Me be a smartie, but kinda illiterate

A while ago I took one of those IQ tests. I haven't a clue why - it must have been tied to some scam promotion. I vaguely remember taking the test and guessing at a bunch of the answers. That was after I applied my limited brain power to a few and started getting a headache. The damn thing was also taking way too long.

But I got a result assement today and it turns out I've scored borderline gifted. Which isn't news, because I was in the gifted program at school as a kid. Although I guess it means I haven't obliterated all my brain cells over the years. Note to self: if you want to see a score difference, drink more.

What's really interesting, however, is the specific results of my test. The results are broken into 4 categories:

1. Mathematical Intelligence
2. Visual-Spatial Percentile
3. Linguistic Percentile
4. Logical Percentile

Now, I was pretty sure #2 would be one of my lower scores, and I was right about that. I only made the 80th percentile. The summary said: "The visual-spatial component of intelligence measures your ability to extract a visual pattern and from that envision what should come next in a sequence. Your score was relatively high, which could mean that you're the one navigating the map when you're on an outing with friends. You have, in some capacity, an ability to think in pictures. Maybe this strength comes out in subtle ways, like how you play chess or form metaphors."

All of that to say I can read maps. Wahoo. Something came out of Girl Guides after all. Okay, I'm shit with charting and navigating by a compass. So how can I improve my VS abilities?

Playing chess, or video games like Tetris Does Mahjong count? 'Cos I kick ass obsessively with that game. But my nephew can kick my ass at chess so I don't like it anymore. Getting beaten by a six-year-old at a strategy game is just humiliating.
Studying maps and become the navigator on your next trip Duh people. You think I let evil Kev play with maps while he's driving? Thanks for the tip.
Sculpting or photography Can anyone figure out why I'm laughing about this one? Sheesh. I mean, I only was a professional photographer... But maybe I'll try sculpting. Or how about wood carving? Yep, the thought of me playing with knives warms many a heart, I'm sure.

#4 Now, if I showed this to evil Kev*, he'd be astounded by this one:

"You scored in the 90th percentile on the logical intelligence scale. Your logic score was relatively high, which could mean that when the car breaks down, your friends look to you to help figure out not only what's wrong, but how to fix it and how you're going to get to the next gas station."

I wouldn't help them. I'd sit there and watch them all do stupid things and laugh to myself, getting ideas for a story. I mean, the best way to get inspiration is to watch other people face adversity. Particularly if it isn't too serious, but they're dumb enough to make it commical.

This might be why I have no friends.

Seriously, I love pointing out all the completely inept, stupid things people do on tv. But me as a super-logical person? I don't know about that one. I mean, sometimes I miss blatantly obvious things.

So how can I put myself over the top in this category?

Trying some brain teasers Na na na na, stupid Sandra brain. Hmm, nope. Don't feel more logical.
Throwing away the instructions and relying on instinct to fix something F@*K ME! Why the hell would I do such an ILLOGICAL thing? 'Ah, no honey, I didn't think it might be important to have to know how to fix the dishwasher. And why do you need instructions for how to build those IKEA desks? I know you don't have a picture but can't we just play around with the pieces and see what fits? WHAT AM I? A MASOCHIST**?

#3 I'm a bit concerned by my score here. "You scored in the 80th percentile on the linguistic intelligence scale. Your score was relatively high, which could mean you know your way around a bookstore and maybe like to bandy about the occasional 25-cent word to impress friends."

25-cent word? Who's impressed by those? Damn, you need a loonie's worth to even make an eyebrow twitch. 25 cents isn't even enough for a bloody phone call on a pay phone!

So how can I improve my linguistic skills?

Here are some everyday mental exercises that will be particularly helpful to you:
Doing crossword puzzles Which is only good if you know a lot about one particular subject. I'm terribly with tv shows and the names of alleged celebrities. Anyone know if there's a good method of murder crossword collection out there, maybe some true crime puzzles about massacres?
Start reading just for fun Uh, yeah, because really, I'm just reading The Touch of Ghosts at the moment because John threatened me with a whip if I didn't read his books. Yep, I'm under duress. Hell, that's why I read all those blogs. It's self abuse, I tell you.
Befriending your dictionary Okay, now self abuse really would be reading the dictionary for fun. Maybe get some popcorn and have a whole family night. I have the frickin' thing on my desk and use it daily, as well as my thesaurus. I'm not going to start sleeping with it. Sheesh.
The next time something breaks, try reading the instruction book first Oh, yeah, because I thought your other suggestion about throwing out instruction manuals was so brilliant - OH WAIT, I didn't. WTF do you people think? 'Honey, my Rodeo won't go. Maybe we should stand in the garage and stare at it and see if we get a flash of inspiration, some mystical answer from the Isuzu SUV spirits about the karmic imbalance that's throwing it out of whack. OF COURSE I read the instruction manuals!

So, what about mathematical intelligence, you ask?

90th percentile. "Your mathematical intelligence score represents your combined ability to reason and calculate. You scored relatively high, which means you're probably the one your friends look to when splitting the lunch bill or calculating your waitresses' tip. You may or may not be known as a math whiz, but number crunching might come a little easier to you than it does others."

That sounds more like the six-year-old nephew Athaniel than me. But wait! It gets better!

Your Intellectual Type Is:
"You've got a very experiential way of learning and a strong mathematical mind. You're able to whittle even the most complex situation down to comprehensible component parts. In short, you have mastered the art and science of precision. That's what makes you a Precision Processor.

For you, life is a series of equations. Your brain is naturally predisposed to intense mathematical acuity, and your understanding of numerical problems is unparalleled. It's second nature for you to cut to the heart of an issue, so that you can discover quick solutions to problems while others get bogged down in unnecessary details."

I'm a PP? Okay, take my IQ scores and add in my Irish temper and my general easy-going disposition, plus my knack for sarcasm, and this is NOT what you get. A homicidal maniac would likely be closer to the truth. But only when my easy-going disposition has been compromised. Like through marriage.

What did I learn from all of this? Well, my optimum careers would be:
Scientist
Mathematician
Accountant
Data Analyst
Musician
Astronomer
Researcher
Physicist

Some of my greatest talents:
Are resourceful
Are detail oriented
Are highly efficient & economical
Are lightening quick with responses
Think in numbers
Are experimental

It just goes to show that by looking at only one dimension, you get a skewed perspective. After all, evil Kev's IQ score told him his ideal job was a writer. And those of you who've gotten emails from him know he's the illiterate one!

