Sneak peak of my writing schedule today:

[Topher Lydon]

Up first:

Chapter Three

WORLD END: T-minus 173 days, 22 hours, and 0 minutes.

308 Manor Avenue, Ottawa Ontario – Carter Residence

Next:
 

Nineteen

So, Vampires.

What, you don’t think everything was darkness, right?

lastly:
 

Chapter Thirteen

 

District of Columbia – 1940  - 8 years old  

 

Billy looked at the man in the mirror,

There you go, that's my desk today.

 

[Topher Lydon]

Sneak peak from my desk today :

Andrew leaned out of the Mustang, “Move the cars,” he motioned to the mess of cars blocking the drive.

“You just couldn’t wait could you!” Uncle Peter grumbled looking all too much like he’d been disturbed mid-way through a well-deserved tumbling with his husband. He glared at Will accusingly.

“Sorry,” Will admitted and placated. “I can’t keep secrets you know that.”

“Yeah, great Minister of Foreign Affairs you are,” Peter scowled. “Hey Mister Putin, here’s the defensive plans for the Great Canadian North… while you’re at it here are the codes for our submarines… I’m lousy at keeping secrets!”

[chris191070]

6 hours ago, Topher Lydon said:

Sneak peak from my desk today :

Andrew leaned out of the Mustang, “Move the cars,” he motioned to the mess of cars blocking the drive.

 

“You just couldn’t wait could you!” Uncle Peter grumbled looking all too much like he’d been disturbed mid-way through a well-deserved tumbling with his husband. He glared at Will accusingly.

 

“Sorry,” Will admitted and placated. “I can’t keep secrets you know that.”

 

“Yeah, great Minister of Foreign Affairs you are,” Peter scowled. “Hey Mister Putin, here’s the defensive plans for the Great Canadian North… while you’re at it here are the codes for our submarines… I’m lousy at keeping secrets!”

 

Sounds interesting 🤔 looking forward to the finished product.

[Topher Lydon]

finished Chapter five today. Need to work a bit more on chapter three, it's a bit rough. But I have a plan. And poor Uncle Peter looking after Jacob, Tommy, and Weston I am enjoying watching him acting as the "Nanny?" "Manny?" for Three eleven year olds it is entertaining.

[Topher Lydon]

Your face is not a blank, plain page,
It’s a masterpiece from a bygone age.
Each freckle is a tiny spot,
A mark of sunshine, like as not.

They’re not just dots of brown and gold,
A story in your skin is told.
A sprinkle here, a cluster there,
A galaxy beyond compare.

I sometimes think on summer days,
In silly, lovesick, goofy ways,
That I could play a little game,
And give a name to every name.

That one is Fred, and this is Steve,
A constellation I perceive.
I’d trace them with my fingertip,
Upon a joyful, starlit trip.

So let the world have skies at night,
With boring stars of plain white light.
My favorite cosmos is right here,
Upon the face I hold so dear.

So wear your spots, my speckled man,
You're part of my eternal plan.
You are my own sweet, starry guide,
With all your freckles, spread with pride

[Topher Lydon]

Tom grinned, shaking his head. “One dollar. You always were a cheap date, Andrew. Just try to keep your friends from sparking a national security alert in the future.”

 

Andrew only half-smiled. “I’ll do my best, Tom. But I have this other friend that makes this one look tame… thank God Brody’s nowhere close.”

Jared looked wide-eyed, “I second that, were Brody about we’d all be in a Tijauna jail cell up on prostitution charges.

 

He waited for the cell door to open, the cold clang of the steel echoing the finality of the decision. He thumbed at Jenkins to follow along, as he led the battered Jared out of the jail. At least he could explain to Will that he hadn’t abandoned Jared to a night in lock up.

[Topher Lydon]

"Bored," Jacob announced into the quiet air, the sound thick with existential misery.

Weston peeled his face from the upholstery. "Really bored."

Tommy gave a final, utterly dejected slump. "Really, REALLY bored."

A silent, desperate agreement passed between them. Jacob, the analyst, started tapping a slow, deadpan rhythm on his knee. Weston and Tommy reluctantly joined in, turning their collective misery into a slow, whiny, harmonious lament.

Their confinement had turned their brains to metaphorical oatmeal, and they felt their shoes were full of glue—unable to move, unable to think. They recited the litany of their digital suffering: every last video had been consumed, the algorithm of entertainment finally broken by sheer, relentless viewing. Their desperation had reached such a peak that they confessed all of their deepest, weirdest secrets to the RCMP trauma therapy dog until the poor creature had finally given up and had to be taken away for its own therapy.

