He's a growing boy

Ashbutt, our farm kitten, is still growing like a weed, and shows no sign of slowing down.  (Given that he's only five and a half months old, he's probably got several more months until he reaches his full size.)

This is him at 3 months old, when we brought him home, showing the coloration that earned him his name:

At that time, he weighed a little under 3 pounds.

This is him yesterday, sprawled out asleep on the same sofa:

And from behind, glaring indignantly at a white cat from the neighbor's house wandering across our back yard:

As you can see, his 'ashy butt' has almost disappeared as he's grown.  It's still there in the bottom layer of hair, but the top layer has grown out, and its all-black coloring is hiding it.  Nevertheless, we won't change his name.

This morning he weighed 9.4 pounds. He's tripled his weight in two and a half months, and probably quadrupled in size. Last month he passed our five-year-old adult female cat, Kili, in length and height, and he's now considerably larger than she is. That's a bit of a problem, because he's a rambunctious kitty who's feeling his size, and she feels bullied.  However, next month he'll be visiting the vet for a little snippage, after which he should settle down quite a bit. (We're already wondering how we're going to keep the 'cone of shame' around his neck until his operation scars have healed.  Knowing him, he'll probably eat it!)

As for his beloved colored plastic springs . . . he's lost, mislaid or eaten at least a dozen of the darn things (including one down the master toilet). I've got two dozen more on order. At this rate, I'm wondering whether we shouldn't just give up, and place an order for a dozen to be shipped to us on the first of every month!

Peter

A quick bleg for reviews

This is a special request to my readers.

My latest novel, 'Stoke The Flames Higher', has sold over a thousand copies so far, plus a similar number borrowed via the Kindle Unlimited subscription service.  However, only a few readers have left reviews on its page at Amazon.com.  It has 47 of them at the time of writing, and I'd like to push that nearer to 100 as fast as possible.  The more positive (4- and 5-star) reviews a book has, the more Amazon features it in its 'Also Bought' listings, and promotes it in other ways.

If you've read and enjoyed the book, please leave a review at the book's page on Amazon.com.  (Use the 'Write A Customer Review' button beneath the other reviews.)  I'll be very grateful for your help.  Thanks!

Peter

This one's for Alma, courtesy of Star Wars

For fellow author and blogger (and quite the choir singer) Alma Boykin, courtesy of a link at Rev. Paul's place:

Too late, Alma.  Now you've heard it, you can't un-hear it!  Now, I want to hear your vocal confusion the next time you have to sing this in choir . . .




Peter

It may have been legal, but it was wrong

One of the problems with any system of governance is that it contains flaws that cast shadows on the other elements, no matter how good they may be.  I happen to believe that capitalism is the best of the systems so far developed for economic governance;  but it, too, has its flaws, one of which is the tendency of businesses to argue that if something is legal, they're entitled to do it.  Moral and ethical considerations aren't taken into account.

That's come home to roost in West Virginia in a big way.

In six years, drug wholesalers showered the state with 780 million hydrocodone and oxycodone pills, while 1,728 West Virginians fatally overdosed on those two painkillers, a Sunday Gazette-Mail investigation found.

The unfettered shipments amount to 433 pain pills for every man, woman and child in West Virginia.

“These numbers will shake even the most cynical observer,” said former Delegate Don Perdue, D-Wayne, a retired pharmacist who finished his term earlier this month. “Distributors have fed their greed on human frailties and to criminal effect. There is no excuse and should be no forgiveness.”

The Gazette-Mail obtained previously confidential drug shipping sales records sent by the U.S. Drug Enforcement Administration to West Virginia Attorney General Patrick Morrisey's office. The records disclose the number of pills sold to every pharmacy in the state and the drug companies' shipments to all 55 counties in West Virginia between 2007 and 2012.

The wholesalers and their lawyers fought to keep the sales numbers secret in previous court actions brought by the newspaper.

. . .

The nation's three largest prescription drug wholesalers — McKesson Corp., Cardinal Health and AmerisourceBergen Drug Co. — supplied more than half of all pain pills statewide.

For more than a decade, the same distributors disregarded rules to report suspicious orders for controlled substances in West Virginia to the state Board of Pharmacy, the Gazette-Mail found. And the board failed to enforce the same regulations that were on the books since 2001, while giving spotless inspection reviews to small-town pharmacies in the southern counties that ordered more pills than could possibly be taken by people who really needed medicine for pain.

As the fatalities mounted — hydrocodone and oxycodone overdose deaths increased 67 percent in West Virginia between 2007 and 2012 — the drug shippers' CEOs collected salaries and bonuses in the tens of millions of dollars. Their companies made billions. McKesson has grown into the fifth-largest corporation in America. The drug distributor's CEO was the nation's highest-paid executive in 2012, according to Forbes.

In court cases, the companies have repeatedly denied they played any role in the nation's pain-pill epidemic.

Their rebuttal goes like this: The wholesalers ship painkillers from drug manufacturers to licensed pharmacies. The pharmacies fill prescriptions from licensed doctors. The pills would never get in the hands of addicts and dealers if not for unscrupulous doctors who write illegal prescriptions.

In other words, don't blame the middleman.

. . .

“It starts with the doctor writing, the pharmacist filling and the wholesaler distributing. They're all three in bed together,” said Sam Suppa, a retired Charleston pharmacist who spent 60 years working at retail pharmacies in West Virginia. “The distributors knew what was going on. They just didn't care.”

. . .

The Big Three wholesalers together are nearly as large as Wal-Mart, with total revenues of more than $400 billion. Their revenues account for about 85 percent of the drug distribution market in the U.S.

There's more at the link.

Whether we like it or not, there is a moral and ethical dimension to many of the decisions we make.  No matter what our system of belief (if any), we remain responsible for that.  Examples:

• There is no legal requirement in most US states to store one's firearms in a safe manner, where children and casual thieves can't easily get at them.  Nevertheless, I believe that if one fails to do so, and a child is injured or killed with one, or a thief steals one that he later uses to commit further crimes and threaten innocent lives, one bears some moral responsibility for failing in one's ethical duty of care.
• If one turns a blind eye to the misconduct of one's children, so that they grow up without any moral code or understanding of what is, and is not, acceptable behavior, one shares some responsibility for the damage and hurt they will inevitably inflict on others.
• If one sees conduct that is morally and/or ethically questionable, whether or not it's actually legal, I believe one has the responsibility to - at the very least - dissociate oneself from it.  That may extend to resigning from one's job, rather than be linked to it by our presence.  Silence is presumed consent.  Areas such as shoddy workmanship hidden from the customer, trash-talking competitors . . . they're all ethically and morally wrong.  If we associate ourselves with them by our presence and our silence, we share complicity in them.

The same applies to the epidemic of opioid abuse in West Virginia and elsewhere.  If we become part of the conspiracy of silence, it doesn't help to argue that we don't abuse them ourselves, or provide them to abusers.  We're still part of the conspiracy . . . and people are still suffering and dying because of it.

