tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36607516148717690342024-02-20T20:52:53.722+00:00Four Thousand WordsThis is the personal blog of Kris Holt, an award-winning writer based in the UK.Unknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger198125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3660751614871769034.post-55244500670188329422017-12-28T14:41:00.002+00:002017-12-28T14:41:28.812+00:00Review of 2017 and plan for 2018<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSVGVOnPPj1OMiIo4Qa42SpP6SWZXxB42Z7t4cypoo_SZo-PzHoW5GTA4-Yp8i4TkICd_tpH2VDmNBIRrqJWhjEdpIfyQfacSHNe3RkxEYZwCe_PdHlfq1XPUwn6VeipSP7a1QxDL4DDk/s1600/thumbnail_IMG_2639.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="481" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSVGVOnPPj1OMiIo4Qa42SpP6SWZXxB42Z7t4cypoo_SZo-PzHoW5GTA4-Yp8i4TkICd_tpH2VDmNBIRrqJWhjEdpIfyQfacSHNe3RkxEYZwCe_PdHlfq1XPUwn6VeipSP7a1QxDL4DDk/s320/thumbnail_IMG_2639.jpg" width="241" /></a>With the Christmas holidays coming to an end, it's time for the traditional annual review of events, taking stock of where I am with my writing and where I'd like to be this time next year. <br />
<br />
All considered, it's been a bit of a funny old year, really. To my eternal chagrin, it's been one where I've had to focus almost exclusively on non-writing goals, since my weight, my debts and my (actual) career were all in danger of spiralling out of control twelve months ago, and I really felt like I had to impose some discipline on myself in order that I didn't end up losing any of my spinning plates. <br />
<br />
Accordingly, my debts are now paid off, I'm nearly two stone lighter than I was this time last year and I have taken my final professional exam (results pending mid January). In twelve months time, I'll be pondering a move into my forties and while I'm a keen believer that you should never stop learning, it would be nice to be able to focus on things which are lower stakes as far as my income and personal stability are concerned. Being white and male and a certain age, I recognise that I'm privileged enough to be shielded from much of the unfairness in the world, and I'm very fortunate in that I've never suffered particularly from stress or other mental health symptoms. That said, I did spend a lot of the last six months feeling tired and worn, like maybe I'd spread myself too thinly. Other people will tell you to push your personal and artistic limits to the maximum - I'm telling you that it's perfectly okay to spend time within your comfort zone if that's, y'know, where you feel most comfortable.
<br />
<br />
In terms of writing, 2017 saw the release of <a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/This-Burning-Future-Arizona-Book-ebook/dp/B074RRLVYV/ref=cm_cr_arp_d_product_top?ie=UTF8">'This Burning Man'</a>, the serial I spent a number of months working on prior to release. I also was very honoured that my local sci-fi book group read and reviewed it, and held me to account earlier this month with some very searching questions. The compilation of the novel from the initial serial entries meant that by necessity, the story was tight and well-paced, but suffered in the rewrite from having to change some of the original characters and events to create a more reasonable overall narrative. All seemed to agree that the three main characters were really well written, which is brilliant for a writer to hear, but they also felt that many of the supporting cast blurred together. People were also politely critical of the deus ex machina devices in the plot and the junk science that creates the consequences for the characters, all of which are perfectly reasonable criticisms. Pleasingly, the reviews that people gave the book largely matched with my own feelings about it retrospectively, so I can feel reasonably confident that I'm not looking at my work through rose-tinted glasses (perish the thought).<br />
<br />
So what of 2018? Firstly, and most importantly, I want to write more. I've taken a role on the staff team at <a href="https://gothamcitytimes.com/">Gotham City Times</a> and will periodically be sharing my thoughts about gaming (disclaimer: I realise I'm old and no-one cares what I think - feel free to send me emails confirming this fact.) 2017 was the first year in a while where I haven't won an award, a competition or been published in an anthology or similar, so it would be nice to find a niche for myself once more in 2018. To try and help with this, I've decided to adopt Ray Bradbury's approach of writing a new short story every week. I have a rough idea planned out to set some short stories in the 'This Burning Man' universe after someone suggested this, I have some short story competitions lined up that I'd love to enter, and I'll be looking out for anthology opportunities too. I also feel that if I produce anything good enough, I'd like to submit to one or more of the major sci-fi journals/magazines - it would be really good to see my name alongside the industry luminaries.<br />
<br />
I also want to release at least one new book in 2018 - I'm ostensibly keen to work on a sequel to 'This Burning Man' (since so many people seem to enjoy it, even if it is bloody daft) but I've also investigated a few old ideas to see if there's potential in any of them - I have old Nano drafts of a book based on a Jeff Noon story called 'Today We Caught One' (there were actually 50,000 words in the draft, which fits with the Nano theme but was more than I ever remember writing on the story) and a separate one called 'Steam', about a classic heroine in a steampunk-and-magic-infused city reminiscent of China Mieville's New Crobuzon. There's also the <a href="http://4thousandwords.blogspot.co.uk/2016/02/my-travels-through-imaginary-lands-pt-1.html">Nebran travelogue</a> that I was posting on this very blog in 2016, which I would love to finish and then release as an e-book. Travel writing is an underappreciated genre, and if you're not already a fan, I urge you to pick up something in 2018 and learn new things about the world. Who knows? It might even encourage you to take a trip. With one of my books in your bag, obviously.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3660751614871769034.post-31886037324553784742017-08-13T14:15:00.001+01:002017-08-13T14:16:49.012+01:00This Burning Man, and the 'Future Arizona' seriesHello again, this is just a quick post to let you know that as of today, 'This Burning Man' has now become exclusively available on Kindle e-book. You can still read the unedited first 20% of the book at the dedicated blogspot website, and when you reach the end of Chapter 8, you'll be directed to a page with Amazon links where you can <a href="http://thisburningman.blogspot.co.uk/2017/07/this-burning-man-is-complete.html">buy the rest</a> from your local Amazon site.<br />
<br />
The finished text came out at a shade over 72,000 words, which was much larger than it felt when I was writing it, and is technically the length of a standard novel. As it's previously been readable for free on Blogspot, I'm only charging 99p/$1.29 for the edited version, and frankly, it's a bargain at the price. Please tell your sci-fi loving friends, and remember that honest Amazon reviews are always welcome.<br />
<br />
What now? Well, it's been such fun to write these characters that I could hardly leave things where they were, and I'm starting to plan a second 'Future Arizona' novel set in the same world, which as previously mentioned, is provisionally titled 'The Fox and the Mox'. I don't want to give away too much of the storyline, but in book #2 we'll start out following Jayci as she leaves Hole Town and journeys through the Sands in search of other survivors of the perihelion. On her travels she'll encounter a young woman with a curious affinity for wild animals who is a member of a fire-obsessed religious cult whose leaders are the victims of an ancient curse...<br />
<br />
Please note that unlike TBM, TF&TM will <u>not</u> be being serialised online, though I may offer up the odd chapter to people to pique interest during the process.<br />
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As it stands, I'd hope to be able to offer TF&TM to readers during 2018, so please keep an eye out for announcements.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3660751614871769034.post-27949520577605953342017-07-30T14:40:00.002+01:002017-07-30T14:57:24.567+01:00This Burning Man is complete!Those of you who've been reading my ongoing sci-fi serial, 'This Burning Man', may already be aware that last weekend, this reached its epic conclusion. For those of you who haven't yet had a chance to read TBM, I would recommend clicking <a href="http://thisburningman.blogspot.co.uk/2016/01/chapter-1.html">here</a>, which will take you to the start of this fun, madcap romp through future Arizona. <br />
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As it stands, my expectation was that I would leave 'This Burning Man' up on the internet for a period of several weeks to give me time to edit it and take out a few of the more annoying kinks and the glaring instance where I accidentally shoot myself with <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Chekhov%27s_gun">Chekhov's Gun</a>. For now, I'm not sure whether I will leave the story up for good or not - as ever, with any finished work, it would be nice to make something available for sale, and the thoroughly talented and delightful <a href="https://twitter.com/Elizabethjbooks">Elizabeth Jeannel</a> was kind of enough to produce me a cover for the e-book version, so I expect that this is the way I will end up going. At this stage, it seems unlikely that a paper version of 'This Burning Man' will ever see the light of day.<br />
<br />
All of those kind people who have been involved with the project online, contributing thoughts, ideas and encouragement, will be offered a Kindle copy of the edited book. Likewise, it would be good to offer the same to the lovely folks from the Norwich Sci-fi Readers Group, who are always kind enough to indulge me as I talk incessantly about my work.<br />
<br />
In terms of new projects in the pipeline, I recommend my other online project, the <a href="https://caribouchronicles.com/2017/07/01/chapter-one/">Caribou Chronicles</a>, an urban fantasy tale which is co-written with the accomplished Canadian horror writer, Caitlin Marceau. I would like to be involved in more short story anthologies in the next year or two, so expect this to be a focus. <br />
<br />
Finally, in response to questions, I do have a plan for a second novel in the TBM world, as yet not fully planned, but with at least some of the characters you've met from the first. Provisionally entitled, 'The Fox and the Mox', expect news on development in 2018!<br />
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Until then, hold onto your hats, there's plenty more to come! Best believe it...Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3660751614871769034.post-54801939782846626592017-06-17T14:13:00.002+01:002017-06-17T14:23:15.326+01:00Rising from the DeadHas it really been this long, dear reader? I am told that the only thing nicer than taking a break is returning to normality, and there are hints of some exciting news on the horizon. <a href="https://caribouchronicles.com/">Caribou Chronicles</a> is set for a July relaunch with new material and contributors, <a href="http://thisburningman.blogspot.co.uk/">This Burning Man</a> is approaching a world-ending finale and there's another thing that may be even more exciting than that...but that's all to come.<br />
<br />
In the meantime, my fellow <a href="https://www.shadowsatthedoor.com/">Shadows at the Door</a> contributor, Chris Long, has posted a challenge on <a href="https://www.cjlongwords.com/">his blog</a> that consists of ten questions posed to a character from my works. I had everything set up to invite Phoenix, the god-fearin', pill-poppin', hillbilly hero of' 'This Burning Man' to take part, but he had to change out of his cassock and when he got back, Jayci Clemence was here too, tarring her hair. So, while it might be strictly against the rules to allow both to take part, it might be safer for all concerned just to let the pair of them get on with it. Chris, over to you...<br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>1) What do you like to read in your spare time and has it prepared you for living through your own story?</b><br /><br />PHOENIX: Reading? What, like, books'n'stuff?<br />
JAYCI: I won't lie to ya, we ain't the greatest readers. That's more Gregor's territory. If you can add up all the zeros on a 'Wanted' poster, you're doing better than most in our profession.<br />
P: I read my Bible.<br />
J: And you're going to heaven, sweetie.<br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>2) Do you think a character should be able to choose their own genre or
do you think that would lead to chaos across the bookshelves?</b><br />
<br />
J: Well...I guess a writer's gotta have a bit of input, right? Technically, it was their story before it was ours? Though I do wonder sometimes if the guy who writes us knows what he's doing.<br />
P: Is there a Bounty Hunter genre?<br />
J: I mean, what we have isn't quite a buddy story. There's a bit of western, a bit of sci-fi. It's so busy being everything that it ain't quite anything, in truth. Maybe it's a romance. People are always telling us we'd be great together.<br />
P: There's a lot of explosions for a romance.<br />
J: Don't go spoiling the mystique, now.<br />
<br />
<b>3) If you had to write a story yourself, would it be in the same vein as the story you’re currently living through?</b><br />
<br />
J: Hell no. There are too many men cluttering up the space, for starters. If I was writing it, this story'd be full of space demons with giant teeth and with only a handful of hot, heroic, silent studs keeping order while the girls got shit done, you know what I'm saying?<br />
P: I'd kind of like to write something historical. Like maybe back when America was still one country and there weren't all this magic and weirdness out in the desert. <br />
J: I reckon it was always out there, even back then. It was just they didn't go out each day and look for it.<br />
P: Do you reckon Gregor would know about historical stuff like that?<br />
J: Oh, probably. His story would be, like, a technical manual or something. Anything even slightly realistic and he'd be heading for the hills.<br />
<br />
<b>4) Do you think this story is sharing the greatest moment of your life?</b><br />
<br />
P: I don't know if I'd say greatest. I mean, meeting my sister and my mother was pretty awesome, but then I died, and now the world is ending. It's been an eventful few days.<br />
J: I once spent a weekend socialisin' in Nogales with a Mexican border smuggler. He was a handsome man, and so were both of his bodyguards. As greatest moments go, that weekend was up there.<br />
P: You ain't never mentioned that before.<br />
J: Didn't I?<br />
<br />
<b>5) If you were allowed to edit your story yourself would you cast yourself in the leading role or keep out of the limelight?</b><br />
<br />
P: I wouldn't say that I look to be centre stage, but when there ain't nobody else, a man's gotta step up, y'know?<br />
J: Say what now?<br />
P: I said I'm stepping up. Kind of leading by circumstance.<br />
J: I heard what you said. I just thought that it's cute that you think you're in charge.<br />
P: Oh, I ain't going here again. I died and came back to life. This is definitely my story.<br />
J: Sweetie, main characters don't die.<br />
P: This one did.<br />
J: I'm just saying.<br />
P: This one did.<br />
J: If we were a band, it'd be Gregor on the drums, you on the bass, me lead guitar and singing.<br />
P: You're an awful singer.<br />
J: I'm just saying.<br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>6) Would you ever want to know the full page count of your story?</b><br />
<br />
J: That'd probably be more handy for the writer than for us, if you know what I mean.<br />
P: I already got more pages than I was supposed to. I guess I can't complain.<br />
J: I got a lot of pages left. I'm popular.<br />
P: Says you. Don't nobody know that for sure.<br />
J: The writer would get lynched by my fans if he did anything bad to me.<br />
P: I happen to know he's the kind of guy who would kill someone in your position just to provoke a reaction.<br />
J: Says you.<br />
P: She likes to have the last word.<br />
J: Damn right.<br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>7) Have any scenes been cut from your story that you want putting back in place?</b><br />
<br />
P: You know what? The original premise of this story was so totally different - like, totally different - that I don't think we could go back to that world. The world ended in that one too, but there was all sorts of commentary about Old World politics and what it did to people. There was a kidnapping, an accidental death, an exile.<br />
J: That all sounds...interesting.<br />
P: It was a lot more like his first book. This version is more fun, though.<br />
J: You spend a lot of time talking to this guy.<br />
P: I was around for a long while before you were. Gregor was different then too. At the beginning, he was an artist and a political agitator. I had a sidekick called Macklin who was a Irishman who wore a top hat. He was a duelist and a performance poet. Parts of him got absorbed into the rest of you. Obviously not including the accent or the hat.<br />
J: I refuse to believe that Gregor came before me.<br />
P: He was a bare-knuckle fistfighter.<br />
J: Okay, that never happened.<br />
P: Best believe it.<br />
J: You're talking out of your ass.<br />
P: I reckon you only got added in for light relief.<br />
J: It's only 'cause you ain't funny.<br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>8) If you could ever meet a reader in person would you ask for their review of your story?</b><br />
<br />
J: We hear from readers all the time! Mostly, 'Can you kill off this character, please' type of stuff. Seriously. I have a list.<br />
P: Am I on it?<br />
J: I'm hardly gonna tell you if you are, am I? <br />
P: I got a world to save. I can't worry about stuff like review scores or real-world physics.<br />
J: I bet Gregor would want to know the scores.<br />
P: Only because he gets pissy when other people know things that he doesn't.<br />
<br />
<b>9) Would you rather your story be light and entertaining or leave your readers with questions when it’s finished?</b><br />
<br />
J: I like to think I add the pathos to the story.<br />
P: And did Gregor tell you what that word means?<br />
J: You shut your mouth.<br />
P: The way that it is now, you gotta have a bit of everything. It's a live story, evolving week to week. There's a whole world happening in the background - or at least, there is for another few hours. Sometimes the writer has a chapter all planned out and then an idea wakes him up at 3am and the next day, things get rewritten. You have to care about the characters - and people seem to - but he has a rule.<br />
J: An explosion in every episode.<br />
P: He's working on that.<br />
<br />
<b>10) Are you happy for the problems in your life to be used as catharsis for your readers?</b><br />
<br />
J: Phoe-Phoe's a reminder to readers that things can always be worse.<br />
P: Thanks for that.<br />
J: Hey, at least I didn't tell them that you freak out whenever you hear piano music.<br />
P: On balance, I'm actually pretty courageous.<br />
J: Sure you are. As for me, I'm happy just being an inspiration for all the little Jaycis out there. Believe in yourself. Walk unafraid. Chase down your dreams.<br />
P: I heard a rumour that you once strangled a man with your hair.<br />
J: And my next boyfriend will lift the damn toilet seat before he pees.<br /><br />Aaaaaand for now, we'll be leaving it there. In the spirit of this arrangement, I would love to pass on the ten-question task to other amazing writers, so Zoe Sumra, Pete Alex Harris and L.B. Scott, here are ten for your own lovable cherubs:<br />
<br />
1) Can you describe yourself in five words or less?<br />
2) How do you feel about your writer at the start of your story?<br />
3) How do you feel about them at the end?<br />
4) Do you feel happy with the story arc that's been laid out for you?<br />
5) If you could change places with any other character from your writer's work, who would it be?<br />
6) Would you like to have your writer in the same world as you?<br />
7) What would you say is your biggest secret?<br />
8) If you could change one thing about your back story, what would it be? <br />
9) What do you think about the readers who enjoy your story?<br />
10) What events are you hoping will happen in your sequel?<br />
<br />
This is just a quick reminder that the latest episode of <a href="http://thisburningman.blogspot.co.uk/">'This Burning Man'</a>, entitled 'One Shot', is due to be released tomorrow.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3660751614871769034.post-30218710589663649432016-11-13T13:52:00.002+00:002016-11-13T14:12:05.008+00:00Nanowrimo snippet, 2016 - The Magpie's Celestial SanctumHello to readers! I realise that it's been a while since I posted something on this blog, so I thought I would share the following small scene from my Nanowrimo 2016 project. Set in the same world that is explored in my earlier blog entries, '<a href="http://4thousandwords.blogspot.co.uk/2016/02/my-travels-through-imaginary-lands-pt-1.html">My Travels Through Imaginary Lands</a>', we find ourselves in the city-state of Kassium, which is honouring the most brilliant young engineer from their foremost institute. Dynamic, talented and forceful, Isabella Crome is expecting to be assigned responsibility for the beating heart of the nation - the furious, inexplicable core that powers their industry - The Engine. What will happen, and what deceptions she will uncover, will determine not just her future, but the future of a fractured continent.<br />
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I hope you enjoy this small snippet - stay tuned for more!<br />
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* * * </div>
<br />
