I've written one of my upcoming stories in the style of a newspaper article. It is in American English, as that's where my strength lies. I'd kind of like it to be in Queen's English (or Received Pronunciation, if you prefer). My publication schedule is for June 16. Anyone have a resource?

This would be a lovely beginning to a shared-universe anthology.

Guilty as charged!

Can't is correct here. For whatever reason, the people in the Federated States speak American English. Using "can't" implies that it's a quest, and there's no guarantee coffee will be found. Using "can" would mean that finding coffee is a given.

In point of fact, he heated them, then poured sour wine over them. The vinegar in the wine penetrated the fissures caused by the heating and formed an acidic gas that expanded and permeated the pourus limestone, rendering it softer. Dude... what you changed it to is not remotely what I wrote. Sorry, but you can't call it an error of Gnat's part of you're reading it incorrectly! ;)

Mountainview Fanfic in the Tankiverse by Hippin_in_Hawaii Fred scowled at the map. “That is going to be a tough nut to crack.” The nut in question was called Mountainview. It had been a sleepy little town nestled in a pass between two mountain ranges. Normally it was a quaint, historic town that thrived on tourism; the enemy had changed that. The roads along the narrow approach had been mined and barricaded. Troops were entrenched, with anti-aircraft and artillery pieces hidden all over the valley slopes beyond. “Can anyone say Hot Gates?” he wondered out loud. With him stood Al and Liza. He wanted to spend some time musing on this before calling for input from his commanders. This is the sort of problem the three of them used to enjoy contemplating during training. He found himself missing those days when such exercises were only exercises. Here, there were lives on the line. Whatever plan he chose would shed blood. How much, and whose, were the only variables he could hope to influence. “At Thermopylae, enemy troops managed to get behind the defenders by means of a secret path,” said Al. “A local named Ephialtes showed them the way.” “That’s a good plan, if we can find the secret road that lets tanks pass.” “Well, at Troy, the defenders were tricked into actually bringing enemy forces into the city.” “A Trojan tank?” laughed Liza. Fred allowed himself a chuckle. “We’ll put Trojan tank on the top of the C list.” He resumed frowning. “I don’t know that the Greeks are the answer to everything.” “Hannibal used vinegar to dissolve boulders so he could bring his elephants over the Alps.” Fred allowed a few moments to pass. “Any more observations?” Liza shook her head. “Only the obvious. A frontal assault is going to be ugly. The corpses of our own tanks are going to pile up and be more of an impediment than those barriers they’ve built. We’ll get slaughtered. And with the anti-aircraft on those mountainsides, any bombing runs will have to be from very high altitude, and won’t be terribly efficient.” Fred nodded. “Ok, let’s grab a bite and reconvene in an hour. I’ll call in the other commanders.” ===== The command tent was terribly crowded. In addition to Fred’s crew, the commanders from his dozen platoons were there, plus Georgie and Phil, plus her squad commanders. Fred had kept mostly silent, letting Al and Liza guide the conversation past the already-trodden ground of what wouldn’t work. As the voices became fewer, and the puzzled silence stepped up to be the dominant characteristic in the room, Fred cleared his throat. Instantly, he was the center of attention. “We are taking this town. We have a week to open that pass, or the entire western flank of the Northern Campaign will halt. We simply can’t supply Chip’s advance by going around those mountains; we need this road. We are going through Mountainview, and we are doing it on schedule. Go and talk to your soldiers. Have them talk to their friends. Find me another way. If you get a lead, contact me at once. At. Once. Otherwise, reconvene here at oh six hundred, and we’ll lay plans for operation ‘pound the **** out of each other.’ Dismissed.” ===== At the touch of a hand on his shoulder, Fred instantly transitioned him from sleep to wakefulness. “Sorry, Colonel,” came a whisper he almost recognized, “but you did say ‘at once.’” Fred sat upright, bare feet touching the clammy canvas of the tent floor. “Of course, Sergeant Ridden. Dan. What do you have for me?” The sergeant gestured over his shoulder at a young rifleman. “This is Private Tina Mulligan. She used to vacation in the area, sir.” Fred pulled on his boots. “Tina, Dan, let’s head over to the mess hall and see if we can’t find some hot coffee.” ===== “A ski resort.” “Yes, sir. It’s about three hundred kilometers north, situated just this side of the ridge. The slopes are gentler on this side, you see, but the road approaches from inside the valley.” “So no road from our side?” “No, sir, no road from our side.” Fred sipped his coffee. It was scalding hot, terribly bitter, and very strong. Probably it had been sitting on the burner for seven or eight hours. Just what he needed. “Please continue.” “We mostly went there for skiing in the winters, but the resort was open all year long. During the summer, people go there to camp and hike, and the resort does have a few summertime activities, like horse rides and zip lines. We went a couple of times, before I turned into a surly teen and couldn’t be bothered with family or fun.” Fred and Dan shared her self-deprecating chuckle. “Oh, I wish I was as smart now as I thought I was then,” sighed Dan. Fred looked at Tina. “I assume you didn’t bring me half a plan. I can see how getting down the road from the ski resort is a good idea, but