No man is an island,
Entire of itself,
Every man is a piece of the continent,
A part of the main.
If a clod be washed away by the sea,
Europe is the less.
As well as if a promontory were.
As well as if a manor of thy friend's
Or of thine own were:
Any man's death diminishes me,
Because I am involved in mankind,
And therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls;
It tolls for thee.
           - John Donne

Peter

Word

From a letter sent by Governor Scott Walker of Wisconsin to President-elect Donald Trump (link is to an Adobe Acrobat document in .PDF format):

The question is not what functions the federal government should give back to the states, but what functions should the federal government have in the first place. The federal government was originally created to be a small, central government of limited powers, with everything else left to the states. Through years of federal overreach, this model has been turned on its head, and now is the time to right the ship. Power flows from the people to the government, not the other way around.

I couldn't agree more!

If Mr. Trump can restore this constitutional balance, he'll be remembered forever as one of the great Presidents, IMHO.  Needless to say, it'll be anathema to the statist left, who regard 'Big Brother' as an feature rather than a bug, an asset rather than a liability.  Nevertheless, I suspect the Founding Fathers would agree more with Mr. Walker than with the statists.

Peter

The SJW anti-Trump hissy-fits continue

I note with disgust that a lawyer made a scene on an aircraft by confronting and yelling at Ivanka Trump this morning.  From the report, he appears to have no realization that what he did was out of line, even protesting to the airline staff who removed him from the plane.

As Vox said of the incident:

Don't even try to reason with them. They're not capable of it. Do you really think the guy thought through whether publicly accosting a woman with children and informing her of his opinion about the presidential election was worth the risk, however small, of being ejected from his flight?

And given his inability to understand why he was being kicked off the plane, do you really believe the man would have reached the correct conclusion if he had?

Don't speak Chinese to an English-speaker. Don't speak dialectic to a rhetorical. And SJWs are, by observation, uniformly limited to rhetoric.

So true.  So very, very true.

Here's another collection of SJW reactions to the Electoral College vote last Monday.  They exhibit exactly the same derangement syndrome as the lawyer did this morning.

You're not going to stand for this, o special snowflake?  Well, then, what are you going to do about it when you find out that we aren't going to stand for you any longer?

Peter

Doofus Of The Day #942

It seems a Swedish gentleman was at a party when he decided to try to drive a golf ball on a frozen lake. Trouble is, it wasn't quite frozen enough.

Er . . . better luck next time . . .




Peter

Politicians. Pork barrels. Some assembly required.

The New York Post points out that politicians in that state found many ways to bypass restrictions on pork barrel politics.

Since 1998, the Times Union’s Chris Bragg reported Sunday, state lawmakers have spent $1.9 billion on nearly 6,000 projects financed by Dormitory Authority bonds.

The authority itself does plenty of good work, and has since the state created it back in 1944 solely to finance college construction.

Its current “add-on” role as pork conduit began in 1998, after then-Gov. George Pataki vetoed all of the Assembly’s member items. In the end, Pataki wound up cutting a deal to fund much of the same pork via a new Community Enhancement Facilities Assistance Program, run through the Dorm Authority.

A few years later, slush-fund spending for the state Senate got added to the mix. And — unlike the old member items — none of it was spelled out in the state budget, where the public could at least see the pork.

. . .

Bottom line: Many of the worst abuses of New York’s taxpayers now take place out of sight. How’s that for reform? 

There's more at the link.

I note that this isn't limited to New York state - it's nationwide.  Nor is it only on state government level.  Throughout the 'chain' of government, from national to state to regional to city to local, pork barrels abound.  Citizens Against Government Waste produces an annual Congressional Pig Book and State Piglets reports.  What's more, I'm angry to read a report this morning that Congressional Republicans are discussing keeping at least some Obamacare taxes, even as they plan to repeal Obamacare itself.  Porkers indeed!  If the plan goes, the taxes should go with it - or it's a farce.  (I know, I know . . . that's never stopped greedy politicians before.)




Peter

What will Obama do when he's no longer President?

Daniel Greenfield argues that he wants to be the éminence grise behind the progressive left wing of US politics.

President Obama is over. He knows that. There are still some things that he can do before he leaves office, but everything except the most destructive, can be undone by his successor. The next phase of his campaign will not be fought from the White House. It will be fought against the White House.

The other Obama is emerging in conference calls with his supporters. “One of the challenges that I’ve discovered being president is I’d like to be organizer-in-chief, but it’s hard,” he said in one call.

Obama can no longer be commander-in-chief. Instead he’s plotting to become organizer-in-chief.

The infrastructure for the organization was put into place long before anyone thought that Hillary might lose. Organizing for Action gave him his own organizing hub. If Hillary had won, it would have been a pressure group. Now that Trump won, it’s an axis to build a personal counterrevolution around.

. . .

In conventional politics, Obama is done. There’s no way back into the White House. And Hillary’s fate won’t leave much enthusiasm for nominating the uncharismatic spouse of a charismatic ex-president.

But Obama is not a conventional politician. He’s an organizer and a campaigner at the vanguard of a radical movement that seeks to control traditional institutions, but doesn’t feel bound by them. Unlike Bill Clinton, his plans don’t begin and end with the White House. As an organizer, Obama is equipped to build bases of power outside traditional institutions. And that is exactly what he is doing.

The demoralization of the Democrats is, as Obama put it, an opportunity. Social chaos is a time for the left to overthrow and undermine traditional institutions. Fear, anger and despair are radicalizing. The left has always operated by throwing bombs and then profiting from the fallout. That’s Obama’s agenda. Having wrecked the country and the Democrats, he sees that not as a setback, but as an opportunity.

“The network that you represent, you're perfectly poised to do that,” Obama told his OFAers. “In other words, now is the time for some organizing.”

While the leftist rioters in the streets are garnering the most attention, the real threat comes from the network of staffers dubbed Obama Anonymous which are beginning to organize and coordinate. OFA is Obama’s equivalent of the Clinton Foundation. The Clintons built Clintonworld around staffers, but its goal was harvesting money. Obama Inc. is being built around organizing and activism. Like Clintonworld, it will be a network encompassing a variety of political and non-profit institutions. Unlike them, it will be much less focused on directing money to its bosses in preparation for an election. Instead it will function like a traditional leftist movement, merging influence operations with crowdsourced mobilization.

. . .

Obama believes that he can find the key to beating Trump in the traditional tactics of the left. But most is ideology and power. Obama is not done transforming America. And America isn’t done with him yet.

There's more at the link.

I fear Mr. Greenfield may be right.  Mr. Obama won't be content with the damage he's already done to this country, particularly because many of his measures were never passed into law by Congress, and can therefore be undone in the same way they were implemented - with the stroke of a pen.  He's also a relatively young man, with many potentially productive years ahead of him.  That's not good news for the rest of us.

Peter

Airline food OOPS!

This cracked me up.

A WOMAN travelling in business class from Sydney to Brisbane on a Qantas flight last Friday was greeted with an amusing sight when her meal arrived ... she drank in the sight of six charming looking dumplings, accompanied by a side of something charred and limp and decidedly phallic.

