EnE: Emmalyn's New Explorations

Some observations on quilting

2012-02-10T15:57:00.003-06:00

I haven't so much studied the history of quilting as been exposed to it by my efforts to find ideas for quilts to make. Also, some of my quilt group are quite active in shows and all (I'm just a diletante), so I've become aware of the continuing changes in the art and craft of quilting. Mostly I've noticed that through it's history, it's had two very distinct pieces which have developed independently as well as together and have come into conflict as their paths have become more intertwined.

Quilting came long before piecing (patch-working multiple fabrics together), a way of creating padding for under armor in the middle ages, elaborate and decorative stitching on white or other solid-colored fabric.

Patchwork blankets and such seem to have come along later and from a much different direction, literally patching on existing blankets, or simple blocks tied to other layers with stitching only around the edges. Somewhere in the 19th century, the two came together into stitched, colorful quilts in any number of patterns and colors, or crazy unpatterned mixes blended together with underlying color themes or embroidery.

The quilting part of the mixed quilts, though, still remained a thing of it's own, sometimes playing a dominant role in simple pieced quilts, sometimes a minor role, doing barely more than hold top and bottom and batting together. In most cases it seems, the top was pieces and the whole quilted by the same person, sometimes with the very same stitches (certain kinds of applique), but often separate, with no one ever perfectly satisfied on how much the piecing and quilting should be related, whether the quilting can be an overall pattern independent of the colors and shapes of the top, whether the stitching should follow the piecing exactly or in echo, or to what degree a bit of both might apply as space filler, to decorate the back, or as a different art sharing the space.

It's not always a craft for one, however, and some quilters prefer one part and some the other and some think the two should be inter-related in a way hardly possible without a single vision by a single artist. Early and late and places in between, the roles have been separated. Quilting bees, for example, were almost always about one person's top being put together by a group of quilters. These days, with machine quilting available with large and very expensive machines, many top-makers have someone else do the quilting. With it again comes the potential for conflict, as the top maker and the quilter have different visions of the end product. And these days, quilting threads come in a lot more colors, and multiple colors. There is no set tradition of blending with the colors of the fabric, back or front, and a often as not a contrasting color might be chosen to make the quilting stitches and their patterns more visible. With machine quilting, there's also more ease involved in using lots more quilting than is needed to put the top, batting, and backing together than when quilts are hand quilted.

And at the same time, sewing techniques possible only with a machine allow much more complex piecing, too. Can both the piecing and the quilting be strong and complex without causing chaos? Should the quilting enhance the piecing, or can the piecing, however difficult and complex and artfully created be little more than a colorful canvas for the complex and artfully contrasting colors of an elaborate quilting design? If the quilter wants to do elaborate patterns, couldn't they jut go back to the beginning and use a single-color fabric? What about the two crafts draws them ever back to each other like the proverbial opposites?

btW Chapter 25 part 2

2012-02-07T18:16:00.000-06:00

Human soldiers didn't ride bareback, so to keep the elven horse inconspicuous, Sheba carried their packs and Onaline rode behind Kramer on Glimmer. With her hair tied at the nape of her neck in the fashion of Westermen, a floppy hood and high collar, and an oversized tunic belted loosely over woolen pants, she would appear a small, quiet young man of little distinction, perhaps a squire that had yet to earn his own mount, slightly wounded in the battle. If anything odd about the pair remained, it was that their pack horse followed behind without need of lead rope or harness.

The troop moved slowly northwest at the speed of the slowest horse-drawn wagon. Kramer and Onaline, whose name was given as Linnar, a not uncommon man's name in Hadon, moved freely through and between the mounted escorts and carts. Now and again they were called to reign in beside other riders for a chat or aide in getting a wagon free of a rut in the little used southern road, or in some other task.

Mostly they rode in silence, their thoughts far from the fields of grain and wild flowers through which they plodded, far from the mountains that rose sharp and rocky to the east. At times a deep bay of the western sea came into view of Onaline's elvish eyes, a line of deeper blue on the horizon. and she wondered what it would be like to spread her spirit on the waves, as some of the elves of earlier times had done. She thought with regret of the past weeks, of words that had been left unsaid, mistakes she'd made, so many "if onlies" that could not now be done or undone.

Kramer's thoughts, too, went to previous times, the places they had been together, but he found nothing to regret save Onaline's decision to leave Werald. He, too, cared for the elf and the dwarf and had shed tears for their fate but they, as he himself, had chosen their course knowing the risks that they must face. They had probably recognized the full depth of the danger before anyone else, with their long experience and knowledge of the evil king that hunted Onaline. Kramer turned his attention instead to memories of the pleasant times between the hard decisions. He recalled each look she had given him, sometimes smiling in contentment, sometimes coolly confident, and on rare occasion a special tenderness on her lips that he hoped was reserved solely for him.

When they stopped for the night, the big ugly carrion birds that circled in graceful circles high overhead all day dropped low, hovering over the camp, oblivious to the insults flung and fists waved at them. Onaline averted her face from them, keeping her hood over her head and eyes. The men quickly buried those who had died during the course of the day, knowing that the creatures smelled both sickness and death and would land looking for food as soon as the men slept.

Onaline didn't sleep. As Toamm had done, Onaline remained watchful, resting in elvish fashion with eyes open, or prowling the camp and nearby foothills amidst the scraggly eversummers that grew from the plains up into the mountains. She spotted many creatures; the familiar rabbits and deer of her own land, an occasional mountain cat or wolf. She also saw creatures unfamiliar to her--a rabbit with legs too long and thin and a prostigious leap, tiny striped creatures with mouse-like tails and larger ones with thick soft fur and a wide flat tail that slapped loudly against the water in a clogged stream. There were plants, too, that were new to her; beautiful pink and white flowers with only three large petals each, like the star in her palm, and a vine with leaves so shiny they might have been polished. A small part of her was fascinated by these things, but they were not what she sought.

She found not the smallest sign that togs had been in the area, therefor they had not been, for the trail of a torg was ever obvious. Yet the feeling of being watched persisted. Onaline hoped none of the humans was responsible for that feeling. If they were, if the dark one had gained a foothold among the westron soldiers, then she and Kramer were in more danger than ever before.

They traveled north for about five days, past growing numbers of ripening fields and other signs of human habitation. Then the road turned west, toward West Gate, city on the edge of the sea. Kramer and Onaline-Linnar said their goodbyes to the few westron soldiers they had come to know and headed east into the mountains.

There were times during the following days when the two became certain that the forest that came down from the mountain to greet them did all that it could do to delay their progress. Steep slopes and treacherous hollows, thickly tangled copses and rocky inclines forced them to struggle for every step of progress and sometimes forced them back to attempt another way. Whether it was warning them of worse dangers ahead or hindering them for spite, the travelers couldn't guess. Toamm might have known, might even have found out from the tiny tree and flower elves why the forest fought them. Gliffonel might have spoken to the mountain itself and learned whether it was friend or foe. But Toamm and Gliffonel were gone and Onaline was unable to coax the little informants from their hiding places, if any were near.

Finally they found the pass, such as it was, its leading trail overgrown with stubble. Like the pass through the Party Caps, it took them high into the mountains, though well below the harsh rocky peaks. They skirted the sides of several mountains, with long climbs and quick descents, following an ill kept trail. More than once, they spotted the bleached skeletons of grazing animals along the side of the trail, sign that conditions here were often more harsh than they were encountering now. At the highest point, the cold night wind chilled them to the core, but most of the time the early summer sun warmed them and only the occasional small rain cloud marred the blue sky. The thin forests on the eastern side offered gentler slopes, clear ground, and seemed eager to hurry them on their way into the endless foothills and canyons below.

There, summer jumped out at them. The sun beat on their backs, and the rare breezes tended toward hot and brief. The eastern horizon gradually flattened into a soft and steamy mist, but the land in the lee of the mountains was dry, and they sipped at the last of the water from the mountain streams with care, knowing it must last for several days. With the Misties behind them and the Circle over their shoulder, they made rapid progress, but the distant horizon seemed endlessly far away.

Kramer awoke often to find Onaline standing like a shadow against a scraggly tree, or crouched like one more stone among the great boulders, ever watching the mountains they skirted. It bothered him to think that she was watching over him, for he wanted to be the one protecting her, but he could not sleep standing or on horseback in the magical way of elves. He would fight beside her or for her as the need arose, but he made no effort to change her pattern of quiet days and watchful nights and appreciated their breakfasts and dinners, when they both had energy and time to talk.

"How far have we come?"" Kramer one day thought to ask.

"I think we would find out friends directly south of here, if they live, perhaps already a little west."

"Ten, perhaps twelve more days from the Wall, then." Therefor a little more than a week to Leceya's woods, he added to himself, and parting. Onaline had already made clear that he could not accompany her beyond that point. If she requested it, the elves would ensure that he did not follow.

Divining his thought, Onaline told him "It's not safe for thee. This Beyond is believed to be a land filled with evil only. If anyone in Mattias hurt thee in their fear, I could not bear it."

Writing to the future

2012-02-05T10:23:00.003-06:00

I wonder sometimes if the stuff that is the most painful to write is also the stuff that's best to write. So little on the shelves (what will replace that phrase when it's e-books? We don't yet have much of an electronic vocabulary with which to work) seems to have the depth and substance of the past great novels or deep consideration in nonfiction, though true stories of drama and struggle do well enough on the surface.

Or not so much painful as merely difficult. It surprises me less by the day that science fiction struggles as a genre and needs more scientists to help it along the way. How else can we write of the future, when today is so rapidly changing? We can hardly approach a distant future ideal (save through philosophy, which has a large untapped potential) when we have 100,000 new apps in less than year? Who can even know what they all provide much less understand the trends of what people are choosing to use and why; but it is in the answer to such questions that we must find the new themes for future-based science fiction worth the writing. How can the current generations appreciate the vision of writers when their own parents still wrote school papers long hand? (We thought medieval paleography a challenge and quills a curiosity; what about a generation from now where writing with pen is an antique art form and yesterday's technology already out of date? In the beginning, science fiction was writing about a century two forward based on the technology and trends of past decades of developments. The science fiction writer today is essentially writing about tomorrow based on what they know of yesterday. Time travel stories had to go back a generation or centuries to show massive changes. Now a few years will suffice. The internet may not be into its second decade, but that long ago we still had phone booths.

Still, other areas have not kept up and leave the science fiction writer with room to work. Besides the boom in understanding of psychology that still has room to grow, and medicine, transportation is still well behind the curve. Cars are still rarely the electric or hybrid dreams of 100 miles to the gallon that we hoped for by now, and metro's are still clunky and slow to expand. Transportation has yet to make its leap into the new century, and sharing of technology and knowledge is ahead of the practical application of the same (the physical act of production work is different than the drawing board and requires a better educated workforce than many countries can yet provide, despite the claim to an information age). And emotional intelligence is still a beginner in the arc of development. Knowledge doesn't help if we aren't read to let it in and change management theories, like many advances in technology and information, are slow to make it into the work place to the degree needed to make the real difference.

Nor am I sure that the next generation, the one that has started working or those not yet there, are any more ready to take on the challenges facing managers and decision makers today. Some have been taught team work, but in my observation, too much is co-dependence, the reliance on finding team mates who are are better at the things we find hard, instead of the interdependence (shared independence) that gives the willingness to take on the hard stuff in case no one else can, to be one of the leaders in case the others are followers. Such things remain fuel for writing about the future but, unlike mere technology, is hard to tackle in a fun, exciting story form that reaches out to both heart and mind. If science fiction writers can go there, the genre will do well. Otherwise the new genre of popular consciousness will be whichever one can.