you’ve kind of started in the middle.” Tina shook her head enthusiastically. “Oh, no sir! See, they have a very extensive training area and bunny slope. The hill is so gentle that, during the summer, they use it as a car park for people with trailers or RVs. It’s easily half a kilometer long and a hundred meters wide.” Fred’s grin threatened to split his face in two. “Let’s start waking people up!” ===== Tina traced a route on the map with her finger. “The road up is narrow and twisting. It is a mountain road, after all. But it’s large enough that the largest RVs can manage it, if only just. There are a couple of tunnels that a big camper will virtually scrape both sides. Our smallest tanks ought to fit.” Fred nodded. “And what about people at the lodge, guests and staff?” Tina shrugged. “I was young when we went during the summer, but the crowd was nothing compared to during ski season. Plus, there’s a war on.” “I wouldn’t leave a hole like that unguarded,” floated a voice. “Neither would I,” agreed Fred. “But I wouldn’t put much of a force up there, either. So our first priority is to insert a surgical strike team to secure that facility and make sure no reports get out. Georgie?” She nodded. “We’ll do a low-level airdrop early in the morning, before the fog breaks, maybe twenty kilometers away. The plane will have to stay below the ridgeline, which should obscure it from radar inside the valley. The team should be able to deploy countermeasures to interfere with radio and cell phone activity then secure the area without any word getting out.” Fred nodded. “Then we’ll airdrop our tanks on the bunny slope, followed by all of the infantry we can spare. Lou?” A short man in an Air Corp uniform leaned over the map table. “You’re asking for some tricky flying from a giant cargo plane. Mountain downdrafts, limited visibility, dropping on an ascending slope, flying NOE to avoid detection. These aren’t fighter planes or reconnaissance scouts.” He rubbed his jaw thoughtfully. “The infantry is no problem. But the tanks, well, that kind of weight really restricts maneuverability. With one light tank, I think a seasoned pilot could do it.” “How many seasoned pilots do we have access to?” asked Fred. “Pilots aren’t the bottleneck; giant planes are. We’ve only got six in this theater.” “Six. Fine. How many passes can we make?” “Those birds are in big demand. I can spare them for two runs without seriously compromising other supply chains.” “Ok, Lou. Twelve tanks it is. That’s nearly all of our Wasps, anyway. And the infantry?” “Infantry is no issue. We’ve got lots of smaller planes that can deliver troops.” Fred looked back at Georgina. “Well?” “I’m thinking we drop twenty for the initial strike, keep it to one small transport plane to minimize the risk of being spotted. Then follow the tanks with an even hundred.” Fred whistled. “That leaves us very few for the front door. And we will have to go through that front door.” “That’s true, but if we don’t hit them from behind hard enough, that front door is going to stay closed.” Fred nodded grimly. “The tanks are pretty much restricted to approaching by the road. If you could get some infantry into the hills, maybe take over those artillery positions and use them to our advantage…” He trailed off, catching Georgina’s look. “Sorry, Georgie! Didn’t mean to tell you your business.” He looked around at the rest of the people present. “Those of us remaining will assemble for a frontal assault, just at the edge of our maximum range. We want those defenders at Mountainview to be looking our way. When we get word that our forces are almost down the mountain, we’ll open fire with our longest range guns, try to make them keep their heads down. If we can get them to return fire with their artillery, it’ll make the strike force’s job easier. “Sarah,” he continued, singling out a middle-aged lieutenant. “Your combat engineers need to be near the front, maybe part of the third wave. We’re going to lose tanks on the approach, and we’ll need the paths cleared as quickly as possible. And it goes without saying we’ll need mine flails on as many of the leading vehicles as we can manage.” “We’re going to want to send engineers with the strike force, Colonel,” she reminded him. “You don’t want to be bringing tanks down a civilian road without some of us to evaluate bridges, retaining walls, and the like.” “Of course. Make sure they take plenty of vinegar.” “Colonel,” she said dryly, “if I had a dollar for every time someone made that joke, you would be handing me my first dollar.” “Really?” “Seriously! I’ve been waiting almost twenty years for someone to make a Hannibal crack!” ===== The mountain force, code-named Team Ephialtes, pulled off Operation Hannibal flawlessly. By the time Fred’s armor rumbled forward, all of the artillery pieces on the east side of the valley had been silently taken over by Georgie’s infantry. They opened fire on the emplacements across the valley as the dozen light tanks blasted through the city’s virtually unprotected rear. There were, of course, losses to the Federated States, but those were few compared to the devastation wreaked on the defenders. The road was opened; supply wains headed north, and the Northern Campaign swept forward under Chip’s command.

I think it's clear that the Tanker Fred Chronicles (I'll think of a real name later) are wrapping up. I've got 3 stories written and another few planned. Barring some unexpected intervention by my muse, I think that'll wrap up this volume. But fear not! The Tankiverse is vast, and there are myriad things still to explore! That being said, life has happened. I'll try to keep to my post-every-Saturday schedule, but the next couple of months may make that challenging.