But the test was good for one thing. I'm laughing my arse off. And I have scientific grounds for refusing to let Kev do our budget. Not because I think I can do it better, but because I'm a control freak.


* I asked evil Kev which he thought I'd be highest in and he said, "visual-spatial - there's nothing about you that's logical."

** I asked evil Kev what word he'd use for self torture and he said, "Marriage."

Okay, and for a great laugh, evil Kev took the test. We scored the exact same IQ. Except his high score was linguistic and his lowest score? Logical. I'm still laughing.

Coming up short

This is a bit more my style of New Year's greeting. Sound on for it.

Well, we're officially into the first month of the new year. If I behave myself, I'll actually buckle down and start working on some short stories. Yeah, it could happen.

I have a terrible time writing short stories. My mind always goes to the subplots. Short stories require a narrow focus on main main theme, limited numbers of characters so that the story is cohesive. But when I work on a manuscript I can explore every character on the stage to whatever depth is necessary for the story, and I love that. I love it when I get 2/5 of the way through a manuscript and discover something about a character that I didn't know. My subconscious working ahead of me. And all of a sudden things are clicking into place and I can see where the story is going. For the next little bit, anyway. Not being a meticulous plotter.

Yep, I'm a fly-by-the-seat-of-my-pants girl. I act on whims and impulses and then usually my gut twists into knots while I wonder if I did the right thing. That's life, but when it comes to writing it's a grand adventure.

But this month, I'm going to try to finish The Butcher, which has only been loitering around for 14 months now. Restoration lingered for a solid 12 before I had to finish it. And I mean I didn't look at it for 12 months. Wrote it. Worked on it. Hit a brick wall. Dropped it and then went back a year later and changed it entirely. I think it's a better story. I wrote the initial Write to Kill around the same time as the other two, and I think Restoration marks an improvement in my writing. I hope so. I just hope that the rush edit didn't overlook any glaring errors.

So, if I behave, I'll finish The Butcher and a few other stories I have in mind. Then I'll need to find places to submit them to. But I'll worry about that later. Right now, it's just the writing. I look at stories like Herbert in Motion and The Consolation Blonde and The Game of Dog and Into DarknessI try to find the secrets - what makes those short stories stand out so much in my mind. And non-mystery stories like Jessie's Toothbrush, which still makes me chuckle. And James Oswald's story Job, which has lingered in my brain since I first read it. A very Spinetinglery kind of story I wish we could have published.

I wonder what it is you guy find compelling about short stories. I read and evaluate tons of them, but I think the key factors of the story that make it or break it remain a bit elusive to me. I love the first paragraph of Herbert in Motion - classic show not tell writing at its best. And the concept behind Val McDermid's Consolation Blonde is classic. I won't say anything about that other story mentioned so that nobody's head swells, but The Game of Dog has to be my favourite short story. Maybe it's because I like Pascoe more than Dalziel. Or maybe it's the subtlety of it. I don't know.

I guess short stories are a bit like websites for me. I can't always explain what I look for, but I know what I like when I see it. Here's hoping I can muster something up this month that I actually think has potential.

And if not, there's always February...

Another one bites the dust

Down here at the Not-So-Little House on the Prairies, there isn't much excitement to New Year's Eve. So I'll send this tasteless little tribute out to all those who like silly humour. This one is for those who want something more reflective and serious.

Frankly, this is one of those days that blurs in with all the others. There aren't many New Year's Eve events that stand out in my mind, except one. 16 years ago today, I know exactly where I was and what I was doing. The place: Berlin. The setting: just after the collapse of the Iron Curtain. There was the crackle of energy in the air, the feeling that you were on the verge of something happening. I went to the wall and crossed through Checkpoint Charlie and wandered around, looking at the line-ups of people desperate to cross over to the west. There was such a sense of optimism amongst those people, like their whole world was about to change for the better.

One of the things I remember most was wandering around shops. You could tell the East Germans from the westerners in a heartbeat - the East Germans would stop and stare at the simplest things, mesmerized. And when I got a chance to look around East Berlin I could understand why.

I think that stays with me, not just because I witnessed one of the major historical events in our time, but because there really was this sense that, for many of these people, the new year would be so much better. I'm not sure that the reality lived up to their expectations, to all they hoped for, but there still was this sense that in a short span of time life could improve dramatically, do a 90 degree turn and set a new course that couldn't have been foreseen even a few short months before.

How nice it would be to think that everything that I don't like in my life could all change within the next few months. Mind you, there isn't much I can complain about. Except for the agent-publisher drama that's giving me grey hair. It isn't even so much the waiting for me, it's having others ask me all the time what's happening. Not writers - just people who don't understand the industy and think everything should happen now.

I'm not big on making promises and pledges that I'll only feel a sense of failure for dropping the ball on a week from now. But this is what I'd like to do this next year:

- read more
- write better
- laugh harder
- live forever (so far, so good)

My highlights of 2005?

- Harrogate - what a blast
- Getting Nootka - what a sweet puppy!
- Interviewing Stuart MacBride and Laura Lippman - I love talking to smart, talented people
- Everything Spinetingler-related
- The arrival of my nephew Dashiell June 28



So, wherever you are, whatever you're doing, I hope you're surrounded by those you love and have a safe and happy celebration and start to 2006. I'll see you all here in a day or two.

XO
Sandra

Forget being sucked into a wood chipper...

Now this is inspiration! Where was this story a month ago when we were all prepping our heartwarming Christmas stories? Except me, who wrote them the day I posted them.

But I can see it now... a jolly ol' fat man tries to get into the house and he's got a big sack with him and out pops Rover snarling and clamping down on his leg. Or in this case, Taco, Enchilada and Burrito and the gang lure Santa into thinking that small is harmless, wait until he approaches the tree and bends over and 20 Chihuahuas jump up and bite him on the ass.

Maybe there should be a ban on owning Chihuahuas. Clearly they're a dangerous breed.

