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On Web 2.0

I wrote an editorial earlier this week as the Editor’s Note for The Escapist Issue 237, Editor’s Choice. I think it’s probably my most comprehensive look at Web 2.0 and the phenomenon of Nihilistic Asshole Internet Loser Syndrome, or what Jared Lanier calls “Drive-By Anonymity.” It’s the kind of thing I would have written for free, but as EIC of The Escapist, I get to do it and get paid, which is awesome.

Anyway, the editorial provoked some interesting discussion in the forums. I’ve reprinted my responses here for ease-of-use. Feel free to read the comments in their entirety at The Escapist, or join the discussion.

Surely by dismissing creations built by the “crowd” and putting power back in the hands of the craftsmen, you are just rebuilding the guilds and unions of yore though?

This is an excellent point, and I’m glad you raised it. Because the fact is this is already happening whether you realize it or not.

One of the fantasy examples often used when suggesting that the internet has the power to transcend “the establishment” is the web video series “The Guild,” and its creator, Felicia Day. Felicia and I run into each other fairly frequently, and I have a great deal of respect for her talent, her initiative, her genius in creating “The Guild” and I also just think she’s a really neat person. I also enjoy “The Guild,” but I think the assertion that the series was created “outside of the Hollywood system” is an absolute load of horse shit.

I work with people who are actually, well and truly outside of the Hollywood system every day. You see their work right here on the site. They are independent content creators, most of whom have never even been to Hollywood. There may or may not be a vast qualitative gulf between what’s produced by The Guild Company in LA, and what’s produced by the independent creators who make video series for The Escapist in various parts of the world but I guaran-damn-tee you there’s a significant gulf between how the work is made.

I’m not going to get into an itemized comparison of production practices here, but I will say that I’ve been working with independent internet video creators for nearly five years now and I know very few who could have pulled as many strings inside of the Hollywood system as were pulled to create “The Guild.” I say this with all due respect to the cast and crew (right down to the personal assistant in charge of maintaining Ms. Day’s Twitter feed), and in no way to suggest that their awards and accolades are undeserved, but the simple fact is that guilds and unions of the kind you describe are already in existence in this here “new media” frontier. I find myself bumping into them all the time.

It’s simply human nature for people to attempt to gain leverage over one another by forming groups, guilds, homeowner’s associations, crime families, town councils, legislatures and even internet communities. Nothing invented by man will erase this tendency of man, much less the internet. The best we can do is keep our eyes open and try to be aware of who’s selling us what.

**

OK. I’ve gotta take this next one in pieces.

Although it would be tempting to accuse Bluesader of filibustering, he does raise some interesting points. I’m going to address them out of order, for the sake of clarifying my responses.

4. Which raises another point. Russ uses the word “quality” a lot in this essay, and says that he believes it matters. And yes, who would disagree with this? The problem arises when you start trying to figure out who has what standards of quality, and why. The Internet is a global culture. Quality is as variable a trait online as it is in the off-line world, taken as a whole. Is anime quality? Is only some of it? What about Flash animation?

I think you are confusing “quality,” which is an objective distinction, with “value,” which is a subjective distinction. Quality is a function of substance and method.

A quality shirt, for example, will withstand washing without fading or shrinking, whereas a shirt lacking in quality, will go in blue and come out white and two sizes smaller. A quality house will last for 50 years, whereas a house lacking in quality will need a new roof in five, or plumbing work in two.

“Value” is independent from quality. I may prefer shirts with collars, for example, but I can recognize that a shirt with no collar may nonetheless be a quality shirt. A collared shirt, therefore, has more value to me than a shirt without a collar, even if their quality is relatively similar.

In terms of content, let’s look at reality television, since I bitched about that in the editorial. I do watch some reality television. I think “Survivor,” for example, is a fantastic show. It may have many surface similarities to other reality programs, but it is of higher quality in almost every aspect of production. “Survivor” is not a show that looks thrown together. It is painstakingly assembled by a production team that has talent and experience. Whether you personally enjoy it or not (whether is has “value” to you) it is definitively a quality product, and superior in quality to mass-produced programs like “Shot of Love.” “Shot of Love” may have more value to you, if you enjoy that kind of show, but, by definition, it is not of higher quality.

When I say that the amount of content on the internet that is of low quality is increasing, I am saying simply that. I am not making a value judgment. You may enjoy content that I would consider of low quality. That’s fine. I enjoy low quality content sometimes, too. For example, this month I read about a dozen military SF novels that aren’t going to appear on any awards list any time soon, I guarantee it, nor would I want them to. I am glad that trash content exists when it is needed, and if you are someone for whom there is never a time when it is not, then that’s your right as a consumer. What I do not want, however, is for the situation to exist in which my ability to choose content of higher quality is hindered by the fact that it has become impossible to find.

1. Russ seems to have a problem with the fact that the Internet is chock full of so many quacking yahoos that the true visionaries can’t get their voices heard.

Not exactly.

I have a sneaking suspicion that the chances of truly great talent being discovered - in all extant media - has neither increased nor decreased since the arrival of the internet. Unfortunately this doesn’t settle the issue since the internet, apart from greatly impacting extant media in other ways, has, in addition, created a completely separate and alternate medium with its own attendant economic and (let’s call it) “fame-making” effects.

For example, the internet did exist when I was working as a television producer 10 years ago, but the idea that I would, 10 years later, be doing more-or-less the same job (albeit on a radically different scale) solely for the internet medium seemed like a fantasy. And yet here we are. Television still exists as an entertainment medium (in fact, there are more channels now than there were then), but yet so too does the internet. There’s been a net gain in available entertainment media.

Unfortunately, the number of hours in a day has remained exactly the same, and, in fact, the number of leisure hours has, on average, declined in the Western world. People are working longer hours and - thanks in part to the internet and other communications devices - are spending more of what used to be free time working. So with the exponential increase in entertainment options, and concurrent decrease in available time in which to consume it, the un-vetted nature of the internet medium in general is having a net negative impact on the relative quality of the content we are consuming.

It’s not that there is less good content available, but that there’s more bad content, and the only way to find the good content amongst the bad is to consume it. Therefore we are, as a society, consuming more bad content.

I’m not concerned that the demand for quality content will decrease. There will always be a demand for quality, and people, no matter how busy they are, can tell the difference. What I am concerned about is that consumers, fatigued by an unrelenting supply of low-quality options, will become less discerning and choose to consume lower-quality offerings because it’s easier, or will simply be unable to find what they’re looking for.

Think of this in terms of fast food. The secret has been out for over a decade that fast food is bad for you. Hell, it’s not even food, in most respects. Most of the ingredients in it are poison. And yet people eat that stuff all day, every day, just because it’s all around them and driving through the McDonald’s is simpler and takes less time and effort than buying and preparing their own food. And then they get fat, or sick and then they wonder “What went wrong?” Dude, you’re eating poison, that’s what went wrong. But you can’t tell them. You can’t tell them that if they put forth just a little more effort they’d live happier, healthier lives because most people equate quality of life to the energy expended to attain it, and although net energy declines on a fast food diet, that’s less observable than the fact that driving through the drive-thru takes less time than cooking a meal.

So what happens when we are surrounded by low-quality entertainment options to the point where finding something of quality takes more effort than it appears to be worth? Well, we know what happens then: People will consume more low quality content and less high quality content and will eventually wonder why high quality content has stopped being produced and simultaneously bitch about the fact that they no longer seem to enjoy watching movies as much as they used to. Meanwhile, people like me will be working at McDonald’s.

A second point on this point. Let’s say Russ is right, that genius IS being drowned out. When, on the Internet and before it, hasn’t this happened? People who are revolutionary are ALWAYS shouted down by the majority, because they’re out to change everyone’s world. This is typical human behavior. When exactly was this supposed Golden Age Russ seems to think existed, when progressives were heard and everyone wanted to hear them? I don’t seem to remember that.

OK, so this would be Point #2, then? I guess that blows your numbering convention. Let’s call this one Point 1 Sub A. ;)

We’re actually on to a second topic here, apart from content. This addresses my remarks in the editorial about community responses, and Lanier’s term “drive-by anonymity.”