Interview with the General - Part 2 Fanfic in the Tankiverse by Hippin_in_Hawaii [Editor’s note] Our agreement to publish this entire interview, unedited, forces us to distribute it across several issues as space allows. We apologize for any confusion this may cause. World News Weekly: Can you think of other notable instances of absurd events marking such a pivotal moment? General Fred: Well, even now, it’s not always clear what events were, or may yet prove to be, pivotal. As I said, I’m inclined to think that I’ll one day look back on this very interview as pivotal in some way. WNW: I hope that proves to be the case! GF: Be careful what you wish for! (laughs) WNW: Aside from absurd circumstances, are there any other unusual happenings or influences that contributed to your choices along the way? GF: (after a thoughtful pause) Triskaidekaphobia. WNW: Triskaidekaphobia? Isn’t that fear of Friday the 13th? GF: Yes. Not many people know that about me. WNW: That seems very out of character for a man of your reputation. GF: Well, it doesn’t come into play very often. I don’t know if you know this, but each year contains between one and three Friday the 13ths. We have three this year, the next in about two months. WNW: Has something significant happened on a Friday the 13th that contributed to your choices? GF: You know, I did lose my keys once on a Friday the 13th. That resulted in a few hundred people surviving the firebombing of Paerth. WNW: Paerth. You mean Nova Victoria? GF: Paerth was one of the last major cities we liberated, and one of the few places that there was significant resistance to the Liberation. The Leadership decided to raze the city and ultimately build a new capital there. Not that we knew that at the time. All I knew is that Leadership was ready to firebomb a city where hundreds, probably thousands, of people were still hiding. WNW: Surely those were classified as enemies of the state? GF: Sure, a couple of them probably were. Most of them were just people whose homes had been destroyed and who were leery of accepting relocation offers from the same government that had just wrecked their lives. They found scavenging in ruins a preferable choice to forced relocation and probable internment. WNW: So you’re saying that you helped save those people? GF: No, I just drove a truck loaded with food and water into the ruins, had a snack, lost my keys, and had to walk a very long way home. All on Friday the 13th. WNW: If that saved lives, it doesn’t seem like you should be scared of Friday the 13th. Maybe it’s actually a lucky day for you! GF: Friday the 13th, my lucky day? I guess we’ll see soon enough! WNW: Can we talk for a minute about Malcolm Morrison? GF: Wow, something even scarier than Friday the 13th! WNW: You served under Grand Marshal Morrison, yes? What can you tell us about him? GF: When I first completed my training and entered the field, Captain Morrison was above me in the chain of command. Far above me. I had no reason to think that he knew I existed, and was startled to find out that he did. I had no way of knowing it then, but the captain certainly knew which way the wind was blowing, and had plans to let it carry him to the top. Hm. Ok, that was a terrible metaphor… let me try again. WNW: Certainly, General. GF: Captain Morrison was a shrewd and effective leader. He had a way of recognizing people’s talents and encouraging their use. In retrospect, it’s clear to me that I was one of several such people. At the time, well, I guess I felt like he was mentoring me. But he built his command on the backs of people who were effective, people who utilized lateral thinking, and, at least in my case, people who were naive. I was thrilled by the trust he placed in me, by the autonomy he allowed me, and of course I felt like I deserved the awards and promotions. Again, it never occurred to me that I was simply one of his many tools, and that every success of mine was also a success of his. So I climbed the ranks, as did his other pet projects, all of us pushing him up ahead of us. Until one day, the Legislature was disbanded, the government structure shifted, and I found myself at the right shoulder of a Grand Marshal, promoted to commander of the Tank Corps, with general’s stars on my shoulders. WNW: Sounds like quite the Cinderella story! GF: I spent years working my way up the chain of command. I both saved and took lives. I worked and fought, sometimes in the most brutal, literal sense of the word possible, for every incremental gain. Part of my road I paved with humanitarianism and part I paved with blood. There’s nothing Cinderella about it, unless you’re talking about the original Grimm’s version. But that one’s not bloody enough. WNW: Sorry, I didn’t mean to… I guess I finally managed to offend you? GF: (laughs) I suppose you did! I just don’t want anybody to think that I’m blaming someone else for my actions. Was Captain Morrison a villain? Absolutely. He was a villain in the best possible way, too, in that his choices and actions all seemed noble. He was patriotic, he nurtured those under his command, he rewarded success and used failure as an opportunity to inspire loyalty and growth. It wasn’t until he was at the apex of power that his true colors shone through. But his villainy in no way absolves me of any consequences of my own actions. Nor did his patronage in any way ease my own ascension to power. WNW: Sounds like you two had a complex relationship. GF: It only sounds that way when you sit back and dissect it years after the fact. Our relationship was always simple; he set the tasks; I accomplished them as best I could. If I did well, I was rewarded. If I did poorly, I was given a chance to redeem myself. He was my commander, I was his subordinate. WNW: So you don’t see yourself as one of Morrison’s Murderers? GF: That’s a label the media cooked up after the war was over and the trials began. Someone had the clever idea to look for the names of Morrison’s top officers and attach a catchy, alliterative title, then to go and selectively weave a few truths into a tapestry of atrocity. (laughs) Hey, that one came out pretty good! WNW: To weave a tapestry of atrocity. Yes, that does sound poetic. Are you saying that your role in that tapestry has been misrepresented? GF: Probably every fact that you have heard about me is true, or at least has its basis in the truth. But it has been selectively pulled from a much broader story, is devoid of context, and has nothing held up as balance. I don’t believe that I’m a murderous caricature of a man, some demon who uses orphans’ blood to grease the treads of my tanks as I order them to mow through crowds of innocent bystanders. That actually appeared as a political cartoon during my trial. WNW: I remember. GF: And, if you collect fragments of facts, it’s not untrue. War is a terrible thing, and chaotic. Troops under my command did follow my orders. Those orders did result in the destruction of an orphanage and the deaths of 37 children plus seven staff. There was a demonstration the following day where thousands of civilians gathered to protest. My troops were soldiers fighting a war, not police enforcing the peace. Their reaction to an approaching mob was appropriate, and over 200 unarmed civilians were killed. All of that is true, and my responsibility. But I can assure you I wasn’t sitting high in some luxurious tower, cackling madly and cheering as I watched the bloodshed. I wept for those lives, and I wept for the good people who inadvertently took them. It is one of the more notable stops on the long train of self-recrimination I ride over and over in my cell. WNW: Are you asking for pity? GF: I must be doing a bad job of this. No, I’m not asking for pity. I’m not asking for understanding. All I am asking for, and I think this is something all people are entitled to, is an accurate portrayal. I doubt I’m a hero; I doubt I’m a villain. I doubt I’m any archetype. But what I am cannot be judged from the fragments presented in the media and the courts. WNW: So what are you hoping for? GF: Hoping for? Nothing. It’s just refreshing to have an opportunity to share my perspective. Who knows? Maybe one of your readers will be moved to start researching my story. Maybe they’ll write it as a novel. Maybe it’ll even get made into a movie. WNW: Who would play you? GF: Oh, I don’t know. I’m not really up on contemporary actors. Some everyman, I suppose. Maybe Philip Seymour Hoffman? WNW: I’m sorry, but he died. In 2014, I believe. GF: That’s too bad. He really disappeared into his roles! I think he could have managed an objective performance. Anyway, with a little even-handed portrayal in the mass media, maybe I’d have a chance at a retrial. Revisit my sentencing. WNW: Your life imprisonment? GF: Life imprisonments, plural. I’m not saying I don’t deserve it. I’m just saying it would be nice to know if I do. The outcome of my trial was a foregone conclusion; the political cartoons and memes of the time are proof enough of that. WNW: Surely you can file for appeal? GF: Of course, but there’s just no point. If you’re a member of the Federated States, I’m a hero. I’m the one who saved the country from the clutches of madmen and returned it to normalcy, defying the unified armies of a continent to do so. If you’re anyone else, I’m a butcher, a power-mad murderer, a usurper. Surely I’m neither, but I doubt there’s an eligible jury member on this half of the world without an opinion. Getting a fair trial? Well, that would be a red folder miracle. [Editor’s note:] To be continued next week.

