… and so, here’s my 2 cc’s (conciseness & clarity) of word medicine –>

David Fry’s Six Word Memoir:

Reluctant geek, now deep fries words … 

Tuesday noon, October 7^th

Death by keyboarding. Tap … tap … tap. How does one calculate the ballistics of an index finger pressing the delete key?

Ensconced behind smoke tinted glass, Mara Fields turned that puzzling question over in her mind, fingers dancing on the steering wheel as she rounded the corner, southbound onto Lynwood. A lime green VW Bug veered over and cut her off, the teen occupants offering up crude gestures and unintelligible taunts. Swerving to and fro, an overload of arms and legs snaked out both sides of the cutesy vehicle, a display easily mistaken for a contemporary Dr. Seuss story in the making. Albeit for mature audiences. The Who’s of Volksville howled and mooned.

Go on … ham it up. Shouldn’t you be in school boys and girls?

Mara bore down on them, closing the gap. Triggered, and happy for the challenge.

I do not like green dregs and ham … slam I am!

Apparently skipping out on that day’s laws of physics lab, the buggy occupants egged her on. Daring her, in that impervious youth imp style, they nanny nanny boo booed with abandon.

The black Ford Expedition edged within static electricity range before a wave of concern began to wash over the faces of the juvies. Mara smiled.

I’m on my way to squash that bug Derek, what’s a little smear of green on a residential street to me?

She tapped the accelerator. Bumpers kissed. Adolescents screamed. The VW lurched wide to the right, shimmied catawampus and shot over the curb. It high-centered on a yard berm of river rock, snuffing out a homeowner’s mums. The Bug seesawed gently as the students inside welded themselves into a hug fest.

Mara plowed on, watching the melodrama of teen panic unfold in a side mirror. Then it struck her. In those mere seconds she forgot about her own precious cargo. Her passenger had been silent through the entire episode. She stole a look, not out of fear of reprimand but rather a residual sense of duty.

Her next action was swift and sure. She wrapped an arm around her better half and pulled him to her side. His warmth and titanium build fueled fascination and invited touch. It was this tactile response, particularly within the confines of a moving vehicle that stoked her. And never one to argue, he obeyed each of her commands. Too bad his batteries didn’t run 24/7. PC might mean personal computer to the average populace but to Mara, PC meant perfect companion.

And besides, if a guy can refer to a ship, car, truck or computer as a she, Mara certainly had license to call her rugged laptop a he.

She pulled the swivel mount down towards her lap taking advantage of the centrifugal force of navigating a turn onto a one way street. The practiced art of one-handed typing, a skill perfected after years in field research, came online instinctively.

The monocle was a new addition that afforded a wide degree of visual freedom. It looped over her right temple, superimposing a heads up display to hover over the dash. She could commute and compute in one fell swoop.

Agent Dawkins encouraged her to learn how to train the system to respond to hand gestures but Mara preferred the velocity of keyboard response. In an actualized sense, the laptop computer was her constant accomplice, even the very extension of her being. And while she steered clear of the principles of Girl Scout law, Mara held to her own version of the Geek Girl Scout motto: Always be virtually prepared. So she kept two of them close by—identically configured—twins.

The black Suburban wannabe, with government plates, might as well have been a mobile magnet. And today’s cruising, on the heels of an afternoon thundershower, plastered to the pavement a strewn mix of early Autumn leaves. So much so that the scene evoked an aura of the Batmobile, sans the tailpipe flameouts, and prompted Mara to venture the scenic route at every turn. Side streets were her main fare. And with GPS, navigation was a moot point, though her hell-bent fury nearly outran the satellite’s ability to track.

On the right side of the holographic map suspended above the dash, twin blinking emblems merged into one glowing dot, marking the exact whereabouts of her fodder prey, clear across town. The location was public, a neighborhood grille.

How nice, Derek & Christa Vaaden are having lunch together. Enjoy it while you can.

Mara’s pumps gouged the accelerator, malice laden kinetic energy flowed into forward combustion. The speedometer needle arced and the vehicle obeyed.

