Deuce examined the weapon Quint handed him.  It resembled a rifle-style blaster, except the barrel was too thin and the magazine too thick.  He found it disconcerting to not recognize this particular instrument of war.

“What is its designation?”  Deuce asked.

“I call it an atrocity,” Kyla muttered as she gazed down the field the three of them stood upon.

The artificial sunlight from the ceiling of the manmade cavern they occupied cast shadows beside them, distorted by the remaining stubble of harvested grains adapted to this environment.  Fifty meters away at the other end of the field, the carcass of a coyote, exterminated during a livestock raid above ground, hung between two poles.

Quint shrugged.  “A correct designation would be disintegrater.  But we just call it a grater.  Fact is, shoot something with this thing or run it through a grater, you get the same result.  Go ahead, fire it.”

Deuce aimed the weapon at the carcass and tapped the trigger.  The coyote burst into a cascade of bite-size pieces, hide and meat and organs raining down in a two-meter radius around it.  Only the main part of the skeleton remained hanging.

Kyla’s demeanor was unchanged.  “That’s just nasty.”

Considering she was a doctor, Deuce found her remark incongruous.

The grater was effective, but he realized its shortcomings.  “This is highly efficient on organic matter, but the fact several of the heavier bones maintained integrity indicates limitations on dense materials.  And a coyote is lighter than a cyborg.”

“Yeah, we never bothered to improve the original models before,” Quint replied.  “The reason we’re bringing them back to the drawing board now is because we all know the Elite will change the central control module locations on the cyborgs’ tech.  We need to be able to kill them once, not have to do it twice like before.”

Something the colonel didn’t say stood out to him more.  “This isn’t a new weapon design?”

“No … we developed these a couple of decades ago.  But they’re … too messy.”

Kyla rolled her eyes as she fingered a malachite brooch on her shirt collar.  “Any new weapon can fall into enemy hands.  I’d like the chance to save my patients, thank you.”

Deuce studied them as he contemplated the explanation.  “So you could have utilized these against the ameliorated soldiers I commanded before defecting to your camp, but decided not to?”

“Not using them was the lesser evil.”  Quint shrugged.  “You should be grateful that was our choice.  Otherwise you might not be here now.  Anyway, we want to restructure the charges to an entirely electrical basis.  Shut down the cyborgs’ hearts and tech.”

He was still grappling with the notion that his former enemies had developed an effective weapon they decided against using.  The organization Deuce defected from, the Elite, would have implemented these graters with no hesitation.

“At least I can restart a heart.”  Kyla’s gaze locked on him.

Quint stated the obvious.  “We want your expert opinion on what firepower we’ll need against these new cyborgs.”

“I can’t claim expertise on the next method of attack.”  Deuce studied them both.  “It’s possible they won’t deploy cyborgs again.”

His two comrades looked at each other.  Kyla, who was in her early sixties but only streaks of gray in her upswept hair betrayed age, returned her gaze to Deuce.

“What could be next?”  Because of her years, she’d witnessed this entire, ongoing war.  “First they used androids.  Then they developed super soldiers, which they later supplemented with strategists like you.  Now they’ve combined android and soldier into cyborgs.  Do we suspect flying monkeys that spit venomous fireballs?”

“I wouldn’t put it past them,” Quint grumbled.  He was in his thirties and had only ever known war.

Deuce stared at the grater as he considered why he was here.  Chronologically in his twenties, he had been trained for warfare by the Elite as long as he could remember.  They had created him for warfare.  Unlike the genetically improved soldiers who could only follow orders, the Elite engineered him to think strategically.

But they considered his creation, and the twenty-three other prototypes like him, to be a failure.  Creations that could think for themselves were considered a potential threat, which was why so few were produced.

And some of those thinkers had defected before him, joining forces with these people he used to know as rabble.  Those predecessors were now dead.  Defective prototypes were overwhelmingly targeted in battle.  But in his case, joining the rabble became his only chance to continue living.

Like the grater he held, the prototypes were judged to be undesirable for service.  He and four others who still survived were given one option to remain practical to the Elite.  They had to submit to biotechnical modifications that included interfacing with the core data system.