I think we may be a pair of mismatched deviants! (That, BTW, was meant to be humorous.) ;)

Apparently, it's not obvious this is meant to be a joke. To all those whose sense of humor differs from my own, and to whom this appeared as some form of self-aggrandizement, I apologize. That certainly wasn't my intention. I'll refrain from attempting humor outside the bounds of my stories.

Video Audio Runtime[/tr] FFB CG:THIS IS A TEST MUSIC up full: Mars, the Bringer of War (Holst) 0:15 DISSOLVE TO:CG: WE ARE TESTING THE BBCODE GENERATOR SHARED BY TWEEZERS. MUSIC: continues throughout 0:35 FTB MUSIC: fades out 0:05 CUT TO:CG flash frame:ALL YOUR BASE ARE BELONG TO US SFX:startling beat 0:01

What was that? I'd like to correct my original, please!

I guess it's really a question of whether I love you all enough to undertake this. It's obviously for an upcoming story.

This flashes way back to Training. I've updated the reference page to show its place. And thank you!

VideoAudioRuntime FFB to:GF standing in front of a green screen. MUSIC up and under: Federated States’ national anthem. GF: Hello. You may recognize my face from the evening news. I’m General Fred. 0:15 CUT TO:SFX: GF's head superimposed as the turret of a crudely-animated tank. GF: I was the head of all armored forces here in the Federated States. Now, I am the head of the entire country. 0:15 God, that's a nightmare! Ok, new plan...

Is there a way to do columns or tables in the body of a post? Video Audio RT FFB to: GF standing in front of a green screen. MUSIC up and under: Federates States’ national anthem. GF: Hello. You may recognize my face from the evening news. I’m General Fred. :15 I made the above 3-column table in Google Docs. When I paste it in, is looks like a table, but black-on-black. When I clear the formatting, it still looks like a table, although the formatting has changed a bit. But when I try to edit, it suddenly becomes simple text. If I try to look at it in the BBCode Mode, it reverts to simple text, and when I switch modes back, it remains simple text unless I hit "Undo" Video Audio RT FFB to: GF standing in front of a green screen. MUSIC up and under: Federates States’ national anthem. GF: Hello. You may recognize my face from the evening news. I’m General Fred. :15

Common-cloth people in common situations don't get stories written about them. they're background for the interesting deviations. I'm actually thinking of doing a series on Ruby once I wrap up the Tanker Fred chronicles. Really? I thought I was pretty heavy-handed about that in 3-Bottle Coup. Well, fret not, more details will be forthcoming!