And if the injured officer was El Salvadorian, it might have been a race crime. You know, if it had been a group of street thugs, they would have looked into that. I think this reporter was slacking off. How can we stop these vicious attacks unless we understand what prompts them in the first place? Time to, uh, take a bite in the budget costs and call in the dog therapist.

I mean, Fargo did the wood chipper thing. But as anyone done a pack of killer Chihuahuas in a movie yet? I think I sense a short story coming on...

Inspiration...

You know, I used to feel a sense of shock, horror even when I read the news.

Then I worked in journalism.

But this whole crime-writing fixation has brought me to a new place entirely. I see this news story and all I can think is that there's a story in here. Nasty!

Good & Bad

Ah, the day from hell started off as...the day from hell. Our dog sitter didn't show up. Nope, not at all. Evil kev went to his house and banged on the door and after 45 minutes we had to make a decision. We had to leave our dogs unsupervised.

Might not sound like a big deal, but Chinook has huge separation anxiety issues. We got him at the age of 11 months, just over a year ago now, and he'd been abandoned. I took one look into those big brown eyes and was a blubbering idiot. And I remind myself of that often, because he has numerous bad habits. In addition to trying to bury bones on my bookshelves he has also tried to bury one under my butt when I was asleep, de-stuffed coats and stuffed animals, shredded every blanket he's ever been given, and refused to sleep in the $150 doghouse we bought him. Only a few days after we got him, we had all sorts of things happening. Tickets to see Ian Rankin. Tickets to see Val McDermid. Tickets to the Sting/Annie Lennox concert. It was during that event that he pulled down every drape and ripped them to shreds. He has since pulled up the linoleum and wrecked the floor, chewed the handrail to bits, ripped up the old carpet, de-stuffed my weight bench and he tries to make our cats Chooky-snacks. One time when he got past me upstairs he went after Buttons. I grabbed him and put him in the bathroom, where he proceeded to jump against the door. We have an old house and he knocked the metal slide lock across, so when I'd locked up all the cats and went back for him I couldn't get the door open. I had to bodycheck it open, and let me tell ya, it ain't as easy as they make it look on tv.

Oh, and the other thing Chinook does when he's stressed is has diarrhea. You starting to get why I was worried?

Well, off we went, leaving the dogs unmonitored. We were late, obviously. And my Rodeo broke down.

But on the up side, the in-laws have finally figured out the way to their cold daughter-in-law's heart. Cold, hard cash. We cleared $175.00, plus evil kev got new jeans, I got a new sweater, we both got calendars, and we got an electric wok. We did awesome!

And the dogs survived. Downside is that kev is still at his Dad's doing that male-bonding thing over vehicle repairs. Some people might say it's time to give up already on the '91 Rodeo, but this is my baby. We drove it to the arctic circle and we've driven it to the coast and it's great for 4x4ing, which is sometimes necessary where we live, and it's actually been a low-maintenance vehicle. We've probably spent less than $800 in total in repairs on it in the past 3 years, including this problem. I love my Rodeo.

So I can't really complain. And there's even as up-side to kev being gone for a few days. I get to go read in bed undisturbed.

Though I'm re-thinking whether or not John rates as a 'top shelf' author now. Considering the British definition of the term. How would John rate in porn? Hmmmm...

Self-evaluation

Penny Arcade


Let's face it: with the wonders of the web have come the inevitable downsides, because mankind will always find a way to fuck up a really good thing.

But I have to admit that, given the forum of internet communication, I say things I would never likely in a million years say in person. Well, okay, not until I've had a few drinks, at least. I'm painfully shy in person and have to 'turn it on' to deal with public speaking. I mean, I can do it. I can even kick ass doing it, apparently, because people have told me I'm a natural. Comes with being part-Irish and having kissed the Blarney Stone, I guess. Which might also explain a few diseases...

Anyway, I recently wondered if I'd crossed the line and offended someone with a post I'd made. And I worked myself up into a state where I couldn't sleep over it. Sounds truly pathetic, I know, but I don't like hurting people. Well, usually.

But it made me wonder: am I a fuckwad?

I mean, I say all kinds of things on blogs that I'd be red-faced to even think in public. When I did a manuscript reading a few months ago I was kicking myself. "Sandra, don't write words or scenes in your books you' be embarassed to read in public." Damn. Guess I'd better start writing books for toddlers. Since then I've made a point of practicing all variations of the f word in casual conversation. Absofuckingly, infuckingfallible... All the ones that have managed to creep into internal thought or dialogue. Evil kev says I sound like a trucker. But I no longer get mistaken for a heat source.

No doubt after a few hours of sleep I'll have forgotten this moment of reflection and will carry on as per usual. And if this guy keeps posting stuff like that, I may eventually say things a lot worse than usual. Damn, if it had been a week ago, I would have done a Christmas Eve threesome with David in my poem.

But I suppose it wouldn't hurt to say that I only blog-hop to places where I actually like people, and I mean no offense. If I ever cross the line, put me in my place.

Tomorrow is the day from hell: two sets of in-laws for me. And we have to pay to have the puppies babysat. Not to mention Evil kev won't let me read while we make the journey north - he thinks that after all these years I should still want to talk to him or something. Which means I'll likely spend Thursday either drinking heavily, or reading Winter's End, which is turning out to be a real page-turner. I'm rather monogamous with my authors - I like to work my way through their stuff all at once and then I get depressed because I have to wait for the next book and trudge off to find someone else. It's always nice when you find someone who has a few books out and you like their stuff. I don't know what it is about British men, but they consistently take the top shelf in this house. Because if Chinook gets into my office he tries to bury bones on the bookshelf, so everything near the bottom is subject to being removed and drooled on, and then replaced haphazardly over a sticky bone he's been slobbering over for an age. And there's no way I want my good books becoming chew toys.

But at least he doesn't try to eat the books. That would be Nootka, who claimed half the front cover of Every Secret Thing. Fortunately, I salvaged the rest. Skittles has tried to get in on the action, but he's more interested in chasing his tail in the bathtub. The elevator doesn't go to the top with that cat!

Okay, I'm going to bed now. See you guys in a few days.

The Last Christmas

Well, here it is. The last holiday story for the season. It all started with an unusually innocent comment
this guy made, and I was overcome by the image of Santa being chased across the sky by... well, if you want to know, read the story!