“I asked the server what it was ... and he told me that it was a root vegetable,” she explained.

“I asked him to pass me my phone so I could take a photo ... I never take photos of food but this was too funny to pass up.

“He blushed and was very apologetic, I don’t think he had ever seen anything quite like it ... the lady next to me was cracking up.”

The woman left the blackened rod untouched, but ate the dumplings and declared they were “delicious”.

When she posted the image on her Facebook page it was greeted with more than 50 comments and 100 likes.

Some of the more entertaining comments on her Facebook post included:

• “A root vegetable is one way to describe it ... I think you inadvertently just joined the mile-high club.”
• “Is that food, or in-flight entertainment?”
• “Did you ask for a stiff drink to accompany it?”
• “This is a hotbed of innuendo.”
• “From a food stylist’s perspective, this will give you nightmares for years to come.”
• “Definitely a root vegetable they couldn’t serve on Virgin.”

There's more at the link.

Australians are good at taking the p**s out of mistakes like that . . . it's one of their more endearing features.




Peter

But how can he see what's ahead?

I was surprised to see this video clip of a train in New Brunswick, Canada.  Notice how the snow is thrown up, and builds up on and around the cab of the locomotive.  How on earth can the driver see whether there's a vehicle (or any other obstruction) on the tracks ahead?

That seems very unsafe to me.  I would have thought it was dangerous for the train to continue under those conditions, but it didn't seem to stop that one.  Can rail aficionados shed any light on the subject?

Peter

Second fantasy novel excerpt

On Monday I promised you two excerpts from proposed fantasy novels, to let you, my readers, tell me which you'd prefer to read first.  The first excerpt went up yesterday.  Here's today's.  It's one I published some years ago on this blog, albeit in a less polished format.  I've worked on it since then, to smooth it out and make it better.

This novel will be set in a late Middle Ages/early Renaissance type society, with more formal social structures, a more organized army, and more of the trappings of civilization, including duels, social classes and stratification, and so on.  (Not that the first wouldn't have some of that too, but because it's set in an earlier time frame, historically speaking, it would have less of them.)  It would involve sword-and-sorcery elements, but swords in a more formal military scenario, and sorcery in a more organized setting in society.

Here goes.  I'll have more to say after you've read it.

     The ford was a bustle of horses and men, some crossing the stream, others spreading out along both banks, finding an open spot to let the horses drink and refill their waterskins. The tall man’s face wrinkled with annoyance as he watched those on their first raid. Some were heading for water already muddied and staled by animals upstream of them.
     “They’ll learn,” his companion said tolerantly, guessing from his expression what was on the other’s mind. “This is a training raid for them, after all. You only have to drink water mixed with horse piss a couple of times before you start to think there must be a better way.”
     “Yes.” The older man took a waterskin from behind his saddle and knelt to fill it as his horse lifted its head from the water. “In days gone by they’d have learned that from their fathers, but our people grow soft. Too many prefer to leave it to others to do the hard work of raiding, while they ape the soft ways of merchants and farmers.”
     “If the Gods smile upon the young na-Khan, that may change before long.”
     “Then let us pray most devoutly that they do and it does!” He rose, slinging the now-full skin over the saddle, and glanced up at the mid-morning sun. “Take them on slowly. Don’t wind the horses – they’ve had a hard run, and we’ll want them as fresh as possible in case we have to get past a patrol. I’ll ride to the top of that rise and watch our back trail from the cover of the trees until Hicta and Kundoz get here. We should catch up to you within an hour.”
     The younger man frowned. “Yabun, you’re our chieftain and I don’t question your authority, but why are you worried? We struck the breeder yesterday, killed everyone, took all their horses and got away clean. It’ll have taken this long just for passersby to find the remains and get word to their Army. We’ve got to be far ahead of any pursuit. I don’t see that there’s anything to fear.”
     “That’s what worries me. Things are going too well. When you’ve raided as often as I have, you become suspicious of good fortune. The Gods aren’t usually so generous. They’re mischievous, devious and tricky, just waiting for someone to get over-confident so they can teach him not to be so foolish. That’s why I’ve had scouts watching our back trail to see if anyone’s following. All it will take is for someone to signal our position using smoke or a mirror. If one of their border patrols sees it, they’ll try to block our passage. We can evade them, even fight our way through a small patrol, but not with all the captured horses. We’d lose a lot of them. Don’t forget, we only have half a dozen experienced raiders, including you and I. The rest are novices.”
     “Yes, but why wait for the scouts yourself? You’re too important for that. Let me assign someone else.”
     The older man frowned in irritation as he looked at his deputy. “Haven’t you listened to me at all? Everyone has to do his share of the dirty work and routine, boring tasks. I’m not a Khan or tribal prince who has servants to do everything for him. I must lead our clan in war and peace, at home and on the raiding trail. I have to set the example I want them to follow, particularly when dealing with so many who are new to this.”
     His subordinate heaved a sigh. “I suppose you’re right.”
     “I know I’m right! Things like that matter, Perun. Don’t forget it when your time comes to lead a raid. Now, gather the others and be on your way.”
     “As you command. You don’t want someone with you?”
     “No. The rearguard is no place for a novice, and without the scouts and I, you’ll have only three experienced men. You need them all.”
     As Perun issued orders, he silently decided to send back a couple of men to check on Yabun if their chieftain hadn’t reappeared within an hour. He was skilled, and had led more than a dozen successful raids, but even he still might make a mistake.