Scrapbook as info resource?

2012-02-01T21:42:00.003-06:00

I have stacks of stuff I've decided to keep "as reference" - articles on healthy foods, articles for what to do in various kinds of emergencies, home health, lots of bits of information that I think could be useful in some story or another - not just the biomes but heraldry, horses, falconing, technology tid bits, culture and psychology. A bunch of clippings with mostly textual information, some sketches or pictures, not the pretty scrap book of today's craft and art, and yet it could be done in a decorative way. Pictures related to the topic at hand, pictures to help find the topic quickly... And like the pictures, they don't have to hand straight. The variety of text fonts, styles, and sizes would add visual interest, just like notes and sketches in the classic travel journal and research journal in days before computers and cheap cameras.

Of course, the sorting is more difficult than any trip or family scrapbook: information on a thousand topics is not easily sorted. The computer has made sorting so easy - alphabetize one minute, categorize and sort again in a few steps, date order or priority order or something else more mechanical but drop and drag and done. Sheets can be sorted in most scrapbook albums, but deciding is challenging, and getting it right manually, one page at a time leaves lots of room for error. Two sided pages adds another challenge unless every little grouping takes an even number of sides.

If it's more focused--a hobby, a more specific interest--maybe the order doesn't matter so much. A small press published a book on dragons that looked like the classic researchers journal with sketches, folded maps, notes about the clippings and sketches as well as observations. It was a cool looking book, fun to page through, very tactile, and the sequence didn't matter at all. Stop and read at any point, page through forward and back, add your own notes and clippings from magazines and newspapers... That's a real journal, and a wonderful sort of scrapbook that we sometimes forget with all the decorative borders and stickers. The stickers with the quotes are more the thing, but clippings from catalogs, newspapers and magazines and short commentary thereon (my historic heart says date it) or personally selected quotes, hand copied or transcribed is more the thing, and ideally with a dip pen and ink (okay, that's a personal preference, my favorite way to write though not all papers can handle the liquid ink). Paging through that to find information I personally found and selected, that's a feeling that no amount of computer queries can provide. And as historian, i can imagine the sense of personal history than even a primarily informational collection can provide, spiced as it were with opinions as much as choices, observations and experience as well as the information that was available to the person at the time. All the queries of resources, even date indexed, won't give that, and touching that collection, seeing the flourishes in the writing, or stiff printing with an awkward hand, even a finely detailed blog or on line journal can't quite capture that personal touch, that sense of presence that lingers in things that people have touched.

Scrapbook as history, too.

btW Chapter 25 part 1

2012-02-01T21:26:00.001-06:00

Kramer and Onaline stepped out into the too-bright sunshine and looked down on a valley of pavilions. Beyond the army camp were wild meadows, and to the east rose a snowcapped mountain, one of three whose majesty and strength formed the head of the north-south-running Misty Range. Far to the north, beyond the horizon, the center point and peak of the same range was Crown Mountain, home of the dwarf king. To the west and north the plains stretched to the horizon with rolling hills, mostly green with new growth and a yellow mist of wildflowers hovering over them. The ground directly under their feet was a rocky terrace, scattered with scrub trees and a sprinkling of grass, a stepping stone to the vast land below.

A steep slope took them down to the sprawling camp of the humans. Bright banners; some single colors, some with the arms of nobility of Western Reaches, flew from tents of every hue and color. Here and there were roped-off corrals of powerful battle and harness horses. Through it all were scattered huge cook fires and lines of wagons piled with supplies. Soldiers mostly moving slowly or sitting by the fires were tended by bustling support staff, cooks, healers, messengers, and camp-following families, young women with free flowing hair, and dozens of merchants who had come to know the wants and needs of fighting men.

Onaline pulled her hood up over her head and wrapped her cloak around her. She wanted no more attention than she had already earned during the battle just fought. Too much attention from the wrong quarter had already gotten two of her friends captured by one whose prison would make death seem a delightful prospect, and Gem and Grant had lost the father they might otherwise have kept for many years to come.

Kramer lead her to one of the larger pavilions, near the center of the camp. The banner on its peak was the same gold sun, blues sea and green shore as was on the tabard of the young soldier whose leg Onaline had tended. Two guards with similar tabards stood on either side of the opening. They saluted and pulled the flaps aside.

The only furniture was a plain wooden table and five chests. Rushes carpeted the ground. Behind the table sat a man with a look so serene he seemed willing to wait for years, sitting motionless, until someone chose to enter. Even the heavy parchment maps and records lay on the table in neatly sorted stacks, patiently waiting until someone should need whatever information they held. The man stood slowly, somewhat stiffly, to greet them, as if he had indeed been sitting for days or years. Yet his expression held calm, still. Not even his fleeting hint of surprise reached his blue eyes when Onaline pushed back her hood to show him who and what she was.

Behind him stood a tall, elegant gentleman with black hair and a sharp face that Kramer and Onaline both recognized from the court at Citadel. Lord Perrien stared openly with one raised eyebrow and a smile at the lady now revealed and gave a stiff bow to them both.

"My lady, Prince Kramer ---don't correct me, highness," the seated gentleman greeted them. "I know in Hadon you are not given your due title, but in Western Reaches, any legitimate son of the king is a prince, especially the son of Kassia--I, as you may know, am Paulus, son of Paulus, son of Paul, half brother to the father of king Varnor. We look more often to our ancestors than to our own deeds but I am not ashamed to say that I am General of this army. This is Lord Perrien son of Peregrin on whose land we know rest. I must thank you both for bringing the dwarves to our aide, as well as for aiding us with your own impressive skills. I understand I am also in your great debt, lady, for the care you provided to my nephew and personal guard."

"No debt has been incurred that has not also been repaid, General Paulus. The dwarves know duty too," Onaline responded, thinking of the sacrifice Cleats had made in bringing her this far, and the look his children had given him as they faced battle together.

Paulus knew of the dwarves only that many had fought and aided his people, but he knew well that the valiant, leather-clad young woman before him had reason enough for sorrow. "My nephew told me of your missing friend and your fear for her. I'm sorry. It is also my understanding, my lady, that you seek kin in West Gate. We will be sending a wagon train for supplies and to take the wounded back shortly. I can arrange a letter of introduction and safe passage with them if you like, or directions. It is not a difficult route from here."

Onaline looked up first at Kramer, then to Paulus. "My thanks, good General, for your offer, but I will let my family stay as it has been; certain of my death or unaware of my existence and thereby safer. Too many have lost their lives or freedom for my sake already. I won't willingly bring the same curse to you or to my kin. I must return now to the place from which I should never have come."

Neither of the men knew what to say to her. What she had said was, at least at one level, true. Kramer studied her, his blue-gray eyes pleading. He could not bear to have her giving up like this, nor leaving him. It was so different what he had come to expect from her, yet not without cause. He also feared for her. Being east of the Wall had not protected her before.

General Paulus knew little about Onaline. Kramer had offered a question-raising sentence or two. and he had been given many wild reports of a demon fighting with the dwarves in the caves. He knew even less about the "Beyond" from which she had come. Yet he, too, sorrowed to hear such words. Even through the mannish clothes, the sweat and dust of battle, he could see a lovely, gentle woman. That such a one could prevail in battle and yet suffer such trials as to bring such heaviness to her musical voice filled his soul with aching. Her eyes, elvish eyes that should ever be filled with laughter, bore a look so closed and yet so filled with unwanted experience that no one could look on them without being touched with heartbreak.

"There is a place somewhat north of here where you can cross the Misties and pass north of the Circle. It nears the Circle, but the mountains are high there, and broad, and I have heard that the torgs are little seen. You can go with the wains as far as the pass, if you like."

"I know much of the area north of the Circle and beyond. I'll accompany her as far as the Elven Wood."

"No Kramer! Thou art not safe with me!"

Such words! They thrilled and saddened him at one and the same time. To hear her, who chose the elven use of "thou" as an expression of the closest bonds of affection, brought joy to his heart; but to have them used to say goodbye was unbearable. He would not have it so!

"No one need know more than that we are two men traveling together. Even those in the wagon train need know nothing else, if the General can arrange clothes more like those he and I wear. They will think the half-elf they glimpsed in battle has gone the way of other magical beings."

"Do not think to return to your own lands from there, your Highness," Perrien said, "nor tell them that you have been an aide to Western Reaches. A madness has taken your kinsmen and you have been labeled a traitor. It is said that you took your companions to aide Western Reaches against Hadon, and so you have, although against our true enemy, the torgs of Davinia."

Kramer chuckled softly, sadly. " I knew of the charge, but not the specific accusation. Yet Hadon is my home, and I still have troops loyal to me north of the Party Caps. We will fight Davinia even if none other of our people do so, until I must face whatever charges have been made against me in Citadel."

To that, Onaline reluctantly agreed, praying to the heavens and their greatest star that no harm come to this one of all her friends. Paulus assured them that, after all their help, he could at least provide them with fresh clothes and supplies, and they made ready to depart with the wains the following day.

Start the New Year Right

2012-01-28T20:58:00.002-06:00

One of the most important steps in saving money isn't coupon cutting or careful shopping or any other of the suggestions I've made, it's setting aside money to not spend, to perhaps never spend but at least not to spend for a very long time: in other words, saving money. Besides avoiding spending money, two things in particular help make the idea into a reality:

1) Have a reason to save money. One of the best ways to give yourself a reason is to consider what you want for when you finally get around to retiring: just a comfortable retirement, a cruise, a particular vision of what counts as a great retirement house? A lifestyle appropriate to being grandma or grandpa? The clearer the picutre of what yo wnat to do with the money, the more specific, the more aware of what that will cost to achieve, the more real and reachable it will seem and the greater the incentive it will provide.

2) A plan to get there. Savings now translate to twice that later, so set a high but achievable goal for how much more money you want in the bank by the end of the year than you have now. 10 percent of income is a good place to start your calculations. If necessary payments take up a large percentage of income, an adjustment down may be necessary. IF income is variable, more when income is higher and less when income is lower may be the way to go.

3) It helps but isn't necessary to have a plan of attack, such as a regular transfer of money from checking to savings, regular deposits, or a common purchase that will no longer be made in order to free up more cash for the savings jar.

btW Chapter 24 part 2

2012-01-28T20:53:00.001-06:00

Strotum's people kept out of sight, but sound told the mixed company of the unseen presence of more dwarves--children and adults going about their daily tasks, some small mining effort up a long narrow tunnel, the echoing ring of metal on metal and the acrid smell of a smithy as well as the watchful guard force. Below and around those other sounds grew an undertone, like a rumble of thunder. They were vigilant for sign of Strotum's soldiers, sure that they would not let the intruders climb so easily toward the outer edges of the undercity to safety so easily, but only the distant rumble threatened.

The change in sound was slow, their pace brisk, but the rumble began to resolve into individual sounds that rose in pitch as the travelers neared its source.

"A mining operation, father? They aren't being very careful."

"They wouldn't be mining in the Terraces, and only the entrance lays beyond, yet I'm sure that's the echoes of the Terraces causing the resonance."

They continued on, climbing long winding slopes and dusty stairs. It was no longer a rumble but the clatter of metal like a feast kitchen on the king's final approach, pots and pans and ladles ringing, and with it the sickly sweet smell of freshly slaughtered meat, a hundred voices, and shouts that became increasingly strident though the words remained lost in the clutter of echoes and reverberations.