Reflecting on her cover, Mara detested the idea of Uncle Sam’s insignia anywhere on her wheels. This despite the collection of magnetic signs she kept stashed under the back seat panels. It was about time to pull out the ‘Department of Heartland Security’ emblem. Dawkins would disavow any knowledge or connection to her if he had a clue she was using her privileged position to steer a personal vendetta.

Heartland. Breadbasket, USA. Here, like no other place in America, an ebony SUV with GI tags was certain to garner unwanted attention. Nothing screamed Fed louder, except maybe donning a black windbreaker emblazoned with a choice acronym. Though she held no “Agency” credentials per se, Mara’s fact-finding op was tied to her superior. And he did have governmental connections of some sort, like she cared.

The real key, her ticket to play, was this research mission. As private citizen Mara, this project would afford her cover and put her in the field, fully equipped. An excuse to venture into the stomping ground she most wanted to prey in. Derek’s own backyard.

Mara conceded one side benefit of this mode of transit. Dawkins reasoned that such a display was a natural force field, keeping local authorities at bay. That much she welcomed. But she needed to blend in without drawing meddlesome glances. She could ill afford having Derek Vaaden spooked before all his special packages had been delivered.

Mental note. Get a rental.

Even as that thought faded, Mara noticed the occupants of the vehicle on her left gesturing excitedly in her direction. No doubt the antenna whips—blackened wheat shocks—waving in the Kansas wind, had drawn their attention. They continued the stare fest even as she wheeled into a mud rutted parking area which fronted a wi-fi equipped greasy spoon.

Slurp~N~Surf, bring your own towel … the words were chalked onto a piece of grey slate that hung between two iron pipes. Rusted baling wire wrapped over each end matching the color of a large lopsided ‘X’ that was scrawled across the bottom. Mara recognized the significance. This joint was war-chalked. A term used by wi-fi geeks who drove around the country mapping freely available internet access points.

The chalk ‘X’ discoveries were then posted on the Internet so that anyone visiting a particular geographic location would within minutes find free access to the ‘Net.

Flip open your wireless equipped laptop and hit the on-ramp. A few mouse clicks and she would be able to call up an online map of all wide-open Internet access points in the city proper, and improper for that matter.

The Arkansas River, anchor of downtown Wichita, meandered 40 yards away, flowing around some bridge construction and offering up a few sandbars to migratory geese which honked mercilessly at one another. Mara maneuvered the Expedition between a cranky looking cottonwood which leaned over, ready to strum the grille of the vehicle, and a serpentine bike trail. She parked, angled for easy getaway.

The sun had pushed aside the thunderclouds, deciding to shove Autumn off the menu for the day and offer up an Indian Summer special instead. In the few minutes it took Mara to crisscross the residential arteries of Wichita to reach downtown, broiling humidity began to poach the pavement.

She grabbed the digital Canon and snapped a few shots of the geese just for practice and then turned her sights to the parking lot across the street. Only two hours previous, Mara had made a deposit in the USPS drop box across the way. Derek’s special birthday mailing was inside, awaiting pickup. It wasn’t so much that she didn’t trust the veracity of the postal service motto: through rain, sleet, or snow. Though in Kansas, all those weather events could happen within the span of an hour and the postal service’s reputation would stay intact.

It was simply the thrill of watching her production play itself out. That and she wanted to keep a digital scrapbook for Derek, just so he would know how much effort had gone into this project of hers. Besides, the package absolutely, positively, had to be postmarked today.

A gentle beep and flash of amber tugged at Mara’s attention. She glanced at the laptop screen. The wireless signal from the café was broadcasting, albeit barely workable. Nothing like free internet access floating in the air for public consumption, even though free sometimes came bundled with service of the sporadic kind. It was a terrific cloak though. Colored with anonymity, Mara’s identity and traceability was just a stream of characters weaving in and out of online traffic.

Focus. From one package handler to another, Mara called up the UPS website. Time to check the status of her second parcel. It should be in Kansas City by now, ready to move south to Wichita in time for delivery tomorrow. Package tracking, what a great pastime in this information age. The website appeared then vanished. Service interruption. Mara refreshed the browser.