I think this week I'm going to mull over the woes of short-story writing. But in the mean time, I held up my end, promised this would be here today, and writing this Christmas morning gave me something to do. Otherwise, I'd likely already be at my sister's place. We discovered yesterday that our six-month-old nephew Dashiell wasn't going to sit idly on the sidelines after all - he delighted in ripping the paper off presents and sticking it in his mouth. Problem was, he didn't concern himself with whose present he was defacing.

Our six-year-old nephew Athaniel wiped the floor with us at Yatzee and Clue, despite the fact that he just learned how to play the games yesterday. No doubt more ass-kicking is in store for today.

And our eleven-year-old niece Arriel has discovered that wonderful tween attribute: sarcasm. Then my sister started talking about how she'd used a word incorrectly much to her embarassment, and she does it in front of my niece, who then asks what a dildo is.

She asked me when her mother didn't answer. I went with the "this is definitely something you should insist your mother explain" line and we fled not long after that.

And you were all wondering why I was hiding in the basement of my sister's house on Christmas Eve, reading Sir Benfro. But it was a pretty damn good Christmas. I got four books I've been after.

And a new roasting pan.

December 23

“My sleigh… What’s going on?”

Fliagra marched over and handed Santa an oversized envelop. “Announcing the formation of Association of Santa’s Helpers Organized Local Eighteen.”

Santa shook his head as he extracted the content of the envelope. There’d been murmurings about a union but he thought it was just the usual Elf bitching he got this time of year.

“There’s only one local group,” he said, leafing through the sheaf of legal papers. “What do you need the ‘Eighteen’ for, Fliagra?”

Fliagra rose and inch and folded his arms across his chest. “That’s Chief Fliagra. It’s called Elf pride. Eighteen inches high.”

And wide, Santa thought at Fliagra tottered off. He scratched his head. Here is was, Christmas Eve Eve and he had an unloaded sleigh and a newly-formed bunch of ASHOLE’s dragging their stubby legs at union speed.

December 24

Santa huffed as he trotted into his bedroom, looking for a clean suit. Damn, damn, damn. What the hell’s wrong with the world? I need to give more Viagra and no contraceptives to the intelligent people and Norplant to these stupid idiots. Leave it to the damn Liberals. He’d underestimated the stupidity out there, and, after having to make a special stop to defend the use of reindeer he’d returned to find his sleigh packed, except for a stack of unfilled wishlists.

Fliagra had sauntered over and dropped a stack of Christmas lists on Santa’s dresser. “We can’t do these.”

“Why not?”

“1,290,972 for peace on earth. 25,789,213 want some sort of explosive device put in George W’s stocking and it’s about half that number of requests for you to take out Tony Blair. And 87,952,899 want you to do something about global warming.”

Santa rolled his eyes. Clearly, the nuts had discovered the rabbit’s secret to rapid multiplication.
**
He’d started out with a sense of dread, but the first part of the run went smoothly. There’d even been enough time for a stress-relief break in Thailand. Santa left with a smile on his face but it wasn’t long before that faded. He pressed the button on the GPS: nothing. He punched it again and again.

Finally, some static crackled across the screen and the face of Fliagra came up. “In accordance with regulation 17 section 7 part 4, all electronic devices are entitled to execute sleep mode after prolonged use. The GPS will be back up in 5 minutes.” Fliagra turned, as though he was about to walk away and then paused. “Oh yeah. Have a safe flight.”

“Have a safe flight? Have a safe flight my ass!”

A sudden explosion to the right had the reindeer bolting. They veered upwards at such a sharp angle that Santa was thrown backwards, out of the sleigh, holding on to the reins.

Another explosion, this time to the left. The reindeer swerved, the steep decline leaving Santa hovering for a moment in mid-air until the tension caught up to him and the reins yanked him down with such force that he ended up with his face pressed against Donner’s ass. Which was exactly when Donner farted. Santa cringed and gasped, but the force was just enough to knock him back into the driver’s seat.

Santa reached under his seat and frantically tossed out the empty wrappers and magazines. Finally, he pulled out the map and spread it out, looking at the old highlighted route guide.

“Shit! We’re over Iraq. I was supposed to go west from Saudi Arabia instead of east. Rudolph, turn that damn nose of yours off before the Americans blow it off! This is why we needed the GPS,” he muttered. The sound of explosions faded into the distance and he sighed.

He’d heard the Catholics were mobilizing to eliminate the commercialization of Christmas, and his naughty tracker had picked up some talk about a kidnap-and-ransom plot, but there was nothing out of the ordinary, just the usual deliveries and distractions. Finally, as they approached England, he let out a deep breath. “Looks like we might survive the night after all.”

Just as they were making their approach to London, a swarm of choppers rose, boom mikes hanging out the side.

“Santa, we have sources that put you coming out of a brothel in Thailand less than six hours ago. Care to comment?”

“Those girls need presents too.”

“But we have pictures…”

Oh damn, the fucking paparazzi. What next?

“Santa, even Camilla has admitted to letting you make some special deliveries. How do you justify giving coal to naughty children when…”

“You’ve got to be kidding! Camilla? Listen, 39.7% of all women have a Santa sex fantasy. You got any idea how many women wait up for me in velvet thongs? What the hell do you think I need so many cookies for?”

It was fuel on the fire. Reporters were calling in copy over the radio, and calling for reinforcements. As soon as one chopper dropped off, another took its place. He was making his run in record time, because every half-naked woman and the occasional man hoofed it out of sight when they saw the choppers hovering by the windows, reporters clicking photographs.

He finally dropped the extra condoms in the White House, cursing the fact that political pressure had obligated him to put this stop back on his list. Would’a been more use to Clinton, he thought, but he’d returned from his last delivery to find Tucker Carlson snooping through his sleigh. His heart had stopped for a second, until he remembered he unloaded the wrappers and his private stash over Iraq. Thank Christ for that. Unions, being shot at by the Americans, the British press… Could it get any worse?
**
The North Pole was in sight and Santa unzipped the top of his jacket, drawing a deep breath. The press choppers had fallen behind. It looked like he was going to survive the night after all.

Out of nowhere, a group of Chinook choppers swooped in to block Santa’s path. “We’re ordering you to put your sleigh down and submit for inspection.”

“Oh, for Christ’s sake! Who the hell are you?”

