Tag Archives: future

Ads on 50WS: What Does the Future of FiftyWordStories.com Look Like?

It has now been about three weeks since I first put up some Google ads on FiftyWordStories.com. I know ads can be a bit of a touchy subject, so I want to explain my reasoning behind trying them out and share how things are going so far.

Background

First, some context. I’ve been running 50WS since February 2009, and the site has grown quite a bit over that time. In July 2010, 50WS got 1,822 pageviews from 590 different visitors. In July 2013, site traffic was several times higher, with 11,934 pageviews from 5,066 different visitors!

What about annual traffic? Well, in all of 2011, 24,874 different people visited the site. In 2013 so far, with one full month left to go, the number of unique visitors has grown to more than 54,250, and could top 60,000 by the end of the year.

Outside of site traffic numbers, in the past four and a half years I’ve also released two 50-word story collections (with the third in production for release in January) and held several contests with a variety of prizes.

The Future

So 50WS is growing, and that’s great. Of all the writing projects I’ve taken on over the past several years, 50WS has been by far the most unique and the most successful.

My goal from here is to keep that success rolling. The question I’ve been asking myself is: what might the continued growth of 50WS look like? Here are some ideas:

  • Monthly themed contests (with prizes)
  • Two stories a day year-round
  • Published anthologies of submitted stories
  • More opportunities for writers and readers to interact and share feedback

To make any or all of these ideas a reality, I need four things: 1) readers, 2) writers, 3) time, and 4) money.

Readership is growing. Submissions are pouring in. I can make time for 50WS when I have to (though not always as much as I’d like.)

The fourth one, though, is often the most complicated. Contest prizes aren’t free. Neither is producing and publishing a book. The site also has some overhead in the form of hosting and store software.

Now, I don’t really need to make a profit on 50WS, but if I want the site to move forward I do need it to be self-sustaining.

Advertising

That’s where the ads come in. I decided that if I was going to try site ads, they had to earn enough to pay for the cost of hosting the website. For the past 4+ years, I’ve been paying the hosting costs out of pocket. That’s fine; as a hobby, 50WS is a lot cheaper than most other things I could be doing. But expenses are expenses…

My plan has been to set up advertising, let it run for a month or two, and see what happens. If the ads earn their keep, they’ll stay, and I’ll reinvest the money into other areas that will help the site grow. If they don’t make enough to at least cover hosting expenses, I’ll get rid of them and make other plans.

So how are the ads doing? As of today, the ads have been up on 50WS for 18 days, or just over half a month. During that time, they have earned enough for about a month and a half of hosting expenses. Projected over 30 days—which is a bit risky with this little data—they’ll earn about three times as much as I need to pay for hosting each month.

Verdict: the ads will stay until something happens to make them go away.

Of course, I’m very interested in hearing feedback from anyone who has found that the ads have affected their 50WS experience, because that’s an important factor here. So far I haven’t had any negative feedback about the ads, and I haven’t seen any annoying popups or audio ads. Let me know if you’ve seen anything obnoxious!

Next Steps

Having a (small) revenue stream for the site could mean some very exciting things moving forward. Continued site growth means continued revenue growth, which means even more exciting ways to make 50WS grow, which is a pretty exciting concept.

I hope you’ll join me in seeing what comes next!

Year of Stories – Week 16

Welcome to week 16 of the Year of Stories!

Free this week is The Valley, a 3,500-word sci-fi/fantasy crossover. Read it now! You can also buy it for 99¢ in the Store.

Synopsis
In a laboratory somewhere on Earth, a vast scientific project is about to bear fruit. Meanwhile, somewhere else entirely, a girl pleads with an old mystic named Kolio to save her mother’s life, or, failing that, at least her soul. In the valley of the lifewater, two worlds collide…

The highlighted Store release for this week is Memoirs of the Model Agent: The Associate Bilateral Forthchancellor and Her Daughter, a 2,500-word sci-fi comedy that acts as Chapter 2 of the earlier How I Rescued Mr. DimblesRead it now for only $0.99!

