A NEW HOPE.

Wicked self-publisher Darth Sinister, kidnapped from a hijacked DEATH STAR and forced at lightsabrepoint to participate in a Soviet-Era writing commune, falls under the disapproving eye of upstart Jedi Knight Young Vanderkarr. Fractional Ewoks were deep-fried in the making of this blog…

YOUNG VANDERKARR: Cheer up. Striped conical party hat?

DARTH SINISTER: I’d rather sit on a spike. Or is that the point of the cone?

YOUNG VANDERKARR: Come on. Communal writing. It’ll be FUN.

DARTH SINISTER: Telling me that some grim prospect is going to be fun…

YOUNG VANDERKARR: You’ve skewed the picture by calling it a grim prospect sight-unseen.

DARTH SINISTER: Must be the overpowering scent of the thing, then.

YOUNG VANDERKARR: We’re going to this party. You need to go to this party.

DARTH SINISTER: Note non-irony of reclusive figure having to get out more.

YOUNG VANDERKARR: There’ll be a warm welcome. I’ll see you there.

DARTH SINISTER: Not if I don’t go.

YOUNG VANDERKARR: I’m going, and I expect you to be there.

DARTH SINISTER: Sigh.

YOUNG VANDERKARR: Couldn’t you just sigh?

DARTH SINISTER: Mope.

YOUNG VANDERKARR: Stop literally moping. It’s unbecoming.

DARTH SINISTER: Weary sigh.

YOUNG VANDERKARR: Someone has to be there. That’s you.

DARTH SINISTER: Take Missy.

YOUNG VANDERKARR: I tried to force her to go.

DARTH SINISTER: Oh, and I’m the back-up. Which gets my back up.

YOUNG VANDERKARR: I’m not going by myself. There was a promise, well, a vague hope, that I’d drag the two of you kicking, biting, and screaming…

DARTH SINISTER: She’s a biter…

YOUNG VANDERKARR: There was an incident. Spiders.

DARTH SINISTER: Why do I have to go? If she won’t go, then I certainly don’t have to go. She’s still to earn her Basic Recluse badge. I have gold medals in that, and I’m the one who turns up at this party. Priceless. Besides, I’ll risk losing my Mysterious Author status if I actually turn up for anything.

YOUNG VANDERKARR: Be there.

*

DARTH SINISTER: Oh look. The sky didn’t fall in. Early yet.

YOUNG VANDERKARR: I’m so glad you came. This is it. Let’s go. Warm welcome…

DARTH SINISTER: Designed to make me flee the scene instantly.

YOUNG VANDERKARR: Just…come on. Leave your Darth hat by the door. We’ll find a cool place to hang out. The porch. Or the kitchen. Maybe there’ll be fifteen minutes during which we RULE the stairs. You can launch a great atmosphere from the stairs. Or the garden. There’s a gazebo…

DARTH SINISTER: Is there a cellar?

YOUNG VANDERKARR: You aren’t moping in the cellar at a party. There’s no cellar. That was designed out of the building.

DARTH SINISTER: Just for me.

YOUNG VANDERKARR: Enjoy the atmosphere. You’ll be writing. Come on. Writing. Your favouritest thing in the world. We’re all going to sing for our supper.

DARTH SINISTER: Sing? You know the rule on singing, right? People who CAN’T sing SHOULDN’T.

YOUNG VANDERKARR: That’s nonsense.

DARTH SINISTER: No. It’s the rule. Is that why Missy didn’t show up for this party? She knew there’d be singing, and remembered the rule…

YOUNG VANDERKARR: Yes. There will be no singing. I mean…we all do our party-piece. You go early. Get it over with. Ditch the nerves. If you write your piece nearer the end, you’ll be locked in by all the other authors. They’ll make it easy for you. Best to be in at the start, when you can fill in the blankest part of the canvas.

DARTH SINISTER: So we’re painting now. Not singing. Tell me there won’t be dancing. There’s a rule about that, too.

YOUNG VANDERKARR: Is it the same as the rule on singing?