"That was a torg voice, I swear it!" Cleats shouted and began to run. "That fool! Why'n't he just say they had a battle, and what was he doing, fussing about us?"

In moments it was clear that the clamor was indeed that of battle, metal weapons clattering against stone and armor, metal-tipped boots pounding on the steps and terraces of the outer cavern system. And still they saw no sign of dwarves, either to bar their way, or to join the defense of the caves. As Cleat's company approached the last cave before the terraces, they found dwarves staring up through the last short tunnel. From behind them, Strotum hailed them and strode forward with a dozen of his guards.

"You have a choice, now, Cleats. Return with us or go on, into war."

"You make it sound as if that should be a hard choice. Who fights? Men and torgs, isn't it? And where are your people? Have you forgotten why you are here? Or have you grown too lazy to fight?"

"I am here to see to my people's protection, not to interfere in a battle of humans and torgs, None of our people have lived in the outer levels for years. I leave the others to kill each other off."

"And if the humans lose?"

"Then we will take care of what is left of the torgs, but I don't worry for that. Listen to them. The humans fight valiantly."

"As they will until death, win or lose, Strotum, " Kramer's voice rang with pride. "Even should Captain's Aide Cleats choose not to "interfere", I gladly claim the right to lend such aide as I might to my own kind."

"Captain Strotum," Onaline added, "You speak as if you think there's only one answer, that of fear, but that assumes that all we've said is false, that all we sought was... what? a way to get quick, free passage through the mountains? But we face danger wherever we are, or at least wherever I am. There is no less danger for us in facing the battle ahead than if we remain as prisoners with you, and certainly more freedom in the fight."

Cleats roughed the hair of his children and they smiled at him with confidence and pride. "If you have forgotten duty, we have not. You may not see the danger of allowing the torgs to continue unchecked, yet we can, and if your heart hasn't turned to sand, you will follow us into battle." All around Cleats, the guards and guides nodded, checked their weapons, and settled their packs along the wall for safe keeping.

"It's not our fight, Cleats." Strotum called after them, bu the words were hollow, for the sound of battle was growing like trapped thunder, and his words made Cleats his equal in respect and rank. Strotum's protests were as flee bites, as the rest turned their attention to the battle ahead.

Their route took them up a last slope, down a narrow but high passageway that finally ran out of wall to their left. There, a wall of sound struck at them and, over a railing, they could look out over a rippling pool of carnage, of men and torgs, leather, wood, steel, and blood, shimmering black and red in the light of torches. The battle wrapped around pillars and partial walls, and spilled over terraces and into caverns barely glimpsed at levels below. Most of the combatants fought with sword and shield, a few with spears, and a scattering with spiked maces, double-handed swords, and other weapons. A few among the torgs were armed with short bows and jagged-tipped arrow and had gained a vantage point on stairs across the nearest hall. They were chaotic in their aim, as often hitting their own as the human enemy, but it added confusion and that was all to the advantage of the torgs.

The company's passage lead across the ledge, along the length of the nearest terrace, and down an open stair at the far end, directly into the fray. Realizing how exposed it was, the small group pulled back a moment, exchanged a few phrases to make their plan, and did a final check of their weapons and gear, tightening belts, loosing weapon bindings. They headed in with Toamm and Onaline and their bows in the lead. Before the torg archers noticed their quiet presence on the ledge, the elves aimed a dozen arrows their way. The torg bowmen fell as the elven bows hummed. Another brief harmony of bow strings and the steps were cleared of the beasts in their black-on-black patterned armor. Then the rest of the mixed party, save the youngest of the guides to guard the horses and their packs, moved swift across the ledge and down the stairs, to cut a swath and foothold into the battle below. Toamm and Onaline, their bows now over their shoulders and blades drawn, followed quickly behind.

Belatedly recognizing that they faced a new threat, the nearest torgs mustered to block the new incursion. Prepared for such a response, Toamm and Onaline quickly backed up the stairs and returned their bows to work. With such a tight grouping, it was easy to avoid hitting any of their own. In moments, Kramer and the dwarves were able to break through the clustered ranks of torgs and resumed their progress across the terrace.

Any sense of battle formation had long since been lost but this new push by fresh reserves brought attention. Kramer shouted to scattered humans to join them even as torgs swirled around, trying to break the company apart. Throngs of torgs pushed between them and clusters of combatants formed, broke, and formed again as the new arrivals, singly and together, pushed on.

Onaline noted with satisfaction and thanks to her gift-givers that her mountain ax and elven sword held their edges well though she sliced through leather armor and many caif necks in that initial assault. Nor did it harm her efforts that the dim and flickering torch light turned her elven cloak from watery gray to wavering black as though she might be another torg. So long as the humans didn't believe it, it served to make the torgs hesitate, and added surprise to each of her attacks. A larger torg with a small mass of torgs to support him were pressing in on three men caught in a corner between a wall and the terrace railing. Onaline pushed toward them, calling "Here! Here! To me!" though she could barely hear her own voice above the din.

Hoping more allies were in her wake, she charged forward, ax and sword singing like a shield before her. Had she known it, she made an imposing sight, her rapidly moving blades dripping with dark torg blood and catching the light, and her fist spilling light between her fingers like a demon's. More than one of the torgs, turning to face her, dropped their weapons out of sheer fright, certain that a dwarf spirit had been waken by the melee and come to destroy them. She smashed through and past, leaping bodies as they fell to her blades, and was suddenly facing humans.

There was a tense moment when the humans remained uncertain whose side the strange, small being with her flying hair and cloak was on, but Onaline spun around to face the torg leader. He was the tallest such that she had ever seen, a fraction taller than herself, with bands of gold on his helm and a black-on-black blaze in the shape of a sun on his chest. He parried Onaline's thrust like one well schooled in swordsmanship and their duel was engaged. Later, men caught sight of them between struggles of their own, but what they saw left them wondering whether the torch light and fatigue had played tricks on their eyes.

Onaline wondered much the same. The torg captain was the ugliest she had ever seen, his scarred face entirely blackened by paint or dirt or burns, his carnivorous teeth uneven and stained yellow. Behind his dark eyes, though, the half-elf sensed a power and a will greater than she had ever encountered among the often animal-like torgs. She knew she must draw on every power and skill of her own to come through this contest alive.

They fought through and around and within the battle around them but it was as if a magic shield encased them. The few who stepped into the void that surrounded them died, slashed or stabbed and pushed aside. The duelers slid across the terrace, now one gaining a slight advantage, now the other as they leapt over bodies, and jumped up and down the stairs. As blades clashed against blade and shield, sparks flashed and the moan of metal could be heard. Onaline slipped on a pool of blood and the torg captain grinned, but it didn't last. The wanderer had had the best of teachers on both sides of the Wall and she was up again, blocking his sudden thrust in a heart beat. Then it was her turn, swing, swing, thrust! The torg captain parried and stumbled back against a low railing, leaning over another layer of battle below. Another quick thrust of Onaline's sword, too close now for the torg to parry, he ducked sideways, leaning back further to avoid the blade, brought his own sword up to slice her, but she blocked it with the ax handle. She pushed hard against it, crossed the ax with her sword. As the sword reached flesh, he fell, tumbling over the railing, and as he crashed, his helmet split with a crack like thunder, to be heard over the din.

The din was fading. While Onaline fought her single stubborn foe, Kramer had succeeded in mustering scattered men and lead them in a massed charge on the second terrace, sweeping the level free of torgs left unguided by their preoccupied leader. Down below, where natural stone pillars sparkled with condensation and spattered blood, the torgs who were being surrounded.

Onaline, seeing her own level cleared of torgs, found the stairs to the next, to see who might need her aide, and almost tripped over Captain's Aide Cleats, sprawling across several steps. Onaline knelt at his side.

"Ah, lady, you are safe. I had feared... I heard the elf shouting something about you but couldn't .. but you are safe. Strotum came, and many of his soldiers. I hoped he would. Duty... He could not ignore that whatever else he might believe." He gasped and a shudder of pain rippled through him. "Ah, lady," he said again, his voice much weaker this time. "The blessings of a firm foundation... in the future... " and he died.

Onaline laid her hand on his rough hewn face, so like Gliffonel's yet unlike. She bowed her head and tears fell on his lifeless hand.

After awhile, hours it felt like, though it was only minutes after she had found Cleats, Onaline became aware of sounds again, close by, and then a faint voice. "A friend?"

Onaline lifted her head and gazed into the face of a young man, very young, she thought, to be a soldier. Yet he was that. A torn tabard with a gold sun rising over a blue sea and green shore hung limp over armor of leather and steel plates. He sat just below her on the steps, one leg straight out and bleeding. Having gained her attention, he braced himself against his sword and boosted himself up another step. He needed medical help soon, she realized, else he would bleed to death. She touched Cleat's cheek one last time and forced herself to turn to the needs of the living.

"A friend, yes," she said as she pulled away torn cloth around his wound and prepared to bind it. "He has given me his support the past days, and shared with me a little of his wisdom."

"A dwarf, no? You don't look like a dwarf."

She offered him a half smile to show she wasn't offended. "Yes. He was a dwarf. Is that better?" she asked as she finished binding his wound.

"Much , m'lady."

With his leg bandaged, he was able to stand with her aide and they began searching through the bodies for the living. Speaking little, they helped those they could, made as comfortable as possible those that were beyond their help. Occasionally Onaline asked the more coherent among the wounded or caught the attention of a messenger hurrying through the halls to ask after her friends and companions.

She learned little enough. A few had noted Kramer's valor in leading a company of men through the caverns, fragments about the fighting prowess of the mountain folk, and one mention of a strange tall creature wielding a sword with magical skill that might, the man supposed, have been an elf, though he'd never met one. But of the current location of any of them, she learned nothing.

Finally, though, she heard her voice called in a familiar human voice. It didn't dispel her other worries, for Kramer called her name and nothing else, and his tone expressed deep pain or anguish. She hurried to him, and saw that he carried Toamm's bow and sword.

Her voice caught as she tried to say the word. "Dead?"

He shook his head in sorrow and Onaline knew that the elf's fate was worse than death. In desperation, she looked around for a clue to which direction the torgs had taken her. Cleats had said he had heard her call to him, an upper level perhaps...

Kramer grabbed her arm, pulling her back. "They said the torgs took her away at least two hours ago. Two hours! We'll never find them in the caves, all the different levels. We could never catch up to her before they reached Davinia, if she lives that long."

And once in Davinia, it would take an army, or several, to fight through all the minions of the dark lord. Or if it were not so hard to get in--he might just let them come, wanting her as his prisoner, too--then it would be that much harder to get out again. Just as when Gliffonel had been taken, there was nothing they could do but mourn and sorrow for their friend's fate. Kramer held Onaline in a rough, uncertain embrace, wishing there was more he could do to comfort her, to relieve the burdens she was placing on herself and to give her a moments ease from the sorrows that beset her. How far awry had gone her simple quest to find her name and family!

With false cheer, he offered, "Sheba and Glimmer are grazing to their hearts content, now they are calmed down. Thou must speak to Sheba about letting others lead her. It was all but impossible to get her up the last stair." He tried to smile, and she quirked one corner of her lips . Then they both fell silent, lost in their anguish. No one seeing them could doubt that these two had lost something of great value in this battle, more even than friends.