My response to Point 1 Sub A is that you’re right. There was never a “Golden Age” in which one could feel reasonably safe that his genius idea wouldn’t be crushed by itinerant dicks with a stake in maintaining the status quo. I suppose my point is I’d prefer to be shouted down by a dick who genuinely feels threatened by me because he can recognize I have a good idea than by a pack of dicks who wouldn’t know a good idea if it shat a golden sausage on their face, but are simply bored.

Let’s go back to my schoolyard analogy from the editorial. I’ll admit that I was a smart kid. I had teachers who shit on me because they hated being outsmarted by their juniors (and also because, frankly, I was a jerk). But I always knew, whether they were being instructive or simply mean, that they were my betters. I respected their position of authority because they’d earned it. I had my differences with certain instructors, but I learned something from all of them. More than I cared to admit at the time.

At the same time, however, I was frequently bullied by school yard thugs. Mercilessly so. I recall one day, the first day at a new school, I was minding my own business in the school yard, waiting for the doors to open, when some kid I had never met walked right up to me, dashed my books to the ground and punched me. Then he walked away. Didn’t say a word. Didn’t want anything from me but my suffering. He just picked me because I looked different, I suppose. Maybe my clothes looked too new. Maybe my glasses too thick. Whatever it was about, it wasn’t about me per se, it was about him needing to feel good and choosing to satisfy that need by making someone else feel bad. I was just handy.

My issue with “drive-by anonymity” style community engagement is that it’s not engagement, it’s bullying. Web 2.0 has given us many marvelous and wonderful things, but it has also institutionalized anonymous bullying, and that I can’t tolerate.

3. That line Russ has about there not being any “gold” in the hills of YouTube really shocks me. By “gold,” I assume he means great talent.

No. As has been pointed out, I meant money, not talent. It would be incredibly dumb of me to proclaim that there isn’t any talent on YouTube considering, as you pointed out, my own success in finding it there.

I think YouTube is a marvelous talent search tool, I really do. For me, as a media professional, it has slightly changed my job, but I wouldn’t exactly say it has improved the situation.

This is a slight aside, but think about the invention of the dishwashing machine. This invention was supposed to free us (and I say “us” although at the time it was designed as a tool for house wives) from the drudgery of cleaning dishes every day and thereby simplify our lives. Did it? I’d say no on both counts.

For one thing, far from simplifying life, it added further complication. The machines take specialized soap, so that’s one more item for the grocery list. They also break, make noise, and require loading and unloading. Even had the device freed us from having to wash dishes by hand, it would have still been, at best, a net zero effect on daily living.

Yet the dishwasher didn’t free us from washing dishes by hand. If you put un-washed dishes into a dishwasher, you get, instead of clean dishes, wet dirt. And so, we wash the dishes by hand, with soap and a scrubber (the same tools we had before) prior to loading them into the dishwasher to be washed once again. It’s ludicrous. And yet we all do it.

As an experiment, I once moved into a house without a dishwasher and refused to have one installed. I probably lived for close to ten years without a dishwahser. And then I moved into an apartment that had one installed already. The difference on my daily routine was staggeringly ironic. Far from feeling “liberated” I felt as if I’d suddenly been saddled with a piece of temperamental machinery that, at best, simply replaced dreary tasks I was already performing with other, still dreary tasks. My dishes were no more or less clean, I was simply getting them in that state by different means.

And this is how I feel about Web 2.0. I don’t think, once the dust clears, we’ll have noticed any appreciable gain or loss in quality entertainment. I just think we’re all having to go about finding that entertainment in new, often more frustrating, ways. I don’t want to limit anyone’s options, I would simply rather it be easier to ignore shit content.

And while the content here is well constructed, it doesn’t seem to make a whole lot of quality sense.

I think what you meant to say was that it doesn’t have value to you. Saying that it is well-constructed (for which I thank you) and that it lacks quality is a contradiction in terms.

Lot of people write so much more than normal. Trying to impress the editor are we?

Perhaps. But who are you trying to impress by being glib? ;)

For the full editorial and comment thread, visit The Escapist.


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The Dallas Scotch Party

Let me start by saying that I know this was entirely my fault.

As a frequent airline traveler, I’m well-aware of the rules and try very hard to stay within them. Not necessarily because I agree with them, but because when I’m traveling I’m stressed enough without being hassled by the TSA. So, although I’m absolutely sign-wavingly irate over what happened to me yesterday at DFW, I know it’s my fault for not paying closer attention to what was in my luggage.

Nevertheless, here’s what happened and why I think it was a crock of shit:

My brother gave me a bottle of single malt scotch for Christmas. It was not cheap. It was a lovely gesture and, without thinking, I left it in my carry-on bag when I checked in for my return flight from DFW. The scanner operator at the security check-point spotted it, and a lady with the TSA confronted me about it while I was standing at the discharge end of the scanner conveyor, waiting for my shoes, belt and jacket, which I had dutifully removed before passing through the metal detector.

Now I know you’re not supposed to carry anything capable of holding more than 3oz of liquid on a plane, but I’ve carried bottles of booze home on many flights, even after the new liquid rule went into effect. Bottles of booze are generally clearly labeled and securely fastened and sealed. When you purchase a bottle of single malt scotch, for example, it is usually wrapped in a sealed box or drum, and sealed again inside the bottle by a metal or wax cap. It’s generally fairly easy to tell if a bottle has been tampered with or not.

So when Ms. TSA Lady asked me if I knew I was carrying a bottle, I told her that I did, that I had spaced about it, and that it was a bottle of very expensive scotch from my brother. I didn’t expect to get preferential treatment, but I was hoping that in the spirit of the season she might give a brother a break. No joy. She was kind enough to wait for me to finish getting dressed before she started pulling my dirty underwear out of my bag in full view of anyone who happened to pass by, but when she removed the bottle, she was all business.

I had made the decision to not check a bag and was willing to part with the scotch to avoid having to leave the security area, wait in line at the American Airlines counter, pay a fee to check my bag, wait in line again for security, hope they didn’t take issue with anything else in my bag, then wait for however long at the baggage claim at RDU and pray my bag made it safely through the machinery and the hands of the under-paid throwers at both airports and that the bottle didn’t get smashed inside soaking a week’s worth of clothes and various electronics in single malt scotch, rendering the entire exercise worse than moot. I recognize I had been given a choice by the TSA, and I acknowledge that the TSA representatives at every step of the process acted in a very restrained and courteous manner. And yet I am still beside myself with rage that this kind of thing is now routine, in America, at Christmas.

How far are we willing to go to protect ourselves? Apparently, we’ve been willing to grant our rulers the authority to rummage through our dirty laundry and confiscate Christmas. Was my bottle of scotch irreplaceable? No, of course not. But it was a gift. Was it over the 3oz limit? Yes, but it was clearly marked, labeled and sealed. There is a rule, and I understand that, but common sense should prevail over rules. And sanity should prevail over knee-jerk security theater designed to do little more than placate the tax-paying public that “steps are being taken” all the while our liberties are being eroded and terrorists are still (shockingly!) able to smuggle explosive devices onto planes.

The TSA representative at DFW asked me what I wanted to do with the bottle, and I told her that since I wasn’t going to check it, that I would leave it with her and that she and her colleagues should enjoy it and have a Merry Christmas. At this point she turned her back on me - still manhandling my under things – and muttered something under her breath. I kindly asked her to repeat herself.

“You people think we keep this stuff, but we don’t,” she said. So I told her to throw it in the trash, asked if we were done, thanked her for her time and left.

As I was leaving, I looked over my shoulder and saw her open a small, locked cabinet, place the bottle inside and lock it. The storage bin for items to be discarded later perhaps? I was pretty mad by this point, so I decided it would be in everyone’s best interests if I avoided further confrontation, so I didn’t stop to ask. But it’s entirely possible they did keep the bottle, and that she and her TSA friends are at home right now, sipping my scotch and counting themselves lucky that they have a job which entitles them to confiscate just about anything they want from tax-paying American citizens, or else arrest them for inciting terrorism.

I can think of plenty of countries where that kind of behavior is expected from security personnel. Until this weekend, I never thought America would be one of them. Then again, I never imagined I’d see military personnel patrolling American airports holding automatic weapons and yelling at unarmed civilians to “get in line,” either, but that happened to me in Philadelphia in October of 2006. Times, it would seem, are still a-changin’.


[?]