DARTH SINISTER: How did you guess. Must be some kind of genius.

YOUNG VANDERKARR: My Sarcasm Detector just went into Protective Survival Mode.

DARTH SINISTER: As opposed to what, exactly? Non-Protective Survival Mode?

YOUNG VANDERKARR: Look at all these people who turned up to write a communal novel on a series of blogs.

DARTH SINISTER: Flakes.

YOUNG VANDERKARR: Hey!

DARTH SINISTER: All writers are flakes.

YOUNG VANDERKARR: Hey! Uh, yeah, well, okay. Oh…look at all the different perspectives.

DARTH SINISTER: I’m dizzy with the prospect.

YOUNG VANDERKARR: Plenty of people. All writing.

DARTH SINISTER: Am I the only guy here?

YOUNG VANDERKARR: No.

DARTH SINISTER: Kacey…I’m the only guy here.

YOUNG VANDERKARR: Nonsense. Look, there’s…Jack.

DARTH SINISTER: That’s a paper mask. Are you sure Jack isn’t really Jill? I’m getting a vibe…

YOUNG VANDERKARR: You aren’t the only guy here. What’s wrong with that?

DARTH SINISTER: They’re all American, aren’t they?

YOUNG VANDERKARR: I’m not sure.

DARTH SINISTER: Just pin a placard to me that says SORE THUMB.

YOUNG VANDERKARR: Hey, snap out of that. Time for an inspirational speech from Coach here.

DARTH SINISTER: Go for it, Coach.

YOUNG VANDERKARR: We are all writers. And we are here to learn. To improve. Do you disagree?

DARTH SINISTER: No. Weary sigh of resignation from condemned Scottish figure.

YOUNG VANDERKARR: So you agree.

DARTH SINISTER: Weary nod.

YOUNG VANDERKARR: Then what’s wrong?

DARTH SINISTER: There’s no cellar. Or torture chamber. No torture chamber in the lack of cellar. Is there a turret? We could go there and stand on the windy battlements.

YOUNG VANDERKARR: Uh…no.

DARTH SINISTER: You say that as though you’ve never stood on windy battlements.

YOUNG VANDERKARR: Not really my thing. I’ve been walking by the creek.

DARTH SINISTER: No turrets. This isn’t exactly the best venue.

YOUNG VANDERKARR: Well, I admit that the shameless absence of a portcullis is somewhat remiss.

DARTH SINISTER: Glad you agree, Coach. My Sarcasm Detector is ignoring your Sarcasm Detector.

YOUNG VANDERKARR: Really? Read whatever level of sarcasm into that remark you care to.

DARTH SINISTER: I don’t know why I came to this party.

YOUNG VANDERKARR: To meet other oddballs and misfits.

DARTH SINISTER: For what purpose?

YOUNG VANDERKARR: That is the purpose. You might at least have made the effort to ditch the cape.

DARTH SINISTER: Snorts derisively.

YOUNG VANDERKARR: That probably sounds better spoken, truth be told.

DARTH SINISTER: Okay. I actually made it to the NOVBLOG.

YOUNG VANDERKARR: BLOGVEL.

DARTH SINISTER: NOVEL BLOG. BLOG NOVEL. I had to blog about it in advance, to force myself to go. Rather than chickening out at the first second.

YOUNG VANDERKARR: Good for you.

DARTH SINISTER: Bad for me. I turn up so that I can have a good mope in the gloomy corner of the dank dungeon, and find there isn’t one. The most anti-social person at the party isn’t me – she didn’t turn up…

YOUNG VANDERKARR: I TRIED to get her interest above Absolute Zero, but she just froze over.

DARTH SINISTER: Irony of my thawing noted in the hysterical record.

YOUNG VANDERKARR: Well, we’re here. And we gave it a shot. How is your chapter going?

DARTH SINISTER: There will be bloody noses after this. A shocked and stunned silence that I did what I did. They won’t ask me back.

YOUNG VANDERKARR: It’s good that you are using your discomfort to propel yourself in a different direction.

