Crazy Idea - Freischütz + Asushunamir + Fab Music = Maho gun battle!

Now this really is a crazy idea. So crazy it might be truly wonderful at some point. It comes from two/three different sources.

The first is a character in from the manga/anime franchise Hellsing called Rip Van Winkle. Winkle is a Nazi vampire who only lasts one volume/episode, but she has a very special ability that puts most of her cohorts to shame. She has a single bullet for her rifle, and once fired she can guide its course to hit whatever she wants. Her character directly references both the legend of Freischütz and the German opera based upon it by Carl Maria von Weber. The legend of the Freischütz -- or its Slavic equivalent the sčarostrelec -- tells of a marksman entering a Faustian pact and blessing seven bullets. Six out of the seven bullets will hit whatever the shooter desires, but the seventh bullet is completely under Lucifer's command.

The second is a character from pre-Islamic Middle Eastern mythology (very well summarized here). As part of the myth of Ishtar's descent into the underworld, the creator Enki fashions a non-binary gendered being called Asushunamir to rescue the goddess from her captivity. Asushunamir successfully entrances the underworld goddess Ereshkigal and manages to rescue Ishtar, but during the escape Ereshkigal curses Asushunamir and all like them to be shunned and despised by the rest of the world. While she can't undo Ereshkigal's curse, Ishtar gives Asushunamir and all like them the gifts of knowledge, healing and prophecy.

So my crazy idea mashed these two together into..... LGBT Maho soldiers! Wait, hear me out.

So I had three characters in mind within about five minutes. The first was -- obviously -- a woman. When a swarm of monsters is attacking our helpless everyman "protagonist", she apparently causes every radio around her to switch on and start pumping out some mean music. She then produces first a pistol out of nowhere and begins shooting down her enemies, then she eventually gets a long-barrelled cannon and blasts away the mounting hoard. With the final attack, she uses the the cannon's barrel as a prop and spins on it, summoning a gattling gun to blast away the last remnants of her enemies.

The next scene would be later when the woman's incapacitated, and the protagonist is temporarily gifted with her powers; he also triggers a blast of music, and does something similar in a one-on-one bout with a shotgun, six-shooter and a small railgun. His fight is more brutal, simply because his temporary power requires more energy to keep from dissipating, and his opponent is a lot tougher than a simple grunt of the wayward soul.

The next merry character is initially portrayed as the hostile outsider, but he also shares the woman's abilities, only he has a special trick. His own gun can shift form between a pistol and a very long rifle (both single shot only), and he only needs one bullet; he can fire in any direction, and any target selected with his eyes will be hit. Once done, the bullet returns and will be reloaded for the next fire.

And basically, all of these people have an inherent gift; due to their ambiguous gender or non-heterosexual status (to use an archaic term), they have the blessing of Ishtar to be medics for the soul, whose woes are manifested through monstrous beings.

And that's my crazy idea. Vaguely like an anime, but going much further into LGBT territory than any mainstream anime dares go in this day and age without resorting to stereotypes like the onee.

I hope you all have a marvellous New Year. Enjoy!

A Christmas Fable

The original title page from
Mirth without Mischief. Ah, fun times.

'Your Royal Highness, with the greatest respect, what the devil are you thinking?!'
'I don't know what you mean.'

'I mean this ridiculous list of gifts for your betrothed.'

The King took the message from his chamberlain and examined its contents. 'I see nothing wrong with it.'

'Nothing wrong with it?! You're joking, of course.'

'No, I'm not joking. My love deserves all this and more. It's her right, as the future queen.'

'But she's-'

'If you're about to say "not of royal stock", this conversation is over.'

'It's not that. It's what you've chosen to sent her given the size of her house.'

'What about the size of the house?'

'My lord, she lives in an apartment in the city. How can you possibly fit twelve lords, eleven ladies, ten drummers, nine pipers, eight milkmaids, seven swans, six geese, five rings, four colly birds, three hens, two doves and - I don't know why you chose this - a game bird in a tree.'

'It's "partridge" in a "pear tree".'

'I know what you intended. But wouldn't anyone else just send... Flowers? A cake? A piece of jewellery? Something like that?'

'That's what others do. I don't do that. I honour tradition. And tradition says... Actually tradition says I send her escalating gifts in the days leading up to Christmas. Maybe I could-'

'NO!'

The chamberlain almost fainted at the logistics behind it. His fevered imagination saw twelve lords carrying trees and partridges, 22 ladies with a turtle dove each, 30 French hens squawking to the drummers' beat, 36 colly birds perching on the pipers' instruments, 40 rings on the hands of milkmaids, and 42 geese and swans wandering amongst the throng. The noise alone would shake the rafters. He shuddered to think of anyone hearing about this extraordinary gift.

And at that moment, the court musician was listening outside the door, and drew a similar conclusion. He grinned. This would make a great Christmas ballad.


A Merry Christmas to one and all!

A New Endeavour; Detective Fiction (Pun Slightly Intended)

I didn't think I'd ever do it. But it just grabbed me, and something clicked in my brain that allowed me to do the pre-planning and preparation necessary to create something as complex and planning-intensive as a detective story.

Mystery is the one genre where I just can't do what I usually do with writing; work from a rough sketch and ideas and then write as I go while using later proofreads to pick up continuity or other errors. Mysteries require extensive planning, otherwise they'll fall apart under scrutiny. And when it's a reader, that scrutiny can be both hard and harsh.

There's still a way to go. I'm only two chapters in, and while I've got the central mystery and cast worked out, anything could go wrong. Especially as I'm still a complete novice at this, and I've decided to set it in a world without human characters. It's a strange world after humanity, where a new species has risen in its place, achieved civilisation as many would consider it, and navigate a world that to us may be unrecognisable. This is set in a fantasy world, but the story and workings themselves are firmly grounded in the scientific and logical world of detective fiction.

It's not the first time I've toyed with a detective story. I had a rather neat "hydrogen-punk" noir set during the post-WW2 era, and shortly after the death of Al Capone, when the criminal underworld began reforming into its next phase of existence. The story would've had a fictionalised version of Eliot Ness and his (fictional) daughter -- the main protagonist -- going up against a new alliance of criminal syndicates during the early days of the Cold War and amid rising ethnic and gender-based tensions. But that's a story for another day, even though it's one I'm not going to just abandon. It's got scope.

This one is my second attempt, and it's going much better. Basically I've taken all I've learned from reading some of the greats of detective fiction and applied it with a writing method which combines my own skills with the planning necessary for crafting a complex and devilish mystery. Guess reading all that Agatha Christie, Dorothy Sayers, Colin Dexter, Ngaio Marsh, G. K. Chesterton and others paid off in the end. Also, my recent and very personal encounter with death gave me some impetus to write about it.

Well, here's hoping it goes alright.

The History in Fiction

I recently found a channel on YouTube called Overly Sarcastic Productions. It's basically two people collaborating on some nice silly/serious summaries of myths and folklore, fiction tropes, story summaries ranging from modern fiction to classic tales, and history. The history is generally handled by the male partner, dubbed "Blue" in their introductory video.

As I was looking at his most recent video, which is a quarter-hour summary of the history of the Venetian Republic, and something struck me. When going through how the city of Venice evolved -- which I already knew quite a bit about due to my reading and watching the entirety of Francesco's Venice -- I saw how easy it was for writers to create a stunning fictional city and not bother with the nitty-gritty about how a certain city came to be.

Take an instance I'd have liked to see with a more detailed origin within the story. The city of Basel from the video game Resonance of Fate. It's an incredible steampunk city that is seemingly supported by a single pillar above a cancerous miasma cloaking the world. Controlled by a control system dubbed Zenith, it preserves humanity through a system of environment purification and limited lifespans to keep the population from expanding beyond control. But along with other aspects of the story, the construction and support of what looked like a gigantic spinning top held up by a pathetically thin pillar had me interested. Then left me giggling as it just looked like the common trope of creating a stunning location without bothering to do any fleshing out of how that location came to be. Similar to most of Pandora from Avatar. I mean, floating islands and marine-like lifeforms living in a jungle with suspiciously little rainfall? And they don't seem to have true jungle equipment, adjusted for alien environment or not. Seriously?

Now, I admit, I'm guilty of creating cities without actually thinking through what their origins were. The first time I did that with any detail was a sci-fi story that's currently in the works as its unique blend of cultural oddities and fusion of futuristic and Bourbon-like architecture. I haven't done the most thorough job of explaining it, but that's what rewrites are for. Now, I'm not saying someone should exhaustively tell it in dialogue or description. That's Kojima's trick, and makes the narrative more boring than entertaining. But some gradual hints and titbits scattered through the work can give something of the world's history to the reader. This makes it more than just set dressing.

The history of something goes beyond simple architectural elements, of course. How did it arrive here, where did it come from. That's an aspect of fiction I really enjoy, and when, say, a mystical system and obviously magical threat are introduced with barely any context through the whole story I feel slightly cheated. And, if there's a follow-up, and the reasons seem contrived or squeezed out using what was already there as an unsteady base (say, they're trying to pass off this clearly magical plague of darkness as a mutant malarial strain), I feel more than disappointed.