* * *

     Yabun was growing impatient by the time he spotted two horses making their way down the far slope towards the ford. “At last!” he snorted to himself. “They’ve taken their time. They should have been here long ago!”
     He raised his farseer, adjusted the sliding nested brass cylinders to focus it, and looked more closely, trying to see through the trees masking the trail. His face creased in a mixture of anger and concern as he realized that only the front rider was sitting in his saddle. He was walking his horse slowly, bent forward over his saddle-horn, clearly in great pain. Yabun couldn’t see his face beneath the brim of his hat, but from his dun horse and his familiar dull brown cloak, folded loosely around him, he recognized Hicta. He was leading a bay horse, a long bundle wrapped in Kunduz’ black-and-white striped blanket slung over its saddle. The scouts must have hit big trouble somewhere on their back trail.
     Yabun closed the farseer, slid it into its tubular leather case and put it back in his saddlebag, thanking the Gods yet again for so useful an instrument. Swinging into the saddle, he spurred his black horse down the hill towards the ford. Its banks still showed the tracks of almost a hundred horses and a score of riders, but the water had long since cleared.
     Splashing across the ford, Yabun swung down from his saddle, casually looping the reins over the branch of a bush. He turned towards the path where it emerged from the heavily wooded hillside. He could hear hoofbeats approaching slowly, and saw a movement in the gloom beneath the trees.
     “Hicta! It’s Yabun!” he called. “What happened, man?” He peered into the shadows, shading his eyes against the bright sunlight.
     In answer a flicker of light and dark flashed across the space between them. Yabun doubled over as an arrow spiked deep into his lower abdomen. The screaming agony of the strike froze him in his tracks for a moment. With iron will and a hoarse, wrenching grunt of pain he forced himself erect, reaching for the hilt of the scimitar at his left side; but a second arrow struck home, driving in just below his sternum. He staggered back, hands rising to clutch at its shaft. He’d killed enough men, and seen enough injuries, to know at once that he’d been mortally wounded.
     The brown-cloaked figure stepped into the clearing. It wasn’t Hicta, even though he wore the scout’s cloak, now thrown back. His face was young, hardly adult yet, topped with brown hair, and his body was lithe and strong. His left hand held a finely made recurve bow with compound limbs, right hand reaching into a quiver on his belt for another arrow. He fitted it to the bowstring, eyes glowing with anger as they focused on the wounded man.
     “Who… who are you?” Yabun asked falteringly in the enemy’s tongue as he struggled to keep his balance.
     “What’s that to you?” The young man’s voice was harsh, bitter.
     “A man should… know who killed him… if he can.”
     “I’m Iolyn, son of Eldric the horse breeder, whom you murdered yesterday.”
     “What did… you do to my scouts?”
     “They grew careless, and didn’t hide themselves well enough as they watched your back trail. I worked my way around behind them, waited until they left their hiding-place, then shot them both before they could charge me or turn to run. I finished them off with my knife – as I will you, in a moment.” He took the arrow from the bowstring and returned it to his quiver. It was obvious to both of them that he wouldn’t need it.
     “And… this?”
     “It stood to reason that if you’d set scouts to watch your back trail before, you’d do so again. This ford is an obvious place for it. I planned to draw you out of concealment to help what you thought was your wounded comrade. I tethered my horse off the trail a mile back, then put on one of your scouts’ cloaks to hide my bow and rode his horse as if I was hurt. The bundle across the other saddle is both of their bedrolls, wrapped in a blanket to look like a body.”
     Yabun felt a wave of dizziness surge over him. He knew blood was draining out of the punctured organs and blood vessels in his abdomen, taking his life with it. He stumbled to his knees, half-sitting, leaning to one side, supporting himself with his left arm as he looked up. “Know, then… you have killed Yabun, noyan of the Tanit clan of the Kaladi tribe. I… I led this raid. Many have tried to kill me… and failed. You have… done what no warrior… could ever do in a fair fight.”
     “My father taught me that war is never fair. Besides, a murderer deserves no fairness.”
     “Not a murderer! I… I am a raider, as my people have been… for aeons. How… did you… survive? I… thought we… killed everyone… at the farm.” Yabun felt his breath growing shorter, saw the light growing darker, and felt cold creeping up his limbs towards his chest. He knew it would not be long now; but suddenly, urgently, he needed to know how he had come to his death. Rage and frustration rose like smoke inside him, threatening to choke him. So close to the border… so close – and now this! What did I do to deserve such a death, at the hands of a mere stripling? Did I fail to propitiate the Gods sufficiently? Truly they must be laughing at me now!
     “I was hunting. I saw the smoke as your men set fire to our buildings, and made it back to the farm in time to see your rearguard disappear into the hills. I sent my man to warn the Army, then followed you.”
     “You… have avenged your father… in my blood, then.”
     “But not enough. Your men still live.”
     “They are… almost… a score… and you… are… alone…”
Yabun could no longer remain upright. He sank onto his side, trying to support his weight on his elbow, but even that was too much for him now. He tried to speak, but the words could not penetrate through the icy cold freezing him to the marrow. He saw the young man draw a hunter’s skinning knife from his belt and start towards him. He wanted to shout, scream aloud, beg for time to die like a man instead of being butchered like a hog… but no sound came.

* * *

     Iolyn wiped the blood from the blade of his knife on his victim’s shirt, and slid it into its sheath. He unbuckled the dead man’s belt, removing it with the scabbarded scimitar and curved dagger, then checked his clothes. Their pockets contained nothing of interest, but around his neck against his skin was a strangely shaped amulet on a beaded cord, similar to those worn on leather thongs by both of the scouts he’d killed earlier. He hefted it in his hand for a moment, considering, then slipped it into his pocket, adding to it a stone ring from a pocket in the man’s belt. The scouts had carried them too. He’d never seen them before, but had heard that Makin archers used them to draw and release the bowstring with greater control than fingers alone could give.
     He left the belt next to his victim, and walked towards the horse. It snorted, trying to rear and break free as he approached. He adopted the sing-song, lilting, gentle tone taught to him by his father and the trainers and grooms at the farm. “Easy now, horse… I won’t hurt you… I’m not going to harm you… I’m your new master now… relax, my friend, we’re going to do just fine together.”
     The horse stood trembling, allowing him to reach it. He bent, took a deep breath and blew long and gently into its nose as it sniffed at him. He reached up carefully, allowing it to see his hand, and ran his palm down its nose as he continued to blow into its nostrils. Slowly the animal calmed, allowing him to examine it more closely as he petted it. It was midnight black in color, tough and wiry, better muscled than many light cavalry horses he’d seen. Da may want this one as a stud, he thought to himself, then had to blink back moisture as he remembered anew that his father was dead, along with his mother and sister. He’d taken the time to be sure of that before galloping after the raiders on his mission of vengeance.
     Now that the horse was standing quietly, he examined its saddle. It was light, clearly designed to put the least possible strain on the animal while it covered the ground as far and as fast as possible. Its horn held a full waterskin and a coil of rope, supple and strong, made of what looked like hair with strands of five different colors. He frowned as he remembered the ropes he’d captured from the other two scouts. One had two colors in its strands, the other three. Was there some significance to that?
     From the other side of the horn was slung a short horse bow, looking very similar to his own weapon which was designed for use in the cramped confines of a thick forest. He wondered for a moment why this man had been carrying only one bow, whereas the two scouts he’d killed earlier had had two apiece, one smaller, like this one, the other bigger and heavier, clearly designed for longer-range shooting. They’d carried up to sixty arrows apiece, too, in two quivers on each saddle, whereas this raider had only one quiver. He’d also worn a scimitar, while the scouts had not; but they’d carried two or three light throwing spears each, which he had not. His curved dagger was sheathed at his belt, whereas the scouts’ knives had been attached to the underside of their left forearms. Iolyn was struck with a sudden thought. Did their daggers’ leather sheaths also serve as bracers, protecting their forearms from the impact of a bowstring? He’d have to experiment and find out.
     He turned to the saddlebags. The right one contained a familiar, fat, heavy red leather drawstring purse filled with gold staters. He recognized it at once. His father had returned from the annual horse fair at Druma just the previous week, boasting that he’d made good money there thanks to the increased Army demand for remounts. The purse must had been stolen from the strongbox in his office. A blue purse next to it, equally familiar, held silver and bronze staters. They may have killed my family, destroyed the farm and stolen the herd, but at least I’ve recovered this much of my patrimony, he told himself… but he took no pleasure in the thought. The pain of loss was still too raw.
     He rifled swiftly through the rest of the saddlebag’s contents, a few personal possessions and a change of clothing, then turned to the other. It held a bag of marching rations, dried fruit, nuts and seeds; a few sticks of dried meat; and a small bag half-filled with oats mixed with little dark cubes of what looked and tasted like dried meat. He frowned. Presumably the oats were there to feed to the horse, to give it extra energy; but why the meat? Horses weren’t carnivores. He shrugged, making a mental note to ask those who might know more, and took the farseer from its leather tube. It puzzled him for a moment until he realized what it must be. Such instruments were rare and very expensive. He’d heard of them, but never seen one before. He put it away until he could study it more carefully.
     He untied the horse, led it over to the other two he’d ridden to the ford, and fastened a lead rope to the saddle of the bay. Recovering the belt and its weapons, he tied them into the black horse’s bedroll where they would ride securely. Mounting the dun horse, he turned its head towards the ford: but before he could cross, a wild shout came from high up the trail on the far hillside. He didn’t understand the words, but guessed the speaker had seen him and the body of the man he’d killed, lying in plain sight at the ford. Another voice responded, and hooves clattered down the rocky path, drawing rapidly nearer.
     He knew he couldn’t stand and fight openly and alone against an unknown number of raiders, even though they were probably only a small rearguard party. He whirled the horse and headed back the way he’d come. If I can get off the trail on a rocky section that won’t show my tracks, they’ll go on up the path after me. I’ll recover my own horse, then head deeper into the forest. I don’t think they can spare the time to hunt for me. They must know soldiers will be looking for them.
     Even so, he realized with a pang, their pursuit would delay him long enough that he wouldn’t be able to warn the border patrols with a smoke or mirror signal. He’d made three of the raiders pay – including their leader, if his last victim’s words had been true – but the rest of them would literally get away with murder… this time.
     As he galloped up the forest track, Iolyn made a silent, solemn promise. I’m going to do my best to see to it that a lot more raiders die in future. Ma, Da and Alis will need a fitting escort across the River of Death, and it’s my duty – my right – to provide it.