“Under new federal tax initiatives we’ve been ordered to audit all gifts received and apply that to your income tax assessment. This is by order of the Canadian Revenue Agency…”

“And the IRS,” another voice boomed from a new chopper. “Under the North American Free Trade Agreement terms negotiated, we have the right to tax you for all items brought into the US.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“No sir. The Mexicans are on their way.”

A whoosh from behind had them all turning. What now? Santa wondered.

F18’s. “We’re ordering you to leave this area and surrender the fugitive to us.”

Fugitive? What the…?

“The CIA has authority over wanted fugitive, Santa Claus. Mr. Claus, you are being charged with conspiring against the president of the United States…”

“What? I didn’t even touch Laura!”

“For entering restricted airspace over Iraq. We’d also like to question you about an alleged delivery of a George W Bush voodoo doll to Osama Bin Laden.”

“What?”

“We’re ordering you to put your sleigh down and surrender to authorities.”
**
“Greenpeace formed a blockade, raising some stink about global warming being caused by reindeer games and toy manufacturing. Commercialization Removal Advocacy Party got involved, and between the terrorist concerns, the back-taxes owed to various governments and CRAP, a decision was made to question the ASHOLE’s and hold Santa, but he escaped in the confrontation between the feds and the Greenpeace activists. The US government wanted to question and disband the Elf union, but the Canadians claimed jurisdiction. Since they only had two tugboats and a dozen kayaks available for defense, so it was looking pretty grim there for a while until the Americans realized Santa had escaped. They confiscated his naughty tracker and withdrew.

“The pagans seized the opportunity and reclaimed the winter solstice and that’s why we don’t celebrate Christmas anymore.

“So, yes Virginia, there is a Santa Claus. He’s a wanted fugitive on the run from the US government.”

A bit of truly southern festive cheer for ya!

Thanks for the link Kate! I thought I'd share it with everyone.

Just in Time for Christmas: Canada OK's group sex

The More The Merrier

Today began with a trio of emails from a friend from high school who moved to the States years ago. When she asked if this was for real, I told her we're very forward thinking. And looking for ways to entertain ourselves during the long, cold winters. She said she's moving back.

So, for those who are...um...liberated I guess this is a Christmas of KY, whips, thongs and maybe the odd piercing. And in the case of some British writers I know, rubber nun outfits. Oh, and please people, condoms. The decision comes too late to expand the options for the office Christmas party which has no doubt annoyed some, but never fear folks. New Year's is just around the bend, and unlike last year, you don't legally have to leave the gathering to get up close and personal with anyone.

I'm privy to sources that keep me overstocked in tales of the slightly twisted to openly kinky. Since evil Kev is one of the guys who responds to 9-1-1 calls, I can't help wondering about some future day when we discover the Golden Years Retirement Club in town has been a bit too liberal with the viagra scripts and started expanding their group events.

Just the thought has me shuddering with horror.

PS

Christmas Dreams

Promise I'll be back up on Christmas day with my story.
Unless I get run over by a reindeer Christmas Eve.

Words to Live By

A brief pause in the Christmas hoopla, because my remaining Christmas story is more of an after Christmas story. I'm hoping to cash in on all the readers going through withdrawal after Stuart's 12 part Christmas series is complete.

But today, evil Kev decided he was going to order some motivational posters (http://www.despair.com/mis24x30prin.html). I wonder what he's trying to say. And I was kinda hoping for the pessimist's mug

A Child's Prayer For A Christmas Miracle

She paused by the cross at the back of the sanctuary, her gaze flitting from the left to the right until she was quite certain nobody was watching her. Polly bowed her head and closed her eyes, shifting her doll under her arm as she folded her hands, her lips forming the words silently, the same words she’d prayed every day for three months.

“Please God. It's almost Christmas. I want my parents to be together.”

A lone tear trickled down her right cheek, making a ragged line on her sullied face.

**


Polly’s shoulders sagged as she slowly sank down and sat on the cold concrete. Her left arm lay on the lowest railing, her cheek pressed against her wrist as she sat there, swinging her legs, her other hand clutching the tattered doll she’d gotten for her birthday not three months before. Already the toy’s face was fading, the beige-pink fabric streaked with water stains.

There she sat, her dark black eyes staring off, past the church parking lot where the women still lingered, nattering away, ignoring their husbands, who were revving the engines and glancing at their watches between glares at their wives.

Her grip on the doll loosened, until it dropped onto the top step beside her, her arm hanging at her side limply.

The little girl stared off, past the usual Sunday morning church parking lot hubbub, past the straggly black limbs clawing the sky, towards the cemetery where row upon row of stone marked the passage of time since their watch had departed this world. Some were the old stones, the etched markings of letters and dates blurring into the crumbling façade. There were some newer markings as well, for those that still opted for sanctified ground.

“Poor thing,” Ethel Beasley murmured with a cluck-cluck sound as she shook her head soberly, her eyes widening as she leaned in close to Marlene Ford’s ear. “It must be so hard on the poor dear. I can see she misses her mother terribly.”

“Of course, it’s only natural she should want to have both parents at home,” Marlene said with a sigh. “Her hair, all straggly like that, unkempt. It really is surprising the courts would leave her with her father, after all that’s been said.”

“Why, she’s hardly more than skin and bones now, and her hair has lost its sheen. Not that she was ever a particularly happy child. There’s always been something about the look in her eye.”

“You don’t say. I thought it was just me all this time, but I don’t believe I’ve ever seen that girl smile.” Marlene’s eyes gleamed. “You know in Sunday school, they had the children write down what they wanted for Christmas. She said she wanted her parents to be together.”

“Now that would take a Christmas miracle. Her mother always was a wild one. Have I ever told you about the time she ran off…”

Polly turned her head abruptly, her gaze suddenly on the two woman whispering about her not twenty feet away. As though they could feel her looking at them they both stopped talking and glanced up, first Ethel and then Marlene’s gaze meeting the sobering stare of the child. Ethel sucked air between her front teeth sharply, tut-tutted and then trotted across the pavement towards her car.

**

“Come on then, Polly. Let’s go.”

Her father’s voice was low but there was still an edge to the words, a no-nonsense tone that told her he would not be kept waiting. Still, she looked up at him for a moment, towering over her, clutching the railing with her hand as her chin quivered.