The sanctum was everything Isabella had been told to expect and more. The room was both toplit and bottomlit in ivory white, the former emanating from the vanilla tallow candles in the mandala chandeliers strung from the conically sloping roof. Beneath the floor, lamps powered by The Engine sat in half-moon lightning-glass prisons that one could walk across like bridges from certainty to certainty. The effect of the up-and-down lighting was to parse one's face in the quarters of a saltiric cross, forehead and chin prominent, cheeks and ears in shadow. Five hundred eyes glinted like the teeth of predatory animals.<br />
<br />
Below the chandeliers, great corkscrew garlands hung in the shape of dovish birdflocks, echoing the whorl of marble pillars that led down to the central hub of the room, the celestially-inspired mezzanine that was known simply as The Breadth.<br />
<br />
At her insistence, Sarasota had already explained the nature of The Breadth to Isabella. The floor was composed of pressed sheets of black calcite overlaid with hardened obsidian which had been fractured with irregular clots of fired opaline cystals. These had been fanned and pressed down to form fragmented, discoloured stars against the nightly backdrop. The passages between the stars were marked out with slender channels of gold paint and powdered cherry garnet; the whole picture that formed was an
astrological representation of the titanic, mythical battle between the continent-sized <i>Varkenboor</i> and the <i>Heltenzeer</i> bird that tore the Nebran continent away from the world pangaea so many millennia before. <br />
<br />
Many times since then had the sun risen and set. The Ondian Empire had ascended and then fallen back into decline, just as the Yzyrobians had before them. The patch of land remaining to their descendants retained the name of the Empire, but like the language employed in formal situations, everything else had been lost, save in the minds of those who came later. Gods had been cast aside, and production quotas took their place. Now, the whispered words in the street were of rivets, armour plating, tobacco harvests and munitions. <br />
<br />
'The Breadth is tremendously beautiful,' Sarasota had told her. 'There's nothing else quite like it in the world. The first time I set foot upon it, I felt like I was desecrating something holy.'<br />
<br />
'I rather wish I had seen it being constructed,' Isabella had replied. 'I could have learned much from the processes.'Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3660751614871769034.post-64233659780128548532016-09-10T01:37:00.002+01:002016-09-10T01:42:47.688+01:00The Institute of Meandering MindsThe wind whistled as the cowled figure stepped out across the timeless stone of the faculty floor. Soft footsteps brushed over the cinereal surface, moving from corner to corner. These corners were dominated by heavy candalabras, each constructed from the beams of the inn that had once stood upon this spot - the spot where millennia ago, the settlement of Meander had been formed.<br />
<br />
Of course, Meander had come a long way since then. A simple village, a trading hub, a thriving port, a centre of commerce. <br />
<br />
The figure paused only once, as though considering the time that had passed since Meander had come into being. In the mind, chronology streamed away relentlessly like vapour into the void. At the tapered end of that imagined surge, roughened skin cupped around tallow and wick, and fragile light gave birth to shadows. The wind briefly gained strength, only to die away to frigid whispers.<br />
<br />
The city teemed and flowed, and with that flow came ideas. Meander became a haven of philosophy, a sanctum of knowledge. Wood yielded to marble, and air to glass. Small, unbidden embers burned in a hundred grates. That was when they built the Institute.<br />
<br />
Only when all the candles had been lit did the figure approach the upturned steel coil that doubled as a throne at the end of the room. The figure rested lightly on the edge, testing the surface, and then flipped back her hood to reveal a cataract of auricomous hair. She glanced upwards, amused, to where the statue of a squid, carved from obsidian, stretched its tentacles into the air. <br />
<br />
The Headmistress was home.<br />
<br />
She set a tiny brazier down onto the coal table before her and crushed sandalwood bark and powdered mhiatic into the bowl with her thumb. When she was done, she touched the surface with the index finger from each hand, and the bowl began to glow. In a minute or two, the aroma filled the enclosed space and she allowed her shoulders to settle.<br />
<br />
The delta surrounding the city was rich, the farmlands fecund. The granaries filled and the specialists thrived. In this most golden of ages, The Institute produced the first of the Great Reports. Four calling birds, four houses. Four classes of people.<br />
<br />
The masses, strong, uncomplicated, infinitely fertile, with shoulders that carried the world. They encompassed all roles from simple farmhands and fishermen to the rawhide tanners that coloured the markets with their wares, but their first leaders were the buttermakers and the bakers. They became House ButterTart.<br />
<br />
There was a knock at the door. The Headmistress said, 'Enter.'<br />
<br />
The dark-skinned man that came into the chamber was so immense that he had to unfold himself after stepping across the threshold. His muscles shone beneath a threadbare shirt and loose cotton shorts, and he wore light moccasins upon his feet. A bright scarf was tied around his stubbled head.<br />
<br />
The Headmistress nodded. 'You are welcome, Representative.'<br />
<br />
'Zakaria Al-Aymane, of House ButterTart. I offer you greetings, Headmistress.'<br />
<br />
'Your greetings are acknowledged and appreciated, Representative. What can my humble house offer the people of ButterTart?'<br />
<br />
Zakaria opened his hands like a salesman offering wares. 'What can you offer, Headmistress? Why, you can offer the things that rich men have refused to poor men since society began. The people want work, they want security, and they want freedom.'<br />
<br />
'The people of ButterTart already have the freedoms of association and action. What more does a citizen in possession of aspiration desire?'<br />
<br />
Zakaria counted the freedoms in the palm of his hand. 'Freedom from poverty, and freedom from fear, to name but two. But you should know that there is more to freedom than an individual's choice for themselves. There are the choices they would make for their children, and for those generations still to come.'<br />
<br />
'I trust that the workers are making ample provision for those future generations.'<br />
<br />
Zakaria grinned, showing off a single jewelled tooth. 'We make our sacrifices so that others may better themselves, 'tis true. But well you should remember, Headmistress, that a leader rules with the permission of the people. Heed this advice, for we will not long tolerate tyranny.'<br />
<br />
The Headmistress raised a single immaculate eyebrow. 'Your warning is heeded, Representative, and the strength of a thousand years of mutual respect and teamwork between our Houses should serve as evidence that you can trust my word. Rest assured that the well-being of your people is uppermost in my thoughts.'<br />
<br />
Zakaria observed the remainder of the formal obligations and left, closing the door softly behind him. The Headmistress regarded his warning as the posturing it surely was. Yet, if anyone could marshal the masses, it would be Zakaria. He was handsome, charismatic, and she had heard rumours that he was father to a dozen children. Like a dysfunctional family, the members of House ButterTart were wild, furious, uncontrollable. But if their power could be focused, it could overwhelm the other Houses in a day.<br />
<br />
That day had not yet come.<br />
<br />
The Headmistress stared into the glowing bowl before her. The concoction within fizzed and smoked. The Headmistress' mind swirled, and she was once again within the rainbow flow of time. Angry shouts echoed into the abyss. Embers became flames within a thousand brick hearths. Minds once devoted to the accumulation of wisdom swelled instead with ambition and avarice.<br />
<br />
There was another knock at the door. This time the Headmistress did not look up. 'Enter.'<br />
<br />
This figure was well-known to the headmistress. Melania Wittgenstein of House Bleeding Moon sidled inside and glanced around nervously. Her pallid demeanour might have been frustrating to some, but the Headmistress had not risen to Head of the Faculty without a natural gift for diplomacy. Rather than hurry the other woman, she waited as long as was necessary for her to feel comfortable.<br />
<br />
The traders and the artisans, creative and shrewd. The landowners, the lobbyists and the makers of laws. The explorers that went to the corners of the earth, the wide-eyed wonderers that looked to the heavens. All were given to House Bleeding Moon.<br />
<br />
Wittgenstein introduced herself and her house in clipped tones. She had dark, perfectly-straight hair and tended towards consumptive, with the narrow bones in her wrists particularly prominent. A network of blue veins ran across her pale skin, spiderwebbing in her temples and the backs of her hands. Her eyes searched constantly in all directions. Despite this, the Headmistress knew that her brain was needle-sharp, and afforded her respect accordingly.<br />
<br />
'It is a pleasure to see you again, Representative.'<br />
<br />
Melania glanced around. 'Headmistress, I am concerned that we are not alone.'<br />
<br />
The Headmistress flicked the edge of the glowing bowl that was sat between them, letting out a dull tone that reverberated around for a few seconds. She tipped her head and listened. When she was satisfied, she met the other woman's eye.<br />
<br />
'You need not be concerned, Representative. Now tell me - what does House Bleeding Moon require?'<br />
<br />
'Guarantees, Headmistress, such as only you can give. If the city is to truly thrive, we must be sure that our pioneering spirits are rewarded for their investments. Corporate power is waning, and in its stead, there will be a vacuum that is unhealthy for all parties. We need to be able to market our goods and services, and to create the demand where it does not already exist.'<br />
<br />
'The lobbyists within your ranks are already champions at exploiting opportunity.' The Headmistress studied her nails. 'Surely you agree that rewards are to be earned, not provided?'<br />
<br />
'Stability cannot be taken for granted,' Melania advised. 'Tariffs from abroad already threaten our prosperity and to make matters worse, we are concerned that the workers become too bold.'<br />
<br />
'I don't know what you mean.'<br />
<br />
The Headmistress had never truly seen another person splutter until that moment. Despite her distaste for intervention in inter-House affairs, she had to admire Melania's horrified protestations.<br />
<br />
'It is Zakaria, Headmistress! He fills the workers' heads with nonsense. Tells them that they can be kings...he has no respect for the natural order of things!'<br />
<br />
The Headmistress smirked. She was remembering Zakaria's vast frame, his absolute confidence as he warned the ruler of the consequences of not following his advice. And those muscles...<br />
<br />
She sighed and came back to the present. 'What would you have me do?'<br />
<br />
'Rein him in,' Melania hissed. 'Surely you must appreciate the potential problems of allowing any House to dictate to the others.'<br />
<br />
The Headmistress was aware of this, of course, but she wondered if House Bleeding Moon was aware of the ironic nature of its own stance. 'I will deal with Zakaria. Think no more upon it. And now, if there is nothing else?'<br />
<br />
'If the Headmistress would consider it, House Bleeding Moon would appreciate guarantees of minimum prices for our goods...'<br />
<br />
Affairs risked becoming bogged down in trivial detail, and the meeting was quickly adjourned. Melania fussed as she withdrew, and she stopped once again in the doorway to look around, before seeming to feel that any potential danger was lessened by leaving. <br />
<br />
The Headmistress ran a finger around the steaming bowl, feeling the heat surge up her arm and the raised skin forming a welt on the tip of the digit. Then out of nowhere, she snapped her fingers, causing the light to briefly flare. A figure, dressed all in grey, was standing just a few feet from her desk.<br />
<br />
Wherever there is light, there is shadow. The two are like lovers, walking hand-in-hand. And wherever there are shadows, there are those willing to hide in them. As progress determined, the city grew and developed, but there had always been those that fate left behind.<br />
<br />
House JaBooty was home to the beggars and the nightwalkers, those who were light on their feet, and desired to lighten the purses of others. Those who caused pain, and those who treated it. Those who lived by swords and cudgels, broken souls that yearned for war.<br />
<br />
Those who were victims of a terrible genetic plague that destroyed their bodies, survivors who prospered only thanks to their unique skills and steely determination. <br />
<br />
'Your presence is appreciated, Representative, but decorum strongly suggests that you should enter the sanctum only after the others have left.'<br />
<br />
The laugh that answered her could best be described as gravelly, vocal pressure forcing itself out of the tortured tubes that made up the throat of the figure before her. 'If we agreed to that, how would we know what was being discussed?'<br />
<br />
The Headmistress knew the greyshirted figure only as Ken-Ken, though her sources advised that he also answered to the name 'Null'. It was a tradition within House JaBooty for the members to take new names, ones that played down their former personalities and reduced them to nothing. Beneath the bandages that covered Ken-Ken's face, the Headmistress could see sores and rapidly-decomposing skin.<br />
<br />
Even though she had known Ken-Ken was there all along, the Headmistress was surprised to find him so close to her desk. It was a rare and delicious feeling, not knowing everything. Realising that she could still be discomfited was a reminder that she had not ascended, and was still every bit a living human being as those she greeted.<br />
<br />
Though were they human, the JaBooty? The silence was lengthening, and their representative had not moved so much as an inch.<br />
<br />
'Tell me,' she said, 'what does House JaBooty want?'<br />
<br />
'Power,' the figure said, in a voice like the rustling of dead leaves.<br />
<br />
The Headmistress stared into the darkness. 'And how do you propose to achieve that, Representative?'<br />
<br />
'However the opportunity presents. Whenever there is darkness, we shall rest within it. Wherever another House shows weakness, we will exploit it.'<br />
<br />
A thousand hearths became a million communal smokeshafts, and the shadows that grew from them became large indeed. Shape us, they called. Lead us, for we are many, and our hunger is great.<br />
<br />
'I rather like House JaBooty,' the Headmistress whispered, 'if only because your goals are so transparent and single-mindedly pursued.'<br />
<br />
Ken-Ken said, 'I couldn't help but hear that you are having some trouble with a man called Zakaria. If you wish it, House JaBooty could see to it that this problem is appropriately resolved.'<br />
<br />
'Rest assured,' the Headmistress snapped, 'that if I decide to take that course of action, you will be the first to know.'<br />
<br />
Even as she finished speaking, the Headmistress admonished herself for betraying an emotion. It was unbecoming of a woman in her position, and that only magnified her irritation to a further degree.<br />
<br />
After an appropriate time had passed, she said, 'Do not let me detain you, Representative.' The shadows licked at the walls, and laughed like hyenas. The next sound that she heard was hissing, and the gaseous form of Representative Ken-Ken disappeared through the keyhole at the other end of the room. The Headmistress let out the breath she had been holding.<br />
<br />
Above the now-empty space, past the obsidian squid, the heraldic shield of the city had pride of place above the door. Next to the horseman archer, the trumpeteer and the curved-blade-and-star that represented the other Houses, the image of the feline was that of her own House, TacoCat.<br />
<br />
They were the leaders, the rulers, those marked by divine right. Those that planned for the day when a million smokestacks would become a ship to the stars.<br />
<br />
TacoCats were the only ones who really understood the responsibility, and for that realisation, they became as Gods.<br />
<br />
'Are you ready?' she whispered to the smouldering bowl.<br />
<br />
'Yes,' the fire replied. <br />
<br />
Eudaimonia awaited, and the Headmistress was impatient.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3660751614871769034.post-26782128663572724872016-05-21T17:36:00.003+01:002016-05-21T17:40:02.037+01:00General Update - May '16Hello! Time for one of those regular quarterly updates that you've all been waiting for.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTXYxHMOX6NyH5SnfzV5JTvtufNrkgClQTFQ-vGaNCKyjDLJ9wxqiJ4gXjBqCvcl2qj3f5vdiNezmZGeNgsIuLWM2B_eRCoNZWlNQNh8RRE2sDX5VmPsoyVNWgTgMVlXCROztVum1IZ4M/s1600/1911011_217109555164122_1217149874_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTXYxHMOX6NyH5SnfzV5JTvtufNrkgClQTFQ-vGaNCKyjDLJ9wxqiJ4gXjBqCvcl2qj3f5vdiNezmZGeNgsIuLWM2B_eRCoNZWlNQNh8RRE2sDX5VmPsoyVNWgTgMVlXCROztVum1IZ4M/s400/1911011_217109555164122_1217149874_o.jpg" width="266" /></a><br />
<u>What Comes from the Earth</u><br />
<br />
My first novel, a political thriller set against the backdrop of the mining communities near Johannesburg, is now available on Kindle worldwide for the princely sum of £2.81 (and Kindle Unlimited readers can get it for free!) The link to buy in the UK is <a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/What-Comes-Earth-Kris-Holt-ebook/dp/B01EOR1PI0/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1463845968&sr=8-1&keywords=what+comes+from+the+earth">here</a>. Cheaper than a Starbucks coffee, and better for the soul. Why not buy a copy?<br />
<br />
<br />
<u>Shadows at the Door</u><br />
<br />
After a successful Kickstarter, the first 'Shadows at the Door' anthology is in production! A huge thank you to all fans who are contributing to making this a reality. I'll be providing further updates from Mark Nixon as particular milestones are reached - but with the horrorific nature of the content, I'm expecting that copies of the book will be winging their ways to contributors sometime around the end of October... <br />
<br />
<u>Caribou Chronicles</u><br />
<br />
Hot on the heels of the anthology, I'm shortly going to be working on a new project with one of my co-contributors. Fresh from her triumphant writing workshop at Kcon just a few days ago, I'm pleased to announce a new collaboration with <a href="http://www.ixdaily.com/users/caitlin-marceau">Caitlin Marceau</a>. Over the next few weeks, Caitlin and I will be preparing material for a new venture that we're calling 'The Caribou Chronicles'. Set in Canada and full to the brim with all manner of fun fantastic creatures, this will be a new rural fantasy work sure to thrill fans of the genre! <br />
<br />
<u>This Burning Man</u><br />
<br />
My sci-fi serial about bounty hunters in future Arizona goes from strength to strength, with over 1,500 readers to date! I'm in discussions with a cover artist about a cover for a Kindle version, with the aim of releasing the finished story in Fall 2016. The blog will continue to be updated fortnightly, and readers will be able to read it all <br />
<br />
So far, our protagonist Phoenix has met a whole lot of crazy folk wandering the Sands - which one can point him in the right direction to find his missing family? <a href="http://thisburningman.blogspot.co.uk/2016/05/chapter-10-spoils-of-war.html">Get caught up now</a> so you're ahead of the game when Chapter 11 is released tomorrow!<br />
<br />
<u>My Travels in Imaginary Lands</u><br />
<br />
Likewise, 'My Travels in Imaginary Lands' continues to build an audience (on this very blog!) and I have all sorts of fun and games planned for it. Unlike TBM, I don't have a schedule in mind for a Kindle release or anything similar, but I'm looking to build a catalogue of back work, so it will inevitably find a home at some point. In the meantime, I'm loving writing it, and I hope you're enjoying reading.<br />
<br />
<u>Escalator Fiction</u><br />
<br />
Sadly, this wasn't to be my
year in Escalator Fiction, but simply to get longlisted given some of
the up-and-coming literary talent in East Anglia is a fantastic
achievement *quickly adds line to CV*<br />
<br />
<u>Other Stuff</u><br />
<br />
I have all sorts of fun plans for story submissions, horror work, new serials, etc. but there are only so many hours in the day! One of my goals for the year is to migrate this blog to a dedicated website, but until then, watch this space!Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3660751614871769034.post-13689954853692110502016-05-02T23:20:00.002+01:002016-05-29T22:49:18.886+01:00My Travels Through Imaginary Lands, Pt. 9The hiss of the rainfall was quickly followed by the rumble of thunder, and as the skies turned in seconds from yellow to black, by the anxious cries of men. The forewoman had not stopped looking at me and now as an immense crowd of drenched labourers began to fill the space behind me, she beckoned me through the door where she stood and closed it after me.<br />
<br />
So sudden had been the flow of events that I hadn't really taken the time to think through what I was doing, or what motive my new companion might have for inviting me in. When I stood awkwardly there, she gave me a sharp look, like she was waiting for something. All I had in my repertoire at that moment was the wherewithal to place my bag down at my feet, so I did that and then waited for further instruction.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzesGjoirsvFLkiEzlA6u_6m-yo0C0897wsMA7svTL-SjnrhrZs7jZP2ztKu5q2sNEF4O0zKmFvAI1-_fvrakH0qmH1pM0y3scUnR476DJ__dRvBeqIvY3Drrz8PABGnXwTj-PT0sSs5E/s1600/rose.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzesGjoirsvFLkiEzlA6u_6m-yo0C0897wsMA7svTL-SjnrhrZs7jZP2ztKu5q2sNEF4O0zKmFvAI1-_fvrakH0qmH1pM0y3scUnR476DJ__dRvBeqIvY3Drrz8PABGnXwTj-PT0sSs5E/s320/rose.jpg" width="320" /></a><br />