As they departed the caves, Onaline spotted Strotum, talking to some human officers. Briefly, his eyes met hers. He offered her the smallest nod of acknowledgement and tried to return to his conversation, distracted by thoughts of a little half-elf with amber eyes.

btW Chapter 24 part 1

2012-01-24T21:54:00.001-06:00

They camped in a few long-abandoned "family units" down one of a a maze of major and minor passageways, with sentries posted outside each. Cleats took one of the first watches, for he had much to weigh. Most of his contemplation centered on a golden haired child with elvish eyes, high cheek bones and and a curious smile that hid much of what lay within. Cleats couldn't guess that the "child" had seen and experienced more than many an old dwarf ever would. He saw, though, that there was a fire in the half-elf's soul like that of a star sapphire, cool and bright, a banked fire that continued hidden but strong. If that fire were properly fed, it would burn warm and strong for an eternity. If pushed hard, it could flare, bursting forth with such energy that the whole world would know change.

Toamm sat within sight of the captain's aide, unwilling to go into the confines of even a doorless room if she had a choice, but in all other respects than proximity, she sat apart from the guarding dwarves and from those resting inside. The elf had to admit that being blindfolded and listening to Cleat's instruction had helped her to hear what the mountain people must hear all their lives. It explained their grim humor. Stone lacked any warmth of spirit even when it could be seen. Where was the play of sunlight and windblown leaves? The free-floating music of the birds. The dwarves had no such delights to cheer them.

Toamm's mind went over and over the events of the last days in minute detail. Seen together as a single whole, they formed a picture all too ominous, with a single, dark portrait in the foreground. The influence and power of the Angrimainu was stronger than any of them had guessed, or was at least gaining power even faster than they had imagined possible. Toamm wondered if even the dwarves, living as they did at his doorstep, realized the extent of the evil king's control. He might merely have ordered the torgs to act, and ensured their obedience, but Toamm sensed his hand in the very plan and action of this last attempt, bringing together the wraiths and the things that were neither ropes nor snakes to achieve his foul ends, forcing them both, like the torgs, to act according to his will and against their own preference to kill their prey.

If he hadn't already known, he would know now of Onaline's star. To the others, it was a symbol, a sign that destiny had intended her to play some important role due to her native strength and character. The fight tonight--she supposed it was a new night, that it was now two days since Gliffonel had been taken and the dwarves had answered the silent hail of a beacon --had proven that the star was more than a symbol. A sigh passed through her like an ice bath. Onaline's star had been the first she had seen in too long. She had neither sun nor stars to guide her and it might have been weeks in her blindfolded misery. It had warmed her heart and spirit while it shone. Surely the evil king would find no comfort in such a power, that he would lust after it and send his minions to capture its source. It was not a power he could take nor share, and one which-.

Toamm was close behind Cleats in identifying the sound of physical movement as something other than the sleepy shifting of their own group, and faster at jumping to her feet, weapon to hand. She hissed at Onaline and Kramer to wake them.

"Unnecessary, " Cleats assured her. "Mountain men approach."

Toamm accepted that, but her hand did not stray far from her sword, and Cleats didn't object when Kramer and Onaline joined them near the doorway, armed and alert despite only a couple of hours sleep. Even Kramer remained wary at the news of more dwarves. He had heard enough of their arguing in Nostrum's group to know that the dwarves were no more unified in their thinking than men, and that Cleats had no means of ensuring another group's captain would fulfill Nostrum's decision. The debate might have to run its course again, or might end before it began, with violence.

The two new arrivals greeted them with gruff, harsh sounding words in the mountain language.

Cleats was sternly defensive and carefully polite as he responded in the common tongue. "Nostrum, Captain of the southern Misties decided they should be treated as allies. We have guided them through the Labyrinth in order to put them under the protection of the soldiers of West Gate." That had not quite been the plan, but it had been the ultimate intent. If need be, Cleats would take them to the capitol of Western Reaches himself to see it carried out. He put every gram of steel he could muster into his gaze as he stared at the pair.

The speaker was a mountain woman of modest build and slate gray eyes. She answered him in common, though it wasn't out of politeness or respect. "We have been told of the treachery of Captain Nostrum, and of your concurrence in his foolishness. He will be punished in time, but he has no authority here, nor influence. By Captain Strotum's order, the elves are now our prisoners."

"They remain under my protection. That does not include handing them to you."

Toamm watched Cleats closely, noted the rest of Cleats people gathering around. She balanced what she knew of dwarves from the past with her more recent experiences. Cleats was old enough to have fought elves as enemies, but he hadn't taught his children to hate them. She had no doubt that Cleats would do all that he could to protect Onaline. The elf suspected that anyone who spent more than five minutes with the child would either fear her or else face death on her behalf. As Toamm considered Cleats now, she came to believe that he would protect a full elf, too, even against his own people, with all the stubbornness of those who lived in stone.

Three more dwarves joined the pair, two guards and Captain Strotum himself, tall for a dwarf but thin in the chest with a scanty beard graying to white, its old luster lost. His purposeful delay in presenting himself might be an insult or a sign of fear and either way did nothing to dispel the chill mood.

"Are you mad, Cleats?" Strotum asked. Amusement and disbelief were more evident in his voice than threat, but the threat was only partially disguised. The demands of a madman could be disregarded without fear of consequences.

Cleats studied the old Captain closely. They had met several times during the course of their long assignments in the south. They had even fought together in their youth, but time had worn on Strotum more than himself. The captain had allowed himself to go soft. His belly was round and sagging and his leather jerkin thin.
"I'm no more mad than Gliffonel, who carried Turamir with the king's blessing, sir."

"Where is Turamir now, and Gliffonel?"

"Turamir is on the way to Crown Mountain," Cleats began. At those words, Strotum's eyes clouded, and Cleats realized the messenger had wisely gone through the undercity without announcing himself or calling attention to his presence. "Gliffonel is captured or dead, as will be these he fought to protect, if you delay us. I won't allow his efforts to be wasted."

"They're the enemy. Better they were captured." Strotum said, as if it was no matter to him either way.

"You have been too long under His shadow if you believe that."

"You have been too long with ignorant children. You listen to the little ones instead of to the spirit of the earth."

"The rock people know better than you, I think, of the mountain's blood and spirit, Captain. It would not approve of us fighting. Will you recognize Captain Nostrum's orders, sir, or must we force our way through?"

Kramer gripped Onaline's hand, knowing how much this argument would distress her. She blamed herself for the disagreement that had flared between himself and his family, and now much the same was happening between the dwarves. But Lord Kramer knew she was not to blame, that people would fight with little cause at all on the best of days, and he was tired of them choosing to fight over a fate that should be his lady's to decide. "Strotum, don't you understand?" Captain Kramer asked. "Every argument and delay helps only our mutual enemy. Will you be such a fool as to draw all the evil forces of Davinia down under this mountain to take us from you? He will bring this whole mountain down on your head."

"What interest could He have in these creatures? Or you? You've no more wit than Gliffonel and Cleats, though you are s son of kings. Oh yes, I know who you are, an ill-favored malcontent and traitor. Guards!" With the last, Strotum's' voice turned iron hard and diamond cold. His call was answered by the sound of many axes being slipped from their bindings as more of Strotum's soldiers appeared in the tunnel. Their numbers only served to even the odds between the two groups. Beside Strotum, one of the newest arrivals whispered in his ear.

Strotum waved the messenger aside and, once more in the dwarf language, made one more soft plea to Cleats, a reminder to the captain's aide that the others were, above all else, outsiders. It was a concept so pervasive that it touched all the kinds, young and old, good and evil, nearly as strong as the faith in the quality of ancestors. Fighting ones own kind was a thing only humans usually admitted doing, and then not proudly. Another time, the plea might have worked, but Cleats threw the same back at him, with righteousness indignation behind him. For all that the call of blood was strong, the bonds made by a common ground of spirit were stronger, and Cleats had seen enough to know he would rather call the elves kin than Strotum.

Unexpectedly, Strotum ordered his people to withdraw. Cleats stared as the captain followed his people down the tunnel through which they'd come.

"I have never know a dwarf to bluff, " Toamm noted, wondering if they would suddenly turn around and attack again, this time for real.

"Surely he won't simply let us go, after all that?"

"We are not clear, yet," Cleats responded, though he his understanding of the departed leader was shifting and tenuous as a sand castle.

A Victorian 21st Century?

2012-01-21T12:05:00.002-06:00

I don't much go in for politics but can't help but be exposed to various views from friends, family, passing bits on the news, and advertising in the middle of otherwise good shows on tv. Maybe it's the splashy sort of exposure among other, very-different topics (including medieval re-creation, discussions of steampunk and cyberspace, crafts and cooking) that caused the image to form, rather than any real trends. Still, it was startling in its sudden clarity and completeness. Here are some of the pieces that stuck in my mind:
Republican's who originated things like the clean water act encouraging the dismantlement of environmental protection on behalf of big business (may or may not be true but it seems to be a popular claim by opponents);
the small size of the American middle class, working poor, homeless families that used to be upper middle class, more billionaires (really? with all those bank disasters and big company closures? Small businesses used to be the source of retired millionaires, but not billionaires where did they come from?); Crime crime crime (okay, it's actually way down despite the bad economy, but you'd never know if from the push to increase the size of every police and security force in sight),
union breaking (older relatives think the democrats and others are mad because the Wisconsin leadership decided the barely-above poverty teachers and state workers should all pay a bit of their own medical insurance like everyone else. Friends say the employees had no objection to that but resented the union breaking and related maneuvering to get it through congress on the sly);
plants and animals going extinct in every direction, indicative of bad environment and unpleasant living conditions for crowded humans (and yet they think the housing market is a key indicator for the economy? Do they realize some people are consciously choosing to not add to overpopulation and sprawl?);
Reduced retirment benefits, few pensions, and savings poured into heroic medicine (that is, the overuse of medical treatments when readily available and cheaper means of prevention would have worked far better)
Mansions continue to be built while foreclosure signs abound
Modest dress even among teens? (though they choose to how off the oddest selection of body parts sometimes...) and still parents complain at inappropriate dress and sexting and other expressions of... shall we say post-pubescent biological imperatives? (Which generation invented mid-drifts, hip huggers, and hot pants anyway?)

So what do you get (as an image if not the reality?): Seriously conservative dress, rich rich, homeless poor, struggling farmers, a wild west image of rampant crime and guns, bartering and subsistance living, working until death, overbearing cops and security forces who barely understand law and rights: a dirty, privileged, bright candles and dark alleys, glittering crystal and invisible victims of poverty and death, Victorian era with smart phones.

BtW Chapter 23 part 3

2012-01-14T12:57:00.002-06:00

She caught her breath. "It's narrow here," she called back so that Toamm could hear, "Stay to the left." but she didn't move forward. With her toe she felt the ground ahead, envisioned what lay behind. Sheba could shift to a position behind Glimmer, and Toamm would follow in the rear, but she felt the flow of air ahead and beside her and remembered guessing that there would be a bridge across a gap, and the dwarves reaction, and talk of a passage to the side, where the first dwarves had disappeared. Every step now would be taking them away from the dwarves, and every step forward should have encouraged the wierds to make their move, but had not.

"Onaline?" Toamm asked from behind. There was a note of desperation in the query. Her sword had touched two things in the last swipe: something soft, wet, and weak, barely slowing the passage of her blade; and something hard and rough, one of the ropes, coming close.

Onaline moved another step forward. Kramer passed on to Toamm behind them, "This shelf is getting narrower."

The air was blowing the fog away but it revealed to Onaline little more than she already knew, that the space beside them was deep and wide, and the stone damp and cool as the air. They were shades of gray to elvish sight, blending and folding, tracing a path that even in light would be dangerous to follow. "Toamm, unless we can get a light, this is too dangerous. They could just knock us off the ledge and be done."