Random Chance Fanfic in the Tankiverse by Hippin_in_Hawaii It started, as so many lasting stories do, in a bar. “‘S- so good to see you!” he’d said. Fred, Al, and Liza had acknowledged that it was good to be out. “We never shee you,” he had said, weaving slightly. “You’re allwaysh in that liberry, or in th’ simul… shimu…” “Simulations?” promoted Al, helpfully. “Right, them shimulationsh! You guys never come up for air! And for what? I mean, shure, you got the highest kill rate in the company, and the highest mishun shuccesh rate in them shims, butcha also got the highesht non-compleshun rate.” “Well, risky plans rarely pay off,” explained Al, patiently. “That’s why we prefer trying them here in training as opposed to waiting until someone is shooting at us.” “I bet,” he’d said, leaning in conspiratorially, and using a whisper that carried to the farthest corners of the bar, “that you’d be every bit as good if you just rolled some dices. Dysh. Rolled some dice.” The idea was planted. Neither Fred nor Liza bothered to remember the conversation, but inside Al, the ember of what would almost certainly end up being a red folder plan was dropped in the fertile kindling of his imagination. Three months later, they were climbing into the simulator, armed with charts and dice. The command crew in the control room couldn’t stop laughing once Al had explained the scenario to them. “Every time something happens, we want you to freeze the sim. We’ll roll dice to determine what action to take. Also, at random intervals between happenings, you should freeze it as well. If we’ve been driving down a road without any contact for a few minutes, for example, that might be a good time.” They’d asked for one of the beginner’s scenarios and had drawn The Maze. It was meant to simulate conditions in an urban center. There were wide roads, narrow alleys, small open areas (courtyards or parks) and dead ends. There were impassable barriers (buildings) walling most of the streets, and various degrees of surmountable obstacles (cars, light poles, etc.) Their sim tank was moving down a medium-wide street, currently free of cars, and they could see an upcoming intersection when the sim froze. “Random interval freeze,” announced Rhys, the control room tech who was running the sim. “Ok,” muttered Fred. “Which chart, Al?” “I think the No Threat, No Action chart.” Fred leafed through the sheaf of papers until he found the right one. “Ok, rolling first for motion. A twelve means reverse direction. Rolling for turret, I get a nine, which is no change. Ok, Al, prepare to come about.” “Did it say ‘turn around’ or ‘reverse direction’?” “Reverse direction.” “Ok, that means rear stick. Rhys, resume the sim, please!” The screen came back to life; the hydraulics rocked the cabin to simulate the motion of the tank braking then reversing. “Great, we’re going backwards down the street we already cleared,” grumbled Liza. Then the sim froze again. “Contact,” reported Rhys. Fred peered at the frozen image on the forward display. Was that a barrel poking out from behind the building? “Holy ****!” he exclaimed. “There was a tank waiting there to ambush us! Score one for the dice! Ok, Al, what now?” “Roll on Active Threat, Facing.” Fred found the appropriate chart. “This isn’t really random, then, is it? I mean, the choices here are all reasonable responses. I don’t see ‘turn off engine,’ for example.” Al shrugged. “A truly random approach would be silly. We’d be a child’s toy bouncing around in here, shooting the walls. No, for each contingency, I tried to pull up a list of possible responses ranging from common-sense to ill-advised. So it’s a weighted random, but there are plenty of options to choose from. And what is ours?” Fred rolled. “Our motion remains constant. Turret is to aim and fire.” he snorted. “Nothing too unusual about that. Rhys, resume please!” Their tank resumed the shaking associated with movement. On the screen, an enemy tank could be seen sticking its nose out into the intersection, the barrel traversing to face them. “Firing,” announced Liza. “Hit.” The sim froze. “Al?” asked Fred. “Um, same chart, I think.” Fred rolled. “Ok, under motion, we’re to turn hard right. Under turret, a fourteen gets us traverse to rear?” “Well, it is supposed to be random,” commented Rhys over the intercom. “Resuming sim.” Al turned the tank hard right as Liza rotated the turret to face rearward. On the screen, the enemy tank continued to enter the intersection, now turning in their direction. “It hasn’t fired,” said Liza. “We must have damaged the gun.” The cabin jerked, then all motion ceased. “Obstruction encountered to the rear,” reported Al. “We just backed into a building.” The sim froze. “New chart?” asked Fred. “Well, we have one chart for maneuvering out of difficult terrain, and we have another chart for a non-facing enemy, but I didn’t get around to combining them.” “Fine, I’ll roll on each. First, on the Difficult Terrain. A one! All stop. Great. And now, on the Active Threat, Non-Facing chart, we get nineteen. Traverse rear and fire. Seriously? Oh, this blows! Rhys?” “Resuming sim,” he responded. Al disengaged the throttle, and the cabin stopped rumbling. Liza shrugged. “Firing,” she said. The cabin bucked and the sim froze. “Having just fired point-blank into an indestructible obstacle, your tank has taken the following damage,” came Rhys’ voice. “Engine cooling system compromised; you’ll overheat in five minutes of operation. Right tread disabled. Left tread disabled. Barrel damaged; main gun is now suspect. You are officially ten-seventeen.” Fred groaned. “Stuck again!” “Well,” responded Al cheerily, “at least you won’t have to roll for movement!” Fred did roll his eyes as he leafed through the charts. “Is there a special one for having our movement disabled and our gun damaged?” “There is one for movement disabled, but I think I’d stick with the Active Threat, Non-Facing.” Fred rolled and consulted the piece of paper. “Traverse to target and fire. Finally, something that makes sense. Rhys, resume please!” The enemy tank on the screen resumed bearing down on them. Liza rotated the turret. “Firing. Miss.” She frowned as the sim froze again. “Well, the gun didn’t blow up, which is good, but our accuracy is terrible. That shot went pretty far off mark.” “Did you see how far? Can you compensate?” asked Fred. Liza shrugged. “It went high and left. I can try some Kentucky windage, but no promises.” Fred looked at Al. “Is that allowed?” Al nodded. “Sure, why not. We’re using random chance to determine our choices, not compromise our skills.” “Ok," said Fred, ”switching to the Active Threat, Facing chart then rolling. Target and fire. Yes!” “Resuming,” said Rhys. “Firing. Hit!” reported Liza. “Looks like he’s down!” The sim froze. “What now,” came Rhys’ voice. Liza and Fred looked at Al. “Well, we can keep running if you like, but I think it’s pretty obvious we’re dead. Sooner or later the next tank is going to find us, and we’re not only crippled, we’re stuck. We may as well concede.” Opening the hatch to exit the sim, they were met by a wave of cheering and clapping. The observation lounge was packed full of their teammates. On the briefing board, someone had put up a betting chart, and there were numbers in all the columns. House odds for one kill were surprisingly favorable at two-to-one. Towards the back, Chip had managed to put together a banner saying “10-17,” which we has waving with gusto. “I just won five hundred!” he shouted over the crowd. Rhys shrugged sheepishly. “I may have called a few people…”

