tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-204558842024-03-08T09:14:08.075-08:00Lyndon KillerRead from the Edge of your Seat.HL Arledgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02208828472062891926noreply@blogger.comBlogger34125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20455884.post-61907651777614816702011-11-02T08:57:00.001-07:002011-11-02T08:57:23.111-07:00Scrivener for Windows Launches Next Week<p>For years, I’ve hung out in writing forums and endured the ridicule of MacApple authors, belittling me for using <a href="http://microsoft.com" target="_blank">Microsoft</a> Word to write fiction. They bragged on the speed and efficiency of focusing on plotting and characterization without the software slowing them down. They used <a href="http://www.literatureandlatte.com/scrivener.php" target="_blank">Scrivener</a>, software for writers only, and at the time, the product ran on Apple’s only. No Windows version.<a title="Scrivener for Windows" href="http://www.literatureandlatte.com/scrivener.php" target="_blank"><img style="margin: 12px 0px 8px 8px; display: inline" align="right" src="http://www.literatureandlatte.com/gfx/win-showcase-scrivener_header.png"></a> </p> <p>For years, I’ve tried to get what they have. I’ve bought or installed trials for over fifty programs designed for writers, including a number of add-ons for Microsoft Word and Open Office, but with every set of features came annoying quirks, and none delivered the efficiency described by users of Scrivener.</p> <p>That all changed last year, when I started beta testing the first-ever Scrivener for Windows.</p> <p>I was afraid, at first. What if Scrivener for Windows wasn’t as good as the Mac version? Or what if it was? What if Scrivener didn’t live up to the hype? What if I’d wasted precious time searching for the perfect tool, when I could have been writing?</p> <p>Like I said, that was a year ago. I am not afraid any more. My search is over, and I am glad I made the effort. Scrivener for Windows is the best writing software ever deployed on a PC. I can use it to organize my thoughts the way I think, and that’s no easy task, because—as you know—sometimes I’m really way out there.</p> <p>I really love this product! I can use Scrivener for writing fiction and non-fiction, short-stories or novels. Nothing gets in the way, and I never have to switch programs to get my work done. Check out <a href="http://www.literatureandlatte.com/scrivener.php" target="_blank">Scrivener for Windows</a>. You’ll thank me a thousand times over. In fact, if you take my advice I want a cut of your next book sale, because with Scrivener you’ll finish it faster than you ever thought possible.</p> HL Arledgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02208828472062891926noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20455884.post-57510140337775598992011-07-30T11:13:00.001-07:002011-07-30T11:16:22.199-07:00You’ll kill for my Sin City Omelet<p>This will seem odd to you. I’m not gonna talk about writing, and I’m not gonna give you an excerpt from some crime epic. Nope, I’m gonna tell you how to make an easy omelet you’re gonna love. I call it my Sin City Omelet, an omelet for men who like omelets—not that the ladies won’t like it too. It’s what we call in Louisiana a slap-your-momma omelet. Taste it, and you’ll be pissed your momma made you eat her nasty cooking. <p><img style="border-bottom: 0px; border-left: 0px; margin: 10px 0px 10px 10px; display: inline; border-top: 0px; border-right: 0px" title="sincitynoir" border="0" alt="sincitynoir" align="right" src="http://lh4.ggpht.com/-g48fMIPsd6E/TjRJvBT3U_I/AAAAAAAAAgA/hh320Nzkzno/sincitynoir%25255B3%25255D.png?imgmax=800" width="295" height="399"> For the record, all men from Louisiana cook. They may not all admit it, but they cook. Good or bad, they cook. In between wives, I actually learned to cook pretty well. Now, I’m happily married to my high school sweetheart. She won’t let me cook on any day that’s not a holiday, but this morning, she went shopping, and I dug out the skillet. <p>This dish feeds 2 on a date (or one real man by himself). The trick is to pour in the eggs and not touch them. Just pour them in, and cover on a very low flame. <p>Let’s do this. <p>Find a 12" non-stick pan, but if yours has lost its non-stick abilities, spray it with some of that non-stick fake butter stuff your wife buys or gob in a teaspoon of real butter, let it melt, and smear the pan with it. Find a cover that is sort of flat to keep the heat closer to the food. Use a heavy plate if you can’t find a lid. Look around. Your wife’s likely got some good china that’ll work just fine. <p>With a fork, whip up 6 eggs with about 1 1/2 tablespoons of water in a bowl—or a beer stein, that’s what I used. Add salt, cayenne pepper, and a shot of Pinot Noir. This will turn the eggs gray like a good black and white movie. <p>Crumble 8 ounces of Monterey Jack cheese and put that to the side. Incidentally, if you freeze the cheese first and then defrost, it will crumble faster. (My grandmaw taught me that.) <p>Anyway, heat your pan on a VERY low flame and pour in the eggs. Cover and don’t open for 5 minutes. When the eggs look done (not runny) spread on the cheese and some very thin onion slices. Cover again, and turn off the heat. Drop the toast and by the time it's buttered you can douse those black and white eggs with some blood-red, spicy salsa (or ketchup if you’re in Louisiana) then fold the omelet in half to hide the melted insides. <p>Your gonna love this. When you serve it, the egg layers are only 1/4" thick, perfect consistency, and a killer taste. HL Arledgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02208828472062891926noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20455884.post-32412198736307375642011-03-06T07:56:00.001-08:002011-03-06T20:20:38.256-08:00How does a hotel guest dispose of a corpse?<p>Finishing the third week of Killamazoo, Vivi and Maude are nursing their wounds, while John’s still trying to get rid of a corpse. </p> <p>Here’s this week’s recap…</p> <blockquote> <p align="center"><font color="#ffff80"><strong>Chapter Three</strong> </font> <p><font color="#ffff80">John Burrows crept through a side door and hopped into the elevator before anyone saw his sack of lime or his Wal-Mart bag. He'd spent the morning twice reading the paper and wandering about town. Finding nothing, no clues to the woman's identity or his own.</font> <p><font color="#ffff80"><img style="border-right-width: 0px; margin: 10px 0px 10px 10px; display: inline; border-top-width: 0px; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-left-width: 0px" title="John Burrows" border="0" alt="John Burrows" align="right" src="http://lh5.ggpht.com/_C69QvvP99zk/TXOuu3rSMsI/AAAAAAAAAcI/YwhFPhrbkkY/jb%5B3%5D.png?imgmax=800" width="313" height="473"> On the fifth floor, he stuck his head out into the hallway. Empty. Outside, he moved, stepping fast, but silent. One corner and he'd be at his room. As he made the turn, another elevator opened behind him, and the worst smell ever seeped under his door.</font> <p><font color="#ffff80">He opened the door, jumped inside, holding his breath, and locking the door behind him. A much stronger odor than expected, but he'd prepared. He pulled one of three Lysol cans from the Wal-Mart bag and began to spray.</font> <p><font color="#ffff80">Next, he removed a full-length laundry bag, unzipped it, and stretched it out beside the corpse. With a key, he slit open the plastic sack and poured lime into the laundry bag. After dousing the body with more lime, he rolled it into the plastic bag. After adding more lime to her backside, he zipped her up in the bag, and then someone knocked on his door.</font> <p><font color="#ffff80">"Yes?" John Burrows said at the door. He opened it six-inches, till the latch caught. "What's the problem, sir?”</font> <p><font color="#ffff80">"Housekeeping says your room hasn't been cleaned in a few days, and we've gotten reports of a foul odor coming from inside."</font> <p><font color="#ffff80">"Sorry, sir. This is embarrassing. I've got some sort of stomach virus. That's why I asked the cleaning lady to stay away..." John forced a gag from his throat. "...and like I said, stomach. I'm afraid that smell is from my bathroom..." He gagged again. Louder. "Sorry, I got some meds from the doc today and should be back to normal in no time. But thank you for your concern."</font> <p><font color="#ffff80">"Well, okay, Mr. Burrows," the officer said with his hand over his mouth, "Call the front desk if there's anything we can do."</font> <p><font color="#ffff80">John closed the door, put his back against it, and slid down to the floor. "How the hell am I gonna get rid of this body?"</font> <p><font color="#ffff80">Later, he slid open the glass doors to the balcony, cranked up the AC, and sprayed the room with Lysol for the third time. After an hour, the lime tamed the odor, but John felt exhausted. He set the alarm for 3AM and fell asleep beside the corpse.</font> <p><font color="#ffff80">At 3AM, he woke, pulled a miniature crowbar from his Wal-Mart bag, and walked to the elevator. Inside, he looked over the buttons and clicked the three, the number with the mop bucket sticker next to it. He hoped there was no overnight house-keeping staff, but he wouldn't know till he broke into their office.</font> <p><font color="#ffff80">Two flights down, he slid the mini crowbar between the door and facing, but before he shoved, he heard voices inside. Dropping the bar into his back pocket, he turned the knob, opened the door, and saw Maude and Vivi trying to open a first aid kit. "Excuse me, Ladies," he said, "Maybe, I can help."</font> <p><font color="#ffff80">"Ah crap. You scared the shit out of me, you freak," Vivi said.</font> <p><font color="#ffff80">"What do you want, Burrows?" Maude added, "Not more freaking towels?"</font><a name='more'></a> <p><font color="#ffff80">"I've been sick, didn't want you ladies to get what I had. So, what happened, lose your keys?”</font> <p><font color="#ffff80">"Vivi keeps the first aid key, I don't, but she left it at home."</font> <p><font color="#ffff80">"Why'd they start locking these freaking things anyway, stupid," Vivi said, "Freaking dope-heads screw-up everything."</font> <p><font color="#ffff80">"So, you two aren't looking for drugs?"</font> <p><font color="#ffff80">"No, Dildo," Maude said, "Do we look like poppers to you? We don't need that shit."</font> <p><font color="#ffff80">"Maude bruised a rib or something," Vivi said, "We need an Ace bandage."</font> <p><font color="#ffff80">"And we ain't got money or patience for no emergency room," Maude said.</font> <p><font color="#ffff80">John grinned. "That's a Master lock. I think what you need..." He pulled the miniature crowbar from his pocket. "...is a master key."</font> <p><font color="#ffff80">Frowning, Maude opened the kit with the pry bar, then turned to John. "Now, what'd you have this for, and what do you want from us?"</font> <p><font color="#ffff80">"All I need," John said, "is to borrow a cleaning cart. I'll have it back before you get in tomorrow."</font> <p><font color="#ffff80">"You're a freak," Maude said, "You know that? Who gets off on cleaning their own room, maybe you're fantasizing about Vivi here?</font> <p><font color="#ffff80">"Naw, I've had this stomach flu. I want to scrub everything down with Lysol, make sure you ladies don't get sick."</font> <p><font color="#ffff80">"Take what you need, Mr. Burrows," Vivi said, "I gotta get this wrap on her, get home and sleep, then be back here at seven. Maude won’t need her cart until nine."</font> <p><font color="#ffff80"></font> </p></blockquote> <blockquote> <p><font color="#ffff80">John watched from his window as the ladies left the building, then he wrapped the corpse and laundry bag with blankets. He hoped the rigamortis had faded enough to stuff the body into the cart without the legs sticking out, when it rolled it down the hall.</font></p></blockquote> <p><strong>Ready to join the fun?</strong> As before, send me messages or leave comments through <a href="http://twitter.com/#!/hlarledge" target="_blank">Twitter</a> or <a href="http://www.facebook.com/HLArledgeAuthor" target="_blank">Facebook</a>. Tell me what you’d like to see our characters do next, where you want them to go, and what you want them to do. Together, we’ll have one hell of an adventure, and when it’s all over, I’ll publish the novelette on <a href="http://www.amazon.com/HL-Arledge/e/B0044HJO0M/ref=ntt_athr_dp_pel_pop_1" target="_blank">Amazon</a> and give everyone who helped a complimentary copy.</p> <p>Here’s the plot we’re working with this time…</p> <p>The year is <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/1987" target="_blank">1987</a>. A man wakes up in a hotel. He has no idea who or where he is. He soon learns he’s at the Hotel <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Elmore_Leonard" target="_blank">Elmore</a> in <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kalamazoo,_MI" target="_blank">Kalamazoo</a>, Michigan and his name is John Burrows. The woman in his bed is gorgeous, but dead. John’s got a gun in his hand, and someone’s knocking at his door—Oh, and if that’s not wild enough for you, except for his white hair and beard, our hero looks identical to a guy who died ten years earlier, a guy named <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Elvis_presley" target="_blank">Elvis Presley</a>.</p> HL Arledgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02208828472062891926noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20455884.post-61078918552319025582011-02-27T10:37:00.001-08:002011-02-27T12:39:58.116-08:00Killamazoo introduces the Derby Darlings<p>Finishing the second week of Killamazoo, some readers have met Maude and Vivi of the Killamazoo Derby Darlings. </p> <p>Here’s a recap of the week…</p> <blockquote> <p align="center"><font color="#ffff80"><strong>Chapter Two</strong> </font> <p><font color="#ffff80">Maude Cradles shoved her cleaning cart from the elevator, dropping ashes from her cigarette then sweeping them into a crack. </font> <p><font color="#ffff80">"They need you up front," Vivi said, rolling up, "Some Yooper took a dive. You got blood and slobber with your name on it." </font> <p><font color="#ffff80">"What's broken on you?" </font> <p><font color="#ffff80"><img style="border-right-width: 0px; margin: 10px 16px 10px 0px; display: inline; border-top-width: 0px; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-left-width: 0px" title="Vivi and Maude" border="0" alt="Vivi and Maude" align="left" src="http://lh3.ggpht.com/_C69QvvP99zk/TWqZ8Ylj3iI/AAAAAAAAAb0/XERY06gbXPo/killas_sm%5B4%5D.png?imgmax=800" width="259" height="455"> "I got laundry, remember?" Then Vivi pranced her scrawny little ass onto the elevator. "See you at the Snake Drill." </font> <p><font color="#ffff80"></font> <p><font color="#ffff80">Vivi Smyte thought whomever came up with 'zig when you should have zagged' must have played in a roller derby. </font><font color="#ffff80">And most likely, they played on a team with Maude. Arm's length, always enough space for two Vivi's to weave in and out of the line, </font><font color="#ffff80">but not for Maude. She never weaved without slamming the women on both sides of her. "Watch it, Witch. Give me room," she’d say, like it was someone else’s fault she had the finesse of a bulldozer.</font> <p><font color="#ffff80">What’s worse, inevitably, Vivi would drive her home, because she’d break something in a fight. Ridiculous, since Snake Drills were with her own team.</font> <p><font color="#ffff80">This night was no different. "Another rib, Maude? Maybe you need one of those Kevlar vests, like swat teams wear." </font> <p><font color="#ffff80">"I ain’t gotta be bullet-proof to stop bimbo elbows. You giving me a ride or what?” Maude tossed her keys in the air. Vivi let them hit the floor. “Stop at Metro. I need a beer." </font> <p><font color="#ffff80">"Alright, Maude, but I'm warning you, this time, keep your hands to your self, or I take your bike and you walk home."