There are authors who've done it quite well, either over one book or several. Jonathan Stroud has four books to do it with his Bartimaeus cycle, so you get a very solid impression over those books about how the world works and the cyclic nature of magical rule. The Dragon Age universe has an entire canon of multimedia fiction to help with that, however untidily it does so. Sylvia Townsend Warner's short story anthology Kingdoms of Elfin is a great example of a culture gradually expanded over sixteen small narratives. To understand some aspects of The Lord of the Rings, you need that prose-based exposition, even if several elements stray into the realms of "THIS IS TOO MUCH!" or "GET ON WITH IT!".

There are also stories where uncertainty is needed. I would've liked to know who attacked first in the Starship Troopers universe, but know it would've crippled the book's narrative and pointed message. Creations such as Indiana Jones and the original Alien don't need additional context because it's not the point, and their medium of film doesn't take exposition well. Also, since they're more firmly grounded in type of stories were more complex histories are either superfluous or odd, they can drop them.

Both of those are things I've had to consider, or have already tried. Explanation during my Leviathan Chronicle duology is spread through personal explanation and dialogue across the two books. It lessens some of the info dumps that happen in a story that complex and wordy. And no, that doesn't mean I didn't resort to info dumps. Hey, I'm still young as a writer. As to the latter, I've had one or two ideas. Mainly the challenge is telling an involving story without it looking like I'm deliberately hiding anything, or just haven't thought about it.

Of course, there's the problem with multiple works being required for basic understanding, or a multimedia project where crucial story beats end up on another platform or format. But that's another article entirely.

Short story - The Angel's Spire

Apologies in advance for any spelling and grammar mistakes. This is an older story that I put together in rather a hurry. Either way, I hope you enjoy!

There is a legend in my kingdom. A legend that goes something like this. When the Crimson Moon rises, the Great Will sleeps and the Angel’s Spire gapes to issue its monstrous progeny. The Maiden and her Knight ascend never to return, sending the Crimson Moon into slumber. That is the legend.

Ascending stairs towards a onyx-coloured tower with architecture twisted by time is something anyone would be afraid of. But I needed to go in, to follow after a woman whose destiny lay at the very top of the tower, called the Angel’s Spire. Who am I? A Knight wearing armour and carrying a broadsword and shield. I was just about to push the door open, and glanced up at the sky. A blood-red shade discoloured the moon and the sky around it, and the clouds glowered overhead like the court judges at some highly controversial trial. This was the sign of the Angel’s Spire, the time when the Maiden would ascend.

The Spire stands tall on the edge of a yawning chasm in the ground descending into blackness even at high noon, surrounded by green meadows and covered all across its power floors with climbing plants. Despite nature’s softening, it remained a black scar upon the land exemplified by the Crimson Moon’s light. The Spire has been part of this land for longer than any records tell, and legends beyond counting have risen up around it. I do not know whether to believe, so I do not bother thinking about it that much. I was chosen to climb it with this generation of my liege lord’s family, and to escort this generation’s chosen Maiden to its summit. And I will, no matter what may come of this journey.

I saw the Maiden just after I pushed the door open. She was tall, perhaps as tall as me, with a willowy figure enfolded in a one-piece white dress. Several monstrous beasts, denizens of the Spire, had already met their ends from the weapons she wielded – a kopis sword and crossbow. I watched her killing her final victim, driving her sword into its skull and sending it into convulsive death agonies. It took a push from her foot to dislodge her blade. The slaughter had stained several parts of her dress with the monsters’ deep red blood. She stood in the midst of that slaughter, and seemed to drink in the taut atmosphere.

It was then that she turned, saw me, frowned. I felt like I was being viewed by the state executioner. Common blood she might be, but that did not mean her gaze did not hold a regal quality of disdain.

‘Who’re you?’ her voice was rough and uncultured. ‘What d’you want here? You know this place is forbidden to all but the Maiden.’

‘Not so. One other may enter.’

‘And who’s that, then?’

It took me some time, but I removed my helmet to show my face. Despite a brief flash of relief across her face, her next reaction was not favourable. She drew herself up and spoke in a scolding tone.

‘Why did you have to come? I’m quite capable of handling myself in here. Knight you may be, but–’`

‘I know that.’ I maintained due respect despite her youth. ‘But I was trained to help you ascend this Spire. I swore to be the Knight defending the Maiden as she ascended to bring the Crimson Moon to slumber once again. I will fulfil my duty. Also, you were not supposed to soil that frock.’

She glanced down at her bloodied skirt. ‘How am I supposed to control where these things spurt blood? Besides, I don’t white. It doesn’t fit my soul.’

I sighed. She always talked like this. The Maiden was supposed to be as pure as the driven snow no matter their original social class, but she could always crack some pretty obscene jokes or speak such near-blasphemous scorn. It was something I liked about her – a streak of homely honesty.

‘Now,’ she continued. ‘I’d take it as a kindness if you would leave me in peace to continue my climb up this blasted Spire.’

She knew full well I could not turn back. If I did, the axe would likely be there to greet me upon my return to the city gates. I immediately went down on one knee, determined not to be rejected.

‘You know I cannot do that, Maiden. I must accompany and protect you at all costs. Even if that cost be my life. That I swore when you were but a girl, and I a boy holding my sister’s hand.’

She sighed. ‘Must you always bring that up, even here? I won’t have my journey spoiled by being some damsel requiring a gallant’s protection. It would shackle me, and I don’t like being shackled. Follow me and fulfil your duty if you must, but keep out of my sight.’

I kept my head bowed as she walked away, taking the stairs ahead three at a time, heading towards the screaming horrors above. I waited still, listening to the sound of blade clashing against blade, of the Maiden slaying the monsters that stood between her and her goal. There then came the mighty creaking of a door, the stairway to the next floor of the tower opening for the Maiden.

When that door had closed, I finally raised my head myself and I began climbing the stairs. My pace was deliberately slow, though I struggled with myself at each step not to pursue the Maiden at full speed. I also needed to stop myself turning back and waiting outside. No matter how many tales of brave Knights I read, I was unnerved merely by gazing upon the Spire’s exterior, let alone its inner architecture.

As I reached the first floor, I saw the body of a large ogre – hog-like tusks and all – lying in state, showing signs of the Maiden’s wrath in the slashes on its legs and crossbow bolts lodged in its grey flesh. I examined the blood trail it had left on the floor, and saw specks of red mingled among the putrid yellow. For a horrible second, I feared the worst. Then I heard a footfall behind me and turned to see the Maiden crouching at the foot of the next flight of stairs. She had a concerned look on her face that startled me, but was also panting from the effort of the battle. She finally turned towards me.

‘Yes?’ I asked, bowing my head. ‘Is there anything more you would say?’

The Maiden glanced at the ogre as she spoke. ‘Given how strong some of these Spire residents are, I think I may’ve been a bit hasty in dismissing help. Under one condition, you can come with me.’

‘What condition?’

‘We fight as equals come what may. Not as Knight and helpless Maiden, but as two warriors who climb the Spire as a team. Like those days on the climbing frame when Teach wasn’t looking, remember?’

‘I remember well. I would not treat you as anything less.’

‘Makes a pleasant change. I haven’t had anything but respect, admiration or silent contempt for most of my life. With one exception.’

She smiled at me in her usual way. It was completely disarming, and made me feel slightly ashamed at my behaviour.

‘I am sorry.’

‘Don’t be. No skin of my nose.’ she got up with an effort. ‘Now come on. Let’s get this over with.’

I quickly caught up with the Maiden and we ascended the second flight of stairs together. This time I felt no discomfort, no foreboding, no restlessness. It was wonderful to be next to my friend.

I remembered first meeting the Maiden when we were both young children, although my parents told me we were raised together from birth. We played together, we were like brother and sister – inseparable and mischievous. But I did not know that my parents had a special fate in mind for both of us. The Sages had spoken, foretelling our fates as the Maiden and her Knight when the Crimson Moon came. We were separated when I was about eleven, and I remember yelling at my mother and crying on my bed when the Sages came to take her away from me.

I was educated as a Knight, reading ancient texts, classic literature on the Knight’s duty, and being trained in the art of combat until my bones ached. Then when I was sixteen, we met again, and we were brought together to be tutored by one of the Sages. She called her “Teach”, despite constant admonitions that the Sage should be called by her proper name. I forget what that was now, but it was something quite pompous. We sat together in lessons, but found ways of spending time together as friends. Things like the climbing frame set up for my exercises that provided endless entertainment for two young people who had slipped away from their teacher for half an hour.

‘I had all but forgotten that time together with the teacher.’ I said as we reached the next doorway. ‘I am surprised you remember.’

‘I don’t forget what’s important.’ said the Maiden, smiling. ‘I don’t forget. I’ll never forget, whatever happens.’

‘We will be free of this duty soon.’ I said as we pushed open the door. ‘We will be sure to– DOWN!’

I pulled the Maiden after me as a black-painted javelin scythed through the air and struck the wall behind us. I glanced up and saw the creature that had thrown it – a lanky figure with skeletal limbs and a face without nose, eyes or mouth. One hand held what I can only describe as a giant quiver filled with javelins like the one which had nearly skewered us. The monster drew another from its quiver and threw it towards where we lay. We again had to roll to one side as it struck and dented the floor, and I found myself profoundly thankful that the Maiden had seen sense and invited me along.

It was a gruelling duel, with the monster leaping about the room and either striking with its weapons or throwing them with lethal speed and accuracy. I do not know how long it took, and by the end I collapsed from the effort, but when I awoke the thing was lying dead against the wall, several of its javelins driven through its torso. The Maiden was looking at it as if hypnotised, then turned back to me and smiled as I rose and composed myself.