"Whatever we do, it has to be now, they are getting closer."

Kramer and Onaline worked their way back, around the horses to Toamm. "Kramer, take my sword. Here, feel it?" Onaline found his calloused hand with her softer one and pressed Aelfwina into it, grabbed her ax with the other hand.

"It sings for me, my lady," Kramer muttered as he held the light sword with both hands, wondering at the thoughts that crossed his mind as he faced death. What matter that the sword sing or cry or hold silent, so long as it defended his lady?

Onaline felt beside them to be certain they were away from the ledge, and braced her feet, trying to see the wierd shapes against the stone and air.

"Child, this darkness is more their friend than ours. Such odds are not to my liking," Toamm admitted. She knew that if Onaline was hesitating to continue forward, then whatever treacherous place was now before them would be folly to test. Had not Cleats said it was dangerous even with light and guides? With Onaline brushing her right shoulder and Kramer beyond, the full elf braced herself for the strike of an invisible assailant, and made a short thrust into the air with her sword.

Kramer reached out with the sword, getting a feel for the swing. The sound, more in his hand than his ear, grew as it reached closer to the waiting wraiths. "I thought it would only sing for you." A soft sound behind them made them turn, but it seemed only to be Glimmer's tackle as he shifted.

"The magic is in the sword, not the wielder. - You were right, Toamm, they don't seem to like the elvish blades."

The scaly scratch of heavy ropes on stone made them tense again, though they were already tense with waiting, every muscle ready for a target. A scratching on the wall above them, a sudden hiss and the scrape of a dozen ropes snaking along the ground near their feet warned them. Toamm smiled. Onaline's words had sparked a sudden thought, awakened a hope she hadn't felt for seeming days. Almost as if they understood their advantage might soon be lost, the creatures moved in. As in the swamp, it was suddenly a battle of groping hands, and groping ropes that slid around their legs and feet. Two ropes caught Toamm's legs and she fell hard to the ground. She swung her sword at the air past the end of her feet, trying to chop at the rope. "Onaline!"

Onaline and Kramer both reached toward her, but Kramer was held back by a rope on his wrist.

A second rope looped Kramer's wrist and was being jerked on as if her were some fish on a line, ready to be reeled in. Onaline couldn't respond at all. One of the ropes had snaked around her throat as if it had a will of its own, wrapping around and around. She clawed at it with one hand, tried to chop at the far end and its wielder with her ax. She reached toward Toamm at the elf's call but the rope tightened as soon as she let go and she dropped her ax to clutch at it with both hands, trying to pull it off while she had breath to fight.

"Onaline!" Toamm called from shockingly far away, "The star! Your hand! Open it!"

Both her hands were needed to keep the rope from choking her to death. Toamm's words seemed madness. Her throat was tightening with the need for air but the rope only dug in the more. Still, Toamm's voice, distant and fading in her own struggle, was a demand she could not ignore. Her grip on the rope was not enough to save herself. She was choking and what little vision she had in the darkness was fading. Grasping for the hope she had heard in Toamm's voice, Onaline let go of the rope and opened her hand.

Light flared around her, painfully bright after the prolonged darkness. The pale creatures screamed and ran. For a few steps, the pair towing Toamm threatened to carry her away but they were weak, not made for carrying large objects, and the light pained them. A heartbeat later, they dropped the ropes, their hands flying to their eyes as they fled. The ropes tugged her a little longer then they, too, fled. Kramer's captors, having yanked him to the ground as they played tug-of-war with his arm, did the same. The rope briefly tightened on Onaline's neck as if in panic, then it collapsed and fell to the floor and slithered away after the wraiths. Onaline shivered at the sight.

The light began to fade. Kramer regained his pack and this time the lantern stayed lit. Kramer patted it like an obedient puppy that had learned a new trick. He had no desire to be in darkness again. A storm-filled moonless night would seem bright after the past hours and the chasm now visible beside them filled him with awe. He handed back Onaline's sword. They backed the horses off the ledge on which they still stood, and headed back to the cave where they were supposed to spend the night.

They lit several of the dwarf lanterns and Toamm stayed with the horses while Onaline and Kramer went to search for their missing companions. Onaline had spotted the side tunnel down which they had probably disappeared. Some of the wraiths had taken the same route, but with a lantern each and the light that had frightened the creatures away enclosed in Onaline fist, they didn't overly fear a new encounter with the beasts. They only went a few feet before the dwarves found them.

Toamm greeted Gem and Grant--both looking a little disheveled and dazed but otherwise unhurt--with her hands on her hips. "So, where have you two been?" Feigned anger fought with delight at their apparent safety. "I suppose you've been dining in some cozy niche while we kept the beasts off your door step?"

"It's hardly our fault you got yourselves lost and missed a fine meal of fog and dreams," Grant grumbled in good humor.

Onaline, smiling to see Toamm in bright spirits, turned to Cleats, only to find him studying her quizzically.

"You didn't leave. You are unharmed?" he asked pointedly.

She looked down at herself, pushed damp curls back from her face. "Bruised perhaps. In need of rest, as ever seems to be the case of late."

"I had begun to think... but with the star and half-blooded... " He took her small hand in his larger one and gently pulled back her curled fingers to examine the star on her palm. "Its no proof either way, since you could only be part at most. - We were drugged, a certain gas that causes us to sleep unduly, causes dwarves to sleep." He grimaced as he continued, "except the guards. Trowellon and the others were choked - Trow is dead.--Why didn't you flee, once you got the light?"

"Without knowing whether you were alive or dead? We should probably not linger here, tonight. Is there somewhere to rest on the other side of the Kafecha?"

"Many places. The bulk of the Labyrinth is on the other side. Come."

They didn't go quickly. Some of the dwarves went to bury their dead companion with quiet efficiency while the rest redistributed the contents of his pack and such of his gear as they would return to his kin. Then they returned once again to the edge of the chasm. Onaline peeked over the ledge, even narrower than she had imagined in the darkness. She wouldn't have fallen far. "They've spread out nets, in case they couldn't snag us up here." She looked out over the rest of it and understood better the distances that had made the air and stone blend in her dark sight. It was a cavern fit for mountains, wide and high and deep, full of crystalline structures and pool-topped pillars and depths the lanterns couldn't touch.

Cleats watched her a moment. "This is not the Kafecha, only an outer branch. Nor is that the path we would choose to take."

He lead them into what at first appeared to be a mere recess in the tunnel wall, but it quickly opened back out to where they could see some of the vast cavern, and the wild mountain innards that lay beyond. Onaline instantly knew what Cleats had meant when he said it was a disturbing place, a place of change. It looked like a place the dwarves must have battled with and against all their long lives.

The change might be too slow to watch in days or months of watching, but here rock was in motion. Vast falls of rock like frozen water tumbled from cliffs above to the dark deeps below, silent, glistening. The water was a smooth sheath on its blue-white surface. Glittering stalactites hung like flying buttresses, great sheets, and fragile-looking pipes, several reaching down to the shelves and steps and layers of stone and stalagmites on many levels below. Moisture was in the air like a cool steam bath, burnishing pink lace to brilliance. Blue, green, and burnt orange formed palaces of flowing stone. Between and around and under the natural formations, the mountain folk had carved several pathways, built arching bridges, and carved steps that branched out from the tunnel access point in several directions. Many ended part way down or across or up, inundated by flow stone, blocked by fallen stalactites, broken by the weight of stalagmites that had found them a convenient resting place, or even engulfed by rock formations that had attacked them from all sides. Nowhere did railings survive, though fragments clung to a few of the highest arcing bridges. The ledge they had followed in the dark curved around the stone to greet them, but ended on an ever narrowing peninsula far from any other path that they could have hoped to reach, and nets hung below all of it. They would have had no way to go but down. Even if they had found this path, Onaline didn't readily spot a route that could take them all the way across or around the vast cavern, and she was certain they would have broken their lives at the bottom, if not caught in the nets if they had tried to cross. Now, in the comforting light of the lanterns, it was a place of strange beauty and magic, color and movement, open air and freedom. Like the woods of the elves, it was a place where one could sit back and watch nature weave its art for endless ages.

"I see why you found this place to be disturbing, Captains Aide," Captain Kramer said. "The stone has often defeated your construction; but it is beautiful." Kramer, too, was impressed by the sight before him, but Toamm stood back from the edge, watching them, thoughtful and chilled by more than the cool, damp air.

the scrapbook as journal

2012-01-07T11:26:00.002-06:00

I didn't actual go where I was originally aiming with the last blog on scrapbooking, and I ended up changing the title to fit. This time, I'm hoping to keep the title where it's at since I got all that background out of the way. Part of what I intended was the bit on Biomes - capturing images of my story settings as a guide for writing and revising and to share with readers the sources of my inspiration if I could offer it to them in some medium. But more, it was my image of a scrapbook that captured me in something more visual than words.

My journal is already something of a classic scrapbook, with a few ticket stubs, comic and newspaper clip-outs to which I've added comments or help me capture the themes and focus of the day, even a few stickers, though not typically the type used in modern "scrap books" that have everything but actual scraps in them. But I've had dreams of something more visual than that. For example, last night I envisioned a three-D picture that I might capture as a somewhat less 3-D scrapbook page: a thousand printed words cut out and carefully selected, then a bunch of them pushed aside to open space for "a few more words". It would, at the least, convey my interest in words (and it's something you can't do with he words on a Kindle or Nook, that tactile sense of book, pages, and words with physical as well as mental texture. (I'm one of those people that wants to finger all the pieces of a kit rather than just study the diagrams in the instructions; I want to feel the keyboard, not see where the letters are).

I envision a scrap book that has pages that express me, express parts of my life (hence the shift in the last blog off into art) like a journal more than like a photo album. Because I write, it would have pages reflective of writing, maybe some calligraphy and a little painting, but also the content of the stories (hence the ultimate connection to biomes that I was actually aiming for). I might find a science-and -technology sort of catalog to capture the essence of my science fiction writing, along with a few sketches and just a few words or space ship posters and space program headlines. I might have a page of family (though most will land in a whole scrapbook of their own before I get as far as a journal scrapbook). It might have a page or two representative of all the places I've been.

Scrap-book as journal is easier to share, more quickly scanned, and less deeply understood (perhaps just as well--see that other aspect of sharing, the giving instead of the viewing, less easy, often to the point of prevention for some, lacking in confidence or too often too harsh a response to what they have boldly revealed). It can be more akin to art in that regard (I see the careful, decorate pages around one or two pictures not so much art as elaborate framing, whereas my full page collages are like those simplest of frames, relying primarily on some edge that might remain uncovered, or on the journal cover as the only frame, capturing the whole but less so the individual pages and their contents, much like a written journal, especially one with little or no margin to the page.

Scrapbook journal, though, like all scrapbooking, is harder to fill than the written page, in its way. When I write, I select, but it is a selection of thought and sequence, not boundaries. I don't use a daily diary with sizes and dates but a large notebook and an entry might be half a page or many, then end and the beginning less defined than on a scrapbook page, whose edges aren't readily crossed. And my words are whatever I select, limited only by my knowledge, creativity and cursive skills. For scrapbooking, unless it is to be a sketchbook, it depends on the materials at hand, the physical limits of each picture or sticker or clipping, the selection gathered at stores or from magazines and photographic efforts of the past. This is a vastly different selection process and editing and revision is best done on the spot, before the tape or glue or stickers set and revision becomes destruction with no replacement supplies.

