Now, I bet you’re wondering what a guy with a blog called “Fictional Discipline” has been doing, if not blogging. Well! I’ll tell you what. As I mentioned before, I finished the first draft of the novel. That was exciting. It is now officially simmering, and I may season it periodically with notes about how to approach draft number two. I’ve also begun dusting off some of the short stories that have been floating in various states of completion for… too long. We’ll see what happens with those.

Obviously I’ll be blogging as well, so stick around and we’ll have some good times.

At twenty-three, Hunter had broken both legs when his cheap explosives took out a building a little too quickly, causing him to jump from the third story window. After his recovery, he started pressuring the old man to invest a bit more money in his equipment, to start thinking about safety and reducing the turnover rate. He watched as his companions were killed by brains or lured away by better paying merc groups.

Old men don’t change. Chained to a wall far below the earth’s surface, Hunter coughed up the blood that had filled his mouth and struggled to wipe his lips on his sleeve. For years the old man had been saying, “After the next mission,” which was going to pay off huge. He was working on a policy that would give his team the edge they needed to kick more ass and bring in more work… maybe even tilt the balance of power back in favor of the humans. But then, once he’d paid the same salaries and bought the same equipment, he’d head to the Hades district and lose the rest of his profits betting on sewer rat races.

And so Hunter wound up in a cell that had been designed to look like the dungeons from the moving pictures of his childhood. There was no light, save the occasional red dot winking at him as the mechanical brain guard floated past the cell bars; no sound save the harsh breath of the hover jets.

Even then, Hunter couldn’t suppress a grin as he imagined the old man, red pencil in hand, scribbling notes over the fifty-third draft of his updated equipment policy. The death of his best gun might prompt another round of revisions, and maybe buying cheaper, even less reliable gear in larger quantities, but it wouldn’t change the company. The old man’s ship was sinking.

Hunter blinked twice, activating his dark vision, then blinked two more times and closed his eyes. I shoulda bought the strength enhancers.

Is it publishable? Nope. Is it even good? I doubt it. Is it done? Emphatic hell yes. Good and publishable will come in time. Right now I’m basking in the glow of done.

The next step will be to let it simmer for a bit, maybe work on some short stories or brainstorm another long project, then begin the revision process with fresh eyes.

I am so pumped.

I haven’t been outside since 6:50 this morning, but I hear Michigan has been mixing up a frozen latte of death, so the drive home should be interesting.

They each rested on a twin bed, their hands floating above a fur rug that looked up and barked at them before standing, stretching, and trotting over to the fireplace and flopping back down. Between the beds was a nightstand with an oil lamp, which, being the middle of the afternoon, was unlit. Herb tried to pull his hand away; Becka did likewise. The result was strained shoulders.

The door to the bedroom opened and a well-dressed man swooped in, twirled out of his coat and tossed it onto the chair with his top hat. “Well!” He clapped his hands together. “It looks like our two lovebirds have finally awakened!”

“Lovebirds?” said Herb. “What are you talking about?”

“Ah, yes yes yes, I wasn’t sure myself that the spell would work, but here you are! Two perfect lovers forever joined by the hands of Fate!”

Becka threw herself from the bed, yanking Herb to the floor, as she reached for the man’s throat. “Charles, you nitwit! We’re forever joined at the hands!”

Charles took a step back, beyond her reach. “Hm, yes, well, I warned you that my skill with the old tongue was somewhat less than perfect.”

“That’s perfect, Charles. Is this your idea of paying me back for refusing to court your brother?”

“Um,” said Herb, “that hurts.”

“Oh, no no no! That business with Arthur is a bridge under water! No hurt feelings.” Charles smiled. “Well, except for Arthur’s.”

“I think you’re dislocating my shoulder,” said Herb.

“Well, I demand a full refund! This is hardly my perfect man,” said Becka.

“Please,” said Herb, “the pain is unbearable.” Becka stepped back, returned Herb’s arm to a normal angle, and helped him to his feet.

“Hold on just a moment,” said Charles. “Sure, I will admit that perhaps I flubbed the bit about the hands and Fate and what have you, but I am confident that this man, despite his appearance, is very much what you need in a mate.”

“Hey!” said Herb, rubbing his eye with his free hand.

Becka stomped her foot and shook her fist at Charles. “Then at least fix the hand bit.”

Charles pulled a handkerchief from his front pocket and mopped at his forehead. “Yes, well, there’s a bit of a problem with that.” He avoided Becka’s glare. “I’m all out of one component.”

She tried to cross her arms over her chest, but nearly sent Herb back to the floor, so she settled for one arm. “Which component.”

Charles drummed his fingertips together in front of his chest and grinned, his eyebrows raised. “The celestial weed.”

“No.”

“Afraid so, my dear. Another shipment won’t be coming in for at least another six months. The journey to the top of the only mountain that carries them is dangerous, and therefore, expensive, so my suppliers don’t care to make it often.”

Becka shook her head. “Give me a map to the mountain. I’ll get it myself. What?” she looked at Herb.

“I’m terrified of heights,” he said as he fainted.