“Now, Polly. And pick that doll up off the step. Someone will trip and fall and break their neck. Is that doll ripped already? Dammit.” He scowled as she pulled her feet up and positioned them on the pavement, about to stand as he reached down with a heavy sigh and grasped her wrist, yanking her to her feet as she stretched to grab the doll with her other hand. Polly yelped but it was a brief almost noiseless yelp, inaudible to anyone more than a few yards away.

But not so quiet that her father didn’t hear. His eyes narrowed as he tugged on her arm, her short legs racing to keep up with his long strides so that he wouldn’t drag her across the pavement.

“You know what can happen when you leave things lying on the stairs, Polly.”

As soon as she was in the back seat of the car he slammed the door, not waiting to check that she was buckled in. Polly reached up over her shoulder with trembling fingers and tugged on the seatbelt, dragging it down, fumbling with the clasp while her father walked around to the driver’s door and got into the car.

He sighed as he ran his fingers through his hair and then pushed his lips up into a sympathetic smile. “I know you miss your mom, Polly.”

Her shoulders shook violently as her mouth opened, imitating the form of sobs, tears streaming down her sunken cheeks, but no sound escaped her mouth. She shuddered, her body convulsing with the soundless sobs and her father sighed again, started the engine and drove away.

**

She walked as softly as she could, careful to place each foot in front of the other soundlessly on the floor. Her father was still in the living room, where he’d been since they got home from church. The first thing he’d done was pull off his tie, undo a few buttons on his shirt and push the sleeves up. Then he sat down on his chair and told Polly to get him one his drinks.

Polly knew only three things about his drinks, but they were three of the most important things she knew. The first thing was that she was never, ever, ever to take a sip of his drinks. The second thing she knew was that his drinks were almost magical, but not a good kind of magic. When he drank he changed. All of the mean points got meaner and the nice things about her father disappeared.

And the last thing she knew was that when her father had a lot of drinks, it would be a very long night.

There had been a lot of long nights since her mother had gone.

Polly had just finished in the bathroom when she started walking towards the kitchen, careful to prop her doll up under her arm so that the rip was upwards, so that none of the insides would spill out.

“Hey!”

She froze mid-step, waiting for him to speak.

“Wudza git me assuther un.”

He waved the empty bottle in the air and she nodded, creeping towards the kitchen.

When she set the doll on the counter, some of the contents spilled out. She ignored that, went to the fridge and got the bottle. She’d had enough practice that it only took a few minutes of fumbling with the opener to get the cap off.

Then she dealt with the bits from the doll that had spilled onto the counter. From the other room she could hear his slurred words, hear him calling to her. Polly hurried with the bottle and then stopped herself, walking slowly, slowly, ever so slowly, so that she wouldn’t spill a drop.

She crossed the room and he grabbed the bottle from her hands and tilted it back, taking a swig. Polly turned and went back to the kitchen to get her doll.

**

As she started up the stairs he lifted his bottle and hand in her general direction. “I’lls be up soon en tuckya in luvs.”

She swallowed and nodded, climbing the stairs one by one. He was drinking this one fast, so she knew she didn’t have much time to get ready.

But she was prepared. Her nightie was set out so it took only a moment to slide out of her dress and into the cotton gown. She moved quickly, quicker than usual, and when everything was done she sat on the edge of the bed, her arms wrapped tightly around her knees as she rocked back and forth, back and forth. Listening. Waiting.

Then she heard the sound of something clunking against the floor, thick glass rolling on the lino followed by the sound of movement. She’d been downstairs enough times before to have a good idea of what was happening, the initial thuds followed by a low curse and then more thuds as he staggered back up to his feet and started towards the stairs. Each step was unpredictable, the footfalls coming at irregular intervals, but coming closer, the sound increasing slightly in volume as he made his way up to the top of the landing.

She heard the uttered, “whah” from almost right outside her room, followed by tremble of her bedroom wall as his fist struck it, then the clunk clunk tu-du-du-du-du. There was a loud crash, the sound of glass shattering, and then silence.

**

Tick tick tick tick tick…

Polly watched the clock for twenty minutes and then let go of her knees, her legs sliding down the side of the bed, her bare feet softly landing on the floor. She held her breath as she crept to the door, turning the knob a millimeter at a time until the latch clicked and she could tug it open slowly.

Pressing her face up against the tiny crack, she looked into the darkness of the landing, seeing nothing but the usual shadows from the partially closed doors to her parent’s room and the bathroom. When there was still no sound, she took a gulp of air and opened her door enough to poke her head out into the hallway.

There was no movement, no sound. She risked a step out and looked down the stairs.

Enough moonlight shone in through the windows for her to see his face was grey and still as the stones in the churchyard. He lay on his back, arms sticking out from his sides, one leg pushed back underneath his body, the other lingering on the stairs, his mouth open ever so slightly, a trickle of something dark having hardened in a jagged line from his lips.

Polly bent down, picked up her doll and scampered back up the stairs, slammed the bedroom door shut and turned the lock.

She sank down to her knees beside her bed, like she had done every night of her life, and folded her hands. Thinking back to a night not so long ago, when the scuffling sounds had been furniture and bodies downstairs.

“You’ve had enough,” her mother had screamed. “Y’aren’t supposed to take ‘em with the booze.”

“One ain’t gonna kill me.”

“They say no alcohol.”

“Dammit wimmin you ain’t bossa me. Givez me de fuzzin’ drink. Now.”

There’d been more scuffled, then the sound of fast footsteps, running up the stairs. Followed by something falling at the top and then a sharp cry, followed by a long silence. And then the looks and hushed whispers about what kind of mother runs away from her child....

**

Polly didn’t know how many pills it would take. She’d been stashing them in the doll until she counted up twelve and tonight she mixed them in with his drinks. But she wasn’t prepared to chance it. She’d left the doll on the step to make sure it happened again. Not what everyone thought had happened, but what had really happened.

Her boney knees pressed against the cold, hard floor, Polly folded her hands and closed her eyes.

No more, she thought. No more Daddy games.

“Thank you God. For getting my parents together again,” she said, her lips curling up into a smile.

Okay, so it's not as original as yesterday's story...

...but it took less time to write. Proof that I either have way too much time on my hands, or that I'll look for any excuse to avoid housework.