By this time Deuce started considering Elite philosophy to be incorrect, and having those private doubts made public would get him executed.

He’d been created to bring a war to its end, and failed.  And now the rabble looked to him to help them end this war.  His new society believed in Rules of Engagement.  How does one defeat an opponent who doesn’t share that outlook?

“Utilize both.”  Deuce returned his attention to them.

“Both of what?” Quint asked.

“Both designs.”  He held up the grater.  “Implement your modifications.  But also increase the charge yield on these models.  They could prove advantageous.”

“They could be suicidal.”  Kyla frowned.

“You must be prepared for anything if you want to end the war.”

“I want to end it.”  Her gaze locked on his.  “But not by getting us all killed in the process.”

“Let’s not forget we’ve got an alternative,” Quint muttered.

Deuce’s attention shifted to him.  “What alternative?”

“That’s a discussion for another day.”  He shrugged.

The only alternative Deuce could think of was retreat.  But there was nowhere in the world safe enough to retreat to … was there?

###

Here’s is this month’s submission to #BlogBattle, and the word of choice this time was Brooch.  I know other writers can get more creative with that prompt, so feel free to check them out!

This story is sort of a prelude to next month’s installment, which is why it leans toward being a philosophical recap.  If you want to check out previous submissions to this serialization, here’s a link to last month’s entry and you can work your way back.  Since I plan to compile these into a novella when they’re completed, I’m not highly motivated to organize them now…!

It’s true I’ve often alluded to how you have to be crazy to be a writer.  Most of us tend to be introverts, yet there’s something exhibitionist about giving others a glimpse into the madness of our minds.  And if you stop and think about it, several categories from the Abnormal Psychology files do seem to apply to writers.  For instance:

Schizophrenia:  Of course we hear voices and see visions.  How else do you think we come up with all those descriptions and plot twists?

Obsessive-Compulsive:  This manifests as thinking about our story while we’re driving, showering, or pretending to listen to our spouse.  During certain stages of the craft it can degenerate to distracted driving, skipping showers, and not realizing the spouse has left the building.

Bipolar:  We will often begin a project with high hopes and great anticipation, but about halfway through the first draft suspect it’s really just a steaming pile of poo.

Catatonia:  Staring at the computer screen or across the room for longer than we’d like to admit.

Dissociative:  More the result of being obsessive-compulsive, we sometimes blur the lines between our works in progress and reality.  This can manifest as forgetfulness, or like the time I called one of our kids by the name of a character in a story I was working on.

Bibliophilia:  This one’s a no-brainer.  We love books.  We love books so much we think there should be more books.  We read books, and our to-read pile of books just keeps getting taller.  When we go to heaven we expect to read those books we didn’t get to while still on Earth.

Those were what I could think of off the top of my head, but you could probably come up with others.  Like many things in life, you’ve got to be at least a little crazy to be a writer.

While I’m here I’ll give a quick update on my next book, part three of the four-parter End of an Age series (I like to call it a quadrilogy, but I am a little crazy).  It’s in finishing stages, but this pandemic thing has made me decide to push off its debut for a little while, more in the summer than the spring.  I’ll keep you posted….

As a writer/reader of post-apocalyptic, sci-fi thriller type of stories, observing the current pandemic has been … interesting.  Sociologists and psychologists will be picking this one apart for a while.  Hopefully we’ll all be “flattening the curve” sooner than later and this will become one of those life events we’ll regale our grandchildren with.

With hubby working from home now, I had to go into town earlier this week to restock some of our supplies.  Until then I had been somewhat buffered from the swarms of locusts that descended upon the toilet paper, milk, canned goods, etc.

I wound up going to various stores to find everything.  It’s one thing to see and read about all the empty shelves in stores.  Actually walking through aisles that induce me to imagine the wind blowing and crickets chirping is more profound.

One of the items on my list was peanut butter.  There is only one brand and variety I buy (one of the few things I’m persnickety about).  Only one store in town carries the large-size jar.  As fast as we go through peanut butter, I buy it all from that establishment because it’s more cost effective.

