Danni California, Part 10

Continued from Part 9, here.
Start the story here.

* * *

I knew two things that I hadn't known before, I reflected, as I leaned back against the springs of the uncomfortable hotel bed.  The springs beneath me squeaked and groaned in protest against my weight, but I paid them little mind.  I had slept on far worse.

First, I knew the girl's name.  Danni, she was called.  The girl had an accomplice, a boy waiting outside with a stolen car, and some of the bystanders heard him call out her name.

The name wouldn't do me much good, however, now that I knew the second fact.

Danni had flown the coop.  She was nowhere to be found in Indiana.

Book 16 of 52: "Bright-Sided: How Positive Thinking is Undermining America" by Barbara Ehrenreich

Hey, Barbara Ehrenreich!  I remember reading "Nickel and Dimed", one of your previous novels, on how it was impossible to survive on minimum wage - and then immediately read another novel, by Adam Shephard, who proved you wrong.  But I'll try not to let that bias my opinion of your newest book, Bright-Sided.

"Any last words?"

The rifle held firm, but the man behind the gun grinned briefly at me.  A gold tooth glinted in the light.  Not dim enough for him to miss, I guessed.

"Any last words, asshole?" he growled, cocking the rifle.

I looked back at him, not letting any expression show on my face.  In my head, of course, I was frantically running through scenarios, but everything was coming up blank.  I couldn't see any way out.

Danni California, Part 9

Continued from Part 8, here.
Start the story here.

* * *

Two weeks later, I was in Indiana, sitting outside and sipping at a cup of lukewarm tea.  The tea was not especially good, and there was still a chill in the spring air - but the view from my table was just perfect.

I picked up the cup of tea, lifted it to my lips, and repressed a shudder as the foul liquid hit my tongue.  And they had the gall to charge for this?  I was half tempted to demand my money back.  Indiana wasn't that far from New York, but the hicks out here had definitely lost something in translation.

Book 15 of 52: "The One Minute Manager" by Kenneth Blanchard & Spencer Johnson

What a weird, curious, short little book.

"The One Minute Manager" is one of those management books told as a parable, where we follow an unnamed main character as he meets a magical, mystical manager figure that somehow does everything right, where others fail.  In this book, that character is named, aptly enough, the One Minute Manager.

As our little straw man narrator/main character has discussions with the great One Minute Manager, as well as his adoring underlings, we get a picture of how, at least in this idealized world, managers are supposed to act in order to succeed.

In this perfect little world, the One Minute Manager sets clear, short, simple goals for his employees that they both agree on.  They meet each week to discuss progress on these goals, and the employees receive immediate and direct praise for things done well, and immediate scoldings for things done wrong.  These scoldings never attack the employee directly, but they do include praise as well, to encourage the employee to do better next time.

And that's it.  That's all the One Minute Manager does.

Oooh, magic.

Of course, this is all very well and good in the parable world.  But that's not always the same as in the real world.  What do you do when the real world takes an unexpected turn that isn't mentioned in our happy little artificial parable world?

For example, what happens when an employee simply isn't motivated?  One minute a week isn't enough to keep them believing that they should care about their assignment, especially if they're salaried.  Or what if an employee has multiple projects - how does the manager decide which are most important?  How does the manager even make these decisions, aside from perhaps relying far too much on his own gut?

In all of these areas, "The One Minute Manager" is conspicuously silent.  Perhaps the strategy works in Parable World, but in the real world, I suspect it's merely a reminder for managers to not micromanage or be too controlling or demanding on their employees.  And despite its short and easily readable form, this book really is just too simplified for most modern workers.

Time to read: 20 minutes.  Seriously, it's only 100 pages, and only has about 50 words per page.

Writing Prompt: Meeting the Author

I kept on running.  My heart was pounding in my chest, my legs were aching, but I couldn't stop.  I couldn't even spare the second it would take to glance behind me.

Besides, I knew that they were getting closer.

I sucked in a deep breath, trying to control the precious oxygen.  Focus, Jack, I told myself.  You need to focus.  Running will only keep you alive for a little while longer.

You need to think.

I glanced back and forth as I took another corner.  I was on a street, both sides lined with small shops.  I could feel the sun shining down on me, warming my wind-ruffled hair.  If not for my pounding heart and screaming inner voice, it could almost have been peaceful.

Up ahead of me, I saw one of them come sweeping into the intersection in front of me.  They were getting smarter, trying to cut me off.  The shadowy mass, at least a dozen feet tall, rippled with the suggestion of bones, sinews, strange and abhorrent limbs hidden beneath the almost merciful blackness that ate all light.

I didn't even slow as I turned.  A shop came in front of me, and I hit the door with a lowered shoulder.  It yielded, and I came flying inside.

I skidded, but stayed on my feet, staring around the shop.  It looked to be some sort of coffee shop, someplace filled with tables and students on computers.  No one looked up, of course.  They couldn't even see me, couldn't perceive that I was even there.

Except one young man.