Well, there it is.  I hope you enjoyed it.

I'm trying to decide which of the two novels I should write first.  The one I excerpted yesterday is more complete - I've already written about 40-45% of it.  The novel excerpted above is about 25-30% complete.  I fully intend to write both - it's just a question of which should take priority.  (Also, of course, I could complete the first one faster than the second, since it's that much further along.  That factor appeals to me, I must admit.)

I see the first novel - yesterday's excerpt - as more of a stand-alone book, although it has potential to grow into a trilogy or series if there's demand for that.  (I simply haven't scripted that out yet, but I can do so if necessary.)  The second book - today's excerpt - is planned as at least a trilogy, possibly more.  However, I know that some readers prefer stand-alone novels to a series of books, so I'm wary of writing all my novels as part of a series.  Again, I'd like your feedback on that issue.

So, readers, I'll hand this over to you.  Which of these two novels would you like to see first?  That's the one I'll write in 2017 (along with some other books, as previously discussed).  Please let us know in Comments.

Thanks!

Peter

Heh

Courtesy of a comment from reader Tucson Scott:

I suspect we haven't heard the last of that meme . . .




Peter

Refusing to learn from reality

MSNBC (of all places!) had this rather illuminating discussion of why the Democratic Party is deep in the hole right now.

I was amazed that such a left-leaning mouthpiece would produce such an honest analysis.  Shows that even a blind pig can find an acorn once in a while, I guess.

Peter

Holy cutting edge, Batman!

I've wanted to try a ceramic knife for some time.  I've heard they're 50% lighter than conventional steel blades of the same size, stay sharp much longer, and are very easy to clean.  Against this, they're apparently quite brittle, unable to take much lateral tension (i.e. being bent sideways, or used to pry at food) without snapping.  That's not necessarily a handicap, of course - one can simply use another tool for such jobs.

The higher price asked for ceramic blades has put me off until recently, but I found this one on sale at Amazon for only $6.99.

At that price, it's easy to justify testing it, so I added one to a recent order.  It arrived yesterday.  I unpacked it eagerly and tried it out.  Holy cutting edge, Batman!  This thing is sharp!  For example, it cut hard, dry mango slices in half with almost contemptuous ease - slices I'd been able to cut with a very sharp steel knife only with some effort.  What's more, it cleaned up under cold water with only a quick wipe from a sponge, followed by a drying cloth.  The residue from cut items seems to slide right off it without clinging.

I'm impressed enough with its performance, particularly at this very low price point, that I'm thinking of buying several more to add to my stored emergency supplies.  One never knows when one might need a kitchen knife, but not have one;  so it's a simple matter to add one to each 5-gallon bucket containing a week's food for one person, along with a can-opener and other essential tools.  Since it'll stay sharp much longer than conventional blades, it'll also remove the need for sharpening when one may not have the time or facilities for that.  Furthermore, one might run into someone who needs a kitchen knife, and can swap other things for it that one might need.  At $6.99, it becomes affordable to keep a few in reserve for such purposes;  and the blade sheath supplied with each one helps protect the unwary from cuts.

Thumbs up from me.  (No, I'm not being compensated in any way for this product review, and I paid for the knife myself.  I just like to tell my readers about good deals I've found.)

Peter

Echoes of June, 1914 . . .

I'm getting a very nasty feeling at the back of my neck about current developments.

• The Russian ambassador to Turkey is murdered, apparently by a fanatical Muslim extremist who'd concealed his conversion and continued to function as a Turkish security policeman.  Meanwhile, our own president is conspicuous by his silence and seeming lack of concern about the incident.  I'm sure Russia got the message loud and clear:  he doesn't care.
• A senior Russian source alleges that NATO may be behind the assassination.  That would make no sense at all, but then, nothing in this situation can be described as logical or rational.
• ISIS, driven out of Aleppo by a combined Syrian/Russian offensive, promptly regroups and retakes Palmyra.  It's like water.  When it's squeezed out of one place, it flows into another.  It's very hard to 'kill' a group like that.
• Iran threatens to destroy Israel (again), and Israel responds bluntly.  Israel knows it has a more supportive US president taking office next month, and has just taken delivery of its first stealth strike aircraft.  I think its previous reluctance to act may be conspicuous by its absence before long.
• Rising populist forces in Europe are speaking out louder than ever against Muslim immigration.  Expect them to win electoral victories next year.  That will inevitably lead to conflict as Muslim immigrants 'push back'.  The level of conflict may approach civil war in some areas where militants have taken control, such as some of Paris' banlieue's.

The assassination in Turkey appears to have eerie parallels to another in Sarajevo, in June, 1914.  Will this one have similarly disastrous consequences?  One sincerely hopes and prays not . . . but instability and uncertainty are the hallmarks of the current situation.  Nobody knows.

Peter

First fantasy novel excerpt

As I mentioned yesterday, I've got two fantasy novels in preparation, each with strengths of its own.  I'm going to ask my readers which they prefer, based on short excerpts that I'll publish here, today and tomorrow.