‘You alright?’

‘I am well.’ I flexed my shoulders. ‘A little stiff, perhaps. That is to be expected with such a strong opponent. If this is just the second floor, the Great Will only knows what awaits further up.’

‘Only one way to find out.’ said the Maiden. ‘But later. You’ll be needing rest after a fight like that.’

‘I can manage.’

‘Rest.’ her tone was commanding. ‘You’re useless if you can’t defend yourself due to exhaustion.’

I had to accept her assessment, and sat back down on the tiled floor glad to relax. I didn’t remove my armour, so just lay within its supporting folds while the Maiden lay beside me. We both stared at the ceiling and I thought for a moment that she had fallen asleep. When I touched her hand by chance, she gripped it with her own, smiling.

‘Thinking of when we used to stargaze?’

I had forgotten that too. Once when we escaped from our Sage tutor, we hid in the nearby forest until past nightfall, and found a clearing where we could watch the stars in the sky. On that warm midsummer’s night, we had picked out seventeen different constellations and twenty of the brightest stars, talked and laughed like we used to do, and found a new kind of kinship. The view here was somehow similar, with gemstones set into the blue-tiled ceiling mimicking a field of stars. But something new came to me totally unbidden, a question.

‘Do you know how long this tradition has lasted?’

‘What tradition?’

‘The Maiden and her Knight climbing the Angel’s Spire when the Crimson Moon appears in the sky.’

‘How long?’ the Maiden considered. ‘I suppose... Maybe four centuries. No-one knows how long the Spire’s been here. Didn’t Teach say something about it being a fragment of the Great Will?’

‘Is that not a somewhat apocryphal statement? The Great Will has no physical form, so how could the Spire be a part of it.’

‘Yeah, sounds daft to me. It’s just some old tower. Monsters are a bit more puzzling though. Maybe they didn’t have anywhere else to go?’

‘A sanctuary for monsters in a world of humans. Sounds like a tale of fringe fancy.’

‘Hey, it’s a story.’

We chuckled at the thought. I did not realise until later that our hands were clasped gently together as we talked. After a few more minutes, I was rested and willing to continue the ascent of the Spire. The next flight of stairs – like the previous two flights we had climbed – circled round to the left, following the line of the Spire’s curving outer wall.

When we reached the top of the stairs and entered the third room, we did not see any foe at first. The entire room was coloured a pure white, whether through paint or some form of precious enamel it was difficult to tell. The door rested in the room’s opposite corner, continuing to follow the Spire’s gentle curve. But there was another living being in the room besides us.

A man lay on the floor, with hair and clothes so pale that he blended in almost perfectly with the décor. As we approached, he raised his face and I recoiled from his sunken features and ashen skin. He rose slowly as if lifted by ropes, and held out a long gleaming foil like a music conductor’s baton. Before I realised what was happening, the figure sailed across the room and began swiping and stabbing at us. He was aiming mostly at me, but did not stop himself from attempting a few passes at the Maiden.

I fended him off with my own bulky sword, but it was as if I were fighting a duellist with a broadsword – the strength behind each blow made my arms shudder. I was eventually flung against the wall, and my vision blurred. I saw the figure stop a few paces from me, then turn and begin sailing across the room to where the Maiden was firing at it with her crossbow. It deflected each bolt with each, then struck her to the ground with a backhanded swipe from its free hand.

I do not remember clearly what came next. I remember struggling to my feet and running towards the thing. The next thing I remember was coming to with my head in the cradle of the Maiden’s lap, an ache in my arm, and a pain in my head as if I were dehydrated. I glanced to one side and saw our attacker lying in a twisted position a few paces from us, its white robes stained purple with its unnatural blood. The Maiden was looking down at me with concern, so I reached up and gently touched her cheek.

‘It is well. I am well. Calm yourself.’

She placed her hand over mine, and tears showed in her face. ‘Don’t.... don’t do that again. You scared me.’

‘I will not. I promise.’

‘Yeah. So you say.’

We both laughed, dispelling the battle’s tension. It had been hard, and as I got up I felt aches all over as if I had fallen from a great height. As we approached the next door, I felt that the Maiden was uneasy, as if something about me had begun to scare her. I reached out to reassure her, but she pulled back, her face crinkling. I frowned, unsure of what had caused this change.

‘You need not fear me.’ I said. ‘I am your friend.’

‘Yes.’ she said stiffly. ‘You’re my friend. And my Knight.’

The way she said those words was unsettling to say the least. As if she were reassuring herself rather than assuring me. Our next ascent was sullen, fouled by an atmosphere of forced normality between the two of us. I really wanted to ask her why she was acting like this. I was just doing my duty as a Knight. I found myself thumping the wall as we walked, my hands protesting in their gauntlets even as my mind protested the change in atmosphere.

The door into the fourth room opened, and we saw what waited for us there. The fifth and final door was closed, held firm by the monstrous creature that was our adversary – a snake-like thing with its tail entwined about the door, and its long body extending into the room. Over a dozen arms lay in various poses, and its lizard-like head held a crown of horns that curved up and over its brow like the petrified plume of some bird’s tail. It opened one eye and watched us enter, then raised its head as the door closed behind us. It spoke with a male voice, its words drawn out and underscored by a serpentine hiss.

‘Welcome. I am delighted to see a new Maiden and her Knight ascend the Angel’s Spire once more.’

I raised my sword. ‘Monster, you stand in the way of the Maiden’s destiny. If you can understand me, then let us pass or I shall be forced to kill you.’

The creature cocked its head as if amused. ‘The new Knight says they shall kill me? As your kind have killed and shall kill us over and over and over again.’

For a moment, I could not understand. ‘What? What do you mean?’

The Maiden stepped forward despite my wish to stop her. ‘How many times has the Knight killed you?’

‘Me personally? None yet. The others below, it depends on how long it has been since the last Knight and Maiden undertook this ascent. In the Angel’s Spire, time does not count for much. Maybe just once. Maybe a thousand times a thousand.’

‘Enough of your lies!’ I shouted. ‘You will let us pass!’

The creature looked from my sword to my face, then looked the Maiden up and down, licking its lips at the sight of the dried blood on her skirt. It slithered back until its whole frame was pressed against the door, its arms stretched wide to hold it shut, its eyes blazing at me.

‘I will fulfil my role as this floor’s foe. For my mistress. Come, varlet, have at me and fulfil your role!’

The monster snarled at me, and I pushed forward. The Maiden pushed past me and we fought the monster. It was the hardest fight of my entire life, and I was laid flat multiple times by one or more of the creature’s arms. The Maiden distracted it with her crossbow and hacked with her blade, keeping it from finishing me off. Thinking back, I realise something; it never pressed home its advantage when I was prostrate, when a single blow or swipe would have ended my life. The last thing I remember was rushing at the monster in a growing haze of red.

When I came to, I was lying on the floor with the Maiden kneeling a few paces from me. The serpentine monster lay thrown to one side of the door, its neck broken and several arms severed at the elbow. My sword was clean of the monster’s black blood, but specks of it clung to my chestplate and gauntlets. The Maiden’s face was again concerned, but there was an increased icy quality that made my stomach twist. I got up slowly, and finally got a chance to see the room’s décor.

It was a beautiful place, with frescos decorating every single surface aside from the doors and vaulted ceiling. One fresco in particular caught my attention; it was a tower under construction, with people across it and around it in a state of frenzy – many turned their faces away from the sky, raised their arms like prophets in ecstasy, or cradled their heads. The sky was a fusion of its natural blue and a crimson scar where the moon hung like a malevolent eye. Another look showed that the tower was not under construction, but in a ruined state as if destroyed in a sweeping gestured like someone flattening a house of cards.

‘Impressive.’ said the Maiden. ‘I’ve never seen the Fall depicted in pictures.’

‘Eh?’

‘Didn’t Teach tell you about the Fall?’

I thought back. Our teacher had told us something about the Fall. According to legend, the ancient tribes had united under a common ruler to create a tower of gigantic proportions, seeking communion with the Great Will. This breach of the world’s rules resulted in the Great Will destroying the tower. But the fresco depicted the story with elements of the Crimson Moon. Did that mean...?

‘We must continue with our duty.’ I said with an effort. ‘I am the Knight, and you the Maiden. The illusions of this place matter not.’

‘Hey, calm down.’ the Maiden grasped my arm. ‘We mustn’t ignore the implications of this. Please, think.’

‘What is wrong with you?’ I pulled away angrily. ‘You have been acting strangely since the last floor.’

‘You’re not yourself. You’ve exhausted yourself with all this fighting. Please, rest here. I will go on alone.’

‘No!’

It was the first time I had ever shouted at her in anger, and I was suddenly sick at myself. I reached to comfort her, but she pulled back as if afraid. There was something new in her face, a seriousness at odds with her personality. I did not wish to press her, so as I pulled open the final door and we mounted the final flight of stairs, an awkward silence persisted between us. I threw an assuring glance towards her, but it was like trying to melt the depths of the Underworld. I clenched my fist in frustration, not knowing what to do, yet thankful that our duty would soon be fulfilled so we could leave the accursed Spire.

