Flash Fiction Challenge from Chuck!

Over at Chuck Wendig's blog, he's doing a flash fiction challenge.

Here's my entry. This was fun!

https://www.flickr.com/photos/60179651@N03/17260181714/

     Alan was hot, the bus was noisy and dusty, and the man next to him smelled like chickens.
     "Dang, this guy smells..." Mumbled Alan. As his tour bus passed another street, he looked out the window.
     Alan saw a woman with a red scarf on her head, and a red cloth bag in her hand. He snapped a picture. He wondered what the woman had in her bag.
     The heat and clamor of the bus was helping Alan's mind drift a little, like it did sometimes. He was a bit drowsy, and the bus was rocking him to sleep. There was a bit of vertigo, then the picture in his mind snapped into clarity.
     Yanina hurried down the street, glancing over her shoulder. She saw a troop transport pass by her street on the avenue. As it drove by, she thought she saw a man with a camera in one of the windows taking her picture. She shuddered when she thought what might become of that. The transport was followed by another transport. This one pulled onto the street, and stopped at the curb behind her.
     "Halt!" Boomed the mechanical voice over the speaker mounted to the roof. "Present your credentials, citizen."
     She stiffened. "This is it." She thought. "My mission is over before it hardly began." She was no more than a block from her house.
     The man who climbed out of the driver seat was wearing the full armor of the local militia. A collaborator with the invaders. "I asked you for your papers!" He barked as he removed his face plate.
     She fumbled in her pocket for the forged pass. It wasn't done very well, and she didn't think it would fool him.
     "Please sir, I'm a housekeeper at the militia offices." She stammered.
     "I don't care who you are! I want to know what you're doing out after curfew!" He growled. "Let's just see what you're carrying!" He bent down and reached for her bag.
     Without thinking, Yanina moved it behind her back and out of his way.
     The guard drew his pistol in one swift movement, and leveled it at Yanina's head. "When I tell you to do something, you do it without question."
     She shakily held out her bag, and the guard snatched it with his other hand. As they stood there, the guard daring her to look at him, an open-topped military car came around the corner and squealed to a stop next to the transport.
     "Sergeant!" Shouted the officer driving the car.
     "Yes sir!" The guard came to attention immediately.
     "What are you doing?" The driver demanded impatiently.
     "Checking this persons credentials sir, and looking for contraband." The sergeant replied.
     "She's just an old woman, son. What exactly do you think she's hiding in that small bag?" The officer said.
     "Ahh, well sir, I was just, she could have..." He stammered.
     "I recognize her from the militia office. She's the cleaning lady for god's sakes. We've got more important things to do. The rebels have hit the fuel station again. We need to get over there and wipe them out. Get your people together, and let's go!" The driver ordered.
     "Yes sir! Right away!" The sergeant answered. He dropped the bag to the ground-causing Yanina to flinch-then glared at her before replacing his face plate. The other car sped away, and the guard jumped into his vehicle and screeched his tires as he stomped on the gas.
     Yanina waited until they were both around the corner before she even remembered to breathe. She could hardly believe what just happened. The officer in the car would certainly be in her prayers tonight.
     She gingerly picked up her bag, and made sure it wasn't broken. Although, if it was, they'd all certainly know it by now. She hoped her friends at the fuel depot got away safely. This was a terrible price to pay. She hoped it was worth it.
     She started down the street again. It wasn't long before she arrived at the militia office. It was nearly deserted as she walked across the parking lot. They must all be at the fuel depot.
     Yanina passed the guard at the gate easily. Using what she learned just now on the street, she did her best to look old and frail. She really was old and frail, but she did what she could.
     The guard at the front door let her in without even a glance. Yanina was a common sight here, why should they question her?
     She made her way down several corridors, until she was at the Commandant's office. Looking down the hall both ways, she opened the door and walked in.
     She removed the bomb from her red bag, and placed it in his bottom desk drawer. As strong as this new explosive was, the drawers and desk would offer no protection at all when the time came.
     Yanina left the room, closing the door quietly. Once again, she hoped the price paid at the fuel depot was worth it. Now she would go home.
     The bus hit a pot hole, and Alan lurched awake with a start. The people around him on the smelly bus chuckled at the gringo. What had he dreamed of? The old woman with the red bag.
     Alan wondered where they were. It was getting late, and he was hungry. He realized he didn't know how to get back to the hotel.

Thanks for the challenge Chuck! Keep 'em coming!

Please, all 3 of my readers, critique this. How could I have improved this story? Was it fun? What did you think about it?

Strong Female Characters Are Not Enough

Chuck Wendig, over at terribleminds, had a blog post today titled "WE ARE NOT THINGS: MAD MAX VERSUS GAME OF THRONES"

It's an amazing bit of writing, and I want everyone to go read it right now.