The room was sparse and functional as you might expect, but it had the odd touch that hinted at the predilections of its occupier. The bed in the corner was wide and the sheets were of far higher quality than anything else here. The bed was made but a single corner was folded back, as if to invite the weary labourer to rest. A small upright mirror, the kind a man might use for shaving, stood on a nightstand immediately next to the bed. Close to me, a sand-coloured set of drawers was topped by a single red rose in a quartz vase.<br />
<br />
<br />
The forewoman was gazing into the mirror. I watched her press a calloused fingertip to the loose skin below her eye and then reach towards her hair. A peppering of unselfconscious grey lurked there among the darker strands. For a moment she was still as she pulled at the bandanna, and with an artist's eye, I committed that moment above others to memory. It seemed important somehow, though for what reason I could not hope to articulate. Not a second later, her hair was loose and fell away. It didn't tumble exactly, but there was a joyous flourish to the movement; a storyteller's embellishment it might seem and somewhat trite to boot, but it was as if in that second she sprang off a canvas and came to life.<br />
<br />
For the first time, her eyes met mine in the mirror. <br />
<br />
'We don't get many tourists this far out,' she said. 'I felt I had to save you. If I'd left you in there, you'd have some damp, sweaty farmer sitting in your lap right now. You're not in a place for the faint-hearted.'<br />
<br />
I smiled, despite myself. The air in here was cooler, and I was quickly beginning to feel better. At some point I would have to take stock of the shame I would feel for my earlier grumpiness, but that was something for the future.<br />
<br />
'The train journey here was pretty much like that. It was okay, once you got used to it.'<br />
<br />
She said, 'Ha! If I'd have been you, I'd have stayed on the train.'<br />
<br />
'The train already took me where I wanted to go,' I said.<br />
<br />
She tugged underneath her blouse, shifted the strap of a linen undergarment that seemed rather distressed by her dimensions. 'Well, if you came looking for profundity, we have that in spades. That, and sorgha. Lots and lots of sorgha.'<br />
<br />
'I shall have to take some with me as a memory of my journey.'<br />
<br />
She turned towards me, shook the bottom of her skirt and grains disentangled themselves from the wool, pooling around her bare feet. 'When the rain stops, go and take a walk outside. I guarantee you you'll still be finding it in your pockets weeks from now.'<br />
<br />
The idea of returning to the Ministry with my expanded mind full of dangerous ideas and my pockets full of sorgha amused me greatly and I hid my expression behind the pretense of scratching my nose. She continued to loosen and rearrange her clothing, and when she finally reached a level of comfort that she was happy with, she let out a short sigh. I stood politely, feeling myself slip into a conversational rhythm.<br />
<br />
'I'm Petra,' she said, lighting an oil lamp and placing it on the nightstand. 'I take it I can trust you to be a gentleman while I change?'<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_f4XR9wQ_6DckRDzZyAtogg6JgfFOrKsXbR78pbDGhJzOEcHCPBlGkALcB-r43TMG36uXjuCN40bzEX10d05_3BDNjB7bjVPVVAMnlI4BUM-rSdMQMoqmibOS715br8UoahKVISiSv8U/s1600/heart-1202129_960_720.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_f4XR9wQ_6DckRDzZyAtogg6JgfFOrKsXbR78pbDGhJzOEcHCPBlGkALcB-r43TMG36uXjuCN40bzEX10d05_3BDNjB7bjVPVVAMnlI4BUM-rSdMQMoqmibOS715br8UoahKVISiSv8U/s320/heart-1202129_960_720.jpg" width="320" /></a><br />
'Patrick. And of course.' I turned to face the wall, though I'll admit to studying the intriguing, blurred shadow that leaned over my shoulders. In a few seconds, she indicated that I could turn round. She was now wearing a maroon blouse that left very little to the imagination. A small heart-shaped stone hung from a chain between her breasts.<br />
<br />
'So, Patrick,' she said. 'You're an artist, or a writer. Which is it?'<br />
<br />
<br />
'I'm a diplomat,' I replied. She tensed a little at this. One of the things you learned early when the Corps posted you to Rhigo was that the local language did not distinguish between diplomats and spies. 'Please don't be alarmed. I'm just a man on holiday, nothing more.'<br />
<br />
'Just as well,' she said, carefully clipping tiny jewelled earrings onto her lobes. 'There's not much to see here that you haven't already seen.'<br />
<br />
'I had this idea that I could walk west from here until I got to Camir, but it's pretty clear that if I try, the local weather is going to broil me and then drown me.'<br />
<br />
She laughed. 'That, like everything else you've seen, is something you'll have to get used to.'<br />
<br />
'Have you worked here long?'<br />
<br />
It was a ridiculous question, given her tanned skin and absolute dominion. Nevertheless, she bore it with good grace. 'Only my entire life. Fifty years and more in the Sholl. It's all I've ever known.'<br />
<br />
'You've never wanted to travel yourself?'<br />
<br />
'There was a time when I thought about it. One of the men that worked here with me wanted me to give up my role and travel round the world with him. I told him that he'd have to marry me before I did that. He said to me, "I don't think I'd be a good husband. I'm a great lover, a good friend, but I don't think I'll make a good husband." And I laughed, because it was impossible not to, and I replied, "My sweet, you are a very good friend, but you are not such a great lover." He agreed to marry me the next day.'<br />
<br />
'And yet, you still didn't go travelling?'<br />
<br />
She rubbed a pink powder onto her lips with a forefinger. 'He was every bit as bad a husband as he said he would be. I should have listened to him, but if I listened to everything men said...' She tailed off.<br />
<br />
'Careful,' I said with a grin. 'I am a man, you know.'<br />
<br />
'As if the beard didn't give it away. No, I haven't travelled. And in recognition of my hard work, I now own this little plot of land in the centre of the world. Everything for a hundred miles around is my garden.'<br />
<br />
There was a knock at the door and she flashed me an ugly, devilish grin. 'Best of all, forewomen privileges mean that I get my pick of the younger men, whenever and however I want.' It immediately became clear why she had been preparing herself.<br />
<br />
'Get the door, please.' I did so, to be greeted by a stocky young man in his late teens with a bashful expression on his face. He seemed surprised to see me, but averted his eyes respectfully. Petra said, 'Come in, Ioan.'<br />
<br />
The young man followed orders. She took him by the hand and led him over towards the bed. I hadn't been sure how Ioan might feel about being hand-picked for this purpose, but he seemed to be quite excited - even honoured - by the prospect. Certainly he had no qualms about peeling off his clothes in double quick time and sliding beneath the sheets.<br />
<br />
Petra looked over her shoulder at me. 'I know what you're thinking. But I make it very much worth their while. Stay if you like. Watch - or join in. I haven't been with an Ondian before.'<br />
<br />
Some part of me was revolted by the thought, but another quite separate part of me was massively intrigued. I retrieved my bag, offered my goodbyes and made my way outside before that part of me could gain some purchase. When I stepped through the door, I found myself face-to-face with a group of young Rhigan farmers. At first they seemed astonished, and then as one they grinned and each one patted me as I passed through the group.<br />
<br />
As I made my escape back in the direction of the railway station, one called in Ondian, 'Best trip ever, right?'<br />
<br />
CHAPTER TEN WILL BE COMPLETED SHORTLY. Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3660751614871769034.post-88990325617985681162016-03-29T00:07:00.001+01:002016-05-29T22:48:53.331+01:00My Travels Through Imaginary Lands, Pt. 8<span style="font-family: "calibri";"><span style="font-family: "times new roman";">
</span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif";">The sun was
still climbing in the sky as I and my freshly-laundered daysuit stepped onto the
northbound Y-train for Rhigo’s northern climes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>My cloth bag was a little heavier by this point, as I had added to it yesterday
a copy of Bernird Doregun’s childhood classics.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>It had been nice to spend the previous evening under soft candlelight,
reacquainting myself with long-forgotten heroes and villains.<o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "calibri";"><span style="font-family: "times new roman";">
</span><br />
</span><span style="font-family: "calibri";"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif";">I had no
particular destination in mind this day, and the northern tip of the country
had little to offer to casual sightseers unless they had particular interest in
the historical sea-fortresses that guarded the forelegs of the Barking Dog, or
in the Carrier Birds that lived on the rock beaches there.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For my part, neither held any particular fascination,
but I was not feeling any pressure to commit myself and it would not have come
as a surprise to me if I had spent the evening alone on a stony shoreline,
eating my dinner in the company of Carriers.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman";">
</span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif";">Exposed to
the sea to the north, south and east, invasion from the waves has been a
frequent feature of Rhigan history.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Several centuries ago, my own kinsfolk sailed across the narrow expanse
between us and seized control of the southern half of the country within
days.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Before that, northern pirates, buccaneers
sailing on the behalf of states whose names are now long lost to us, raided the
exposed towns year after year, burning crops and buildings, and carrying off the
residents as slaves.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was these
incursions that prompted the building of the sea fortresses, early examples of
Rhigo’s engineering prowess. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>History
suggests that they were paid for directly from the pockets of local military
officers, who had no other means of responding to the lightning raids of the northmen.<br />
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span>
<span style="font-family: "calibri";"></span><br />
</span>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif";">Of course,
these days it was land-invasion that presented the greatest concern to military
minds across the continent.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>With Ondia
adopting an isolationist stance in response to its fading military influence,
it was the Rzermis raiders to the far north who had started to make incursions southwards.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Camir, their enemy for the better part of two
millennia, had responded to repeated raids by strengthening troop and ship
numbers on its own borders, but the northern tribes, normally notable for their
infighting, had recently been showing signs of uniting.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Each month their armies swelled with greater
numbers, greater purpose, and by now even the Ministry had concerns about their
ultimate intentions.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">
</span>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif";">Still, one
cannot allow the shadow of war to dictate one’s actions.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is precisely when the stakes are highest
that cool heads are most in demand.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At
some point I would have to head west, towards the escalating conflict.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>First though, I would cross the Sholl of
Grains.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman";">
</span><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEij0_AcYjYY7nkv-zg7aI0Hz93B2imZfgsx1pBn_25qyvwz5PdfRHG7Vd7laxjmPS7UnOaEDAZf0ipfXO5v53U-FO5X_w-UYxGhbD7lrBNb3ZctDLs17AecUFA-rpKi-gva3Cujh8fV9w4/s1600/grain.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEij0_AcYjYY7nkv-zg7aI0Hz93B2imZfgsx1pBn_25qyvwz5PdfRHG7Vd7laxjmPS7UnOaEDAZf0ipfXO5v53U-FO5X_w-UYxGhbD7lrBNb3ZctDLs17AecUFA-rpKi-gva3Cujh8fV9w4/s320/grain.jpg" width="320" /></a>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif";">What can I
say about this place that more able scholars have not already said?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Imagine a land longer than anything a man
could walk, in one day or ten.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Then
imagine you are standing in the middle of that land, and all you can see in
every direction are the bowing heads of the various sorgha grasses that feed
the continent of Nebra.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Feel their
softness in your hands as you pass by.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For
a sholl, think of a waist-high ochre sea, one that you could wade through in
any direction until the strength in your legs failed you and you dipped beneath
the surface into a world of endless green stalks.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Above you, as you lay there, clouds rushed
across the yellow sky with all the speed and adroitness of windborne caravels.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "times new roman";">
<br />
</span>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif";">The Y-train
was absent of tourists, but packed to the brim with buff Rhigan labourers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They were dressed for conditions in
lightweight, light-coloured clothes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Loose trousers were secured at the waist with sashes, and many went
bare-chested altogether. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Each of them
seemed to know all of the others, and their erstwhile greetings were repeated
time and time again, swelling up the body of the engine like a wave.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In their hundreds, they swarmed the
carriages, taking up the seats, the tables, one another’s laps.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Outside, they climbed upon the roofs and hung
from the sides.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Many of those who
arrived early could have got inside but chose to stay outside anyhow, proud of
their acrobatic prowess.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In this
ubermasculine environment, I became the focus of much attention and
merriment.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As per usual, I did my best
to bear this with good grace, but as we accelerated into the countryside, the
temperature in the carriage rose dramatically and quickly became wearing on
everyone.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "times new roman";">
</span>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif";">It was some
hours later when the train pulled into one of the tiny nameless supply depot
stations that acted as storage for villages within the Sholl.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was hungry, cranky and desperate to get out
of the baking carriage, which by now smelled hellishly fruity and oppressive.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "times new roman";">
</span>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif";">I was
whistled as I hauled my bag through the crowd and fought my way out the
door.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At no point had their attentions
moved beyond simple ribbing for my beard or the smartness of my daysuit, but
the heat had left me ill-tempered and I was conscious of dozens of pairs of
curious dark eyes following me as I stepped out onto the platform.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Still more traced my steps through to the sand-coloured
tent that doubled as a mess canteen for labourers passing through the area.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Such was my antagonistic mood that none of
the food there appealed to me, and I was forced to eat a stew that would
normally have been quite palatable but which on this day conspired to burn my
mouth while simultaneously tasting of nothing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I rejected all attempts at conversation with an escalating succession of
glares, and sulked to myself in the discouraging atmosphere.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "times new roman";">
</span>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif";">When my dish
had been taken away, I picked up my bag and considered my options.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There was nothing except sorgha fields for
fifty miles in every direction, and there seemed little point in wandering when
all it would lead to was sunstroke.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
had heard much of the sweeping beauty of the vistas in the Sholls, but those I
had spoken to had been people like myself, passing through on the way to
somewhere else.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Now that I was here,
amongst the sweat and the stifling, endless nature of the toil, there was far
less glamour to it than I had imagined.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>It was no wonder that an artist and storyteller like Doregun had made
whatever sacrifices were necessary in order to leave this place.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "times new roman";">
</span>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif";">When this
thought had come and gone, I moved onto a different and still more sobering
one.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>How many more artists,
storytellers, potential legends, lived their lives in the middle of this vast expanse
and were so tired from their labours in the field that they never so much as
picked up a pen?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In my mind, I could
feel the righteous anger of whole mistreated generations, and they queued
within my fevered mind, eager to denounce their wasted existences.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "times new roman";">
</span>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif";">I was alerted
to a change in the mood of those outside, many of whom suddenly stopped in
their labours and began to run across the fields in the direction of the
tent.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Still others called to one
another, and there was evidently some curiosity.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>All I was able to see through the
rapidly-growing crowd was flashes of light on the horizon, as though projected
by flames.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Then, in the wake of the
light came a distant hissing noise, which gradually grew in both volume and
intensity.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "times new roman";">
</span>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif";">I could feel
eyes upon me, and I turned to see one of the Rhigan forewomen who would have sole
responsibility for a single farming detail.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Her loose cotton blouse was white and simply tailored, her body beneath
it hard and heavyset. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A thick skirt
prevented scratches from the grasses as one walked amongst them with a scythe,
and a pair of leather moccasins completed the ensemble.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Maybe fifty years old, she had a light red
bandanna knotted through her hair and burnished features that swelled outwards
in their prominence, giving her the appearance of a large olive-skinned
bullfrog.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "times new roman";">
</span>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif";">She met my
eye with a measured stare, and said in Ondian, ‘Storm.’<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Five seconds later, the hissing outside the
tent intensified to a roar, and the rain fell upon the Sholl in torrents.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif";"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif";"><a href="http://4thousandwords.blogspot.co.uk/2016/05/my-travels-through-imaginary-lands-pt-9.html">Go to Chapter 9 > > ></a> </span> </span></div>
</span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3660751614871769034.post-68016425583882252892016-03-12T00:22:00.002+00:002016-05-29T22:43:07.362+01:00My Travels Through Imaginary Lands, Pt.7I'm pleased to say that sobriety arrived before breakfast, but then breakfast came later in the day than usual, merging seamlessly into lunch in a most agreeable manner. Both Taly and her late father, safely ensconced in his glass prism, attended, and they retained their genial good humour from the day before.<br />
<br />
'Tell the world,' Taly said when I approached the table. 'Even when nursing a hangover, it's possible to be quite the dapper gentleman.'<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtS4AVwJEob70WxJfhwrFgnhq4ebfjQllutOSeOc32RLSfd0TQcCE49T6i-iKP6THxpL9sgMGILJ1-CAmVp_c1ssHRjzplLrS4ckHJ9n385KEd3tQkN0Js5hlrGsqNdzavTdT7xKyYJn8/s1600/bed.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtS4AVwJEob70WxJfhwrFgnhq4ebfjQllutOSeOc32RLSfd0TQcCE49T6i-iKP6THxpL9sgMGILJ1-CAmVp_c1ssHRjzplLrS4ckHJ9n385KEd3tQkN0Js5hlrGsqNdzavTdT7xKyYJn8/s1600/bed.jpg" /></a>She was being kind. This was my third day in this particular day-suit, and while it was impeccably tailored, I was nonetheless keen to take it to be cleaned. First though, I wanted an opportunity to sit and reflect. I had returned to my room yesterday to a message from the Ministry informing me of Hernan's passing. While I had of course been aware of this for several hours, it was still enough to cause me to sink into melancholia. I had lain awake in bed while the room spun around me, thinking of the language projects we had worked on together. True polymaths were rare in Ondia, and finding one who shared my passion for literary nuance had been a rare thing.