This one's set in a Middle Ages-type environment;  think Robin Hood, if you like, but more primitive.  The protagonist is an older man, past his prime, but who was once a King's Champion (i.e. a fighter good enough to represent the King and Kingdom in armed combat, if necessary).  He's just visited the grave of an old comrade-in-arms when this action occurs.  The book is provisionally titled "King's Champion", but that may well change.

Here goes!

     Owain woke shortly after midnight. Cursing his aching back and knees, he slipped out of the two heavy horse blankets under which he’d slept, fully clothed for warmth, and pulled on his boots. He walked over to the stable’s double doors and opened one half very slightly, looking out. The rain had ceased for now. The light of the half-moon was visible through a few holes in the clouds.
     His horse snorted, stamping softly on the straw covering the earthen floor of his stall. The traveler turned and grinned. “Are your old joints complaining, Ned? Aye, mine too. We’re both getting on enough in years to feel the damp in our bones now.” He fetched another horse blanket from the pile in the store-room, shook it out and spread it carefully over Ned’s back. “This’ll help to keep you comfortable for the rest of the night. I –”
     He froze as a distant screeching, wailing cry echoed faintly down the valley. The hair on the back of his neck rose as his eyes widened. He hadn’t heard that sound in over three decades. “It can’t be!” he whispered, only to be given the lie as it came again. Beside him Gerd sensed his alarm and growled softly.
     “Quiet, boy!” he whispered urgently. He hurried to the wall, unhooked the bridle and fitted it to Ned’s head, working in frantic haste, then tied the horse to a ring set into the stone wall of his stall. He patted his head. “Sorry, Ned, but there’s deviltry afoot. You stay here where you’ll be safe – unless they rip the roof off, of course; but if things get that far, we’ll all be done for.” He glanced across at the stall occupied by the inn’s horse. It had heard the sound too. It was stamping nervously, tossing its head, eyes wide. He wouldn’t have time to secure it too.
     He slung the baldric bearing his sword over his right shoulder, the familiar weight settling on his left hip. His dagger’s scabbard was still belted on his right hip. He reached for the blade where it had been lying next to his head in case of need, sheathed it, then hurried back to the doors and peered through the narrow opening.
     Two huge black-winged silhouettes were visible in the faint moonlight, arrowing down towards the inn. The closest was already back-winging to slow its flight, preparing to land next to the main building. Two huddled figures sat atop saddles on its long neck, two big, bulging saddlebags strapped between them.
     “Gruefells!” the man hissed. “I was right about that cry.” He laid a restraining hand on the dog as it tensed beside him. “Not a sound, Gerd. They’d kill you in a heartbeat, and me, too.” The well-trained warhound obeyed, crouching down at Owain’s feet.
     He licked his lips, feeling the tremble of fear that always came before a fight, already channeling it, transmuting it into cold, hard determination, focusing on what was to come. He didn’t draw a weapon yet. He’d have to see what the riders did – there were four in all, two on each gruefell – and respond accordingly. Fleetingly he longed for his battle-axe; but it was three days’ ride from here, hanging on the wall of his chamber. Others regarded him, more or less tolerantly, as an anachronism, a throw-back to the old days, because he was one of the few who still insisted on wearing sword and dagger. They’d have feared him as a potentially dangerous lunatic had he carried the axe as well.
     The first gruefell thumped solidly to earth outside the front of the inn. Its two riders jumped down, drew swords and daggers, and dashed for the main door. As they reached it, the gruefell reached forward with its head and butted the double doors. They burst open as the locking bar snapped, crashing back on their hinges, swinging wildly. The two men ran inside as alarmed shouts sounded from the innkeeper and his family upstairs. Owain cursed softly. The gruefell’s eyes were sweeping around, looking into every shadow. If he tried to go to the aid of those in the inn, it would spot him before he’d taken two paces. Its saw-edged beak and spear-sharp talons would close on him before he could reach the main building.
     There was a second thump as the other gruefell landed behind the inn. Its two riders also dismounted, one rushing for the inn’s back door, the other running between the stable and the inn. He was carrying an arbalest, winding at its cranequin as he ran. As he approached, he dropped a bolt into the track and leveled the weapon at the side door. Owain’s blood ran cold as he thought, They know what they’re doing. Three men go in to deal with everyone inside, the gruefells guard the front and rear, and one man guards the side door to shoot anyone trying to escape to the stable. This isn’t the first time they’ve attacked a building. Behind him he heard the inn’s horse plunging and neighing desperately, kicking in its stall as it scented the gruefells. At least the noise would provide some cover for any sound he had to make.
     The clamor of a fight erupted from upstairs. The innkeeper shouted angrily, desperately, as his wife screamed and his son squalled in agony. The innkeeper yelled again, a despairing wail that ended in a bubbling gurgle, and his young daughter shrieked wordlessly. Loud, harsh laughter sounded from inside.
     The shutter over an upstairs window was thrown back. The man with the arbalest swung his weapon towards it, then relaxed as a black-clad figure showed himself. He spoke in the guttural Graben tongue. It was several decades since Owain had last heard it, but he remembered enough to understand what the intruder was saying. “Only the innkeeper and his family are here – no guests, so there’ll be less loot, more’s the pity. Open the stable and drive the animals out so the gruefells can eat, then come on up. The others are already busy with the woman and girl.” The muffled sounds coming from behind him made it grimly clear what he meant. “We’ll have them next.” He waved, then pulled the shutter closed once more to keep out the chill of the night.
The arbalestier relaxed. He took the bolt from the track of his weapon and returned it to a quiver at his waist, but left the steel prod cocked. As he did so, the traveler faded back into the shadows of the unlit barn.
     The intruder tugged at a leaf of the stable’s double doors, pulling it halfway open, and stepped inside. He’d taken five steps towards the kicking, plunging inn horse before Owain stepped out of the shadows behind him and rammed his dagger through his right kidney. He arched his back, gargling in agony, but the noise was stifled as Owain’s hand came over his shoulder, clamping down hard on his mouth. The traveler worked the dagger blade back and forth and up and down in the wound, paralyzing the injured man with the pain of it; then he withdrew the blade, put it to the man’s throat, and sliced it deeply from ear to ear. He eased the arbalest’s sling off the man’s shoulder, took the weight of the weapon, then tossed the mortally wounded attacker to one side.
     The noise made by the inn’s panicked horse had helped to cover the sounds of the fight. He looked at it sadly. “It’s sorry I am about this, but I’ve no choice. I’ve got to distract those gruefells so I can get into the inn to deal with the other three.”
     He bent to the still weakly moving attacker, wiped the dagger on his clothing and sheathed it, then unbuckled the man’s belt. He removed the quiver of bolts for the arbalest and slid it onto his own belt, then took out a bolt and laid it in the arbalest’s track. He touched the head as he did so, and jerked his hand away as he felt a sticky substance. “Graben poison!” he hissed, mouth twisting in sickened remembrance of those he’d seen dying in agony from it… then he grinned savagely. With luck, some of the attackers would find out tonight how it felt to be on the receiving end of the stuff. He’d have to be careful not to cut his fingers on the bolts. He washed his hands quickly in a stable bucket to remove the greasy unguent, drying them on his kilt, then kicked over the bucket to prevent any animal drinking the tainted water.
     A leaf of the stable doors was still half-open. That would be enough, he decided, striding over to the stall where the inn’s horse was still kicking and neighing pitifully. He jerked the gate open, then jumped back as the panicked animal burst out, staggering and stumbling in its haste, and ran for the door, galloping out into the moonlight. He heard the two gruefells scream as they sighted their prey.
     He took a precious moment to pat Ned reassuringly. His steed was standing trembling in his stall, not panicking like the other animal, but clearly very frightened. “Stay quiet, Ned. Gerd, come.” The warhound bounded to his side as he ran for the doors.
     Peering out from the shadows, he saw the inn’s horse had got no more than fifty yards before the two gruefells had fallen upon it from the air. It was down, kicking its last as the two winged monsters tore at its entrails with their beaks, not even waiting for their prey to die. All their attention was on their meal.