</font> <p><font color="#ffff80"> </font> <p><font color="#ffff80">"Look at you, you gotta go to the hospital this time." Vivi held the stool, while Maude climbed up and ordered two Bad Frogs.</font> <p><font color="#ffff80">Before Vivi could sit, a red-headed gorilla of a woman came out of a dark corner. </font><font color="#ffff80">"Suck my left nipple," she said, "If it ain't the Killamazoo Derby Darlings." </font> <p><font color="#ffff80">"C'mon, Tess, why can't you stay in Detroit?" Vivi said. "Maude's hurt, last thing we need is trouble with you Devil Dolls."</font> <p><font color="#ffff80">"Aw, my heart goes out to you." On the last syllable, Tess jerked at the leg of Maude's barstool, knocking her to the floor. </font> <p><font color="#ffff80">From the floor, Maude heard Tess scream, then saw Vivi, her teeth sunk into Tess’ throat vampire style. Vivi raised her head and grinned with blood dripping from her mouth. </font> <p><font color="#ffff80">Tess clamped monster hands around Vivi’s throat. Maude slapped her face with the barstool</font><font color="#ffff80">, then collapsed on top of it.</font> <p><font color="#ffff80">"No napping," Vivi said, "Let's get the hell out of here." </font> <p><font color="#ffff80">Before they reached Maude's Harley, Tess barreled out of the door, sliding to a stop, four-feet away from Maude and Vivi. "You ain't going nowhere, you freaking sluts." </font> <p><font color="#ffff80">With Maude slumped over the handle bars, Vivi stomped the starter behind her, then hit the gas, pushing the bike down the sidewalk and knocking Tess over a bout official onto a parked car.</font> <p><font color="#ffff80">When the Harley bounced to the street, Maude raised up. "What the..." </font> <p><font color="#ffff80">A white-haired man with a sack on his back stepped in front of them. </font> <p><font color="#ffff80">"Shit." Vivi jerked the handlebar, fish-tailing the bike, but missing the pedestrian. "That was that freak, Burrows." </font> <p><font color="#ffff80">"No shit? I thought it was Santa Claus."</font></p></blockquote> <p><strong>Ready to join the fun?</strong> As before, send me messages or leave comments through <a href="http://twitter.com/#!/hlarledge" target="_blank">Twitter</a> or <a href="http://www.facebook.com/HLArledgeAuthor" target="_blank">Facebook</a>. Tell me what you’d like to see our characters do next, where you want them to go, and what you want them to do. Together, we’ll have one hell of an adventure, and when it’s all over, I’ll publish the novelette on <a href="http://www.amazon.com/HL-Arledge/e/B0044HJO0M/ref=ntt_athr_dp_pel_pop_1" target="_blank">Amazon</a> and give everyone who helped a complimentary copy.</p> <p>Here’s the plot we’re working with this time…</p> <p>The year is <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/1987" target="_blank">1987</a>. A man wakes up in a hotel. He has no idea who or where he is. He soon learns he’s at the Hotel <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Elmore_Leonard" target="_blank">Elmore</a> in <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kalamazoo,_MI" target="_blank">Kalamazoo</a>, Michigan and his name is John Burrows. The woman in his bed is gorgeous, but dead. John’s got a gun in his hand, and someone’s knocking at his door—Oh, and if that’s not wild enough for you, except for his white hair and beard, our hero looks identical to a guy who died ten years earlier, a guy named <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Elvis_presley" target="_blank">Elvis Presley</a>.</p> HL Arledgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02208828472062891926noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20455884.post-92131602813240679892011-02-20T10:39:00.001-08:002011-02-20T17:25:39.430-08:00Killamazoo poses many questions<p>As the first week of Killamazoo comes to a close, some readers are scratching their heads. This is a very different kind of tale, but I promise, it’ll be just as zany as <a href="http://hlarledge.blogspot.com/2010/11/first-week-of-pay-dirt-starts-internet.html">Pay Dirt</a> and just as thrilling as <a href="http://hlarledge.blogspot.com/2010/10/early-departure-is-just-beginning.html">Early Departure</a>, especially since you’re helping me write the story.</p> <p>Here’s what we’ve got so far…</p> <blockquote> <p align="center"><font color="#ffff80"><strong>Chapter One</strong></font> <p><font color="#ffff80">He woke staring at a mirror above the bed and at the .44 Magnum in his hand. </font> <p><font color="#ffff80">The white in his hair and beard looked pure, compared to the bluish white face of the beauty lying beside him. With three fingers, he touched her cheek, then jumped sideways off the bed. </font> <p><font color="#ffff80">On his knees, he fumbled for the phone, then punched the numbers 911. </font> <p><font color="#ffff80">"Housekeeping." <img style="border-right-width: 0px; margin: 10px 0px 10px 15px; display: inline; border-top-width: 0px; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-left-width: 0px" title="Fainting in the Lobby" border="0" alt="Fainting in the Lobby" align="right" src="http://lh3.ggpht.com/_C69QvvP99zk/TWFf-XccICI/AAAAAAAAAbs/ouQ8UOCDYao/fainted%5B3%5D.jpg?imgmax=800" width="313" height="435"> </font> <p><font color="#ffff80">"Huh? No. Miss, I need an ambulance." </font> <p><font color="#ffff80">"Mr. Burrows, is that you? You can't dial 911 direct. This is Vivi, extension 91. Say, you need towels?" </font> <p><font color="#ffff80">"No-mam, I don't think so. Listen, what did you say my name was?" </font> <p><font color="#ffff80">"Last time I checked, your name was John. You OK, Mr. Burrows? What kind of emergency you having?" He glanced at the corpse on the bed, then down at the gun he'd dropped on the floor. "Mr. Burrows, are you there?" </font> <p><font color="#ffff80">"Yes-mam, sorry. I just woke up, a bad dream, that's all." </font> <p><font color="#ffff80">"No worries. Hey, call back if you need those towels." </font> <p><font color="#ffff80">"Sure thing, I will. Thank you very much." </font> <p><font color="#ffff80">He picked up the gun and stood, looking down at the body on the bed. "Where the hell are our clothes?" </font> <p><font color="#ffff80">Then someone knocked at the door. </font> <p><font color="#ffff80">"Housekeeping." </font> <p><font color="#ffff80">"Say what?" He opened the door six-inches before it hung on the safety latch. With his physique out of sight, he peered through the gap. "I told you, Lady, I don't need any towels."</font> <p><font color="#ffff80">"You’re tripping, Burrows. I just got here." The woman filled the area between door and jam, top to bottom. "Open up, I gotta clean your room."</font> <p><font color="#ffff80">He looked back at the corpse on the bed. "This is kind of a bad time. How long before checkout?" </font> <p><font color="#ffff80">"Six months at the Elmore and you checking out now, yea right. See you tomorrow." She shoved two towels through the crack and closed the door. </font> <p><font color="#ffff80">John Burrows picked the towels up from the floor and looked back at the bed, wondering how long it would be before the corpse started to smell. </font> <p><font color="#ffff80">In the bathroom, he stepped over a lace bra and a blue silk dress to stack the towels with four others, each towel the same, gold, monogrammed with the letter E.</font> <p><font color="#ffff80">On the counter, he found a rabbit's foot key ring holding three keys, next to a money clip keeping a folded stack of bills and a driver's license. He didn't know the face on the license, but he didn't know the face in the mirror either. The face in the photo had a beard, but brown not white. Holding the license closer to his eyes, the smoother face looked familiar, but still wasn’t a face he remembered as his own.</font> <p><font color="#ffff80">Donning jeans from the floor, he pocketed the clip and keys, then found a Wolverines sweatshirt and shoes in the closet. Dressed, he hung the Do Not Disturb sign on the doorknob and looked for the stairs. </font> <p><font color="#ffff80">If he could find a hardware store, lime would mask the smell of the dead woman, at least until he’d discovered who she was and whether he killed her. How did he know about lime? Hopefully, from working on a farm, or better, from some book or movie.</font> <p><font color="#ffff80">Down four flights of stairs, he stepped into a crowded lobby and found a woman standing with two men, but staring at him. He grinned and nodded, but she didn’t smile. Instead, she trembled, then collapsed on the floor, her face white.</font> <p><font color="#ffff80">Not another one.</font> <p><font color="#ffff80">“We need help over here,” one of her companions yelled, as the other worked to revive her.</font></p> <p><font color="#ffff80">When the crowd surrounded the woman</font><font color="#ffff80">, John grabbed a <em><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kalamazoo_Gazette" target="_blank">Kalamazoo Gazette</a></em> from the front desk and checked the date, August 17, 1987. He began reading the lead story, about a child surviving <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Northwest_Airlines_Flight_255" target="_blank">a plane crash</a>, then the woman gasped and someone in the crowd applauded. </font><font color="#ffff80">The woman sat and began to speak, rapidly, saying something about <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Elvis_presley" target="_blank">Elvis Presley</a>, then John Burrows left the building.</font></p></blockquote> <p><strong>Ready to join the fun?</strong> As before, send me messages or leave comments through <a href="http://twitter.com/#!/hlarledge" target="_blank">Twitter</a> or <a href="http://www.facebook.com/HLArledgeAuthor" target="_blank">Facebook</a>. Tell me what you’d like to see our characters do next, where you want them to go, and what you want them to do. Together, we’ll have one hell of an adventure, and when it’s all over, I’ll publish the novelette on <a href="http://www.amazon.com/HL-Arledge/e/B0044HJO0M/ref=ntt_athr_dp_pel_pop_1" target="_blank">Amazon</a> and give everyone who helped a complimentary copy.</p> <p>Here’s the plot we’re working with this time…</p> <p>The year is <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/1987" target="_blank">1987</a>. A man wakes up in a hotel. He has no idea who or where he is. He soon learns he’s at the Hotel <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Elmore_Leonard" target="_blank">Elmore</a> in <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kalamazoo,_MI" target="_blank">Kalamazoo</a>, Michigan and his name is John Burrows. The woman in his bed is gorgeous, but dead. John’s got a gun in his hand, and someone’s knocking at his door—Oh, and if that’s not wild enough for you, except for his white hair and beard, our hero looks identical to a guy who died ten years earlier, a guy named <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Elvis_presley" target="_blank">Elvis Presley</a>.</p> HL Arledgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02208828472062891926noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20455884.post-80562062723349226302011-02-13T18:36:00.001-08:002011-02-13T19:32:27.418-08:00Killamazoo Novelette Begins Tomorrow<p><img style="border-right-width: 0px; margin: 10px 0px 10px 14px; display: inline; border-top-width: 0px; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-left-width: 0px" title="killamazoo_cover" border="0" alt="killamazoo_cover" align="right" src="http://lh3.ggpht.com/_C69QvvP99zk/TViVPMVGhEI/AAAAAAAAAbo/dXGuYYfKemk/killamazoo_cover%5B3%5D.png?imgmax=800" width="252" height="377"> After the success of the <a href="http://twitter.com/#!/hlarledge" target="_blank">Twitter</a> and <a href="http://www.facebook.com/HLArledgeAuthor" target="_blank">Facebook</a> novelettes, <a href="http://hlarledge.blogspot.com/2010/10/early-departure-is-just-beginning.html">Early Departure</a> and <a href="http://hlarledge.blogspot.com/2010/11/first-week-of-pay-dirt-starts-internet.html">Pay Dirt</a>, I’ve decided to keep the fun going. Beginning tomorrow, I’ll start a new story that you can help me write. I have a basic plot and some oddball characters, but no ending. The story can take us anywhere we want to go.</p> <p>As before, send me messages or leave comments. Tell me what you’d like to see our characters do next, where you want them to go, and what you want them to do. Together, we’ll have one hell of an adventure, and when it’s all over, I’ll publish on <a href="http://www.amazon.com/HL-Arledge/e/B0044HJO0M/ref=ntt_athr_dp_pel_pop_1" target="_blank">Amazon</a> and give everyone who helped a complimentary copy.</p> <p>Here’s the plot we’re working with this time…</p> <p>The year is <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/1987" target="_blank">1987</a>. <a href="http://www.coverups.com/greatcoverups/elvis.htm" target="_blank">John Burrows</a> wakes up in a hotel. He has no idea who or where he is—but we do. He’s at the Hotel <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Elmore_Leonard" target="_blank">Elmore</a> in <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kalamazoo,_MI" target="_blank">Kalamazoo</a>, Michigan. A woman’s in bed beside him, gorgeous, but dead. Johnny’s got a gun in his hand, and someone’s knocking at his door—oh, and in case that’s not wild enough for you, except for his white hair and beard, Johnny looks identical to a guy who died ten years earlier, a guy named <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Elvis_presley" target="_blank">Elvis Presley</a>.</p> <p>What do you think? Sound like fun? We’ll make it so together. </p> <p>See you tomorrow!</p> HL Arledgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02208828472062891926noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20455884.post-2181259924375843932011-02-06T10:31:00.001-08:002011-02-06T21:14:45.241-08:00Pay Dirt: The Final Chapter<p>It’s over. We’ve survived a danger-filled 15 weeks with Bobby Grim, Kat LeRouge, DJ Ponchatoula, and Congressman Rube Rarick. Of course, the same can’t be said for all of the characters, but it was a great thrill ride. </p> <p>Again, I want to thank everyone following on <a href="http://twitter.com/#!/hlarledge" target="_blank">Twitter</a> and <a href="http://www.facebook.com/HLArledgeAuthor" target="_blank">Facebook</a>, especially those messaging hints. Your directions steered the story down different trails than I originally expected, but ultimately your ideas made the adventure more exhilarating as we braced ourselves at each corner, expecting the unexpected. Thanks again!</p> <p>The following is a recap from the final week of Pay Dirt…</p> <blockquote> <p><font color="#caaa28">"That perverted politician son-of-a-bitch." <img style="border-right-width: 0px; margin: 10px 0px 10px 16px; display: inline; border-top-width: 0px; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-left-width: 0px" title="The Darknes" border="0" alt="The Darknes" align="right" src="http://lh3.ggpht.com/_C69QvvP99zk/TU7o8v8K6SI/AAAAAAAAAbU/HWvmmFjiIYY/darkcloseup%5B4%5D.png?imgmax=800" width="271" height="411"> </font> <p><font color="#caaa28">"Can't you just kick the door down or something?"</font> <p><font color="#caaa28">"There's thirty people getting drunk on that porch, one's a cop and just a radio call away from finding warrants for both of us."</font> <p><font color="#caaa28">"Okay, Muscles, then tell me your..." Kat stopped, mesmerized by the yellow eyes inches above the hole in the floor.</font> <p><font color="#caaa28">Grim dove, his chest hitting the trap door hard, forcing the gator down. "Feel around for a lock, or something I can stick in the latch."