It’s been an entire week since Mrs. Dave left us. Food stocks are low. I have part of a jar of olives, two meat sticks, some salt, and a jar of Luxardo cherries, left. The Barbarian Horde ransacked the refrigerator almost immediately, and have begun waylaying passing stroller-pushing Military Mommies and ransoming them for candy. The ravening howls are indescribable, and I’ll hear them in my sleep until the day I die. I’ve built myself a barricade of books and cookware. If I don’t survive this, tell Mrs. Dave I tried.
Oh, no. I hear the patter of ‘orrible, little feet … Read more
Off the wagon, more or less. Especially if you consider writing an addiction. I’ve been doing a lot of head work recently. Outlining the Wuxia Western novels, research, etc. And family. Oh, Lordy. Last weekend we were (as previously mentioned) in Connecticut for a thing. I managed to convince several of our smallish horde to join me at Frank Pepe’s for genuine New Haven style pizza, and we all agreed it was good freakin’ pie. (It ought to be. They’ve only been making it for nearly a century in their 14’x14’ coal-fired ovens. Highly recommended.) Read more
Swords, Pt. 2
Last week’s post is feeding right into this one, though it may not seem like it should. Lemme ‘splain. The holidays last year were more than a little disruptive here at Caer Dave. There was travel (so much travel). Mrs. Dave returned from overseas. Wee and Wee-er Dave were both out of, and then back into school. Sleep was disrupted, routines were broken, schedules feel by the wayside. The usual, really. I rolled with life by dropping my weight training work, and it showed. Not so much in the mass department, so much as the mood, attitude, and focus that consistent training improve. Also, the writing. The writing dropped off. Kinda. More below. Read more
The thing to know when you go to choose a sword is which miscreants you’ll be using it on. No. No, wait. The first thing to consider when looking for an appropriate sidearm is what you’re going to wear- Stop. No, the very first thing to consider is whether your locality will even allow you to wear a sword in the firs- Strike that. Read more
I’ve got a lot of notions, today, but not a whole lot that’s going to coalesce into anything particularly focused. You’ve been warned (I’m so, so sorry). Caer Dave has been in the grips of illness and a distinct change in the weather. Last few days have been glorious, and we’re enjoying the almost-warmth. This has entailed more of Dave-staring-into-space level of writing, rather than Dave-put-words-on-screen writing, and I’m working on flipping the switch from one to the other. The Great Pulp Short Novel Experiment is ongoing, and I’m working hard to bring my mental space into alignment with renewed physical health. Pneumonia sucks. I don’t recommend it. Read more
The first thing you need to know is I’m alive. I know that might not seem particularly relevant, but last week’s fiction was written a couple weeks earlier, and by the time it went live here, I’d already woke up feeling rather poor. When I got in to see a doc on … Thursday? It was in time to find out I’d developed bronchitis, and I should get a chest x-ray, “just in case.” Well, case happened, and I got a phone call that even letting me know I’d also contracted pneumonia. “Just a small spot in the middle of your right lung,” not that I could really tell. Kinda ouchy, actually. Fortunately, good meds are good, and I can breathe again.
Filed under: HFY, BEM
Grothmorgu stared around the battlefield after the indigenes had withdrawn. The remains of his Mass heaved themselves out of the heaps of gore and corpses, staggering to their pods. Few of the green-skinned savages lay among the Holy People. The ugly things had sent their wounded back, and soaked up an unreasonable number of casualties retrieving their dead before withdrawing completely. There were a few limbs, here and there. Mostly, they left broken equipment, or even bits of their own, loosely attached skin where their own medics tore it off to treat more serious wounds. The Higher’s own skin rippled in distaste at the notion, though he respected their will. The sensation was discomfiting.