I also knew locusts would hoard peanut butter the same way they do tuna, canned peaches, and the like.

When I first turned down that aisle of that store, my heart fell.  More empty shelves.  But then I spied a small grouping of peanut butter jars amidst all the vacancy.  There was only one style available: crunchy.

Apparently locusts don’t like crunchy peanut butter.

Did I mention we eat only crunchy peanut butter in our household?

And there sat large jars of the brand and variety I buy.  It was like the clouds parted and sun rays beamed down and angels began singing.

Being a writer, I was spurred into philosophical contemplation about this incident.  We’re in the midst of “interesting times” that challenge us, but perhaps can also inspire us.  That jar of crunchy peanut butter became a beacon of hope to me.  Despite ill winds blowing, we can weather this event and come out stronger, and wiser, when it is finished.

People on the front lines (first responders, medical personnel, etc.) are doing all they can to help stem the pandemic.  I give those of you my gratitude and standing ovation.  I’ll keep in my prayers any folks, and their loved ones, who are dealing directly with COVID-19.  Help can come where many people least expect it.

I’ll never take crunchy peanut butter for granted again….

For those of you who are Smashwords members, or would like to be, take note (and heart):  Today through April 20, 2020, contributors are participating in an Authors Give Back sale.  As stated on their site:

This sale is the direct result of several Smashwords authors requesting that Smashwords run a special sale.  These authors wanted to show their support to readers who now face unprecedented social isolation, anxiety and economic hardship as a result of the world response to the Covid-19 pandemic.

At first it was a no-brainer to offer the first two books of my End of an Age series for free, but then my brain kicked in and I thought long and hard about it.  Smashwords also had this to say:

THIS IS NO ORDINARY SALE:  Readers everywhere are going through great difficulty.  There’s the difficulty of social isolation as readers shelter in place at home.  There’s the real concern that one’s family or friends will be harmed by Covid-19.  There’s the economic hardship and uncertainty that touches everyone.  As you promote your participation in this special one-time sale, please do so with heart, compassion and sensitivity.  Before promoting your participation or a particular title, ask yourself, “How can my book(s) make a person’s day brighter?”

The End of an Age books are about a coronal mass ejection that crashes the electrical grid and the technology dependent upon it.  The storyline focuses on a young woman with a bioenergetic ability that makes her a target to a corrupt faction.  There is tribulation and death.

But there is also courage and hope.  Because I do want to reach out to readers, I’ve decided to offer these books for free.  But I do so with a caveat.  If nothing else, you’ve learned about this sale and can find many amazing offers.

If you’re not already a Smashwords member, signup is free.

Click on the link below to get started.  And stay safe!

Colonel Quint was still deciding how annoyed to be as he strode into the recovery room.  Most of his soldiers were lying in rows in other rooms not meant to accommodate so many patients.  After the tortuous battle they’d been through, they deserved better.

But this IMP, this genetically modified interloper that … he had to admit … saved the day, got a room all to itself.  Before today it had been as much of an enemy to them as the cyborg troops they’d just vanquished.

He didn’t know why it aligned with his battalion and nearly got itself killed.  But the IMP remained mistrusted, so it was separated from the rest of the troops.  By the time night fell they relocated all the wounded to the hospital zone of their underground dwelling.  Far surpassing a subterranean castle, the multiple levels of their city branched in various directions for different purposes.

As he entered the room, his attention shot from the unwelcomed warrior reclining on the bed to Zeke, who sat on a chair beside it.  And he wasn’t holding a blaster.

“Why aren’t you guarding it?”  Quint’s annoyance increased.

Zeke returned the colonel’s gaze, his gray-streaked beard concealing nothing about his smirk.  “He can barely sit up, much less pick a fight.”

Quint still couldn’t understand why the combat chaplain started calling this so-called improved soldier he.  Sure, technically it was human, it looked like a man … but its DNA was altered.

“It could be trying to lull you into complacency.”

Zeke looked at the IMP.  “Am I complacent?”