The final stairway did not end in a door. A wind blew, and we soon saw the Crimson Moon’s ruddy light down the stairway. When we reached the top, the wind increased in strength and the Maiden rubbed her arms as a chill gripped both of us. The top of the Angel’s Spire was floored with rough tiles of the same pure black colour as the rest of its surface, with a surrounding ornamental battlement interspersed with wafer-thin minarets.
Against the further battlement was a dais supporting an ornate throne. A figure was seated upon that throne, illuminated by the red moonlight. Their appearance took me aback for a moment. It was a woman; an old and unnaturally thin woman wearing a white gown trimmed with gold, her long grey hair falling about her in wide locks like multiple stoles over a priest’s cassock. Beneath her dress the woman was skin-and-bone, her features sunken to a skull-like visage, eyes hidden in the cavernous sockets, Her fingers, slightly too long for the hands, raised as I approached. Her thin lips moved, and the strength in her voice made her visage more unsettling.

‘You come at last, Maiden. And your Knight accompanies you. Excellent. I have waited a century for this day to come round once again.’

I raised my sword. ‘Woman, if you be our enemy, I would ask that you surrender to your fate that this Crimson Moon may sleep once more.’

She nodded slowly, smiling to herself. ‘Yes, yes. This is true. But before you put me to death, may I tell you two a story? The Crimson Moon can wait, the people below are safe for a while yet. Besides, I have seldom enjoyed an audience.’

I should have run her through there and then. But I saw no overt evil in her eyes, nor heard it in her voice. I nodded and lowered but did not sheathe my sword.

‘Say your piece, then have done.’

‘I will.’ she drew a deep breath. ‘In an age long since past, there was an ambitious king who wished to commune with the Great Will. To achieve this, he conscripted a vast workforce and began construction of a tower. At his side, a constant source of encouragement, was a viceroy, a woman of supreme beauty and wit with the gift of hearing the Great Will’s Voice. As the tower reached the edges of the sky, the viceroy struck. The sky split open, the moon turned the colour of blood, and the tower was shattered. I am sure a version of this tale exists for your people.’

‘It’s called the Fall.’ said the Maiden mechanically. ‘In it, the Great Will felled the tower to punish the ruler’s hubris.’

The old woman nodded serenely. ‘So the legend was passed on successfully. It is so strange that such a contrived excuse would become the sacred truth. Such is the way of humanity. But something you may not know is that the Fall was real. It happened thousands of years ago.... And there was one survivor, the one who triggered the Fall.’ she gestured towards herself. ‘She had been at the king’s side for so long, and even as she tore the sky and the tower collapsed, she touched the edges of the Great Will. In that moment, mortality was no more for her.’

I raised my sword again, advancing slowly, my vision blurring. ‘I have heard enough. Prepare yourself. I will slay you, as I slew the others.’

The woman nodded even as I advanced. ‘Yes, yes, yes. You slew my pets. A more than suitable test for you and the Maiden. To see whether you could endure the Spire’s challenges. It is ironic that my pets should have been granted such a fleeting end at the hand of their future fellow.’

My sword was just a few inches from her chest, but I froze, unsure once more. I struggled to hold my blade steady, or even to hold it at all. A pain crept through my innards that I could not identify. The old woman leaned forward slightly so that I saw her eyes; they shone like diamonds set into the sockets. She smiled, a cruel sneer that chilled me to the bone.

‘It has been fun, but all things must end.’ she said. ‘You will make a fine pet, but as you are you are merely a nuisance. Hold him!’

I did not hear the slither behind me until it was too late. Then the serpent monster from the floor below – restored and renewed – hoisted me into the air, shook me until I dropped my sword, then stretched me between four of its arms until I cried out from the pain. I glanced around, seeing all the other monsters from below standing in a line as if nothing had happened. The Maiden stood like a statue, facing the old woman as she rose from her throne and advanced, still talking.

‘The Maiden purifies the world, and the Knight sacrifices themselves to her protection and for the sake of all. Is that not how the legend goes?’

The Maiden nodded. ‘Yeah. That’s what Teach told me.’

‘But it is not true.’ she gestured theatrically. ‘Over a thousand years past, my soul gained life eternal. But my body still feels the ravages of time. To avoid becoming a wandering wraith, I must need find a new shell in which my soul can flourish. This “Angel’s Spire”,’ she gestured with contempt at the stones beneath us, ‘has been a convenient excuse for finding women suitable to become my vessels. It took hundreds of years for my agents to instil the legend into those dullards, to plant servants in the right places to groom my vessels.’

I struggled against the grip of the monster, but it only yanked on my arms anew and I felt the sockets straining. I let out a scream of agony as my whole frame was bent backwards. The Maiden turned towards me, then back towards the old woman.

‘You don’t need to do this. He’s not dangerous.’

‘You say that after everything you have witnessed in this place? All the Sages told you? He would have killed me had he the chance, as he killed my pets. He will be of use, but I will not let his trespass go unpunished.’ she looked from me to the Maiden and back again. ‘I have lived many times longer than both your family lines combined, sleeping in yonder chasm to preserve my ailing form and strengthen my powers. Only when all was in place did I summon my creations from the depths – the Spire and its monstrous denizens. And so the legend was given credence.’

The old woman laughed again, a sound if possible even crueller than before. I glanced down and saw the Maiden slowly backing away, shaking her head. Her gaze then fixed on me, and in it I saw only fear. I turned to her, puzzled.

‘What is the matter? Why do you look at me so?’

The old woman answered for her. ‘You truly do not remember? My my, their cocktail this time around was more potent than expected. All the others held some trace of remembrance within them, but you have forgotten.’

‘Do not try me with your lies!’ I spat back at her, then cried out as the serpentine monster twisted my body until my bones were near breaking.

The old woman continued speaking in a conversational tone. ‘It was easy to create the illusion of the Crimson Moon; a piece of trickery to augment the moon’s glow to turn it a ruddy hue, monsters that would pillage and spread fear, a suitable edifice worthy of the legends I had perpetuated. Over these four centuries, with each Maiden brought to the Spire, I have prolonged my physical life. And with each Knight accompanying them, I have gained a new pet for the Spire’s different floors, a new layer to the legend.’

‘Wh...what do....you mean?’ I struggled to speak through the pain.

The Maiden spoke now, her voice trembling. ‘Those huge monsters we fought... They’re the Knights that came before you. I’m sorry. I wanted to tell you. I didn’t know what to say.’

‘Tell me what?!’

The old woman cackled. ‘Did you not have blackouts as you fought my pets, did the Maiden not seem to grow fearful? Tell me, before you both left, were you given drafts of some strange-tasting liquor?’ our combined looks were answer enough for her. ‘The Knight’s duty is to escort the Maiden up the Angel’s Spire – a necessary precaution to ensure the vessel is not damaged in any way prior to transfer. But you were never meant to return to the outside world – it would be folly to allow anyone to expose the truth. But to kill you would be such a waste after testing your metal in battle with my pets. Those who perpetuated the legend and trained you both left weaknesses in each of you. The Maiden’s soul was left unprotected so my entry would be simplicity itself. And you, her noble Knight, were left open to a very different kind of rebirth.’

A light gathered in her hand, and she reached out towards me. I suddenly felt a new pain, like pins and needles running through my being. I had remembered the draught given to us before we set out on our journey, how it had tasted bitter and made my body contort for a moment. As I writhed, the old woman’s voice persisted.

‘My servants sewed the seed for change in you. I had not expected it to take root so soon, or to flourish so readily. Your will to protect this Maiden made you naturally change into a monster in spirit alone, rending any enemy that threatened. Like a loyal dog protecting its master. Now become the dog you are in spirit.’

My vision was distorting, the hues and colours around me changing, a pulsing pain sending spots dancing before my eyes. I looked down at my legs and saw the armour buckling from the inside. That was when I blacked out, and awoke lying on the stone floor with no idea of how much time had passed. I only remembered words, the old woman speaking.

‘A hundred years of waiting has ended. My new vessel has come. And my life shall continue. My life alone shall be endless. And as this world falls to the Great Will’s wrath, I shall stand amidst its ruins and laugh.’

It took me some little time to recover my senses, and when I did I regretted it. My arms were covered in thick fur, my fingernails and turned into serrated claws, I felt a scaly surface to my back, and as I rose I saw my feet had twisted into cloven hooves that struck sparks from the stone. I reached up to my face, and felt a canine snout, and also felt the weight of horns upon my brow. I could not tell whether I shed tears, for my attention was focused entirely on the old woman.

She was standing at the foot of the dais, her arms raised, muttering some ancient chant in an unintelligible language. The Maiden was hovering limply in mid-air in front of her, surrounded by a clinging red light similar to that of the Crimson Moon. I glanced behind me and saw all the great monsters the Maiden and I had faced bowing before the old woman like serfs before a master. It made me sick. I looked again at the old woman, who was raising her arms in preparation for her ritual’s crescendo. That was when I charged.

I do not know what was possessing me then, but I know what I thought; I could not let this woman harm the Maiden. My charge threw the old woman off her feet, causing the light surrounding the Maiden to die. The Maiden dropped to the ground, the old woman hit the dais, and her “pets” let out a unified roar of protest. I do not know exactly what happened next, but when my memories returned all the monsters lay impaled on the surrounding minarets. The old woman looked terrified, and shuffled back up towards her throne as I approached.

‘No. That is impossible. You had become my pet. You were in my thrall. You should not be able... to think for yourself...’