FLAP Jacks

In response to the perilous shortage of acceptable breakfast joints in the South Durham / RTP area, and our crushing disappointment that every new construction site in this otherwise bustling pseudo-metropolitan area fails to unearth an IHOP, my wife and I have decided to found a resistance movement. We’re calling it the Front for the Liberation of the American Pancake. AKA “FLAP.”

Individually, we are FLAP Jacks (or Jills). Our newsletter will be called “The FLAP Flap.” Our platform and methods are yet to be determined. But if I were you, and I were building something in RTP that is not currently scheduled to become an IHOP, I’d beware.


[?]


The Twovel Concludes

Thanks to everyone who followed on Twitter and Facebook. I will definitely be trying this again, perhaps continuing the saga of Sam and Jo. I’m also hoping to have some good news about a similar project with a favorite writer friend of mine, so stay tuned for that.

I’ll have some deeper thoughts on the whole process at a later date. For now, enjoy the story in its entirety and my thanks for reading.

***

The Story of Sam and Jo
A Twovel in 76 Parts
By: Russ Pitts

Ch1. “It’s not where you go,” he said, blinking from the pain. “It’s how you get there.” His father said it often. Finally, he understood why.

Ch2. Sam was bemused, considering where it was lodged, they called it “#2 buckshot.” He hoped the girl’s father appreciated the irony.

Ch3. The reverend didn’t care. “This is where you say ‘I do,’ son,” he whispered, grinning like a corpse. Sam looked at the girl and spoke.

Ch4. “I … do,” Sam muttered, panic rising behind his ears like a flood, adrenaline rushing like a hurricane. “Not.” And he ran.

Ch5. Shotgun blasts shattered the quiet confines of the church. Cy, the girl’s father fired again and again, hitting nothing but scenery.

Ch6. The reverend was aghast. This had never happened in his church. Shotguns, yes. Shooting? No. He stepped in front of the smoking gun.

Ch7. Cy didn’t care. If there was a God (and he was by no means sure) why allow his only girl to get knocked up and then left at the altar?

Ch8. The reverend beseeched him in the name of Christ to show mercy. Cy didn’t know the word. He fired. The reverend fell between the pews.

Ch9. Sam’s ass hurt like hell, what with the buckshot still in it, but his Harley was fast and he was running for his life, so he gunned it.

Ch10. He shouldn’t have bedded her. He’d been lonely, and drunk and she was just his type. Almost worth getting shot in the ass over. Almost.

Ch11. He bought her a drink (was that all?) then she was his. And then she was his. She never mentioned her father. But then, why would she?

Ch12. The gun went off before he did. Like in a nightmare. Caught in the act, shot in the ass. Sam shook his head and rode on. A nightmare.

Ch13. Alone at the altar, Jo was in tears. “He broke my flowers,” she said. Daisies. They lay trampled at her feet. “My flowers!” she cried.

Ch14. Cy didn’t care. He turned to Jo and slapped her face. “If you’d kept your whore legs shut none of this would have happened,” he said.

Ch15. Cy’s anger only made Jo cry harder. He looked away in disgust and spat. Something welled up inside of her and then broke loose.

Ch16. The bible was heavy, but felt light in her hands. She didn’t feel it when it hit the back of Cy’s head. He crumpled and she cried out.

Ch17. “This is my wedding!” she wailed, as she leapt from the dais, snatched the gun from Cy’s large, limp hands and ran out the door.

Ch18. Sam rode on, chasing the setting sun. He thought there was a town ahead, but he wasn’t sure. He was low on gas. God damn what a day.

Ch19. The trucker didn’t care. Wedding dress, shotgun, whatever. He’d seen it all. Jo got in his truck and he put the pedal to the metal.

Ch20. His name was Bob. She was pleased to meet him. Johnny Cash on the radio. Pot in the ashtray. Next town, 22 miles. She was done crying.

Ch21. Cy was blowing cigarette smoke at the crucifix. “Screw you,” he said. The police sirens got louder. “And screw your damn father, too.”

Ch22. Sam was tired. He had to get off the highway. Hole up somewhere. Rest. He turned down a gravel road hoping to get lost in the desert.

Ch23. The blowout almost killed him. Head first over the handlebars at nearly a hundred. He was lucky his neck didn’t break. Lucky. Right.

Ch24. He dragged his broken bike into the brush, dusted himself off, picked a direction and walked. He’d done it. He was lost in the desert.

Ch25. The state trooper didn’t care, he told Bob. Standing in the road, waving a pistol was a crime. Especially if you reeked of reefer.

Ch26. Bob looked at Cy. Cy, covered in blood, didn’t speak. They were both handcuffed in the back of the cruiser. It would be a long ride.

Ch27. Driving Bob’s truck was harder than Jo thought it would be. She shifted gears and adjusted her dress. Harder than stealing it.

Ch28. She had a hunch Sam had turned onto the gravel road, and she was right. Here was his bike in the brush. She climbed back in the truck.

Ch29. The truck stop came out of nowhere, like a mirage. Sam knew he shouldn’t stop, but he had no choice. Tired, thirsty, he couldn’t go on.

Ch30. He used the last of his cash for a burger, a shower and a shirt. He didn’t have long, he knew, but he needed to wash and dump the tux.

Ch31. They knew what Jo wanted before she even opened her mouth. The waitress pointed to the showers. Nobody even asked about the gun.

Ch32. She heard the shower running and saw his boots on the floor. The gun was heavy. Her heart pounded. She turned the corner.

Ch33. Sam didn’t say a word. He stood under the running water, naked, frightened and … something else. Jo looked in his eyes and saw love.

Ch34. The gun hit the floor and she was in his arms, standing with him in the wet warmth. He held her and their lips pressed together.

Ch35. The waitress didn’t care. “Nine times out of ten they end up screwing in there,” she said. “The tenth time we call the cops.”

Ch36. The sergeant didn’t care. “Fingers in the ink,” he said, pointing his bony finger at Cy. He didn’t even notice the look on Cy’s face.

Ch37. Bob had never broken out of jail before. Didn’t this time, really, he just stayed out the way, watched Cy work, then followed him out.

Ch38. “You know how to use this?” Cy asked, handing Bob a bloody gun. Bob nodded. “Good,” Cy said. “Let’s go get my daughter.”

Ch39. The sun was rising. They’d ditched Bob’s truck and stolen a car. They were headed West, laughing. Sam, Jo and their unborn child.

Ch40. Cy missed them at the truck stop, found the truck further down the road and was now hot on their heels, racing the rising sun to LA.

Ch41. Bob’s nerves were shot. He thought it was a bad idea to be driving a stolen police cruiser. He wanted to stop. Cy told him to shut up.

Ch42. The sheriff didn’t care. His sole source of income was the speed trap on I-10. Pregnant and newlywed or not, 75 in a 50 got you $350.

Ch43. Sam argued, but it was no good. Jo cried. Nothing. The sheriff took Sam’s license and went to run the plates. Sam started the engine.

Ch44. The sheriff heard Sam’s engine start and he reached for his gun. Then he saw the cruiser pull up and stop behind him. He was relieved.

Ch45. Cy got out of the cruiser in time to see Sam and Jo speed off in a hail of dust. The sheriff pulled his gun, but not quickly enough.

Ch46. The sheriff fell backwards with a bullet in his brain. Bob jumped out of the cruiser and tumbled head first down the embankment.

Ch47. Cy smiled. For the first time in his life, he felt in complete control. He had power over life and death. He was full of righteous fury.

Ch48. The cruiser was between them, and Bob had a 50-yard head start, but Cy wasn’t concerned. He aimed and fired and Bob fell. Cy smiled.

Ch49. “Holy crap! That was my father in that police cruiser!” Jo shouted. Sam clenched the wheel and floored it. This was not happening.

Ch50. “What are we gonna do?” Jo cried. Sam didn’t know, so he drove, willing the car to go faster, even as he knew it wasn’t fast enough.

Ch51. The cruiser grew large in the mirror. Jo was hysterical, in tears. She knew he’d kill them both. The first bullet shattered a mirror.

Ch52. They ducked, reflexively, but Cy wasn’t aiming at them. He just wanted to get their attention. The next bullet blew a tire.

Ch53. Sam briefly considered his shit luck with tires before another blew, then another. The car flipped and careened across the road.