[Topher Lydon]

"Weston, you're drifting left! Use the right trim! Use the right trim!" Jacob yelled, acting as the ground control guide.

 

"I can't—it's too fast!"

 

Tommy snatched the user manual back up, flipping pages furiously. "Jacob, tell him to try Attitude Mode (A-Mode)! The controls will be looser, but it will allow for more predictable movement under the wind shear!"

"Tommy says switch to A-Mode!" Jacob relayed, cupping his hands around his mouth. "Use the toggle on the side of the controller!"

Weston fumbled with the tiny controls, and the drone wobbled violently. He found the toggle, and the drone instantly calmed, stabilizing against the wind.

"Yes! I got it! I got it!" Weston screamed, a huge, relieved grin splitting his face. He began to guide the drone higher, pushing it toward the roofline of the official residence.

The three boys stood shoulder-to-shoulder, their breath pluming in the cold air, their voices unified by the pure excitement of the moment. They corrected the yaw, discussed the aperture settings for the snowfall, and fought over whose turn it was to try the forward tracking feature.

In that singular moment, standing together in the snow, operating the powerful, elegant machine, the trauma of the last month—the assault, the funeral, the fear—was banished. They were three eleven-year-old boys, whole and unbroken, held together by the simple, enduring strength of their unbreakable friendship and the pure, kinetic joy of flight.

Peter, standing in the door way, hands on hips, stared up at the Royal Sprog Air Force, and groaned. The little monsters were airbourne now, heaven help the neighbourhood.

[chris191070]

5 hours ago, Topher Lydon said:

"Weston, you're drifting left! Use the right trim! Use the right trim!" Jacob yelled, acting as the ground control guide.

 

"I can't—it's too fast!"

 

Tommy snatched the user manual back up, flipping pages furiously. "Jacob, tell him to try Attitude Mode (A-Mode)! The controls will be looser, but it will allow for more predictable movement under the wind shear!"

"Tommy says switch to A-Mode!" Jacob relayed, cupping his hands around his mouth. "Use the toggle on the side of the controller!"

Weston fumbled with the tiny controls, and the drone wobbled violently. He found the toggle, and the drone instantly calmed, stabilizing against the wind.

"Yes! I got it! I got it!" Weston screamed, a huge, relieved grin splitting his face. He began to guide the drone higher, pushing it toward the roofline of the official residence.

The three boys stood shoulder-to-shoulder, their breath pluming in the cold air, their voices unified by the pure excitement of the moment. They corrected the yaw, discussed the aperture settings for the snowfall, and fought over whose turn it was to try the forward tracking feature.

In that singular moment, standing together in the snow, operating the powerful, elegant machine, the trauma of the last month—the assault, the funeral, the fear—was banished. They were three eleven-year-old boys, whole and unbroken, held together by the simple, enduring strength of their unbreakable friendship and the pure, kinetic joy of flight.

Peter, standing in the door way, hands on hips, stared up at the Royal Sprog Air Force, and groaned. The little monsters were airbourne now, heaven help the neighbourhood.

That shows a powerful story upcoming.

The assault and the funeral are very worrying 😟 

Edited October 7, 2025 by chris191070

[Topher Lydon]

"Sergeant," Shem said, his voice suddenly sharp with manufactured urgency. "Your engine. It's idling rough."

The Sergeant, a mechanic by nature before he was a soldier, instantly frowned. "My engine? What the hell are you talking about, Corporal?"

KIT: Warning: CRITICAL Verbal engagement failure! Recommended reading: ‘Confidence and you, a guide to effective distractions’ or ‘Hey, Look Out Behind You! – The Abridged Biography of Smarty McOldest-Trickndabook’.’

Shem sighed, “No, can’t you hear that? That engine…” He held up a finger. Both men stopping to listen to nothing but the silent air. The Sarge frowned and looked at Shem in confusion. “I don’t hear anything.”

KIT: ERROR – Catastrophic Acting Deficiency RECOMMENDATION: Acting Refresher Courses – Locating Local Community Colleges – ERROR College NOT FOUND ALTERNATE RECOMMENDAION: DO NOT WRITE OSCAR ACCEPTANCE SPEECH

[Topher Lydon]

"Kenny, grab the Trailblazer," Alex commanded, pointing to the rugged carbon fiber trekking pole stowed in the gear well. "Set the GPS coordinates for the dam perimeter. We track its predicted route and force an intersection."