Synopsis
Agent Connolly continues to rise through the ranks of the Chancellorate’s security forces. She finds herself the personal bodyguard to the daughter of the Associate Bilateral Forthchancellor. At a school track meet, chaos erupts, and she finds herself caught up in a dangerous and reckless conspiracy.

To read previously released stories, check out the Year of Stories page.

Jary’s Got a Gun

Prefer to do your reading on your ereader, iPhone, or other device? Download this month’s stories from the Store!


On the morning of the day Jary Tomlin found the world’s last remaining gun, he and his wife were having an argument in the kitchen. As is so often the case with arguments, it was one they had been through several times before.

Linda was pulling mugs and measuring cups and self-baking cake mixes out of drawers and cupboards and throwing them into plastiboard boxes. “If you’d stayed in school instead of dropping out like a lazy bum,” she said to Jary, “this wouldn’t be happening.”

“I seem to remember you encouraging me to drop out so I could get a job,” protested Jary, as he packed away the coffee machine robot.

“Well you were failing every class,” Linda retorted, emphasizing her point by flourishing a whisk. “If you’d actually ever done any of your homework, things would’ve been different!”

“You wouldn’t let me do any homework,” said Jary. “You kept forcing me to take you on dates to the laser-skating rink, and watch your holovision shows with you, and visit your mother every other day of the week…”

Linda whirled around with her hands on her hips. “So it’s my fault now? I’m the one to blame that we can’t make rent, that we’re getting kicked out onto the street? Go on, tell me how it’s my fault!”

Jary raised his hands defensively. “Don’t bite my head off!” he said. “All I’m saying is if we want to live in nice houses like this one, and buy unnecessary robots to make our coffee for us, then maybe you need to get a part-time job.”

The robot in the box at Jary’s feet beeped and burbled.

“You heard me,” said Jary, giving the box a kick.

Tears flashed into Linda’s eyes. “You don’t appreciate all the work I do,” she said, pointing an accusatory ladle at Jary’s chest. “I’m your wife, Jary. My job is to take care of you. Haven’t I always done that? Haven’t I kept you fed? Haven’t I kept you happy?”

Jary sighed. “That’s not what I mean.”

“Look at the holes I’ve worn in my socks, running around the house every day, making your dinner and washing your laundry and dusting your TV. Look at the holes, Jary!” sobbed Linda. She held up her foot and looked at it herself. “Oh my. I need new socks. And some pants, too, probably.”

Jary rolled his eyes. “You don’t need any new pants. You just bought three pairs last month.”

“What would you know?” snapped Linda. “You’d dress yourself in the same jeans and t-shirt every single day if I wasn’t here to take care of you. Don’t you try to tell me what I do and do not need to buy!”

“You’re impossible,” groaned Jary, stomping out of the kitchen.

“Where are you going?”

“To the garage, out of range of your voice.”

“Fine!” called Linda. “Take the shelves down while you’re out there!”

Jary slammed the door behind him.

The garage was a total disaster. It was supposed to fit two hovercars, but it would have been a challenge to park two hovercycles in it at this point. Jary stood for a minute and let the steam seep out of his ears.

That woman was sapping his life away. She refused to get a job, spent every dime he earned, and didn’t even want to have kids. What had ever induced him to marry her?

He kicked the dusty treadmill that Linda had promised she’d get good use out of, and a side panel broke off. Junk. It was all junk. Jary wasn’t even sure where some of it had come from. Maybe they’d reached some kind of critical junk mass, and it was starting to reproduce. He was sure he’d never seen those laser skis in the corner before.

The shelves along the back wall were layered with boxes and bags. Jary didn’t even know what was in half of them. A couple on the end looked like they might be intended for recyclables, but Jary never put anything in the recycling. Maybe Linda did. Not likely.

The shelves were probably the only worthwhile thing in the whole garage. He’d built them when they first moved in. Oh, what wonderful plans he’d had back then for a neat, tidy garage, with a place for everything and everything in its place. The shelves had been a key element of that vision. Now they just sat there on the wall, looking down over the mess, mocking him.

Well, he wasn’t going to leave them behind for whoever moved into this place next. The landlords could evict them, but they weren’t going to get any free home improvements out of it. Besides, Jary was in a destructive mood, anyways.