</font> <p><font color="#caaa28">Kat crawled in the dark, in circles, chains pulling at her ankles. "Here." She picked up a metal U, part of a broken padlock. </font> <p><font color="#caaa28">Grim road the bucking door like a bull, while Kat crawled over him to slide the metal into the lock, then both fought the door till the noise subsided, leaving only darkness, heavy breathing, Irma Thomas singing in the distance with Kat and Bobby’s faces inches apart.</font> <p><font color="#caaa28">"Maybe we should focus on getting your chains off?" Grim said.</font> <p><font color="#caaa28">"Too rusty to pick." She touched his nose with hers. "I say we wait for the party to end and get the key from psycho."</font> <p><font color="#caaa28">"And till then?"</font> <p><font color="#caaa28">She looked down at the floor, then up again. "Rip some of those clothes off the walls. I'm not laying on this cold floor."</font> <p><font color="#caaa28">Hours later, Kat woke to a cold, somehow brighter room. The music gone, the camp quiet. Cricket and frog songs outside. "Welcome back," Grim said.</font> <p><font color="#caaa28">"Has everyone gone?"</font> <p><font color="#caaa28">"Rarick's still here. I heard the spring in the recliner about an hour ago."</font> <p><font color="#caaa28">"Now, do we knock the door down?"</font> <p><font color="#caaa28">"I think I've got a better idea.” He looked down at the trap floor and shook his head. “But you’re not gonna like it."</font> <p><font color="#caaa28">Rarick downed the last of his peach brandy and climbed from the recliner, where he'd sat sharpening his skinning knife since the TV crew left. He was anxious to get at the girl, but afraid of the stranger. Who was that asshole? Some friend of the girl's, some lone-nut political assassin? Maybe a cop, maybe one he couldn't buy.</font> <p><font color="#caaa28">Shaky, Rarick walked to the door, his keys jingling in one hand, the skinning knife gleaming in the other.</font><a name='more'></a> <p><font color="#caaa28">On the other side of the door, a creak, like steel pulled from wood, then Kat's voice, screaming, loud. Rarick covered his ears and fumbled with the keys, hands shaking, his glasses too fogged to find the keyhole. Finally, the lock clicked, then a loud thud shook the camp, knocking picture frames from the walls.</font> <p><font color="#caaa28"><img style="border-right-width: 0px; margin: 10px 16px 10px 0px; display: inline; border-top-width: 0px; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-left-width: 0px" title="theend" border="0" alt="theend" align="left" src="http://lh6.ggpht.com/_C69QvvP99zk/TU7o9L7TdlI/AAAAAAAAAbY/Tiu4glAFVHM/theend%5B5%5D.png?imgmax=800" width="306" height="407"> Rarick dropped his keys and clutched his chest. He opened the door, his heart pumping hard. He felt for the switch. No good. However, the hall light had pierced the darkness in the room, illuminating the floor in the center, spotlighting the closed wooden door.</font> <p><font color="#caaa28">Everything else in the room, black, quiet.</font> <p><font color="#caaa28">Raising his knife, he stepped from the hall carpet onto the room's cold wood floor. Then, he heard breathing.</font> <p><font color="#caaa28">In a corner, at first, he saw nothing, then near the floor, yellow eyes, just seconds before someone slammed the door closed behind him.</font> <p><font color="#caaa28">In the hallway, Kat clicked the padlock closed, just as Rarick started pounding the door. "I say we dry off and find some clothes, my buns are ice." </font> <p><font color="#caaa28">"Yea, tomorrow’s Thursday," Grim said as Rarick started screaming. "I promised Leta I'd have the boat back before sunrise."</font> <p><font color="#caaa28">"We can take the bike, but you know, I can't go back to the city now," Kat said over a sound like large branches snapping. "Ow, wow, no more screaming."</font> <p><font color="#caaa28">"You can come with me." Grim put a hand on each of her hips. "But I got one condition."</font> <p><font color="#caaa28">"Oh, yea." Kat traced his right nipple with her forefinger and grinned up at him. "What is it?"</font> <p><font color="#caaa28">"We’re taking a Northern to Cali. You gotta promise not to hijack the train."</font></p> <p align="center"><font color="#caaa28"><strong>THE END</strong></font></p></blockquote> <p>What did you guys think of the experience? Should we try and write another story together? If so, who should the characters be? Where should they go? What should they do? I can’t wait to hear your ideas. HL Arledgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02208828472062891926noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20455884.post-91890611969394111062011-01-30T09:45:00.001-08:002011-01-30T09:46:41.831-08:00Kat, Bobby Imprisoned in Bayou Manchac<p>In case you’ve missed the installments on <a href="http://www.facebook.com/HLArledgeAuthor" target="_blank">Facebook</a> and <a href="http://twitter.com/#!/hlarledge" target="_blank">Twitter</a>, we’ve only got a couple of weeks left, and one character didn’t make it through this week alive…</p> <blockquote> <p><font color="#e2b11d">As Rarick pulled another dead gator to the dock, Kat asked, "Where's DJ?" </font> <p><font color="#e2b11d">"Sorry, Hun, he skedaddled on you, had me drop him at the landing with Leta, said you were gonna get him killed."</font> <p><font color="#e2b11d"><img style="border-right-width: 0px; margin: 10px 0px 10px 16px; display: inline; border-top-width: 0px; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-left-width: 0px" title="caught" border="0" alt="caught" align="right" src="http://lh6.ggpht.com/_C69QvvP99zk/TUWjwFLA_KI/AAAAAAAAAbA/59OaGD7emDc/caught%5B4%5D.png?imgmax=800" width="272" height="342"> "If he takes the bike and leaves me stranded, he'll wish he was dead."</font> <p><font color="#e2b11d"></font> <p><font color="#e2b11d">Grim sneered from the duck blind. He'd taken a chance telling Kat about Rarick, but she'd promised to get the hell out when Rarick got back, but he came back without the DJ kid. Grim watched him waving his arms, spewing his typical politician bullshit.</font> <p><font color="#e2b11d">A week of mosquito, snake, and gator bites, then fever and fat chicks. All out hell, and Bobby Grim couldn't wait to get back to California. Maybe he'd swim over and rip the dude's tongue out in front of her.</font> <p><font color="#e2b11d">Before he could climb down, he heard music, then eight boats and a party barge rounded the farthest bend in the bayou. "Now what?"</font> <p><font color="#e2b11d">Rarick grabbed the girl by the arm, dragging her inside. Grim wanted to dive, but the boats picked up speed, bouncing on the water. He could make out the lyrics now, some foreign language, singing words like iko-iko, wild Tchoupitoulas, and Jockomo feena nay.</font> <p><font color="#e2b11d"></font> <p><font color="#e2b11d">"Check it out." Kat pointed at the boats speeding down the bayou. "Leta said the TV crew'd be back to wrap up their story. Maybe she's riding along." Rarick grabbed Kat's shoulders and pushed her to the door. "No way, old man. I'm going to find out what you did with DJ."</font> <p><font color="#e2b11d">"Listen, you little tramp. Get inside, do exactly what I tell you, or I gut you and use your intestines for gator-bait. Got it?"</font> <p><font color="#e2b11d">Rarick pressed the hunting knife against her throat, opened the door, then shoved her down the hall with his body.</font> <p><font color="#e2b11d">At the room Grim had warned her about, she heard a click behind her and the padlock fell to the floor. He pushed her into the blackness and bent her arms behind her back.</font> <p><font color="#e2b11d">Handcuffs. Chains rattled. Cold at her ankles. She couldn't move.</font><a name='more'></a> <p><font color="#e2b11d"><img style="border-bottom: 0px; border-left: 0px; margin: 10px 20px 10px 0px; display: inline; border-top: 0px; border-right: 0px" title="cell" border="0" alt="cell" align="left" src="http://lh4.ggpht.com/_C69QvvP99zk/TUWjwtRY6MI/AAAAAAAAAbI/TTM0nEaeuK4/cell%5B5%5D.png?imgmax=800" width="288" height="374"> From a nail on the wall, Rarick grabbed a roll of duct tape. The sound of it unsticking echoed in the dark room. The skin around her mouth tightened. She tasted rubber or glue and smelled Old English.</font> <p><font color="#e2b11d">The music grew louder outside.</font> <p><font color="#e2b11d">With a hand-full of her halter top, Rarick raised the hunting knife again and sliced the clothes from her chest. She heard a staple gun tap the wall, twice.</font> <p><font color="#e2b11d">"I'm locking the outer door," Rarick said, "but one in the floor is open. Feel for hinges. You won't like what you find underneath, but it might be easier than starvation."</font> <p> <p><font color="#e2b11d">The sunset painted the marsh orange, making Grim's white rubber boots and jeans stand-out as he jumped roots from one Cypress tree to another. The party on the barge and deck were too busy guzzling beer and dancing to notice.</font> <p><font color="#e2b11d">Grim made his way back to the rear of the camp. When his crowbar opened the door this time, the inside of the camp wasn't as dark, but he saw no one inside.</font> <p><font color="#e2b11d">Beyond the front screen door, a drunken three-piece sang something about someone messing with their Toot-toot, whatever the hell that was. The noise masked the creaks in the floor as Grim inched along the wall to the locked room, but when he raised the crowbar to smash the lock, and the music stopped.</font> <p><font color="#e2b11d">The screen door didn't move.</font> <p><font color="#e2b11d">Outside, Rarick's voice, saying something about a Cajun cook, then telling a story about some guy named Boudreaux.</font> <p><font color="#e2b11d">Grim placed the crowbar on a chair and took a picture from the wall, Rarick and maybe someone important enough to autograph it.</font> <p><font color="#e2b11d">Who the hell was Edwin Edwards?</font> <p><font color="#e2b11d">Grim slid the wire off the back of the photo and bent a piece stiff enough to pick the Masterlock. Then he moved the creaky door inch by inch until the light struck Kat's face.</font> <p><font color="#e2b11d">She mumbled, bug-eyed, gray tape on her mouth and around her chin.</font> <p><font color="#e2b11d">He stepped in and peeled the tape. "Ow, what took you so long? Get these frigging chains off me."</font> <p><font color="#e2b11d">"Quiet, or I'll put the tape back myself."</font> <p><font color="#e2b11d">Laughter from outside and the music started again, French words now, something about Jolie Blanc.</font> <p><font color="#e2b11d">The handcuffs, once brass, now green, took time to remove. Then Grim squatted, working the locks holding the chains and manacles on her ankles.</font> <p><font color="#e2b11d">"I can't get these, Kat. I’ll need the key."</font> <p><font color="#e2b11d">With a scraping sound, the room went black. "The door." Kat said, and the padlock clicked outside.</font></p></blockquote> <p>For those just joining the party, here’s what we’ve been doing: In the tradition of the fast-production pulps of old, we’ve got a wild plot and some zany, but dangerous characters, and through Twitter and Facebook, readers are giving me hints, helping me create a crime fiction short story in posts of less than 140 characters. <p><font color="#ff0000"><strong>Our plot again:</strong> When Wild Child Kat LeRouge hooks up with Bad Boy DJ Ponchatoula, they find out the hard way that some New Orleans cab drivers carry guns. Desperate for safer income, Kat decides to blackmail a crooked Louisiana politician—a scheme that brings this modern day Bonnie and Clyde face to face with CIA Black-Ops Baddie Bobby Grim.</font></p> <p>Next installments on <a href="http://twitter.com/#!/hlarledge">Twitter</a> and <a href="http://www.facebook.com/pages/HL-Arledge/349368442231">Facebook</a> tomorrow. </p> HL Arledgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02208828472062891926noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20455884.post-50663593652863135742011-01-23T10:08:00.001-08:002011-01-23T10:08:38.709-08:00Death by Gator in Bayou Manchac<p></p> <p>In case you’ve missed the installments on <a href="http://www.facebook.com/HLArledgeAuthor" target="_blank">Facebook</a> and <a href="http://twitter.com/#!/hlarledge" target="_blank">Twitter</a>, we’ve only got a couple of weeks left, and one character didn’t make it through this week alive…</p> <blockquote> <p><font color="#d7ba48">All three ate in front of the TV, DJ sprawled on a duct-taped orange sofa, Rarick in a folding chair, and Kat on the remains of a Lazy Boy. They didn't know the name of the movie. Some ex-wrestler and an ex-rapper trying to be action heroes. </font> <p><font color="#d7ba48"><img style="border-right-width: 0px; margin: 10px 0px 10px 16px; display: inline; border-top-width: 0px; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-left-width: 0px" title="gatordeath" border="0" alt="gatordeath" align="right" src="http://lh3.ggpht.com/_C69QvvP99zk/TTxuoidQfqI/AAAAAAAAAas/VhxcUjdoBqk/gatordeath%5B3%5D.png?imgmax=800" width="355" height="236"> They had just reached the darkest before dawn part of the film, when the spring in Kat's recliner creaked. She hit the floor, half-crawling down the hall and fell through the bathroom door.</font> <p><font color="#d7ba48">"Shit." DJ jumped from the sofa, going after her.</font> <p><font color="#d7ba48">"Relax," Rarick said, "That's normal when you're not used to spicy alligator."</font> <p><font color="#d7ba48">Later, DJ stood outside the locked door of Rarick's bathroom. "No way, Kat. If it were food poison, wouldn't we all be puking? Oh, God. You don't think you're pregnant?"</font> <p><font color="#d7ba48">Through the door and the gagging, he thought she said, "Morning sickness not afternoon sickness, you stupid Duck." But knowing Kat as he did, DJ must have gotten that last word wrong.</font> <p><font color="#d7ba48"></font> <p><font color="#d7ba48">Late evening. Across the bayou, the skinny kid and Rarick were climbing into the boat. The girl wasn't with them. They weren't leaving yet.<font color="#d7ba48"><img style="border-right-width: 0px; margin: 16px 16px 16px 0px; display: inline; border-top-width: 0px; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-left-width: 0px" title="grimtat" border="0" alt="grimtat" align="left" src="http://lh6.ggpht.com/_C69QvvP99zk/TTxupUtAOQI/AAAAAAAAAaw/qd5m4oi1SOE/grimtat%5B4%5D.png?imgmax=800" width="214" height="260"></font></font> <p><font color="#d7ba48">Bobby Grim squirmed in his tree stand, rubbing his arm. Not healed, but close. Still, he was ready to leave this God-forsaken swamp. He couldn't finish his business with witnesses around, and the longer these two followed Rarick, the less chance they had of seeing twenty-five.</font> <p><font color="#d7ba48">Ten minutes after the boat's rooster tail slid around the bend, Grim stood at the front door of the camp, this time an unlocked door. Inside, the TV blared, but no sign of the girl. The room where the gator latched on Grim's arm, locked again. A shiny-new Masterlock.</font> <p><font color="#d7ba48">He made three steps on the creaky Cypress floor before the girl, Kat, stepped out of another room. "Who the fuck are you?"</font><a name='more'></a> <p> <p><font color="#d7ba48">Rarick slowed the boat at an inlet four bends from camp. DJ frowned. "Rube, the chicken's still on the hook."</font> <p><font color="#d7ba48">"Happens sometimes, kid. Don't worry, if they're all empty, we'll switch back to bow-fishing and snag'em in open water."</font> <p><font color="#d7ba48">Rarick hit the throttle, and around the next bend, both their eyes widened. "Yea, we got one. That head's as big as a garbage can."</font> <p><font color="#d7ba48">Water and hide wallowed and sprayed below the spot where the chicken had hung, the huge head striking sporadically at the rotating line. "We gotta get closer, son. I'll hook the line with the butt of the rifle, then you grab the line and pull him in the boat."</font> <p><font color="#d7ba48">"Pull him in the boat. You freaking crazy?"</font> <p><font color="#d7ba48">Rarick laughed. "We gotta haul him back to camp. Just relax, when you pull the line, the gator's head will come up first. I'll shoot, and we both pull his dead ass into the boat."