<br />
<br />
Secondary to that concern but still prominent had been the knowledge that the Ministry was clearly watching my movements. This was of no particular surprise, and could be viewed in some ways as a compliment; I was clearly important enough in their eyes to be worth watching. What I found to be discomfiting was the thought that anybody I met - the casual conversationalist in the bar, the fruit-seller in the market, the peasant woman with the empty eyes - any or all of them might be a person reporting on me. In the same way that I was trading Ondian bonds for local currency as I travelled, so eyes and ears were the Ministry's currency on the ground. It was inevitable that eyes would end up watching ears, and that ears would be listening to eyes.<br />
<br />
And yet, one can only spend so much time reflecting on nostalgia or mindful of benevolent surveillance. I was on holiday, keen only to stretch my legs, broaden my horizons and have a tasty lunch. What better companion for that task than Taly, who charmed the waiter with her amazing smile and arranged us fresh fish fillets?<br />
<br />
'What are your plans?' I asked when we had eaten.<br />
<br />
'I'm hoping I can charter a boat that will take me to the northern coast.'<br />
<br />
'It's a dubious strategy. When the gunboats see you, they'll turn you back. Just go south and take the train.'<br />
<br />
She sighed. 'If I do that, I'll have to travel through Kassium to get home. I have lots of memories of spending time with him there. I'm not ready to deal with that just yet.'<br />
<br />
It was a sentiment I could appreciate. Here I was on the road, entirely free to travel as I wished, but not yet ready to commit to a route, to decide how to get where I was going. Instead, I became the eternal wanderer, my simple cloth bag my home away from home.<br />
<br />
I walked Taly to the docks and wished her farewell. She gave me an enthusiastic hug. When she had disappeared into one of the dockside taverns in search of her captain, I felt a wholly unaccountable sense of loss. It took several deep breaths of the sea air before I felt fortified enough to head wearily back towards the centre of town.<br />
<br />
I hadn't been walking long when I came across a small square, tucked back from the road, that I hadn't seen coming the other way. In no particular hurry, I wandered over. The paving was dark and even, very different to the roughly-hewn yellow sandstone so prevalent elsewhere. Neatly-trimmed bushes lined the edges, and a number of dark wooden benches were arranged in a circle around a bronze statue. The benches were occupied by children, some sitting quietly with parents, others seemingly devoid of adult company and instead grouping with their peers. All of them were listening intently to the tall thin man who was standing in front of the statue, reading a story from a book.<br />
<br />
The story was about a bird who stole a magic plum from the Gods, and was seeking to flee their wrath. Such was the ingenuity of the text, evocative and yet deceptively simple, that both children and adults were rapt. Even I became one with the tale, and felt a secret satisfaction when the bird grew magnificent red-gold plumage, and fled to safety disguised as a candle flame. I sat down as others around reluctantly got up and left, and in a few minutes, I and the reader were the only two left in the square. He smiled at me as he packed books away in his bag.<br />
<br />
'That was quite excellent,' I said. 'Is it your work?'<br />
<br />
'I wish. Have you heard of Doregun?'<br />
<br />
I had heard of Bernird Doregun, and so had every other boy who had spent part of their childhood outside of Ondia. He had come to Vairin a hundred years ago, the youngest son of a farming family somewhere up in the nameless villages that made up the Sholl of Grains, and he had travelled to the coast in hopes of escaping that life and earning passage as a sailor. However, he quickly realised that sea travel left him hopelessly seasick, meaning that a life on the waves was not for him. Crestfallen and faced with a humiliating return to his homeland, Doregun instead tried to make his way as a musician. In that regard too he was terribly unlucky, and at the point that he first began to attract attention, his threadbugle was stolen. <br />
<br />
With no money to replace his instrument, he was forced to fall back upon the spoken word as a means of entertainment. Here, finally, he struck gold. He told bawdy tales of maidens and knights in the taverns in the evenings which were always well-received, but it was writing for children that was his calling. His stories combined thaumaturgy, miraculous events and a string of heroes who resisted the will of the divine. In time, he became an international sensation and readings of his stories packed out market squares across the land. <br />
<br />
Given that the Gods were frequently characters in his stories, Doregun's work had never achieved the acclaim in Ondia that it received elsewhere, but the fact that it had not been banned outright was a reflection of its power and influence. Some things transcended rules.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfohuLUdDEz-gPGqqKeA2R2cyXzBdxviPec9slX2BbXnxTmrmImyrhPd77XXZxnlJdBrMsJmXHfqYbXbdd6V7dxPSChIoO2jmOqgyf_cLbeQeGGVTZbzUieWE2kgZdhPxY74wIuEx18is/s1600/Lincoln_Lincoln_Park.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfohuLUdDEz-gPGqqKeA2R2cyXzBdxviPec9slX2BbXnxTmrmImyrhPd77XXZxnlJdBrMsJmXHfqYbXbdd6V7dxPSChIoO2jmOqgyf_cLbeQeGGVTZbzUieWE2kgZdhPxY74wIuEx18is/s200/Lincoln_Lincoln_Park.jpg" width="132" /></a>The man tapped the statue's leg, which echoed dully. 'Doregun is Vairin's favourite adopted son,' the man said.<br />
<br />
The man in the statue was short and stood with a stoop. He wore a baggy cap and other clothes that seemed to be two sizes too big for him. Over one shoulder, he carried a bag that stretched down to his knees, giving him the appearance of a child carrying a man's possessions.<br />
<br />
'I know what you're thinking,' the man said, finishing his packing and lifting his own bag up. 'But not all things are as they seem.'<br />
<br />
'Surely,' I replied. In my head, I was thinking: this one is definitely Ministry.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://4thousandwords.blogspot.co.uk/2016/03/my-travels-through-imaginary-lands-pt-8.html">Go to Chapter 8 > > ></a> <br />
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3660751614871769034.post-10690703122857567062016-03-02T22:24:00.002+00:002016-05-29T22:42:02.866+01:00My Travels Through Imaginary Lands, Pt.6Upon arrival in Vairin, I realised quickly that the send-off Taly had planned for her father was not going to be a slow or sombre affair. Furthermore, by the time she finished her third shot of danxo before we had spent half an hour in the small dockside bar, I realised that if I tried to match her tin for tin, she was going to drink me under the table.<br />
<br />
At this point, I should perhaps apologise, dear reader, for assuming that you are Ondian, or otherwise familiar with our death customs. Unlike the countries on the mainland (and as every true-hearted Ondian patriot would remind you, the narrow strip of land that chains us to the continent does not make us part of the mainland, any more than falling off a cliff means that you can fly), we have no links to gods or afterlife. None whatsoever. We are not secular, but rather actively atheist. It surely seems obvious that your primary goal in life should be success and self-improvement within your allotted timescale. In accordance with those nihilist principles, the Ministry rejects all applications to build places of worship. You are here, it says, you are now. Every day you get closer to the abyss, so do your best before you go.<br />
<br />
Also, given that we are the most densely populated country in all of Nebra, we cannot simply allot land for burial purposes. Not for us, the brutish Rzermis funeral pyre, or the simple Rhigan burial somewhere beneath the countless miles of dust. No, we chose a process that was sophisticated, elegant, and in keeping with our place as world-leading innovators.<br />
<br />
Okay, perhaps it's the danxo. Perhaps.<br />
<br />
So anyway, actually, we stole it. But don't tell the people back home.<br />
<br />
Once, a long, long time ago, before Ondia ruled half of Nebra, before the nation of Camir rose from the flaming ruins of Yzyrobia, before Gresia and Merin split into separate fiefdoms, the southern end of the Kolkas was part of a wider territory called Selii. The mountains in those days contained a number of active volcanoes, and on one particularly portentous day, a superheated cloud of ash descended onto a village at the base of the mountains, instantly smothering all the residents. <br />
<br />
The remains of those individuals was subjected to intense vibration under certain thaumic conditions that flushed out any remaining liquids and caused them to break down into powder. The residents of the area knew of glass already, from the frequent lightning strikes on the sandy beaches. All that remained was to move the dust to containers sculpted from the lightning glass. They were placed on display and honoured.<br />
<br />
That might have been the end of it, except that the first Ondian emperor chose a place in lightning glass in the same manner after his death. The Empire collapsed, but the ideas at the heart of it fled back to our tiny southwestern peninsula. Our own active volcano was used for centuries, and glass procured from the continent at great expense. Now we can reproduce many of the conditions scientifically, with freeze-drying via chemically-induced cold being a popular choice instead. <br />
<br />
I stared at the pale blue cube as it sat forlornly on the table. One day, I too would be placed inside one, and my remains transported back to my homeland, where I would be bricked into a wall, a ceiling or a floor in some important civic building; both a stepping stone and a curio for a future generation. Not for the first time, I wondered who would carry me home when my time came.<br />
<br />
'Are you going to stare at him all night?' Taly asked.<br />
<br />
'No,' I said, immediately proving myself a liar by being unable to look away. She rolled those beautiful violet eyes in an easy manner and placed my cloth bag between it and me.<br />
<br />
'There.'<br />
<br />
'It seems strange to be here,' I said, looking at her flushed features, 'celebrating someone I met on the other side of the bay who did all his best work on the other side of the continent.'<br />
<br />
Taly crossed her feet over the table. Away, behind her, a group of sailors were singing songs at the bar. 'I get the feeling that he wouldn't have cared much to be remembered as a glass brick in a wall back home. He was a problem solver, a brilliant mind. Plus, he was my father.'<br />
<br />
'I expect he shared much wisdom with you.'<br />
<br />
'Honestly, I think his opinion was that people should find their own way and make their own mistakes getting there. It amused him no end when I followed him into cultural anthropology.'<br />
<br />
'Really, if we're to celebrate him in style, we should send out for cruorweed tobacco,' I said.<br />
<br />
She regarded me carefully. 'I didn't have you pegged as a smoker.' <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsI42EnMiF2n1LwAaztgp55gDgMK4doXk1Dqtj9qNd6wPGceFTOv4R-6JiQDHBVhT4Fg2hyphenhyphensKLlR5v2MoZKg36jE2Nql79kWqf_8wv84o4w3FkVDdJd88lC7FigbI1mm-Krq-ZUCR1n50/s1600/peppers.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="255" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsI42EnMiF2n1LwAaztgp55gDgMK4doXk1Dqtj9qNd6wPGceFTOv4R-6JiQDHBVhT4Fg2hyphenhyphensKLlR5v2MoZKg36jE2Nql79kWqf_8wv84o4w3FkVDdJd88lC7FigbI1mm-Krq-ZUCR1n50/s320/peppers.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
'I'm not really, but it would be fitting. Food is here.' The last comment was accompanied with a nod past her shoulder, where the waiter was carrying a steaming plate of the ubiquitous spear peppers. He laid it before us, placed two more glasses of danxo next to it, bowed and left.<br />
<br />
A shanty kicked off at the bar, and one or two in beards and bandannas tried to dance. It wasn't the most elegant show. Taly seemed less amused by their antics than I.<br />
<br />
'Well,' she said, 'will you go first, or will I?'<br />
<br />
<br />
'Ladies first,' I said, settling back. The chairs here were well upholstered, fat and luxurious. I could certainly think of less agreeable ways to kill a hot afternoon.<br />
<br />
We had already discussed the circumstances of her father's passing. Perhaps predictably, Hernan had been found at his breakfast table immediately after repast, newspaper folded across his lap, sunbeam illuminating his restful face. 'The earliest memories I have of my father were of him reading the newspaper at the table.'<br />
<br />
'Every morning, regular as clockwork,' I said. Hernan had been a great believer in breakfast. You could have set your watch by his morning routine.<br />
<br />
'So, what's your story, Patrick?' The girl relaxed, dangled a pepper between her fingers, allowing it to cool.<br />
<br />
'My story?'<br />
<br />
'Yes. You've talked lots about my father, but said hardly anything about what you're doing here in Nebra. It seems inevitable that you're here on Ministry business, but you're allowing me to distract you with alcohol and idle chitchat. That's not the behaviour of a man keen to get where he's going.'<br />
<br />
'Oh, I am keen,' I said. 'Just not in a hurry.'<br />
<br />
'Where are you going?'<br />
<br />
'To visit a friend who's been assigned to a diplomatic post in Camir. I am to meet the Rum, talk to him about matters of state.'<br />
<br />
'So should I feel honoured,' she said, stretching in her seat, 'that a man who associates with kings in his professional capacity chooses to spend time with me in a personal one?'<br />
<br />
I reached for a pepper myself and blew on it to cool it. It dripped translucent oil into the bowl.<br />
<br />
I said, 'I don't believe you feel that way for a minute. Kings are just men, after all. Fellows like the sailors at the bar. Just better dressed.'<br />
<br />
She bit into her pepper and giggled as green juice dribbled down her chin. 'Hopefully he'll be a better singer than those sailors at the bar.'<br />
<br />
'Oh, I don't know. They aren't so bad.'<br />
<br />
Her eyes sparkled. 'Why don't you sing with them? I bet you have a great voice.'<br />
<br />
'I don't sing.'<br />
<br />
'You could!' She turned, waved to the sailors and called out in Rhigan, 'Hey, gentlemen! This man here wants to sing with you! Play him a tune!'<br />
<br />
The sailors laughed and one of them pulled out a tin whistle. He picked out a cheery tune and they broke into an eye-watering harmony, gesturing to me to sing along. Instead, I bit into the pepper, intending to claim that my mouth was full. This was a mistake.<br />
<br />
The one pepper in a batch was hot, they said, but in truth even the hot ones could be manageable and a man could go many batches without even encountering one. This time, I had picked one hot enough to sear my soul. It slipped down my throat before I could stop it, causing me to cough and then to inhale deeply, trying to get cool air into my mouth.<br />
<br />
'He's found a hot one!' 'Ondians shouldn't be trusted with real food, see what it does to them!' 'The danxo, quickly!'<br />
<br />
After a delay I can only put down to heat-induced panic, I found the danxo and downed it in one. It lessened, but not ended, the pain. Quickly, Taly passed me her glass too and I duly drank that one as well. All the time, she was doubled over with laughter, and when the inferno within me was quelled, I started to laugh too.<br />
<br />
More peppers followed, and then hot zur soup with croutons, and much, much more danxo. Needless to say, I did get involved in the sailing ditties that followed, and Taly duly congratulated me on my acapella. 'See? I told you you would be excellent!'<br />
<br />
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So it was that with hazy, cloudy heads, we stumbled onto makeshift seats on the wharfside, and talked for hours more. The good people of Vairin laughed and danced and sang around us as the evening progressed. I think I had an innocent arm around Taly's shoulders when the lanterns in the bars were lowered and the night sky was suddenly pinpricked with white and blue lights. Each colourful explosion was punctuated with a bang that sounded like the firing of a distant cannon, and behind us, the crowd murmured appreciatively. Taly hugged her father as he rested in his ignoble cloth casing, and we smiled together in acknowledgement that we had given him a very appropriate send-off after all.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://4thousandwords.blogspot.co.uk/2016/03/my-travels-through-imaginary-lands-pt7.html">Go to Chapter 7 > > ></a>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3660751614871769034.post-4106738710884553792016-02-29T02:31:00.002+00:002016-05-29T22:40:46.628+01:00My Travels Through Imaginary Lands, Pt 5. By mid-morning, the residents of Pitchek had roused themselves from their collective hangover and they all seemed to be milling aimlessly around the town while I waited at the flagpole for a carriage to take me east. With the holiday weekend in full swing, the soldiers from yesterday's parade were already out in force, drinking openly in the square, and those same bordellos I'd been warned off before had their doors open and bead curtains pulled discreetly across the entrances. The beads clicked merrily with the warm breeze.<br />
<br />
Yesterday, in the dusk, I'd evidently missed the sapphire-and-alabaster bunting that had been strung across the streets and between the houses. Some had inevitably fallen casualty to excessive frivolity and the roped triangles of cloth tied themselves into despairing knots that drooped in the dust. Those that remained added much-needed threads of colour to the sandy visage of the town.<br />
<br />
Unlike the peasant carts I'd already seen, the passenger carriages were far grander affairs. Rose-coloured Vaariewood panels stretched across wide iron cages the same shape as the flaxseed pumpkins that they brought across the western border and crushed here for lamp oil. The vertical boiler at the centre fed two twin-cylinder engines, each of which powered a pair of wheels via chain and sprocket mechanisms. The front wheels turned about a centre that lay on the extended line of the back axle, allowing for a wide, safe turning circle and a top speed reputed to be in excess of twenty miles an hour. Lower frictional resistance meant that the Ondian steam trains could travel far more quickly; however, they were of course restricted to their tracks. Personal vehicles were always regarded suspiciously in Ondia, where any deviation from collective commitment to societal development was seen as vulgar and pretentious.<br />
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There was an evident degree of confusion in the square around which carriage was to go where; while my own countrymen would have had a rigid timetable and been tutting as they checked the seconds off on their pocket watches, here there was a delicious sense of anarchy. The drivers called destinations out to one another, and there followed joyous negotiations and loud appeals to the crowd for customers.<br />
<br />
I had been lingering around the fringes of the crowd for some time, when one saw me and pointed. 'You! Ondian! You go home? Hamrh, or further south?'<br />
<br />
'No,' I said. 'I'm looking to go north. I want to soak up some sun.'<br />
<br />
There were a few laughs and a sense of general agreement. Out here on the plains, they probably saw hot sun most of the summer long, but there was precious little time to sit and enjoy it. Pitchek was a worker's town.<br />
<br />
I'd expected the coachman to move onto someone else, but he stayed with an eye on me, clearly having me pegged as someone here with a long journey in mind. 'Vairin, then,' he said.<br />
<br />
Vairin fitted the bill; it was on the coast, but it was a proper resort town rather than one of the working ports further south. If I chose, from Vairin I could catch a ferry around the tip of the continent, travelling around the spurs of land that formed the back legs of the Nebran Barking Dog (looking south to north, Ondia was the tail.) If I left now, I would be there early afternoon and would have the chance to wander. I could soak up some of the sea air and salty atmosphere that I was missing in this desolate chalky outpost.<br />
<br />
The coachman beckoned me on, lifting my bag over the heads of the crowd members who turned in curiosity at the sight of my beard and dark creased suit. The inside of the coach was pleasantly cool, though it would soon became apparent that the boiler in the centre of the carriage hissed incessantly throughout the journey, meaning one had to shout to make oneself heard.<br />
<br />
I was the first passenger to board for Vairin, and I was joined in due course by two elderly tourists from somewhere to the south-west who had managed to get themselves lost looking for the coast, a pair of dark-eyed soldiers who looked like they wished they were anywhere else, and last but definitely not least, a beautiful young Ondian woman with shapely legs inside leather trousers and a fur-lined cloak clasped at the neck over a plain, Merin-cotton blouse. She caught my eye as I caught hers and coolly held my gaze; so as she would have immediately recognised my nationality from my beard, so I could tell hers from her violet eyes and dreadlocks.<br />
<br />
'Good morning,' I said, smiling.<br />
<br />
She nodded back to me and returned the smile. I looked around for her baggage and at first saw nothing. Only at second glance did I see a vacuum-sealed flatpack bag pressed into the space behind her. As if reading my mind, she reached back and produced a smooth glass box, the perfect size to hold between two small hands. It was perfectly see-through, and I noticed that the inside of the box was moulded into a shape not unlike that of a spiralling, curved bottle. At the very bottom of the mould lay a small pile of dust, no more than an inch deep.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6reqjUgGJbHxlhtpDbjvtgM1S2v_QpuX0Y0S4MuWGP0sOSodZvQGz-jLTC2YK07APkNT_2-mrcZKPjulUPN1UdTgEy5OZyiRqREd1jJguv0xasQq1xk8hP7H55cCCtmJVSLhk3efRv-w/s1600/glass.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6reqjUgGJbHxlhtpDbjvtgM1S2v_QpuX0Y0S4MuWGP0sOSodZvQGz-jLTC2YK07APkNT_2-mrcZKPjulUPN1UdTgEy5OZyiRqREd1jJguv0xasQq1xk8hP7H55cCCtmJVSLhk3efRv-w/s1600/glass.jpg" /></a>It was an Ondian funeral box. 'Oh. I'm very sorry for your loss,' I said automatically.<br />
<br />
'Thank you,' she said, her lips thin and sallow. Beyond that point, I expected her to say no more to me, and I wouldn't have presumed to have forced further conversation upon her, particularly at a time of grief. But quite unexpectedly, it was she who seemed to have the desire to break the silence.<br />
<br />
'Sir,' she said, and it was the kind of sir that implied at best jokey, token respect, 'you'll forgive me, but I'm sure I've seen your face before somewhere.'<br />
<br />
I shook my head. 'That seems unlikely. I'm no-one particularly special. Just a simple traveller, making my way to the coast.'<br />
<br />
'Oh, of course...as you say. I'm sure I must be mistaken.' She scratched a spot on her cheek with a single fingertip, and once again, I expected conversation to end there, but she persisted. 'Still, your face really does look familiar. It's the shape of your nose. Wide. Handsome.'<br />
<br />
Immediately, she looked as though she regretted the last word and bowed her head. I was more than a little nonplussed, not least because she was so stunning in her own right. The soldiers glanced at me and then sulked quietly to one another, perhaps jealous that she hadn't made conversation with them instead.<br />
<br />
More to end the lengthening sense of awkwardness than because I wished to know, I pointed to the box that she clung to tightly. 'Is it a friend, or relative?'<br />
<br />
'My father,' she said, by way of explanation.<br />
<br />
'His box looks quite amazing,' I said. 'The wave in the glass shows impeccable craftsmanship. He must have been a man of some importance.'<br />
<br />
'Hernan Sera-Stahl,' she said. 'He was a linguistic anthropologist, a man of some repute. Perhaps you've heard of him?'<br />
<br />
Hearing the name was a tremendous shock to me. Not only had I heard of Sera-Stahl, I had worked with him on a number of projects, the latest of which had been a study of dying languages in central and western Nebra. He was - had been - a quiet, cultured man, fond of sports, the scented inhalant known as cerba, and cruorweed tobacco, which he had smoked relentlessly by the pipeful.<br />
<br />
'I'm...greatly surprised. In fact, quite shocked. I'm sorry. I knew your father well. We worked together at the ministry some years ago.' The girl looked momentarily startled, and raised a hand to me. I had the realisation at the exact same moment. 'Of course, that would make you Taly...Taly Sera-Stahl. We only met briefly. At the time, you were still at the academy in Hechda.'<br />
<br />
'I've been finished there for eighteen months now.'<br />
<br />
'Yes, and your father had written to me to tell me that you qualified with distinction. One of the top five in your field in the country, he said.'<br />
<br />
She was embarrassed now, but smiled again despite herself. 'Cultural history isn't a popular subject back in Ondia. A lot of people tend to be fairly...introspective in their inclination.' I could tell she'd chosen her words carefully so as not to risk even the smallest chance of offending me. For what it was worth, I couldn't have agreed with her more. Many Ondians had a strong cultural appreciation for their military history without actually being able to tell you anything about it. In these fearful, feverish times, this was a useful political crutch for the ministry.<br />
<br />
'Like father, like daughter. He was incredibly proud of you.' The words flowed automatically and they were no less true for that, though I was still startled that my old colleague had died so recently and no-one else had thought fit to tell me.<br />
<br />
Taly looked at me for a moment, opened her mouth as if to respond and then shut it again without doing so. She seemed to think deeply on a matter for a second or two, as though unsure if she was asking an appropriate question, before taking the chance and doing it anyway.<br />
<br />
'You'll forgive me - this is terribly presumptuous - but my father has had no ceremony yet to mark his passing, and as an old colleague of his, would you perhaps be interested in celebrating his life here in Rhigo? Of course, there'll be a formal ceremony when I return him to Kassium, but he identified strongly with the continental way of life, and I can't help thinking that a Rhigan celebration might be more appropriate for him.'<br />
<br />
She was absolutely right. While he might have seemed typically Ondian in the stuffy style of his dress and the relentlessly formal manner of his professional bearing, the Herman Sera-Stahl that I remembered was a tenacious man, with a keen, jocular wit. Having already gone through the process of being freeze-dried, crushed and placed in the traditional glass container, I saw no joy in a final ceremony in the cold, gray halls of his alma mater.<br />
<br />
'I would be delighted,' I said. At that moment, the carriage hissed like a sea-kettle and sprang into life.