It's certainly lovely that someone is paying attention and wondering about things! I can see three clear ways one could interpret this: 1. Do you shoot rifles often? I do. I love to reach out and touch things that are very far away. Now, I'm no marksman, but I can hold MOA out to 400 yards. Do you know the term? Minute Of Angle is 1/50th of one degree. Most hunting and sporting scopes have quarter-minute adjustments, which is to say, one click of the dial moves your point of impact 1/4 minute. More expensive scopes have 1/8th minute clicks. Imagine that... 1/8th of 1/50th is 1/400th of a degree. That's almost unimaginably small! Yet that is the difference between a bullseye and a complete miss at distances beyond my skill. Fred is identifying a tiny course correction in a voyage that spans years, if not decades, taking him from a trainee to general in charge of all armored forces. It HAS to be a tiny correction. If it were a larger, more dramatic event, he'd do as you said and simply quit. 2. Could Fred be an unreliable narrator? 3. Maybe i just don't know what I'm doing!

Musing on muses... Are you the type of writer who views this as a job? Do you have a goal to write a certain number of hours per day/week/month, and hold yourself to those hours? Do you find that the words flow whenever you turn the tap? Or are you the type who has no idea when you'll write next, or what it will be about? Do you find yourself mid-story when all you did was sit down to check your email? Do you look up to realize it's 4AM, and you've been writing nonstop since supper? Two authors I really respect and admire are Isaac Asimov and Stephen King. Both have phenomenal bodies of work. Amimov wrote over 400 books, both science fiction and science fact. King has a body of work that is both smaller and more narrow, but is still pretty impressive. And both are about as different as two authors can be. When Asimov talks about writing, he simply writes when the opportunities present themselves. He had no problem with using a five-minute window to add to a book. He has a preface where he talks about going to visit family, and the various children around the house were admonished to leave him be so he could work. He was unaware of this, and simply marveled at the fact he spent an entire day writing without interruption. When the subject came up at dinner that night, he told the children to come and see him as they pleased. His workflow was thereafter constantly interrupted by demands for play, storytelling, etc. Still, he managed to complete several chapters in his current project. King, in one of his prefaces, uses the delightful phrase "and then my muse defecated* on my brain." (He didn't say 'defecated,' though). Apparently, he writes as though possessed while in the throes of creativity. Personally, I go through periods of relatively-higher creativity, usually about for a month each year. This tends to coincide with summer vacation, so it may just be a case of the brain having the free time to indulge in creativity. Even with my works here, I tend to get into a frenzy and write 3-5 stories, then coast until suddenly I have nothing to post and less than a week on my self-imposed deadline. I'm pretty proud I've only missed one week so far! Actually, right now, I should be working on next week's release. I know what it is, and I know the overall plot, but it needs to get out of my fingers. But I'm between surges right now, so I'm going to have to try and force this one out. So, this isn't really a question, but just an invitation for you to ramble on your own personal writing style and habits.

