing all the shiny bits at the page.

Did you see those words: design constraints.  I did and they struck a chord.

I’ve been giving myself design constraints once a month for over a year now.  I glue together a little character, be it a zombie or a robot, and construct a very short story around that little paper figure.  I am bound by the parameters of its design.  I also took part in Blogdramedy’s insane December challenge, wherein I wrote a 144 word story once a day incorporating the gifts from the 12 Days of Christmas song.  And you know what? My zombie, robot, and Christmas stories are some of the best stuff I’ve posted on this here blog.  Really.  I read back over those posts and go, “damn, I wrote that?”  Yeah.  I did.  And I wrote it while being confined by predetermined rules.

Can we say “Light-bulb Moment?”

That’s when the idea of an outline became less of a chore and more of a challenge.  If I can work with such limitations as word count, incorporating a certain phrase, or including the characteristics of a paper figure, then I surely can work within the confines of an outline. (And don’t call me Shirley.)

I work well with structure.  Who knew? Me. Who can’t even be bothered to style her hair or iron her clothes, thrives on organization.  I’m just as surprised as you are.  But I am relieved.  Liberated, even.  Because I know if I can create a less than 500 word story that I’m proud of using arbitrary guide-lines, then imagine what I can accomplish with an outline to a whole novel.

I think I just fell in love.

and this is why i’ll never write porn

One of the more difficult things I’ve had to do this week is create sexual tension between two monsters.  Not real monsters, mind you, although that comes with it’s own set of problems.  These are monsters in the story I am writing.

The issue isn’t with the monsters themselves.  Yes, they have gray skin, dull black eyes, ice-pick teeth and sharp claws.  The male monster, Cid, is a sarcastic sonofabitch with a short fuse.  He desperately wants to “blow off some steam” with the female monster, Nel, but she isn’t having any of it. However, she still flirts with him, bats her dark lashes and leads him on, right before she slams the door in his face. She’s kind of a cruel bitch, but that’s why I like her. Cid deserves it, anyway.

Even if Cid and Nel were human, that scene still would have been hard for me to write. Why? Because to do it well takes subtlety. Finesse.  I want to convey intent with a look, tension with a slide of a hand along a door frame, desire with a tilt of a chin. I am all about the “show don’t tell” aspect of writing.  To come right out and say what’s on Cid’s mind would plunge the narrative into the arena of ”heaving bosom” pulp romance.  That is definitely not the style I’m going for.

Ask me to kill a character and I can gleefully spew out a few hundred words of blood-soaked prose describing every detail of the poor schmuck’s demise and, if I’m lucky, I can even make you giggle a little while reading it. Call me sick, but I like writing that kind of stuff.  It comes easy.  (“Easy” is a subjective term, by the way. All writing for me is a mind-grinding, gut-wrenching experience that often involves tears and rending of clothing.)

But ask me to write about two people flirting with one another and I draw a blank. Flatline. Dammit, Jim, I’m a writer not a sexologist! (that’s a thing, right?) I’ll fumble about in my brain, groping around in the dark, fingers pawing the air hoping to eventually caress the words I know are cowering in there somewhere.  It’s like the worst, most awkward round of “Seven Minutes In Heaven” ever.

Why this happens should be obvious. I am terrible at flirting.

I am not a subtle person. I’m big and loud and when I talk I use flailing hand gestures that quite often send glassware flying.  Without thinking, I’ll blurt out terribly offensive things in mixed company.  My laugh can be heard from three rooms away.  And, the thing is, if anyone of the opposite gender happened to find this behavior in the least bit charming, I would be the last one to notice.  Because as bad as I am at flirting, I am even worse at detecting if I’m being flirted with.

I didn’t really think about all this too much, until I read the following quote by author, Neil Gaiman:

In my experience, writers tend to be really good at the inside of their own heads and imaginary people, and a lot less good at the stuff going on outside, which means that quite often if you flirt with us we will completely fail to notice, leaving everybody involved slightly uncomfortable and more than slightly unlaid.

So I would suggest that any attempted seduction of a writer would probably go a great deal easier for all parties if you sent them a cheerful note saying “YOU ARE INVITED TO A SEDUCTION: Please come to dinner on Friday Night. Wear the kind of clothes you would like to be seduced in.”

And alcohol may help, too. Or kissing. Many writers figure out that they’re being seduced or flirted with if someone is actually kissing them.

In my case, this is so unbelievably true.  If it weren’t for a blind date set up by my sister, I may never have gotten married.  But while this sheds light on my behavior, it does nothing to solve my creative block when it comes to writing sexy scenes.  If only I could just hand my characters a “seduction note” and have that be the end of it.