</font> <p><font color="#d7ba48">The aluminum flat slowed, the motor stopped, and the gator bit into the hull, four inches from DJ's knee.</font> <p><font color="#d7ba48">“Shit!”</font> <p><font color="#d7ba48">Rarick jumped up and popped the gator's snout with the butt of his rifle, and the beast flopped back into the water, still hooked. "See, he's no so tough."</font> <p><font color="#d7ba48">Rarick pulled a pair of eight-inch bow cutters from his coat.</font> <p><font color="#d7ba48">"What're you gonna do with those?"</font> <p><font color="#d7ba48">"When we drag him in the boat, I’ll need these to cut the cable. We can cut the hook out at camp."</font> <p><font color="#d7ba48">DJ grabbed the cable with both hands and looked at Rarick. Rarick nodded, and DJ jerked the line. The gator sprang from the bog, head first and jaws opened wide.</font> <p><font color="#d7ba48">DJ felt a kick just below his waist. He twisted and fell, then teeth bit into his chest and back. Above, he saw Rarick cutting the cable, before green water covered his eyes and filled his lungs.</font></p></blockquote> <p>For those just joining the party, here’s what we’ve been doing: In the tradition of the fast-production pulps of old, we’ve got a wild plot and some zany, but dangerous characters, and through Twitter and Facebook, readers are giving me hints, helping me create a crime fiction short story in posts of less than 140 characters. <blockquote> <p><font color="#ff0000"><strong>Our plot again:</strong> When Wild Child Kat LeRouge hooks up with Bad Boy DJ Ponchatoula, they find out the hard way that some New Orleans cab drivers carry guns. Desperate for safer income, Kat decides to blackmail a crooked Louisiana politician—a scheme that brings this modern day Bonnie and Clyde face to face with CIA Black-Ops Baddie Bobby Grim.</font></p></blockquote> <p>Next installments on <a href="http://twitter.com/#!/hlarledge">Twitter</a> and <a href="http://www.facebook.com/pages/HL-Arledge/349368442231">Facebook</a> tomorrow. HL Arledgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02208828472062891926noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20455884.post-32275606663619835372011-01-17T11:17:00.001-08:002011-01-17T11:21:31.056-08:00Rarick serves bloody trouble to Kat and DJ<p>In case you missed this week’s action on <a href="http://twitter.com/#!/hlarledge" target="_blank">Twitter</a> and <a href="http://www.facebook.com/HLArledgeAuthor" target="_blank">Facebook</a>… <blockquote> <p><font color="#f1c232">After breakfast, Rarick chopped bell peppers and celery, then loaded more gear into the boat, including four white-paper packages, one dripping with blood. <img style="border-right-width: 0px; margin: 16px 0px 16px 16px; display: inline; border-top-width: 0px; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-left-width: 0px" title="bait" border="0" alt="bait" align="right" src="http://lh3.ggpht.com/_C69QvvP99zk/TTSVxfrdAQI/AAAAAAAAAac/hnxTyG9Ih3E/bait%5B30%5D.png?imgmax=800" width="303" height="203"> </font> <p><font color="#f1c232"> <p>When Bobby Grim got back on the bayou, Rube and the two Leta called Kat and DJ were hanging a raw chicken on a hook, three feet above the water. Neither of the three had seen him before, and if they had, they wouldn’t recognize him now, under the LSU cap and sunglasses he'd bought from Leta. <p>He cast a line and pretended to fish, wondering if people caught anything without feet or fangs in this stinking muck. <p> <p>"What's that bag you're pulling out of the chickens before we hang 'em?" DJ asked. <p>"Livers and gizzards," Kat said, "Yea, I cook sometimes."</p> <p>Rarick dropped another set of innards in the gallon-sized Mason jar he'd brought along. "I'll freeze these for crawfish bait later."</p> <p>"What are you looking at, Rube?"</p> <p>"That fisherman over there. I've never seen him before, and he doesn't have any bait on his line." </p> <p> </p> <p>Rarick cranked his motor and disappeared around the bend. Grim saw them looking and decided not to follow. Not that it mattered. He couldn't finish the job until Rarick hunted alone.</p> <p>Leta said the kids would be gone before dark. He hoped that meant on their way back to New Orleans. Bobby headed in, climbed back up to the tree stand and was just dosing when Rarick, Kat, and DJ got back from baiting the traps. <p> <p><img style="border-right-width: 0px; margin: 10px 18px 10px 0px; display: inline; border-top-width: 0px; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-left-width: 0px" title="washingup" border="0" alt="washingup" align="left" src="http://lh6.ggpht.com/_C69QvvP99zk/TTSVyIDVYzI/AAAAAAAAAak/nxB9P6ScB4w/washingup%5B5%5D.png?imgmax=800" width="206" height="322"> "Okay, I'm getting sick of this little water safari," Kat said. "When do we go to the bank?"</p> <p>"Be patient. This evening, we've gotta circle around, pop any gators that took our bait, then skin'em up. If I leave the swamp before then, folks will know something’s up. Tomorrow you two will get money and get out of my hair."</p> <p>"Besides, Kat, I'm starting to like this," DJ said, "Rube, maybe you can let me shoot one of them when we go back?"</p> <p>Rube Rarick lifted his jar of chicken innards from the boat. "I suppose that's possible." Then he and DJ followed Kat inside.</p><a name='more'></a> <p>At the bathroom door, Rarick said, "After we wash up, if you want, ya'll can watch TV, while I'm back there, finishing up the sauce and fixing rice."</p> <p>"You got cable out here?" Kat said.</p> <p>"I got better, satellite. So many channels, you won't get through them all before time to get back in the boat."</p> <p>In the kitchen, Rarick drained blood from the innards jar into a cup, then he placed the jar in the fridge and the cup on the window sill.</p> <p>"What's behind here?" Rarick turned from his rice to see Kat pointing at the extra room with it's shiny, new padlock.</p> <p>"Nothing, just storage, paint and such, mostly. I thought you we're watching TV?"</p> <p>"We can't find the remote." Kat watched Rarick spoon rice into three bowls.</p> <p>"Look on the mantle, by the mounted squirrel." Rarick turned the knob and lowered the gas flame under the cast-iron pot.</p> <p>"DJ," Kat yelled into the front room, "it's by that rat with the acorn. Get it, find some kind of movie or something, anything but your frigging rap music or Animal Planet."</p> <p>After Kat walked back to the front, Rarick took the cup from the sill and poured chicken blood over the rice in the first bowl. With a ladle of red, meaty roux, he covered the blood and rice in the first bowl first, then the rice in the other two. "Okay, ya'll come get your bowls," he said. "when you find out how good eating can be, you'll go home and slap your momma."</p> <p>DJ and Kat walked in, and Rarick handed Kat the plate of crackers surrounding the tainted bowl. DJ got a regular plate and bowl, leaving the last for Rarick. "Ya'll want wine or tea with yours?"</font></p></blockquote> <p>For those just joining the party, here’s what we’ve been doing: In the tradition of the fast-production pulps of old, we’ve got a wild plot and some zany, but dangerous characters, and through Twitter and Facebook, readers are giving me hints, helping me create a crime fiction short story in posts of less than 140 characters. <blockquote> <p><font color="#ff0000"><strong>Our plot again:</strong> When Wild Child Kat LeRouge hooks up with Bad Boy DJ Ponchatoula, they find out the hard way that some New Orleans cab drivers carry guns. Desperate for safer income, Kat decides to blackmail a crooked Louisiana politician—a scheme that brings this modern day Bonnie and Clyde face to face with CIA Black-Ops Baddie Bobby Grim.</font></p></blockquote> <p>Next installments on <a href="http://twitter.com/#!/hlarledge">Twitter</a> and <a href="http://www.facebook.com/pages/HL-Arledge/349368442231">Facebook</a> tomorrow. </p> HL Arledgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02208828472062891926noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20455884.post-85724072346801308112011-01-09T09:59:00.001-08:002011-01-09T10:01:37.086-08:00Swamp, hot, steamy in more ways than one<p>Another week of Pay Dirt in the swamp. Let’s review what happened…</p> <blockquote> <p><font color="#f1c232">"Leta, let me apologize. I do appreciate you delivering my friends here. Let me follow you in." <p>Rarick cranked the Evinrude and thought he heard the F word somewhere in the fog. <p>At Rarick’s camp, Kat climbed up to the dock. Leta handed her Rarick's bag. And DJ stayed in the boat with Leta. <p><img style="border-bottom: 0px; border-left: 0px; margin: 10px 16px 12px 0px; display: inline; border-top: 0px; border-right: 0px" title="grimsunrise" border="0" alt="grimsunrise" align="left" src="http://lh5.ggpht.com/_C69QvvP99zk/TSn3YsGVTJI/AAAAAAAAAZ4/B_mWyTD6f8E/grimsunrise%5B7%5D.png?imgmax=800" width="313" height="324"> "What do you think you're doing?" <p>"I'm not cool with this water shit, and Leta's pot of Jambalaya's got my name all over it. We'll pick you up later." <p>"Bullshit..." <p>Before Kat could continue, Rarick's boat coasted in. "Son, you'll throw rocks at Leta's rice, once you've tasted my Gator Sauce Piquant." <p>"What time you need me to pick'em up, Rube?" <p>"Forget it, Leta. You've got enough to do at the shop. I'll take care of my friends here." <p> <p>Halfway back to the bait shop, Leta noticed the boat following her. Muscle boy with his tattoos and tight ass. She wondered if he had anything against drinking at 6:AM. <p>Bobby Grim followed Leta into the shop, and she said, "So what can I overcharge you for today? Coffee. Beer. Dynamite?" <p>"Nope. Information." <p>Leta slapped two whiskey glasses on the counter and filled them with Seagram's Sweet Tea. Grim raised an eyebrow. "The sun's barely up." <p>"Depends on what you're willing to pay for this information." <p>"What makes you think I'm willing to pay what you're gonna ask?" <p>She clinked her glass with his as he raised it. "You're drinking, ain't ya?" <p>Rarick dipped half a bread slice, triangle cut, into egg and vanilla, then dropped it into the deep fry. "French Toast?" Kat asked. <p>"Almost, my momma called it Lost Bread. I think of it as French Toast, done Cajun-style." <p>"Your mother was coon-ass?" <p>"Yes-mam, I was born and bred a pirogue ride from the Atchafalaya Basin." <a name='more'></a> <p>"Oh, ain’t this sweet?” DJ interrupted. “Kat, I thought this was business. You said we'd get the money and get the hell out of this shit-hole." <p>"Chill, Dipshit. Rube says the Sauce Piquant won't be ready for hours, and I'm starving. We’ll do our business after breakfast." <img style="border-right-width: 0px; margin: 10px 0px 10px 16px; display: inline; border-top-width: 0px; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-left-width: 0px" title="katsunrise" border="0" alt="katsunrise" align="right" src="http://lh3.ggpht.com/_C69QvvP99zk/TSn3ZLU9DeI/AAAAAAAAAZ0/IcpzPxdK8uQ/katsunrise%5B9%5D.png?imgmax=800" width="292" height="482"> <p>"Don't worry about me, Son." Rarick sprinkled sugar over the plate of hot oozing bread. "I'm just thrilled to get my bag back." <p>"Really? You're gonna pay the reward?" <p>"See, Dipshit, I told you. I know people." <p>"Ya'll, I come from a long line of blackmailers. I'll pay, and I’ll make some calls, get you outta that mess in New Orleans." <p>He took a bite of toast and continued to talk with his mouth full. "But you gonna have to trust me." <p>DJ's took a bite of bread. His stomach felt a little queasy. <p>"We'll eat, put the pot on, then we'll hit the bayou," Rarick said. "I'll bait lines till lunch and snag two big ones before dark-thirty. Tomorrow, we’ll drive to Hammond, find a bank, collect your money, and we need not see each other again." <p>"I just hope someone else does." DJ whispered to Kat, who only smiled. <p>"Mr. Rarick," she said. <p>"Call me Rube." <p>"Of course, Rube. We really do appreciate your hospitality, but before you go making plans, you should know that I uploaded everything on your little hard-drive to a network share. If we don't get back to stop it, an automated e-mail goes to police and press Monday morning."</font></p></blockquote> <p>For those just joining the party, here’s what we’ve been doing: In the tradition of the fast-production pulps of old, we’ve got a wild plot and some zany, but dangerous characters, and through Twitter and Facebook, readers are giving me hints, helping me create a crime fiction short story in posts of less than 140 characters. <blockquote> <p><font color="#ff0000"><strong>Our plot again:</strong> When Wild Child Kat LeRouge hooks up with Bad Boy DJ Ponchatoula, they find out the hard way that some New Orleans cab drivers carry guns. Desperate for safer income, Kat decides to blackmail a crooked Louisiana politician—a scheme that brings this modern day Bonnie and Clyde face to face with CIA Black-Ops Baddie Bobby Grim.</font></p></blockquote> <p>Next installments on <a href="http://twitter.com/#!/hlarledge">Twitter</a> and <a href="http://www.facebook.com/pages/HL-Arledge/349368442231">Facebook</a> tomorrow. </p> HL Arledgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02208828472062891926noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20455884.post-88730870776060698812011-01-02T11:03:00.001-08:002011-01-09T10:18:09.200-08:00Hunting Gator, Human in Louisiana Swamp<p>This was the first full week in the swamp. Our adventure is just starting to heat up…</p> <blockquote> <p><font color="#bfaf40">Bobby Grim watched from his tree stand, as the last of the television crew's boats disappeared around the bend. </font> <p><font color="#bfaf40">Rube Rarick stood, hands on hips, at the edge of his dock, admiring the five-footer hanging above him. Grim thought the gator's head looked too big for the body, like it had swallowed a garbage can that got lodged in it's skull. </font> <p><font color="#bfaf40"><img style="border-right-width: 0px; margin: 10px 20px 10px 0px; display: inline; border-top-width: 0px; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-left-width: 0px" title="Rube Rarick and his catch" border="0" alt="Rube Rarick and his catch" align="left" src="http://lh4.ggpht.com/_C69QvvP99zk/TSDMEF_LMyI/AAAAAAAAAZo/I6n-LZiY2ew/bighead%5B5%5D.png?imgmax=800" width="356" height="315"> Rarick detached the metal head and slid the bloody arrow from the giant head. Then he popped an electric cigarette between his lips, pulled a Rambo knife from his belt, and began to cut the hide from the beast. </font> <p><font color="#bfaf40">He finished before sunset, then rose early the next morning, ready to hunt again. </font> <p><font color="#bfaf40">And on this day, he'd hunt alone—as would Bobby Grim. </font> <p><font color="#bfaf40">Rarick left the dock before dawn, his bateau loaded light, leaving plenty room for a couple of big ones. He raced through the dark bayou, grinning. Twenty years, he'd been hunting here, no one knew the area better. Around the bend from where he expected the first tag, he killed the Evinrude and started the troll motor. </font> <p><font color="#bfaf40">Even in the fog, where trees and beasts appeared and disappeared with every turn, Rarick still believed he was the swamp's most dangerous predator. </font> <p><font color="#bfaf40">"Huh?" Somewhere behind him, another troll motor started up in the fog. </font> <p><font color="#bfaf40"></font> <p><font color="#bfaf40">Saturday morning. Leta found the padlock on the bait shop door missing, along with bandages, antiseptic, and Albon—dog antibiotics. The bald muscle guy with the tattoos and ass. She knew, looking at the hundred dollar bill on the counter. She thanked God he hadn’t drowned in the storm. She wanted to get him drunk before he left the swamp. </font> <p><font color="#bfaf40">She heard a sound in the woods, a chainsaw. She walked out on the porch. Not a chainsaw, a motorcycle. </font> <p><font color="#bfaf40"></font> <p><font