T’was the night before Christmas, over in the UK
Little Miss was sleeping, Mrs. MacB was away
John’s naughty nurse costume elicited regressed fears
Rickards stomped off in a huff and burst into tears

Grendel was all nestled, snug in her bed
While visions of fat mice danced in her head
Thinking of John’s outfit, Stuart huddled in a corner
Repeating over and over, “The horror. The horror.”

From up in the attic there arose such a clatter
Stuart’s high-pitched scream made the glass he held shatter
John stopped his sulking and ran up the stairs
Snagged his skirt on the railing, the hem he did tear

The attic was once a haven for mice
But now it was just a horrendous sight
A humongous rat had completely demolished the roof
He was chewing on Rudolph, who was caught on his tooth

Santa reached in his sack and pulled out a Harry Potter wand
“You big evil rodent, I command you! Be gone!”
The rat swallowed and belched and then he started to laugh
“You stupid old fart, are you really that daft?”

“Harry Potter isn’t real and that toy’s just a stick”
He moved towards Santa, licking his lips
Santa started to cry and he begged for his life
He wanted to see elves again, and even his wife

Santa was slobbering, snot ran down his nose
John was freezing from a lack of proper clothes
He yelled down at Stuart and told him to motor,
To bring the whips and gas and the flame-thrower

Frightened fat Santa had already peed in his pants
When Stuart reached the roof and took the whip in his hands
He cracked the rat on the ass with one flick of his wrist
Winked at John and said, “I’ve had plenty of practice.”

John fired up the flame-thrower, he never hesitated
When it was all over the rat had been cremated
The sleigh and toys were saved and most of Santa's crew
Though the top of Stuart’s house reeked of reindeer poo

Instead of being grateful for being saved from the rat
Santa pulled out his paperwork and he cursed and he spat
“You’re harbouring rodents and I’m really pissed!
I’m putting you both on my naughty list!”

He got in his sleigh, though it wasn’t that easy
To move his legs ‘cos the urine was freezing
Santa drove away and left them on the attic floor
Once he was gone they heard the sound of the door

Stuart ran down the stairs trying to think of an excuse
How would he keep her from noticing the lack of a roof?
Mrs. MacB swore, “What the hell happened here?”
John was no fool, he ran and hid in fear

Stuart tried to smile sweetly as he said, “What the heck.
You may as well know I was going to build a sundeck.
It’s taken me months to come up with the plan
But I needed John here to give me a hand.”

Mrs. Mac B stared at him. “You must think
That I’ve had an outrageous amount to drink
Now tell me what happened and tell me the truth
Or I promise that I’ll beat it out of you!”

Stuart shuddered with horror. “No, not that! I confess.
Santa crash-landed his sleigh and a giant rat did the rest.
The rat, he was evil, he had sixteen toes
And he ate poor Rudolph, even his shiny red nose.”

He thought the hard part was convincing his wife
But ever since then folks have called him Mad MacBride
His life, it has never been quite the same
Because he tried to tell the truth on his insurance claim

And what became of our friend John the nurse?
It's a matter of opinion but it might have been worse
The insomnia lasted through a few all-nighter's
Then he sobered up and became a crime fiction writer

If there’s a moral in the story it should be perfectly clear
That the truth can sometimes be something to fear
So remember when you file a claim when the unbelievable happens
That people believe in giant rats but they don’t believe in Santa

Succumbing to Christmas Madness

First it was Stuart MacBride tra-la-laing about holiday happiness. Then John Rickards weighed in with a festive tail about peace on earth and goodwill to all men.

Such heart-warming tales of merriment had me misty-eyed and I was zapped by a flash of sudden inspiration to write a real shorty - the shortest story I've ever penned. And if you like it, then just pop on over to Stuart's blog and do the double-click to donate food. And read his stories about true love and Christmas cheer.

Christmas Dinner

“We have problems with allergies here, too.” She smiled. “Standard chocolate chip recipe with no nuts, with your favourite substitute. I baked them myself.”

“Ho ho ho! Smartie cookies!” Santa took a bite. “You wouldn’t believe what they’ve started leaving for me in California. Wheatgrass juice and celery sticks. How can I be a jolly fat man with snacks like that?”

She wrinkled her button nose. “That is bad. Here, in the South Pacific, we want to see a fat Santa. A very fat Santa.”

He let his gaze drift over her body as he munched. She looked as fit as any hoola dancer he’d spied on when he finally got the naughty list up to date. Which wasn’t as often as he liked, especially since so many writers started blogs.

But here she was, in nothing but a bikini top and a grass skirt, on a tropical island, baking cookies for him, a trickle of sweat running down her neck and pooling on the little lip of clothe between her generous breasts.

“You know, Christmas just isn’t the same. Damn Canadian government cracked down about seatbelts and airbags…”

“Shhh,” she said, placing her index finger over his mouth, her lips lifting into a coy smile. “Have the last cookie.

“You should relax. Not worry about this anymore. Here,” she said, running her hands down the front of his velvet jacket. “You not need these warm clothes on a tropical island.”

She winked as she reached for his belt buckle. Within minutes she’d stripped him down to his briefs.

Tracing a finger down his chest, she started to kneel. “I want Santa’s special delivery,” she said. “I want to try reindeer style.”

“You want…?” He stood, gaping at her as she ran her hands up along the inside of his legs and released the last item of clothing and smiled again.

“Those blue bits in the cookies weren’t smarties, Santa.”

“Ho ho… hoaaah.”

**

Santa’s broad smile was frozen on his face when she went outside. The chief was waiting.

“Do you have it?”

She handed Santa's clothes to him. “Yes. Everything’s there.”

“Good,” he said. He gave the red suit to another woman, with instructions.

A group of men carried Santa out of the hut.

The chief and the girl followed as they carried his body down to the beach. They looked up to see Santa’s sleigh pulling up into the sky.

“Santa 25,” the chief said as Santa 24’s body was positioned on the spit. The fire crackled as some body fat dripped into the flames.

“Are you sure no one will notice?” she asked.

“You think that if they really believed Santa hit sixty and stop aging that he’d be let loose to make presents and play with elves? They’d be trying to find the secret to eternal life, dissecting him in some laboratory.