For a moment, we made eye contact, and I saw him freeze.  His eyes widened, and his hand, halfway to the coffee cup beside his laptop, froze in mid-grasp.

I rushed forward, slamming both my hands down in front of the man, making him jerk in surprise.  "You!" I growled, my voice halfway between a roar and a pant.  "You're him, aren't you?"

"Oh my god," the young man in front of me stammered, staring up at me.  "Oh god, I'm having a stroke."

Outside the shop, a loud thud echoed through the room as one of the Unspeakables slammed into the door.  The wood held for the moment, but I could already see tendrils of blackness sneaking in through the cracks.  I had a minute, maybe two.

"Set take me, I don't have time for this!" I snarled down at the confused young man in front of me.  Up close, he was anything but intimidating.  He looked soft and weak.  I doubted he'd last ten minutes in my world.

But it wasn't my world - not really.

It was his, wasn't it?  He had made it.

The young man was currently staring past me, his eyes locked on the shaking, sweating doors.  "What the hell are-" he began, but I was already moving around behind him.

"Hunters," I said, snapping my fingers in front of the man's face to break his spell.  "Now, write them away!"

"What?"

I shook my head back and forth.  "Ugh, I don't have- look, you made them!" I shouted, stabbing my finger towards the door.  The wood was slowly splintering, and I could see the entire frame starting to give way.  "So you can write them out of existence!"

"I - I mean, I imagined them, but I didn't create anything," the young man in front of me stammered.  He really was useless.  And soon, we'd both be dead.

"Write!" I shouted again, stabbing my fingers down at the slim laptop in front of the man.  And, his fingers trembling, he started to type.

The Unspeakable howled in rage.  All it knew was blind rage.  It had no concept of satisfaction, even of itself.  All it knew was blind anger, hunger for the destruction of its target, hidden behind this puny and fragile defense.

"What - insight?" I snarled, staring over the young man's shoulder at the words on the screen.  "That won't help us!"  The door had almost broken away from its frame.

"Just give me a second!" the man snapped back, and his fingers kept moving.

The Unspeakable pulled back, about to throw its entire weight into the flimsy barrier.  But even as it charged forward, the whole building shimmered, fading away.

The Unspeakable didn't have eyes.  It perceived what was truly there, seeing through any illusions.

But a moment later, the building truly was not there.  It had faded, not just from sight, but out of the entire plane of existence.  The Unspeakable's quarry had escaped, and its howls of impotent rage threatened to tear its entire being asunder as it searched helplessly for a trail that was no longer there.

I lifted my head, staring out the windows of the building.  The loud cracking of the door slowly splintering had stopped.  So had all other noise from outside.  I could hear nothing, and all that swirled outside the windows was mist.

"But, I- what just happened?" stammered the young man in front of me.  "I mean, my writing isn't real!"

I reached down and slowly patted him on the shoulder.  "It is here," I told him.  "Now, come on - they'll figure out our trick soon enough and be after us again."

Listening intently, I slowly advanced towards the door.  "Come on, Author!" I shouted over my shoulder.

Behind me, the young man stood up, tucked his laptop under one arm, and then hesitated.  "I mean, I bet there won't be a good coffee shop for miles," he muttered to himself, looking down at the table.  "Maybe I can grab a to go cup?"

"Author!"

"Coming, coming!" the young man yelled back, tossing back the rest of his coffee as he scurried towards the door, following the protagonist he created years ago.

Danni California: Part 8

Continued from Part 7, here.
Start the story here.

* * *

I stared down at the sketches in front of me for a couple seconds, running my eyes over the lines of the girl's face, and then lifted my gaze back up to my supervisor, sitting in front of me.

"She's barely old enough to call herself an adult," I said, my tone turning the words into a question.  "And the Organization wants to send a Priest after her?"

Book 14 of 52: "Free: The Future of a Radical Price" by Chris Anderson

Most of the time, the management books I read tend to re-hash the same facts over and over, so although the facts are good, I feel like I'm experiencing deja vu, like I'm reading the same book over and over.

Chris Anderson's book Free, however, definitely has some new concepts - and that's a great thing!

Anderson has noticed that, especially with the rise of the electronic market on the Internet, more and more things are being offered for free.  Is this the death of business?  Are free products going to eliminate many paid products?  Are we seeing the death of multiple industries, killed by a thousand free competitors?

In a nutshell, no.

Instead, Anderson argues that there are many ways to make money with free!  He outlines several main approaches:

• The "Discounted" model, which includes options such as "buy one, get one free".  You're not really getting a second copy for free.  You're getting two copies in exchange for some money.  This is the model most commonly still seen in the physical world, outside the internet.
• The "Freemium" model, where users can pay for added features or enhancements.  Super popular in apps or other programs, where users are willing to pay to unlock custom content or to remove advertising.
• The "Unlimited" model, where users pay a single price to access as much content as they want.  Netflix is the prime example.
• The "Limited Time" model, where users can try a free trial version, intended to get them hooked on the product, before continuing to buy the full version when the trial expires.
• The "Third Party" model, where users are the product, not the customer.  A program might gather data on its users in exchange for giving them a free tool - and then sells this data to interested companies.
• The "Reputation" model, where the end goal is not profits, but reputation, recognizability, popularity.  Think of comedians who tweet.