Ch54. The stolen car came to a shuddering stop upside down on the side of the road. The dust settled like falling snow. The engine smoked.

Ch55. Sam was dazed, his vision blurry with blood. He looked over at Jo and desperately checked her pulse. She was alive, but unconscious.

Ch56. Sam saw the cruiser’s wheels glide to a stop. The door opened. Cy’s booted foot touched the road. He came closer, one boot at a time.

Ch57. Cy’s hand looked larger than it should. That was Sam’s first thought. His second was to stop the son of a bitch from hurting Jo.

Ch58. Cy grabbed her by the hair and pulled. Her limp body grated against broken glass as she slid limply out of the car.

Ch59. Sam clawed his way free. He heard wet slaps and muffled cries. His knee gave out as he tried to run, so he crawled, cursing Cy’s name.

Ch60. Sam didn’t get far. He felt the gun against his forehead, and looked up into Cy’s hard, cold eyes. Cy would kill him. Sam didn’t care.

Ch61. “Don’t you hurt her, you son of a bitch,” Sam spat. He reached within himself. Found something hard and cold as a diamond. Cy laughed.

Ch62. Sam was at the end. He couldn’t run, couldn’t hide and couldn’t fight. He had nothing left. He closed his eyes and said “I love her.”

Ch 63. “Too goddamn bad,” Cy said. He aimed his gun at Sam’s heart and pulled the trigger. The blast sounded like a cannon shot.

Ch64. Sam opened his eyes. He saw bright sunlight. He saw buzzards circling overhead. He saw Cy, dead. He saw a truck driver holding a gun.

Ch65. “I’m Bob,” the truck driver said. “And that sumbitch had it coming.” Bob raised his gun again, aiming it at Jo, “and so does she.”

Ch66. Sam surged to his feet, grabbed Bob’s gun and wrestled him to the ground. They struggled for what felt like days. The gun went off.

Ch67. The bullet hit Sam’s thigh like a white hot hornet mated to a freight train. He felt a wet trickle of blood roll down his leg.

Ch68. Sam couldn’t breathe through the pain in his leg. He opened his mouth but nothing came out. Bob stood up and pointed the gun at his face.

Ch69. “Boy, you done messed with the wrong bubba,” Bob said, leveling the gun at Sam’s eyes. “I am a speed takin’ truck drivin’ sunovabitch.”

Ch70. “You’re also dead,” Jo said from behind him. Then she fired her shotgun, tearing a hole through his chest like he was made of Jello.

Ch71. Blood splattered Sam like warm, red rain. Through the haze of smoke, he saw Jo, with tears in her eyes, pointing the shotgun at him.

Ch72. “You love me?” she asked, her voice quivering with emotion, her eyes narrow, her trigger finger pulsing with every stuttered heartbeat.

Ch73. Sam looked at her and smiled, gasping from the pain in his leg. He loved her more than ever. “Honey, I took a bullet for you,” he said.

Ch73. They were making love when the cops arrived. Love is like that. No obstacles. She cried out his name as they were pulled apart.

Ch74. The judge didn’t care. “Stealing a truck is stealing a truck, no matter how crazy your daddy is,” he said. She’d have the baby in jail.

Ch75. But Jo didn’t care. And neither did Sam. The papers had already been filed. They might be outlaws, but they were in love. And married.

Ch76. “It’s how you get there,” Sam said to their boy, years later. They stood outside the prison waiting. The gates opened. The boy smiled.

The End.


[?]


Twovel Update

We’re nearing the end. Stay tuned for the dramatic conclusion just days away!

Thanks to all the followers and fans. This has been fun and exciting but even more so because I know you guys are out there.

I’ll post up a detailed post-mortem after if concludes about what went right and what went wrong and maybe some news about exciting new developments. If you’re lucky :)

Twitter Serial To Date

“It’s not where you go,” he said, blinking from the pain. “It’s how you get there.” His father said it often. Finally, he understood why.

Ch2. Sam was bemused, considering where it was lodged, they called it “#2 buckshot.” He hoped the girl’s father appreciated the irony.

Ch3. The reverend didn’t care. “This is where you say ‘I do,’ son,” he whispered, grinning like a corpse. Sam looked at the girl and spoke.

Ch4. “I … do,” Sam muttered, panic rising behind his ears like a flood, adrenaline rushing like a hurricane. “Not.” And he ran.

Ch5. Shotgun blasts shattered the quiet confines of the church. Cy, the girl’s father fired again and again, hitting nothing but scenery.

Ch6. The reverend was aghast. This had never happened in his church. Shotguns, yes. Shooting? No. He stepped in front of the smoking gun.

Ch7. Cy didn’t care. If there was a God (and he was by no means sure) why allow his only girl to get knocked up and then left at the altar?

Ch8. The reverend beseeched him in the name of Christ to show mercy. Cy didn’t know the word. He fired. The reverend fell between the pews.

Ch9. Sam’s ass hurt like hell, what with the buckshot still in it, but his Harley was fast and he was running for his life, so he gunned it.

Ch10. He shouldn’t have bedded her. He’d been lonely, and drunk and she was just his type. Almost worth getting shot in the ass over. Almost.

Ch11. He bought her a drink (was that all?) then she was his. And then she was his. She never mentioned her father. But then, why would she?

Ch12. The gun went off before he did. Like in a nightmare. Caught in the act, shot in the ass. Sam shook his head and rode on. A nightmare.

Ch13. Alone at the altar, Jo was in tears. “He broke my flowers,” she said. Daisies. They lay trampled at her feet. “My flowers!” she cried.

Ch14. Cy didn’t care. He turned to Jo and slapped her face. “If you’d kept your whore legs shut none of this would have happened,” he said.

Ch15. Cy’s anger only made Jo cry harder. He looked away in disgust and spat. Something welled up inside of her and then broke loose.

Ch16. The bible was heavy, but felt light in her hands. She didn’t feel it when it hit the back of Cy’s head. He crumpled and she cried out.

Ch17. “This is my wedding!” she wailed, as she leapt from the dais, snatched the gun from Cy’s large, limp hands and ran out the door.

Ch18. Sam rode on, chasing the setting sun. He thought there was a town ahead, but he wasn’t sure. He was low on gas. God damn what a day.

Ch19. The trucker didn’t care. Wedding dress, shotgun, whatever. He’d seen it all. Jo got in his truck and he put the pedal to the metal.

Ch20. His name was Bob. She was pleased to meet him. Johnny Cash on the radio. Pot in the ashtray. Next town, 22 miles. She was done crying.

Ch21. Cy was blowing cigarette smoke at the crucifix. “Screw you,” he said. The police sirens got louder. “And screw your damn father, too.”

Ch22. Sam was tired. He had to get off the highway. Hole up somewhere. Rest. He turned down a gravel road hoping to get lost in the desert.

Ch23. The blowout almost killed him. Head first over the handlebars at nearly a hundred. He was lucky his neck didn’t break. Lucky. Right.

Ch24. He dragged his broken bike into the brush, dusted himself off, picked a direction and walked. He’d done it. He was lost in the desert.

Ch25. The state trooper didn’t care, he told Bob. Standing in the road, waving a pistol was a crime. Especially if you reeked of reefer.

Ch26. Bob looked at Cy. Cy, covered in blood, didn’t speak. They were both handcuffed in the back of the cruiser. It would be a long ride.

Ch27. Driving Bob’s truck was harder than Jo thought it would be. She shifted gears and adjusted her dress. Harder than stealing it.

Ch28. She had a hunch Sam had turned onto the gravel road, and she was right. Here was his bike in the brush. She climbed back in the truck.

Ch29. The truck stop came out of nowhere, like a mirage. Sam knew he shouldn’t stop, but he had no choice. Tired, thirsty, he couldn’t go on.

Ch30. He used the last of his cash for a burger, a shower and a shirt. He didn’t have long, he knew, but he needed to wash and dump the tux.

Ch31. They knew what Jo wanted before she even opened her mouth. The waitress pointed to the showers. Nobody even asked about the gun.

Ch32. She heard the shower running and saw his boots on the floor. The gun was heavy. Her heart pounded. She turned the corner.

Ch33. Sam didn’t say a word. He stood under the running water, naked, frightened and … something else. Jo looked in his eyes and saw love.