As she waited for the web page to reload, Mara played with natural crumples in her dress, smooth fabric to placate a chafing mood. The dress, like all things in her arsenal was a weapon of subterfuge. It exploited what she liked to term, the ‘swish factor’. This element of ruse involved the singular act of moving the torso with a twist, just so that the natural enveloping of the dress would cause a mere moment’s hesitation on the part of an ogling male. And that slightest distraction was all she needed in most instances to accomplish a task.

Mara grinned at the ingenuity of her fabric driven machinations. She was engrossed with a particular thread when a loud rap at the driver window snapped her to attention.

An egghead kid sporting a watermelon grin pressed his nose against the glass. His hair—a shredded cheddar colby mix, standing tall enough to be part of the worldwide SETI array, phoning home to Mars—all but obscured azure blue eyes framed in coke bottle lenses. Tinted windows notwithstanding, Mara guessed the facial topping of the day to be pimpleroni. His bike must have slipped out from under him as he disappeared briefly. A muffled yelp was followed by a dull clatter. As thin as he was, Mara imagined Mr. Spaghetti wedged between the spokes. Several seconds passed. A hand materialized, grasping at air, and then the melon smile reappeared. Rap-rap-rap!

Oh great. Boy wonder wants to earn a merit badge.

Mara tapped her shades so they dropped to her nose and she sat upright.

Might as well give him the full meal deal.

She cupped a hand to her right cheek, middle finger depressing the ear bud that was tethered to a MP3 player. Let her visitor assume she was wired to a covert listening device. She punched the window button with her left index finger.

A mere inch of daylight spilled in to Mara’s inner sanctum before the air filled with a gatling spray of yap.

“Dude. Check it out. What a setup. That laptop come with biometrics? Whoa, is that a portable RFID scanner? You must be FBI, CIA, or something. You scoping out Slurp-N-Surf? I know, I know. Totally lame name. I told them to go with Cyber Burger. I warned those guys. They’re wide open. Listed on the ‘Net, as a free wi-fi hotspot. You gonna close it down? Name’s Keith, but my buds call me K’reith. Cool huh? Sounds like wraith, you know, like in Lord of the Rings. Okay, ok, some say it rhymes with Keith, but anyway. Hey, you’re no dude. You’re a dude-ette! Get it? Heheheh. Dude-ette?”

“Brilliant deduction, Keith. And thanks for the tip on the café but its time to move on. As you can see, I’m pretty involved here. Official business, you understand.”

“Oh man, you are like – wow! I mean. X-files, ya know. Scully. Dana. She’s like a babe. You remember that episode? The one where The Lone Gunmen lure her to Vegas? Oh and the one where she and Mulder go see about the weird weather. That guy. Meteorologist dude. His emotions trigger crazy weather. Freaky. Is that the one where she … Did I mention she’s the bomb? You remind me of her, I mean, can I get your autograph?”

Mara couldn’t help but feel a smidgen of pity for the kid and on a good day she might have humored him. But a good day was yet to come.

“Listen, Keith. You are interfering with a government investigation. You ever hear of obstruction of justice? You are obstructing. It is time to go.”

“Oh that bites. Sorry dude. I mean, lady. Ms. Scully, or whatever. I’m outta here. Oh kewl antennas, you got like a sat link in there or what? Awesome GPS, can I see a map? My best friend lives over on Nantucket Court, got a pool. Hey, with Google Maps we could zoom in and …”

Mara turned and faced Keith dead-on. She sliced the air across her throat and held the gesture in dramatic pause.

Keith responded with the standard hands up procedure, for all of six-tenths of a second. He then clamped down on the window’s top edge, with both hands this time. What followed was a fetid cloud of caffeinated reek. Mara coughed. Apparently Keith was under the mistaken notion that a whisper involved heavy breathing. Enough to inflate a seasonal yard display.

“ Sorry, sorry. I get it, Secret Service kinda stuff, you’re like on official business.”

Mara lifted her arm up to the window’s edge hoping to equalize the pungent air with a remnant of a very special and disarming perfume.

“Officially, yes.”

Keith inhaled.