I personally read "Free: The Future of a Radical Price" with a considering mind, because, as an author, I'm very interested in getting people to look at my books, hopefully with the end goal of purchasing them.  Will giving away books help me to sell more books?

Looking at the above models, it's clear that some of these won't work.  I can't really sell upgraded versions of the books, so no Freemium.  The Unlimited model is already in effect through Kindle Unlimited on the Amazon site, and that does tend to generate a significant portion of my profits.  Limited Time and Third Party models don't really apply to book sales.  

However, the Discounted model would be interesting to consider.  If I advertise that, with the purchase of one book, users can receive a code to download a second book for free, would that drive sales?  

In any case, "Free" definitely gave me a lot to think about, and I'd highly recommend it to anyone involved in sales, possibly of some small entrepreneurial venture that utilizes the internet.

Time to read: about 8 hours.  Because I stopped to think about what I'd read a lot, this took a while to get through.

The Man Who Built in the Sahara

"And to think," the man sitting in the leather-padded chair across from me commented, his lips twisting up into a little smirk of self-satisfied humor, "they all thought that I was absolutely crazy."

I nodded, not quite sure how I should respond to this comment.  Throughout the whole interview, I'd always had the slight, sneaking suspicion that my subject was, in fact, just the slightest bit crazy.  But I knew better than to say this out loud.

Danni California: Part 7

Continued from Part 6, here.
Start the story here.

* * *

"And that," the man in black said, leaning back a little from his typewriter to gaze at his audience, "is where I first heard of Danni."

Jenny glanced over at the other member of the audience, feeling confused. Old Hillpaw was nodding, as if this made sense to him, but she was lost.  With the strange sensation that she was back in the single room farmhouse where she struggled through all six grades of school, she put her hand up in the air.

"I'm lost," she blurted out as the man in black turned his gaze towards her.  "Who are you, anyway?  What do you do?"

Old Hillpaw's eyebrows drew together into a thunderstorm of a frown, as if this knowledge should be obvious.  But the man in black just sighed, shaking his head back and forth.

"Ah, how quickly we fade into obscurity," he said, speaking more to the empty air than to his bar companions.  "Let me try something else, miss.

"Have you heard of the Priests in Black?"

Book 13 of 52: "Hickory Dickory Death", by Agatha Christie

I’ve read a lot of Agatha Christie this year!  This is what, the fifth book by her to appear on this list?  But contributing to my reason for going back to her over and over are several strong points:

1. Her books are widely available, and always easy to pick up (no hunting for rare copies!);
2. They’re fast to read;
3. They always have that perfect “strong upper lip” sense of British sensibility, even when the topic is murder;
4. And finally, I still am absolutely terrible at guessing the murderer in the end.

Take this book, for instance.  Once again, M. Hercule Poirot is dragged into a case that, although it starts off as a simple and puzzling series of thefts, soon escalates into murder.  The suspects are a group of students and young professionals living together in a boarding house, and Poirot must dig through the web of tangled connections to figure out everyone’s real story.

One complaint, however minor, that I can make against some of Agatha Christie’s stories is that they would fare much better with a cast of characters at the beginning.  Although it’s important for the reader to have a good list of suspects, the names and faces and quirks often seem to meld together - especially at the beginning of the tale.

In addition, in this story (which takes its name from the fact that this residence where the crimes occur is at 26 Hickory St) barely seems to feature Poirot at all, despite his involvement as the head detective!  Instead, most of the questioning seems to come from Inspector Sharpe.  And while the Inspector is perfectly adequate at his job, we see very little of his actual investigative work.

Overall, I’m not sure I’d dub this the strongest of Christie’s works, but it’s still an entertaining afternoon read.

Time to read: 3-4 hours, as is typical with Christie’s books.

"With enough thrust, pigs fly just fine."

I took a moment to collect myself as I stepped around to the wooden gate that lead into my neighbor Jeff's backyard.  I didn't know what I was going to find - but my sixth sense was tingling already, telling me that it was going to be trouble.

I should have known that an engineer takes everything far too literally.

And sure enough, as I came around the corner of his house, I could already smell the acrid scent of melted plastic, the tang of gunpowder.  My concerns weren't lessened when I saw the wooden structure pointed up at a forty-five degree angle, a set of rails that angled up over his back fence.

"Jeff?" I called out, a hint of concern in my voice.  What was he building?

Danni California: Part 6

Continued from Part 5, here.
Start the story here.

* * *

The next Monday, Danni wasn't at the construction site.

Most of the workers didn't even notice the absence of the young, slim girl who had counted herself among their number.  The foreman noticed, but only in the vaguely annoyed sense that he would have to go round up another worker to replace her.  It wouldn't be hard to find someone else desperate for money, but it still took effort, and it still annoyed the foreman.

James noticed, however...