Ch34. The gun hit the floor and she was in his arms, standing with him in the wet warmth. He held her and their lips pressed together.

Ch35. The waitress didn’t care. “Nine times out of ten they end up screwing in there,” she said. “The tenth time we call the cops.”

Ch36. The sergeant didn’t care. “Fingers in the ink,” he said, pointing his bony finger at Cy. He didn’t even notice the look on Cy’s face.

Ch37. Bob had never broken out of jail before. Didn’t this time, really, he just stayed out the way, watched Cy work, then followed him out.

Ch38. “You know how to use this?” Cy asked, handing Bob a bloody gun. Bob nodded. “Good,” Cy said. “Let’s go get my daughter.”

Ch39. The sun was rising. They’d ditched Bob’s truck and stolen a car. They were headed West, laughing. Sam, Jo and their unborn child.

Ch40. Cy missed them at the truck stop, found the truck further down the road and was now hot on their heels, racing the rising sun to LA.

Ch41. Bob’s nerves were shot. He thought it was a bad idea to be driving a stolen police cruiser. He wanted to stop. Cy told him to shut up.

Ch42. The sheriff didn’t care. His sole source of income was the speed trap on I-10. Pregnant and newlywed or not, 75 in a 50 got you $350.

Ch43. Sam argued, but it was no good. Jo cried. Nothing. The sheriff took Sam’s license and went to run the plates. Sam started the engine.

Ch44. The sheriff heard Sam’s engine start and he reached for his gun. Then he saw the cruiser pull up and stop behind him. He was relieved.

Ch45. Cy got out of the cruiser in time to see Sam and Jo speed off in a hail of dust. The sheriff pulled his gun, but not quickly enough.

Ch46. The sheriff fell backwards with a bullet in his brain. Bob jumped out of the cruiser and tumbled head first down the embankment.

Ch47. Cy smiled. For the first time in his life, he felt in complete control. He had power over life and death. He was full of righteous fury.

Ch48. The cruiser was between them, and Bob had a 50-yard head start, but Cy wasn’t concerned. He aimed and fired and Bob fell. Cy smiled.

Ch49. “Holy crap! That was my father in that police cruiser!” Jo shouted. Sam clenched the wheel and floored it. This was not happening.

Ch50. “What are we gonna do?” Jo cried. Sam didn’t know, so he drove, willing the car to go faster, even as he knew it wasn’t fast enough.

Ch51. The cruiser grew large in the mirror. Jo was hysterical, in tears. She knew he’d kill them both. The first bullet shattered a mirror.

Ch52. They ducked, reflexively, but Cy wasn’t aiming at them. He just wanted to get their attention. The next bullet blew a tire.

Ch53. Sam briefly considered his shit luck with tires before another blew, then another. The car flipped and careened across the road.

Ch54. The stolen car came to a shuddering stop upside down on the side of the road. The dust settled like falling snow. The engine smoked.

Ch55. Sam was dazed, his vision blurry with blood. He looked over at Jo and desperately checked her pulse. She was alive, but unconscious.

Ch56. Sam saw the cruiser’s wheels glide to a stop. The door opened. Cy’s booted foot touched the road. He came closer, one boot at a time.

Ch57. Cy’s hand looked larger than it should. That was Sam’s first thought. His second was to stop the son of a bitch from hurting Jo.

Ch58. Cy grabbed her by the hair and pulled. Her limp body grated against broken glass as she slid limply out of the car.

Ch59. Sam clawed his way free. He heard wet slaps and muffled cries. His knee gave out as he tried to run, so he crawled, cursing Cy’s name.

Ch60. Sam didn’t get far. He felt the gun against his forehead, and looked up into Cy’s hard, cold eyes. Cy would kill him. Sam didn’t care.

Ch61. “Don’t you hurt her, you son of a bitch,” Sam spat. He reached within himself. Found something hard and cold as a diamond. Cy laughed.

Ch62. Sam was at the end. He couldn’t run, couldn’t hide and couldn’t fight. He had nothing left. He closed his eyes and said “I love her.”

Ch 63. “Too goddamn bad,” Cy said. He aimed his gun at Sam’s heart and pulled the trigger. The blast sounded like a cannon shot.

Ch64. Sam opened his eyes. He saw bright sunlight. He saw buzzards circling overhead. He saw Cy, dead. He saw a truck driver holding a gun.

Ch65. “I’m Bob,” the truck driver said. “And that sumbitch had it coming.” Bob raised his gun again, aiming it at Jo, “and so does she.”

Ch66. Sam surged to his feet, grabbed Bob’s gun and wrestled him to the ground. They struggled for what felt like days. The gun went off.

Ch67. The bullet hit Sam’s thigh like a white hot hornet mated to a freight train. He felt a wet trickle of blood roll down his leg.

Ch68. Sam couldn’t breathe through the pain in his leg. He opened his mouth but nothing came out. Bob stood up and pointed the gun at his face.

Ch69. “Boy, you done messed with the wrong bubba,” Bob said, leveling the gun at Sam’s eyes. “I am a speed takin’ truck drivin’ sunovabitch.”

Ch70. “You’re also dead,” Jo said from behind him. Then she fired her shotgun, tearing a hole through his chest like he was made of Jello.

To be continued.


[?]


The Twovel Continues

The Twovel continues. For the uninitiated, this is my experimental serial novel in short, Twitter-sized bursts of 140 characters each. I’ve been trying to see if I could build a suspenseful, interesting story in 140-character chunks and so far I’m pleased with the result.

If you’re just tuning in, catch up with the story using the recap below. Here’s a quick summary in a Twitter-sized chunk:

Sam left Jo at the altar. She chased after him. Her murderous father, Cy, chased after them both. A trucker named Bob got in the middle.

Currently in the story, Cy, after breaking out of jail, has caught up with Sam and Jo. He

Twovel to date:

***

Twitter Serial

“It’s not where you go,” he said, blinking from the pain. “It’s how you get there.” His father said it often. Finally, he understood why.

Ch2. Sam was bemused, considering where it was lodged, they called it “#2 buckshot.” He hoped the girl’s father appreciated the irony.

Ch3. The reverend didn’t care. “This is where you say ‘I do,’ son,” he whispered, grinning like a corpse. Sam looked at the girl and spoke.

Ch4. “I … do,” Sam muttered, panic rising behind his ears like a flood, adrenaline rushing like a hurricane. “Not.” And he ran.

Ch5. Shotgun blasts shattered the quiet confines of the church. Cy, the girl’s father fired again and again, hitting nothing but scenery.

Ch6. The reverend was aghast. This had never happened in his church. Shotguns, yes. Shooting? No. He stepped in front of the smoking gun.

Ch7. Cy didn’t care. If there was a God (and he was by no means sure) why allow his only girl to get knocked up and then left at the altar?

Ch8. The reverend beseeched him in the name of Christ to show mercy. Cy didn’t know the word. He fired. The reverend fell between the pews.

Ch9. Sam’s ass hurt like hell, what with the buckshot still in it, but his Harley was fast and he was running for his life, so he gunned it.

Ch10. He shouldn’t have bedded her. He’d been lonely, and drunk and she was just his type. Almost worth getting shot in the ass over. Almost.

Ch11. He bought her a drink (was that all?) then she was his. And then she was his. She never mentioned her father. But then, why would she?

Ch12. The gun went off before he did. Like in a nightmare. Caught in the act, shot in the ass. Sam shook his head and rode on. A nightmare.

Ch13. Alone at the altar, Jo was in tears. “He broke my flowers,” she said. Daisies. They lay trampled at her feet. “My flowers!” she cried.

Ch14. Cy didn’t care. He turned to Jo and slapped her face. “If you’d kept your whore legs shut none of this would have happened,” he said.

Ch15. Cy’s anger only made Jo cry harder. He looked away in disgust and spat. Something welled up inside of her and then broke loose.

Ch16. The bible was heavy, but felt light in her hands. She didn’t feel it when it hit the back of Cy’s head. He crumpled and she cried out.

Ch17. “This is my wedding!” she wailed, as she leapt from the dais, snatched the gun from Cy’s large, limp hands and ran out the door.

Ch18. Sam rode on, chasing the setting sun. He thought there was a town ahead, but he wasn’t sure. He was low on gas. God damn what a day.

