Fingers (Story)

KAL-UR was about five feet tall and it didn’t have a head. It didn’t need one, for it was a utility robot. It didn’t need to think or analyze or make decisions – it was only supposed to follow the instructions that it received from Mr. Core.

Since 2080, Mr. Core had been managing CRYORIUM, the international cryonics center. That was the time when the finger-bank, a cryogenic facility to store fingers was first built. That was also the time when fingers were harvested in thousands, and every robot found itself working round the clock. Each finger had to be detached from the body, packed in ice, and injected with heparin to prevent coagulation of the blood. Then all the water in the cells was replaced with a cryo-protectant and then the finger was cooled on dry ice until it reached the temperature of -130 degrees centigrade. Finally, it was stored in a jar of liquid nitrogen at a temperature of about –190 degrees centigrade, and then the jar was labeled with the finger-number and the name of its owner.

It was backbreaking work. Had KAL-UR been a human, he would have either resigned from the job or asked for a raise. Fortunately for Mr. Core, he was a robot and as long as it followed its charging routine, everything worked just fine.

Effort (Story)

He thought of it every morning, afternoon, evening, and night, and in all those hours in between, but every time, he came to the same conclusion.

It was too much of an effort.

Each time he opened the refrigerator to bring out the leftover ham slices, mayonnaise, and the rye bread, he thought of it, but then The Simpsons on the TV would drag him right back to his couch, where he spent the next hour devouring both the sandwich and his favorite program.

On each trip he took to the bathroom he’d see her gown hanging on the over-door hooks, and he was reminded of the chores that awaited him. They had to be done. With each passing moment, they were transforming from important into urgent. And yet it all required that he bent and bending was something that squeezed his roll of stomach fat and put undue pressure on his gut to make him fart, and he hated it.

Oh, how he hated it!

“It’s too much of an effort,” he thought as he took another bite of his sandwich and flipped the channel.

“Oh drat! Better get done with it,” he growled.

Then, for a moment, he savored the sound of his own voice.

“That felt good,” he mumbled, a smile cracking his face. “Good that she isn’t around to badger me.”

He tossed his empty plate on the table and got up.

“I’ve got to finish this chore, or the stench will bring those pesky neighbors to my door,” he grumbled aloud. To be able to say it all aloud was a cathartic experience.

Good that she was gone.

“This time is so wholly, so completely, so totally mine – just miiiine,” he crooned in a nasal singsong voice, swishing his hips sideways, trying to simulate her walk. The black bags were waiting for him in the kitchen – tied at their mouths, ready to be dispatched. They were heavy, about sixty pounds each, but he knew that the bags would hold. They were strong and scented, and he had bought them online from Target, just last week.

“Into the backyard, Tom. Move your ass,” he chided himself, like she would, if only she were around.

“Oh yes. Yes, ma’am. But you aren’t here to oversee me, are you?” he laughed, as he dumped them both into the trash can.

“And now let us do the laundrrry,” he continued in the same singsong voice, as he slammed the door behind him.

He checked the time in the kitchen clock. It was 4 PM already. He had an hour to complete the laundry and vacuum the couch and the carpet for the crumbs.

She would be back from work by five o’clock.

“Sigh!

Image Credits/Attribution: Wikimedia Commons

jeffreyw [CC BY 2.0 (https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0)%5D

 

Where do the thoughts of a Writer come from?

A writer writes what she thinks, but where do the thoughts come from?

From her past and present…

From the world around her…

From what she sees, hears, smells, reads, does…

From what happens to her and hers…

A storyteller weaves a story, but where does the yarn come from?

From what happened and what didn’t…

From what should’ve have happened but didn’t…

From events and from people…

From what should be but isn’t...

“The Price of Nofret’s Nose” is a work of fiction. It’s story is about what happened and what didn’t, what must have happened but didn’t, and what should have been but wasn’t; and yet it’s also a story that has characters and reflections from the writer’s past and present and of what happened to her and hers.

The Price of Nofret’s Nose.

 

 

 

2019 & Writing.

If I were one of my characters, I’d say that 2018 was a monster from the depths of hell, but I am not, so I’ll just call it a terrible year and lock it up in my diaries.

Now about 2019…

A story is out there milling in the slush-pile of a publisher, another is lounging here in my desk-drawer, a couple are waiting to be yanked out of the dark recesses of my mind so that they find their true form. But being a writer-artist (or an artist-writer, depending on who rules the roost at the time of speaking,) makes the tussle even greater. When a story peeps out, the artist brandishes her brush and shoo-es it back in; and when the writer finally gets down to writing it, the artist seduces the writer with her colorful palette and the promises of an incredible visual treat.

The Whimsy of the Characters…

takes the writer on a ride. 

It’s easy to say, “plan your day and schedule your work,” and I’m sure every writer tries to do it, but the characters in the stories that the writer writers – they have a life of their own. They want to do their own thing. And this is why the plan, the schedule, and the characters, all get tangled up to cause a gridlock.

You see, each character in the story has a personality, and characters with strong personalities want a bigger slice of the pie, a stronger role to play. You may want to say that it’s the writer who, in the first place, created these characters, but quite like the parents who despite giving birth to and nurturing their children have little say in how their children must lead their lives, the characters too, want to lead their own lives – they want to make decisions, go on adventures, fall in love with the wrong person,

“The Price of Nofret’s Nose – Honor and Murder in Ancient Egypt” Published.

Dear Readers and Fellow Bloggers,

I’m glad to announce that “The Price of Nofret’s Nose – Honor and Murder in Ancient Egypt” is now available on Amazon both in eBook and print formats.

Following are the links:

eBook: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B078ZJJTQC/

Print: https://www.amazon.com/dp/1980404461/

If you are interested in Historical Fiction and/or thrillers/mysteries,  I believe you’ll enjoy reading this thrilling mystery set in Ancient Egypt. Head over to Amazon to read its synopsis and sample the first 10% of the story.

I leave you with the first review on the book:

Now “Menkhaf’s Scrolls” are screaming for my attention. While I figure out what’s troubling those ancient scrolls written by the Immortal Menkhaf, please head over to Amazon and check out Nofret’s Nose.

Saturated eBook Markets and Desaturated Writers

I happened to read a post that made me feel terrible, both as a reader and as a writer.

The gist of the post made by a writer is that her books aren’t selling because there is a glut of writers in the eBook space as every one who can write, is writing and publishing.

According to this writer,

the only writers selling their books are those who can afford the time and money to promote and advertise their books

OR

those who turn lucky and succeed for an unknown reason (and definitely not for any talent they might have.)