DARTH SINISTER: Over the cliff.

YOUNG VANDERKARR: Hey!

DARTH SINISTER: It’s the cliché of our time. Let’s move forward. And all I can think is…over the cliff. Sometimes you have to take a giant leap back into fear and over-critical self-absorption.

YOUNG VANDERKARR: SOMETIMES. Not all the time.

DARTH SINISTER: Crap. Knew you’d spot that.

YOUNG VANDERKARR: That’s the Coach in me.

DARTH SINISTER: Let’s win one for the Gipper.

YOUNG VANDERKARR: That’s the spirit.

DARTH SINISTER: Blegh.

YOUNG VANDERKARR: Cheer up. What would our gracious hostess say?

DARTH SINISTER: Oh she told me she thought it was good that I was trying something different and outside my usual sphere. Uh…something about exercising writing muscles. It was inspirational. There, I said it.

YOUNG VANDERKARR: This is NOT writing by committee.

DARTH SINISTER: Yes, you’ve pulled me up on that before. Thanks.

YOUNG VANDERKARR: Just be yourself.

DARTH SINISTER: I can’t just be myself. If I were myself, I wouldn’t be at this party.

YOUNG VANDERKARR: Need I remind you that you invited us to do short stories for a collection you were then going to sew together, no matter how unconnected those stories seemed…

DARTH SINISTER: Well, that never happened.

YOUNG VANDERKARR: I think you need reminding that you invited…

DARTH SINISTER: Okay, okay. I was trying to get away from the whole lone gunman thing. That’s the only reason I came to this party. Argh!

YOUNG VANDERKARR: I think it’s good that you participated. Against your worser judgement. What was the alternative? Carry the stench of hypocrisy around with you by refusing to turn up for the BLOGVEL?

DARTH SINISTER: Yes, you got me Coach. I couldn’t very well offer to try a participatory piece of fiction, then retreat beneath the trapdoor later when you offered something similar to me. Busted. I get it.

YOUNG VANDERKARR: Well I’m glad things worked out the way they did.

DARTH SINISTER: Too soon to tell.

YOUNG VANDERKARR: You’re here, and that’s good enough.

DARTH SINISTER: Well, you haven’t read my chapter yet.

YOUNG VANDERKARR: I’m sure you’ll do just fine.

DARTH SINISTER: Yes. There’ll be a fine.

NEXT BLOG: NON-RUNCIBLE SPOON.

DARTH BIOZARRE TERMINATES A CONTRACT.

Wicked self-publisher Darth Sinister pilots his repainted DEATH STAR to a coffee emporium in the ill-named Chlamydia Cluster. Meanwhile, on a swamp-infested wreck of a planet ignored by the Intergalactic Freeway, Young Adult author Young Vanderkarr visits an old friend…

CODA: Hmm. That face you make. Look I so old to young baby seal eyes?

YOUNG VANDERKARR: No…allow me to lie horribly…of course not.

CODA: See through you I do, yes, I do!

YOUNG VANDERKARR: Please don’t die!

CODA: Strong am I with the Force…though not that strong. Twilight is upon me…

YOUNG VANDERKARR: Love that saga.

CODA: Vampires, sparkly are they. Coda understands this not. Believes love-triangle is at heart of your obsession, Coda does.

YOUNG VANDERKARR: Coda ain’t wrong.

CODA: Soon I must rest. Yes, forever sleep. Or at least, a light catnap. Earned it, I have. Mm.

YOUNG VANDERKARR: But I need your help. I’ve come back to complete my training.

CODA: No more training do you require. Some style tips, perhaps. Dye grey hair black, you might. No, no more training. Already know that which you need.

YOUNG VANDERKARR: Then I am a Jedi.

CODA: To be published, you are. Proud of you, I am. Though false pride and vanity avoid, you must. Flattery. Five-star reviews. An author craves not these things. Rest, I will…

YOUNG VANDERKARR: I don’t need to confront any Darths or anything like that?