It will come in time, I think, but for now, it is an exercise mostly of the mind, unless as I create my trip scrapbooks, I set aside one eah for my journal, or spend a few extra minutes with the scraps to place a few visual "notes" on a "journal" page.

the scrapbook as art

2012-01-07T10:55:00.003-06:00

I'm not much of a scrapbooker. I don't buy anything that I can't get on sale. Half my stickers and background designs are magazine pages I liked, and so far my scrapbooks are mostly just collage-y substitutes for trip photo albums because the photo album pages they make these days are cheap crap, no matter how fancy and expensive the cover they put on them. (Don't dare try to look at the notes on the back of a picture because the barely-attached slip-cover will pull up or off or tear, they're so pitifully cheap. So we had a quilters and scrap-bookers joint retreat and I saw what a scrapbook could be like, and went with it. I never use my den so it's now the place where I gather scrapbooking supplies, enough for years to come, probably (though even with cut-out, collaged photos from my trips and just a few backgrounds and stickers I can fill forty pages with one longer trip or a couple of shorter ones).

My plans are always big, though. I managed to get a few really great vacations into scrapbooks or what I had left of the older, nicer albums, but I have some eight or ten boxes (not photo boxes, I mean those heavy, lidded boxes that originally held twenty packages of office copy paper) of photos (and other trip things, like brochures and tickets and maps) from the past decade or two. Some I chose not to put in albums, some I saved for special themed scrapbooks I haven't got to, yet, like a family portrait book or my planned cookbook (yes, I've taken pictures of food and place settings as well as path ground covers, tree bark, and garden herbs) and especially one I think of as from my middle school science class term that I've never heard since - Biomes. The biomes are for my novels, especially the fantasies that take the characters through mountain passes and swamps, mystic ancient forests and endless plains. I've been collecting pictures of story settings forever but never quite managed to put them all together into an album or scrapbook but it will be impressive when I do. (I dream big, even if the reality never quite gets there).

Though I haven't made many books, and would probably be considered by most of the scrap bookers I know to be "missing" the goal of lovely pages that might only have one or two pictures beautifully arranged with my chaotic (but carefully laid out, with story, color choices, and consideration of density and ballence) pages of flowers and waterfalls and wildlife, waves and landscapes and the most vague timelines, being more about place and focus than the sequence in which they were seen; still, I see the fascination of it, and the potential. I quickly learned the delight in sticker shopping and the point of the stickers (which I was slow to incorporate as a substitute for invisible double sided tape, and still rarely use without also helping hold on a picture). I see the art element of it in my efforts to get a page that can b pleasant to look at as a whole while also showing off my photographed memories. And gradually I understand one of the early books I saw that seemed to have no purpose at all: just decorate pages laminated thick with cut outs or vague collages of decorated paper all on the same color theme and no photos, no picture element at all. It was scrapbook a pure art. Something pretty to look at.

My imaginings don't quite go that far, but they might be close, especially in the eyes of someone else, not knowing the meaning I put behind the pages I imagine, the more abstract collages I envision gathering in a scrapbook-as-collage-art. They remain on my to-do list rather than my acted-on list, but the vision is slowly growing and I've made notes about potential pages. I did a collage for a leadership workshop, magazine cutouts (mostly catalog ads, actually, with clothes I would never by, colors I liked regardless of the object, and other things intended to represent my interests and priorities) and I can see doing that for page after page with a better selection of magazine and catalog cutouts, added painting and calligraphy, photos and confetti and other flotsom and jetsom, each conveying a message about me or my interests or my views of the world, even if only I can interpret the message behind it. Is that not the essence of art?

Diving into the New Year

2012-01-02T21:11:00.002-06:00

I'm still looking for a new focus for this blog so I decided I'd try a more freeform, less focused effort for awhile. It will probably still be more or less about writing and at least some about my fantasy and science fiction, but maybe also about journaling, scrap-booking as a forum for writing, and non-fiction writing, which I've been neglecting lately or relegating to journal entries with no audience.

I have no end of ideas for topics for nonfiction writing and essays, and fiction other than science fiction and fantasy (though I've never liked the results of my attempts in that direction) and maybe with this as a prod (I try to blog at least twice a week on all my blogs) I'll work on my writing in those areas.

For example, I found myself self-editing a letter of all things! Letters might deserve editing, but it should be toward making them more interesting to the singular audience, not more "standard" which I was doing. (I almost decided to leave out the statement "I was still living in yesterday" as part of my comments on new technology. Then I thought, why not say it? A little bit of metaphor works in letters, too! I'm usually more matter of fact, if only to keep the letter brief: not every one I write to has lots of time to sit and read. But some of the people I write to are older, not able to get around well, and might enjoy a longer letter, and certainly won't complain about a more interesting one, even if I don't edit them fully (I hand write them).

Letter writing will probably get lots of my attention on this blog. I fear it is a lost and fading art. I've never been great at it, but I do my several a month and sometimes several in a week, still, love to receive them, and know from much experience that the handwritten letter is quite different from e-mails or any social media, both in content and experience. The next generation is already a deprived group and I'm sorry for them, for computers are a cold media and cannot convey what a handwritten letter can, any more than a handmade scarf can be replaced by a thin bit of cheap fleece. (On the other hand, a handwritten letter can only reach one person at a time, sometimes one person ever, so for the cooler substance of mass communication, computers have their place. Value...? I guess it depends on the substance. I'll try to make mine worth the bother of reading.)

Fiction Friday - I Resolve NOT

2011-12-30T22:13:00.001-06:00

This weeks challenge is dedicated to anti-Resolutions: 10 creative things that we resolve NOT to do in the coming year. Here are 10 of mine:

1. I will not teach my cat to cook chicken with her warm tummy so that she can have that for dinner and I can save a few minutes every day for writing.

2. I will not spend half the year crocheting a full size christams tree complete with all the ornaments and light chords so that I can unroll it and be done with holiday decorations in one step.

3. I will not go to the mall to hire a five year old child to sit at my table every holdiay so that I have an excuse to bake and decorate more holiday cookies and candies.

4. I will not turn into a political activist raising money to persuade Presidential candidates to give everyone a dollar back on their taxes for every plastic bottle they reuse in the construction of a foot rest.

5. I will not invent a means to get food to leap from cans and packages into the oven to become full course home-made dinners.

6. I will not write a six volume collection of recipes and how-to guides for every craft and dish I’ve tried or want to try in my lifetime so that no one will ever have to write a how-to guide ever again and the bookstores can be filled only with fiction.

7. I will not write a billion-dollar smash hit book and movie series guaranteed to make the new generation forget LoR, Star Wars, HP, and Dr. Who..

8. I will not turn the room full of fabric into a chimney-to-basement quilted house cover to pretect the house from every kind of weather and everything else that can go wrong with this old house for the next decade.

9. I will not travel to every country and state on my still-havent’-but-want-to list so that I can settle down at home thereafter and never need to face travel security again in my lifetime.

10. I will not buy the ultimate hand-held computer with all the gee-wiz gadgets and apps, including all the unlimited monthly services needed to make it work, only to find out that someone else has invented the must-have replacement at half the cost.

BtW Chapter 23 part 2

2011-12-30T20:59:00.002-06:00

"Take two of the others back with you and leave one posted at the passage while you check it out. Fifteen minutes, no more."

The guard and two of the horse guides hurried out while the two rear guards moved to block the tunnel from whence they had come. The rest settled quietly, hands never far from their weapons, and Toamm thought again of her notion that the dwarves might bring them deep into the mountain and abandon them. She didn't, however, credit the dwarves with much acting skills and Cleats looked frequently toward his children showing concern for their safety. Though a trained human a dozen yards away might have heard nothing but a sound like a distant breeze, the sound of their own breathing and shifting rang loud and discordant in their own ears as they strained to listen for any warning or movement.

Cleats was certain his fifteen minutes was nearly up when a faint odor tickled his nose. He leaned out into the tunnel, "Chanfer, Trowellon," he called As silence was returned to him, he sniffed the air. It seemed to him the scent was stronger, a faint musky odor, rising like a fog, barely sensed, slippery and nebulous. It was almost familiar, reminiscent of his youth. A memory hovered before him of lying on his pallet, his mother's concerned face above him. Even as he thought to call out a warning, the unseen fog seemed to reach up and choke off his voice, stifle all sensation. Behind him, a lamp went out. He tried to turned back, reaching for his ax to slash at the fog he knew was filled with threats, but it slipped through his fingers and so did consciousness.

As the mist spilled around the cavern, engulfing them, the dwarves dropped in sudden unconsciousness. The elves and Kramer dove for the remaining lamp, reached out to their fallen friends, but the light was smothered and they had only a last fleeting glimpse of thick swirls of fog swallowing the dwarves. Kramer drew his sword, stabbed wildly at the fog, but encountered nothing. Only Kramer and the elves and the two horses, shaking their heads and ears as if against some annoying fly, remained. Blackness surrounded and enveloped them as the last lamp went out. They were left with not even a hint that in some distant part of the world, a light still burned, save the four points of light that were the elves' eyes. They stood still in the darkness with their heart beats the only sound. Even elvish sight offered little. The mist swallowed all shape, all sign of life and warmth, and chilled them to the very core of their spirits.

Onaline reached out toward the pack she had seen nearby. Her hand slid across something slimy, nebulous as a cloud, cool and repulsive and she jerked her hand back even as the thing slid from her grasp. "There's something here," she whispered.

"Be careful, Onaline!"

"What just happened?"

"Toamm, Kramer?" Onaline called, comforted to hear their voices.

Toamm turned her head toward Onaline's voice, crouching as she turned against the memory of the many times when she had had to duck to avoid some low hanging obstacle in these tunnels. Kramer was discernible only as an irregular, harsh breath and a brush of sound when his boots scraped across the stone. He, too, bent low, fear and instinct telling him to protect his head from every nightmare he had ever dreamed as adult or child. "What was that?" he whispered again.

What indeed. Toamm at once suspected the dwarves of some magic trickery, wished for the comforting touch of Gem and Grant, and feared that her guides had been taken the way of Gliffonel. She could not bear the thought of the two youths in the evil one's hands. Close behind such thoughts was the growing dread that she would die in this dark, closed place. Panic, a thing virtually unknown among the immortals, tugged at the edges of her spirit as she tried to penetrate the encompassing fog.

"Is anyone else here?" Onaline called out, softly, not expecting any answer. A whoosh of breath from one of the horses made her chuckle though it offered no relief. Kramer moved toward that sound, stepping slowly, reaching out with his hands, dreading that his groping fingers might touch the cold dead body of one of the dwarves. He tried to push the thought away. Reluctantly, he sheathed his sword, knowing it would be more danger to his friends than help. Even the blindfolds had not left him so thoroughly in the dark.

"They have to be wraiths," Toamm said with a stab at calm. "They'll come for us when they have gotten the dwarves away. Or perhaps they have left us here to die."

"Would they be working alone or under His command? They''ll be back," Onaline said, answering her own question. "Kramer, can you find your pack? We need light to fight them."

"I'll try to find it, but if this fog doused the dwarf lamps, it will surely douse mine as well."

A slither of sound shifted around them, like snakes, but the sound seemed to rise up, standing, still distant, perhaps climbing the tunnel walls. "They're coming from behind, following our course, our scent maybe," Onaline said.

Kramer found a pack, prodded it quickly, but it wasn't what he needed and he shoved it aside. Beside him, Glimmer knickered and pawed the ground nervously, all but prancing in place but unwilling to move from a position he knew to be secure. "We need to move,"

"Where to?" Toamm asked. "At least here we know something of our ground."