<br /><br />
<a href="http://4thousandwords.blogspot.co.uk/2016/03/my-travels-through-imaginary-lands-pt6.html">Go to Chapter 6 > > ></a>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3660751614871769034.post-65085367024929649952016-02-28T16:13:00.001+00:002016-02-28T16:13:51.050+00:00General Update - Feb '16So it struck me that with all the fun of actually writing lately, it's been a little while since I did an update for everyone. So here goes with that.<br />
<br />
<u>Shadows at the Door</u><br />
<br />
The 'Shadows at the Door' horror anthology gets closer to completion every day, and soon the Kickstarter will be coming into play for all of those great extras, like wonderful cover art, fantastic (ahem) editing and audiobooks! From what I've seen so far, the anthology is going to be chock-full of truly superb stories, and all of the contributors have surpassed themselves. To say I'm excited would be a massive understatement - and I can only hope that readers enjoy it as much as I've enjoyed being a part of it.<br />
<br />
<u>What Comes From The Earth</u><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgciZWTKyzFOhwCb_xgW4cL0H9TpGrgUEs9rkGkX67Y-lwwHaGdjcv1p2ZGQ5jt3FBMSPJ64cQGQqZd98z5c6kM859nVH1_J3TNWYvs2sutv3Oy4htSQm1alTogmlJvL749N2lLij1ihk/s1600/1911011_217109555164122_1217149874_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgciZWTKyzFOhwCb_xgW4cL0H9TpGrgUEs9rkGkX67Y-lwwHaGdjcv1p2ZGQ5jt3FBMSPJ64cQGQqZd98z5c6kM859nVH1_J3TNWYvs2sutv3Oy4htSQm1alTogmlJvL749N2lLij1ihk/s200/1911011_217109555164122_1217149874_o.jpg" width="133" /></a><br />
My first novel, set in contemporary South Africa, is finished, and with beta readers as I write. The feedback I've had so far has been overwhelmingly positive, and while there may be a few bits to tidy up, I'm hopeful that it can be released in a form very close to its current one. On something of a whim, I submitted it to a publisher who was looking for diverse characters - though I'm unsure if perhaps they wanted minority authors too - either way, perhaps we'll see. If there's no interest, I'll revert to my original plan of self-publishing regardless. I already have the cover, so there shouldn't be too much additional work to do. <br />
<br />
<br />
<u>This Burning Man</u><br />
<u><br /></u>
This serial is my first real foray into writing sci-fi, and it's incredibly good fun. <a href="http://thisburningman.blogspot.co.uk/2016/02/chapter-5-shit-gets-real.html">Chapter 5 went up this weekend</a>, which is excellent, and I've managed to get a few episodes ahead of myself to free up the time and allow me to play with the plot a little in later stages. The aim is to produce a novella-length serial, lasting exactly one year, with chapters spaced out evenly, a fortnight apart. The whole thing will eventually be available for free, though I'm hoping that I can release the ending on Kindle for a couple of pounds a little bit in advance of its appearance on the blog, so fans can get it in advance and I can make a little bit of money from it.<br />
<br />
<u>My Travels Through Imaginary Lands</u><br />
<br />
This is another serial piece which has been appearing on this very blog (<a href="http://www.4thousandwords.blogspot.co.uk/2016/02/the-hazy-pink-sun-was-already-sinking.html">Chapter 4 is here</a>) and is inspired by my love for travel writing, particularly the work of Patrick Leigh Fermor. I came up with the idea to write a journey much like the one Fermor describes in his walk from the Hook of Holland to Constantinople in the 1920s, but to set it in a imagined world of steam, conflict and thaumaturgy. Because it is a travelogue, there is no underlying plot as such, but a whole lot of fascinating details about the world, its history and culture, the flora/fauna and so on will emerge as you read through. Once again, when this is finished, I will probably make it available for a couple of pounds on Kindle.<br />
<br />
This project, more even than any of the others, is something of a labour of love for me, so I would be very keen to hear what people think of it, and would like to see me do with it.<br />
<br />
<u>Escalator Fiction</u><br />
<br />
Last but not least, I've applied for a spot in the 2016 Escalator Fiction competition, a chance for writers from the East of England to receive a year's mentoring, workshops and support from established writers and publishers. I have a plan for second novel that I'd like to start really soon, though it's moving (both geographically and emotively) a long way from my first one, so I'm going to need to do a lot of research before I can begin. That said, I'm hopeful that it will be both fun, and able to strike a lot of emotional notes at the same time. I'll keep you updated when I hear more.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3660751614871769034.post-9544912167205394332016-02-23T22:11:00.001+00:002016-05-29T22:39:41.050+01:00My Travels Through Imaginary Lands, Pt 4.<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3ks4derxM4wN2LrbtHPrVkUqFkHU1P6L9ntAZrV3iwx8vjFrq0E3dZrGYbLuI2dXMp0VbO9mFif2vXd0p4MK5IBedsnbiDquArD1f7sR-72SB_9Qd_1SNyyTjznaV0uQiGqpEK0itz1M/s1600/pinksun.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3ks4derxM4wN2LrbtHPrVkUqFkHU1P6L9ntAZrV3iwx8vjFrq0E3dZrGYbLuI2dXMp0VbO9mFif2vXd0p4MK5IBedsnbiDquArD1f7sR-72SB_9Qd_1SNyyTjznaV0uQiGqpEK0itz1M/s1600/pinksun.jpg" /></a>The hazy pink sun was already sinking below the horizon on the following day by the time I reached the town of Pitchek. I was now comfortably in the Rhigan heartlands, a bronze-hued grain hub that fed millions across Nebra. For hundreds of years, this had been a garrison town, high on a hill above miles of farmland, and when I arrived today, Rhigan troops were parading through the marketplace. The strident sound of threadbugles could be heard from some distance away.<br />
<br />
Such had been Ondian might over the centuries that the Rhigan military had never posed a serious existential threat. However, the ceaseless toil in the chaff fields meant that the peasantry here tended to breed for sturdiness, and the commander of the unit on show in the sand-cobbled square accentuated his already stern appearance with a moustache that was possibly more bushy than any other I had ever seen. From a certain angle, one could believe that a fat vole from the lowlands had attached itself to his face and was clinging there now, waiting for him to retire for dinner where it could steal scraps from his plate.<br />
<br />
I had never seriously considered a military career myself, though I had completed the two years of military service that were still compulsory in Ondia. I had spent the vast majority of that in a Gresian shoreline barracks in the light south-west, where even the winters were warm and the only form of excitement we had was stealing punts at the local boathouse and trying to pitch enough water into those steered by our colleagues to sink them. Even though my time in infantry had been brief and largely dishonourable, there was still something about a well-appointed parade that impressed me. I settled in under a low arch and rested there as I watched.<br />
<br />
As you might expect, given the largely khaki palette of their environment, Rhigan soldiers' fatigues tended towards tan-coloured, though given the dusty conditions, there was a surprising shine to the rows of heavy boots that clumped across the square. They were orderly and well-disciplined, a quality often ascribed to the Rhigan disdain for showiness and individual flair. The aforementioned commander wore a quilted jacket with tiny epaulettes that one might charitably have called olive-green, though honestly it could have just been that the dust thrown up by hours of parading to and fro obscured one's vision somewhat. The length of the display did nothing to dent the vigour of the commander or the resolve of his unit. The crowd was sizable given the population of the town, and entirely appreciative of their conscripts' efforts.<br />
<br />
When the display was finished and the military men had returned in the direction of their billets, the residents of Pitchek filled the space themselves and got on with their day. I was, of course, too late for the market, but I was hopeful of seeing it tomorrow and sampling some of the hearty Rhigan fare. In addition to the food, I was keen to see what else they would have to offer. Clothes here would be less than glamorous, but they would easily be able to withstand the rigours of the road. Furthermore, I was keen on sampling both the local tobacco and alcohol, both of which being yardsticks by which I measured a town and its populace. <br />
<br />
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Treading the margins of the gravelly plaza, I came immediately to the attentions of some the market's wizened patriarchs, who had clearly been enjoying the hospitality of the taverna since early in the day. They hooted at me from beneath stark whitened pates and rugose caps, gesturing to me and throwing barbless insults in an attempt to goad me into joining their party.<br />
<br />
'Hey, Ropebeard! Will you drink a tin, Ropebeard? We could find you a wife here. Or maybe we should tie you by your chin to the flagpole!' <br />
<br />
Little did they know that I am nerveless in the face of provocation, and I gave them only my best smile and a brief wave to let them know that I was party to their scheming.<br />
<br />
Nonetheless, refreshment was required, and it was duly procured. Ducking inside another of the dark, low-ceilinged tavernas that seemed to make up this entire side of the square, I instructed the barman to bring me his recommendations from the menu. I was duly served salt-tack biscuits (more of a luxury than the name suggests) and deep-fried spear peppers, which were mostly tame but occasionally recipients of a fiery heat that could shock the unwary. They have a spirit here, a thick white concoction called <i>danxo</i> which is said to be one of the reasons Rhigans enjoy long life. <i> </i>I ordered one and sipped at it, and noted a vague, uninspiring taste of mint. Thankfully, the cooling edge completely disarmed any hidden savagery in the peppers.<br />
<br />
Upon inquiring with the barkeep, I was disquieted to find that there would be no market tomorrow, as the whole weekend was a national holiday. Furthermore, as a result of this, many boarding houses would already be filled by travellers. I was unlikely to find any accommodation now, he said, unless I was willing to rub shoulders with the soldiers in the redlit bordellos. The face he pulled that accompanied these words was not the greatest advert for their services.<br />
<br />
I am not averse to roughing it when necessary; indeed, I have met many fun and colourful people in supposedly reduced circumstances, only to be reminded that circumstances tend to be what you make of them. There was a further problem though, one that I saw no reason to share with the imperious barman, but which was an issue for me regardless.<br />
<br />
It was this. Barely had I left the chilly coast some three days ago, but I was already missing the sea air. Here, mid-country, the weather was tepidly warm, despite this not being the season for such temperatures. So much space was there across central Rhigo and so few landmarks of note that even the weather saw little need to hang around here, leaving in its stead a kind of languorous lull. Perhaps, after all, a detour was in order.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://4thousandwords.blogspot.co.uk/2016/02/my-travels-through-imaginary-lands-pt-5.html">Go to Chapter 5 > > ></a>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3660751614871769034.post-9724414035295686252016-02-18T01:51:00.000+00:002016-05-29T22:38:09.446+01:00My Travels Through Imaginary Lands, Pt 3. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTEPm-wcjlo85mqioKRPUlNxnFBdu7ugJPV0bH3uu7iXnaFYDkPfrbGwwSS9VeXmX-YYRdpwTww091NmScESaGHvJpPJLnoU62KGqBju9SdmnlaAVdBrSCbXXNwnQk8-ddwBqaF4Dp9FM/s1600/bread.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTEPm-wcjlo85mqioKRPUlNxnFBdu7ugJPV0bH3uu7iXnaFYDkPfrbGwwSS9VeXmX-YYRdpwTww091NmScESaGHvJpPJLnoU62KGqBju9SdmnlaAVdBrSCbXXNwnQk8-ddwBqaF4Dp9FM/s1600/bread.jpg" /></a>I had left the misty docklands and the sandstone steps of Hamrh behind some hours before, and the land turned into a valley only a short way outside the city. The vegetation was sparse and brown, with gorse hinterlands stretching away into a vague, undulating horizon. Several carts passed me by on their way to the fields, laden down with the curious thistle crop of the area, which looks fierce to the touch but releases a sweet nectar when pressed between heavy surfaces. I found out later that it is usually added to teas, or baked in trays to produce a kind of sweet bread.<br />
<br />
The path beneath my feet was broken and hosted many stones large enough to turn an ankle. This was not a problem for the carts, which were of typically sturdy construction and pulled by yoka, a type of ox with winding curved horns that folded in upon themselves to produce wide protrusions above their ears. To my eye, these agglomerations looked like massive clenched fists. If they went ungelded, the yoka males would spend all summer butting heads cheerfully together over females. These ones were as docile as you can imagine, and their passive grunting as they passed by could be taken for a friendly greeting - or at least, a more friendly greeting than I was going to get from the farmers atop the carts themselves.<br />
<br />
Northwest was the goal, in virtually a straight line for some two hundred miles. Nebra is split in two at its heart by the fearsome Kolkas mountain range. It is said that many of the peaks touch the very skies themselves, and while I cannot confirm that with certainty, I had trekked up several of the tallest in my younger days and they present a test of skill and endurance to sate any man. In the heart of a Kassium winter, when the temperature drops precipitously and the snow begins to fall, I am immediately transported back to those glorious days and the heady sense of my own indomitability.<br />
<br />
While I am still a young man in so many respects (No wife! No children! Limitless exhilarating potential for society scandal!) my days of mountain climbing are, I fear, behind me. If I headed northwest as planned, I would reach a pass between the haphazard Vaarine lakes and Camir's easternmost border, where as if burned by the people of that fine nation's pride, the mountains die away in just a few short miles.<br />
<br />
There are several optional detours I can take from the relentless northwestern trek. Sheleb is a region directly to the west which is largely unremarkable except for their spring festival, when the young women dress in white robes and fight one another with cudgels for the right to be named their village's <i>sankelveld</i>, or spice-witch. Wede lies at the eastern base of the Kolkas and is another of those cities from my youth where I was able to indulge in all of the traditional follies that young men can imagine and still others that they cannot have hoped to comprehend in advance thereof. Wede has perhaps seen better days, but it is the place where I first fell in love and hence it is a city that still appeals to me, even for purely nostalgic reasons.<br />
<br />
In addition to these colourful locations, I had not forgotten Ruth, who I had met on the train to Kassium before my adventure began. She lived far to the north, past Rhigo's ancient ring of sea fortresses, beyond a massive harvest region known as the Sholl of Grains. I am not a man to take such a warm invitation lightly, and I had no doubt of its sincerity; still, she would be with her husband for at least a while, and to visit would take me massively out of my way. Still, I didn't feel it would necessarily be against the spirit of my journey to double back on myself, spend a day on the coast and then catch a Y-train north. I would see where my whims took me.<br />
<br />
And what, you might ask, of Nebra's verdant south-western plains, where Wilders still run free? What of Tarnet and Crab Island, home to some of the finest gemcrafters and seafood dishes in the world? What of the gleaming Milk Sea, where one can hang their head over the side of their vessel and drink their fill? Of course, these are places too far away for me to visit ahead of Camir; still, I have seen them all, and I can (and will) tell you stories of them at more opportune times.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5bmpWHx3XwbyVjXHbPOjxXowoZFOKuMAP1hF7itiPO5wrps1XxVMiy4xECbmEeHy7D9RYGG_4ryk4zBEk1gI3xkW6Gx2CytZTN8X25wOZFXRxZjT3HhnT2k78xG1rAM8YhCctp41-PqQ/s1600/Island_near_Fiji.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="91" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5bmpWHx3XwbyVjXHbPOjxXowoZFOKuMAP1hF7itiPO5wrps1XxVMiy4xECbmEeHy7D9RYGG_4ryk4zBEk1gI3xkW6Gx2CytZTN8X25wOZFXRxZjT3HhnT2k78xG1rAM8YhCctp41-PqQ/s320/Island_near_Fiji.jpg" width="320" /> </a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
As I plotted my itinerary and wrote this section in my travel diary, I was sitting in a small hut at the centre of a Rhigan village. I have touched before on Rhigan hospitality, which is a curious mixture of warmth and formality represented by the guest huts at the heart of each of their settlements. It had been made available to me freely with a bare minimum of fuss, and before I bedded down for the night, one of the village elders bought me some dried zur flesh and yoka dung so I could build a fire. I was well acquainted with rural Rhigan customs, which dictated that no-one should eat alone lest they choke on their fare. Still, this old woman had an intense, challenging stare, and she availed me of it in utter silence throughout the length of my repast.<br />
<br />
When I was done, I nodded to her, offered mumbled thanks and she immediately took the remains of my meal away with her. It would be the last time I saw her.<br />
<br />