CODA: Now rest I must…

YOUNG VANDERKARR: Master Coda, is…Darth Biozarre my, er, father…

CODA: Told you, did she?

YOUNG VANDERKARR: Not exactly. She’s a chick.

CODA: Unexpected this is.

YOUNG VANDERKARR: Hell, I’ll say…

CODA: One obstacle remains…

YOUNG VANDERKARR: Deciphering your weird front-to-back sentences…

CODA: Two obstacles there are…

YOUNG VANDERKARR: Skip to the end.

CODA: Darth Biozarre you must face.

YOUNG VANDERKARR: Perhaps she will turn to paper publishing, as I have. There is good in her. I mean, behind that façade of being a Full-Time Villain™.

CODA: Do…not…underestimate…

YOUNG VANDERKARR: The POWER of underestimation. I know.

CODA: Darth Sinister, strong with the Dark Side of Publishing™®© is he.

YOUNG VANDERKARR: I remember how he tried, desperately, to tempt me to join him and his minions on that repainted DEATH STAR. Free popcorn, cheap flights, and Wookiee porn on tap 24/7.

CODA: Really? Er, distractions are they. Beware Darth Sinister you must. A formidable editor is he. Remember your own weaknesses, you should. Do not allow…your fear…of editing…to cloud your love of…writing. That can only lead…to the Dark Side™…and migraines. Rest now…

YOUNG VANDERKARR: Hello? I can’t believe he’s gone.

OBI-WAN OLD FOGEY: Coda will always be with you.

YOUNG VANDERKARR: Obi-Wan. I’m published. Well, getting there.

OBI-WAN OLD FOGEY: The universe is a better place for that.

YOUNG VANDERKARR: Seems a bit extreme. Well, okay. I’ll buy that for a dollar.

OBI-WAN OLD FOGEY: You’re going to find that many of the truths we cling to depend greatly on our own points of view. When I first met you, I was amazed at how deeply the fear ran in you. But you could write. And you overcame your fear. You have done well.

YOUNG VANDERKARR: Aw shucks.

OBI-WAN OLD FOGEY: Though there is the matter of defeating some Darths…

YOUNG VANDERKARR: Knew it…

*

DARTH BIOZARRE: Tum tum tum, tum-te-tum, tum-te-tum. Bored bored bored, bored-bored-bored, bored-bored-bored.

DARTH SINISTER: I sense a tremor in the Force. No…it’s just the Stormtrooper night-shift, putting all the laundry through the DEATH STAR at once. Darth Biozarre…

DARTH BIOZARRE: Can’t get that tune out of my head.

DARTH SINISTER: Kylie? I should say, Darth Minogue.

DARTH BIOZARRE: Unholy crap! Look, a Jedi Knight. On the command deck of your ludicrously-resprayed DEATH STAR.

YOUNG VANDERKARR: Hi guys!

DARTH SINISTER: Everything is proceeding as planned. Join us, my Young Apprentice™.

YOUNG VANDERKARR: You are mistaken, your Highnessnessnessness. I am a Jedi, like my father before me.

DARTH BIOZARRE: About that whole paternity thing…

YOUNG VANDERKARR: I’ve learned a great deal on my way here. There was a twin sister I accidentally kissed at a wild party. Bantha Fodder isn’t a thrash-metal band. My X-Wing wasn’t covered for flood insurance in the swamps of Dagobah. Cheese is the devil’s food. And I saw an Ewok porno featuring a Jawa with the biggest…

DARTH BIOZARRE: So you’ve come to turn to the Dark Side™…

DARTH SINISTER: Only one obstacle remains. You must use your fear of publishing to strike down your father…Darth Biozarre…

YOUNG VANDERKARR: She can’t possibly be my father. Unless she’s a freaky sex-change time…

DARTH BIOZARRE: Traveller. Yup. You all thought you were in a parody of STAR WARS. Well, you ain’t. I’ve been sent here from the future to wipe out the leader of the resistance. Failing that, I’ll take out his mother before the kid is born.