"Kramer's right. We need to get away from this fog so we can see to fight. We'll join the dwarves' doom if we let the creatures reach us. Katin said the creatures couldn't be killed save by light."

"Light and elvish blades. Ah, here's Kramer's pack. Canst find what thou needst?"" she found Kramer's hand and pressed the pack strap into it. Quickly he dug into it, groping for lantern then the tin box in his belt pouch that would give it flame. His fingers fumbled with the stone and metal pieces within the pouch and he told himself it was a task he had done a hundred times in the dark. The spark struck a moment, flared and went out but in that moment he had seen the enemy. They filled the passageway behind them, sliding along the walls and floor like rats. They were pale things, long and thin and nearly transparent, wielding long ropes that seemed almost to wriggle of their own accord. The creatures screamed and ducked from the flare of light but he had no doubt that they could wield the strange ropes unerringly in the dark.

He grabbed Glimmer's reigns, felt Toamm and heard Sheba at his side as they moved quickly away from the creatures toward the opposite tunnel and Onaline. They expected the creatures to charge as they recovered from the shock of light but there was only more of the dry slithering sound moving into the cave, slowly encircling them.

Toamm, seeing moving shapes against the cool stone as the fog dissipated, found Kramer's free hand and laid it on Onaline's sleeve. Then she slid her own hand along Glimmer's back, finding the tail. The wraiths blended into the cool stone and air, but she was certain, now, that only the enemy lay behind them and she waved her sword at the darkness, hoping to keep the wraiths at bay. Her elbow touched Sheba's flank, and the elf pressed close to Glimmer's comforting presence as she expected any moment to feel one of the ropes dropping around her neck.

Onaline lead the way, stretching out all her senses to find a safe route, first to the opening, then into the fog that still clung to the spaces ahead. They made swift progress, yet slow enough that for several paces Onaline wondered why the weird didn't simply swarm them. Then her foot slipped against wet stone, stepping onto nothingness and down, off the path into empty space. Suddenly she was down on her belly, one leg dangling, the other knee at the edge. She scrambled with hands and elbows to get a solid grip on the wet stone ledge.

Kramer, just behind her, heard a gasp and felt her drop down, heard the scrape of her knife across the stone. He clutched her sleeve, felt it slip against his fingers and grabbed again for a better grip. When the sleeve lightened, he feared she was slipping from her coat but a moment later it lifted of its own accord, and her with it. Planting his own feet firm, he helped her to her feet, held her as her foot slipped against the edge. In other circumstances, the touch of her hand, the warm soft caress of her breath on his face might have thrilled the young lord, but now it only told him they were still alive. That was thrill enough.

Where to from here?

2011-12-17T19:47:00.003-06:00

I've discontinued posting my science fiction story here while I do some major rewrite, and the fantasy story is heading toward the end of volume two. Along the way' I've gotten the distinct impression that trying to read a fantasy novel one scene at a time over months isn't what readers are really looking for and this one hasn't garnered enough interest for anyone to comment or ask for it as a larger sections, so I don't currently plan on trying to post the next book, at least until I've taken a new look at (I've finally gotten away from it long enough to look at it with fresh eyes) and probably vastly revise and update it.

Would readers be interested in the revision process? Links to book reviews? I do lessons learned and writer's challenges on my other blog, but how about writing props, grammar advice, more basic discussions of writing besides just science fiction and fantasy? Any preferences? I'll probably start playing with ideas as Beyond the Wall winds up. If you can't post comments, you can e-mail suggestions to wyverns @ earthlink dot net

BTW Chapter 23 part 1

2011-12-17T19:43:00.001-06:00

Eventually Toamm became certain that they had come as deep as mountains were high. She found herself stepping lightly, silently, not so much to ease her feet as to remained unnoticed by the vast bulk of the stone and dirt overhead. If the earth was unaware of her intrusion, perhaps it would allow her to pass in peace. The cheery conversation that flowed around her failed to lighten her spirit. On rare occasion she smiled at the words and antics of Gem and Grant, but mostly they reminded her of Gliffonel. She wondered whether he was still alive, and what they would do to him in Davinia. Even if she had green grass beneath her feet and sunlight through sweeping boughs overhead, the elf would still find few joys in life. Rather she would dream of joining those who had left their living bodies for that other life, and an end to caring.

Onaline became aware of her friend's long silence and sought to ease it with a cheery song of the Vale, but though the dwarves seemed pleased by the melody, the echoing stone was not the open air of the racing fields, and tunnels seemed to turn the cheery song into a kind of lament, like the false merriment surrounding the departure of friends on a new journey. Blindfolded, Onaline could imagine that Gliffonel was still with them. His gruff and solid presence echoed softly in Cleat's steady voice. Cleats reclaimed her attention with his loving descriptions of their surroundings, beyond her ability to discern. The wanderer began to understand how the dwarves could know so much about the land. Living always within the earth itself, they could not help but pick up on every shade and nuance of hardness, every tone and quality of sound and vibration. Then Cleats would use an unusual turn of phrase, say in a dozen words what Gliffonel would have said in two, and she would be forcefully reminded again that Gliffonel was gone.

Cleats knew his charges were suffering, both sorrow at their recent loss and the growing stress from the limitations imposed on them by their blindfolds and their surroundings. To him, the stone was a comforting presence, like a steady friend and ally, but it welcomed strangers no more than they welcomed the confinement of unbreakable walls.

"Soon we will rest. I have a test for Onaline there, but once it is done, the blindfolds will be removed until we reach Strotum's caverns, more than a day hence."

It was not long to the resting place and they walked in silence. Toamm and Kramer were allowed to take their blindfolds off and they watched closely as Onaline was lead to the center of the cave in which they had halted. Cleats had a single question for her. "What lies ahead, as far as your senses can reach?"

The dwarves could be very quiet when they wanted to be and shortly they settled into virtual silence, so that even their breath seemed loud, as they waited to see what an elf might sense of stone. Kramer, sitting very still, recognized that this test might be an important clue to Onaline's heritage, though he couldn't imagine Onaline with a dwarfish sire or dam, so little did she resemble them. Yet even he, after several hours surrounded by rock, had begun to feel craggy and course, with grit so deep in his skin that might never scrub out. How much of their hardness and rough edges were a result of living in a hard and harsh environment, none of which Onaline had experienced until now? He listened closely to Onaline's words and tried to sense what she must be feeling of the sound, rock, and air.

Onaline settled herself cross legged on the course stone floor. She tried to relax and reach out as Cleats, Gliff, and Toamm had all advised, with all of her senses save sight. At first she was aware only of her immediate surroundings. The air had the slightly metallic scent of mineral-rich stone, and the more acrid, dusty smell of people who had traveled long and steadily in the cool damp of the caves. Her tongue, more discerning, tasted copper and iron rust, and a fine grittiness that faded as everyone settled and stilled. The sounds were rich and varied: the deep slow breathing of herself and her companions, the flick of a horse's tail, and the whoosh of a horse's breath all gave texture to the cave around her. Beyond those were the drip and barely sensed splash of water, and a steady hum of wind that didn't reach her cheek.

Thinking of the lessons of the past hours, she decided that most of the variations in the sounds and the irregular airflow were due to close presence of over a dozen fellow travelers. They must be spread out along a small cave and into a relatively narrow stretch of tunnel.

Her hands told her more. As she had done even in her early wandering days, she spread her hands flat against the floor. The stone here was course, grainy, soft as down compared to some of the stone floors they'd hiked, a loose gardner's cocktail of earth and gravel in place of the dense, even tone of Ramforth's Folly. Here was a place dwarf miners had cut quickly and with relative ease, and a place that carried to her hands messages from further away.

Solid layers of rock stretched far above and below her, a vast expanse that had over time become cracked and thin in spots like an old muscle-man's body under the unrelenting drip of underground water, but still whole and powerful. It supported the mountain that otherwise might fall in on them, fall down into a ... space, a place ahead of them less solid than even the soil beneath her now and she remembered the gap within the Wall.

"Water and air flow beyond the stone," the half-elf said. "Open yet enclosed, extending both high and low."

Though Onaline couldn't see it, Cleats grinned at the typically elvish phrasing, full of seeming riddles and contradictions, yet more true than probably even she understood.

"Is there a bridge across a vast... hole?" Onaline asked.

Snorts of laughter and a mutter of low mountain voices greeted her awkward words, nor could they help laughing at the thought of a bridge successfully spanning what they knew to lie ahead. Yet it was a reasonable guess and their faces held neither scorn nor ridicule as she pulled her blindfold off.

"Hmm," Cleats said, swallowing his own laughter in order to speak clearly. "Very good. Though I would not call it a hole. It is a Kafecha, a kind of chasm. The water is from above, tiny rivulets from a spring and an underground lake above us. The water has worn away a soft center and built its own formations, carrying tons of stone little by little over tens of hundreds of years. We, too, have built in it, to serve our needs. It is a disturbing place, ever changing, and one which no one could traverse blindfolded."

"What is disturbing about change?" Kramer wondered. "Life is ever changing and well so, else we would be bored beyond endurance."

"In your youth, perhaps, human, for the young have much to learn and change provides experience. Older men, though want safety and security,. Safety lies in certainty, and change has none. You will be able to see for yourself whether the Kafecha is disturbing, tomorrow, but we will rest here the night."

They had barely begun to unload packs and consider food when one of the lead guards returned in a rush. "Sir," she addressed Cleats breathlessly. "Trowellon and I heard someone--movement--down one of the branching tunnels. There might be a patrol out but no one answered our hail. You know how the echoes are, near the Kafecha. They might be miles or around the corner."

Check the dollar store first

2011-12-09T22:02:00.002-06:00

Each 'dollar store' (The Dollar Store, Dollar Tree, Dollar other things... even different stores in the same chain) has its own selection, and quality is a definite consideration prior to purchasing, but for things where quality is less of a concern than that something functional be on hand when needed, a dollar or similar discount store can cut costs by a third with no other impact.

I find this especially true for party things. It's amazing how much party supplies can add up. A good party store is more likely to have exactly what you want for the perfect presentation and a very specific theme (It just has to be dinosaurs), but they often have unnecessarily large quantities and the the dollar-type stores sometimes have plenty that fits an appropriate theme, especially if all that really matters is that the holiday or celebration be right (I's not cool to have "over the hill" balloons for a kids birthday party, for example, or birthday napkins for an anniversary, but maybe it doesn't matter if its Thanksgiving turkeys or pilgrims or just fall colors). They may not have pirates, but they might have bright colors or clowns or something else appropriate for a birthday, and napkins and paper plates to match.

What they most often lack is large quantities. Occasionally they might have several packages the same but there's no guarantee. They are not a store for buying in bulk. Another thing they are good for is storage and presentation containers. When you are giving away cookies, for example, it's nice to give them in a container that the recipient keep, even better if it one they can keep. If they are only for one person, maybe a fancy tin is worthwhile, but if you have a lot of people to give cookies to, and you want them to appreciate the cookies more than the container, a dollar store might offer reusable containers (singly or two or three at a time depending on size and type) as cheap or cheaper than the grocery store disposal containers that have recently become more readily available (to the dismay of "green" supporters and environmentalists). They might not have the exact style you're looking for, but the recipients don't know what you have in mind and the dollar store's are likely to have something in the ballpark of what you need. Let the cookies take their attention. That's where you put the effort.