Its brow furrowed, which was no surprise because Zeke was notoriously perplexing.  “I am unable to determine that aspect of your psychological status.”

Hearing it speak in a voice that was low and wavered caused Quint’s stomach to clench.  All the bandages wrapped around it made the IMP appear as though it might consider changing the meaning of its acronym from Intellectual Militant Prototype to Impostor Mummy Perpetrator.

“We don’t know how fast these things heal,” Quint growled.

The IMP regarded him with a steady gaze.  “My superior physiology does promote optimum recovery, but the extent of my injuries dictates a convalescence of several days.”

“I’m starting to enjoy listening to him talk.”  Zeke shrugged.

The door opened, and Kyla stepped into the room.  Gray strands in the physician’s hair hinted she was around Zeke’s age.  Her expression remained as determined as it was earlier today, when she tended wounded on the battlefield.

“Oh, I see you came to check on our little problem.”  She nodded to Quint.

He wished the problem was little.  Although the IMP had risked its life to save his battalion, Quint was unconvinced it wasn’t trying to gain their trust only to betray them later.  But he still had to do something with this thing.

“How soon until it’s on its feet?”

“Good question.  His wounds aren’t as critical as they are numerous.  But we can move him anytime you’d like.”

Great, now she was starting to call it he.  “The problem is I’m not sure where to move it.”

“I have a suggestion.”  Zeke’s gaze lingered on Kyla.  “Since our deuce will need medical attention for a while, I’ll volunteer to keep him.”

She pressed her lips together as the IMP frowned again.

“Your proposal is incongruous.”  It studied Zeke.  “You haven’t exhibited medical cultivation.”

“No, but since the doc here is my wife, she can monitor your recovery.”

“Wife?”

From the way its frown deepened, Quint suspected it was a word that wasn’t prominent in its vocabulary.  His attention returned to Kyla.

“You agreed to this?” Quint asked.

Her eyes rolled.  “Yes, he’s already come to me with the can-we- keep-him question.  Zeke seems to think we can domesticate him.”  She locked her gaze on the IMP.  “If he gets too rambunctious, I can always sedate him.”

Quint couldn’t resist.  “The IMP or Zeke?”

Her smirk matched her husband’s.  “Either.  But we need to call him something other than IMP71.  That’s too much of a mouthful.”

“IMP17.”  Its expression became quizzical as it regarded her.  “Only twenty-four of us were generated.”

“I’m not calling you that, either.”

Zeke leaned back in his chair.  “Mr. Popularity?”

The IMP redirected its attention to him.  “I prefer the other designation you’ve utilized.”

Quint savored more enjoyment than he should have upon seeing Zeke’s brow furrow for a change.

“What designation?”

“You’ve referred to me several times as Deuce.  I will accept that appellation.”

Quint clamped his lips together to keep the rest of them from seeing him grin.  Okay, the last thing he expected was amusement, but he was starting to see why the chaplain had gotten intrigued by this IMP.  He cleared his throat before speaking.

“Do you know what deuce means?”

It studied him now.  “It is an archaic representation of the number two, usually in application to dice or playing cards.”

Zeke winked at him, which the IMP didn’t see because it was looking at Quint.  “Well, I admit that does sound appropriate for a gambling man like him, after all the chances he took switching to our side in this war.”

Kyla nodded.  “I can call him that.”

Quint wasn’t sure if changing from one little devil title to another qualified as an improvement, but he could understand how that gap also existed in its vocabulary.

Although he didn’t think Kyla deserved getting saddled with this IMP, Zeke did.  And if she was willing to undertake the task, they were the best people for the job.  The chaplain was an irritant, but he also possessed good judgment that Quint trusted … and hated to admit.

“Then it’s in your custody.”

He left the room less annoyed than when he entered, and also dared to harbor the hope this Deuce was on the level with them.  If so, it … or maybe he … could help them finally bring an end to a war that had raged for generations.

###

This month’s submission to #BlogBattle sort of brings us to the end of Act One in the serialization of these stories.  The word of the month this time is Castle.  Feel free to check out the website and see what other stories are submitted.

