Irn Bru

So, here's an example of fun things you can discover whilst doing novel research.

Google search terms: What was the most popular orange soda in the Uk during the 1980s?

Answer: Irn Bru

Irn Bru is basically Scottish Mountain Dew. Same horrid color not found in nature (though Irn Bru is orange and traditional Mt Dew is uh, 'green.') Irn Bru has ads like this:



I think we can all agree that's pretty awesome.

Here's the excerpt that features it. Just a little something somethin' to keep you all following this trail of breadcrumbs a little farther:

“It’s summer, Coren. You have to have orange soda in summer.”

Coren looked at him like he was talking total rubbish. Ashrinn wished for the radioactive orange Irn Bru he’d guzzled as a kid, but he supposed Stewart’s would suffice. They stood on the front porch of their home, and Coren, leaning against the doorjamb, had his arms folded over his chest. Ashrinn could see in his posture that his son didn’t want to be placated. Still, the boy relented and took the bottle.

Boy? Holy spirit, he’s seventeen.

Now there was a sobering thought.

He shot his son a sidelong grin. He did his best to fold in to a sitting position on the front steps. Coren bent to steady him, and Ashrinn tried to feel grateful instead of helpless. Coren sat too, his shaggy hair flopping in his eyes.

“Though maybe it should have been Mountain Dew. It’s closer to Irn Bru than that.” Ashrinn said.

“Is that some Brit soda?”

“Yes. The only consensus on the flavor is that it tastes like Irn Bru.”

Malkai (MC 2)

Here's a little character piece for one of my MCs that I thought I would share with you all. (Boy, have I been writing with Vivien Weaver too much. (Not really, too much isn't possible!) Pretty soon I'll be saying might could. Anyway, here it is:


once a year we'd go see grandma and grandad in amarillo, and I'd be so excited because that meant we could stop at the Stockyard and get the best chicken fried steak I'd ever had. I mean, I know now that it probably wasn't that good, but it made me feel so grown up when I was little, being around all those real cowboys. Always had to have extra gravy.

Writing prompt!

A swift recap: over at WriteRightOn, we the members like to indulge in writing exercises. This is my on the fly answer to the prompt "Accent." These two are the main characters of Sacrificial Magic, currently in its first round of revisions.


“Pinecroft, huh? What kind of name is that?”

Ashrinn stifled a flash of anger; no sense in starting a fight. Not yet. It wasn’t as though conversational openers such as this weren’t familiar. Since joining the American military six months ago they were all but routine.

Ashrinn slung one leg over the mess hall bench and half turned to look at the voice’s owner, a tall, broad boy about his same age. He looked just about as wet behind the ears as Ashrinn felt, and the expression on his faintly vulpine features was one of honest befuddlement instead of hostility. Ashrinn’s hackles settled some.

“Are you certain you didn’t mean to lead with “what are you doing here, you goddamned Arab?”

“Just honest curiosity,” the boy nodded, the red-gold fuzz on his head making him look as miserable and awkward as a freshly shorn sheep, “I reckon you’re not the only one with an odd name.”

He tapped his jacket and Ashrinn raised an eyebrow.

“I have to admit, I don’t run in to too many Tielharts,” Ashrinn gave the boy another look, though now that the immediate threat had passed he took his time, lingering over the muscular arms and striking silver-blue eyes, “have a seat.”

“Thank you kindly. Name’s Malkai, by the way.”

“Ashrinn.”

“So,” Malkai said as he juggled tray and drink, managing to take a seat without spilling much, “about your name. I figure it’s likely British, but what I can’t place is that accent of yours. It’s so thick I could stand a spoon in it!”

Ashrinn chuckled. He’d gained a reputation in his short time in the Army for being a wild child, or, as his more vulgar acquaintances tended to put it, young, dumb, and full of come. Real friends, though, those he lacked. He had to admit, Malkai Tielhart was not only attractive, but likable.

“I was born in Tehran, and spent eight years of my life there. Farsi is my first language.”

“I thought you said--?”

“That I’m an Arab? No, that’s just what ignorant people assume when they see someone who isn’t white, black, or Mexican-brown. I'm mixed, and that just complicates matters. Gets me in trouble from time. If you haven’t noticed it isn’t a particularly popular part of the world just now.”

“What else?”

“What do you mean?”

“You’ve got more going on in your voice than that. You sound like a movie star.”

“That’s because I spent several years in Britain before coming here. Having a diplomat for a father ensures one never stays in place for too long. And thank you. So do you. Except in your case it’s John Wayne.”

Malkai puffed up and Ashrinn realized he’d taken the compliment very seriously indeed.

“If you don’t mind the cliché, this could be the start of a beautiful friendship,” Malkai said, grinning, “so long as I get to call you a sand nigger every so often.”

Ashrinn took a long drink of his soda, as though seriously considering Malkai’s terms.

“Do I get to call you a cornbread motherfucker?”

“You know it!”

They shook hands.

“Deal.” Ashrinn said.

Writing prompts!

Over on the Livejournal community WriteRightOn, we the members indulge in writing exercises every week. My favorite are the in character questions, designed to get a writer in to their character's special voice.

This week's question:

1. Tell us about where you grew up -- was it a city, town, farm, village? Who did you live with? Did you like the place, or did you want to run away as soon as possible?

2. What about where you live now? Same house, or somewhere new? Did you stay local, or move away from the area? Are you still in contact with anyone from your childhood or youth?

The writing I did is rough stuff and has only an uneven polish, but I think it's a valuable exercise and boy, these sure are fun, so here's my answer for the MC of Sacrificial Magic:

Ashrinn
People look at the news these days and see nothing but a ribbon of green floating above a black crush of people, the hands rising from the crowd all the more shockingly pale because the rest of the body tends to be shrouded.

That is what people think of my homeland now.

But when I was a boy in Tehran, none of that had yet come. Not until the day that we, I only eight years old, had to flee to keep my father from the firing squad.

Americans are unwilling to believe that there was a time, when I was as young as five, that I could pass by a group of women reading, their legs bared to the sun, on my way to purchase ice cream from my favorite street vendor. (He always ruffled my hair and told me I was growing up to be as beautiful as a saffron flower. Sometimes he would pretend he did not know how to count, and undercharge me for those disks of golden dough, the rose scented ice cream hidden inside like a secret)

I...do not wish to talk anymore of my boyhood city. I loved it, even though just outside its walls those less fortunate starved and shivered with no food or power. It was not perfect, but it was mine. The revolution changed that. I can never go back.

Now? Well, I suppose now that my wife and I are divorced I can speak plainly. I never would have chosen Seattle myself. Too bloody cold. Britain was bad enough and as much as I had no love for the deserts I helped fight wars in, at least they were warm! I have to confess, though, that maybe I've come to love this strange, grey-green jewel of a city.

My life has taught me that there is no city on this earth that will protect a person from tragedy, and there is no structure that stands for all time. From here, at least, I can push the living room curtain aside and see the neighbors, my love Malkai and his children among them, playing in the street. I've always thought of American idiom as lacking a certain color, but in this case perhaps they are on to something with "home is where the heart is."

Home is, after all, something you carry with you, that you unfurl like a fine carpet or carry like a banner, wherever you decide to rest.

So. Seattle is not the Tehran I still dream of, but this is where I choose to plant my banner for now.

I think it will do just fine.