color="#bfaf40">When the first rays of sunlight danced over the bayou, Rarick spotted a spinach green forehead skimming open water. Fastening 500 lb test line to his custom arrow, he took aim. </font> <p><font color="#bfaf40">Behind him, hidden by fog, Bobby Grim loaded his bow with an identical arrow. <img style="border-bottom: 0px; border-left: 0px; margin: 15px 0px 15px 16px; display: inline; border-top: 0px; border-right: 0px" title="bowhunt" border="0" alt="bowhunt" align="right" src="http://lh6.ggpht.com/_C69QvvP99zk/TSn74At0R-I/AAAAAAAAAaM/AkiAHHfPJEw/bowhunt%5B6%5D.png?imgmax=800" width="339" height="158"> <a name='more'></a> </font> <p><font color="#bfaf40">Rarick pulled back his bow aimed at the gator. </font><font color="#bfaf40">Grim did likewise, aiming at Rarick. </font> <p><font color="#bfaf40">Seconds from release, Grim stopped. Damn it. Another outboard motor, coming fast from the west... </font> <p><font color="#bfaf40">...along with an extremely loud bass amp and the unmistakable rap of Kanye West. </font> <p><font color="#bfaf40">From the midst, another boat emerged. The woman from the bait shop, an orange boom box, and a couple of kids way out of place in the swamp. </font> <p><font color="#bfaf40">"Leta," Rarick said, "what the shit are you doing here?" </font> <p><font color="#bfaf40">"Sorry, Rube, but these kids said it was a matter of life and death." </font> <p><font color="#bfaf40">A tattooed girl in her twenties stood behind Leta. Different hair, but Rarick recognized her other parts. "You're the girl from the cab." </font> <p><font color="#bfaf40">"Yessir," she lifted Rarick's canvas bag from her seat, "And I brought your medicine." </font></p></blockquote> <p>For those just joining the party, here’s what we’ve been doing: In the tradition of the fast-production pulps of old, we’ve got a wild plot and some zany, but dangerous characters, and through Twitter and Facebook, readers are giving me hints, helping me create a crime fiction short story in posts of less than 140 characters. <blockquote> <p><font color="#ff0000"><strong>Our plot again:</strong> When Wild Child Kat LeRouge hooks up with Bad Boy DJ Ponchatoula, they find out the hard way that some New Orleans cab drivers carry guns. Desperate for safer income, Kat decides to blackmail a crooked Louisiana politician—a scheme that brings this modern day Bonnie and Clyde face to face with CIA Black-Ops Baddie Bobby Grim.</font></p></blockquote> <p>Next installments on <a href="http://twitter.com/#!/hlarledge">Twitter</a> and <a href="http://www.facebook.com/pages/HL-Arledge/349368442231">Facebook</a> tomorrow. HL Arledgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02208828472062891926noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20455884.post-75598080573141465892010-12-26T10:37:00.001-08:002010-12-26T11:07:20.645-08:00DJ, Kat trapped on banks of Bayou St. John<p>Another week of Pay Dirt and over 1,200 followers on <a href="http://twitter.com/#!/hlarledge" target="_blank">Twitter</a>. Thanks again, Everyone.</p> <p>Here’s a recap of what happened this week…</p> <blockquote> <p><font color="#c8b953">Another New Orleans sunrise. DJ, wet and cold on the banks of Bayou St. John, woke to the whine of a motorcycle growing louder.</font> <p><font color="#c8b953">The motor cut-off on the other side of the garbage barrels where DJ hid. He'd seen cops on beaches in Biloxi, but never on the bayou.</font> <p><font color="#c8b953">Peering between the barrels, he saw shiny, black boots digging into the mud and sand, moving closer. A shadow grew overhead. DJ peeked at the boots again.</font> <p><font color="#c8b953"><img style="border-right-width: 0px; margin: 6px 16px 10px 0px; display: inline; border-top-width: 0px; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-left-width: 0px" title="trashcans" border="0" alt="trashcans" align="left" src="http://lh4.ggpht.com/_C69QvvP99zk/TReLdJ8IwmI/AAAAAAAAAZY/Dnu_va0xEEA/trashcans%5B5%5D.png?imgmax=800" width="259" height="390"> Boots with high heels.</font> <p><font color="#c8b953">DJ stood slowly.</font> <p><font color="#c8b953">"I thought we we're going to the swamp?" Kat LeRouge said, hands on hips, a smirk on her face.</font> <p><font color="#c8b953">"But how did you find me—what about the cops?"</font> <p><font color="#c8b953">"Here." Kat threw him a black Louie Armstrong hoodie. "Take that red shit off. I was on the dome's second level and watched you all the way here."</font> <p><font color="#c8b953">DJ looked up at the sky, then Kat. They both heard it, a helicopter coming fast.</font> <p><font color="#c8b953">Kat jabbed his shoulder with three purple fingernails. "Get on the bike, Dildo."</font> <p><font color="#c8b953">“I’ve been thinking, Kat. We should give-up, before they kill us. NOPD’s got snipers now.”</font> <p><font color="#c8b953">"Look, I changed my clothes. They don't know we got the bike. Change your friggin’ hoodie and we're home free."</font> <p><font color="#c8b953">"I can’t. This ain't no dollar store hoodie. This baby's a G-Unit classic."</font> <p><font color="#c8b953">Kat pulled a bottle of purple nail polish from her bag and removed the cap. "You gonna do your nails now?" DJ asked.</font> <p><font color="#c8b953">Kat flicked her wrist and splattered polish across the sleeve of DJ's G-Unit classic. "Now, dump that gangster crap, so we can get the hell outta here."</font></p></blockquote> <p>For those just joining the party, here’s what we’ve been doing: In the tradition of the fast-production pulps of old, we’ve got a wild plot and some zany, but dangerous characters, and through Twitter and Facebook, readers are giving me hints, helping me create a crime fiction short story in posts of less than 140 characters. <blockquote> <p><font color="#ff0000"><strong>Our plot again:</strong> When Wild Child Kat LeRouge hooks up with Bad Boy DJ Ponchatoula, they find out the hard way that some New Orleans cab drivers carry guns. Desperate for safer income, Kat decides to blackmail a crooked Louisiana politician—a scheme that brings this modern day Bonnie and Clyde face to face with CIA Black-Ops Baddie Bobby Grim.</font></p></blockquote> <p>Next installments on <a href="http://twitter.com/#!/hlarledge">Twitter</a> and <a href="http://www.facebook.com/pages/HL-Arledge/349368442231">Facebook</a> tomorrow. HL Arledgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02208828472062891926noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20455884.post-44642362036753278632010-12-19T10:34:00.001-08:002010-12-19T10:49:40.483-08:00Pay Dirt heats up in Louisiana Swamp<p></p> <p>Today, our story has 1,053 followers on Twitter. Another great week, and I’ve got to thank you for continuing to help write this story through <a href="http://twitter.com/#!/hlarledge">Twitter</a> and <a href="http://www.facebook.com/HLArledgeAuthor">Facebook</a>. Now, let’s recap the week… <blockquote> <p><font color="#c1b13e">In the Superdome parking lot, DJ's ripped wires from the dashboard of somebody's Cadillac Escalade.</font> <p><font color="#c1b13e"><img style="border-right-width: 0px; margin: 10px 0px 10px 15px; display: inline; border-top-width: 0px; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-left-width: 0px" title="Kat LeRouge" border="0" alt="Kat LeRouge" align="right" src="http://lh4.ggpht.com/_C69QvvP99zk/TQ5QN_3-gCI/AAAAAAAAAXw/bqvUKIy6nHE/KatPavement%5B7%5D.png?imgmax=800" width="159" height="242">"Boy, can I pick'em." Kat laid back on the hood, biting her nails. "You gotta be the only rapper in New Orleans that can't hot-wire a car." That's when the NOPD rolled up beside them, flashing lights, but no siren. "Officer, thank God you're here." The cop climbed out, no hair and a white mustache, naturally gray or beignet sugar, Kat wasn't sure. "I lost my keys and my ex-boyfriend here said he could start it."</font> <p><font color="#c1b13e">"License and registration." </font> <p><font color="#c1b13e">"Oh, sure. I'll just run around to the glove box. Please help us. If I can’t fix it, my daddy's gonna kill me."</font> <p><font color="#c1b13e">Kat walked around the back on the SUV and sprinted north across the parking lot.</font> <p><font color="#c1b13e">“Hey!” The cop walked to the front on the SUV, and then grabbed for the radio on his belt.</font> <p><font color="#c1b13e">DJ jumped from the SUV and ran east to the Mississippi.</font> <p><font color="#c1b13e"></font> <p><font color="#c1b13e">Bobby Grim found the duck blind 100 yards up the bayou from Rarick's camp, just where the map said it would be, covered in camo and Irish moss.</font> <p><font color="#c1b13e">He hid the boat beneath the it, then climbed a large cypress and stretched across two pin oaks to scoot into the tree stand.</font> <p><font color="#c1b13e">Inside, he cleaned his gun and waited, living on jerky and water. He watched the horizon another day before Rarick's bateau appeared, with it, the lightning and drenching rain.</font> <p><font color="#c1b13e">Rarick unloaded in the downpour, just gear. The lone hunter would focus on four-legged game this trip, unaware of the surprise awaiting him.</font> <p><font color="#c1b13e"><img style="border-right-width: 0px; margin: 10px 16px 10px 0px; display: inline; border-top-width: 0px; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-left-width: 0px" title="Bobby Grim in the Swamp" border="0" alt="Bobby Grim in the Swamp" align="left" src="http://lh6.ggpht.com/_C69QvvP99zk/TQ5QOtsNPCI/AAAAAAAAAX0/htM4ctCw8Q8/GrimSwamp%5B8%5D.png?imgmax=800" width="259" height="200"> Grim lubed the pulleys on the bow, waxed the strings, and sharpened the heads. The rain would stop soon, and he’d be ready to get the job done and get the hell out of the swamp.</font> <p><font color="#c1b13e">Hour by hour, the storm's intensity increased, as did the size of Grim's arm. The wound from the gator’s bite felt hot and he was sweating in the freezing rain.</font> <p><font color="#c1b13e">Thick clouds. Pouring rain. Darkness in the tree stand, except for the occasional flash of lightning. He couldn't sleep. He hated waiting. Worse, his arm burned, the roof leaked, and his six-foot frame stretched larger than the available floor space, none of it dry.</font> <p><font color="#c1b13e">When he did find sleep, he awoke to a snake coiled around his legs. He mistook it for a Cottonmouth Water Moccasin, but after he'd taken the thing by the throat and kneed it to a bloody pulp, he found the rattler on the end.</font> <p><font color="#c1b13e">On day three, the rain stopped, but Grim's body still alternated from cold to hot. He needed a doctor, but he'd finish the job first.</font> <p><font color="#c1b13e">Daybreak. Birds cackled and the sun cast cypress shadows along the bayou. Rarick walked to the end of the peer and began loading his boat for the big day.</font> <p><font color="#c1b13e">Grim climbed down from the stand and shoved off, just as three boats rounded the bend hauling TV cameras.</font></p></blockquote><a name='more'></a> <p>For those just joining the party, here’s what we’ve been doing: In the tradition of the fast-production pulps of old, we’ve got a wild plot and some zany, but dangerous characters, and through Twitter and Facebook, readers are giving me hints, helping me create a crime fiction short story in posts of less than 140 characters.</p> <blockquote> <p><font color="#c1b13e"><strong>Our plot again:</strong> When Wild Child Kat LeRouge hooks up with Bad Boy DJ Ponchatoula, they find out the hard way that some New Orleans cab drivers carry guns. Desperate for safer income, Kat decides to blackmail a crooked Louisiana politician—a scheme that brings this modern day Bonnie and Clyde face to face with CIA Black-Ops Baddie Bobby Grim.</font></p></blockquote> <p>Next installments on <a href="http://twitter.com/#!/hlarledge">Twitter</a> and <a href="http://www.facebook.com/pages/HL-Arledge/349368442231">Facebook</a> tomorrow. HL Arledgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02208828472062891926noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20455884.post-19254650100583488842010-12-11T08:09:00.001-08:002010-12-13T21:44:34.246-08:00Pay Dirt in Louisiana swamp, New Orleans streets<p>Another fun week. Pay Dirt, the novelette you’re helping me write, has close to 1,000 <a href="http://twitter.com/#!/hlarledge" target="_blank">Twitter</a> followers. Thanks again for your help! Now, let’s replay what happened this week…</p> <blockquote> <p><font color="#cab835"><img style="border-right-width: 0px; margin: 10px 0px 10px 15px; display: inline; border-top-width: 0px; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-left-width: 0px" title="grimatcamp2" border="0" alt="grimatcamp2" align="right" src="http://lh4.ggpht.com/_C69QvvP99zk/TQOiLXHP7NI/AAAAAAAAAXg/G3lnUim2kNo/grimatcamp2%5B4%5D.png?imgmax=800" width="232" height="242"> Moving the lighter closer to the chains, Grim found a seam in the floor, then hinges to a door opening to the swamp below. Forcing the crowbar into the seam, he broke the latch. Brown water below the camp. Darker in the center and growing darker. Big yellow eyes in the center.</font></p> <p><font color="#cab835">Massive green jaws lurched from the water. Yellow teeth sliced Grim’s arm. He winced and dropped the lighter. Blind, he swung the crowbar in the darkness. The door slammed shut. Grim waited for the splash below, then collapsed on the closed door, bleeding in the darkness.</font></p> <p><font color="#cab835">"Friggin' gators, I hate 'em."</font> <p><font color="#cab835">The next day, Kat and DJ hung out on a bus bench across from Rube Rarick's New Orleans office, Kat on a cell phone, </font><font color="#cab835">DJ's thumbing through the Times-Picayune.</font></p> <p><font color="#cab835">"How many cabs you gotta rob to get your picture in the paper around here?" </font></p> <p><font color="#cab835"><img style="border-right-width: 0px; margin: 10px 16px 10px 0px; display: inline; border-top-width: 0px; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-left-width: 0px" title="fatallyyours" border="0" alt="fatallyyours" align="left" src="http://lh6.ggpht.com/_C69QvvP99zk/TQOiLxZ_9MI/AAAAAAAAAXk/CiRRw1_Gwks/fatallyyours%5B3%5D.png?imgmax=800" width="162" height="242"> "Weasel-dick Bastard!" Kat slammed the phone onto the sidewalk, before it skipped into the traffic of Carrollton Avenue. Someone in a Prius popped the horn. Kat flipped them off. "Google says he's in New Orleans, we've seen him, but his bitch of a secretary says he's on vacation."</font></p> <p><font color="#cab835">A Tabasco truck hits the cell phone, crushing it like a cracker.</font></p> <p><font color="#cab835">"Hey," DJ looked up from the paper, "that’s my phone." </font></p> <p><font color="#cab835">"Forget it, the police could've tracked us with it anyway." Kat took DJ's round brush from the congressman's bag and twisted it into one of her curls." After we're rich, I'll get you another."</font></p> <p><font color="#cab835">"Well, I found your congressman." DJ held up the B section, a photo of Rarick in camouflage. "It says he's hunting for gator the next two weeks."</font></p> <p><font color="#cab835">"That explains it." Kat grabbed the bag and stood up. "C'mon."</font></p> <p><font color="#cab835">"Where are we going?"</font></p> <p><font color="#cab835">"Do I have to tell you everything? We’re getting a truck or something that'll get us to the swamp."</font></p></blockquote> <p>For those just joining the party, here’s what we’ve been doing: In the tradition of the fast-production pulps of old, we’ve got a wild plot and some zany, but dangerous characters, and through Twitter and Facebook, readers are giving me hints, helping me create a crime fiction short story in posts of less than 140 characters.<a name='more'></a> <p>As we write this, you can watch us fail, or join in. Guide my actions, and together we can invent a new medium—a pulpy sort of Tweet Fiction or Twitter Pulp. <blockquote> <p><font color="#d3b12c"><strong>Our plot again:</strong> When Wild Child Kat LeRouge hooks up with Bad Boy DJ Ponchatoula, they find out the hard way that some New Orleans cab drivers carry guns. Desperate for safer income, Kat decides to blackmail a crooked Louisiana politician—a scheme that brings this modern day Bonnie and Clyde face to face with CIA Black-Ops Baddie Bobby Grim.