“Whoa! Nice bloom lady. What is that?”

“If I told you, I’d have to kill you.”

Keith had that going for him at least, an olfactory that succumbed to Megan’s cologne spray, just like Derek. Who needs a firearm when a tranquilizing puff shot of Ex`cla-ma`tion! will bring the male down. His eyes bugged and he wagged his head vigorously. Mara detected a reel in his posture but the splay of questions kept flowing.

“Kewl. I’m like okay with that. My buds are gonna wig when they hear I ran into Scully. Can I see your badge? Take a quick pic for proof? WIB—women in black, this monumentally rocks. Hey, you look different than Scully. Something’s missing. Black. That’s it. What’s with the dress? Ehh, not that I’d notice that kind of thing but hey, Scully doesn’t wear a dress, blouse and slacks maybe but … say, you’re not a poser are you?”

“I’m not Scully, K’reith. Now beat it kid.”

Mara punched the window button and watched Keith dweeb dance to the last instant before escaping a finger crunch. It was then that she caught motion out of the corner of her eye. The clock display on the dash blinked to 1:05 p.m. On the dot, the mail truck rolled into the parking lot.

She gunned the engine. Keith pedaled away wobbling all over the bike trail, craning his neck backwards in stupefied adoration. No doubt his nasal alcohol content was over the legal limit but law enforcement didn’t give tickets for cologne intoxication.

The computer chimed just as Mara moved to push the Expedition into gear. She abandoned the gas pedal. A blinking blue LED, recessed in the laptop, indicated a solid internet connection.

Thank you, Slurp-N-Surf.

Wireless networking was nearly ubiquitous these days, especially with the proliferation of coffee shops and cafes. Data, freshly brewed, floated freely on radio waves. Unpasteurized electronic milk and honey waiting to be poured and processed into meaningful information. Mara tilted the swivel arm closer, this time she hoped the connection remained strong long enough to get an accurate update.

The second part of Derek’s gift exchange hinged on her ability to direct a special delivery. She had dispensed with ebay bidding in the interest of time and chose the buy it now option for two very special clocks. Keeping the shell of antiquity on one of them, Mara re-restored it to a 21^st century condition, giving the term bells and whistles an all-new context. It originally belonged to the estate of great great Auntie Jen Vaaden. Not that Derek had a clue about a great aunt. But now, the gift of dubious authenticity was on its way to him, a special birthday surprise. The real bowl over of course was concealed within its inner workings and that would play itself out in due time.

All that remained was the UPS delivery, which should be confirmed shortly. Mara had three parcel players on the field at this point, the USPS, UPS, and Fed-Ex. Almost forgotten, the Amazon.com order was en route from Fed-Ex, overnight priority. All orchestrated to arrive tomorrow.

This was the kick-off to a game that would play itself out over an eight day span. What is it they say? Anyone can do anything for two weeks. But who needs two weeks?

Happy birthday, Derek Vaaden. Welcome to your five day mandatory vacation from normalcy.

While waiting for the website to load, Mara noticed something else. An email message from Special Agent Dawkins. Not good. She didn’t even have to open it to make that assessment. The 1:00 p.m. deadline had come and gone. Her weekly reports to the operations wonk in Denver were nine minutes past due, and he most assuredly posted notice to that fact.

At the outset, the idea of working on a Department of Homeland Security project, seemed a terrific cover. An op within an op. Drew Dawkins had been instrumental in securing her role on this project. And Mara’s credentials had earned her access to data points that many in law enforcement only dreamed about. Instead of a storm chaser, she was a data chaser, even outfitted with a company car. And the Wichita assignment dropped her right into Derek’s backyard.

But then there was the ever-present shadow of Driftwood Drew. Mara gave him that name for good reason. Floating above the fray of field ops, Driftwood played a harmless red-tape dispenser. Or so it seemed. He was more like an innocuous bug riding atop a river of data. He scavenged—crawling—all over the flotsam and jetsam of the online world. The insect had a ravenous appetite that ate away at Mara’s itinerary.