     “Quiet, Gerd,” he whispered, and ran towards the side door of the inn. The dog followed him without a sound. He slipped into the inn, laid the arbalest on a table and headed for the stairs, drawing his sword and dagger as he climbed them silently, thanking the Gods that the sounds of struggle upstairs, the screams of the dying horse and the cries of the gruefells covered the creaking of the wood. Besides, the three upstairs were expecting their comrade to join them, so any noise he made wouldn’t alarm them.
     The man who’d opened the shutter was standing at the door to the innkeeper’s bedroom, laughing as he watched what was going on inside. Owain could hear two more men within, obviously busy with the women. He came up behind the man in the doorway as silently as possible and stabbed him straight through the heart. His victim arched his back with a cry of pain and fell forward into the room, his sword clattering to the floor.
     The other two intruders looked around, eyes wide with shock. One was kneeling between the innkeeper’s wife’s legs as she sprawled face-down on the bed. The other man had bent her nine-year-old daughter over the dresser, her nightgown hoisted up around her waist, and was standing behind her, breeches around his ankles. Both men were pumping away at their victims, ignoring the innkeeper and his eleven-year-old son as they lay on the floor, faces still showing the agony of their last moments, great gaping wounds pouring blood, eyes staring sightlessly at the ceiling.
     The two men jerked upright and spun around. The one who’d been raping the girl grabbed for his sword as it leaned against the dresser, but her foot kicked it as she struggled to get free. It toppled to the floor, clattering loudly, and her thrashing legs obstructed him as he tried to pick it up. Cursing, he snatched up the dagger he’d laid on top of the dresser and slammed it down into her spine, but it stuck in the bone and cartilage as she screamed and arched her back in agony. Owain didn’t give him time to recover. He leaped forward as the man turned, off-balance as he tripped over his breeches, and stabbed deep into his gut, cutting across with a slicing action as he withdrew the blade. The man’s entrails poured out of the gaping gash in his abdomen. He emitted a croaking cry of agony and collapsed, clutching at them.
     The other man thrust himself to his feet as Owain killed his comrade. He’d kicked off his breeches before raping the woman, so he wasn’t hampered by having them around his ankles. He seized his sword from where it lay on the bed next to him and slashed wildly. Owain swayed backwards to avoid the blow as the woman sprang from the bed and rushed to the door, stumbling over the bodies of her husband and son. Screaming hysterically, she disappeared towards the stairs as Gerd growled savagely and launched himself in a flying leap, grabbing the man’s sword arm in his powerful jaws and crushing down hard. His victim shrieked, trying desperately to transfer the sword to his other hand, but Owain sprang forward and kicked the blade out of the Graben’s hand with his boot. He stabbed upward with his dagger as Gerd pulled the man forward. The point penetrated beneath his chin and thrust upward into his brain, killing him instantly.
     The whole building shook as a scream of rage sounded outside. Owain realized in a flash that the gruefells had recognized the sounds of battle and returned to aid their riders. They could easily demolish a ramshackle structure like this, using their weight to batter it down and their talons to rip and tear at the wreckage and anyone inside. He spun around and ran for the stairs.
     As he reached them he saw the woman, still screaming, wrench open the front door of the inn. He shouted, “Don’t go out!” – but in her panic, she either didn’t hear, or ignored him. She dashed outside, and instantly shrieked even louder. Owain knew a gruefell must have caught her. He ran down the stairs, dropped his sword and dagger on the table and grabbed the arbalest. Hurrying to the door, he looked out to see the gruefell launch itself into the air, the woman’s body clutched in its right claw, two of its talons penetrating her body and coming out of the front of her torso. She was still screaming, struggling weakly.
     Owain jumped through the door, pulled the tiller into his shoulder, aimed at the huge body rising above him, and pressed the lever. The weapon kicked hard, surprising him with its strength and power as the bolt soared straight upward. It speared into the gruefell in the black, stinking pit beneath its tail. With a wail of pain the foul creature arched its back, beating its wings frantically, then fell forward and down. He hurled himself to one side as the winged leviathan crashed down on the roof of the inn. The woman’s screams were cut off as if by a knife as she was crushed beneath it. Thatch, rafters and dislodged beams thumped and bounced around Owain as he huddled against the front wall, already winding the cranequin to re-cock the bowstring. The gruefell thrashed to and fro, shaking the whole building, mewling in agony as the poison spread through its body.
     An enraged screech sounded from the far side of the inn. Owain threw himself inside the front door again as the second gruefell soared over the inn and thumped to the ground outside, hissing in fury. He huddled against the wall, winding frantically until he heard and felt the bowstring click into its catch; then he grabbed another bolt from the quiver and slammed it into the track, nocking its notched end to the bowstring. As he did so the building rocked again, and part of the wall on the far side of the front door splintered and fell into the room with a deafening crash. The head and neck of the second gruefell thrust into the opening, its jaws agape as it sought whoever had hurt its partner.
     Dodging more falling planks and timbers, Owain snapped the arbalest to his shoulder and aimed at the beast’s neck, behind the hollow of its jaw. He pulled the lever, and the bolt flew straight and true. The beast threw back its head and screamed, turning towards the source of its sudden agony. Its eyes fell on him; but his bolt had sunk into the great blood vessels supplying its brain. The poison took almost instant effect. Before it could reach down and seize him in its saw-edged beak, it stiffened and its eyes glazed. Its head fell forward, hitting a fallen rafter with a solid thunk!, then its body toppled sideways, adding to the destruction as it collapsed.
     Owain ducked to avoid more falling debris, then ran outside once more. Hands trembling with the adrenaline rush, he spanned the arbalest and fitted a third bolt to its string, then aimed carefully at the still-thrashing gruefell on the roof of the inn. His shot struck the neck of the creature as its head protruded from the half-destroyed thatch. The second dose of poison, much closer to the heart and brain than the first, swiftly took effect. The beast’s struggles slowed, then ceased.
     Owain sagged against the doorframe. “If I never again have as close a call as this, I’ll be a happy man,” he murmured to himself, feeling the fear-sweat on his face. He knew full well that, despite his skill at arms, only luck had ensured his survival. If it hadn’t been for the filthy inn, driving him to sleep in the barn instead of a guest room, plus his sore back and knees waking him in time to hear the gruefells’ distant cries, plus the distractions of food for them and rape for the men… he’d have been dead by now. He was also bitterly aware of how his advancing years had slowed his reactions. If there are to be more such fights in my future, I’ll have to rely on experience and low cunning to counter the speed and strength of younger attackers, he mentally instructed himself. His opponents wouldn’t always be so obliging as to get tangled up in their own breeches.
     At last he straightened and walked slowly back inside. He put the arbalest back on the table and picked up his sword and dagger, wiping them with the already dirty tablecloth, then sheathing them. The gruefell’s body had destroyed half the roof, knocking beams, rafters and thatch down into the interior, and was hanging through into the upper floor. He heard Gerd whining from the innkeeper’s apartment, and climbed the stairs once more. It was hard work to move all the fallen debris out of the way and squeeze past the carcass, but he eventually cleared a path to the bedroom door. Kicking it open, he squatted to pat the dog and receive his grateful licks.
     “It’s all right, Gerd. It’s over now. You did well, holding that one so I could kill him. What I want to know is, what the hell is a Graben raiding party doing here? There’s nothing to attract their attention. Why attack a small, run-down inn, far from any town and in the off-season for travel? They always used to strike farms or villages, where the pickings would be richer.” He sighed. “I guess I’d better search their bodies, then take a look in those gruefells’ saddlebags – they seem pretty full. When the sun rises, I’ll look at it all, and figure out what to do next.”