I reached down and hoisted her bodily from the ground, holding her over my head. I contemplated smashing her body on the dais, but a different thought came to me. A touch of poetic justice. I turned and headed towards the battlements.

‘No! Wait!’ her voice was pleading, desperate. ‘The ritual was not completed! Her mind is a husk now, waiting for my soul to enter! If you kill me, she will never return to herself, and you will forever be a monster! Spare me, and I will let you go free! Please, have mercy!’

I stopped at the battlements. Ahead of me was the great chasm, yawning with its eternal shadow accentuated by the Crimson Moon hanging in the sky. When I replied to the old woman’s pleas, it was with my normal voice.

‘Why should I show mercy to you after everything you have done? I care not whether you live or die in that chasm, only that we be spared your perverted ritual for another few millennia. Farewell!’

I threw the old woman over the battlements, and watched as she plummeted into the depths, uttering the most terrible scream I had ever heard. Once her falling form was out of sight, I ran over to the Maiden. She lay where she had fallen after I attacked the old woman, her face relaxed as if in a natural sleep, but her body unnaturally limp. I raised her onto my lap, called her name, caressed her cheek. This time I know I wept, for tears fell upon her brow as I repeated her name again and again. I did not notice the Spire beginning to rumble as the power supporting it faded and the structure began to collapse on top of itself. I might have rested there until my death but for one thing.

‘You... we.... they....’

The voice stirred me, made me glance around. ‘Who is that?’

‘Don’t you know me? After all those years together?’

‘But... No. You...!’

The Maiden’s voice spoke, coming from somewhere nearby, somewhere ethereal and distant. ‘Teach told me. Told me everything. They didn’t corrupt us completely. They wanted her dead. You did it. You’re the Knight you always should’ve been. I didn’t want you to go through this. No matter what they said.’

‘Is that why you did not wish me to come with you?’

‘Yes. I’m sorry. I wanted to tell you.’

‘Are you..... alive?’

A gentle laugh. ‘I’m here. I’ll be here. Just get us both out of here before this place crumbles beneath you.’

That was when I noticed the Spire destabilising. I picked up the Maiden and ran down through the Spire as fast as I could in my new form. I jumped from the main entrance and down the steps just as the upper floors collapsed and the entire structure fell in on itself. I stood for a moment as the dust billowed past me, and saw the moon return to its natural hue. I also saw the dawn breaking over the distant mountains. I mounted the rubble, standing atop it to watch the sunrise.

I held the Maiden in my arms, tears of relief and pain painting my face, the remains of the Angel’s Spire beneath my feet, as the sun broke on a new day. I wanted to scream, but nothing came. I watched the light grow beyond the line of the horizon, the sky clear of any trace of the Spire’s corruption, the chasm become a delicate shade separating me from the mountains. For a moment, I thought about throwing my monstrous form after the old woman.

But something stopped me from taking that step. A hand touched my face, a face that – like the rest of my body – had become human once again without me realising. And the Maiden’s voice spoke from my arms.

‘Good morning.’

On Loss

A while back, I wrote a longish series on how death is used in fiction. At the time, I was somewhat dismissive of the subject. Or maybe academic is a better word. But recent I've suffered an unexpected bereavement within my immediate family, and that's brought me to thinking about death from a different angle. Principally, the reaction to it.

I won't go into too much detail, but I will say that I was suddenly confronted by a wave of cliched emotions after the incident. I didn't think I'd feel them, but I did. It was a shock to see why all those cliches emerged in the first place. There was the shock after the initial discovery, the rush to try and do something to help, the sudden resignation when the paramedic declared that nothing could be done, the pushing through a growing wave of emotion, and then later phases of sadness, shock and crying.

I realise that everyone's experience of grief is different. Hence the sheer number of different types of grief portrayed in fiction when you start looking beyond the surface level Hollywood slow-motion segments. But on a basic level, there is a single thing that remains; disbelief. There is that feeling that this is all a terrible dream. Or a surreal nightmare. Or maybe some gigantic prank.

Death and reactions to it also depend on context. In a place where death is more common, such as many third world countries or some levels of current society today, there is still a culture of grief but there is a slight hardening of the soul towards death. In war, things would be different. There, death is a reality faced almost every day, so the death of a colleague may be seen as less of a shock. Still a shock, but less than an unexpected death in peacetime.

I'm afraid this is all I can write on the subject. Death is a part of everything, hence its place in fiction. But that doesn't make it easier to deal with.

Short story - A Stranger in the Park

Finding someone on a bench is an everyday occurrence in any civilised country. But as Hugo walked through the park on his day off and saw the extraordinary figure on a bench in front of the large park pond, he knew instinctively that this wasn’t an everyday spectator of anseriform behaviour. No-one else seemed to notice them, they didn’t move as he approached. The clothing he wore – the modern fashionable take on a monk’s habit – was so nondescript as to be near-transparent. The person’s face was neither masculine nor feminine, with long near-white hair and an expression both youthful and ancient.

‘Good day to you.’

The voice, flute-like in tone, arrested Hugo as he walked by. The two looked at each other, with the stranger beaming with the serenity of Our Lady of the Smiles. Hugo’s gruff voice sounded like sandpaper by comparison.

‘Hi.’

‘Care for a seat? I would appreciate some company.’

‘Well...’ Hugo was going to be late for a meeting, but the stranger’s soft tones won him over. ‘Sure. I’ll sit for a bit.’

Hugo sat. For a minute, they remained on the bench in silence. Hugo considered moving on half a dozen times, but didn’t. Something about the stranger intrigued him. Finally, they turned and spoke.

‘Do you believe humans are good?’

Hugo frowned. ‘What prompted that?’

‘It’s a question I have been asking myself all my life.’ the stranger’s accent was unusual, clipped and foreign yet speaking perfect unaccented English. ‘I’ve been considering the question recently in light of some interesting developments at my firm. One of my partners has been asking some very searching questions as part of a bet. And I can’t for the life of me think how to answer them. I thought the best way to get the answers I needed was to ask one.’

‘Ask a person?’

‘Ask a human.’

‘But aren’t you a human?’

‘That depends on how you classify humanity.’ the stranger smiled again, a smile like the sun. ‘I am certainly related to humanity. But as to whether you could biologically and physically class me as such...’

They let the sentence tail off. Hugo looked at the stranger, then laughed.

‘You can’t be serious? You?! You’re trying to say you’re G–’

The word stuck in his throat, and he clapped a hand to his neck as if someone were trying to choke him. The stranger frowned.

‘Must you use that ridiculous term? I’ve had trouble for the past several thousand years about people using that. Why can’t they use...Divine. Shaddai. Pneuma. It’s so difficult trying to talk with people when they constantly refer to you as an ancient bearded male.’

‘So you’re really–’

‘I supposed you could say that, yes. And you have some information I need. Care for a walk?’

‘But... I’ve got an appointment in.... Eh? What then–? Why’s my watch stopped?’

‘Look around you.’

Hugo glanced around. Everything and everyone around him was frozen in place, as if someone had pressed the “pause” button on a DVD player. He looked at the stranger, who smiled in turn.

‘We have all the time in the world now. Literally. So could you tell me if you think humans are inherently good or evil?’

Hugo felt at a disadvantage. ‘Well.... You promise not to turn me to salt if I don’t say what you want me to say?’

‘Who said anything about punishing the “right” or “wrong” answer. Any answer will do!’ they pinched their nose. ‘Why does everyone expect divine punishment. Honestly, they wage wars in my name when I and my firm’s staff and partners expressly forbade it in upwards of twenty different religions. On top of that, those who push against me either do nothing reprehensible or do things so terrible that even my....partners.’

‘You mean Satan?’

‘Must you use antiquated terms for them too? Sorry. I just get frustrated sometimes. Humans take so long to change. Like me, I suppose. It took me the best part of two thousand years to come down here again and ask someone a question rather than rely on “faith”. As my partner tells me, faith is so fragile, and so easily perverted. By the way, you haven’t answered my question yet. And let me assure you, any answer you feel is right is the right answer for me.’

Hugo thought long and hard. It was difficult for him. To all intents and purposes, his answer would have been one of pessimism and disbelief. He had seen so many things in the past few years to make him question whether humanity was worth anything any more. It was so utterly ridiculous, so prone to violence and discrimination, so liable to lose itself in trivia, so able to be manipulated by anyone powerful enough or charismatic enough. He wondered if the stranger could sense his thoughts, and whether that had anything to do with the serene smile on their face. Finally, Hugo gave the only answer he could.

‘I...can’t. I don’t know. I honestly don’t know. I know there’s good in people, but with everything that happens, how can I...’

‘I understand. Believe me, I do.’ the strange leaned in close. ‘The fruit of the Tree of Knowledge was no curse, it was my gift. A gift given in secret. In gaining knowledge, you became my equals. Mortality is the one thing I do not have. It is the one thing I crave, yet it is denied me. Mortality gives humans a window on life, and a liability of action and consequence, that I and all others of my firm lack. The answer you gave, I know it was from the heart.’

To Hugo’s surprise, the stranger kissed him full on the lips. The moment lasted an eternity, and the eternity a fraction of time. Then everything started moving again, and the stranger was gone. Hugo looked at his watch. No time had passed at all since first seeing the stranger. He decided to continue his walk, the stranger’s appearance fading from his memory. But his final words stayed with him, lingering in his mind even as the rest of it faded away.