YOUNG VANDERKARR: I have a kid.

DARTH BIOZARRE: Yeah, well, I had one too. You see, the first time I was sent back on this mission I went through a freaky sex-change and snaked your mom.

YOUNG VANDERKARR: Ew. But my dad…

DARTH BIOZARRE: He was busy. I shape-shifted into his form and did the deed.

YOUNG VANDERKARR: So. This parody has been put together merely to pit a Jedi Knight against a Terminator.

DARTH BIOZARRE: The B-1000. With added vitamins. Pronounced vye-tamins.

DARTH SINISTER: Vitta minz.

YOUNG VANDERKARR: I say vye-tamins. We’re American. Dude, where did you dig up that accent?

DARTH SINISTER: Scotsman using English accent just to take the rise out of Americans. Occupational hazard of being a Sith Lord. (™ and © Ian McDiarmid.)

DARTH BIOZARRE: And now, your paradoxical death. Young Vanderkarr.

YOUNG VANDERKARR: Wait!

DARTH WOODWARD: What did I miss? I was out on the far side of the DEATH STAR, walking under those twin moons we’ve scheduled for demolition. The exhaust ports vented a lot of steam, and I pretended I was walking in fog. London fog. With a serial killer in my very footsteps. Just an excuse to pit a Darth against Jack the Ripper on the surface of a DEATH STAR. A common fantasy.

DARTH BIOZARRE: The old WAIT ploy. Bought you a few seconds…

YOUNG VANDERKARR: If you were sent back in time to eliminate my bloodline, yet accidentally fathered that bloodline, wouldn’t it have made more sense just to stay in bed that day? Or…out of mom’s bed, given the circumstances…

DARTH BIOZARRE: Crap. Yes. Unless…scrambles for last-minute plotting…that is, unless fathering the bloodline would lead to my CONTROL of the bloodline. Diverting you from the path of aiding the resistance movement. And…cementing my domination of reality.

YOUNG VANDERKARR: That never happened.

DARTH BIOZARRE: Didn’t it? That mysterious stranger who gave you a bazooka for your tenth birthday…

YOUNG VANDERKARR: I always wondered about her.

DARTH BIOZARRE: The over-convenient free stack of bodice-rippers available at that little old lady’s book-stall one wet Saturday morning…

YOUNG VANDERKARR: An education in itself.

NOISES OFF: (Bzhwwzumm, zhwum, bzzz jzh-zjzh pop pop pop pop pop!)

DARTH BIOZARRE: Pastel lightsabre, Darth Woodward?

DARTH WOODWARD: It goes well with the popcorn. This one is Strawberry Ewok. No strawberries were hurt in the making of this popcorn.

DARTH BIOZARRE: Might try that later. But first, a little lightsabre action of my own.

NOISES OFF: (Bzhwwzumm, zhwum, bzzz jzh-zjzh!)

DARTH SINISTER: Stabbed in the back by Darth Biozarre. Ah, makes a Darth proud…

YOUNG VANDERKARR: Holy crap! The boss is defeated before the henchman. By the henchman. That can’t be right.

DARTH WOODWARD: Henchperson of indeterminate sexual provenance.

DARTH BIOZARRE: Consider my contract of employment…terminated.

YOUNG VANDERKARR: You’ve turned to the light.

DARTH BIOZARRE: About that…

YOUNG VANDERKARR: Aw nuts.

DARTH BIOZARRE: Join me. Together we will rule publishing, as father and son.

YOUNG VANDERKARR: Whoah! Back up there, Missy Terminator. Hmm. Missy isn’t cutting it as far as description goes…

DARTH BIOZARRE: Freaky sex-change time traveller, with a sex-change back. Remember? That’s how I can be your dad, and still be younger than you, AND remain female.

YOUNG VANDERKARR: I’d join you, but you should join me. Otherwise, there’s all this endless sword training I’ll be forced to use on you.

DARTH BIOZARRE: Do your worst.

NOISES OFF: (Slash. Yes, we ran out of budget for the sounds.)

