CAPITALISTIC BLAME GAME

Posted in RAVING RANTS/GREED THE NEW RELIGION with tags on 10/17/2012 by scdenton

Was reading a writing book earlier today (on my Kindle) and I got pretty perturbed. A writer seemed to be perpetuating the myth that big publishing deserved to be paid for each hardback/paperback sale that took place after the initial sale of the book. This type of attitude–whether it’s what she actually meant or not–has really gotten under my skin.

At this point, in this industry, I’m a nobody–but that doesn’t mean that my opinion doesn’t matter. I am, after all, a consumer. A reader/consumer of books. That alone is enough for my opinion to matter. Beyond that I’m a writer; which means I have to take a side. And maybe you’re inclined to think I’d be on the side of the writer. That I believe the writer should be paid each and every time their book is sold. But that’s just not the case.

Why should publishers–or writers–be paid any more after the first sale of the book? Continue reading

SURVIVING THE GAME EPISODE ONE: MONTAGUE’S MARCH MADNESS

Posted in SURVIVING THE GAME with tags , , on 09/15/2012 by scdenton

by S.C. Denton

Chapter One: The Temptation

Not one team member who jogged onto the bus said hello to the new driver. Not that they had ever said boo to the old one, but he’d been a silent fixture who’d specialized in solemn stares and cold gazes. But he’d meant no harm; he had simply been a deeply introspective person. None of that mattered now. Now he was gone. And here was the new guy sans introductions. But that was okay because he had no damned intentions of making friends with these kids. His sole purpose in life was to get the cattle in the chutes and get them headed to their destination. He always followed the boss’s orders to the letter. Frick knew what was good for him.

Montague had a way of getting what he wanted, and he never took a refusal lightly. But this was a huge step up from the little favors Frick had done in the past. This was, essentially, kidnapping. Perhaps he’d even be an accomplice to murder. He didn’t want to think about that. These were just college kids for Christ’s sake. Not a one of them older than Frick’s son. Frick had no doubt that whatever Montague had in store for these fine young gentleman couldn’t be good. Frick was devastated that he’d have to deliver these basketball players into the spider’s lair, but he consoled himself with the knowledge that his wife and son would remain safe. At least for the time being.

Better than half the players had their heads buried in one electronic gadget or another. The rest were taking the time to catch up on some ZZZ’s. Frick let his eyes drift back toward the road. Safety really wasn’t an issue he was concerned with, but he didn’t want to remember much about this trip. The dismal blacktop and its siren song of the mayonnaise-and-the mustard was all he’d willingly commit to memory.

As he took an exit that would lead them nowhere near the arena, Frick scoffed at how little these children’s parents had taught them. One of the first rules of life is to always be aware of your surroundings. Obviously quite a few parents had missed that one in the handbook. Frick wasn’t sure if this made him sad or happy, he was merely making an observation.

* * *

The warehouse was in an old meatpacking district, and the door slid open as if triggered by invisible laser line. The teens had only just begun to groan and moan about the bus driver’s obvious miscalculation. Before the bus could come to a complete stop, Frick was opening the sliding door. He leapt from the bus, slapped the close button, and ran out of the warehouse, narrowly ducking beneath the garage door as it shuddered to a close.

“Hey! What the hell?!” said Aaron, the team’s captain.

Grumblings spread like a contagion. Silence soon set as the rows of arc sodium lights zonked out, not singly or sequentially, but in a calamity of sparks. A ballyhoo of phones chirped to life, providing only the slightest bit of illumination. A silhouetted figure made its way to the front of the bus.       Continue reading

treebeerdstuff

Some drawings, words and peanut butter.

Z

This is the way the world ends--not with a whimper but a scream

SURVIVING THE GAME:

HOME OF FICTION WRITER: S.C. DENTON AS WELL AS A PLACE FOR MY SPECULATIONS AND THEORIES

Matt on Not-WordPress

Stuff and things.