If you want to read the other stories associated with this novella in the works, click on the link to last month and you’ll discover the previous posts.  All in all, thanks for reading!

Last week I discovered the grocery store had switched from red, plastic carts to black and gray, plastic carts.  The new carts are bulkier and uglier and don’t perform any better than the old carts.

“Performance in a grocery cart?” you might ask.  “What planet are you from?”

Okay, I get it that the store probably needed to replace their old carts because they all had two or more wonky wheels.  But we all know it’s inherent to the shopping cart species to rapidly develop one wonky wheel.  So pretty soon the new carts will be like any other cart, only uglier.

The ugliest carts were probably the cheapest replacements the store could get.  I do appreciate their attempt to keep my grocery prices down, but why should beauty suffer in the name of economy?

Look around town:  The most attractive buildings are the older ones constructed from brick or other masonry and designed with style.  The new buildings are metal stamps.  If a classic car drives by, it turns heads.  The new cars today all look alike.

It often seems like craftsmanship is becoming an endangered species.  My attraction to writing could probably be explained by my appreciation for the older arts.  And yet writing, as ancient as it is, adapts well to modern technology.

It’s no secret I have a love-hate affair with digital technology.  I love it when it serves me.  I hate it when it wants me to serve it (those people with nomophobia know what I’m talking about).  I also hate it when it doesn’t work, but that’s another story….

As is the case with true craftsmanship, the changes in writing reflect changes in the culture.  That’s why the stories we read today are not written the same way they were for Beowulf, or the Canterbury Tales, or The Scarlet Letter.  And yet folks can still enjoy works like those because good storytelling is timeless.

But when somebody like Mark Twain breaks new ground in fiction because he chose to write in the vernacular, writing can take on a modern tone and still be beautiful.  Yeah, people can write some pretty ugly things, too, but that’s their choice.  Those interested in developing the craft will keep to the higher standards.

It’s time for me to pack up my cart and move on out … darn this wonky wheel….

Do you know what straight from the horse’s mouth really means?  Oh yeah, I’m sure you understand it implies information has come from a reliable source.  But have you ever wondered why anything a horse said was considered trustworthy?

Well as you know, before there were cars, people used horses.  And before there were used-car dealers, there were used-horse dealers.  And just like you want to be sure you don’t buy a car that’s just going to break down, folks wanted to be sure they didn’t buy a horse that would just go lame or belly-up (and that’s not to the bar).

And just like unscrupulous people in modern times have tried turning back car odometers to make them appear newer, unscrupulous people have tried to lie about a horse’s age to make it appear younger.  In case you didn’t know, you can determine how old a horse is by looking at its teeth (and check out a few other gross health issues I won’t go into here).

Our language has many metaphors that harken back to the realities that spawned them, but the real meaning might be lost on the current generation.  Every year we hear the rundown on things we older folks took for granted growing up, that college graduates never experienced.

Remember the clatter of typewriter keys, the manual exercise of using a rotary dial on a phone, or waiting on your computer to make the call to your internet service provider?

There’s something we still do in my family that I’ve wondered if it will fall into the horse’s mouth category or go the way of the dodo.  If somebody’s driving off in a car and we realize we need to tell them something before they go, we crank one hand in a circular motion.

Since the age of power windows has fully descended, how long will people understand what that hand signal means?  It’s certainly more obvious than just punching your finger down, so it might become one of those things we understand, even though we don’t know why.

Or it could be that someday my grandkids will ask their parents, “I know that Granny’s off her rocker, but why does she shake her fist at us sometimes as we’re driving off?”

Just remember, you got that straight from the horse’s mouth.  Did I just call myself a nag…?

Through dust and ash and metal and blood, IMP17 surged forward on the battlefield.  Men who were not genetically improved as he was lay scattered with the cyborgs.  Cracks and booms and high-pitched whines reverberated from every direction.

The four cyborgs that attempted to outflank him uttered nothing.  They didn’t need to, for the cyber-neural link that interconnected their battery allowed orders to be directed with a thought.  The shouts on the killing ground were launched from the unimproved people, but shrieks erupted from both opposing troops.