Interview with the General - Part 1 Fanfic in the Tankiverse by Hippin_in_Hawaii I’m sitting on what is decidedly the most uncomfortable chair I’ve ever encountered. The room is small, featureless; the walls, grey. No windows, two doors, both steel, and both locked from outside. Five cameras that I can see, tucked above a steel mesh, along with the fluorescent lights. To reach this point took five months of paperwork, two separate background checks, two metal detectors, two full body searches, and an interview with the warden. I’m allowed in here with only a pad of paper, a pen, and a prison-issued guest jumpsuit. I’ll admit it; I am scared. I wish that someone else had gotten this assignment, this so-called honor. Why did they select me? Well, I mentioned the pad and pen, right? No electronics allowed. I have the distinction of being the only reporter on staff who actually knows shorthand. One thing I can assure you, readers, is that any rumors you may have heard about this being a luxury resort, about the general spending his time in comfort at taxpayer expense, are completely untrue. It’s only the thought of the ridicule I’d surely face that keeps me from knocking on the door and asking to be released from this grim oubliette. The general is escorted in, takes his seat across the table from me. The guards secure him to the furniture with manacles then leave without saying a word. And just like that, we’re alone. His face is pleasant enough, almost babyish on a man his age. It’s weathered with deep laugh lines and eye crinkles. He’s shorter than I expected. There are scars on his hands and wrists. His hair is short, of course. If I didn’t know better, I’d think this man was a farmer, or a factory worker, not the most infamous war criminal of our time. I realize that I’ve been staring; I don’t know for how long. I feel myself flush, see his bemused reaction. Ok, time to get started! I look down at my list of questions and bullet points. World News Weekly: General, first off, thank you for seeing me. General Fred: (no response) WNW: Our readers are anxious to hear your side of the story. Perhaps there’s something you’d like to say in opening? GF: (no response) WNW: Ok, well, on with our questions, then, I suppose. GF: How long did it take to set this up? WNW: General? GF: How long? From the time someone first successfully pitched this idea in your weekly staff meeting until now, how much time passed? WNW: Roughly five months, sir. GF: And was it an easy process? WNW: No, sir, it was rather difficult to navigate. And pretty invasive. GF: And in all that time, while going through all that inconvenience, your magazine couldn’t find someone who actually wanted the job? WNW: Um, well, no, it wasn’t that… GF: No offense, but you look like you expect me to leap across this table and eat you. WNW: It’s true, sir, I am scared. And it’s true I didn’t want this job. Don’t. There were many who did, many who fought for the opportunity. But my editor decided I was the only one qualified. GF: And what is it that makes you so qualified that you got sent here against your wishes? WNW: I am proficient at shorthand. GF: Shorthand? (laughing) WNW: You see, sir, no electronics are allowed in… They fear someone will try… GF: (laughing) WNW: Sir, please… GF: (laughing) WNW: Ok, maybe it’s a little ridiculous… GF: Ridiculous? Oh, I should say so! (laughing) What was there to say? It was ridiculous. He was right; I didn’t want to be there, and had been chosen over people who were more invested in the story, who had more seniority than me, who were better reporters than I am, and who weren’t actually scared of the man, all because I possessed an antiquated skill. WNW: Please stop laughing at me. GF: (abruptly stops laughing) Oh, no, I’m not laughing at you. So far, you’ve done nothing laughable. But you have to admit that the circumstances are completely absurd. Which has been something of a theme for my life. WNW: Really? How so? GF: It just seems to me that most of the significant turning points in my life have been as a result of my reaction to an absurd setup. Which makes me think that, perhaps, this is another significant point I have yet to grasp. It certainly fits the absurdity criterium! WNW: Can you give me a specific example of how an absurd event marked a turning point in your life? GF: I suppose the first thing that comes to mind happened in the early days of the Liberation. We were on a goodwill tour of a recently liberated city when a woman opened fire on our tank. WNW: That doesn’t sound particularly absurd. GF: On the surface, no. But the details matter. Her clothing, the little she wore, was all leather. Stiletto heels, corset, collar, clearly an exotic dancer or a mistress. She stood in the middle of the street and shot us repeatedly with a pump-action shotgun. WNW: And killing her was a turning point for you? GF: Killing her? Who said anything about killing her? I tell you that a scantily clad vixen who posed absolutely no threat to me or my crew was blocking our path, and you decide that I’m the sort of person who would kill her? WNW: I’m sorry, I just assumed… GF: Now, you’re becoming laughable. WNW: Sir? GF: (no response) WNW: I’ve offended you, and I’m sorry. Please, tell me, what did you do? GF: Offended? Hardly. It takes a lot to offend me. But if we’re going to talk, your job is to listen, not to write the story the way you think it should go. If you’re not going to listen, then we needn’t bother continuing. Just write what you want to hear me say. It’s not as if anyone will know the difference. WNW: Sir, now you’re offending me. GF: Am I? That was easy. WNW: Can we get back to the story, please, sir? GF: I’m happy to sit here with you for as long as we can. This room is more spacious than my cell, and I don’t get out much. And I’m happy to talk with someone who will share my words. I don’t actually care if your intent is to demonize me; it may be I’m worthy of the label. But I won’t waste my time talking to someone who isn’t going to listen. WNW: I assure you, sir, I am here to listen and to share your words. Nothing more. If I jump to conclusions, well, you must know that you’re presented in the media as a villain. If that’s not the case, I’m the first of many people you’ll need to re-educate. GF: Well played! Oh, well played! Very well, I’ll continue on one condition. You give me your word that you will publish everything we say. No editing, no summation, just a verbatim transcript of this conversation WNW: Everything? GF: Every ****ing word. WNW: We can’t use ‘****ing,’ sir. Nor ‘****’ nor ’****’ nor… well, the list is fairly extensive. GF: (laughing) Ok, just put little stars where the dirty words should go! I don’t see the harm in that! WNW: We have a deal, sir. At this point, I extended my hand to shake, forgetting that the general was manacled to his chair. GF: No worries. So, this woman has my tank held hostage. I’m unwilling to take action against someone who is clearly not a threat, but at the same time, I can’t just let her stand there and ruin my paint job all night long. I called the commander of the infantry force attached to my team, but I didn’t want to explain the situation over the radio. Since all communications are monitored by higher levels of command, it was possible that they would intervene and order me to neutralize the hostile. Even if that terrible order didn’t come, the situation would provide grounds for ridicule for years to come. So I told the commander to ‘surveil and assess.’ WNW: Who was the commander? GF: It doesn’t matter. WNW: Was it Georgina Olson? GF: It doesn’t matter. Then the vixen managed to wound herself while shooting my tank. When the infantry arrived, they were able to calm her down, provide her with medical care, and return her to the club she owned. We then continued on our mission. WNW: And that was the turning point? GF: No, a few days later, I went back to visit the woman at her club. Ostensibly, I went to check on her health, but in reality, I wanted to understand her motivations. The conversation that we had… Well, I don’t think I understood it at the time, but that probably marked the beginnings of my doubts about Leadership’s goals. I didn’t realize it, but I think she did. She said, and I remember this clearly, ‘I think, though, from the looks in your eyes, that I might just have planted the seed of something terrible. Lord willing, I won’t live to see the fruit that bears.’ WNW: Who were you there with? GF: Pardon? WNW: You quoted her as saying ‘the looks in your eyes,’ plural. Who else’s eyes was she referring to? GF: I misspoke. WNW: You said you remembered it clearly. GF: A mere slip of the tongue. WNW: I see. She was quite a prophet. GF: Yes, it turns out, she was. [Editor’s Note] In order to honor our reporter’s agreement not to edit this interview, we will be distributing it over the next several issues.