Ch19. The trucker didn’t care. Wedding dress, shotgun, whatever. He’d seen it all. Jo got in his truck and he put the pedal to the metal.

Ch20. His name was Bob. She was pleased to meet him. Johnny Cash on the radio. Pot in the ashtray. Next town, 22 miles. She was done crying.

Ch21. Cy was blowing cigarette smoke at the crucifix. “Screw you,” he said. The police sirens got louder. “And screw your damn father, too.”

Ch22. Sam was tired. He had to get off the highway. Hole up somewhere. Rest. He turned down a gravel road hoping to get lost in the desert.

Ch23. The blowout almost killed him. Head first over the handlebars at nearly a hundred. He was lucky his neck didn’t break. Lucky. Right.

Ch24. He dragged his broken bike into the brush, dusted himself off, picked a direction and walked. He’d done it. He was lost in the desert.

Ch25. The state trooper didn’t care, he told Bob. Standing in the road, waving a pistol was a crime. Especially if you reeked of reefer.

Ch26. Bob looked at Cy. Cy, covered in blood, didn’t speak. They were both handcuffed in the back of the cruiser. It would be a long ride.

Ch27. Driving Bob’s truck was harder than Jo thought it would be. She shifted gears and adjusted her dress. Harder than stealing it.

Ch28. She had a hunch Sam had turned onto the gravel road, and she was right. Here was his bike in the brush. She climbed back in the truck.

Ch29. The truck stop came out of nowhere, like a mirage. Sam knew he shouldn’t stop, but he had no choice. Tired, thirsty, he couldn’t go on.

Ch30. He used the last of his cash for a burger, a shower and a shirt. He didn’t have long, he knew, but he needed to wash and dump the tux.

Ch31. They knew what Jo wanted before she even opened her mouth. The waitress pointed to the showers. Nobody even asked about the gun.

Ch32. She heard the shower running and saw his boots on the floor. The gun was heavy. Her heart pounded. She turned the corner.

Ch33. Sam didn’t say a word. He stood under the running water, naked, frightened and … something else. Jo looked in his eyes and saw love.

Ch34. The gun hit the floor and she was in his arms, standing with him in the wet warmth. He held her and their lips pressed together.

Ch35. The waitress didn’t care. “Nine times out of ten they end up screwing in there,” she said. “The tenth time we call the cops.”

Ch36. The sergeant didn’t care. “Fingers in the ink,” he said, pointing his bony finger at Cy. He didn’t even notice the look on Cy’s face.

Ch37. Bob had never broken out of jail before. Didn’t this time, really, he just stayed out the way, watched Cy work, then followed him out.

Ch38. “You know how to use this?” Cy asked, handing Bob a bloody gun. Bob nodded. “Good,” Cy said. “Let’s go get my daughter.”

Ch39. The sun was rising. They’d ditched Bob’s truck and stolen a car. They were headed West, laughing. Sam, Jo and their unborn child.

Ch40. Cy missed them at the truck stop, found the truck further down the road and was now hot on their heels, racing the rising sun to LA.

Ch41. Bob’s nerves were shot. He thought it was a bad idea to be driving a stolen police cruiser. He wanted to stop. Cy told him to shut up.

Ch42. The sheriff didn’t care. His sole source of income was the speed trap on I-10. Pregnant and newlywed or not, 75 in a 50 got you $350.

Ch43. Sam argued, but it was no good. Jo cried. Nothing. The sheriff took Sam’s license and went to run the plates. Sam started the engine.

Ch44. The sheriff heard Sam’s engine start and he reached for his gun. Then he saw the cruiser pull up and stop behind him. He was relieved.

Ch45. Cy got out of the cruiser in time to see Sam and Jo speed off in a hail of dust. The sheriff pulled his gun, but not quickly enough.

Ch46. The sheriff fell backwards with a bullet in his brain. Bob jumped out of the cruiser and tumbled head first down the embankment.

Ch47. Cy smiled. For the first time in his life, he felt in complete control. He had power over life and death. He was full of righteous fury.

Ch48. The cruiser was between them, and Bob had a 50-yard head start, but Cy wasn’t concerned. He aimed and fired and Bob fell. Cy smiled.

Ch49. “Holy crap! That was my father in that police cruiser!” Jo shouted. Sam clenched the wheel and floored it. This was not happening.

Ch50. “What are we gonna do?” Jo cried. Sam didn’t know, so he drove, willing the car to go faster, even as he knew it wasn’t fast enough.

Ch51. The cruiser grew large in the mirror. Jo was hysterical, in tears. She knew he’d kill them both. The first bullet shattered a mirror.

Ch52. They ducked, reflexively, but Cy wasn’t aiming at them. He just wanted to get their attention. The next bullet blew a tire.

Ch53. Sam briefly considered his shit luck with tires before another blew, then another. The car flipped and careened across the road.

Ch54. The stolen car came to a shuddering stop upside down on the side of the road. The dust settled like falling snow. The engine smoked.

Ch55. Sam was dazed, his vision blurry with blood. He looked over at Jo and desperately checked her pulse. She was alive, but unconscious.

Ch56. Sam saw the cruiser’s wheels glide to a stop. The door opened. Cy’s booted foot touched the road. He came closer, one boot at a time.

Ch57. Cy’s hand looked larger than it should. That was Sam’s first thought. His second was to stop the son of a bitch from hurting Jo.

Ch58. Cy grabbed her by the hair and pulled. Her limp body grated against broken glass as she slid limply out of the car.

Ch59. Sam clawed his way free. He heard wet slaps and muffled cries. His knee gave out as he tried to run, so he crawled, cursing Cy’s name.

To be continued …


[?]


Twovel Slowdown, Finale Approaches

I’m heading off to San Francisco tomorrow morning (early) to attend the Game Developer Conference and run around San Francisco like a mad man with a video crew in tow. Then down to LA for the Streamy award ceremony, at which I’ll be hob-nobbing with the likes of Nathan Filion (go me).

Chances are, even if I can figure out how to make Twitter work on my nuclear missile launch controller (AKA Smart Phone), I won’t be able to update the Twovel very frequently. My apologies in advance.

The story, however, continues. Cy has escaped jail, leaving a trail of blood behind him. Bob, poor Bob, couldn’t stand the strain. And Jo and Sam are again on the run, fate, in the form of Jo’s insane father Cy, having caught up with them. Will they manage to outrun him again? Will fate intervene in their favor for once? And what force on earth can possibly stop Cy’s vengeance?

Stay tuned!

In other, other news, I’m talking with a good friend of mine now about the possibility of a serial chain story. I write a passage, they write a passage, etc. Neither of us knowing what the other will write in advance. I think it could be a lot of fun. We’re still discussing details, and the whole thing has been put off at least a week (see above), but I think it could be fun.

Twovel to date:

***

Twitter Serial
“It’s not where you go,” he said, blinking from the pain. “It’s how you get there.” His father said it often. Finally, he understood why.
Ch2. Sam was bemused, considering where it was lodged, they called it “#2 buckshot.” He hoped the girl’s father appreciated the irony.
Ch3. The reverend didn’t care. “This is where you say ‘I do,’ son,” he whispered, grinning like a corpse. Sam looked at the girl and spoke.
Ch4. “I … do,” Sam muttered, panic rising behind his ears like a flood, adrenaline rushing like a hurricane. “Not.” And he ran.
Ch5. Shotgun blasts shattered the quiet confines of the church. Cy, the girl’s father fired again and again, hitting nothing but scenery.
Ch6. The reverend was aghast. This had never happened in his church. Shotguns, yes. Shooting? No. He stepped in front of the smoking gun.
Ch7. Cy didn’t care. If there was a God (and he was by no means sure) why allow his only girl to get knocked up and then left at the altar?
Ch8. The reverend beseeched him in the name of Christ to show mercy. Cy didn’t know the word. He fired. The reverend fell between the pews.
Ch9. Sam’s ass hurt like hell, what with the buckshot still in it, but his Harley was fast and he was running for his life, so he gunned it.
Ch10. He shouldn’t have bedded her. He’d been lonely, and drunk and she was just his type. Almost worth getting shot in the ass over. Almost.
Ch11. He bought her a drink (was that all?) then she was his. And then she was his. She never mentioned her father. But then, why would she?
Ch12. The gun went off before he did. Like in a nightmare. Caught in the act, shot in the ass. Sam shook his head and rode on. A nightmare.
Ch13. Alone at the altar, Jo was in tears. “He broke my flowers,” she said. Daisies. They lay trampled at her feet. “My flowers!” she cried.
Ch14. Cy didn’t care. He turned to Jo and slapped her face. “If you’d kept your whore legs shut none of this would have happened,” he said.
Ch15. Cy’s anger only made Jo cry harder. He looked away in disgust and spat. Something welled up inside of her and then broke loose.
Ch16. The bible was heavy, but felt light in her hands. She didn’t feel it when it hit the back of Cy’s head. He crumpled and she cried out.
Ch17. “This is my wedding!” she wailed, as she leapt from the dais, snatched the gun from Cy’s large, limp hands and ran out the door.
Ch18. Sam rode on, chasing the setting sun. He thought there was a town ahead, but he wasn’t sure. He was low on gas. God damn what a day.
Ch19. The trucker didn’t care. Wedding dress, shotgun, whatever. He’d seen it all. Jo got in his truck and he put the pedal to the metal.
Ch20. His name was Bob. She was pleased to meet him. Johnny Cash on the radio. Pot in the ashtray. Next town, 22 miles. She was done crying.
Ch21. Cy was blowing cigarette smoke at the crucifix. “Screw you,” he said. The police sirens got louder. “And screw your damn father, too.”
Ch22. Sam was tired. He had to get off the highway. Hole up somewhere. Rest. He turned down a gravel road hoping to get lost in the desert.
Ch23. The blowout almost killed him. Head first over the handlebars at nearly a hundred. He was lucky his neck didn’t break. Lucky. Right.
Ch24. He dragged his broken bike into the brush, dusted himself off, picked a direction and walked. He’d done it. He was lost in the desert.
Ch25. The state trooper didn’t care, he told Bob. Standing in the road, waving a pistol was a crime. Especially if you reeked of reefer.
Ch26. Bob looked at Cy. Cy, covered in blood, didn’t speak. They were both handcuffed in the back of the cruiser. It would be a long ride.
Ch27. Driving Bob’s truck was harder than Jo thought it would be. She shifted gears and adjusted her dress. Harder than stealing it.
Ch28. She had a hunch Sam had turned onto the gravel road, and she was right. Here was his bike in the brush. She climbed back in the truck.
Ch29. The truck stop came out of nowhere, like a mirage. Sam knew he shouldn’t stop, but he had no choice. Tired, thirsty, he couldn’t go on.
Ch30. He used the last of his cash for a burger, a shower and a shirt. He didn’t have long, he knew, but he needed to wash and dump the tux.
Ch31. They knew what Jo wanted before she even opened her mouth. The waitress pointed to the showers. Nobody even asked about the gun.
Ch32. She heard the shower running and saw his boots on the floor. The gun was heavy. Her heart pounded. She turned the corner.
Ch33. Sam didn’t say a word. He stood under the running water, naked, frightened and … something else. Jo looked in his eyes and saw love.
Ch34. The gun hit the floor and she was in his arms, standing with him in the wet warmth. He held her and their lips pressed together.
Ch35. The waitress didn’t care. “Nine times out of ten they end up screwing in there,” she said. “The tenth time we call the cops.”
Ch36. The sergeant didn’t care. “Fingers in the ink,” he said, pointing his bony finger at Cy. He didn’t even notice the look on Cy’s face.
Ch37. Bob had never broken out of jail before. Didn’t this time, really, he just stayed out the way, watched Cy work, then followed him out.
Ch38. “You know how to use this?” Cy asked, handing Bob a bloody gun. Bob nodded. “Good,” Cy said. “Let’s go get my daughter.”
Ch39. The sun was rising. They’d ditched Bob’s truck and stolen a car. They were headed West, laughing. Sam, Jo and their unborn child.
Ch40. Cy missed them at the truck stop, found the truck further down the road and was now hot on their heels, racing the rising sun to LA.
Ch41. Bob’s nerves were shot. He thought it was a bad idea to be driving a stolen police cruiser. He wanted to stop. Cy told him to shut up.
Ch42. The sheriff didn’t care. His sole source of income was the speed trap on I-10. Pregnant and newlywed or not, 75 in a 50 got you $350.
Ch43. Sam argued, but it was no good. Jo cried. Nothing. The sheriff took Sam’s license and went to run the plates. Sam started the engine.
Ch44. The sheriff heard Sam’s engine start and he reached for his gun. Then he saw the cruiser pull up and stop behind him. He was relieved.
Ch45. Cy got out of the cruiser in time to see Sam and Jo speed off in a hail of dust. The sheriff pulled his gun, but not quickly enough.
Ch46. The sheriff fell backwards with a bullet in his brain. Bob jumped out of the cruiser and tumbled head first down the embankment.
Ch47. Cy smiled. For the first time in his life, he felt in complete control. He had power over life and death. He was full of righteous fury.
Ch48. The cruiser was between them, and Bob had a 50-yard head start, but Cy wasn’t concerned. He aimed and fired and Bob fell. Cy smiled.
To be continued …


[?]


The Twovel Continues

The Twitter Serial, AKA “Twovel” (@kirsten /fingergun), has reached the half-way mark. Sam and Jo have, at least fro the moment, reconciled, rekindling their romance in the shower room of a desert truck stop. Cy is handcuffed in the backseat of a police cruiser with the pot-smoking truck driver Bob. The reverend is dead.

All would seem to have been resolved, but, with still half a twovel to go, we know that can’t be true. Can it? No. It can’t. Stay tuned for the concluding chapters.

On the whole, I’m much more pleased with the way the past several chapters have turned out. I think I’ve finally hit my stride with the pacing of the thing, and cramming a “chapterful” of events into 140 characters doesn’t seem to be nearly the insurmountable obstacle it did in the beginning. I’ve also learned, I think, how to artfully stretch a scene across chapters without losing any of the punch. The trick now is to not get overconfident, I suppose. But isn’t that always the way.

I’m going to fess up here to something no one would have noticed otherwise. Chapter 27 was a last-minute addition. I realized (thanks to a cry of confusion from @sprout) that I was being a bit too stingy on the details of how Bob and Jo came to part company. I’m glad I added the chapter. Not only does it flesh out that bit of untold story, it’s adds considerable depth to Jo’s character. She is discovering strength she maybe never knew she had. Including the strength to love.

In other news, the man who inspired the Twovel, my good friend from the land of Kiwis and Hobbits, Colin, has started his own Twitter serial. With his penchant for creating dark, moody, yet utterly fantastical worlds, I suspect tnhis will be one to watch. He blogs about it here. The Twitter feed is here.

***

The Twitter Serial Novel

“It’s not where you go,” he said, blinking from the pain. “It’s how you get there.” His father said it often. Finally, he understood why.

Ch2. Sam was bemused, considering where it was lodged, they called it “#2 buckshot.” He hoped the girl’s father appreciated the irony.

Ch3. The reverend didn’t care. “This is where you say ‘I do,’ son,” he whispered, grinning like a corpse. Sam looked at the girl and spoke.

Ch4. “I … do,” Sam muttered, panic rising behind his ears like a flood, adrenaline rushing like a hurricane. “Not.” And he ran.

Ch5. Shotgun blasts shattered the quiet confines of the church. Cy, the girl’s father fired again and again, hitting nothing but scenery.

Ch6. The reverend was aghast. This had never happened in his church. Shotguns, yes. Shooting? No. He stepped in front of the smoking gun.

Ch7. Cy didn’t care. If there was a God (and he was by no means sure) why allow his only girl to get knocked up and then left at the altar?

Ch8. The reverend beseeched him in the name of Christ to show mercy. Cy didn’t know the word. He fired. The reverend fell between the pews.

Ch9. Sam’s ass hurt like hell, what with the buckshot still in it, but his Harley was fast and he was running for his life, so he gunned it.

Ch10. He shouldn’t have bedded her. He’d been lonely, and drunk and she was just his type. Almost worth getting shot in the ass over. Almost.

Ch11. He bought her a drink (was that all?) then she was his. And then she was his. She never mentioned her father. But then, why would she?