Kenny held the pole up questioningly, “Does everything you own have to come with some secret weaponized purpose? I really don’t want to know about your fleshlight!”

“My flashlight doubles for signaling,” Alex shot back. “Mio dio, just do it please?”

“Signaling for landing?” Kenny blinked, trying to focus. “I always pictured Brian as the… well… ok focusing…”

Alex turned his head in abject confusion, “I have no idea what you are talking about, si? Can we just…” he gestured ahead of them in frustration.

[Topher Lydon]

Alex rolled his eyes, “you just want to get your fingers inside me, no? Save the fingernails for your boyfriend, and just get on with it.”

“Perv,” Kenny muttered setting to work to stitch the wound clumsily. “You’re not my type.”

“Si, I am not a neurotic white collar criminal in training,” Alex bit out in pain as he tried not to yelp as Kenny roughly worked on him. “I hate you!”

“Yes, yes, I hate you too, now sit still you baby, before I do more damage to Brian’s property.” Kenny shook his head at the mewling and complaining Mexican boy.

“¡Híjole! ¡Por el amor de Dios, usa la aguja, no un destornillador! I bet you're saying "sorry, eh?" with every stitch, you hockey-playing monster! ¡Parece que me estás armando un rompecabezas, no cerrando una herida!”

“You’re tougher than you look,” Kenny reassured as he finished up, tying off his work and applying clean compresses and liberal amounts of iodine.

Alex cursed as he managed a pained grin, sweating, “¡Gracias, cabrón! But your compliments won't save you from my abuela's chancla when she sees this butcher job! ¡Ay! Just... just finish before I start singing your national anthem... off-key!”

[Topher Lydon]

So, as a writer, you experiment with things, and then you accidentially click something.

This past summer I was toying with a body swap idea... then yestarday I reached the end of my second Coyote book.

So at a loss I was up half the night stressing about what to write (I don't like NOT having a project, it gets me worked up) So I finally fall asleep at something stupid o'clock, I was late up this morning due to it. Yay oversleeping and I was sitting there refusing to get out of bed... till it hit me like (forgive the Tom Jones Reference) a Thunderball...

ohhh I need to write THAT.

So now I am hammering keys with glee and reckless abandon, LYDIA's turn for a bit of due attention. Brian's had two, Steve and Kenny have had two, Kyle's had his one. Now I get to write about the missing family from my little Saga,

Harding's done, Carter's done, Hickey and Jensen's done... now for a Levesque :: grins and contemplates the fun of Uncle Brody unleashed::

 

[Topher Lydon]

Ever have a writing day where you can't seem to get anything to go right?

Four different projects on the go at the moment, and they are all suffering.

I have boys trying to resolve a complex crime plot, without it going all Ocean's 11 on me.
I have a spy novel that's about to hit a REALLY tough section, and I am still not sold on if it's what I want to do.
I have a new love story thing... where the boys jump into a relationship when I didn't want them to. And it's annoying. Because it ruins my pacing...
And I have so many ideas, my head is pulling in five directions at once, and I can't get it on track...

I am going to go watch TV and burn all my notes. Destroy all the books, and write "Emily the Aardvark goes Quantity Surveying" from now on!

That's it, I am done!

[Topher Lydon]

Alvin slumped against the counter, defeat washing over him. “Of course she did.” His eyes fell on the contraption next to the sink. It was a Rube Goldberg machine of wellness: mason jars connected by bamboo chutes, with cheesecloth filters and a slow-dripping apparatus that looked like it was designed by a stoned engineer. “What in the name of all that is holy is that?”

“That’s the tea,” Tabby said, proudly. “I’m just finishing the base. Roasted dandelion root. It’s excellent for liver detox. Has a lovely, nutty profile.”

Alvin stared at him, a slow boil of caffeine-deprived rage beginning in his veins. “Tabby. Listen to me. I don’t want a *nutty profile*. I want a chemical dependency profile. I want my hands to shake so bad I can’t hold a spoon. I want my heart to beat in a frantic, syncopated rhythm that could power a small village. I want to vibrate at a frequency that shatters glass and allows me to see through time!”