Dawkins’ needle-nosed logistics and penchant for paper chasings were playing havoc with Mara’s surveillance of contestant Vaaden. She liked to refer to Derek that way because this was a high stakes reality game-show. So what if it was rigged for him to lose. He would simply be playing to his destiny and you cannot run from that. Mara would expose the true poser as the consummate loser that he was and finally be free of that vise-lock on her heart.

If only she could flick that bug Dawkins off her shoulder much like she managed to cartwheel Keith away a few moments earlier. His project was preempting her show. It wasn’t so much the workload as it was the timing. After all, reality shows are all about things dire and timing.

Dawkins, to his credit, entertained dire scenarios of a public kind, 24/7. Mara could not begrudge him that. He enlisted her assistance to whistle blow a cover-up of concerns raised over the vulnerability of America’s breadbasket states. Fears of e coli and salmonella cropping up within the beef industry and an as yet unidentified contagion in wheat gluten had prompted alarm. Thus, a feasibility study was commissioned to assess the heartland vector.

Poison the food-chain, cripple a nation. It served as his pet project, unfortunately, Mara was his pet.

Another chime broke her musings. Dawkins again. This time, an amber blinking window beckoned. He was requesting chat, via secure instant messaging. Mara began typing. She used broken words and gibberish to feign a poor connection. She then turned her attention to UPS online. There it was. The package was en route, having just been scanned in Kansas City an hour previous. It would hit Wichita tomorrow, right on schedule and more importantly, right on target. Mara keyed in a new message to Dawkins that appeared more coherent.

“Conn sig is weak.”

“Scoping new site … standby.”

Mara knew Driftwood would harp on her about not using the GSM card in her laptop which allows for roaming internet connections, much like a cellular phone. He would insist that it provided for secure encrypted communications which is what they were all about. She would play the rural card, bemoaning spotty service on the plains. It was a tightrope she was walking and she knew it. Dawkins might be driftwood but he was no dimwit.

It wasn’t as if she were lying with utter abandon. The site was real. It just happened to be a suburban property nestled in a quiet cul-de-sac of west Wichita. And judging by her watch, Mara had just enough time for a home visit before the Vaaden’s finished up a shared plate of bananas foster.

She wheeled the Expedition westward and lowered her gaze to the recycle bin that glowed on the laptop screen. The pedestrian user’s plan B. Like the safety on a handgun to protect the inexperienced. How many people using Windows on their computers have been told not to worry if they delete something? Just restore it back from the recycle bin.

Professionals require no such backup. Besides, recycling was at the very bottom of her to-do list. It wasn’t even on the same page.

Mara changed lanes, angling for a choice spot in the normal flow of traffic. Tailgating a Camry, she squeezed the air mouse, as she called it, bringing up a recent surveillance photo of Derek. Full-screen, it showed him pushing Lydia, his middle daughter, in a swing.

Isn’t that nice.

Brake lights flashed and Mara ripped the wheel to the right prompting a tinny protest from the anemic horn of a Civic in the northbound lane. The brakes of that car made to screech over the horn to no avail.

Mara pressed on. Judging by GPS time, she would arrive at her destination within nine minutes. Engrossed in the snapshot, she executed a hard right stabbing the display screen with a mauve tinged fingernail. She traced around the silhouette of Derek as though cutting out a paper doll. And then turned her attention to Lydia. Here she pressed harder, leaving an actual scratch on the screen.

Derek and Lydia were shown playing at one of two parks the family frequented. Abandoning the display, Mara moved her hand over the keyboard. Her index finger lowered and floated over the trigger. The delete key.

Tap.

Derek and Lydia disappeared.

But now it is official … I have keyed in my last jot and tittle before any further revisions … [ circa 12 B.A. (before agent), and circa 12 B.E. (before editor) ] Manuscript will remain in suspended animation until as yet unknown parties of the first and second part wander into my hemisphere and offer to take part in my dire journey.

So, without further words, I would like to take this moment in cyberspace to share a manuscript announcement:

‘DELETE’ aka ‘The Delete Key’ Birth Announcement

Date: 01.28.08
Time: 06:28:43 a.m.
Place: Wichita, KS
Size: 76,500 words

Details & Characteristics:

The last push for baby DELETE was 11,528 words over a duration of 16.5 hours of hard labor.