Ch12. The gun went off before he did. Like in a nightmare. Caught in the act, shot in the ass. Sam shook his head and rode on. A nightmare.

Ch13. Alone at the altar, Jo was in tears. “He broke my flowers,” she said. Daisies. They lay trampled at her feet. “My flowers!” she cried.

Ch14. Cy didn’t care. He turned to Jo and slapped her face. “If you’d kept your whore legs shut none of this would have happened,” he said.

Ch15. Cy’s anger only made Jo cry harder. He looked away in disgust and spat. Something welled up inside of her and then broke loose.

Ch16. The bible was heavy, but felt light in her hands. She didn’t feel it when it hit the back of Cy’s head. He crumpled and she cried out.

Ch17. “This is my wedding!” she wailed, as she leapt from the dais, snatched the gun from Cy’s large, limp hands and ran out the door.

Ch18. Sam rode on, chasing the setting sun. He thought there was a town ahead, but he wasn’t sure. He was low on gas. God damn what a day.

Ch19. The trucker didn’t care. Wedding dress, shotgun, whatever. He’d seen it all. Jo got in his truck and he put the pedal to the metal.

Ch20. His name was Bob. She was pleased to meet him. Johnny Cash on the radio. Pot in the ashtray. Next town, 22 miles. She was done crying.

Ch21. Cy was blowing cigarette smoke at the crucifix. “Screw you,” he said. The police sirens got louder. “And screw your damn father, too.”

Ch22. Sam was tired. He had to get off the highway. Hole up somewhere. Rest. He turned down a gravel road hoping to get lost in the desert.

Ch23. The blowout almost killed him. Head first over the handlebars at nearly a hundred. He was lucky his neck didn’t break. Lucky. Right.

Ch24. He dragged his broken bike into the brush, dusted himself off, picked a direction and walked. He’d done it. He was lost in the desert.

Ch25. The state trooper didn’t care, he told Bob. Standing in the road, waving a pistol was a crime. Especially if you reeked of reefer.

Ch26. Bob looked at Cy. Cy, covered in blood, didn’t speak. They were both handcuffed in the back of the cruiser. It would be a long ride.

Ch27. Driving Bob’s truck was harder than Jo thought it would be. She shifted gears and adjusted her dress. Harder than stealing it.

Ch28. She had a hunch Sam had turned onto the gravel road, and she was right. Here was his bike in the brush. She climbed back in the truck.

Ch29. The truck stop came out of nowhere, like a mirage. Sam knew he shouldn’t stop, but he had no choice. Tired, thirsty, he couldn’t go on.

Ch30. He used the last of his cash for a burger, a shower and a shirt. He didn’t have long, he knew, but he needed to wash and dump the tux.

Ch31. They knew what Jo wanted before she even opened her mouth. The waitress pointed to the showers. Nobody even asked about the gun.

Ch32. She heard the shower running and saw his boots on the floor. The gun was heavy. Her heart pounded. She turned the corner.

Ch33. Sam didn’t say a word. He stood under the running water, naked, frightened and … something else. Jo looked in his eyes and saw love.

Ch34. The gun hit the floor and she was in his arms, standing with him in the wet warmth. He held her and their lips pressed together.

Ch35. The waitress didn’t care. “Nine times out of ten they end up screwing in there,” she said. “The tenth time we call the cops.”

To be continued.


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A Whole Year

Also, since it’s been about a year, I figure I owe an update. That whole “having some breathing room” bit form August of last year was clearly a mirage. Developing Themis Media’s video department has been pretty much a full time + job since I started it a year ago, and it has literally eaten my free time.

The good news is we’ve expended the department and we’re still doing great work there. The Escapist Show, The Escapist’s weekly video series, continues to do well and it’s fun to put together. Last week’s episode features me and a couple of other folks from the office doing some LARPing in the woods, which is more entertaining than it sounds. Our next major project will be GDC in San Francisco, and then a few more exciting developments will hopefully come to fruition this month as well.

Web video is clearly the way of the future (way of the future) and I’m thrilled to have been given the chance to take the lead on this important project for Themis. Still though, it’s like an entire year just vanished into thin air. It’s crazy how time flies when you’re utterly and completely absorbed in seemingly never ending work. Or perhaps that’s just me.

As far as personal developments, I rented a cabin in the woods last weekend and discovered that’s something I should do more of. This weekend I did some workshop development in the garage, and built a nice bench out of fiberboard and 2×2s. Seems sturdy enough, but we’ll see I guess. I’m also running, but not nearly enough. The gym is morbid and unsettling to me for some reason and with the exception of a couple of days last month it’s been too damn cold to run outside. Can’t wait for Spring.


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My Twitter Serial Novel, or “Twovel”

I’ve been conducting a little experiment on Twitter. I’ve been trying to see if I could write compelling vignettes that made sense using the 140 character allowance. So far I’m having fun. It’s not deeply literary, and there’s a lot more I would want to do with the material if I had the space, but so far it’s a neat exercise in forced economy. Hopefully it’s also entertaining.

You can tell, re-reading the entries, that I got off to a somewhat rocky start. It was somewhat unclear what had happened to Sam to get him where he started in the story. His “flashback” installments in the teens were inspired by my wanting to clear up that confusion.

I also made a minor gaffe in Chapter 12, with the suggestion of coitus interruptus due to the firing of a gun. This could suggest that Sam and Jo never finished the deed, although, as per Chapter 7, Jo is pregnant with Sam’s child, hence the shotgun at the wedding. One might be tempted to think I’m trying to introduce uncertainty as to the paternity of this unborn child, but that would be giving me too much credit. I simply failed to specify a timeline. The coitus interruptus takes place months into Sam and Jo’s courtship.

In any case, here’s the complete story to date. I’ll update here every once in a while and once it’s finished, I’ll put up a page for it. My friend Colin, who inspired this experiment, suggested I consider a graphic novelization. He is a font of entertaining ideas, that Colin.

If you’d like to follow along, I’m “russpitts” on Twitter.

***

The Twitter Serial Novel

“It’s not where you go,” he said, blinking from the pain. “It’s how you get there.” His father said it often. Finally, he understood why.

Ch2. Sam was bemused, considering where it was lodged, they called it “#2 buckshot.” He hoped the girl’s father appreciated the irony.

Ch3. The reverend didn’t care. “This is where you say ‘I do,’ son,” he whispered, grinning like a corpse. Sam looked at the girl and spoke.

Ch4. “I … do,” Sam muttered, panic rising behind his ears like a flood, adrenaline rushing like a hurricane. “Not.” And he ran.

Ch5. Shotgun blasts shattered the quiet confines of the church. Cy, the girl’s father fired again and again, hitting nothing but scenery.

Ch6. The reverend was aghast. This had never happened in his church. Shotguns, yes. Shooting? No. He stepped in front of the smoking gun.

Ch7. Cy didn’t care. If there was a God (and he was by no means sure) why allow his only girl to get knocked up and then left at the altar?

Ch8. The reverend beseeched him in the name of Christ to show mercy. Cy didn’t know the word. He fired. The reverend fell between the pews.

Ch9. Sam’s ass hurt like hell, what with the buckshot still in it, but his Harley was fast and he was running for his life, so he gunned it.

Ch10. He shouldn’t have bedded her. He’d been lonely, and drunk and she was just his type. Almost worth getting shot in the ass over. Almost.

Ch11. He bought her a drink (was that all?) then she was his. And then she was his. She never mentioned her father. But then, why would she?

Ch12. The gun went off before he did. Like in a nightmare. Caught in the act, shot in the ass. Sam shook his head and rode on. A nightmare.

Ch13. Alone at the altar, Jo was in tears. “He broke my flowers,” she said. Daisies. They lay trampled at her feet. “My flowers!” she cried.

Ch14. Cy didn’t care. He turned to Jo and slapped her face. “If you’d kept your whore legs shut none of this would have happened,” he said.

Ch15. Cy’s anger only made Jo cry harder. He looked away in disgust and spat. Something welled up inside of her and then broke loose.

Ch16. The bible was heavy, but felt light in her hands. She didn’t feel it when it hit the back of Cy’s head. He crumpled and she cried out.

Ch17. “This is my wedding!” she wailed, as she leapt from the dais, snatched the gun from Cy’s large, limp hands and ran out the door.

To be continued …


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