Tabby simply smiled, that infuriating, serene, all-knowing smile that made Alvin’s eye twitch. He poured hot water from a kettle into the top of the bamboo contraption. “This is better for your gray aura. You have to trust the process, Alvin.”

[Jeff Burton]

Man I’ve got so much catching up to do on reading lol.

This week I’ve:

• Worked out the final chapters of Encrypted.
• Finished mapping out the major plot points of Encrypted 2
• Fleshed out a 3 book series From the Ashes.
• That sci-fi thing you got to read? Yeah I mapped out The first 2 books on that one, still working on the overall series count because I have no idea yet but I think it’s big.
• Got a working premise for “I’m Gay: A Vampire Story” (yes it’s coming)
• Finally got a working plot for my Mercedes Lackey Valdemar fantasy fanfic.  This one is going to require more planning because I have to really give it justice.
• Managed to just about finish my entry for the writing prompt event just need to clean it up.

Thats another 8 stories confirmed so far.  Still have another 2 ideas that could turn into something so I’ve got my 2026 through 2028 pretty well figured out.

I’m also trying to get my hands on a used MacBook Air to replace my laptop that broke earlier this year to make sure it happens.  Because my lazy back has discovered I get more done lounging on the couch than I do sitting at my desk. 😂

[Topher Lydon]

"I'm just thinking Gran deserves a proper Christmas," Scott said innocently. "We all do."

"Scott, leave it," Luke said, standing up and stretching. He walked over to Scott, ignoring the 'no public displays of affection' rule Gran pretended to enforce, and poked him in the chest. "This isn't Brooklyn. People here don't like a fuss. If you start hanging neon reindeer from the guttering, the neighbors will write letters. Sternly worded letters."

"I promise," Scott said, crossing his heart, "no neon reindeer."

Luke narrowed his eyes, searching Scott’s face for the lie. Finding only terrifying optimism, he groaned. "I'm going to have a shower. If you've ordered an inflatable snowman by the time I get out, I'm arresting you for disturbing the peace."

"Love you too!" Scott called as Luke trudged upstairs.

[Topher Lydon]

"Perfect," Scott grinned. "We do it Christmas Eve. Late. Operation Silent Night."

"Operation You're All Going to Jail," a deep voice rumbled from above them.

Scott jumped, nearly knocking his cider over. He looked up to see a fluorescent yellow jacket looming over the table.

Luke stood there, helmet tucked under his arm, radio crackling on his shoulder. He looked impressive, authoritative, and extremely unimpressed. The 'Police Constable Allston' stare was in full effect.

"Hi, honey," Scott squeaked. "You look... yellow today."

Luke didn't smile. He pulled out a chair, spun it around, and straddled it, resting his arms on the back. The entire pub had gone quiet. Even the old men playing dominoes in the corner were watching.

"I'm on break," Luke announced to the room, causing the ambient noise to slowly return to normal levels.

[Topher Lydon]

Finn let out a sharp, incredulous bark of laughter that echoed in the cavernous space. "My *dignity*? You drive a car held together by rust, prayer, and pure spite. You work in a glass box wearing a clip-on tie. You just had angry, inept sex on a floor that hasn't seen a mop since the Carter administration. Garrett, you don't *have* standards. You have a curated collection of coping mechanisms, and most of them are maladaptive."

[Topher Lydon]

Alvin drove with a manic intensity, his knuckles white on the wheel.

 

"We are going to get coffee," Alvin narrated loudly, needing to hear his own voice over the thumping of Culture Beat. "It is going to be dark roast. It is going to be hot. It is not going to have notes of dirt or tree bark. It is going to taste like industrialization and productivity."

 

Tabby watched him, amused. "You really have a problem, don't you?"

 

"It's not a problem, Tabby," Alvin snapped, swerving to avoid a squirrel that seemed to be playing chicken with them. "It's a sacrament. It's the only thing tethering me to sanity. If I don't get caffeine in the next ten minutes, I am going to bite someone."

 

Tabby raised an eyebrow. "Is that a threat or a promise?"

[Topher Lydon]

 

Enrico Alvarez fit in perfectly.

He sat at a corner banquette, a vantage point that offered a clear view of the entrance and the kitchen—the two most likely vectors for an assassin. He wore a three-piece suit of charcoal vicuña wool that cost more than most Americans’ cars, a blood-red silk pocket square exploding from his breast pocket like a controlled detonation, and wire-rimmed spectacles that gave him the air of a tenured professor of philosophy. His fedora, a custom Borsalino, rested on the seat beside him.