YOUNG VANDERKARR: There. Chopped your arm off.

DARTH BIOZARRE: Symbolic castration? I still have a cock, you muppet.

YOUNG VANDERKARR: You mean you haven’t switched back yet, from your freaky sex-change.

DARTH BIOZARRE: Uh, wait. Is this Wednesday? No. Therefore, I’m my future self…and. Changed back to being a chick. Hmm, I guess popping up all through your life dropping handy hints to betray the resistance movement…didn’t actually work.

YOUNG VANDERKARR: I have a problem with authority. Also. Terminator versus a lightsabre? Get real.

DARTH BIOZARRE: Enough of your fan-girl bullshit. Hey, Darth Woodward. Help me out, will you…

DARTH WOODWARD: You know, a girl could get used to a sexy big black throne like this one. Ooh, it has a microwave. What does this button do? Well, I never. Now no one else can either.

MOFF LARKIN: Boss?

DARTH WOODWARD: Damn straight. Set course for Canada, Moff Larkin. I’m going to iron out a few local kinks. We’ll start with hockey rules and work our way down to national legislative level.

DARTH BIOZARRE: Well if you won’t turn, Young Vanderkarr, perhaps your sister…

YOUNG VANDERKARR: Too late. I’m not really me anyway. Surprise. I’m the twin sister I mentioned earlier.

DARTH BIOZARRE: That one you met in the gay cantina?

YOUNG VANDERKARR: The Pink Stormtrooper. Huh. Guess the clue was in the title.

DARTH BIOZARRE: Then where is the real Young Vanderkarr?

YOUNG VANDERKARR: She’s younger by two minutes. That’s her flying beyond the bay window. Sneaking Darth Sinister away for a spot of redemption. Join us. Turn to the Light Side™.

DARTH BIOZARRE: Darth Sinister, turning to the light? After betrayal by me? Not a chance.

YOUNG VANDERKARR: He’s being escorted to a group-writing session, even as I speak.

DARTH BIOZARRE: Darth Sinister? We’re talking Darth Trapdoor Spider. He used the DEATH STAR to annihilate the last local writing group that tried to burn out his evil ways. Young fool. He’s only using Younger Vanderkarr as a cheap version of an escape pod. Why, Darth Sinister has made provisions in the budget for a second, even blacker, DEATH STAR. The STEALTH STAR.

YOUNG VANDERKARR: Thought you didn’t work for him. Terminating the contract and all…

DARTH BIOZARRE: True. With Darth Woodward hijacking this DEATH STAR, and your meddlesome sister out of the way, there’s nothing to stop my falling off this rail-less science fiction walkway to my personal fighter…

NOISES OFF: (Man actually saying THUD for reasons of cheapness.)

YOUNG VANDERKARR: Curses. If only someone designed science fiction walkways with actual railings or banisters. This sort of crap wouldn’t come up. Don’t get me started on faster-than-light space travel or sounds in a hard vacuum…

NEXT BLOG: A NEW HOPE.

GIANT SPACE COCKROACH.

After another eighteen blog posts hit the trail, there’ll be a second REPORT FROM A FUGITIVE collection. What will I bundle with the blog posts? A piece of nonsense from the archive. Yes, yet another story that was – splutter – originally written by hand.

   If I make it that far. The year 2012 saw the release of statistics on the lowest number of fatalities on Scotland’s roads since records began in the mid-Jurassic. Small comfort to me as I hastily threw myself out of harm’s way when yet another speeding van cornered the market in focusing my attention.

   The vehicle thundered by, and I looked back to see a message of wonder. SAVING LIVES. Fortunately, I was in no great danger. I’ve made the incident sound a touch more dramatic than it was. Oh, the irony of being felled by a lifesaving van dedicated to the battle against cancer.

   Worlds die as writers keel over. Sometimes, that’s a blessing in disguise. Depends on the writer. I really can’t bring myself to name names. Readers, you’d be shocked. This writer is seriously contemplating the release of that story about the giant space cockroach, and (AUTHOR DELETED) is on the list of scribblers who didn’t die soon enough?! For shame.