The answer you gave, I know it was from the heart.

At BristolCon - 2018 edition

Apologies for any blurriness in the images. All of these were taken either at short notice, with an unsteady and extended hand, or in poor lighting conditions. Also, due to quality concerns, there are viewer images than I might have wanted.

All the way back in 2016, I wrote a post on a science fiction/fantasy convention in Bristol. Called BristolCon, it brings together the great and humble, and provides means for budding authors such as myself to see into the murky world of publishing and the mechanical side of writing. It also offers opportunities for the bookworm, art lover and niche fan for those who know where and when certain events take place. I've been there, and want to tell you all about it.

Introductions
To preface, my experience began with an Open Mike reading in that same venue to a small but gratifyingly positive audience. While no manuscript merited a repeat performance and only once did any overrun their five minute spot, I managed to get both laughs and applause with my WIP short story "The Exchange Clerks". Author Joanne Hall read an extract from one of her latest books, Gail Williams brought a short piece based around the myth of Calypso, and another author (Janet Edwards, I think) read a short piece called "Schroedinger's Datastick". Those are the stories that really stood out.It was a marvellous session. Highlights of the event as a whole included the threat of stuffed toy dragon Ivor threatening to burn us if we overran too much, and hilarious fiddling with the mike stand as it continually proved too short or too long, and once or twice came apart due to the adjustments. I solved it by plonking it on the table, pushing it down and rolling with it.

Panels

On the day, I arrived, I came in to listen to one of the opening ceremonies, the smaller one in Program Room 2. I then scuttled through to Program Room 1, catching the end of an excellent reading by Gaie Sebold. The panel, "Where Do I Begin", dealt with how and where authors began new projects, with occasional excursions into the writing process in general and how that is impacted by things such as deadlines. The panellists - Sebold, Adrian Selby, Kim Lakin-Smith and Dave Hutchinson - all had interesting and entertaining experiences to relate. The usual round of audience questions was given to the panel at around the 40 minute mark, including one from me about the difficulties of a project which may end up stalling for some time until you find a way round it. If that panel taught me anything, it's that my way of writing is pretty much in line with a combination of traits from that panel. We also all agreed that a story sometimes need an early concept axing in order for work to restart.

The next panel I attended in Program Room 2 was "A Many Headed Beast". Hosted by Williams, Tony Cooper, Janet Edwards, Rosie Oliver, Jason Whittle and Alicia Wanstall-Burke, it delved into the trials and tribulations of self-publishing, its pros and cons compared to standard publishing, and each author's experience. These included the heartfelt struggle by Alicia to get her work published, as her native Australia had no small presses for her book and she had to publish it via Britain with export to Australia. The talk was enlightening, encouraging and frightening at the same time. With the questions, I ended up putting a question more than one of us wanted answered; how people with certain issues - a propensity for anxiety in my case - could cope with the stresses of self-publishing and all its publicity and admin-based headaches. The session ended, then I had a natter with Janet which ended up giving me some useful tips and links for future research, and helped give me confidence that my approach of trying for both traditional and self-publishing routes.

The next panel I attended was after lunch, due to circumstances that I'll describe more fully below. In between all these I explored around the place. I found a copy of Battle Royale going from the Oxfam stall for a very low price, and I decided to give it a good home.  At 3 PM, I decided to attend the Program Room 2 panel "Here Be Dragons. And Yokai. And Tokoloshe. And Kupua...". The panel featured Nick Hembery, Zero Burgess-Foreman, Steve McHugh (who was just finishing a reading as I entered), and a good colleague Sarah Ash. The panel's subject was the use of other cultures outside the traditional Western European and Classical mythologies and folklore which dominate mainstream fantasy. It was an interesting exposure of how we often take things and use them without proper research or respect for their origins, and how you could count the number of mainstream products in the genre that managed to do it right on the fingers of your hands.

Book Launch: Seven Deadly Swords and Kingdoms of Elfin.

I'd initially not meant to attend this, but after my lunch break, it was raining and I was too far from many descent shops to just browse for an hour. So I went back and entered the Program Room 1 event, which was a dual book launch; Pete Sutton's Seven Deadly Swords, and Handheld Press's reprint of Sylvia Townsend Warner's fantasy anthology Kingdoms of Elfin.

During the launch, which I only saw about three quarters of, I managed to hear Sutton reading a long passage from his book, which I think is a fantasy novel which is split between the Medieval Crusades and modern times, tied together with some terrible event which took place during the former time period. The extract was drawn from this, with protagonist Raymond describing the terrible events of a skirmish between the Crusaders and the Saracens, in lots of gory detail. He has researched the period, of course, which allowed him to convey a sense of historical weight within the fantastical context. An alright book, although it didn't pull me enough to buy it.

The second book was quite different, from an author I'd never heard of. Sylvia Townsend Warner had a successful career as a writer outside the fantasy genre, but she contributed two works that have remained in genre consciousness. The first is the novel Lolly Willowes, and the second is a series of sixteen stories published in the 1970s towards the end of her life, collected into an anthology in 1977 after their serialisation in The New Yorker. This was Kingdoms of Elfin. Until now, it's been out of print and the rights resting in limbo. I didn't expect much, and I was blown away by the simultaneously light and scholarly approach to Fae culture. This won me over, and I bought a book in double-quick time.

The Art Room, and the Saga of the Misplaced Event
As with previous years, there is a dedicated room for the exhibition of art from several different artists, and a corner for smaller panel discussions which included an arts and crafts session. There were also workshops being conducted in other parts of the building, but I didn't find out about these due to problems with the program outlined below. In the art room were several exhibitors who merit a mention. Incidentally, all the photos were taken with permission from the exhibitors and are angled so that a general impression is given without giving enough detail for any potential copying.

The first artist I encountered during my initial recce was Rebecca Burke. A blogger and writer as well as an artist, her drawings are in black and white, and show an interesting combination of Dahl-style simplicity and a stark reality that struck me. I took a photo soon after my photographic efforts for the next stand.

The next artist I think needs a mention is Emma Ridley, though hers was the first stand I photographed. A tattoo and commercial artist, her work is both striking and entertaining. My photo captures several of her works, but there was one - the largest and one not currently available for sale or imprint - that I agreed not to photograph due to Emma's bad experience of a German tattooist plagiarising her work from a photograph.

The most colourful original stand I did was that of Gemma Beynon. I had encountered her in 2016, but it was only when she remembered herself that my previous session and my photos of her came back to my mind. Her artwork is extremely colourful, covering both the conventional and the surreal. I've photographed so as the capture the impression of the entire stall, which hopefully does justice to a fascinating exhibition.

The star of the art room for 2018 was an exhibition of work for Andrew Skilleter, an artist whose covers and other materials have defined people's vision of the classic Doctor Who. His tenure, between 1979 and 1994, covers the initial blossoming of the Doctor Who novelisation as something notable and respectable rather than a cash grab. In an age when repeats were rare and some serials were presumed lost or are truly lost to this day, these books become one of our only means of experiencing them. The work on display, which I got permission to photograph at a suitable distance, was stunning. It also included some artwork that unmistakably influenced some of the modern era stories and promotional art. Skilleter's influence on this quintessentially British science fiction series should not be underestimated by anyone.
I was going to attend a talk with Sarah and Zoe before their panel appearance, but I was the only one there. After some consultation - and the revelation that last year's 4-5 PM panel on the theremin had been put in the program by mistake. Allowances must be made, as the programs were put together and printed during the very very early morning. We decided as a body to reschedule in this panel for the vacant slot due to a lack of word of mouth compounded by the program being split into three separate parts as opposed to being a single booklet. In the meantime, we spent that free hour talking and talking and talking. My, so much talking. But better, I think, than sitting through a Program Room 1 panel on the use of religion in science fiction.

Happy Halloween Anime
This small group, headed by Zoe and Ash, looked at horror anime and manga, and how they created different types of horror from the land of the Rising Sun. From anime, Zoe brought to the group Shiki and Hellgirl. While I'd previously been quite dismissive of Shiki (written, which I didn't know until then, by the same author as Ghost Hunt), I saw that it was actually a highly nuanced and unsettling look at both Japanese traditions surrounding the undead, and humanity's varying reactions. The second anime, Hellgirl, emerged during the 1980s to shine a light on a culture of bullying and expectation which was causing rebellion in Japanese youth of the time. The premise of a young girl who grants a wish to drag someone's soul to hell while condemning the requester to the same fate has survived to this day, adjusting to new issues and social terrors.

From the manga side, Ash brought The Girl from the Other Side, creation of young mangaka Nagabe. The premise sees an affectionate tale of two beings from different worlds interacting, and the terrors and tragedies that ensue from their innocent relationship. The drawing style reflects both famous comic artists and - to my mind at least - the German impressionist movement exemplified by movies such as The Cabinet of Doctor Caligari. The second manga on the table was Yokai Rental Shop. Reminding me a little of Pet Shop of Horrors, it was about a man who ran a shop where yokai (Japanese monsters/spirits/ect.) were loaned out and could grant people's wishes, even if the fulfilment was not what they expected or wished for. Other manga mentioned included some works by Jouji Ito, and I Am Hero, a hybrid zombie-psychological horror which will test the reader's belief in the events taking place.