Thanks for the clarifications!

Welcome to the collected works of Hippin_In_Hawaii If you've come here, hopefully you just finished one of my stories and are looking for more. I've grouped everything into categories for your browsing pleasure. Series are bundled together; stand-alones have their own list. Just click the spoiler beneath each heading to see its contents! Yesterville A shared-world anthology. Molly's A tween. A tank. A love story. The One-Eyed Man Intrigue and espionage deep in the jungle. The chronicles of General Fred The complete history of the Tankiverse's finest military leader. MISC Stories written for contests; Stand-Alone stories; Things which defy easy classification.

Sorry... sometime the link transfers from my Google doc, and sometimes it doesn't. All fixed! I'll update the FAQ page tomorrow to include this story as well.

Pounding Away Fanfic in the Tankiverse by Hippin_in_Hawaii “Firing incendiary,” Liza said, a fraction of a second before the recoil shook the cabin. Again. “Hit.” “Stand by,” responded Fred by rote. “Confirming target.” He checked his display. “Target unchanged. Load H.E. and fire when the barrel cools to tolerance.” “Loading H.E.” responded Liza. “Estimate five minutes until firing.” Fred stared blearily at the display. They had been at this for over four hours. Using tanks for an artillery barrage was brutally dull. He actually preferred doing nothing to this type of action. Despite the slow pace, this continual firing meant his tank would have to be rebarreled. The accuracy was well below standard already, and getting worse with every shot. Not that levelling a city took a whole lot of accuracy; just a lot of guns and a ton of ammunition. “Firing H.E.” came Liza’s voice, jarring Fred out of his reverie. He’d almost fallen asleep before her fatigued voice and the indefatigable roar of the main canon had jolted him back to reality. “Hit.” “Stand by.” Fred consulted the monitor. “Al, new location. Proceed three hundred meters south by southwest. Liza, load incendiary. Hold for new target.” “Loading incendiary and holding,” echoed Liza as the tank lurched forward. Fred keyed the radio. “Greenway Actual to team. Greenway Actual to team. Check intel for revised positions and targets. Confirm. Over.” “Greenway Bravo responding. New position and targets confirmed. Proceeding. Over.” “Greenway Charlie responding. New position and targets received and confirmed. En route. Over.” “Greenway Delta. Confirmed. Over.” “Greenway Echo here. New hell received. Over.” “Greenway Foxtrot, received and understood. Over.” “Greenway Golf responding. New position and targets confirmed. Proceeding. Over.” “Greenway Hotel, dancing with the devil in the pale moonlight.” “Greenway Juliet, Roger Moore and Sean Connery. Over.” Fred sighed. A little lapse in radio etiquette was forgivable under the circumstances. Probably everybody’s head hurt as much as his did right now. “New position reached. We’re stable,” reported Al, his voice annoyingly not-exhausted. “Liza, new target is at one one four degrees, seven zero zero meters.” “Target acquired.” “Commence bombardment.” “Firing incendiary. Hit.” “Stand by, confirming target. Target unchanged. Load H.E. and fire when the barrel cools to tolerance.”