</font></p></blockquote> <p>Next installments on <a href="http://twitter.com/#!/hlarledge">Twitter</a> and <a href="http://www.facebook.com/pages/HL-Arledge/349368442231">Facebook</a> tomorrow. <p>Thanks! HL Arledgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02208828472062891926noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20455884.post-3940785250180360402010-12-05T09:12:00.001-08:002010-12-05T20:22:20.730-08:00Bobby Grim takes on Bayou Manchac<p>Today, our story has 877 followers on Twitter. Another great week, and I’ve got to thank you for continuing to help write this story through <a href="http://twitter.com/#!/hlarledge">Twitter</a> and <a href="http://www.facebook.com/HLArledgeAuthor">Facebook</a>. <p>Now, let’s recap the week. <blockquote> <p><font color="#c8ba5b"><img style="border-right-width: 0px; margin: 10px; display: inline; border-top-width: 0px; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-left-width: 0px" title="swampstore" border="0" alt="swampstore" align="right" src="http://lh4.ggpht.com/_C69QvvP99zk/TPvIFZbHmJI/AAAAAAAAAXY/rXRMXWKgU1k/swampstore%5B4%5D.png?imgmax=800" width="324" height="431"> </font><font color="#bb9c3e">Climbing down from the Abita Beer truck, Bobby Grim heard the driver saying that Savoy Landing was Bayou Manchac's last boat launch, the end of the farthest road into the swamp. “Sure you wanna be dropped here? I ain’t back for another two weeks.”</font></p> <p><font color="#bb9c3e">“I told you, I’m a hunter,” Grim said, “I’ll survive.”</font></p> <p><font color="#bb9c3e">The shack next to the launch had rusted tin nailed on the sides covered with faded yellow paint and a picture—maybe a coffee cup—with some words: <em>Morning Treat</em>.</font> <p><font color="#bb9c3e">By a single gas pump and a dead Jax beer light, a hand-stenciled sign swung from a post and read: No Deliveries Today. </font> <p><font color="#bb9c3e">The front wall, eight-feet wide, covered with various sized wooden planks, held more stenciled signs: Pig Feet, Gator Balls, and Coon Meat. The shack looked dark, the front door open or missing. All quiet, till the voice of Rush Limbaugh shouted something about Femi-Nazis. </font> <p><font color="#bb9c3e">Grim followed the sound through the entrance. </font> <p><font color="#bb9c3e">A chest-type home freezer sat just inside the door. In the shop’s center, a table with two chairs. A plastic-lettered cafe menu hung behind a rusted deli counter, white with a Barq's logo. Post office mailboxes with peeling brass-colored paint covered the left wall. On the right, shelves filled with food, for people, fish, and deer. </font> <p><font color="#bb9c3e">Behind the counter, a fat lady in a Harley shirt broke a crawfish in half and sucked both ends before speaking. "Who the hell are you?" Something red and yellow oozed down her chin.</font> <p><font color="#bb9c3e">"How much to rent one of your air-boats?" Grim pinched a hundred dollar bill from his roll. </font> <p><font color="#bb9c3e">Fat Lady wiped her chin with a Post-it note. "Thirty an hour, you got I.D." </font> <p><font color="#bb9c3e">"How much if I don't?" He peeled off six hundred, lining the bills across the counter. </font> <p><font color="#bb9c3e">"Maybe I'll tell the owner somebody stole the thing. Like maybe it just floated off or something." </font> <p><font color="#bb9c3e">"When will you see him?" </font> <p><font color="#bb9c3e">"Her." </font> <p><font color="#bb9c3e">"When will you see <em>her?" </em></font> <p><font color="#bb9c3e">"Another week, next Friday." </font> <p><font color="#bb9c3e">Grim counted another four bills. "The boat floats off next Thursday, right?" </font> <p><font color="#bb9c3e"> </font> <p><font color="#bb9c3e">Bouncing through Bayou Manchac, the air-boat disturbed a gator large enough to splash some green gunk on Grim’s map. He slowed to clean it and to make sure the gator wasn't in the boat. </font> <p><font color="#bb9c3e">He pushed the throttle forward and rounded another bend, then slowed in front of the target’s camp. The recruiter described the target as the only hunter in the swamp with his picture on the wall of his camp. This camp's walls were insulated in old campaign billboards, half painted over, each sporting a photo of the same man and the some words, red and blue, and reading: Rube Rarick for Congress. </font> <p><font color="#bb9c3e">Wearing white rubber boots he'd found in the boat, Grim tromped through the mud to the back of the camp and opened the door with a crowbar.<a name='more'></a> </font> <p><font color="#bb9c3e">Inside the camp, hung next to a framed newspaper article touting the congressman's escapades as a lone hunter, he found and removed the dustiest of Rarick's four bows. Looking for arrows, Grim opened the camp’s only locked door, by removing the hinges and slid the deadbolt from the jam. </font> <p><font color="#bb9c3e">No windows in this room, and Rarick wouldn't start the generator till gator season, another two days. Lysol, odd smell for a hunting camp.</font> <p><font color="#bb9c3e">Grim never asked the company why when they chose a target, but he usually knew before the job ended. Most often, some creep needed to be put down, but he knew too much for the law to do it, so they called Grim. </font><font color="#bb9c3e">This job was no different. <font color="#bb9c3e">He flicked his lighter. </font></font><font color="#bb9c3e">No photos this time, just women's clothing in various sizes, stapled to the walls and ceiling—a shiny pair of ankle-cuffs bolted to the floor.</font></p></blockquote> <p>For those just joining the party, here’s what we’ve been doing: In the tradition of the fast-production pulps of old, I got a wild plot and some zany, but dangerous characters, and through Twitter and Facebook, readers are helping create a crime fiction short story posts of less than 140 characters. <p>As I said before, you could watch me fall on my face in an experiment gone wrong, or you can guide my actions, and together we can invent a new medium—a pulpy sort of Tweet Fiction or Twitter Pulp. <blockquote> <p><font color="#d0c864"><strong>Our plot:</strong> When Wild Child Kat LeRouge hooks up with Bad Boy DJ Ponchatoula, they find out the hard way that some New Orleans cab drivers carry guns. Desperate for safer income, Kat decides to blackmail a crooked Louisiana politician—a scheme that brings this modern day Bonnie and Clyde face to face with CIA Black-Ops Baddie Bobby Grim.</font></p></blockquote> <p>Next installments on <a href="http://twitter.com/#!/hlarledge">Twitter</a> and <a href="http://www.facebook.com/pages/HL-Arledge/349368442231">Facebook</a> tomorrow.</p> HL Arledgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02208828472062891926noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20455884.post-72803911101944353262010-11-26T09:13:00.001-08:002010-11-28T07:24:11.060-08:00Another week of shenanigans in New Orleans<p>Today, our story has 769 followers on Twitter. Another great week, and I’ve got to thank you for continuing to help write this story through <a href="http://twitter.com/#!/hlarledge" target="_blank">Twitter</a> and <a href="http://www.facebook.com/HLArledgeAuthor" target="_blank">Facebook</a>. </p> <p>Now, let’s recap the week. DJ Ponchatoula and Kat LeRouge are taking New Orleans, but they have no idea what’s in store for them as Bobby Grim gets closer to the city. The impending collision is one you won’t want to miss.</p> <blockquote> <p><font color="#bbbe41">DJ punched the accelerator and passed the bus on the left. "Hey, look, some old guy's waving at us." </font></p> <p><font color="#bbbe41">"Ugly tie, briefcase, some lawyer, money, but too lazy to drive. Pull over." </font></p> <p><font color="#bbbe41">"No way, we're in enough shit already." </font></p> <p><font color="#bbbe41">"Pull over, now, or next cop we pass, I scream rape and blame all this on you." </font></p> <p><font color="#bbbe41">DJ stopped near the curve.<img style="border-right-width: 0px; margin: 15px 15px 10px 0px; display: inline; border-top-width: 0px; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-left-width: 0px" title="DJ and Kat on Canal Street" border="0" alt="DJ and Kat on Canal Street" align="left" src="http://lh3.ggpht.com/_C69QvvP99zk/TO_qnz4Y0ZI/AAAAAAAAAXQ/haE7YavDra0/crash%5B5%5D.png?imgmax=800" width="449" height="337"> </font></p> <p><font color="#bbbe41">Kat opened the door, and the white-haired lawyer said, “I’m late for a meeting. I just need to go about a block and a half.” </font></p> <p><font color="#bbbe41">"Oh, we'll take you,” Kat said, "Climb on. Sharing and caring, right?” </font></p> <p><font color="#bbbe41">The lawyer stepped down into the cab and sat his leather bag between his body and Kat's. "Thank you. I should have be there 5 minutes ago." </font></p> <p><font color="#bbbe41">DJ pulled the car away from the curve. Grinning, Kat moved the leather bag to the floorboard and scooted close to the lawyer. </font></p> <p><font color="#bbbe41">"How about a better idea?" She touched his chin with the barrel of the cab driver's thirty-eight. "Ever play a game called gimme?" </font></p> <p><font color="#bbbe41">"My wallet's in my coat. Sixty bucks and some credit cards." </font></p> <p><font color="#bbbe41">"How do you know I want money, maybe I want your body, maybe I'm old school, into that retro shit?" </font></p> <p><font color="#bbbe41">The taxi jolted, and Kat said, "Damn it, DJ, you want this gun to go off in grandpa's face? Stay from behind that friggin bus." </font></p> <p><font color="#bbbe41">The car whipped left. The lawyer gasped as something exploded. </font></p> <p><font color="#bbbe41">When Kat came to, no lawyer, just DJ hunched over the wheel, and the cab on fire, jammed under the axle of a Community Coffee truck. </font></p> <p><font color="#bbbe41">Kat frowned at the crowd peeking through the cracked windshield spotted with blood. "It's all that freaking lawyer's fault." </font></p> <p><font color="#bbbe41">The back door creaked as she climbed out, sirens echoed from three directions. Opening the driver's side, she gave DJ a tit-twister through his T-shirt. </font></p> <p><font color="#bbbe41">"Wake-up, Dildo, cops are coming, and I can't carry your scrawny ass." </font></p><a name='more'></a> <p><font color="#bbbe41">Minutes later, she staggered back down Canal Street, a groggy DJ on one arm, the lawyer's leather bag on the other with the cab driver’s .38 tucked inside. By St. Charles Avenue, DJ had his bearings. Kat tossed a wad of bloody Kleenex into a trashcan and covered DJ's wound with his cap, as two NOLA patrol cars passed, sirens screaming, blue lights blinding.</font></p> <p><font color="#bbbe41">Kat and DJ climbed on a streetcar headed south. "I could go for some beignets," she said.</font></p> <p><font color="#bbbe41">"Those uppers or downers?"</font></p> <p><font color="#bbbe41">"They're like donuts, Dumb Ass."</font></p> <p><font color="#bbbe41">An hour later, in a pastry shop called the Loup Garou. Kat ate, played with the laptop she'd found in the layer's bag. DJ watched cable.</font></p> <p><font color="#bbbe41">"What are you looking for?" Kat asked, as he scanned the channels.</font></p> <p><font color="#bbbe41">"They've got cameras all over these days. I wanted to see if they got us on the news."</font></p> <p><font color="#bbbe41">"I hope not. I'll have to dye my hair again."</font></p> <p><font color="#bbbe41">"What's with the computer?"</font></p> <p><font color="#bbbe41">"I figured we'd pawn it or something, then I got bored and tried to surf. He doesn't even have wireless on this thing."</font></p> <p><font color="#bbbe41">"Hah!" DJ found them on the TV, just after the taxi crash. "That's not a very good likeness, too far away and grainy. You can't even see my Saints hat."</font></p> <p><font color="#bbbe41">"Trust me, Dildo, that's a good thing." Kat kept browsing files on the laptop. "This guy was into some boring shit, no porn or anything."</font></p> <p><font color="#bbbe41">"Look, he's on TV." DJ glanced up to see the white-haired man interviewed, describing them. Under his face, a name: Congressman Rube Rarick.</font></p> <p><font color="#bbbe41">"Oh, no," DJ said, "We're screwed now."</font></p> <p><font color="#bbbe41">"Don't think so." Kat was looking at the laptop again. "I found something worth selling back to Congressman Rube Rarick."</font></p> <p><font color="#bbbe41">"You sure he'll pay?"</font></p> <p><font color="#bbbe41">"Pay us or get life in Angola. Which would you do?"</font></p></blockquote> <p>For those just joining the party, here’s what we’ve been doing: In the tradition of the fast-production pulps of old, I got a wild plot and some zany, but dangerous characters, and through Twitter and Facebook, readers are helping create a crime fiction short story posting less than 140 characters per day. (Yea, I know I posted extra on Friday, but I couldn’t wait!) <p>As I said before, you could watch me fall on my face in an experiment gone wrong, or you can guide my actions, and together we can invent a new medium—a pulpy sort of Tweet Fiction or Twitter Pulp. <blockquote> <p><font color="#cbc14b"><strong>Our plot:</strong> When Wild Child Kat LeRouge hooks up with Bad Boy DJ Ponchatoula, they find out the hard way that some New Orleans cab drivers carry guns. Desperate for safer income, Kat decides to blackmail a crooked Louisiana politician—a scheme that brings this modern day Bonnie and Clyde face to face with CIA Black-Ops Baddie Bobby Grim.</font></p></blockquote> <p>Next installments on <a href="http://twitter.com/#!/hlarledge" target="_blank">Twitter</a> and <a href="http://www.facebook.com/pages/HL-Arledge/349368442231">Facebook</a> tomorrow. <p>Let me know what you think. Since technically this story hasn't been written yet, your thoughts and feedback will actually change the course and ultimate outcome of the story. Message me or tweet your ideas to everyone. As a group, you the readers, will actually decide who lives, who dies, and how many thrills they experience along the way. HL Arledgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02208828472062891926noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20455884.post-50097650306561232492010-11-21T07:23:00.000-08:002010-11-23T20:59:04.329-08:00Kat and DJ hijack a New Orleans lawyer’s taxi<p>Okay, here’s the second half of this week’s <a href="http://twitter.com/#!/hlarledge" target="_blank">Twitter</a> crime fiction. We’re watching Kat LeRouge and DJ Ponchatoula getting deeper into trouble in the Big Easy.</p> <blockquote> <p><font color="#cbb84e">"A round brush, really?" Kat said. </font></p> <p><font color="#cbb84e">DJ thinking: What a night, no Circle K, thank God, and no casino, just acrobatics and toys at Kat's play land. Ultra awesome, but she’s some kind of bitch in the morning.<img style="border-right-width: 0px; margin: 10px 15px 10px 10px; display: inline; border-top-width: 0px; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-left-width: 0px" title="Kat LeRouge" border="0" alt="Kat LeRouge" align="left" src="http://lh4.ggpht.com/_C69QvvP99zk/TOgxD4_MYGI/AAAAAAAAAXE/5JQoqKUym2o/KatSide%5B6%5D.png?imgmax=800" width="185" height="482"></font></p> <p><font color="#cbb84e">"Round brushes are out." She waved at a corner on Magazine Street. A yellow car stopped, they jumped in. "They were <em>never</em> in for guys."</font> <p><font color="#cbb84e">"Driver, turn that Bob Marley shit down," Kat yelled. </font> <p><font color="#cbb84e">"Balance, Mon,” the driver said, “that’s Ernie K-Doe and Professor Longhair, New Orleans’ homegrown."</font> <p><font color="#cbb84e">"Sorry, I have a cowlick," DJ said. "You ever woke up with bed head?"</font> <p><font color="#cbb84e">"You're such a hick," Kat said, "Give me that." She stuck the handle of the brush into the driver's neck. "Now, start driving, Squid Head."