The hut was perfectly circular. Three platforms were stacked against the walls, and I took one of those now as my bed for the night. I had a blanket in my own pack but the villagers had offered me one as well. It was a heavy weave and scratchy as sackcloth, but I would be glad of it if the temperature dropped. Here, by the light of my dung fire, I pressed my lead to the velveteen pages of my diary and planned my nightly dreams.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://4thousandwords.blogspot.co.uk/2016/02/the-hazy-pink-sun-was-already-sinking.html">Go to Chapter 4 > > ></a>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3660751614871769034.post-19576955043100437212016-02-13T22:02:00.002+00:002016-05-29T22:36:38.977+01:00My Travels Through Imaginary Lands, Pt 2. Two days later, I stepped off the ferry in Hamrh, second city of Rhigo and mainland Nebra's most eastern port. Ports all over the world are no different from one another; fractious, busy places, and Hamrh was busier than most. The dock area was split in two, with the southern half reserved for passengers and the northern half dedicated to countless small fishing boats that bobbed easily on the silver waves. The fishermen themselves were grouped together, blowing on their hands and laughing readily in the early morning chill. Their work for the day was already done - tables of wriggling daggerfish were laid out on the quay, and the puffball-sized waterskaters that the locals called 'zur' were being carved up by expert hands and salted for transport inland.<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbBZvAum2LHKWOGKKCXZUbLoE0MAy5utky-Bn1JVCmTaDx3AB3_TdkctQiz9NdOy3vJV7tvvSXSbuaNr3CqaEOSAyKjpsA3917998Hkekwo3jcr9klSZXnTZCoN7I-UGANgnoVaoHdUQk/s1600/Port_of_Tampa_ships_early_morning.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbBZvAum2LHKWOGKKCXZUbLoE0MAy5utky-Bn1JVCmTaDx3AB3_TdkctQiz9NdOy3vJV7tvvSXSbuaNr3CqaEOSAyKjpsA3917998Hkekwo3jcr9klSZXnTZCoN7I-UGANgnoVaoHdUQk/s320/Port_of_Tampa_ships_early_morning.jpg" width="320" /></a><br />
<br />
Above them, tethered to stone posts on the dock with ropes thicker than an arm, the waveballoons swept from side to side with the whims of the breeze. Earlier, they would have been shining their spotlights onto the inky sea, searching for the schools of fish and elusive zur that made the port such a hub of enterprise. <br />
<br />
It was, in short, a scene of some incredible industry, and the workers added to the scene themselves. Those fishermen I have already mentioned wore tough woollen cloaks over their broad shoulders, loose shirts and undershirts in layers, and heavy leather trousers tucked into their boots. The dockworkers, almost exclusively women, tied their long hair back with dark scarves and wore shawls over dresses and trousers. The swiftness and exactitude of their movements as they sliced, gutted and prepared is surely unmatched anywhere else in the continent.<br />
<br />
The scene was afforded an ethereal air by the billowing banks of mist that floated off the water, obscuring and then suddenly revealing row after row of pinched white faces, all focused intently on the job at hand. The sea mist became no less sinister for knowing that somewhere out beyond it, pods of Ondian gunships lay in wait for any force that would attempt to cross with invasion in mind.<br />
<br />
Any man awake at the crack of dawn with a long walk before him will have just one thing on his mind - breakfast. Ducking the crowds and heading into the streets, it wasn't long before my nose guided me down sandstone steps to a canteen where the narrow yellow doors had just opened.<br />
<br />
A blubbery, shirtless man seemingly with no body hair whatsoever waddled through before me, easing a stew pot that really should have needed two men to carry. When he saw me standing there, he greeted me with a nod of his head.<br />
<br />
'Good morning,' I said.<br />
<br />
Having manouevred the pot into an empty corner, he turned to me and mimed pulling at a non-existent beard. 'Ondian?'<br />
<br />
I smiled. It was the same everywhere. Ondian beards, oiled, plaited, braided, often worn down as far as the wearer's knees, were a telltale sign of one's origin. Here, I was a single Ondian face among many, and though there were fairer options for tourism further up the coast, Hamrh offered the most convenient gateway to those looking to head west. <br />
<br />
The blubbery man was evidently the owner of the establishment and he pointed to two tall chairs at the bar. I took the nearest and sat my small canvas bag beneath me, leaving the one next to me as an option for others who might wish to sit at the bar. Before me, rough wooden shelves laden with bottles bedecked the crumbling brick facade. Beneath them, two stew pots that made their cousin from earlier seem small bubbled and frothed with volcanic intensity.<br />
<br />
I was offered a choice. 'Which you want?'<br />
<br />
My poor overworked nose failed me in a most uncharacteristic manner.<br />
<br />
'Whichever doesn't have fish in it,' I replied. 'I can't stomach them so early in the day.'<br />
<br />
The blubbery man grinned and ladled out a bowl from the rightmost of the two pots. True to my request, the fatty red contents had some form of meat, a starchy root to give it body and strawcumbers, cut into rough slices. It was delicious, and breathing in the steam did wonders for my constitution.<br />
<br />
Other customers had filed in behind me while I was eating, but no-one took the seat next to me. Rhigans regarded Ondians as being rather officious, unwelcoming types, a throwback to several hundred years in the past when much of eastern Nebra had been subject to Ondian rule. The capital of the empire in those days, Esteryn, was now just ruins. Modern Ondians held little affection for it, given that it had been closer to Camir than the peninsula we now called home, but for those with little historical knowledge, there was still a faint cultural call, a reminder within the bones that we had once been part of something much greater than ourselves.<br />
<br />
The barkeep busied himself wiping glasses with the corner of an apron that was probably dirtier than the glasses. When he saw me looking at him, he grunted. 'Holiday?'<br />
<br />
'I suppose,' I said, tapping the spoon thoughtfully on the edge of the bowl. 'Visiting a friend, really. But taking a long route. I have lots of time.'<br />
<br />
He nodded. 'You take the Y-train?'<br />
<br />
'No. I'm going to walk, and see where my feet take me.'<br />
<br />
I could tell he thought I was mad. Still, the Y-trains moved no faster than walking, and I wasn't about to fight someone for the chance to hang off the side and take the weight off my feet.<br />
<br />
I finished the bowl with relish, and left a sizable tip. The barkeep's eyes rested just a little too long on the coins as they jingled onto the bar. I scooped up my bag and was already halfway out of the door when he called me.<br />
<br />
'Hey.'<br />
<br />
I turned around and he motioned above my head to a sign in Rhigan on the lintel. 'Before you go, touch it. Is lucky.'<br />
<br />
I could speak Rhigan fluently. The sign read, 'Our true friends never really leave us.'<br />
<br />
'True, that,' I said, tapping it with my fingertips and waving before closing the door.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://4thousandwords.blogspot.co.uk/2016/02/my-travels-through-imaginary-lands-pt-3.html">Go to Chapter 3 > > ></a>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3660751614871769034.post-3590715681804517222016-02-11T21:59:00.000+00:002016-05-29T22:35:44.930+01:00My Travels Through Imaginary Lands, Pt 1.<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiONV9Z8unw_dk35LO25Lq5qo3eNbMTzq8glEQdBycdt_bB68L3UgEBUubvoO23b6RUyZRfGScwa7pS9dRaEukujUnHGwVJp5QaimY9X3sGUpu6gsv6XqQrQAJfqIa-ha_sCa4Egs8_RJo/s1600/pigeon_1_197294.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiONV9Z8unw_dk35LO25Lq5qo3eNbMTzq8glEQdBycdt_bB68L3UgEBUubvoO23b6RUyZRfGScwa7pS9dRaEukujUnHGwVJp5QaimY9X3sGUpu6gsv6XqQrQAJfqIa-ha_sCa4Egs8_RJo/s1600/pigeon_1_197294.jpg" /></a></div>
It was on the train to
Kassium, in one of the open-topped tourist cars that I frequent when
heading to the capital, that the pigeon found me. It alighted on the
polished brass bar beside the table and turned a beady eye side-on,
the better to judge my lack of providence.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I checked with the man sitting opposite, thinking that maybe the bird was intended for him, but he
merely shook his head and disappeared beneath his newspaper<i>. </i><span style="font-style: normal;">My
interest suitably piqued, I took the tiny missive from my winged
Hermes and began to read.</span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-style: normal;">'</span><i>Dearest
Patrick, </i>
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<i>It has been such a
long time since I heard from you that I felt compelled to send you a
missive. My sister sends news of your success in convincing the
cabinet of the need for further negotiations in Nebra. I must
congratulate you for your efforts, though surely, these are difficult
times. </i>
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<i>I have news of my
own to share, and hopefully it will lift your spirits. Upon my
arrival in the west, I was able to make acquaintance with several of
my father's oldest friends, and thanks at least in part to their
efforts, I have been inducted into the Diplomatic Corps. Naturally,
this means I might be able to apply some of my own efforts to
avoiding war. In my first posting, I have been aligned with the Rum
of Camir. </i>
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<i>It is for this
reason that I am writing to you now. A diplomatic appointment in
Camir will be an important step in securing political and economic
cooperation. Your presence at my inauguration some ninety days hence
would do much to give my appointment credibility, not to mention how
much personal pleasure I would get from seeing your face again.</i></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<i>Yours, with
affection</i></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<i>Sarielle.'</i></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I
folded the note, smiled, unfolded it, read it again and smiled some
more. Its role performed, the pigeon vanished once more into azure
skies, and the train skidded onward through the rose-tinted
countryside, the great river Onn glistening in the distance. I
breathed the scented air, feeling quite content.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
'Excuse
me,' a fair-haired woman sitting close to me asked. 'But are you
Ondian?'</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I
smiled at her. 'Does my beard give it away?'</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
She
may have blushed, though equally it could have been a reflected tint
from the landscape. 'Well, yes, as a matter of fact. Many of the
Nebran men have beards but not too many braid them like you.'</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I
was especially proud of those braids. The woman's name was Ruth, and
she was on her first visit to Kassium. Plenty of tourists took the
long road route to the south, joining the train only when they got
onto Ondian soil. Ruth, being the wife of a businessman and a woman
of some means, had taken the sea route via the port at Silvouth.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
'So
what you do?' she asked.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
'I'm
basically a social scientist, though honestly it's a title that may
be a little grand for what I really do. I work for the Diplomatic
Corps – measuring migration patterns in and out of the country,
studying cohesion between communities. It's quite interesting work.'</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
'It
sounds it. But tell me, if this is your own land, why travel in the
tourist carriages?'</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
'Oh,
I find the Dirges quite objectionable. I would rather meet people
than be secured in a box for the duration of the journey.' The
Dirges were the dark, loud commuter carriages, always found at the
front of Ondian trains. They were dirt-cheap, unlike the outdoor
ones, but they offered some protection from the elements, given the
famously unpredictable local climate.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Ruth
told me all about her own work, mostly with non-profits, and shared
some peaches that she'd bought with her from the continent. The
white flesh was tart, but pleasing on the tongue.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I
passed the time in pleasant conversation with Ruth, who was on her
way to her husband's side. 'Taking the chance', she said, 'to see
Kassium while I can.' Behind me, the dianthan-hued countryside gave
way to bushes of vellum, and then to grey soil as we approached the
city.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
'So
what's your business in Kassium?' she asked.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
'I
was going to meet with some ministers,' I replied. 'But honestly, I
think that I've told them everything they need to know. They can do
some of the legwork themselves from here. Obviously, there's a lot
of tension in Nebra just now. But you'll know that people there are
keeping their heads down, quietly getting on with things. I've been
invited to an event in Camir. It's been nearly a year since I
travelled to the continent. I'm keen to revisit a few of the places
I love.'</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
My
plan was made then and there. I would take ninety days away from my
job – quite possible in a field which was both well-paid and
notoriously slow – and go to visit Sarielle in Camir. Once there,
I would request an audience with the Rum and assist the new diplomat
with the instigation of a dialogue which would facilitate trade and
if necessary, some measure of military support, though the ministry
were keen that as many resources as possible should be saved for
defence of the narrow strait between Ondia and the mainland.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I
could probably have made the journey across the continent by train in
three days, but my wandering mind was tapping at the back of my head,
and I decided instead to travel the whole distance between Hamhr
and Uyusfan, the Camiran capital, on foot. It would be a journey of
some four hundred miles, but over ninety days, it would be quite
manageable. I would also have the chance to visit some of the most
beautiful cities in Nebra along the way.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Ruth
eventually got off the train before the Heartlands began, two stops
before the Iron Gates. We parted with warm words, and I received an
invitation that I should visit and stay at her house when I went
through her country on the way west. Before she left, she said, 'May
I...just?' Before I could respond, she had reached out with a hand
and was stroking my beard. 'I should get my husband to grow one, but
I doubt he would braid it.'</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I
watched her walk away with no small bemusement. She had only a small
tartan travelling bag with a long handle, which ran on squeaky metal
wheels. In seconds, she was lost in the crowd, though the squeak of
the wheels persisted a few seconds longer. Before me on the
platform, there was an old man selling cotton-boar trotters. The
threads of his shirt were so worn that they were literally coming
apart at the seams. Unperturbed, he weaved through the throng,
gurning hopefully at anyone who paused. Not many did.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://4thousandwords.blogspot.co.uk/2016/02/my-travels-through-imaginary-lands-pt-2.html">Go to Chapter 2 > > ></a> </div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3660751614871769034.post-31376974857257719282016-01-06T00:31:00.001+00:002016-01-06T00:34:49.325+00:00The Fairy Chimneys (Short fiction for young children)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
It was early on a Tuesday - half past eight, to be exact - when Laura met the fairy. She was was on her way to school when she saw him, hiding behind a road sign. The fairy was a small fellow, no more than a few inches tall. He didn't look like the kind of fairy you see on TV or in other stories. Rather than a wand or wings, he had tanned skin, long hair and a small pointed hat.</div>
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When he realised that Laura could see him, the fairy tried to run away. But he wasn't very fast or nimble, and he tripped over his own feet. When she got closer, Laura could see him sitting down, looking quite upset.<br />
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'Hello,' Laura said. 'It's okay, you don't have to run. I'm not a scary person.'<br />
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The fairy said. 'Are you sure you're not scary?'<br />
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Laura knelt down next to him. 'Quite sure. Are you okay?'<br />
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'I scraped my knee,' the fairy said. 'But I'll be alright. So, if you're not scary, what are you?'<br />
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Laura wasn't sure how to answer that question, but she did the best she could. 'My name's Laura and I'm a human being.'<br />
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The fairy rubbed his chin and said, 'I've heard of human beings, but I've never met one before.'<br />
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'That's strange. Human beings are everywhere.' Laura looked around for other people, but it was a quiet morning in her small village and just now, no-one else was around. 'Well, most of the time they are.'<br />
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The fairy nodded. 'Well, that's nice for you. It's good to have lots of friends!'<br />
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Laura did have lots of friends at school, and her mum and dad had lots of friends of their own. She liked to meet new people.<br />
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'I should probably be going,' the fairy said, picking up his hat. 'I have to get home. It's already morning and I'm very late.'<br />
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'Oh. I'm sorry for keeping you,' Laura said. But she was too curious not to ask one more question. 'Before you go, can you tell me where fairies come from, please?' <br />
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'Fairies come from Turkey. Everyone knows that.'<br />