I'd like to comment and add my impressions, but at this point I just don't have the words, and I would unwittingly degrade it rather than enhance it.

I followed this link in the body of the piece, and it took me to another of his posts titled "HOW “STRONG FEMALE CHARACTERS” STILL END UP WEAK AND POWERLESS (OR, “DO THEY PASS THE ACTION FIGURE TEST?”)"

I DO want to comment on this, because it's crunchy and concrete and I can get my hands around it and do something about it in my own writing.

Chuck writes that "The idea of writing a “strong female character” isn't enough." Lots of writers can create female characters that kick large amounts of ass. Unfortunately, some writers simply stop there. And that turns the 'strong female characters' into nothing more than plot devices. They have no choice, they have no agency. Instead, female characters are there as objects of rape, as motivations for the male characters, as a convenient and vulnerable treasure that needs to be protected or retrieved.

The word "agency" has been kicked around a lot in my social circles, as I'm an avid RPG'er. It took awhile for me to get my head around the idea, but

Chuck summed it up nicely;
"Character agency is… a demonstration of the character’s ability to make decisions and affect the story. This character has motivations all her own. She is active more than she is reactive. She pushes on the plot more than the plot pushes on her. Even better, the plot exists as a direct result of the character’s actions."

And this brings us to me and my writing. I've never written a female character. Not that I remember anyway. So I can't say that I've been guilty of the sins that Chuck has laid out. But I'm sure I would be if I had more experience. And THAT thought caused me to want to change.

I'm saying that this post of Chuck's opened my eyes a bit, and forced me to learn a bit about how characters should be written. I want to make sure that my characters have agency, and my stories are able to pass the Bechdel Test, and the Sexy Lamp test.


Who are some female characters in fiction that you think have agency? What are your favorite stories that pass the Bechdel Test? Let me know in the comments.

My First Story On The Internet

K, here goes. My first story, thrown out onto the ice for the world to see and comment on.

And that is the purpose of this blog, after all; for me to write, and others to comment on, and maybe I get a little better at this.

So, here's the opening part of my short story, starring Argoth the Vanquisher, a disgraced hoplite.

Argoth couldn't throw his gladius up in time to block the club. The bandit grinned evilly as his club smashed into the gladiator's head. Argoth's eyes exploded in light as he fell back onto the sand, his ears ringing. Argoth hoped the 30th time in his life that he wouldn't vomit while he was unconscious. He was sure his head was split in half, and would come apart if he moved.

The bandit stood over him and leered. He raised the club with both hands and planted his feet.

"... not afraid to die," Argoth whispered at the bandit. "I've faced death many times."

The bandit replied with an insane giggle, but the sound turned to a gurgle as a leaf-shaped blade burst from his chest. The bandit fell to the side and out of Argoth's vision. Trying to turn his head to follow caused a shooting pain in his head and he gasped.

The sounds of the battle became muffled and distant as he felt his eyelids closing, and there was nothing he could do to stop them.

And there we are. Now accepting all constructive criticism...

Yeah, I'm not one of THOSE bloggers

Ok, so you know that thing where someone starts a new blog and they're all motivated and they sound like they're going to be writing forever... And then after the first couple days they give up and the blog sits there un-deleted for years?

That's NOT the way I wanted to start my blog. Fate, it would seem, had other plans. I promptly locked myself out of my blog by purchasing a new phone, and enabling 2-factor authentication on my Google account. With my old number being ported over to my new phone, I couldn't receive texts for a few days, and Google uses texts for 2-factor security...

le sigh. K, I'm back anyway.

Get Your Creative Juices Flowing? Gross!

I've just done the '5 minute stream of consciousness' exercise to get my creative juices flowing, and it occurred to me what a weird phrase that is; "get my creative juices flowing..."

Where the heck did that come from? It sounds like something a serial killer would say; "Hello my love. I'm here with my axe to get your juices flowing. Now hush, no screaming..." Creepy.

The web isn't real helpful on the origin of the phrase, except for some nasty variant examples on Urban Dictionary. Seriously, that website is written by 12 year-olds.

So, other than the particular juice that Urban Dictionary suggests, what are we talking about here? I know the juices are metaphorical, but that's only after they're suggested to us by the speaker. Who thought of it first? I mean, I can see getting your oil hot and flowing, like in a car. I can see getting the bloody juices in your meat flowing, like when you cook a steak. Those are normal examples of juices flowing.

Unfortunately, when I hear "get your juices flowing", the only image that comes to mind is that of Beast Rabban of House Harkonnen when he squishes that little creature in the clear plastic Juicebox Of Doom. Maybe that's it. Is there some specific kind of brain juice?

And Juicebox of Doom it is. My first blog category.