</font> <p><font color="#cbb84e">The taxi left the curb, behind a city bus. "Don't shoot, Mon, I got nothing you need." Over sweaty dreadlocks, Kat saw bug-eyes in the mirror.</font> <p><font color="#cbb84e">"Aw, don't do this, Kat," said DJ, "Please tell the man you're joking. What if he's got a gun, I don't want to die on Canal Street."</font> <p><font color="#cbb84e">"No gun, Me," the driver said, "But I got excellent hearing. Take you anywhere you need, but please, no shooting. My little children need me."</font> <p><font color="#cbb84e">The bus stopped in front of the taxi, and a mime crossed between them. "Watch the road," Kat said. "And pass that cash box back here, real slow."</font> <p><font color="#cbb84e">DJ opened the box and counted. "38 dollars and 50 cents. Hey, there is a gun in here.”</font> <p><font color="#cbb84e">"What’s the matter, Squidy, are you stupid? Who'd wanna get killed for less than fifty."<img style="border-right-width: 0px; margin: 10px 0px; display: inline; border-top-width: 0px; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-left-width: 0px" title="Rube Rarick" border="0" alt="Rube Rarick" align="right" src="http://lh6.ggpht.com/_C69QvvP99zk/TOgxEqsPRII/AAAAAAAAAXM/0eEqYTwnKzU/rubeRarick%5B8%5D.png?imgmax=800" width="262" height="362"></font> <p><font color="#cbb84e">The bus stopped again. Behind it, the driver stomped the brake, threw the cab in park, then opened the door and slumped down in the seat. Kat heard mumbling, something like, “Half idiot pussy hose,” then she saw Squid Head running up the street in a squat, his dreadlocks bobbing up and down.</font> <p><font color="#cbb84e">She smirked at DJ. "Don't just sit there, Dildo. Go after him." </font> <p><font color="#cbb84e">Kat heard horns honking ahead, then the bus moved, and she saw DJ standing there, shrugging. "I don't know where the guy went."</font> <p><font color="#cbb84e">"We're blocking traffic, get in."</font> <p><font color="#cbb84e">"What?"</font> <p><font color="#cbb84e">"Drive the friggin cab, before the cops show up."</font> <p><font color="#cbb84e">"Get away from that bus," Kat said. DJ punched the accelerator and passed the bus on left. "Hey, look, some old guy's waving at us."</font> <p><font color="#cbb84e">"Tie and briefcase," said Kat. "Some rich lawyer, too lazy to drive. Pull over."</font><a name='more'></a> <p><font color="#cbb84e">"No way, we're in enough shit already."</font> <p><font color="#cbb84e">"Pull over, now, or next cop we pass, I scream rape and blame all this on you.<font color="#cbb84e">"</font></font> <p><font color="#cbb84e">DJ pulled the car to the curve. Kat opened the door, and the old lawyer looking guy said, “I’m late for a meeting. I just need to go about a block and a half.”</font> <p><font color="#cbb84e"><font color="#cbb84e">"Oh, we'll take you,” Kat said, "Climb on. Share and share alike, right?”</font></font></p></blockquote> <p>Follow along in real-time on Twitter in the weeks ahead. Tell me what you want to happen next. Majority rules. We’re writing this adventure together, and it’s turning out great. <em>Thanks!</em></p> HL Arledgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02208828472062891926noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20455884.post-78648936991174137562010-11-20T09:28:00.001-08:002010-11-20T17:02:31.483-08:00Bobby Grim leaves Texan crying in the street<p>For those keeping score, we’ve got almost 700 followers on Twitter, helping write this story, sending private messages, telling me what they’d like to see the characters in Pay Dirt do next.</p> <p>I’ll post twice this weekend, once for each scene collected from <a href="http://twitter.com/#!/hlarledge" target="_blank">Twitter</a> this week. The first scene takes up where we left off last week, with Bobby Grim in line at a Texas pawn shop, behind some jerk, who made his wife sell her jewelry.</p> <blockquote> <p><font color="#d7c148">Bony Girl left sobbing with Bent Hat counting her money. <img style="border-right-width: 0px; margin: 10px; display: inline; border-top-width: 0px; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-left-width: 0px" title="GrimFog" border="0" alt="GrimFog" align="right" src="http://lh4.ggpht.com/_C69QvvP99zk/TOgFQ31o92I/AAAAAAAAAXA/ueqABCc-v1k/GrimFog%5B6%5D.png?imgmax=800" width="298" height="428"> </font></p> <p><font color="#d7c148">Bobby Grim slapped his pawn ticket on the counter and said to Ernie, "Don't start..."</font></p> <p><font color="#d7c148">"Well, well, well," said Ernie. "First I heard dead, then the Pen, retirement after that. Now, here he is, the King of Black Ops, back in action."</font></p> <p><font color="#d7c148">"I screwed your wife, Ern. Get over it and fill the order, where I can get to work." </font></p> <p><font color="#d7c148">Ernie snatched the ticket. Shaking his head, he walked to the back and returned with a red, white, and blue acoustic guitar.</font></p> <p><font color="#d7c148">"What the hell's this?"</font></p> <p><font color="#d7c148">"You expected a black bag, a brown paper wrapper? People are wise now, thanks to fucking James Bond."</font></p> <p><font color="#d7c148">Grim grabbed the guitar and walked to the door.</font></p> <p><font color="#d7c148">"Will I see you later?" Ernie asked.</font></p> <p><font color="#d7c148">"Doubt it, there’s another 500 miles to the job, and I’m taking the train back.”</font></p> <p><font color="#d7c148">"</font><font color="#d7c148">Bullshit. You gotta show ID to buy a ticket."</font></p> <p><font color="#d7c148">"I never said I was buying anything.<font color="#d7c148">"</font></font></p> <p><font color="#d7c148">Outside, Bent Hat's truck doors were open. Near the center of the lot, he was dragging Bony Girl backwards, his hand around her throat.</font></p> <p><font color="#d7c148">Behind the truck, Bobby Grim smashed the guitar over Bent Hat's skull, knocking him to the pavement, bleeding and cursing, as Bony Girl ran. </font><font color="#d7c148">Grim dug a duct-taped envelope from the red, white, and blue splinters, opened it, and pulled out a map and a two-inch stacks of 100-dollar bills.</font></p> <p><font color="#d7c148">Bent Hat stood, swinging the jagged neck of the guitar. Grim pulled his nine-millimeter from his vest and slapped him unconscious. </font><font color="#d7c148">Bony Girl came back and kneeled beside him, sobbing.</font></p> <p><font color="#d7c148">"Here." Grim peeled three bills from his stack. "Tell Barney to give your stuff back, use the rest to get away from this jackass."</font></p> <p><font color="#d7c148">Before Grim left the parking lot, Bony Girl had her arms around Bent Hat. "Who asked you, Asshole? I'm calling the cops."</font></p></blockquote> <p><font color="#ffffff">No good deed goes unpunished. Tomorrow, I’ll post this week’s second scene, Kat LeRouge and DJ Ponchatoula hijacking a taxi cab in New Orleans.</font></p> HL Arledgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02208828472062891926noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20455884.post-47164525330027796002010-11-12T07:09:00.001-08:002010-11-20T17:12:47.292-08:00Pay Dirt triples Twitter Followers<p>You guys are giving me feedback, and I’m incorporating your ideas. Together, we’re creating quite a world. <a href="http://twitter.com/hlarledge">Twitter</a> and <a href="http://www.facebook.com/pages/HL-Arledge/349368442231">Facebook</a> are still buzzing, and I’m excited about it.<img style="border-right-width: 0px; margin: 10px; display: inline; border-top-width: 0px; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-left-width: 0px" title="KatnDJ" border="0" alt="KatnDJ" align="right" src="http://lh3.ggpht.com/_C69QvvP99zk/TN3PCtZLi1I/AAAAAAAAAWo/AkTQTzOxn3A/KatnDJ%5B2%5D.png?imgmax=800" width="198" height="242"> <a href="http://twitter.com/hlarledge">Twitter</a> followers of the story have tripled in two weeks. Thanks to you! <p>Thanks again, everyone who’s participating. This is how the second week went… <blockquote> <p><font color="#ddc46c">Kat stood, DJ bug-eyed and puppet-wobbling, pliers clamped between his legs. "So cute for a moron," she said, "Say, you like Kat or Kathy?"</font> <p><font color="#ddc46c">Katrina Geauxmieux before the storm, Kat LeRouge loathed the name Kathy, and using her mom's last name sounded way cooler than Kat "Go Mew".</font> <p><font color="#ddc46c">"I like whichever one makes you turn loose my boner and lets me haul ass away from you."</font> <p><font color="#ddc46c">Kat kissed DJ's cheek, stirring the crowd. Then she turned and pranced up the street with DJ close behind her and the crowd applauding.</font> <p><font color="#ddc46c">"Please unclamp me," DJ said, shuffling his feet as fast as Kat could walk. "What if I want to have kids or something?"</font> <p><font color="#ddc46c">Around a dark corner, Kat slammed DJ against a wall. Her big brown eyes inches from his, she released the pliers, but DJ didn't move. <img style="border-right-width: 0px; margin: 8px 15px 8px 10px; display: inline; border-top-width: 0px; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-left-width: 0px" title="grim_sunrise" border="0" alt="grim_sunrise" align="left" src="http://lh3.ggpht.com/_C69QvvP99zk/TN1YvQS00KI/AAAAAAAAAWs/9ZbWRWkXlJA/grim_sunrise%5B2%5D.png?imgmax=800" width="252" height="326"></font> <p><font color="#ddc46c">"How about we knock off a Circle K and get wasted at the casino?" She asked. </font> <p><font color="#ddc46c"></font> <p><font color="#ddc46c">Four hours and five hundred miles away, Bobby Grim smirked in the plate glass window at the rays kaleidescoping his peeled head. Amazing sunrises in Texas, but everything else sucks. </font> <p><font color="#ddc46c">The guy next to him needed to shut-up. If Ernie didn't open soon, he’d open with blood splattered on the pawn shop doors.</font> <p><font color="#ddc46c">"You know I ain't had my coffee," said the hairy guy in the bent cowboy hat. "Keep whining, won't be my fault what happens to you."</font> <p><font color="#ddc46c">The bony girl's lips quivered. Her eyes, sunk deep in her head, stared.</font> <p><font color="#ddc46c">Bobby Grim picked up a Coke bottle filled with and cigarette butts and Skoal juice. He walked towards Bent Hat, just as Ernie's bug rolled into the lot.</font> <p><font color="#ddc46c">Bent Hat and the bony woman met Ernie at the door. Bobby Grim dropped the bottle into the trash and followed them inside. </font> <p><font color="#ddc46c">The woman placed three rings and an anklet on the counter. Ernie asked, "Pawn or Sell." </font> <p><font color="#ddc46c">Bent Hat answered, "Selling" before she could speak.</font> <p><font color="#ddc46c">Bobby Grim stood behind them, gnawing his lower lip, and fumbling with a battered pawn ticket between his thumb and forefinger.</font><a name='more'></a></p></blockquote> <p>For those just joining the party, here’s what we’ve been doing: In the tradition of the fast-production pulps of old, I got a wild plot and some zany, but dangerous characters, and through Twitter and Facebook, readers are helping create a crime fiction short story posting less than 140 characters per day. (Yea, I know I posted extra on Friday, but I couldn’t wait!) <p>As I said before, you could watch me fall on my face in an experiment gone wrong, or you can guide my actions, and together we can invent a new medium—a pulpy sort of Tweet Fiction or Twitter Pulp. <blockquote> <p><font color="#cdb861"><strong>Our plot:</strong> When Wild Child Kat LeRouge hooks up with Bad Boy DJ Ponchatoula, they find out the hard way that some New Orleans cab drivers carry guns. Desperate for safer income, Kat decides to blackmail a crooked Louisiana politician—a scheme that brings this modern day Bonnie and Clyde face to face with CIA Black-Ops Baddie Bobby Grim.</font></p></blockquote> <p>Next installments on <a href="http://twitter.com/hlarledge">Twitter</a> and <a href="http://www.facebook.com/pages/HL-Arledge/349368442231">Facebook</a> tomorrow. <p>Let me know what you think. Since technically this story hasn't been written yet, your thoughts and feedback will actually change the course and ultimate outcome of the story. Message me or tweet your ideas to everyone. As a group, you the readers, will actually decide who lives, who dies, and how many thrills they experience along the way. HL Arledgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02208828472062891926noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20455884.post-7119802385369142992010-11-05T08:11:00.001-07:002010-11-07T19:47:51.369-08:00First Week of Pay Dirt starts Internet Buzzing<p></span>Together, we’ve written quite a story so far. <a href="http://twitter.com/hlarledge" target="_blank">Twitter</a> and <a href="http://www.facebook.com/pages/HL-Arledge/349368442231" target="_blank">Facebook</a> are starting to buzz, and I’m blown away. <a href="http://twitter.com/hlarledge" target="_blank">Twitter</a> followers of the story have actually doubled in the last three days. Thanks to you!</p> <p>Really, I want to thank everyone participating. So far, so good…</p> <blockquote> <p><font color="#eac46a">Two miles out of Vegas, Bobby Grim sat on his backpack, thumb in the air. Seven days to make New Orleans and arrange a hunting accident.</font></p> <p><font color="#eac46a">On Bourbon Street, the French Quarter hood ornaments knew not to look at Kat LeRouge too long, much less spit the B word, but DJ Ponchatoula reigned from the 985 and whatn't taking nothing from no 504 shorty. "On your knees, Be-atch. I got some lunch meat for you."<a href="http://www.facebook.com/pages/HL-Arledge/349368442231" target="_blank"><font color="#e8dc9b"><img style="border-right-width: 0px; margin: 15px 0px 15px 15px; display: inline; border-top-width: 0px; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-left-width: 0px" title="Kat LeRouge in New Orleans" border="0" alt="Kat LeRouge in New Orleans" align="right" src="http://lh6.ggpht.com/_C69QvvP99zk/TNRJS_O--tI/AAAAAAAAAV0/ZH7GyEiRV-Y/kat%5B13%5D.png?imgmax=800" width="282" height="232"></font></a></font></p> <p><font color="#eac46a">"Yummy," Kat said, licking her lips and kneeling before DJ and the crowd outside Johnny White's Bar. "Whip that big Andouille out here."</font></p> <p><font color="#eac46a">The sidewalk gawkers cheered and DJ's face got hot. He looked left to right, then shrugged and unzipped. </font></p> <p><font color="#eac46a">The crowd roared. </font></p> <p><font color="#eac46a">"Bon Appétit, Be-atch," DJ said.</font></p> <p><font color="#eac46a">His last syllable went a little long, when Kat jabbed something shiny into his crotch. </font><font color="#eac46a">"Craftsman Vise Grips," she said, "double clamped."</font></p></blockquote> <p>For those just joining the party, here’s what we’ve been doing: In the tradition of the fast-production pulps of old, I got a wild plot and some zany, but dangerous characters, and through Twitter and Facebook, readers are helping create a crime fiction short story posting less than 140 characters per day. (Yea, I know I posted extra on Friday, but I couldn’t wait!)</p> <p>As I said before, you could watch me fall on my face in an experiment gone wrong, or you can guide my actions, and together we can invent a new medium—a pulpy sort of Tweet Fiction or Twitter Pulp.</p> <blockquote> <p><strong>Our plot:</strong> When Wild Child Kat LeRouge hooks up with Bad Boy DJ Ponchatoula, they find out the hard way that some New Orleans cab drivers carry guns. Desperate for safer income, Kat decides to blackmail a crooked Louisiana politician—a scheme that brings this modern day Bonnie and Clyde face to face with CIA Black-Ops Baddie Bobby Grim.</p></blockquote> <p>Next installments on <a href="http://twitter.com/hlarledge" target="_blank">Twitter</a> and <a href="http://www.facebook.com/pages/HL-Arledge/349368442231" target="_blank">Facebook</a> tomorrow.