And, if anyone is actually reading this, bless you.  I have been a terrible blog-friend these past few weeks.  As you can see, I’ve had my hands full with some amorous monsters.  I promise I will soon try to carve out some time to read all the wonderful things I know you are posting on your own blogs.

hey girl, you’ve got a problem

I have a full-time job – Monday through Friday, 8:30 am to 5:00 pm. I have a part-time non-paying job editing books when I get home. Right now I have a 60,000 word historical romance novel I need to line edit by Thursday. THIS Thursday. I also have submissions from members of my writer’s group that I have to read and critique. Then there is the book for my book club that I have to finish reading. Not to mention the book that I am supposed to be writing.  And I also try to carve out a few moments to write on this here blog for fun. But I need to read and comment on blogs that I follow as well because they are all so awesome.

Busy, right?
So, what do I do?
I start a new tumblr blog.
Because I am a lunatic.

See, last Friday, for some reason, I  was thinking about that “Hey girl, Ryan Gosling” meme that’s going around. If you aren’t familiar, it’s superimposed text over a photo of hot young actor Ryan Gosling that says ridiculously romantic things like, “Hey girl, I love how you look in sweatpants.” Or, “Hey girl, I can record the game, let’s go to the farmer’s market instead.” Sappy stuff like that.

Then my brain led me down a twisted thought path and I started musing about everyone’s favorite crossbow wielding redneck, Daryl Dixon from The Walking Dead, and what a very un-romantic character he is. He doesn’t have time for niceties or making a girl feel good about herself. He’s got squirrels to kill and zombie ears to collect and crossbow bolts to carve from tree branches, dammit!

And then I started cracking myself up (as I am wont to do) by the images I created in my head. But not satisfied with just my thoughts, I decided to bring them to life.

I understand that if you aren’t a fan of the show, all this will make little to no sense to you and for that, I apologize.

And then, because I am an attention whore, I created a tumblr blog where I can post this insanity for the whole internet to see.  What’s even worse? It’s actually kinda popular. I started this on Friday night and as of Monday afternoon the blog already has 53 followers. For some perspective, I started my Retro Fun tumblr over seven months ago and it only has 22 followers. The last thing I need is for other people to think this stuff is entertaining! Now I’ll want to keep doing it! When I should be doing something else!

I think I have raised procrastination to an art-form.
I have a problem.

And now I gotta go Google some more pictures of Daryl to caption.
Excuse me . . .

20 questions

I love talking about myself. 
No. It’s true.
That said, when the lovely and talented Blogdramedy opened her blog up to folks who were willing to answer her 20 Questions, I jumped at the opportunity.
Okay, I didn’t jump. But I did set down my glass of wine long enough to dash out an email to her.

So, if you like me here then you’ll love me over there.

And, I’m still looking for guest bloggers to post here on FIOD. Don’t be shy. I promise I won’t sic my robots on you.

trigger-happy

Presidents of the two warring factions sat opposite each other at a metal table, their armies at attention on the cratered, shell-ravaged field surrounding them. This was an uneasy truce, but one necessitated by exhausted resources and pressure from legions of widows and childless mothers.

General Xod stood a few paces behind President Stants, trying to ignore the tight, starched collar of his dress uniform.  He turned to his Lieutenant, Combat Protocol Droid 008.  “Looks like this bloody mess is finally at an end, Ocho.”

The droid didn’t reply, its single optical sensor was scanning the enemy, President Cahn, as he read the peace treaty holographically projected on the table. Security Status Alpha was still in effect, so the droid remained on high alert, its twin .50 caliber shoulder-mount machine guns locked and loaded.

The General lifted his chin to stretch his neck when a large fly buzzed his ear and he reflexively swatted it away.  He watched as the blue-black insect circled the air in front of him then flew straight for the table, hovering a moment before landing just inches from where President Stants rested his elbow.

President Cahn also saw the fly and slowly raised one gloved hand, then slammed it down on the table to dispatch the creature.

Realizing how this sudden action could be perceived by the droid, the General yelled, “Ocho, stand down!”

But it was too late.

The droid let loose with both barrels, effectively vaporizing President Cahn from the waist up.

President Stants remained seated, too shocked to even wipe away the blood splattered across his face, while the armies on both sides of the field readied their weapons and opened fire.

As General Xod unbuttoned his collar and drew his sidearm, he snarled at the droid, “If I get out of this alive, I swear I’m turning you into a toaster!”

Poor, Ocho.  Old programming is hard to break, I suppose.

Bonus points if you can identify the three thinly-veiled references to popular sci-fi movies and one vague reference to a tv show. (Hint: I used some creative spelling.)

You can see my robots for January and February by going to my Robot-A-Month page.