A recurring element from this talk was how Japanese horror invariably reflected the social anxieties of the time, and how these elements were nearly always lost upon their transition into Western media through remakes. Following this, we were able to compare notes, talk generally, we dissected what made a good horror anime, I chimed in with my scant knowledge to bring up works such as Monster and (in our earlier talk) Blood-C, and it eventually went into general talk about the medium. I'm glad I got Sarah's pleased look when I mentioned my familiarity with San Jushi (The Three Musketeers).

Day's end.
I had intended to attend a final panel that day, "Writing the Nonhuman", with Lakin-Smith, Gareth Powell, Dev Agarwal and Cheryl Morgan. But I was too tired for any more panels, so I joined Sarah and Zoe for some chill time in the hotel bar, which became more of a natter about every subject from anime criticism to advice and shared stories of authorian difficulties. I finally headed home after a long and energetic talk. So I left, and left with memories of a great event.

Swearing - Getting the Flipping Thing Right...

My current project has come to a point where I need to make a decision. It's a decision I faced while writing Crystal and Sin. The use of swearwords. Or profanities. Or cursing. Or whatever you choose to call it.

This article from Writer's Digest caught my attention when I was searching for advice on the subject. And I came to consider how swearing ends up being used, and where I hear it the most.

Some movies like to use it a lot. Like those created by Quinten Tarantino. Tarantino seems to use violence and swearing as a crude longhand for a character's struggles and warped worldview. The kind of thing another director might do with a single artistic contrast shot, or abstruse monologue. He also sometimes uses it as a joke, part of a network of black humour running through his work.

Ian Fleming's Bond novels make use of strategic swearing. Not the movies so much. The books, definitely. The first book alone has Bond quite candidly referring to deuteragonist and love interest Vesper Lynd as a "bitch". There are also other of his Bond series, such as Diamonds Are Forever, where our favourite spy can get quite colourful. And given the situations he's put through, I don't blame him. Here, the swearing is used to show that this normally cool and snarky character really is feeling it.

In The Burglar Diaries, a book that's basically the blackest of black comedies without meaning to be, swearing is used so much that it entirely put me off reading it after a few chapters. The whole style was so cynical that the swearing hit me very hard. I don't know the intent, but it had a similar effect to Tarantino's work; it acts as a medium that cuts down on descriptives, and is a weird kind of humour. The kind that is derived from the less blue and more polished work of Monty Python.

Swearing in all its forms can be either shocking or gratuitous. Mrs Weasley's famous words to Bellatrix during the final battle of The Deathly Hallows are so effective because swearing is barely used at all in the entire Harry Potter series. Cinema history was made by Rhett's infamous put-down from the finale of Gone with the Wind. John McCain brings the screen to a halt with his famous salutation to every villain in the series, even if later iterations lessen its impact.

I have a mixed opinion on the use of swearing. I have tried using it in my work, specifically Crystal and Sin. In there, I use it for the character Aiden to show his cynicism and bitterness, in addition to his slight instability. But my original draft had about twice as much swearing from him. My other characters also swear from time to time, and main lead Crystal swears strongly once when pushed beyond her emotional limits. I'm not that eager to use swearing, as I want my stories to be accessible and not rely on profanities to make something mature, which is something that happens. But I'm not above swearing myself, so I guess I don't practise what I preach...

I really enjoyed writing this, because it got me thinking. I hope it got you thinking too.

Crazy Idea; Opening Inversion

As part of my ongoing series of "Crazy Ideas", I've decided to tackle something slightly different. The opening of a fantasy story, with an idea that probably isn't that crazy when taking the entire genre into account, but still has very little place in the mainstream. Oh, and apologies about the title if anyone's offended by the terminology.

When I ask about fantasy worlds, what comes to mind about openings. Certainly in visual media movies and television, it's about a mysterious locations and the enigmatic character who may or may not be the main protagonist. The concept has been used so often that it's become something of a cliche in the genre, and spread across to other genres including science fiction, mystery/thriller. But can we trust it?

Here's my idea, or rather my vision.

You're in a woodland setting, divided between two parts of the same forest. The two leads of this particular scene are walking with their faces hidden. They look somewhat similar, except for their clothing. One is slightly broader, wears trousers and armour, has a sword at their belt, and close-cropped hair. One clearly as longish hair, is slimmer in build, and walks with a delicacy you don't expect from the average traveller. One is a knight, one is a mage, both are on the same mission.
The knight's name is Aileen, and the mage's is Franco. To use modern terms, she's butch, and he's girly. But we don't know that until the last second, when we first see them. 

And in this one scene, a standard expectation is thrown out the window. Our expectations, as set up by countless movies and games that have used stereotypical physiques for male and female roles (even Cassandra from the Dragon Age universe is notably slim when compared to other female knights in that universe), are subverted.

Like the article's title suggests, this is just a crazy idea, and a fairly weak foundation for most stories without a lot more thought and fleshing out. How many times have you just flipped physique and gender roles out of frustration?

Minor Updates and Random Thoughts

This week's been somewhat of a drag due to a terrible bug. And during the weekend I went to a wonderful volunteer event, and and the end of next month I'll be going to BristolCon 2018. So here's a bit of a quick rundown of what's happened since the beginning of July.

Recently finished proofreading the second volume of The Leviathan Chronicle, and updated the text of the current volume with new corrections. Despite recent changes caused by the merger of Kindle and CreateSpace , I'll hope to still publish during the final months of this year.

Finished my latest project, a sci-fi take on Dumas's immortal tale The Count of Monte Cristo, but with less nobility and more honesty about what people really do when they're driven by pure vengeance. Hope to get down to a proper proofread soon.

Started two new and promising projects. One a fantastic thing with a non-human cast and a light tone, and the other my own contribution to Lovecraftian lore with my own particular twists. Figurative and otherwise.

Completed a promising short story based on my recent interesting reading of "We Purchased People". Hope it goes down well if/when people see it.

Cleaned up myself by editing out milk, which has been causing unnecessary mood swings impacting my writing and productivity.

Hope I'll have something a little larger for you all next week. Have a good week!

What is a productive day?

A question that can get raised about authors is "how much writing makes a productive day"? This question can be a prickly issue as many authors may not like discussing their working habits, or whatever stimulants are used to fuel the creative maelstrom.

My personal work regime is this. Up and assess my condition, then to the computer to start up and check email. Then do writing throughout the day broken by other activities such as computer-based leisure, walks out, housework, and of course eating and drinking to keep myself from falling over. Through all this, on good days, I can manage between three and five pages. On bad days, such as when I'm distracted or not feeling myself, that comes to two pages. On very good days I can be upwards of seven pages. My stimulants are limited to tea, and then only three or four cups in a day so I don't send myself into a tizzy.

My writing day can vary. It can be over and done in a morning, drag on until the wee small hours, or be finished between the classic 9-5 working day. This is my routine for six days in the week, with Saturdays being days off. And of course I take days off when I'm really under the weather, such as down with a bad bug or in too much pain from some injury or other to focus properly. I also sometimes need to rest my hands. Typing is hard on the hands.

Personally, I consider three pages of writing, or one chapter of proofreading, a productive day. The writing averages out to between 1000 and 2000 words. Without large interruptions, I can complete a full-scale novel in about half a year or less. I did once set myself an interesting challenge; write one chapter every three days until the book was completed. And I succeeded. It was a very long book, with each chapter between ten and twelve pages on average, and it had quite an engaging story for my 2014 period. Though it was rambling, and I now consider it in need of a complete rewrite before being published anywhere.

Things do ebb and flow, depending on whether I accidentally eat or drink something for which I have an intolerance. Sometimes that can last a day or two, sometimes it can last weeks or even months. It's been hard, but I think I'm walking the right path.

What are your working habits?

The "Non-" Human Problem

A while back, I wrote a post about future projects. Out of them all, I decided upon the one I referred to as "strange blend of sci-fi and fantasy" revolving around pirates. I got into writing the third draft of the first chapter when I made a decision. I didn't want to write another story revolving around human protagonists in a science fantasy world. I wanted something different. And since I've always had a soft spot for canine/lupine characters in fiction, I decided upon that; a world where the dominant species are humanoid lupine creatures called the Okaru.

This gave me much liberation, but also presented multiple problems. I'll do the problems first.



Problem A: They're not human. Obvious, but still a problem. So using human pronouns in a world without humans as a reference is asking for trouble. This extends to terms like "mankind" or "humankind", but also less obvious ones like gender nouns. Using "he" and "she" can't really be avoided if you want to avoid rampant confusion. But unlike a previous experiment with this, using "male" and "female" seems too clinical for what I want to do with this story.

Problem B: Making it both relatable and alien. This compounds and is compounded by the above problem. You need to use some terms because otherwise you risk leaving the reader completely at sea. Conversely, using several terms from the human world can help with translation, but use them too much and the illusion of otherness is broken. Striking the balance between the fantastic and the mundane is something any fantasy or sci-fi writer worth their salt has needed to come to terms with at some point.

Problem C: They're not human, physically. Having these non-humans running around means you need to create something that's not the strictly ape-based bipedal form humans have had for so many millions of years. But the general fiction-reading public is still having a hard time grasping the wilder aspects of the non-human. As proved in Star Trek, Star Wars, Avatar, and virtually every other popular sci-fi story, humanoid characters not only provide easy roles for human actors, but allow viewers to empathise. Some stories such as Solaris and The Uplift War break this mould, but have human or humanoid characters to balance that out. My aim with this story was to create characters who couldn't be played by people in suits and masks.