   Compile your own lists. Include me out.

   I contemplate traffic. Nothing to do with vans. Traffic visiting my blog. I view the repeat offenders via a world map. Or check referring sites. Why, I can even monitor the words used by people when they feed letters into their questing machines.

   Quite how readers get here from a dating site for patrons who have already been cheated on, I’m not sure. A few blog titles generate interest from fans of other things. DARTH SINISTER PAINTS IT BLACK. Rather obvious. TORI AMOS. Has her rabid fans. DEFECTION attracted traffic from Russia. A fourth example? Mm, the blog post with PORNOGRAPHY in the title.

   People came in search of naghuty porn. Yes, dyslexic porn. It’s the filthiest. Greeg porn may have been a search for Greek porn or Grieg porn. I semi-suspected Eddie Grieg ran a neat sideline in erotica to tide him over during the composition of The Peer Gynt Suites.

   If there’s a Mr Naghuty out there reading this, I’ve blown your cover. That is no euphemism. Though euphemism itself may be. It certainly sounds dirty enough. They found her in THAT HOUSE, stark naked, surrounded by EUPHEMISM!

   Bear that in mind, next time you speak euphemistically.

   The thing I found most curious was the attention given to part four of a story serialised across the blog. It’s understandable that THE WINDOWLESS WOOD-PANEL ROOM would attract the attention of those surfing the internet in the hunt for wood-panel furniture.

   However, most people who looked at that story settled on part four of the four-parter. Had I written a tale so enthralling that it was best-appreciated in the final quarter? I must bottle that formula and use it in all my stories, saving 75% of the work.

   Pressures of life in the Digital Age, we must suppose. It didn’t occur to me, writing of Kacey Vanderkarr as a baby seal bludgeoned to death on the ice of my imagination, that I would pick up surfers looking for stories of actual seal-bludgeoning incidents.

   BLUDGEONING A BABY SEAL FOR ITS OWN GOOD. The animal-lovers in the audience must have thought me beyond barbarism. Then realised I was merely bludgeoning an author for her own good. I am more than happy to report that within short-order of pushing Kacey out of the aeroplane, Sergeant Jock MacBastard noted her parachute opening.

SERGEANT JOCK MACBASTARD: Jist a wee step oot yon airyplane door, an’ ye’ll dunt doon oan rah grun’ licht as a pee-rah-bed. Nae worse than a skelpit erse.

BABY SEAL: Sarge, I have NO CLUE what you are saying.

SERGEANT JOCK MACBASTARD: Aye, rah wind’s richt fierce at oor altitude.

BABY SEAL: No. It’s your accent. Rilly.

SERGEANT JOCK MACBASTARD: This is Commando training. Fur writers.

BABY SEAL: Writers who wear fur?!

SERGEANT JOCK MACBASTARD: Taken frae rah deid wrecks o’ ither writers who couldnae complete oor course.

BABY SEAL: Couldn’t they just sit out some of the tougher exercises?

SERGEANT JOCK MACBASTARD: Pish. Ye huvnae e’en reached blindfoldit bomb-disposal yet. Jumpin’ oot rah plane wi’ nae parachute’s a doddle next yon.

BABY SEAL: I have no parachute?

SERGEANT JOCK MACBASTARD: Parachutes are fur Big Jessies.

BABY SEAL: What about tall Kacey?

SERGEANT JOCK MACBASTARD: Jist jump oot an’ count tae custard.

BABY SEAL: Why custard?

SERGEANT JOCK MACBASTARD: Yon’ll be rah consistency o’ yer erse when ye laaand. :)

BABY SEAL: I find your use of an emoticon truly disturbing.

   Kacey was subjected to some brutal treatment. The important thing is that no seals were hurt in the making of my blogs. I grabbed hold of Kacey’s publishing fear and made her take a long hard look at it. Her fear shattered. This fugitive is pleased to report that, not long after, Kacey landed – a publishing deal. I had little to do with that. Though sometimes, little is enough.