</p> <p>Let me know what you think. Since technically this story hasn't been written yet, your thoughts and feedback will actually change the course and ultimate outcome of the story. Message me or tweet your ideas to everyone. As a group, you the readers, will actually decide who lives, who dies, and how many thrills they experience along the way.</p> HL Arledgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02208828472062891926noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20455884.post-21239962354420665552010-10-31T11:34:00.001-07:002010-11-06T15:57:09.747-07:00New Bobby Grim Adventure Tomorrow<p>Tomorrow, we start a grand adventure <em>together</em>.</p> <p><img style="border-right-width: 0px; margin: 10px; display: inline; border-top-width: 0px; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-left-width: 0px" title="Pay Dirt" border="0" alt="Pay Dirt" align="right" src="http://lh5.ggpht.com/_C69QvvP99zk/TM4Er79zNbI/AAAAAAAAAU4/S_5iFkdlILQ/paydirt_3%5B4%5D.png?imgmax=800" width="322" height="482"> In the tradition of the fast-production pulps of old, I've got a wild plot and some zany, but dangerous characters, and through Twitter and Facebook, we'll create a crime fiction short story while posting less than 140 characters per day.</p> <p>Now, you could watch me fall on my face in an experiment gone wrong, or you can guide my actions, and together we can invent a new medium—a pulpy sort of <em>Tweet Fiction</em> or <em>Twitter Pulp</em>.</p> <blockquote><strong>Our plot:</strong> When Wild Child Kat LeRouge hooks up with Bad Boy DJ Ponchatoula, they find out the hard way that some New Orleans cab drivers carry guns. Desperate for safer income, Kat decides to blackmail a crooked Louisiana politician—a scheme that brings this modern day Bonnie and Clyde face to face with CIA Black-Ops Baddie Bobby Grim.</blockquote><iframe style="width: 131px; padding-right: 10px; height: 245px; padding-top: 5px; align: left" marginheight="0" src="http://rcm.amazon.com/e/cm?t=hlar-20&o=1&p=8&l=bpl&asins=B0043VDXQ0&fc1=FFFFFF&IS2=1&lt1=_blank&m=amazon&lc1=F1C232&bc1=000000&bg1=26221A&f=ifr" frameborder="0" marginwidth="0" scrolling="no" align="left"></iframe>The first installment hits <a href="http://twitter.com/hlarledge" target="_blank">Twitter</a> and <a href="http://www.facebook.com/pages/HL-Arledge/349368442231" target="_blank">Facebook</a> tomorrow. <br><br>Let me know what you think. Since technically this story hasn't been written yet, your thoughts and feedback will actually change the course and ultimate outcome of the story. As a group, you the readers, will actually decide who lives, who dies, and how many thrills they experience along the way. HL Arledgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02208828472062891926noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20455884.post-27093260206123750582010-10-28T07:19:00.000-07:002010-11-06T15:58:52.612-07:00Early Departure is just the Beginning<p><img style="margin: 10px 0px; display: inline" align="right" src="http://ecx.images-amazon.com/images/I/515Vr-B5oYL._SL210_.jpg">Today is a good day.</p> <p>On <a href="http://www.facebook.com/pages/HL-Arledge/349368442231">Facebook</a> and <a href="http://twitter.com/hlarledge">Twitter</a>, I published the final installment of my Early Departure "eThriller" short story, and I'm ecstatic about the e-mail I've received. (I'm glad so many liked it. Now, if they would just <a href="http://www.amazon.com/dp/B0041VXTPM">post a review at Amazon</a>—hint, hint).<iframe style="width: 131px; padding-right: 10px; height: 245px; padding-top: 5px; align: left" marginheight="0" src="http://rcm.amazon.com/e/cm?t=hlar-20&o=1&p=8&l=bpl&asins=B0041VXTPM&fc1=FFFFFF&IS2=1&lt1=_blank&m=amazon&lc1=F1C232&bc1=000000&bg1=26221A&f=ifr" frameborder="0" marginwidth="0" scrolling="no" align="left"></iframe></p> <p>I've gotten a few notes asking, "What's next?"<img style="border-bottom-style: none !important; padding-bottom: 0px !important; border-right-style: none !important; margin: 0px; padding-left: 0px !important; padding-right: 0px !important; border-top-style: none !important; border-left-style: none !important; padding-top: 0px !important" border="0" alt="" src="http://www.assoc-amazon.com/e/ir?t=hlar-20&l=btl&camp=213689&creative=392969&o=1&a=B0041VXTPM" width="1" height="1"></p> <p>Unfortunately, I've got to keep the secret until next week, but I promise you'll love it.<br>Thanks again for all of your support!</p> HL Arledgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02208828472062891926noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20455884.post-42147241265919301032010-10-07T23:22:00.000-07:002010-10-30T11:26:26.845-07:00Remember those Pulp Fiction Plots?<p>From <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lester_Dent" target="_blank">Lester Dent</a>, 1949…</p> <p>This is a formula, a master plot, for any 6000 word pulp story. For me, it has worked on adventure, detective, western and war stories. It tells exactly where to put everything. It shows definitely what must happen in each successive thousand words. <br><a title="Lester Dent's Doc Savage" href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lester_Dent" target="_blank"><img style="margin: 10px; display: inline" align="right" src="http://www.internationalhero.co.uk/d/docsav1.jpg"></a> </p> <p>No yarn of mine written to the formula has yet failed to sell. </p> <p>The business of building stories seems not much different from the business of building anything else.</p> <p>Here's how it starts: </p> <ul> <li>An unusual murder method <li>An unusual goal for the antagonist <li>A different locale <li>A menace haunting the protagonist</li></ul> <p>One of these would be nice, two better, three swell. It may help if these are established before tackling the rest.</p> <p>Let’s start with the unusual murder method. Thinking of shooting, knifing, hydrocyanic, garroting, poison needles, scorpions, a few others, and then listing them on paper gets them where they may suggest something—A listing for “scorpions and their poison bite” may cause the writer to consider mosquitoes or flies treated with deadly germs?</p><a name='more'></a> <p>If the victims are killed by ordinary methods, but found under strange and identical circumstances each time, it might serve, the reader of course not knowing until the end, that the method of murder is ordinary. Writers who have their villain's victims found with butterflies, spiders or bats stamped on them could conceivably be flirting with this gag. </p> <p>Probably it won't do a lot of good to be too odd, fanciful or grotesque with murder methods. </p> <p>The unusual goal for the villain to be after might be something other than jewels, the stolen bank loot, the pearls, or some other old ones.</p> <p>Here, again one could get too bizarre. </p> <p><a name="more"></a>Unique locale? Easy. Selecting one that fits in with the murder method and the treasure—thing that villain wants—makes it simpler, and it's also nice to use a familiar one, a place where you've lived or worked. So many writers don't. It sometimes saves embarrassment to know nearly as much about the locale as the readers, or at least enough to fool them. </p> <h2>Tip</h2> <ul> <li>Here's a nifty trick used in faking local color. For a story laid in Egypt, say, author finds a book titled "Conversational Egyptian Easily Learned," or something like that. He wants a character to ask in Egyptian, "What's the matter?" He looks in the book and finds, "El khabar, eyh?" To keep the reader from getting dizzy, it's wise to make it clear in some fashion, just what that means. Occasionally the text will tell this, or someone can repeat it in English. But it's a doubtful move to stop and tell the reader in so many words the English translation. The writer learns they have palm trees in Egypt. He looks in the book, finds the Egyptian for palm trees, and uses that. This leads editors and readers to believe he knows something about Egypt. </li></ul> <h2>Now that you’ve established goals and locales, divide the 6000 word yarn into four 1500 word parts. In each 1500 word part, consider the following: </h2> <h3>First 1500 Words </h3> <ol> <li>First line, or as near thereto as possible, introduce the hero and swat him with a fistful of trouble. Hint at a mystery, a menace or a problem to be solved—something the hero has to cope with. <li>The hero pitches in to cope with his fistful of trouble. (He tries to fathom the mystery, defeat the menace, or solve the problem.) <li>Introduce <em>all </em>characters as soon as possible. Bring them on in action. <li>Hero's endeavors land him in an actual physical conflict near the end of the first 1500 words. <li>Near the end of first 1500 words, there is a complete surprise twist in the plot development. </li></ol> <h2>So far…</h2> <ul> <li>…does it have suspense? <li>…is there a menace to the hero? <li>…does everything happen logically? </li></ul> <h2>Tips</h2> <ul> <li>At this point, it might help to recall that action should do something besides advance the hero over the scenery. Suppose the hero has learned the antagonist has seized somebody named Eloise, who can explain the secret of what is behind all these sinister events. The hero corners the villain, they fight, and villain gets away. Not so hot.</li> <li>Hero should accomplish something with his tearing around, if only to rescue Eloise, and surprise—Eloise is a ring-tailed monkey. The hero counts the rings on Eloise's tail, if nothing better comes to mind. They're not real. The rings are painted there. Why?</li> <li>With every answer comes more questions. </li></ul> <h3>Second 1500 Words </h3> <ol> <li>Shovel more grief onto the hero. <li>Hero, being heroic, struggles, and his struggles lead up to… <li>…another physical conflict. <li>…a surprising plot twist to end the 1500 words. </li></ol> <h2>Now…</h2> <ul> <li>…does second part have suspense? <li>…does the menace grow like a black cloud? <li>…is the hero getting it in the neck? <li>…is the second part logical? </li></ul> <p>Show, don’t tell. This is one of the secrets of writing; never tell the reader anything you can show—He trembles, roving eyes, slackened jaw, and such, instead of “He was afraid.” Make the reader see the fear. </p> <p>When writing, it helps to get at least one minor surprise on each printed page. It is reasonable to to expect these minor surprises to sort of inveigle the reader into keeping on. They need not be such profound efforts. One method of accomplishing one now and then is to be gently misleading. Hero is examining the murder room. The door behind him begins slowly to open. He does not see it. He conducts his examination blissfully. Door eases open, wider and wider, until—surprise! The glass pane falls out of the big window across the room. It must have fallen slowly, and air blowing into the room caused the door to open. Then what the heck made the pane fall so slowly? More mystery. </p> <h2>Tips</h2> <ul> <li>Characterizing a story actor consists of giving him some things which make him stick in the reader's mind. Tag him. </li> <li>Build your plots so that action is continuous.</li></ul> <h3>Third 1500 Words</h3> <ol> <li>Shovel the grief onto the hero. <li>Hero makes some headway, and corners the villain or somebody in… <li>…a physical conflict. <li>…a surprising plot twist, in which the hero preferably gets it in the neck bad, to end the 1500 words. </li></ol> <h2>Does… </h2> <ul> <li>…it still have suspense? <li>…the menace get blacker? <li>…the hero feel trapped? <li>…it all happen logically? </li></ul> <p>These outlines or master formulas are only something to make you certain of inserting some physical conflict, and some genuine plot twists, with a little suspense and menace thrown in. Without them, there is no pulp story. </p> <p>These physical conflicts in each part might be different, too. If one fight is with fists, that can take care of the pugilism until next the next yarn. Same for poison gas and swords. There may, naturally, be exceptions. A hero with a peculiar punch, or a quick draw, might use it more than once. </p> <p>The idea is to avoid monotony. </p> <ul> <li> <h2><strong>Action </strong>– Vivid, swift, no words wasted. Create suspense, make the reader see and feel the action </h2> <li> <h2><strong>Atmosphere</strong>– Hear, smell, see, feel and taste </h2> <li> <h2><strong>Description</strong>– Trees, wind, scenery and water</h2></li></ul> <h2>Tip</h2> <ul> <li>The secret of all good writing is to make every word count.</li></ul> <h3>Fourth 1500 Words</h3> <ol> <li>Shovel the difficulties more thickly upon the hero. <li>Get the hero almost buried in his troubles. (Figuratively, the villain has him prisoner and has him framed for a murder rap; the girl is presumably dead, everything is lost, and the different murder method is about to dispose of the suffering protagonist.) <li>The hero extricates himself using HIS OWN SKILL, training or brawn. <li>The mysteries remaining—one big one held over to this point will help grip interest--are cleared up in course of final conflict as hero takes the situation in hand. <li>Final twist, a big surprise—This can be the villain turning out to be the unexpected person, having the "Treasure" be a dud, etc. <li>The snapper, the punch line to end it. </li></ol> <h2>Has…</h2> <ul> <li>…the suspense held out to the last line? <li>…the menace held out to the last? <li>…everything been explained? <li>…it all happened logically? <li>…is the closing line left the reader with a warm feeling? <li>…God killed the villain? <li>…or the hero?</li></ul> HL Arledgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02208828472062891926noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20455884.post-1141795480535306172006-03-07T21:21:00.000-08:002010-11-05T19:15:52.112-07:00Trading marks to become illegal for writers<div xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml"> <blockquote cite="http://www.writersunbound.com/">In my new novel, your character drinks a Coke, has some Doritos and then uses his Xerox machine to copy some documents. Sounds fine, right? Authors mention trademarked goods all the time. But according the the <a href="http://www.authorsguild.org/news/threatens_free_expresion.htm">Authors Guild</a>, that may be a thing of the past if a new bill is passed by Congress. The bill would drop express protection for "noncommercial use" of a trademark and would weaken the protections for those who use trademarks in news commentary. The bill has already passed the House and went to the Senate Judiciary Committee yesterday.</blockquote> <blockquote cite="http://www.writersunbound.com/"><img style="border-bottom: 0px; border-left: 0px; margin: 10px 0px; display: inline; border-top: 0px; border-right: 0px" title="widow" border="0" alt="widow" align="right" src="http://lh5.ggpht.com/_C69QvvP99zk/TNS6V385uvI/AAAAAAAAAV8/dQaoMM_KbmM/widow%5B6%5D.png?imgmax=800" width="195" height="240"> What? You have got to be kidding me. These companies typically pay big bucks just to get movies, TV, books, comic books, even online comic strips for "product placement". It's so wide spread that there are groups who are lobbying to get tougher restrictions on in-content based advertising.</blockquote> <blockquote cite="http://www.writersunbound.com/">I don't see how on earth this can be enforced, especially when you include daily news broadcasts, newspapers, web sites and blogs. Fiction would be the easiest to police, obviously. The real issue is when the trademarks are used in a way that either hurts or dilutes the trademark. Some marks that have suffered from this are thinks like Coke which people use to mean all soda's or Kleenex when people are talking about tissues and Walkman when people mean "portable tape recorder". These are all marks that have lost almost all of their original branding because they've been used so much in generic terms. I don't have a clue how to solve that little problem but I don't think banning writers from including them would hurt anything.</blockquote> <p></p></div> HL Arledgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02208828472062891926noreply@blogger.com1