He was sipping a 1982 Château Margaux and looking utterly bored.

“You know, I think the waiter hates me,” Ned Sanderson said, leaning across the pristine white tablecloth and nearly knocking over a water glass.

Ned was twenty-eight, shaggy-haired, and currently wearing a hoodie that said **NASA: I Need My Space** under a blazer that looked like it had been salvaged from a dumpster behind a Goodwill. He was slouching so profoundly he was practically performing a structural audit on the banquette’s integrity.

“The waiter does not hate you, Ned,” Enrico said, his voice a smooth, paternal baritone that sounded like expensive chocolate being grated over gravel. “He despises you. There is a difference. Hate implies passion. Despise implies that you are a stain on his otherwise perfect mise-en-scène. You are a human spill.”

“It’s the hoodie, isn’t it?” Ned asked, ripping a piece of bread roll and stuffing it into his mouth. Crumbs cascaded onto the tablecloth like a tiny, beige avalanche.

Enrico closed his eyes for a beat, summoning patience from a deep, and recently very depleted, well. “It is the hoodie. It is the posture. It is the fact that you ordered a Diet Coke with a lemon twist in a restaurant where the water list is curated by a sommelier. You are an aesthetic crime scene, *mijo*. The Maître D’ is considering calling the police. Or an exorcist.”



[Topher Lydon]

Yani grinned, “we exploit the weakest link in modern security: the smart home.” He brought up a schematic of a kitchen. “Six months ago, we slipped a payload into a firmware update for the… get this… the Governor’s German-engineered espresso machine. A beauty, triple boiler. Requires a Wi-Fi connection for ‘optimal steam pressure calibration.’”

Andrew blinked. Richardson simply closed her eyes for a second, a long-suffering expression on her face. An espresso machine was almost worse than a fridge.

Andrew ran a hand down his face, “f-ing Will and f-ing coffee…” His husband’s crippling addiction to the stuff was legendary. Even Buckingham Palace had that note on file. It was a stupid thing, small and insignificant, but it sent a burst of warm affection through his heart.

“When the jammers cycle down,” Yani plowed on, “the machine sends a diagnostic ping to its mothership in Stuttgart. We’ve hijacked that pathway. Our encrypted packet piggybacks on the return signal, right onto the estate’s LAN.”

“You’re targeting his *coffee maker*?” Andrew asked, a strange, surreal laugh caught in his throat. It was absurd. It was perfect.

“The Internet of Caffeinated Things is a wide-open backdoor, sir!” Yani said triumphantly. “

[Jeff Burton]

26 minutes ago, Topher Lydon said:

Yani grinned, “we exploit the weakest link in modern security: the smart home.” He brought up a schematic of a kitchen. “Six months ago, we slipped a payload into a firmware update for the… get this… the Governor’s German-engineered espresso machine. A beauty, triple boiler. Requires a Wi-Fi connection for ‘optimal steam pressure calibration.’”

 

Andrew blinked. Richardson simply closed her eyes for a second, a long-suffering expression on her face. An espresso machine was almost worse than a fridge.

Andrew ran a hand down his face, “f-ing Will and f-ing coffee…” His husband’s crippling addiction to the stuff was legendary. Even Buckingham Palace had that note on file. It was a stupid thing, small and insignificant, but it sent a burst of warm affection through his heart.

 

“When the jammers cycle down,” Yani plowed on, “the machine sends a diagnostic ping to its mothership in Stuttgart. We’ve hijacked that pathway. Our encrypted packet piggybacks on the return signal, right onto the estate’s LAN.”

 

“You’re targeting his *coffee maker*?” Andrew asked, a strange, surreal laugh caught in his throat. It was absurd. It was perfect.

 

“The Internet of Caffeinated Things is a wide-open backdoor, sir!” Yani said triumphantly. “

This is seriously why all of my smart stuff is curated so it can’t call home. It works off my server and my server only, and if you manage to break into that then you deserve your war prize.

[Topher Lydon]

Carter's Campaign hit Chapter 18 today
91000 words. I am still about 1/2 way through the story for it.

Considering each of the Order trilogy books came in at 110000 words, this one is going to be a much larger book.

As always:

Long Live the King of the North!

[Topher Lydon]

I am banning myself from using the publish later, date timer thingy... banned. Nope, not touching it. I don't know why it hates me, what I am doing wrong, but every time I touch it, it goes wrong.