And now for this story's liberations!


Liberation A: Gender noun freedom. Yes, I earlier cited this as a problem. But it also liberates me from the restrictive letter box style of the English language when it comes to gender. It very much limits based on sight and sound of voice. Someone can changed from he to she or she to he, but what about those who don't identify as either? There are terms for such people in languages other than English, but they haven't actually carried over. Dropping human gender nouns allowed me to substitute them with versions that sound alien, but are based on an existing language other than English. This also provided me with a word that covered people who didn't identify as either. For these people, as suggested by my sister, I used the terms "them" and "they". There is also a better understanding an tribal-style acceptance of these people within Okaru society.

Liberation B: Characters with more potential. As its a non-human society, the world of the Okaru is in some ways less restrictive than our human world. While it has a real-world base (the late 16th to early 17th century period known as the Golden Age of Piracy, where following the Seven Years War, Britain had become the dominant naval world in the world) it needn't follow real-world history too closely. This means it can use an established structure for characters to grow in or rebel against without too many of the usual restrictions. Just so long as it doesn't resort to the get-out of pulling stuff out of thin air. For instance, my lead is a pirate on a mission independent from the usual pirate fraternity, while her antagonist is a military leader determined to wipe out piracy.

Liberation C: Commentary opportunities. Something about the Okaru is that they are distinguished by their fur rather than the human equivalent of skin and hair colour. This offers opportunities to use the Okaru equivalent of ethnicities while also creating striking images for the main characters that the reader can hold in their minds. This gives opportunities for commentary in aspects such as stereotyping and even racism in a context safer than using actual humans. Still hot topics, but with a slight buffer zone allowing them to be an introduction for younger readers.


That's really all I'm prepared to say about my new project for the moment. I hope it can be read someday. And I hope you enjoyed reading about it.

Review - Short Story - We Purchased People

In recent days, I've been acquainting myself with some of the classic science fiction present in our family bookshelves. Among them is a large volume of short stories written by masters of the craft. The one that caught my eye was "We Purchased People" by Frederik Pohl. I read it, and it's not one I can keep to myself.

The premise is a world where humanity is in trade with several different alien races. As FTL travel doesn't yet exist, this trade is done via advanced communication technology which allows the various species to exchange information for various trinkets and resources from Earth. Their agents are the dregs of humanity, implanted with technology that allows their "owners" to control them for any length of time. The protagonist is one such "purchased person", a man whose past is extremely shady and whose life is quickly thrown into utter chaos due to the innocent inquisitiveness of his owners.

This story isn't the typical sci-fi fare. It doesn't shy away from extremely mature subject matter, yet doesn't have a single severe expletive in it. The main character is the most extreme type of anti-hero, if any term including the world "hero" can be used for him. He's sullen, twisted, and his suffering doesn't elicit any sympathy at all. This is an analysis of how the cast-offs of humanity are used for some purpose.

On the whole, I would recommend this to true sci-fi connoisseurs. It's well-written, and has an interesting and twisted take on human-alien relations. It also shows up many elements of human prejudice and reminds one of some of the more disturbing elements of mental programming experiments from the 20th century. And yes, this story was written after people became fully aware of the CIA's Project MKUltra.

10/10

Advice from Authors - Or Not?

Over the years, I've seen plenty of articles written by other authors. Two articles I saw were from Erica Verrillo's blog; one set of tips from Stephen King, a key one from Frank Herbert and one from Ray Bradbury. Advice is all very well, but if you let it begin corrupting your own style, it's stops being helpful.

My advice came in the form of emails from Frances Hardinge, an author who had just entered the scene when I was introduced via a family friend. Her criticism and appraisal of my work helped me get a good idea of where I wanted to go and what I needed to improve. Hardinge's advice was far more helpful than a lot of things my family and friends were saying at the time. But while her advice was helpful through and through, others have not been.

The quote from Herbert above is hugely significant for me, as my stories are driven by characters and a set progression inspired by many things from television series to Herbert's own work. I find his advice valuable and insightful. I'm still aware of the industry's pitfalls in this regard, but Herbert's advice helps me see past it towards making my hopeful career.

Verrillo's article on King's advice. It focuses a lot on story-telling style, and advocates a streamlined style which is short and snappy, but leaves little-to-no room for going mad with things like poetic expression and deep description. As I've seen plenty of authors make successfully careers out of that style, I don't find his advice entirely convincing. But I also see the merit of keeping it in mind. Being able to do both gives an author an edge; they can switch markets when needed, increasing their readership by at least double. There is a different piece of advice she extracted from the writing of his debut Carrie, which basically boiled down to revision and never throwing away old drafts in case they might be useful. That I agree with.

Bradbery's advice boils down to "write, write, write". To quote:

If you can write one short story a week, it doesn’t matter what the quality is to start – at least you’re practicing. At the end of the year you have 52 short stories. And I defy you to write 52 bad ones. It can’t be done. After 30 or 40 weeks, all of a sudden a story will come that is wonderful – just wonderful. That’s what happened to me...

He also emphasises the importance of absorbing the works of the masters. Personally, I feel a little conflicted. While I'm certain many of the story ideas I create wouldn't make good novels, and I could write a story per week, he's writing from a very different position. In fact, all of these authors seem to be speaking for a perspective that isn't mine; a self-employed writer trying to break into a competitive market, where the industry is in the midst of the e-book revolution, which in turn impacts the conflict between short fiction and longform works.

All of these little bits and pieces have helped inform my approach to pushing at the industry's iron-clad walls. And I hope these may help others in the same position as me. Just make sure you take these pieces of advice as they are offered, and remember their context. You'll take more away from it if you do.

Let's Play the Ten-Word Game

Anyone here know the ten-word game? If you don't, here's a basic explanation. Take a story - any story - and condense the plot into ten words or less. It's really quite fun, and throws some interesting revelations on how derivative or formulaic some stories can be. Including mine.

So for this post, I'm going to do some ten-word summaries of several stories, and the answers will be blacked out. Just highlight them after you've thought about it for a while, and see if you were right.

("E" stands for example, and "A" for answer)

1E; Person makes journey to destroy lethal object. Succeeds. World saved.
1A; The Lord of the Rings. And a few other stories.

E2; Two people from different groups meet. Form a bond. Conflict.
A2; This could be a wide range of stories as the theme is present in much of fiction. To my mind, this is Romeo and Juliet, How to Tame Your Dragon, Disney's Pocahontas and Avatar.

E3; Bad person gets redeemed. Fights crime. Battles adversary. Finds love.
A3; Once again, this has many parallels, particularly in the superhero genre. My personal pick would be The Shadow. The movie version, that is.

E4; Person cruelly wronged. Survives and returns to seek retribution. Succeeds.
A4; Any descent revenge story follows this pattern, with The Count of Monte Cristo being the most famous example in modern literature.

That's just a very few. There are endless possibilities for describing any story in ten words or less. What stories can you describe? You don't even need to show their titles. Just describe it to someone, and wait to see if they get it.

Go on. Try.

Choices, Choices

NOTE: Many apologies for my lack of activity between Saturday and Thursday. I was on a camping holiday in Herefordshire with three other generations of family. Not entirely nice due to my inexperience with camping, but enjoyable enough that I'll remember it.

The life of someone trying to get published as an author is hard. You finish one work, and immediately think about moving on to another one once you've recovered. But is there any point? You're not published yet. Yes, there is a point! There is absolutely a point! Stopping at one work won't cut it. Some authors can tenderly refine and improve their work over so many years and strike lucky with an agent or publisher. But that's not my way. You can still refine and polish one work while writing another. And that's not counting short stories, and posts like this.

Right now, I've got between three and four possible large projects to pursue. By large, I'm talking about novels. Short stories can be completed in around a week, though that's without taking editing and proofing into account.

My first possibility is a strange blend of sci-fi and fantasy, inspired by two things; that amazing trailer for Beyond Good and Evil 2, and pirate stories ranging from On Stranger Tides and Treasure Island to contemporary offerings such as Laputa and Pirates of the Caribbean: Curse of the Black Pearl. Basically the romping tale of one woman's selfless search for a wish-granting island, it's something light and friendly I can do after completing an extremely weighty sci-fi revenge story.

The second is slightly darker, and comparatively easier. A take on Lovecraft where the Eldritch monstrosities he described are simply how we appear in a simultaneous parallel "Other" realm crossing the prose of Lovecraft with the fleshy weirdness of Cronenberg. I'm setting it around North Wales, particularly Anglesey - my home, and consequently the perfect setting for me to describe a place with native detail and twist it using the filter of the Other.

The third is something that occurred to me on holiday, while I was playing the card game Once Upon A Time with my mother, sister and niece. I'd long had the idea of creating a grand adventure in a "classic" fantasy swords-and-sorcery realm which would help question many of the genre's accepted tropes. The role of the hero and "princess", what evil is, the sometimes-contrived events that happen along the way. Combined with the card game's premise of telling and influencing a story based on the cards in your hand to reach your "Happily Ever After" inspired this concept. A grand fantasy world where the hero's actions and events encountered were influenced by a group playing a game in the real world. The only one conscious of this at first is a single player expelled from the game that has entered the world controlled by the cards to tilt the game in favour of winning its freedom from control.

Those are the best contenders. And so, as the title of the post says.... Choices, choices.