Dad is weary but otherwise elated & doing well. Baby was born perhaps a couple of weeks premature & a wee bit lighter than expected, but with the proper meds & attention, is expected to grow to full maturity.

As a new father, I am excited to learn and grow from this experience.

Shortly, I will give you a peek at the entity wriggling around under the swaddling clothes, as I post Chapter 1 to whet your appetite for the tyke.

This blog is a vehicle to test my voice in all manner of written’ess so I do welcome feedback.

A second premise will follow sister “DELETE” along quite soon. After all, the LORD did say to be fruitful and multiply.

The textual snapshot of baby “DELETE” is forthcoming as soon as I finish a celebratory chocolate bar.
graciously submitted,

father of “DELETE”

david w. fry

… frydwords …

I want to introduce you to a gifted soul. One who shares her talent so that others might grow in the craft of fiction. Tina Helmuth, a writer of historical fiction has established a ‘critique blog’. She freely accepts submissions in the 1,000 to 1,500 word count range. I want to emphasize the word ‘freely’ because she does this as a labor of love. Her concern is totally unselfish, she hopes to spur fellow writers onward and upward in the craft. I want to recognize her because we all know what a sacrifice it is to immerse yourself in someone else’s writing and then be bold enough to point out areas of growth. The time alone to devote to such a task is significant.

Recently, Tina posted a sample of my work on her blog. I found her review to be spot on! She has an uncanny ability to critique while still leaving your ‘voice’ intact. Please take some time to visit her blog and see for yourself. My work was critiqued on July 25th & 27th. She has entitled her blog The Ink’s Not Dry and I believe that is aptly named.

Her critiques are constructive and instructive. I envision the day that Tina will be receiving remuneration for her work, she certainly deserves it. So avail yourself of this free gift while you still can. It is an opportunity for all of us authors to grow in community learning and to help too in developing that thick skin we will need for that day, Lord willing, when we are published!

Blessings to you Tina for your efforts at encouraging us!

At first search I found no less than 20+ meanings of the word (even with the duplicates) outside the two well-know idioms of … “flash in the pan” & “out of the frying pan”. Feast your eyes on these and then go write away.

–verb (used with object)

–verb (used without object)

—Verb phrase

–noun

–verb (used without object)

–verb (used with object)

–noun

–noun

To wash gravel, sand, or other sediment in a pan.

To yield gold as a result of washing in a pan.

WOW! One word … many idioms. My friends, this is what makes the craft of writing fun! I really like that last one, “to yield gold as a result of washing in a pan” - then to drop it into the refining fire of the dire. So many connotations, so little time.

panning for gold in them thar words,

david w. fry

Now then, playing forward off the inaugural post to this newly birthed blog, the opening line of my ‘techno-stalking’ WIP hints at something dire … injection into story.

As such, I would like to visit for a moment the ‘dictionarified’ take on the word ‘dire’ just to make sure we are on the same page. 

dire:

1.  causing or involving great fear or suffering; dreadful; terrible

2.  indicating trouble, disaster, misfortune, or the like

3.  urgent, desperate

4.  warning of or having dreadful or terrible consequences; calamitous

5.  fraught with extreme danger; nearly hopeless

Friday the 13th notwithstanding, these definitions certainly sound ‘curse-worthy’ to me … in the sense that humanity is fallen, is fallen.  I mentioned earlier today on a fellow crafter’s blog the following:

At writer’s conferences we hear the mantra, “conflict, conflict, conflict” - raising the stakes, etc.

Put your protagonist into trouble and heap it on. hmmmm, sounds rather dire to me.

But is not all of life … biblical stories going forward, a retelling of the tale of dire?  Does not God’s Law point to our dire condition?  Sad to behold but there are many who are lost … asking the question, “Saved from what?” 

Dire straits!  That’s what. 

But, and it is indeed a Big But -  the forgiven have the blessed assurance of redemption.  For that reason, story works.  And we can stand and say Rejoice! and again I say, Rejoice!  For we have something to rejoice about.