He climbed over the old laundry-bot to retrieve his hammer from the crowded work bench along the far wall. He’d been intending to fix that bot one of these months, and sell it once he get it working. Why hadn’t he? All it needed was a new battery, probably.

Hanging the hammer on his belt, Jary leaned a stepladder up against the wall beside the shelves and started bringing boxes down. He found a bunch of scrapbooking materials in one, and a collection of How-To manuals in another. There were a few boxes of pieces for a model train set, and ah ha! The Halloween decorations that had gone missing a couple of years back, and that he’d forgotten to ever go looking for.

Jary stacked all the boxes on top of his work bench. By the time the shelves were clear, he’d worked up a decent sweat. It felt good, and when he looked up to the empty shelves he got a bit of that original optimism back. Eviction wouldn’t be so bad. They’d find a new place soon, maybe even a better place, and it would be a fresh start. Everything would look like these empty shelves, bare and clean. He’d finally be able to get things organized, especially if he brought the shelves along to help.

Mounting the ladder again, Jary turned his hammer around and started pulling at the nails he’d used to hang the shelves. Most of them came out quite easily. It probably would’ve been smarter to use screws. He’d do that next time. And he’d have to get a stud-finder to make sure he wasn’t just anchoring into drywall, like he’d apparently done in a couple of places when he’d put these up. Oops.

One of the nails, at least, had gone into something solid. It had probably done most of the work of holding all the boxes up for the last couple of years, and it sure was being stubborn about coming out. Jary braced himself and yanked at the hammer with both hands, gritting his teeth.

The shelf came loose and collapsed with a crash. Jary’s momentum carried him off the ladder and he fell onto a couple of garbage bags which, thankfully, were stuffed with old clothes. He blinked and sputtered. Drywall dust showered down around him.

Wrestling himself free of the garbage bags, Jary got back to his feet and looked up. There was a hole in the drywall where the shelf had been anchored. Where Jary expected to see a vertical wooden stud, though, he instead saw a small, horizontal shelf that had been hidden inside the wall, with a little red box sitting on top of it. What was that doing there?

Jary climbed up the ladder and took out the red box. He lifted off the lid just as Linda pushed open the door.

“What’s going on?” demanded Linda. “What was that crash? Are you breaking stuff out here? You look like a mess!”

“I found something,” said Jary, “hidden inside the wall.”

“What? What is it?”

“I’m not sure.” Jary took the object in the box and held it up in front of him. It had a wooden handle that fit nicely into his palm, a short, round tube sticking out in front of it, and some metal mechanisms in the middle.

Jary,” said Linda, breathlessly, “that’s a gun!”

“You think so?” said Jary. “I thought guns were bigger.”

“It’s a gun, Jary, I know it’s a gun! Guns are illegal! Guns are dangerous! Put it down! You’re going to blow us both up, or set the whole neighbourhood on fire or something!”

Jary held the gun—if that was what it was—gingerly as he climbed down from the ladder. “Don’t worry, I’m being careful,” he said.

Careful!?” screeched Linda. “A gun isn’t something you can just ‘handle carefully’! We should be evacuating!”

“There’s no need to get hysterical,” said Jary.

Oh yes there is!” Linda shrieked. “Guns aren’t safe, like peace weapons. They aren’t like Pacifiers or Tranquilasers or Harmony Beams. They’re violent. They’re meant for war, and murder, and killing people!

Jary rolled his eyes. “Does this little thing look like it’s going to just jump up and murder someone?”

Linda just whimpered.

“Fine,” said Jary, “I’ll call the police, just in case.” He put the gun back in its box and carried it into the house.

“What are you doing, carrying that thing around? You shouldn’t even be touching it!” warned Linda. “And don’t get the carpet dirty! You’re covered in dust.”

Jary tried to tune her out as he went into the kitchen, picked up the phone, and scrolled through the contacts list to find the local police department.

The civilian dispatcher who answered the call took his name and address. “What can I help you with, Jary?” she asked.

“I, um. I found something hidden in the wall of my garage,” said Jary. “My wife thinks it might be a gun.”

He heard a sharp intake of breath on the other end of the line. “What have… What are you doing with it?” asked the dispatcher.