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'Really?' Laura had never been to Turkey but she knew it was another country far away, across the sea.<br />
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'Yes. We all live in houses underground. Our fairy chimneys poke through the surface. I'm told that human beings come to Turkey to see them.'<br />
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'That's nice,' Laura said. 'Perhaps I'll come to see them one day.'<br />
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'You should,' the fairy said. 'And now I have to go. Bye!' Laura watched him run over to the verge and begin to dig quickly with his hands. In no time at all, he had disappeared beneath the earth and only a small mound of soil was left to show he had ever been there at all.<br />
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Laura was about to finish her journey to school when she looked at the mound of soil and saw a small gem on top of it. It was a sapphire, as blue as the sky. It sparkled in the light like a star. Laura realised that the fairy must have dropped it when he was leaving.<br />
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Quickly, Laura bent down to pick up the sapphire and put it safely in her pocket. She had to go to school now, but when she got home later, she spoke to her mum, who agreed they had to visit the fairy chimneys straightaway and return the gem to its rightful owner.<br />
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Fortunately, the next day was Saturday and Laura didn't have to go to school. Her mum had already been online to book flights, so they were able to leave straightaway. It was a very exciting day for Laura. First, they got a train to the airport, and when they got there, Laura had fun exploring all the different shops. Then they caught a plane to Turkey. <br />
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It was very hot and sunny when they landed. Laura's mum made sure she had a hat to wear so that she didn't get too hot, and then bought them both sweets as a treat.<br />
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Laura slept through the last part of the journey, which was a taxi ride to the chimneys. When they arrived, the sun was going down and Laura knew that she had to find the fairy and return his gem before it got dark.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikWOvpk6-hKHCnPSS-r2J_W37HRbxLN9rj14saRJ1LZhxXyw6HrGWyAHqtoW7MJ1eTGpwiK1cVuVanSk3rc1ACT-TEdjKGiqyoZDghmC415MNlJ4yyaE3suzK4whVYsSWGaeCebcg8TMY/s1600/Cappadocia-chimneys.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikWOvpk6-hKHCnPSS-r2J_W37HRbxLN9rj14saRJ1LZhxXyw6HrGWyAHqtoW7MJ1eTGpwiK1cVuVanSk3rc1ACT-TEdjKGiqyoZDghmC415MNlJ4yyaE3suzK4whVYsSWGaeCebcg8TMY/s320/Cappadocia-chimneys.jpg" width="320" /></a><br />
She saw a guide standing near one of the chimneys and asked him, 'Where are the fairies?'<br />
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The guide looked around but couldn't see any movement. 'They're a little bit nervous of humans. I think they must all be hiding from us underground.'<br />
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Laura was disappointed that she couldn't see her new friend, but she knew what she had to do. She went to the nearest chimney and placed the sapphire on the ground there.<br />
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<br />
'Hello,' she called out, feeling a little nervous herself. 'I met one of you yesterday, and he left this behind by accident as he was leaving. Perhaps someone could return it to him, if that's okay.'<br />
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As Laura watched, the ground opened up underneath the gem and it vanished beneath the surface. She couldn't see him, but she got the new feeling that her new fairy friend was grateful. She held her mum's hand, waved at the chimney and got back in the car to leave. As they were driving away, she watched until all of the chimneys had disappeared into the distance.<br />
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When all was silent and it was dark outside, the fairy popped his head up from a hole, holding his sapphire carefully so he didn't lose it again.<br />
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'Thank you Laura, that was really kind,' he said, and even though she couldn't see him, he knew she would know that he was waving back at her.<br />
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3660751614871769034.post-37511150187293526582015-12-31T18:55:00.000+00:002015-12-31T21:07:28.031+00:00Five New Year PlansFollowing on from a shameful reversal of my year-end weight loss efforts at Christmas, I've decided to make a quick list of my 2016 writing goals. I've never been a big fan of resolutions, so these aren't so much set in stone, but I know from experience that when I set myself targets, I achieve far more than if I just laze around the place, napping and eating biscuits.<br />
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So here are the big five writing goals for the next twelve months!<br />
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a) FINISH WRITING A DAMN NOVEL. I honestly can't say this one loudly enough. So many people I know have now published novels that it was actually a bit embarrassing seeing my picture in the paper next to theirs when the November Nano stories came out. I've redrafted my novel four times now, and I'm thinking that I probably won't ever be fully, absolutely, 100% happy with it. So for this reason, the final draft will be the last one, and then it'll be coming to a Kindle near you in 2016. </div>
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b) Read a bit more. I know people who claim to read 200 books a year. While I salute their efficiency, pretty much my only time not spent working or sleeping is spent gaming and writing, so my reading time is generally at a premium. That said, I've read some of the books I've been planning to read for a long time in 2015 ('Dune', by Frank Herbert, 'Bright Lights Big City', by Jay McInerney, 'Rivers of London', by Ben Aaronovitch) and I've already met my two favourite authors (Jeff Noon and JM Coetzee), so I'll be looking to new places for inspiration. <br />
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I'm therefore setting myself a loose target of 25 books, at least 12 of which will be sci-fi. On my list to read so far are:<br />
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'Dunes over Danvar', by Michael 'Pennsylvania' Bunker;<br />
'Jar Baby', by Hayley Webster (thoroughly lovely local author whose work has been described as, 'powerfully sensual, gorgeously grotesque, grimly funny');<br />
'Risk of Rain', by Andre Brink (more post-Apartheid fiction from South Africa);<br />
'Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep?', by Philip K Dick;<br />
'Shantaram', by Gregory David Roberts;<br />
'The Broken Road', by Patrick Leigh Fermor.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj02sz_NCfPID0WGNZsEstKcXvGSgH_iMSzByPyABwGs7QT-pmx4SkjVObyszhNtPfIv4aUluTbVa8xPgvyP_0sS6Nbt61G_FI5_h87jyO0JipSzUMIfNX2xaBEzjCirx5S4O15bRBffMA/s1600/GR.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj02sz_NCfPID0WGNZsEstKcXvGSgH_iMSzByPyABwGs7QT-pmx4SkjVObyszhNtPfIv4aUluTbVa8xPgvyP_0sS6Nbt61G_FI5_h87jyO0JipSzUMIfNX2xaBEzjCirx5S4O15bRBffMA/s200/GR.jpg" width="125" /></a>c) Blog a bit more. You're worth it, dear readers, and it encourages me to do more things so I have more things to talk about.<br />
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d) More short stories! This is a biggie for me - anthology work is fun, reliable and great for boosting a profile. I've always been a fan of short stories, and I'd love to release an anthology of my own work. I've written prize-winning short stories before, and I think there could be a decent market for these online (I've certainly sold a fair few copies of '<a href="http://www.amazon.co.uk/Girl-Running-Kris-Holt-ebook/dp/B016V7HUQM">Girl, Running</a>' on the Amazon store at a pound a pop.)<br />
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Plus, you don't win competitions without entering things, and it's a big boost to the confidence to win an independently judged contest. It's good for all aspiring writers.<br />
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e) Make more money from writing than I did in 2015: Thanks to my anthology work and a few short stories, the pre-tax sum total of my writing income for this year is around £200. While that's a nice bit of extra money, with a bit of commitment, I don't doubt I could have earned much, much more. So this year I'm going to make that commitment, take jobs that I would have previously turned down, do more editing work, teach or run workshops if anyone asks me to, and generally aim for a more professional, more fun and higher earning 2016.<br />
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What are your 2016 writer goals?Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3660751614871769034.post-73605002763501889912015-12-06T14:05:00.000+00:002015-12-06T14:05:21.650+00:00Winter General UpdateI realise it's been a little while since I last posted, so I think I'll do a quick update about the last few weeks and some forthcoming things I'm involved in.<br />
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First of all, Cressy's <a href="http://www.4thousandwords.blogspot.co.uk/2015/11/a-notepad-and-dream-cressida-mclaughlin.html">book launch</a> was very successful, and very well-attended. I was involved in a Nanowrimo meet-up that night, so could only sneak in towards the end, but everyone was having a lot of fun, not least Cressy herself. The book seems to be very popular, so I'm really pleased for her.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvqAfZ-pmqFfv6qny7Vf4gNUahaBCCBl2yf0O7q4JUHTZrrSRMukxlIaHAiWAVR9A1A0IQa0KBqwmDvOA4eSZv1sawvKO-TY1m7IC1jmy8kBHqlfVbnaZGpwQPKBV4CH3LziMUCC_g8gI/s1600/nano.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvqAfZ-pmqFfv6qny7Vf4gNUahaBCCBl2yf0O7q4JUHTZrrSRMukxlIaHAiWAVR9A1A0IQa0KBqwmDvOA4eSZv1sawvKO-TY1m7IC1jmy8kBHqlfVbnaZGpwQPKBV4CH3LziMUCC_g8gI/s320/nano.jpg" /></a></div>
Nanowrimo itself was very successful, and after a couple of years where I've been doing other training, it was nice to return to writing again in November. This year we had a fantastic group with some great ideas and some really lovely people, and I'm hoping we can get together again in the new year for editing sessions.<br />
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I made the 50k with two days to go, having quickly abandoned the literary
work I was going to produce in favour of something that was a bit more
light-hearted. I'm producing a novella set in a future
America where distant nuclear events and climate change have led to
desertification and a struggle for resources. So it's basically hillbillies with lasers
in the Wild West. I'm enjoying it, and hopefully when it's finished, you will too.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzuxyt4lIuHReFniKaNIZj2TRIUxTEBrTyOuLpCrPlCmCkWgppzLVIn7U9K-IV7Zk46NkndGmLwkPdMFH0Cp-m8WL2-Vrfdr_AxQ5-LRBsr1-48lx-wXU8gvaDmL8O_WMtMYjMWAWqukE/s1600/dunex.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzuxyt4lIuHReFniKaNIZj2TRIUxTEBrTyOuLpCrPlCmCkWgppzLVIn7U9K-IV7Zk46NkndGmLwkPdMFH0Cp-m8WL2-Vrfdr_AxQ5-LRBsr1-48lx-wXU8gvaDmL8O_WMtMYjMWAWqukE/s200/dunex.jpg" /></a>By coincidence, I happen to be reading 'Dune' by Frank Herbert for my reading group, and while it's nice to fill in one of the key gaps from my sci-fi education, I've found it pretty hard going. The story is fun enough, with some nice touches, but the complete lack of a chapter structure and the POV hopping all over the place to explain each character's thought process is really grating on me. I can't help feeling that if it was released today, it wouldn't be regarded as the classic it is.<br />
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Some of the people close to me have mooted the idea of a fifty-book reading challenge for 2016, an ideal that appeals massively to me and my poor, underworked Kindle. I probably won't have the time for 50 novels, but I might well be able to do 25. It remains for me to think carefully about what I'll read, and what effect it'll have upon my writing.<br />
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Finally, my first piece of work for the new year will be writing for and editing the forthcoming 'Shadows at the Door' anthology! I'm very much looking forward to this. The Black Shuck legend that my story focuses on is one of those that every town seems to have, but this one will have a distinctly Norfolk twist. I'm very much looking forward to sharing it with you!<br />
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3660751614871769034.post-14009342943108847022015-11-04T00:44:00.002+00:002015-11-04T00:44:23.913+00:00A Notepad and a Dream - Cressida McLaughlin<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<i>In a series I call 'A Notepad and a Dream', I interview up-and-coming authors about their books, their writing process and their future plans. If you have a book shortly due for release and would like to take part, or know someone else who would, please let me know via the 'Contact Me' page above.<br /><br />
In this episode of 'A Notepad and a Dream' episode, we'll be meeting contemporary romance author Cressida McLaughlin.</i><br />
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</i>
<b>Can you tell us a little bit about yourself and your novel?</b><br />
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I originally come from London, but moved to Norwich to study English Literature at the University of East Anglia. I fell in love with the city and never went back. I’ve always loved books, but was only ever interested in reading them until I had the opportunity to try a free Adult Education course. I picked creative writing, and caught the bug.<br />
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Like lots of authors, my route to publication has been long and littered with rejections, so I’m over the moon to be approaching publication date for my first novel. It’s called '<a href="http://www.amazon.co.uk/gp/product/000813524X/ref=s9_simh_gw_p14_d3_i1?pf_rd_m=A3P5ROKL5A1OLE&pf_rd_s=desktop-1&pf_rd_r=1ZV428J9DRHGGSM90FBN&pf_rd_t=36701&pf_rd_p=577047927&pf_rd_i=desktop">A Christmas Tail</a>', and was first published as four eBook novellas during 2015. It tells the story of Cat Palmer, who gets fired from her job at a nursery after taking a puppy into work, and decides to set up a dog walking business in the seaside community where she lives.<br />
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<b>Have you always wanted to write romance novels?</b>
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I love reading all genres, and am a huge fan of a good crime novel, but when it comes to writing I love the will-they-won’t-they element, and the challenge of creating that and making it work over the course of a whole book. There’s nothing more satisfying than reading a really hard-won happy ending, and that feeling is multiplied when you write one. There’s also so much more to the stories than the romance element – there are no restrictions on plot or style or humour, and I love that freedom.<br />
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<b>The success of romance novels is typically dependent on the chemistry between the central characters. Is creating this chemistry something that you've had to practise at length in order to perfect, or something that comes naturally to you?</b><br />
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I think it’s a mixture of both, but it’s something that I’ve got better at through years of writing, and also reading other books that do it brilliantly. It’s one of the most fun aspects of creating the story, keeping the tension alive so that it keeps readers interested and doesn’t become too predictable. It can be a real challenge, but it’s one that I love and don’t think I’ll ever get bored of. <br />
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<b>What advantages do you think the traditional model of publishing offers you over those who might be thinking about the indie/self-publishing option?</b><br />
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There were a few occasions on my publication journey when I thought I might try self-publishing, but I never went ahead with it and held out for a traditional deal.<br />
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I think for me it’s having all the support that comes with traditional publishing; a great editor who values your writing and spends time helping you make it better, the marketing and publicity teams who know exactly how and where to promote your books, and then of course that amazing moment when you get to hold a copy of your own book, complete with pages and a cover and that great book smell, and know that it will be in bookshops.
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<br />
I know you can buy in elements of this when you’re self-publishing – editors, cover-designers, publicity – and some people love the autonomy of being able to do everything themselves, but over the last year I have really loved, and valued, having an amazing team who have worked really hard on my book and have helped it to look and be the best it can be.
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<b>What would you say is your main strength as an author?</b>
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I think one of my main strengths is being open to ideas and prepared to learn. You never stop learning as a writer, whether that’s from editors, agents, other authors or readers, it’s important to be willing to take comments on board and work hard to improve. I want to keep writing, and being published, for years to come, and I want each book to be better than the last.
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<b>What will your next project be?</b>
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I’m writing my second book at the moment. It’s called The Canal Boat Café and will be another romance novel, again published in four eBook novellas before the paperback comes out next summer. It’s great to be exploring new characters and a brand new setting, and I hope readers enjoy reading it as much as I’m enjoying writing it.