Methinks that is why story is so compelling. Because dire preps us for The Way to hope. Forgive me for playing with words here (something I love to do) …

“Dire-ctions to hope!”  Maybe I should rename my blog to that instead.  hmmmm.

I guess in a verbose and roundabout way I am trying to convey this idea that dire is the state of our present reality - with communities of disonance & imbalance.  That invokes an aura of built-in tension which fuels story.

So even if our fiction doesn’t appear to have neat and tidy happy endings or elements where ’temporal’ good prevails … still, its all good!  No doubt from the perspective of present reality, many who witnessed the martyrs would be hard pressed to color those experiences as good.  And yet, from the perspective of God and his highly mysterious ways - It all works together for Good.

I am “dire-ing” to know what you think.

Blessings,

 david w. fry

Therein lies the crux of my rumination. Rumination is simply a big word that means: meditate, muse, ponder or the more pedestrian idiom of chewing the cud. You see, it is the use of words … over and over and over again that preoccupates those of us in the craft of fiction. And as one of my favorite fiction writers, Ted Dekker, is want to say: Not fiction as “false or untrue,” but fiction as in “not presently real”.

That’s it my friends. I love words. And I trust you do too. But, I don’t just love words, I love “The Word” … that was made flesh. Now there’s something. How incredibly awesome, the Word that was made flesh. Does that almost seem “not presently real” to anyone? For those who are fallen yet forgiven, we possess a gift that transforms the “not presently real” into a life altering reality of the Nth degree.

Scintillating!

Now allow me to reach back to this notion of “miss-adventure” and the purpose of my blog. I am inclined to offer an invitation for you to join me on a quest. A quest to embark on an adventure as yet … missed. I’m talking about the theme of redemption that is stamped on the passports of our souls. Passports that have been muddied, torn, trampled, and lost in the mire of the dire.

Dire circumstances.

Dire straits.

Dire consequences.

Dire need.

Need of rescue … need of freedom … need of redemption.

For the fallen and unforgiven … there’s the desire for the dire.

For the fallen and forgiven … there’s the yielding to the fire.

For redemptive story to work, that which is dire must loom and loom menacingly. For indeed, without the dire, there’s no need for a refining fire.

I will grant you this. Before one can retire the dire … one must learn to lament. THAT is something that seems missing in this age. We are told there is a time and season for every purpose under heaven … and that includes a time to lament. Not cover it up with the balm of the inane … life is dire, eternal life is rapturous!

Are you still with me? Rambling is my specialty … grab ahold and hang on. See, this is why I simply must write novels.

I am a writer, educator, and a reluctant geek. Twenty years in IT has afforded me a unique perspective on the role of technology and humanity. Certainly not a lemming, but rather, I could best be described as a ‘joyful Eeyore’ … blessings on figuring that one out. I have a passion for story and at this season in my life, that passion is leaking out onto the web and paper. I have stories simmering on the back burner, crackling and popping for attention.

It is my desire to share glimpses of this journey with you. I want you to come along as I discover the craft of writing, purposely taking the road less traveled with the hopes of making a difference. In short, I am inviting you to walk with me. The blog will be our road. I plan for it to be an “occasional” blog with at least one entry a week, perhaps more. I welcome your company and hope to point you to sight-seeing stops along the way - those whose writings and ruminations have illuminated my way. Will you join me then on this road?  A road of discovery and perhaps, a road that might one day lead to a dream of publication?

I currently have (2) works in progress. One involves ‘techno-stalking‘, a niche genre of ‘techno-suspense‘ - the working title is “DELETE” and the other is speculative in nature with a working title of “PHOSPHOR“. Both of these stories have me pumped and I plan to post a snippet or more of Chapter 1 of “DELETE” to whet your appetitie.

The opening line to “DELETE” goes something like this:

“Assassination by keyboarding - How does one calculate the ballistics of pressing the delete key?”

The plan then is to cook up some seasoned fiction, serving true conviction.

BYOS - Bring Your Own Skillet

Time to go stoke the flames …

… Out of the pan and into the dire,

david w. fry a.k.a. frydwords