“Nothing,” said Jary. “I just brought it inside and thought I should call it in. You know, just in case.”

“You brought it inside? Are you insane, Jary? This is a gun we’re talking about! Where is it right now?”

“Beside me on the kitchen counter. I—”

Another voice broke in. “Mr. Tomlin, this is Agent Parsons of the CIA. We advise you to remain in your home, and leave the gun where it is sitting right now. Do not attempt to leave your home, or your actions will be viewed as indicating hostile intent. Our agents will be arriving in approximately 15 minutes to secure the gun. I repeat, we will be on site in 15 minutes. Remain where you are.”

“Um… Okay,” said Jary. “Should I stay on the phone, or…?”

“That’s your call, Mr. Tomlin,” said Agent Parsons. “If you want to talk, we can talk. It’s up to you.”

“It’s just that I’m kind of dirty right now.” Jary plucked a little chunk of drywall out of his hair.

“I see,” said Agent Parsons. His voice had a rasping edge to it. “So it’s like that, then. Very well. Like I said, it’s your call. We’ll be seeing you in 15 minutes. Will you be ready for us?”

“I intend to be,” said Jary.

“I assure you that we, too, will be ready.”

“Er,” said Jary, “great, I guess.”

“This is not a game, Mr. Tomlin,” said Agent Parsons. “Remember: 15 minutes.”

Jary hung up. “That was weird.”

“What did they say?” asked Linda. “Are they coming here?”

“Yeah, in about 15 minutes,” said Jary. “He was very clear on that point. I’m going to go rinse off all this dust before they get here.”

“Ah, oh,” Linda moaned, “why did this have to happen to us? And right in the middle of all our packing, too.”

“It’s fine,” Jary assured her, already on his way to the bathroom. “I’m sure it’ll only take a minute or two to deal with.” He ran the hot water, hopped into the shower, and began scrubbing his head.

Two minutes later he heard someone pounding on the door. “CIA! Open up, Jary Tomlin! We know you’re in there!”

Jary shut off the water and hopped out of the shower, muttering to himself. “Fifteen minutes? Doesn’t the CIA know how to tell time?” He ran a towel over himself as quickly as he could. “Linda, get the door!”

Linda poked her head into the bathroom. “I’m scared!” she said.

“Well I’m wet!”

The pounding continued. “Open the door, Mr. Tomlin!”

Jary sighed as he hurriedly pulled on his underwear and pants. The fabric stuck to his still-wet skin. He dragged a shirt over his head and trotted into the kitchen to retrieve the gun.

“Last chance, Mr. Tomlin! Open this door right now!”

“I’m coming!” Jary called. He jogged up the front door, turned the handle, pulled the door open, and held the gun out in his palm.

He was greeted by half a dozen imposing CIA agents in dark suits and sunglasses with very serious expressions on their faces and Pacifiers in their hands. Each thumb-sized silver peace weapon was pointed straight at Jary. The front yard was ringed in by a telecopter, two SWAT helivans, and at least two dozen nervous-looking police officers.

The CIA agents looked down at the gun in Jary’s hand and smoothly, slowly, began to back away.

“Here it is,” said Jary. “It isn’t mine. I just found it.”

“Steady now, Mr. Tomlin,” said one of the agents, a black woman who was holding her hands placatingly out in front of her. “Let’s not make this any more difficult than it has to be.”

“I don’t want things to be difficult.”

“Good,” said the agent. She licked her lips. “Good,” she repeated. “I’m Agent Smithers. Can we talk? All I want to do is talk.”

“Sure, yes,” said Jary. “Let’s talk.”

“Why don’t we talk inside,” suggested Smithers.

“Fine,” said Jary.

“Okay, I’m going to come towards you, and I’m going to keep my hands out in front of me, where you can see them. Why don’t you lead me to a couch, or a table, or really anywhere you’ll feel comfortable.”

“Um,” said Jary. “Okay.” He brought Smithers into the front room. She sat down on an easy chair, seeming decidedly uneasy about it. Jary put the gun down on the coffee table and sat on the couch.

“Now, I know what you’re thinking,” said Smithers. “You’re trying to make a statement. You want to shake things up a bit. I get that.”