IMP17 sprang to the side to prevent their surrounding him.  The same instant he fired off well-placed rounds from the blaster he gripped.  The cyborgs were slightly more machine than flesh, requiring precision in his targeting.

He spied the blue, artificial eyes of the first soldier, and shot him in the left thigh to obliterate the Central Control Module that operated his technical framework.  The second opponent had a broad nose, so his CCM was located in the right hand.  There was a dimple in the chin of the third foe, so IMP17 shot him in the right upper arm.

The appearance of the fourth cyborg presented a problem.

All the features that designated where the CCM was located were on the face, and this one no longer had a face.  The organism was already dead, but enough of his head remained that the neural link was still in communication with the module’s Artificial Intelligence.  The machine part of him remained vivacious and continued fighting.

IMP17 knew strategy involved each soldier of that team having the CCM located in a different area.  The possible locations totaled five.  With two possibilities left, he had a fifty-fifty chance of hitting the fourth cyborg’s module.  Without hesitation he shot him in the left lower arm.

His guess was incorrect.

It took less than two seconds to place those four shots, and IMP17 had to spring to the side again as all four combatants fired their blasters.  The ground where he just hesitated erupted into chunks of dirt and sprayed brittle grass.

His next shots didn’t have to be as precise, so while darting back he fired the next volley at the heads of the first three cyborgs.  They whirled as they dropped, their faces as unrecognizable as their fourth companion’s.

A searing pain flashed across his right shoulder.  Faceless Four had squeezed off a round that connected even as IMP17 shot at the cyborg’s left foot.

The thwump from his blaster revealed it was out of ammo charges.

Throughout the battle IMP17 had been snatching up derelict blasters and emptying them at his opponents.  He’d saved on some charges because organisms could also be killed by stabbing, bludgeoning, or snapping.  CCMs, however, could only be electronically disrupted or physically severed.

He surged toward the fourth cyborg, leaping to avoid the next blast and ducking so that another shot missed.  While low, he swung the blaster like a club against the cyborg’s shins.

His opponent toppled, and IMP17 pounced on the nearest blaster dropped by a felled cyborg.  He rolled as he grasped it because Number Four immediately began shooting at him.  Then he sprang up three meters to dodge the low volley.  His foe had scrambled back up, making that crucial left foot accessible.

Still airborne, he fired three rounds, hoping to at least disable this combatant in case he’d been wrong about their strategy.  The cyborg collapsed as he landed nearby it.

He spun around to assess his next movement of attack or defense.  There were roughly half a dozen cyborgs left.  Before IMP17 joined the battle, their troops were practically massacring the men.  But after he entered this arena and slaughtered most of the enemy, the remaining men outnumbered the cyborgs.

The humans were ganging up on their opponents with blasters blazing.  These soldiers had picked up on where the CCM could be located, so they made it a point to hit all those normally nonfatal areas as well.  The remaining cyborgs were already crumpling.

IMP17 took a step toward the nearest squad to assist them … but his legs buckled and he had to catch his balance.

His heart started to pound from a reason other than combat.

This was the first day he fought cyborgs instead of men.  The enhancements made to his biology couldn’t compensate for all the blaster hits, gashes, and lacerations a more formidable adversary had given him.  He knew what was happening even though he’d never been this injured before.

As soon as his brain acknowledged combat was no longer necessary to stay alive, his body began shutting down certain functions to stay alive.  The agony that now racked him almost provided distraction from the chill seeping to his core.  Despite the increasing lightheadedness that promised a respite from this torment, IMP17 struggled to remain conscious.

Today he joined these men in battle.  But before today, he had been as much of an enemy to them as the cyborgs.  Today he tried to establish trust with these men, but it was extremely fragile.  They could still decide terminating him would settle their problems for the day.

The training and discipline that kept him going earlier failed, and IMP17 toppled to his knees.  He seemed to collapse in slow motion, trying to brace himself with one arm, but sank closer to the ground stained with blood that probably included his own.