“They need a jolly fat man to deliver the goodies and we make sure he never loses his festive cheer or thinks about retirement. Gets them off the hook for his pension. It takes a while to bulk up the shipwreck victims, but a few years of milk and cookies and he’ll be nice and plump. And we've got a few spares to tie us over in the mean time. Everybody’s happy.”

One of the women approached them and extended two plates to the chief. “Santa or Santa’s helper?”

“Santa,” the chief said. “I’m allergic to elf.”

Naughty Santas

Yesterday, we were driving along the highway and we passed Santa* driving a blue tracker in the center lane.

I guess the tradition of reindeer and a sleigh is a thing of the past. And I can appreciate that. No problems with wind chill, reindeer gas or stomping around on rooftops that have inconveniently abandoned the traditional chimney in favor of a gas fireplace.

But a blue tracker? Really, Santa. If you're going to dispense with tradition, could you not find something with a bit more festive cheer? I mean, even I drive a red rodeo, Santa. What's next? You trim the beard into a goatee and get some neon streaks put in? Maybe lose the fluffy red suit for some black Spandex?**

Of course, an image make-over might be in the cards. I can even get with the idea of cloning yourself so that you can keep up with increasing demand for toy production and personal delivery, but can't you save the carousing for after Christmas?
Rampaging Santas

The happy holiday season just isn't what it used to be.

* I'm not joking. I looked over and there was Santa. But it wasn't Mrs. Claus he was with. Maybe that explains the tracker - vain attempt at disguise.
** Why'd I have to think that? Out damn thought, out damn thought, out damn thought...

C-C-C-C-C-C-Cold

The trouble with too many comtemporary novels is that they are full of people not worth knowing. The characters slide in and out of the mind with hardly a ripple. They levy no tax on the memory; they make little claim on the connecting power of identification. They make only the skimpiest contribution to an understanding of the human situation. They leave you cold.
Norman Cousins

The trend over the past few years seems to be to redo things. We've had our return to Star Wars (which was a superb money-making scam on Lucas's part and a waste of my time). In a year where the box office has slumped to record lows for intake, what is it people are going to see? Long-time classic stories like The Lion, The Witch and The Wardrobe have been adapted to the big screen, and King Kong has been redone.

It would be easy to pick on Hollywood in a discussion of crap production. Why is it that I feel like so many movies are trying too hard and failing? I simply don't find the characters...believable. Or endearing. Or even deliciously evil. The only "new" movie superhero in the past few years to really appeal to me is Spiderman. And that's an adaptation of an old comic from the 60's.

For me, the problem with television and movies is that I have been spoiled by having a taste of greatness, so everything else falls short by comparison, but I'll save my spiel on the wonders of The Wire for another time. Like in the countdown to the new season, airing next month on HBO.

But when I look at the volumes upon volumes of books out there, I find myself wondering just what it is about some characters that captivate us? What is it that makes a character legendary and other characters entirely forgettable?

For me, character is critical. I want to find great authors with a series character that I am positively salivating to read more about. Dennis Milne and Logan McRae spring to mind, though I suspect in Logan's case I've been influenced by the mischievious tactics of the author and am simply just too bloody nosey to be able to live without knowing if he and Jackie had sex. If the next book doesn't answer that, I may have to ply the author with numerous drinks until I can get him to fess up.

Seriously, I suppose part of it is because they're both flawed but on a path, working on sorting things out. They aren't reckless playboys who don't give a damn about anyone or anything. Sure sure, Milne has a little problem with murder, but he's a principled killer. And I can completely appreciate the desire to throttle some people.

And that's a weird thing about me. When I think of characters I love, the overwhelming majority are male characters. Rebus, Thorne, Milne, McRae, Tony Hill.

So, what is it for you that makes a character so compelling that you must get your hands on every book in the series, or that you're sad to see the book come to an end because you want desparately to continue on the journey with the characters you've come to love?

PS re: Porn

I failed to mention the upcoming discussion about good porn in January. So, when all the Christmas merriment is over and the holiday hoopla has abated, leaving you with nothing but long, dark, freeze-your-ass-off weather to look forward to every day, tune in here: The Sex Party** and check out the sexiphosers cafe.

** Sandra Ruttan is not a member of The Sex Party, for the record.

Home Remedies

1. If you are choking on an ice cube, don't panic. Simply pour a cup of boiling water down your throat and presto. The blockage will be almost instantly removed.

2. Clumsy? Avoid cutting yourself while slicing vegetables by getting someone else to hold them while you chop away.

3. Avoid arguments with the little woman about lifting the toilet seat by simply using the sink.

4. For high blood pressure sufferers: simply cut yourself and bleed for a few minutes, thus reducing the pressure in your veins. Remember to use a timer.

5. A mouse trap, placed on top of your alarm clock, will prevent you from rolling over and going back to sleep after you hit the snooze button.

6. If you have a bad cough, take a large dose of laxatives, then you will be afraid to cough.

7. Have a bad toothache? Smash your thumb with a hammer and you will forget about the toothache.

Sometimes, we just need to remember what the rules of life really are: You only need two tools: WD-40 and Duct Tape. If it doesn't move and should, use WD 40. If it shouldn't move and does, use the duct tape.**

Anyone else with a helpful home remedy?

** If you're Stuart MacBride, that would be duck tape. Why the Scottish need a special adhesive for mallards and fake beards How Stuart Got His Facial Hair I'll never know.

Dear John, with a twist

Now there's a way for you to notify your partners via email anonymously that they've been exposed to an STD.

Ding dong, possible STD's calling

Let's just think about this for a second. Is it a good idea? Hmmm, well, people need to know, right?

But is it completely anonymous?

Only if your partners have been frolicking with others of late and consequently can't narrow down the suspect list. This would really NOT work if you were in an exclusive relationship with only occasional nights off. I mean, just because you stepped out doesn't mean your partner did. And if you send them an anonymous email then, well, duh. They've likely got a pretty good idea where it came from.

Your only hope then is that your main partner works as a pathologist and you and your alternate partner can top yourselves while the main partner is on shift. Don't think of it as giving up on life: Think of it as avoiding a prolonged, painful experience when she finds out and gets a hold of you. Pathologists are good with knives. And pruning shears.**

**See "Two Turtle Doves" - link on the right