“I… What?” said Jary.

“I don’t know where you got this gun. The technology for making them has been lost for decades. But here we are.”

Jary wrinkled his forehead. “I just… I found it in my garage.”

“Uh huh. Really, it doesn’t matter where it came from, Mr. Tomlin. That isn’t why I’m here. All I want is to get the gun out of your hands without any bloodshed.”

“That sounds very reasonable,” said Jary.

“Good,” said Smithers. “So, down to business then. First, let me turn this off…” She reached into her jacket, took out a small audio recorder, and thumbed a switch. A red light on its side blinked out. “I’m sure you’ll appreciate that we’d prefer not to have a record of these negotiations,” she said. “Official policy states that we do not negotiate with terrorists.”

Jary’s eyes popped open. “With what?”

“Now, here’s the really good news for you,” continued Smithers. “I don’t actually work for the CIA.”

“You don’t?”

“Well, I do, but not only for them. I’m here on behalf of a foreign government. Exactly which government is not your concern. Suffice it to say that I think your interests and our interests align in this scenario.”

“Interests?”

“We want this gun, Mr. Tomlin. It is of extreme value to us.” Smithers stared at Jary intensely. “The Global Disarmament accords did their job well. Too well, we think. Look at us, armed with nothing but Pacifiers and Peacemakers and other pitiful nonsense. All that hype and rhetoric about Mutually Assured Destruction means nothing now. With this gun in our hands, there would be nothing ‘mutual’ about it. You may have your demands, Mr. Tomlin, but we have much larger fish to fry.” Smithers paused. “And I’m not saying that because we’re a coastal nation. I mean, we might be, but we aren’t necessarily. Water-related metaphors exist in landlocked countries, too. We might have lakes.” She frowned. “Don’t read too much into that.”

Jary said, “What?”

“You want numbers? I’ll give you numbers. How about a million dollars?”

Jary sat up a little straighter. “A million?”

“Ten million, then. We aren’t some poor, backwater nation. Or maybe a back-land nation. What I’m trying to say is we have resources. But not that many resources. Enough resources. Stop trying to make me slip, Mr. Tomlin. I’m not telling you anything more than you need to know.”

Jary blinked and looked down at the gun. What in the world was going on?

“Wait! Last offer!” said Smithers. “Twenty-five million dollars. We’ll walk out of here together, you and I, take that telecopter in the front yard, and jump away to Rabat before they know what’s going on. Or to any other city. Whatever city I’m from. Because maybe I’m not from Morocco. But I could be. But maybe I’m not.” Smithers bit her lip.

Twenty-five million dollars. Jary surreptitiously pinched his leg. Nope, he wasn’t dreaming. The things he could do with twenty-five million dollars… But from the sounds of it, that would mean giving the gun to Morocco. Should he do that? They seemed to want it really badly. Was it really that powerful of a weapon?

“Um,” said Jary, “what happens after you get the gun?”

“Whatever you want,” said Smithers. “You fly away free. You can even keep the telecopter.”

His own telecopter? It was like a childhood fantasy come true. “That sounds… really good,” said Jary. “But I think maybe I should talk to my wife.”

Smithers leaned forward. “Certainly,” she said, with a Cheshire grin. “Go ahead. I’ll wait.”

“Linda!” called Jary. “Linda, where are you? Come in here!”

Linda peeked her head in from the kitchen, behind the couch Jary was sitting on. “Yes?”

“I need to discuss something with you,” said Jary. He turned around to look at his wife. “This lady says…”

As soon as Jary had turned, Smithers pounced. She flung herself forwards, grabbed at the gun, and crashed through the coffee table. Jary was so startled that he tipped the couch over backwards. Linda screamed.

Smithers came up with the gun in her hand. “Ha! Now the tables have turned!” she crowed. “You should have taken my offer, Mr. Tomlin.”

“I was going to!” squeaked Jary, raising his hands above his head.

“Too late now,” barked Smithers. “But you’re coming with me anyways, both of you. You’re going to be my insurance policy until we get on that telecopter. Get in front of me. March!”

Jary and Linda scurried ahead of Smithers as she led them to the front door.