   Sergeant Jock MacBastard jokes about the lack of a parachute 50% of the time. I present thoughts on publishing from an author on the run. Not diktats. Giving advice to Kacey was the exception, proving the rule. I pushed a hesitant author out of the aeroplane. Pulling the ripcord was entirely up to her.

   I’d promised Kacey that I’d chop her head off if she weren’t published within a year and a day of our first meeting. Casting myself as the Green Knight to her Gawain. Gawain survives the return-match, of course. (Did I mention that Kacey’s husband once tried to behead her with a chainsaw?)

   In my last batch of blogs, there wasn’t the opporchancity to congratulate Kacey on her news. She’d asked me to keep the publishing deal hush-hush while things were finalised. Then she hijacked proceedings, and pushed me out of an aeroplane.

SERGEANT JOCK MACBASTARD: Rah game’s a bogey! Haud rah bus! WRF?!

BABY SEAL: On your feet, soldier! We’re going on a mission. Joint-operation. We jump in five!

SERGEANT JOCK MACBASTARD: Is this revenge fur forcin’ ye tae eat Haggisy hooves in brine?

BABY SEAL: Yes. No. Stand by for Operation BLOGVEL.

SERGEANT JOCK MACBASTARD: Ah think ah went therrr fur a wee hoaliday wance.

BABY SEAL: War’s no picnic. Except for Operation PICNIC. It was no holiday. Operation CRUISE was no day at the beach.

SERGEANT JOCK MACBASTARD: Whit’s oor oabjective?

BABY SEAL: To storm the fortress of serial-blogging-slash-fiction. I didn’t mean slash fiction. That’s, er, something else entirely. Not that I’ve written any Twilight stuff. Ah…

SERGEANT JOCK MACBASTARD: So. Ah jump furst?

BABY SEAL: Yes. Dare I say, ock aye. The noooooooooooo…

SERGEANT JOCK MACBASTARD: Leave yer accent at rah door, hen.

BABY SEAL: What’s a doorhen?

SERGEANT JOCK MACBASTARD: Jist jump oot an’ count tae custard…

BABY SEAL: Doorhen. Is it like a moorhen? Wait for me…

   Kacey invited me to participate in the 2012 BLOG NOVEL hosted by Michelle Simkins. As I write my blogs in advance, it’s too soon to say if I’ll be blogging about that or burning the internet down to erase the memory. Stay tuned. I say Kacey invited me. Well, that’s one view.

   No sign of this giant space cockroach. Is it a giant cockroach in space, or a cockroach inhabiting a giant space? That giant space itself may be in outer space. So we could be looking at a giant cockroach, inhabiting a giant space, way out there.

   If memory fails to serve, her name is Betsy.

   The Space Cockroach.

   Given the passing of Ray Bradbury, I suppose I should say a few words. I remember reading DARK STAR before I saw the movie. When I saw John Carpenter’s film, I sensed that a Ray Bradbury story somehow inveigled its way into this no-budget flick.

   Between the two stories lay a gap in literature. A gap filled by Betsy the Space Cockroach. This was the interstellar love tale of the age. Boy meets Giant Space Cockroach, boy loses Giant Space Cockroach, laws are passed banning that sort of thing.

   Of course I type with a straight face. It’s the straight face of someone I’ve hired to sit by my side and look the other way so as not to crack up with laughter at the nonsense that makes it into my blog. And that’s only the nonsense that makes it into my blog.

   Am I really going to bring Betsy the Space Cockroach back from the archives? As I sit typing this, I think that’s 80% likely. If I don’t bring her back, I’ll have to fill the collection with something else. Something that’s as wondrous as Betsy. And I just can’t see that happening.

   Now I’m curious as to the sort of blog traffic this post will generate. If you’ve come looking for cockroach porn, you’re a little early. I should have put non-runcible spoon in the title. That would have brought the readers flocking. Ah, but from where…

NEXT BLOG: DARTH BIOZARRE TERMINATES A CONTRACT.