Well, there you have it.  Think about it, and read the excerpt from the other novel that I'll put up tomorrow morning:  then I'll ask you to help choose which one I'll write in 2017, if I'm spared.

Thanks!

Peter

Crow for Christmas?

With each State's Electoral College meeting today, it looks like Donald Trump will be formally certified as President-elect by this evening.

That being the case, is crow on the menu this Christmas for these people?

I hope they enjoy the flavor . . .

Peter

So, which fantasy novel should I write?

As I discussed a few weeks ago, and again in my response to your feedback, I'm planning on publishing my first venture into the field of classic fantasy novels during 2017.  It's going to be fun for me, and I hope for you as well.

There was a split between readers wanting a classic sword-and-sorcery type of novel, and those wanting a more late-Middle-Ages, early-Renaissance type of world where swords and sorcery are also involved, but in a more 'civilized' setting, taking a less prominent role.  I've worked on both scenarios, and partially completed both novels.  The question is, which would you prefer to read?  Which should I take to completion first?

In order to settle the question, I'm going to post large chunks of the first chapters of both books on this blog, on consecutive days.  The first, tomorrow morning, will be of the more typically sword-and-sorcery novel.  I could publish this as a one-off, stand-alone novel, or tailor it to be the entry point for a trilogy or longer series.  The second, on Wednesday, will be a chapter from the second proposal.  I've already posted it here some time ago:  this version will be cleaned up, edited and polished to reflect more detail.  This novel is intended to be the start of a trilogy or series, rather than stand-alone.

When I've put up both chapters, I'll ask for your feedback as to which book you'd rather read first.  I think that's the fairest way of deciding which project to tackle next year.  I'll let my readers choose.

Look for the first sample chapter tomorrow morning.

Peter

The incident that almost brought down an Airbus A380

Many readers will doubtless remember the drama surrounding Qantas Flight 32 in November 2010, when it suffered a catastrophic engine failure shortly after taking off from Singapore en route to Sydney, Australia.  Wikipedia reports:

On inspection it was found that a turbine disc in the aircraft's No. 2 Rolls-Royce Trent 900 engine (on the port side nearest the fuselage) had disintegrated. In addition to destruction of the engine, this also caused damage to the nacelle, wing, fuel system, landing gear, flight controls, the controls for engine No. 1 and an undetected fire in the left inner wing fuel tank that eventually self-extinguished.

The damage to the engine was spectacular.  (Click either image for a larger view.)

I recently came across Qantas Engineering's newsletter (link is to an Adobe Acrobat document in .PDF format) describing the incident and the repairs that resulted.  It's very interesting reading for aircraft enthusiasts, albeit a bit technical.  Here's its summary of what was required, at a cost of over $100 million in US dollars at current exchange rates (enough to buy a brand-new Boeing 737, with change left over).

Design
Around 50,000 man hours of design activity was completed with more than 100 drawings created.

Production
- Airbus staff performed approximately 76,000 production man hours;
- Over 170 Airbus staff have worked onsite (on rotation), with nationalities including French, German, Spanish, British, Dutch, Indian, Belgian and American;
- Qantas performed over 11,000 man hours of production work including modifications, preservation tasks and maintenance activity; and
- Airbus staff working on the repair in Singapore had an average of 25 years industry experience.

Systems
- About one-third of the wiring in the left wing was replaced. That’s an approximate length of 6.1 kilometres of wiring compared with 37 kilometres of wiring throughout the aircraft.

Logistics
- Ten 40-tonne trucks carried 18 specifically manufactured jacks from a warehouse in Frankfurt to Hamburg harbour, with the
equipment then transported to Singapore by sea (a journey of one month);
- 1,000 air freight shipments carried 1,500 boxes with a total weight of 150 tonnes of parts and tooling;
- Material was transported from 60 shippers and from 25 different airports to Singapore;
- 630 different part numbers were ordered; and
- 220 tools were ordered with a total weight of 110 tonnes.

Testing
- 250 individual tests were done by the embodiment team during repairs;
- 250 additional tests were done during the ground testing phase (similar to those carried out with a new aircraft off the production line);
- Flight testing comprised: a rejected take-off at 100 knots; a technical acceptance flight; and a flight to measure the performance of the airframe and engines.
- Check sequences during the assessment flight included:
   - high ‘G’ manoeuvres to test the tolerance of the airframe;
   - individually shutting down each of the four engines and restarting it;
   - flying at slow speeds to test antistall systems;
   - turning off engine-powered hydraulic systems to ensure that the aircraft remained controllable;
   - testing emergency electrical systems; and
   - extending the landing gear via the alternate method.

After Nancy-Bird flew home, many Engineering staff were still required in Singapore to complete the job. This included the removal and destruction of three truck loads of unserviceable aircraft parts to prevent re-birthing, returning components to various locations and vendors around the globe, finalisation of contracts, returning the massive amount of legal documentation to Sydney and of course the cleanup and exit of the facility in Singapore.

Statistics:
- 110 tonnes of tools ordered
- 630 different part numbers required
- 150 tonnes of airfreight shipped
- 3.8 miles of wiring replaced
- 11,000 Qantas man hours performed
- 2000 chilli crab consumed

There's much more at the link.

I imagine that last statistic was the most enjoyable part of the entire operation!

Peter