“Open it,” ordered Smithers.

Linda slowly turned the handle and pushed the door open. The CIA agents and police officers in the yard were instantly alert, raising their Pacifiers.

“Nobody makes a move!” shouted Smithers. “I’ve got the gun!”

There was a collective gasp. “Veronica, no!” cried one of the agents. “What are you doing?”

“I’m securing the future prosperity of Morocco!” boasted Smithers. “Or maybe some other country. Morocco might only be an example. You’ll find out soon enough! Don’t try to track me when I leave, or else.” She waved the gun in the air.

Everyone cringed.

Smithers glared evilly. “I’ve got hostages, and I’m taking them to the telecopter. First person to make a move gets to experience the full destructive power of this marvel of pre-Disarmament technology!” She prodded Jary and Linda with her free hand. “Move,” she commanded. They began taking slow steps across the yard towards the waiting telecopter.

A young, steely-eyed police officer waited until they were just passing by, and swiftly raised his Pacifier.

Smithers whirled on him and pulled the gun’s old-fashioned trigger with an evil, triumphant grin. There was a loud BANG, and the officer was knocked over backwards.

“Ooh, ow!” moaned the officer. He sat up, holding his shoulder. Blood was streaming out between his fingers. “Ooow.”

Smithers looked at the gun in her hand and furiously spun Jary around to face her. “That’s it!?” she bellowed. “That’s all this gun does?”

Jary shrugged meekly. “I don’t know! I just found it!”

The CIA agents, several of whom had dived to the ground when Smithers fired the gun, were getting back to their feet.

Smithers defiantly raised the gun in front of her. “You’ll never take me!” she cried, and sprinted towards the telecopter.

Four Pacifier beams struck her at once, and she and the gun disintegrated into a neat little pile of dust and salt.

“Interesting,” said one of the CIA agents.

“Very interesting,” said another.

“I guess it really was quite a small gun.”

END

What If Our Baby Becomes a Ninja?

Some day, there is a good chance that precious little baby growing inside Larissa could grow up to be a ninja. Talk about a career that could produce some mixed feelings in a parent!

On the one hand, having a ninja for a son could be really cool. Think of all the benefits! I’d never have to worry about my personal security, for one. I wouldn’t have to stress about my son being killed in any kind of accident, either, because of his ninja reflexes. Plus we’d definitely be the most popular parents on the block. Everyone wants to be on a ninja’s good side, so they’d probably bring us all kinds of presents, like gift cards to fancy restaurants and stuff.

On the other hand, how would we teach him that children are to be seen and not heard? He’d more likely be unseen, unheard, unsmelled… just generally undetected. Hard to show off your son to his grandparents when you have no idea where he’s hiding. On top of that, it’s hard to know how stable ninjahood is as a career choice. I don’t have much personal knowledge of it, but I assume you have to work on contract, and that can be difficult. What happens during a recession, or if there’s a decline in ninja demand? Is there a ninja union? Do ninjas get recognized for employment insurance? What kinds of pensions can they get?

It could be really interesting if our baby grows up to be a ninja, but I think I have some research to do before I’ll be entirely comfortable with it.

What If Our Baby Becomes a Master Chef?

Larissa and I are really excited to become parents, and, Lord willing, we will be, come early April 2012. As a way to celebrate our anticipation, I’m going to write a series of blog posts about who our first child might become. We don’t know if we’re having a boy or a girl, so I’m going to alternate between posts.


What if our baby grows up to be a master chef?

As our budding restaurateur familiarizes herself with our kitchen, it’s likely there will be a few cuts and a burn or two. We’d better make sure to keep some bandaids and balms handy, just in case. And I expect it will be important to practice suppressing our gag reflexes for the inevitable disastrous flavour combos we’ll have to endure as the primary guinea pigs for our daughter’s culinary experimentation.

Think of the payoff, though! I can’t wait to get free meals at our little girl’s fancy restaurant, and see the looks on all the other guests’ faces as they enjoy their food. We’ll be so proud, and we’ll tell everyone we know to go and try our daughter’s signature dish, whatever that turns out to be.

It will be really awesome if our baby grows up to be a master chef. I can’t wait to watch it happen!