Showing posts with label amoral characters. Show all posts
Showing posts with label amoral characters. Show all posts

Monday, November 29, 2010

Iffen ah don' laff...

Well iffen ah don' laff I sure as hail gonna cry, so let's look at some cheerful bits. This u-tube look at the illusions of getting published has all the elements of reality :-)


On the othe positive news my collection THE GOTH SEX KITTEN AND OTHER STORIES is out from NAKED READER which, if means if you decided to buy it for your e-reader -- and you buy directly from NR - I get 60% (less credit card fees... the bank-dog always gets its cut) as opposed to the 15-20% I'd be lucky to see elsewhere. Even off Amazon I am still pleased to say that 50% - nearly a dollar fifty - or 2.3 times what I'd earn from a paperback - will return to me to help to provide for those extra little luxuries like a roof over our heads - something I would love to see less authors worried silly about. And to reinforce my attitude about ebooks needing to be CHEAPER than paper books... it is.

I've nearly finished one of the books I am working on, and I'm sorely missing what I realise is one of my trademark type characters - the amoral individual who acts as a kind of mirror to the 'mores' of modern life. The Rats in RATS, BATS AND VATS are cyber-uplifted, but still remain rats. As that they give me a useful way of poking fun at some of our more sacred holy cows.


He began to adjust his pince-nez again; but, instead, simply took them off and wiped his snout wearily. “It was too late. Without surgery it was always too late. Even with it, too late by hours.”
The group standing around Phylla’s still body were all silent.
Then Nym sighed. “Out, out, brief candle. Well, I suppose I’d better go and fetch some brandy. Or would anyone prefer some wine?”
“You’re going to get drunk?” Siobhan’s voice rose to a squawk of outrage.
Doc nodded. “Of course. The observance of rites for the dead are what set us apart from the animals.”
“But that is to behave like animals, indade!” Eamon sounded genuinely appalled.
“Methinks if we behaved like the animals we came from, we’d eat her,” replied Fal reasonably. “Besides, I thought you’d be in favor of a wake. It is a fine Irish tradition.”
“It is?” This obviously made a strong impression on a bat who felt himself to be, among other things, heir to the mantle of De Valera.
Fal nodded vigorously. “You don’t have to attend, but not to do so is a mark of scanty respect for the dead.”
Even Bronstein was caught half-cocked. “But is not our custom . . .”
“It is ours,” said Pistol with finality. “And our Phylla was first and foremost a rat.”
Virginia sidled up to Chip. “What are they doing to that dead rat?” she whispered, staring in fascinated horror.
“Laying her out. Maybe not the way we humans would understand it, but the way a rat would.” Chip’s tone was very dry. “Phylla would have appreciated it. Sort of a rat joke.”


or in PYRAMID SCHEME/POWER where the Dragons are this foil


In a remote corner of a wildlife reservation, some distance away, a winged dragon sighed gustily and licked his new white little teeth with a long red snaky tongue. They helped his speech as well as his chewing. "I feel as if my life is lacking something."
His sibling, Bitar, licked his chops too. "Something of the flavor of life."
"Could be ketchup?" said Smitar, after serious thought, and then concentrated on trying to reach an annoying itch between his shoulder blades.
"Or it could be hot sauce. Who would have thought that American maidens would be in such short supply that they'd have to be protected game?"
"Over hunted," said Smitar, righteously. "Should have introduced a permit system. Or reservations. Or a minimum size limit."
Bitar shook his vast armored head at the iniquity. "A bag limit." He paused. "It wasn't you, was it?"
"Not unless I'm sleep-eating again," said Smitar. "If it wasn't me, was it you? And can you scratch this spot for me?"
"We need Cruz," said Bitar, obliging. "He can give a decent scratch with an oar. Do you think we're molting again?"
"Could be. It's this foreign food. Very greasy. Fattening." Smitar patted his midriff.
"You haven't been eating these foreigners again?" demanded Bitar accusingly. "You know Medea told us not to. Anyway, you could have shared!"
"Phttt," said Smitar. "He was barely a snack. And Cruz said that anyone from the INS was fair game. I still feel something's missing in my life. I've got this sort of inner itch too."
"Could be indigestion. But I have it as well. And I never even got a bite of the INS official," Bitar sniffed dolefully. "Could use a good scratch with a pole from Cruz."
Smitar wrinkled his scaly forehead in thought. "I think it is that time of life when a young dragon's thoughts turn to love."
"Could be. What time is that?" asked Bitar, tasting the idea.
"This century, I think."
"Hmm. In that case I think we need some male advice on how to draw chicks."
Smitar looked a bit puzzled. "I thought you just grabbed them and dragged?"
"Doesn't that lack finesse?"
"Probably. It could work though."
"We need to ask Cruz," said Bitar, rubbing his back against a rock and shattering it. "It's time he sat us down and gave us a little talk about the birds and the bees."
Smitar tasted a piece of the rock. Chewed it thoughtfully and then asked: "Why?"
"I think it's what you have to talk to girls about," said Bitar knowledgeably. "Cruz will know."
Smitar spat out rock fragments. "And he could give us a good scratch."
As they took off and began searching for thermals, Smitar asked, "So what's this finesse stuff? Some kind of sauce? Or a lubricant to help with the dragging?"
Bitar nodded. "Both. It's got chocolate in it, too."



Of course, in SLOW TRAIN TO ARCTURUS I used Miran (an alien species that changes sex from male to female on reaching a certain age/size) to look at our taboos on sex.

Anyway, I'll spare you a quote of that.
But this something rather typical of my writing. Any other examples of weird writing traits you can think of in authors you enjoy?
Anything good come up lately? (besides dinner?)