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<i>Cressida McLaughlin will be hosting the launch of her book at Waterstones Norwich at 7:30pm on 4 November 2015.</i>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3660751614871769034.post-85633551184387384192015-10-23T19:34:00.001+01:002015-10-23T19:39:47.029+01:00Girl, Running<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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With a week to go before Nanowrimo begins, I'm pleased to present my latest story which is now available for purchase on Amazon: <a href="http://www.amazon.co.uk/Kris-Holt/e/B00YJCETOS/ref=ntt_dp_epwbk_0">'Girl, Running'</a>.<br />
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Originally part of Samuel Peralta's 'Z Chronicles' anthology, the story follows Elie and Little Shrew, two disenfranchised American teenagers fleeing the apocalypse.<br />
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Clocking in at 6,000 words, 'Girl, Running' is available now for just 99p, or if you are part of the Kindle Unlimited programme, you can borrow it for free.<br />
<br />
<u>Excerpt</u><br />
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<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<i><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">Little
Shrew is still calculating in her mind – speed versus distance
versus pain in joints – when Elie says, 'Okay, in five seconds,
we're going to run for the Harbour building.'</span></i></div>
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<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<i><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">'Elie,
no. I'm in a lot of pain.'</span></i></div>
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<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<i><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">'Sweetie,
we can't wait, you know that, right? The soldiers aren't going to
shoot because the sound will bring even more of
these...people...over. There's not enough of them there to hold the
place as it is. If the fence comes down, the military are going to
close the doors and sail away.'</span></i></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<i><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">Little
Shrew is incensed by Elie's steely calm observations. She's not sure
whether the pain she is in is stopping her from thinking straight, or
her inability to think is somehow contributing to the pain.</span></i></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<i><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">Elie
slaps her on the back and practically pulls a salute. 'Time to
shine, Little Shrew. This is where that time on the track is going
to pay off.'</span></i></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<i><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">'Two
more minutes,' Little Shrew pleads.</span></i></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<i><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">Elie
vaults the wall in a single movement, graceful as a cat. One of the
shamblers nearby is more alert than the others, and takes a
three-iron to the temple for its trouble.</span></i><br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwUsvobiwKqKwQ5Tr-Y9NfGJ4EEnx11C4Eq8SuBrjBFEUn8pR8p_8sS2EryaVnQKOMFn4o3c0Gzougd_Gs-MDvoLr7sG2oPGHBQRFTVS-xgE9NKGPG_NLrjxEosFn2rtdALKWIzDkwAJI/s1600/11246018_10153368813346449_7482985139499195459_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="96" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwUsvobiwKqKwQ5Tr-Y9NfGJ4EEnx11C4Eq8SuBrjBFEUn8pR8p_8sS2EryaVnQKOMFn4o3c0Gzougd_Gs-MDvoLr7sG2oPGHBQRFTVS-xgE9NKGPG_NLrjxEosFn2rtdALKWIzDkwAJI/s320/11246018_10153368813346449_7482985139499195459_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
</div>
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3660751614871769034.post-564498871106699272015-08-18T23:31:00.001+01:002015-08-19T00:03:21.143+01:00The Warm Winds of Kyoto - Part Two<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiW3yCFVKwppGm0ZBDcmpL1nJrfqwcC3wqHUruDyE-19Rmk1id9sIwS7O7wmQ_cIlmqD6A8QvoJsR-4I2Qp6jcgncYbZ_bJbZ7PplYdjY1XS7_geTlQJLQQVBjfP0MF7FiUSMOuZgubuHI/s1600/IMG_0648.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiW3yCFVKwppGm0ZBDcmpL1nJrfqwcC3wqHUruDyE-19Rmk1id9sIwS7O7wmQ_cIlmqD6A8QvoJsR-4I2Qp6jcgncYbZ_bJbZ7PplYdjY1XS7_geTlQJLQQVBjfP0MF7FiUSMOuZgubuHI/s200/IMG_0648.JPG" width="200" /></a>Cicadas, everywhere, wherever there are trees. The first time I hear them, walking from Daimon station to my hotel, I think that it's the sound of industrial machinery somewhere in the distance. These fearsome little bugs whine, whoop and wail throughout my adventures, providing me with a looping soundtrack that I miss immediately upon my return to England. I'm conscious of the fact that my photos cannot capture their roaring vigour, so when the noise is at its loudest, I try to take video instead. Unfortunately, I can't explain to people what they are listening to, as the cicadas completely drown out my attempt at commentary.<br />
<br />
Smack in the middle of one of Tokyo's most vibrant districts, the Meiji Shrine typifies everything that I love about Japan's iconic monuments. The gorgeously constructed wooden gates (known as <i>torii</i>), the wide, sweeping pathways, and the ultimate stillness of the shrine itself, where even the aforementioned cicadas whisper rather than sing. Shinto is an ancient religion that reveres the spirits (or <i>kami</i>) which live in natural places.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7kGjTgetidWGlElxDyk4sAjpZ_cgSlzV2p8mwJDWhyMufWkf7w0xANHoe88Oo_pjxp3eSZjbl6X6PjrxBOiqYKgkSVSSJZGJlCo3oD-T9lh42sAs1Z9UlLQsrOjhVTn1B-NbqobADMFo/s1600/IMG_0152.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7kGjTgetidWGlElxDyk4sAjpZ_cgSlzV2p8mwJDWhyMufWkf7w0xANHoe88Oo_pjxp3eSZjbl6X6PjrxBOiqYKgkSVSSJZGJlCo3oD-T9lh42sAs1Z9UlLQsrOjhVTn1B-NbqobADMFo/s200/IMG_0152.JPG" width="200" /></a><br />
There can be fewer places more in tune with Japan's beating heart than Meiji itself. Named for the Emperor that prompted Japan's restoration at the end of the eighteenth century, the outer precinct houses a collection of murals, and the pathways are lined with barrels of wine and sake which have been donated to the shrine. You can get married here if you wish.<br />
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<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkEGqkwdR2PNn7ynDbC3WaUOG64Ca4iruRlpViORTN0g9NdSuu_XQPhm5JdUZbJiokekaWEHuEccYKiEBu-tL46J168bDmymWIIXX2GUn3D1YQfbHE5_3Lex_fUGfJ8m53MZLMTBlg5xQ/s1600/IMG_0182.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkEGqkwdR2PNn7ynDbC3WaUOG64Ca4iruRlpViORTN0g9NdSuu_XQPhm5JdUZbJiokekaWEHuEccYKiEBu-tL46J168bDmymWIIXX2GUn3D1YQfbHE5_3Lex_fUGfJ8m53MZLMTBlg5xQ/s200/IMG_0182.JPG" width="200" /></a><br />
The inner precinct houses a treasure museum, and visitors are encouraged to buy a prayer board, which is about the size of an airline luggage tag. The expectation is that you write your wish upon the board and tie it to the ropes strung between the trees. I quickly survey what visitors are wishing for - health, love, money, Christiano Ronaldo to join Arsenal. Each of us gets what we want from the process. <br />
<br />
<br />
A minute's walk from the entrance to the shrine, a procession of smiling teenagers leads us to the top of Takeshita Dori, and then we are down into the colourful madness of Harajuku. The area is a pedestrian expanse of small independent shops selling all sorts of tourist nik-naks and branded clothing. In the busy times, simply standing still or lifting your arms in the middle of the street is impossible.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1AwEYt4_OkUGGsmExHQS6RCUT6ojkZaZ8Dui9iB7xBJLc9nB_9wPi1ivmoX7dt7GSpmt-PKQDQ6X5jq5LEvTjYh9IADUHXMX7Izatg-FpEabyNrglak32lPDnxqsBkIlJTvBjGNBj4Jw/s1600/IMG_0192.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1AwEYt4_OkUGGsmExHQS6RCUT6ojkZaZ8Dui9iB7xBJLc9nB_9wPi1ivmoX7dt7GSpmt-PKQDQ6X5jq5LEvTjYh9IADUHXMX7Izatg-FpEabyNrglak32lPDnxqsBkIlJTvBjGNBj4Jw/s320/IMG_0192.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>
It struck me here that city living in Japan would not suit someone with social phobias. Nearly 14 million people live in the city of Tokyo, but another 20 million more live in the metropolitan surrounds. The sheer density of people here is matched only by their friendliness and curiosity. I slip through the crowds, and badly in need of a way to quench my thirst, I opt for the first cafe I find. It is a Spongebob Squarepants cafe, complete with bright yellow plastic furniture. Embracing the surreal nature of the moment, I order a mango frappe.<br />
<br />
Another thing that I noted here is the frequently bizarre nature of English slogans, which are everywhere in Harajuku. So many times, I see random phrases on shirts or as the name of shops. Who decides to call their fancy clothing boutique 'Store My Ducks', or wear a t-shirt that says, 'Born free, eat my cool'? If I ever want to make a shitpile of money in Japan, I'm going to write an algorithm that cribs random phrases off the internet and prints them onto t-shirts. Unless someone else has already had that exact idea, which is a distinct possibility.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaDB06R5nduCMNrTa-DUamyJYBVEzMFLqNQ6FUc97g34cOW46TuuCA0kaa6eA1jLRAG6IJ_8QifPNhYh0DGHPq1xQECLGDENKw_O0jGtq67ZGJBccIPCNXLLtrpIL3vf7UNgKX2dsibuY/s1600/IMG_0375.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaDB06R5nduCMNrTa-DUamyJYBVEzMFLqNQ6FUc97g34cOW46TuuCA0kaa6eA1jLRAG6IJ_8QifPNhYh0DGHPq1xQECLGDENKw_O0jGtq67ZGJBccIPCNXLLtrpIL3vf7UNgKX2dsibuY/s320/IMG_0375.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>
Shortly after leaving Tokyo, I spend a short time in Osaka, where I visit Universal Studios. I freely admit that I'm not really a theme park person, being neither a fan of thrill rides or of long queues, both of which predominate here and at the Disney Parks in Maihama. The Universal Park does have a fairly spectacular parade to end the day, which culminates in this 'last thing you'll ever see' shot of a fifty-foot Elmo float descending onto me.<br />
<br />
I've heard it said that Japan is an expensive country, but
that didn't fit with my experience at all. While I was there, a
debate was raging on the news about the 1000 yen/hour minimum wage
(about £5/hr) and more than once, I was able to eat a sound three-course
meal with sake for under £20 a head. Try doing that in central
London! Next time, I'll talk some more about food and souvenirs, about
my faltering attempts to master pachinko and about a too-successful
visit to Akihabara, where a stint on claw machines nets us
enough plush toys to exceed our baggage allowance.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3660751614871769034.post-66978471417219898382015-08-16T19:30:00.000+01:002015-08-16T19:39:39.790+01:00The Warm Winds of Kyoto - Part OneI arrive in Kyoto by <i>shinkansen</i> in the early afternoon. Japan is famous for many things, but up till now, I'd heard little mention of the summer weather. Europeans desiring guaranteed sunshine flock to Spain, Florida or the Caribbean, but I'd never previously considered August in Kyoto. When I step off the train, it's 39 degrees centigrade, with humidity at 90+ percent. The winds are even hotter.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOSSoBVK5kWMMuj_8IzYO6rmpputUvJiHtMkg4w5sRJo1ZIjLQzwsByHyhVfbVuRYFneBH3rBrSlDaC9GFo89nxlFz-8dm9c5AIRTirAZ0dEoYHQk9dOjg8knQV0GaNHlXYuGQ4tT_6rg/s1600/IMG_0073.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOSSoBVK5kWMMuj_8IzYO6rmpputUvJiHtMkg4w5sRJo1ZIjLQzwsByHyhVfbVuRYFneBH3rBrSlDaC9GFo89nxlFz-8dm9c5AIRTirAZ0dEoYHQk9dOjg8knQV0GaNHlXYuGQ4tT_6rg/s200/IMG_0073.JPG" width="200" /></a><br />
Not for the first time, I'm pinching myself that I'm here at all. I've already spent a week in Tokyo, where I've posed with Hachikō, watched the tuna auctions at Tsukiji and visited the magnificent Meiji shrine near Harajuku. One bullet train journey later and I'm creeping through the whispering bamboo forest at Arashiyama. In two days time, I'll be leading a procession of deer to the largest Buddha in the world. It's every bit as bizarre and magical as I'd hoped.<br />
<br />
I won't get ahead of myself. I get off the plane and am instantly bewildered by the choice of drinks in the airport (a bottle of Pocari Sweat for you, sir?) I find myself making notes about the tiny things that intrigue me. Within hours, my notepad is full and I am scribbling in the margins.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgohXTjTaZxZA2DJG4dQMb4ORL7XEllLPUS0mGnjmaGOuIhibug0N7XuDkOqOcQEBujDoYtPTR7nI9KcuHfjWgn86gjucSCIfCp9z-hHsBRLXz9mp6JW1O-16S-YCDC8L75QgR_u6wwzl4/s1600/IMG_0801.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgohXTjTaZxZA2DJG4dQMb4ORL7XEllLPUS0mGnjmaGOuIhibug0N7XuDkOqOcQEBujDoYtPTR7nI9KcuHfjWgn86gjucSCIfCp9z-hHsBRLXz9mp6JW1O-16S-YCDC8L75QgR_u6wwzl4/s200/IMG_0801.JPG" width="150" /></a>Tokyo is a rush of colour, but its inhabitants are a monochrome palette. From early in the morning till late in the evening, weary salarymen are the city's stock in trade. In their white shirts and black trousers, each one is barely distinguishable from the next as they flood across the street at Daimon. I try to follow them, and immediately learn that crossing signals are observed impeccably by pedestrians, but drivers treat them only as gentle suggestions.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiySPKiKN-kBiLzXnUgWuffekoyuB2rU6lNt740kEPac9_pWLL6PhUlTTjNT3cqkOeEb7XivS0yvgSIWBKRv9wytLS_DGoFDdiRYE0nG1sDL-l-g_wKBJjSPPDghnwotDJx1f85d9Fmmo/s1600/IMG_0071.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiySPKiKN-kBiLzXnUgWuffekoyuB2rU6lNt740kEPac9_pWLL6PhUlTTjNT3cqkOeEb7XivS0yvgSIWBKRv9wytLS_DGoFDdiRYE0nG1sDL-l-g_wKBJjSPPDghnwotDJx1f85d9Fmmo/s200/IMG_0071.JPG" width="150" /></a>Past the statue of <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hachik%C5%8D">Hachikō</a>, the bright billboards and electronic screens at Shibuya turn night into glorious day. Here, where the language barrier makes subtlety of meaning impossible, advertising is stripped down with amusing results. On one wall, a cat recommends a particular brand of washing powder. On another, I am offered a product made from placenta that will make my skin sparkle like snow.<br />
<br />
The Japanese metro systems are clean, efficient and easy to understand once you have grasped that certain lines are owned by different companies. You might make the mistake of buying a ticket for the wrong line once, but you'll learn quickly. Compared to England, the price of everything, from food to travel, seems ridiculously cheap. In no time at all, I'm eating lotus root tempura and drinking more gekkeikan than is good for me. In one location, they stand the glass in a wooden box, and fill both to the point of overflowing.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAHyW-Id0A8V9Xez-PpmOcekSAb_Nr9_VucXd-ahxFgEU-TK2SbD7upg2N2SYAiBVCoegLY9bWhlzwji4a_9ida4OCGg1L3O1dYVShSzhOHPmda2qJxNyPcq8Ha56Y7f0a0jbyGWWKouI/s1600/IMG_0108.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAHyW-Id0A8V9Xez-PpmOcekSAb_Nr9_VucXd-ahxFgEU-TK2SbD7upg2N2SYAiBVCoegLY9bWhlzwji4a_9ida4OCGg1L3O1dYVShSzhOHPmda2qJxNyPcq8Ha56Y7f0a0jbyGWWKouI/s200/IMG_0108.JPG" width="150" /></a>Taking advantage of my distorted sleep pattern on arrival, I head to Tsukiji fish market on day one, only to find that arriving at 5am means that I am too late to join the organised tours. Three a.m., I'm told. Three a.m., where I queue a day later in a sweaty box room with fifty other curious-and-slightly-crazy insomniacs, all for the joy of watching gruff men cut the heads off flash-frozen fish with a bandsaw.<br />
<br />
There is something quite horrific and yet still deeply compelling about Tsukiji, and I fear that words may never quite do it justice. The tuna are laid out in slick rows, looking more like munitions than creatures that were alive mere hours before. Their tails are carved open with crowbars so that buyers can sample the product ahead of the auctions. Tuna is big business here, and individual fish can cost the equivalent of thousands of pounds.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiY1s1sbtgfZkEAVdHuzlkEdxh_LoK5qB8ZkW0O9hzWejE_TsJVmNHYZw69t2ZH9h2KQo3mkJL_NGlLPh0F6EKXKBxdI3HYeHtUSOnBttE0oPG4ahPbL3Zzzcqjsk00VAKZ4g_ZnP0R0Gw/s1600/IMG_0121.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiY1s1sbtgfZkEAVdHuzlkEdxh_LoK5qB8ZkW0O9hzWejE_TsJVmNHYZw69t2ZH9h2KQo3mkJL_NGlLPh0F6EKXKBxdI3HYeHtUSOnBttE0oPG4ahPbL3Zzzcqjsk00VAKZ4g_ZnP0R0Gw/s320/IMG_0121.JPG" width="320" /></a><br />
<br />
Outside, you are led across a courtyard which is a hive of trucks, forklifts and other industrial vehicles which sweep around you in a mesmerising mandala. There seems to be little in the way of earmarked paths, and people, bicycles and other vehicles compete with one another for first access to available space. I am left amazed that serious injuries are not a daily occurrence. On my near side, a veritable mountain of empty boxes is bulldozed into a rubbish pile.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5vOnt8H6AMAWuQqlkbFEhetrTrMD33uqR57X28ajKKbOkApFCj0pVXXQuRwdF12Z9LXM6BClz-oa99s3VDhB6crll_DxP6BktrQ3p4xx5Yt-fTWRMTW8ef0fvlN1tHG0BZf6cQAOM6jE/s1600/IMG_0122.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5vOnt8H6AMAWuQqlkbFEhetrTrMD33uqR57X28ajKKbOkApFCj0pVXXQuRwdF12Z9LXM6BClz-oa99s3VDhB6crll_DxP6BktrQ3p4xx5Yt-fTWRMTW8ef0fvlN1tHG0BZf6cQAOM6jE/s320/IMG_0122.JPG" width="320" /></a><br />
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If it seems for one moment that I regret my trip to Tsukiji, I can only say that it is something that has to be seen to be believed. I recommend it both as a cultural experience and so that you can see how much effort really goes into getting food onto your plate.<br />
<br />
On the way out, numerous market stalls are selling <br />
products fresh off the boat. In the spirit of adventure, I buy a sea urchin off the griddle. The dark spikes are rended by a single slash of the fishmonger's knife, and I am into the flesh, which is creamy, fishy and fruity all at once. As with the market itself, they're an acquired taste, but I suggest that you give them a go. <br />
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The other great thing that I got from the market was a new idea for a writing project - but I'll let you in on that another day. <br />
<br />
In part two of this travelogue, I'll share with you the joys of chirruping cicadas, Shinto rituals and a fifty-foot Elmo. <i>Sayonara</i> for now!Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3660751614871769034.post-74230174752847932932015-07-27T19:21:00.000+01:002015-10-23T20:04:55.504+01:00A Notepad and a Dream - Melissa Brown<div class="western">
<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><i>In
a series I'm calling 'A Notepad and a Dream', I'll be interviewing
up-and-coming authors about their books, their writing process and
their future plans. If you have a book shortly due for release
and would like to take part, or know someone else who would, please
let me know via the 'Contact Me' page above.</i></span></span></div>
<div class="western">
<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /><i>In
the latest 'A Notepad and a Dream' episode,</i> <i><b><a href="http://www.amazon.co.uk/Becoming-Death-Melissa-Brown/dp/1511797045/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1445627047&sr=8-1&keywords=melissa+brown+becoming+death">Melissa Brown</a> </b>is dying to talk about Grim Reapers.</i></span></span></div>
<div class="western">
<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><i><br /></i></span></span></div>
<div class="western">
</div>
<div class="western">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDDZg0b4CEc6Z8cIFhIFxNkmhuVUF0rV0FWOiwVgcIBLhQUAdfr2hYLELjYnLdbBR-_A7XaZZu2JF-Xc3Ask912B1XFiVDoEDJ3bOfN8LqSfDXnTsmhDzhpYnkWo9dPsWoUeiua52F244/s1600/MelissaFeaturedImage.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="160" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDDZg0b4CEc6Z8cIFhIFxNkmhuVUF0rV0FWOiwVgcIBLhQUAdfr2hYLELjYnLdbBR-_A7XaZZu2JF-Xc3Ask912B1XFiVDoEDJ3bOfN8LqSfDXnTsmhDzhpYnkWo9dPsWoUeiua52F244/s320/MelissaFeaturedImage.jpg" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b> </b></span></span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b><br />Can you tell us a little bit about yourself and your novel?</b></span></span></div>
<div class="western">
<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b> </b></span></span><br /><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">I'm an American author that wishes I was still a teenager. I teach work in a library and teach English. My novel, Becoming Death, is about young grim reaper that tries to rebel against her destiny to save someone she loves. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="western">
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<br />
<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">What made you decide to write a book with a supernatural theme?</span></b><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">I
was researching fairy tales and folklore for an university paper when I
needed an idea for Nanowrimo that year. I thought the idea of a modern
female grim reaper sounded fun to write and would allow me to create a
new world. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"> <b>How does your book differ from other books with a similar premise?</b></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Books
about grim reapers are few and far between. I feel Madison isn't the
normal YA protagonist, she isn't a chosen one, she isn't brilliant or
beautiful. She is just trying to get through life/afterlife in one
piece. She's a fan girl that loves comic books and fan fiction, not
something that normally pops up in YA novels. </span><br />
<br />
<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Have you always wanted to write for a YA market? </span></b><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Yes,
I love the YA book market, there is such variety and it's the type of
book I would gravitate towards as a reader. </span><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">If you could choose any writer as
a mentor, who would you pick? </span></b><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">R.L. Stine. He's the
reason I decided I wanted to an author as a kid. I was addicted to his
Goosebumps and Fear Street series; they were my introduction to horror
and the paranormal.</span><br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgx_mP7gKbWTS8E2BfusLzRMADtx-Y_tP_ARRZHdEQUFWahiysRYV1awf2Wx5XUION77c9qUN_xJWMt9mHFVn2bIjpzejOdXRthKUpfOW1Abnn8fRDCqOX3tYJSACRtySnE1EdPLZ27dbU/s1600/MelissaBrown_becomingdeath_webbanner.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="149" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgx_mP7gKbWTS8E2BfusLzRMADtx-Y_tP_ARRZHdEQUFWahiysRYV1awf2Wx5XUION77c9qUN_xJWMt9mHFVn2bIjpzejOdXRthKUpfOW1Abnn8fRDCqOX3tYJSACRtySnE1EdPLZ27dbU/s320/MelissaBrown_becomingdeath_webbanner.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Do you have any further plans for the characters
in the 'Becoming Death' world? </span></b><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">At the moment, I'm working on
another book about cupids but you never know - I might revisit Madison and
her family again at some point. I've always toyed with the idea of
writing a book from her mother's point of view.</span><br />
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