Zero G Lindy Hop will continue. As you have no doubt noticed, the going has been a bit slow. I apologize. It's taking me longer than anticipated to fully plant my head inside this plot, and my attempts to do so have been thwarted by demands from my day job. The good news is they've finally hired me an assistant, and he starts next Monday. With luck, this will serve to mitigate my ball-bustingly insane workload. In the meantime, I promised to try to keep things entertaining around here when the wait for new chapters is long. That's what this post is all about. If you're in the fiction-only crowd, feel free to skip this one. But if you enjoy the behind-the-scenes stuff (DVD extras, biographies, things written in washroom stalls), stick around for your bonus slice of Brownadelia. Some of you may recall that I live in an old schoolhouse. Our steeple is the highest point in the village, as a matter of fact, as the church has no bell. And while it isn't uncommon for ...
Zero G Lindy Hop is a science-fiction novella told in several parts, posted serially by me, your lavishly accommodated host, Cheeseburger Brown. This is the second installment. Chapters: 1 2 ... Connected Stories: Simon of Space, The Christmas Robots The story continues:CHAPTER TWO The last sounds of loading reverberate away. The cargo capsule settles with a sad creak and a little rain of rust. Once liberated the corroded granules hang in the air, slowly spinning. Tas winds the clock and pops the hatch. She slips out, pushing her hair out of her face so she can look around. The spaceliner's hold is vast. Her mere Class Four tube is dwarfed by the scale of the monstrous cargo capsules belted into deep berths on every side: giant plastic pills of bedsheets, potable water, edible yeast primaries, disinfectants both custodial and medical, blue barbicide, scented napkins, anti-nausea spores, ...
As is traditional on this blog, when I can't deliver up a steaming helping of fresh fiction to continue the current serial, I like to occasionally offer instead a brief window into the state of the author's life -- as harried as story-free, and there's usually a meaningful correlation there. (If this sort of aside doesn't appeal to you, click away without another thought. The next installation of our current tale will be posted before too long. Check back soon. Meanwhile:) The eldest and least wed of my she-siblings was married away on Talk Like A Pirate Day, 2009. Arrr! The ceremony was distinguished by an extended reading of Hugh Grant from the Anglican officiant, which may well go down in my memory as the most savage internal struggle I have ever had to wage in order to stop myself from bursting out laughing in a house of worship. The officiant drew his quotation from a British romantic comedy in which Mr. Grant, playing the Prime Minister, muses on the twin ...