His mind roared to his body that he might need to defend himself as two men approached.  But his vision dimmed and all he could focus upon was their boots.

“Is it still alive?”  The soldier’s voice sounded distant.

The toe of the other’s boot nudged against his ribs.  “Yeah.  You know these IMPs don’t die that easy.”

Darkness descended, and nothing IMP17 tried would keep it at bay.  He had no idea what he would wake up to, assuming he woke at all.

###

Here is this month’s contribution to #BlogBattle, and this time the prompt word was Vivacious.  Yes, quite an interesting word for this sort of story….  Check out the other entries for February and see how other writers got lively with this prompt!

This is the fifth installment of a serialization I’m doing, so if you want to catch up you can find the previous story here, and at the bottom of it you can link to the first three stories.

Naming characters is one of those little details that can add a lot of color to a story.  Without going into all the nuances of leaving them unnamed or giving them monikers based on license plates, here are some thoughts about what characters get called.

I once read a book where everybody had names like John, Martha, Bill and Mary.  Now the author may have done this on purpose to underscore that they were common people (caught in an uncommon situation, of course).  Personally I would have liked a couple of the names to be more distinctive, especially if they were tied to characters that needed to stand out.

In this age of multiculturalism, nomenclatures can also serve as gentle reminders of someone’s identity.  When you read about Hakeem, you don’t confuse him with Seamus, much less with Kameko.

Focusing on a culture in history or aliens in the future might present names so uncommon that a cast of them can become difficult to sort out.  Using names that are either descriptive or opposite can help designate which character is involved.  Readers can remember that Victor is on a winning streak or Shorty is the tallest person in the room.

Keeping a name pronounceable can also be helpful.  J. K. Rowling came up with seven creative ways to illustrate how Hermione is supposed to be said, but Syvwlch (unless you’re Welsh) could cause brain-lock for folks.  Seamus might have to become Shamus, but that could only be if he leaves Scotland.

In the genre of romance you expect Prentice and Selena to fall in love, not Ralph and Betty.  Nor would you believe an alien who told you his name is Skippy.  Rusty sounds good on a cowboy (would he squeak when he walks instead of jingle?) but seems odd on a manicured businessman.

There are plenty of other factors that come into play, but I won’t be exhaustive here (it wears me out).  Going beyond what’s in a What to Name the Baby book, however, can make calling your characters names more fun.

Just remember it’s considered bullying if you do that with real people….

Words are funny creatures.  If you want to know the definition of one, you look it up in the dictionary.  But sometimes the idea they convey can go farther than Mr. Webster or someone else of his ilk had in mind.

You’re probably already familiar with the denotative and connotative meanings of words.  Denotative relates to serving “as a linguistic expression of the notion.”  Connotative relates to a cultural or emotional association.

In other words, denotative is, and connotative is how it can be taken.

When someone says “Oh, great!” do they mean something is wonderful … or are they implying things aren’t so cheery?

When a woman mentions a “hot babe,” you figure she’s concerned about a sweaty infant.  If a guy mentions “hot babe,” however, he’s probably referring to the woman who’s trying to cool that infant.

When Caesar said “Lend me your ears,” he wanted his audience to listen with rapt attention, NOT do a Van Gogh on their lobes and loan them out.

(Although I am put in mind of a Star Trek episode where Kirk and Spock travel back in time and Kirk tries to explain Spock’s ears by claiming he fell into a mechanical rice picker….  Don’t ever think there was never any comedy on that show!)

Connotations are blood to a writer’s words, giving them life when, if we had to stick to the literal meaning, a passage would otherwise be rendered dry as dust.  Without connotation, the preceding sentence would have turned out more like this:  Connotation uses concrete concepts to adapt an abstract idea to a written passage, making it more creative for the reader.

Zzzz….

Huh? * Snort!* Cough!  Where was I?  Oh yeah, so after they pulled Spock out of the mechanical rice picker, they took him to a missionary who….  You mean that wasn’t where I left off?  And I already did the whole blood and dust bit?  Oh, great…!