BTW Chapter 22 part 3

2011-12-09T21:43:00.002-06:00

Once they were on their way, few stumbling stones delayed their progress. Gem and Grant took turns leading Toamm themselves, and coached the other young mountain folks on how to safely guide Kramer, Onaline, and the horses. The new guides were hesitant at first and Kramer, towering above all the dwarves, avoided injury as much by luck as the skills of his guides, but those soon learned the intricacies of the task and found ways to safely cope with each new hazard.

Slopes and awkward turns through narrow passageways and pillared caverns were the most common trouble at first. In places, carvings seemed to reach out and grab at unwary hair and clothes. Stalactites hanging low over still pools added character and life to the underground city, and made the frustrated guides long for the time when their charges could be allowed to duck them for themselves. They had far rather be showing the three the beauty of the underground passages than protecting their charges from every little protrusion. A small rock fall turned what should have been a clear path into a treacherous obstacle course. The three travelers stood quiet, listening intently as their guides and guards shifted stone from the path and cleared a route through which the party soon wound. Further on, a single great slab of rippled stone had slid after long decades of stillness to a lower resting place, and the blindfolded were guided with careful instructions and guiding hands over a shelf of rock that seemed monstrous until they heard the horses lightly skip over it as over the smallest bush.

To Onaline, every touch and sound seemed magnified. Her hands touched sharp-edged crystalline surfaces, rock formations slick with water and mold, and walls of more textures than she could name or imagine, as if every mineral and stone had a texture of its own. The undercity offered a feast to her hungry fingers and she urged Cleats and her guides to name every one, though the dwarfish words came haltingly to her own lips and were too many to remember as more than a blur of passing consonants and sounds. The stone had a taste, too, a taste that lingered in the air, sometimes bitter and metallic as a passing draft touched her tongue, sometimes sweet and fresh as an open field, calling Toamm down some other path, though Gem and Grant never let her follow that siren's call for long. Around and through it all reverberated the muffled rhythms and rattle of their passage, echoing and echoing from corners and openings and smooth stone walls, ceiling, and floors in every direction. At times the soft sursurring sounds and distinctive clicks of horses hooves on stone seemed to blend and merge into words, as if the mountain were trying to speak to them. Though the sounds were never loud, Onaline's ears rang with the constancy of it, then ached when the sounds and echoes paused. Touch and scent, taste and sound, they filled her mind with color, images, and energy and only her eyes knew darkness.

She was glad for rest in a quiet space with few echoes when finally Cleats ordered a stop, and it was clear that her companions, too, were relieved. Kramer sagged beside her onto a bench of stone with a heavy sigh and Toamm asked her, "Dost thy feet survive? Mine weary of this stone."

"Your feet hurt? Why?" Gem asked, still standing beside them.

"Stone is hard, child, my shoes are designed for grass and soft earth and horseback."

"They are soft creatures, Gem," Grant said, implying by his tone that he thought his sister a fool for asking.

"I haven't noticed you offering a solution." Gem retorted, and Onaline could envision her standing face to face with her brother, hands on her wide hips. "We could carry her. She doesn't look to weigh anything at all."

"No, thank you!"

"Toamm, it was thee who taught me to walk lightly," Onaline reminded her friend. "This stone may take our weight more easily than grass, but our feet like not the weight of the stone in return. Walk as thou taught me to walk, on the air."

Cleats made a grumbling sort of sound that Onaline thought might be a suppressed laugh but all he said was "It isn't actually stone, right here. This is dirt. Packed to be sure but still dirt."

"Is that why it doesn't echo, here?"

"Very good. Even packed dirt will take the sound and not give it back. Nor will it give our presence away, though it marks our passing."

After that break, Cleats started, as he called it, a test of Onaline's nature, though it took more the form of lessons to start. As if intended, it also took their minds off their feet. Instead of limiting his comments to the names of the local minerals, he began to describe their surroundings in great detail, beyond anything that even he could see. He described the placement and structure of narrow shafts that brought light and fresh air from outside to the deep inner spaces of the mountain, the colors and types of sparkle--each with their own dwarfish words--of the layers of stone and mineral through which they slowly descended, and all the flowing formations of water-born stone that adorned many caves like living sculptures. He described the structure of each cavern and the fabric of the mountain that formed the walls. He brought their attention to each subtle difference in the echoing sounds of their movement and speech, giving mountain names to each effect while explaining its source, cause, and direction.

While Kramer was amused by the thought that so many words could express the same thing, and Toamm wondered that anyone could show such love and enthusiasm for the nature of rocks, Onaline tried to absorb it all, remembering her long journey through the maze within the wall, the curious sounds and echoes that had greeted her there until she had dared to light her lamp. She wondered how much a dwarf would understand of the maze without ever walking it, how quickly they might find their way through if they had the will and desire, and if it were not to them a wall of great fearsome trees, across unfriendly elvish and human lands.

Cleats discussed the great variety of stone, minerals and gems in their thin layers and mountain-deep slabs. Somewhere distant, he told them, well out of any sight but not of hearing, was a canyon-like crack whose formation had shaken the land. Elsewhere were pinhole sized hollows shaped and carved by a hundred generations of water droplets. He could point the way to them based on the sound that reached his ears and on the feel of the stone beneath his feet, and to the extent that words could convey it, he told the travelers how they too might recognize the signs.

When finally they stopped for lunch, the three were permitted to remove their blindfolds. Despite the dim light provided by a single lantern, they found the place uncomfortably bright and distressingly harsh. The cave, barely more than a widening of the passage with benches carved into the walls, was raggedly carved and all of a single gray-brown hue from course floor to rounded ceiling.

"Ramforth's Folly, this is called." Cleats told them. Gem and Grant smiled, clearly recognizing both the name and a lead-in to a story, and several of the gray bearded dwarves that served as the party's guards nodded sagely. The three travelers exchanged disparaging looks, surprised that the undistinguished place was thought worthy of a name. "Captain Ramforth and his team were among the first to penetrate the Labyrinth."

"You didn't create it?" Kramer asked.

"The mountains themselves built it. We modify it to our needs and connected sections. So it was that Ramforth decided to put in a passage between what lies ahead and behind. Sorry to say, his aides were no use to him at all. One argued for a place downslope of here, along a river channel. The channel would have had to be greatly widened, but it is easier to widen a hole than to create one. His other aide argued for a place upslope of here where, it is believed, a small depth of tough stone is followed by soft earth and caverns that end on a tunnel wall in the next section. The digging would be easier, but more risky, in the case that the hollow is too deep or the soil too soft to support a tunnel. The aides argued bitterly and aggravated Ramforth incessantly. In the end, instead of choosing one route or the other, he decided to go between the two, carving a tunnel through solid mountain core. He put the two together to work on it for all the years that it took. This cave marks the center point."

"The strength of your diggers was great, " Toamm conceded, "though their wisdom less. I don't think even the roots of the great red-heart tree would break this rock apart in less than a few generations of dwarves."

Such casual comments, words of little importance to even the sentence in which they lay; such as these could be the sparks to set forests of questions, interest, and excitement ablaze all unknowing. Of such nature were Toamm's words "red-heart tree" when they reached the ears of dwarves and humans alike, and most especially when they reached the foundling of another land.

"I haven't heard of a tree that could break this apart in a hundred generations," Cleats got in first. "Where are they to be found?"

"Alive, there are but a few in the Woods of the elves, The remains of many more--hollow trunks and the cut boards--fill the wall of Division. They are its heart, the foundation on which its magic was built."

Onaline felt like a child, back in school in Bywall. "But the circles, the plots where they once grew, it's still possible to see them. Pieces of their trunks remain."

"It is the nature of the red-heart wood to linger, ever strong. They are the strongest of all living things, growing to great heights, with little care for animals or lightning or winds that topple lesser things. Their roots are long and powerful, going ever deeper into the earth and taking their strength from her. That strength lasts, even when the life has gone out of it. If it were otherwise, the Wall would have crumbled long ago. Though perhaps they crumble now, at long last. The seal has been broken, as it could not have been in its youthful strength."

"I hadn't noticed any crumbling when I came through, nor any sign of age, yet the seal had to have been broken nearly twenty years ago, when I was brought through as a babe."

Cleat's was not the only eyebrow to rise. "So short a time as that?"

"You're younger than we are! Surely you are still growing!" Gem bounced to her feet.

Toamm reminded Onaline, "Something that has stood since before Medwen was born won't fall in a few seasons, child. Perhaps in a generation or two of dwarves, the decay will be observable to human eyes. We would likely see it sooner, but not yet."

Onaline gave a soft sigh. The discussion of the Wall reminded her of her friends in Mattias. Mikkel Roam would wonder at all the interest in events long past, but Tei Chao would absorb every word in quiet fascination, listening to every nuance from these people as old as his ancient texts. Kramer would have sympathized with Mikkel, for while his own interest was pricked by the ageless wood, his real curiosity was reserved for the the ages of elves and the others around him now. The discussion reminded him that Toamm, for all her hundreds of years, was young compared to the elven leaders. He tried to recall if there'd been any mention that would give him a clue to the age of Medwen, but Kramer only knew that Medwen was Toamm's great uncle and considered ancient and wise even by other elves. If the Barrier was older than even the immortal elves, it was a wonder that even legend s of times before Division lingered in both lands.

Cleats corrected his reasoning. "It may seem long to you, but it is not so long to us. In times not long past, it was still in living memory. Those memories were shared with humans as well as with our own young, for there was more contact then than now and much story telling. I would estimate that the wall was built during the coming of the Elves' Wise Ones. Perhaps that is in your legends?"

"The Glorious Generation," Onaline offered. "It's said there was a time when each of the three races brought forth several leaders, known for an extra measure of skill, wisdom, and intelligence, who set a number of problems right."

"The Peak?" Cleats wondered. "I hadn't thought of the times as coming together, although it seems likely enough. Among the Mountain folk were the Lords of Crystal who could wield magic more powerful than that of elves with the use of special gems and stones." He gave his children a quick smile and Onaline wondered if it was those particular ones that they were named for.

Kramer found himself nodding. "We , too, have such tales, though they are more confused. Some say there were three rulers, some eight, some that they grew up after the time of Division. Thinking on it now, I suspect I know where the other five went. Most of the Humans must have lived in the east, then."

Cleats nodded in turn. "It would have been a time when such wisdom and skill was much needed, when unity meant strength but Division meant survival. So they must have believed. They would have seemed like heroes: intelligent and wise, confident, full of well-earned pride. So it would have appeared to the people who served them."

"But I wonder what they thought of themselves?" Toamm mussed softly.

"What dost thou mean?"

"In the tend, child, the Wise Ones were remembered as great and powerful leaders. Yet they were people -- elves, dwarves, or humans, children of their parents, with families and friends, teachers as well as aides. When did they, themselves, come to know greatness?"

The conversation, and Toamm's question, gave them all something to think about as the blindfolds were replaced and their journey resumed. The three did not appreciate having to be lead again like helpless children, but after awhile the frustration passed and even Toamm found she didn't need the guides as much as she had thought. Perhaps with the aide of Cleat's lectures, or just the experience of several hours walking through halls of stone, they were all able to step with more confidence and to sense some of the changes around them, without fear that their guides would lead them into obstacles. They ducked more quickly, almost before the guides gave any sign, and recognized the slow downward trend of their route.

BTW Chapter 22 part 2

2011-12-06T20:21:00.001-06:00

It was easier said than to decide, and far more complex to act on than either. Every solution provided new problems and the rules the nervous among the dwarves tried to set only delayed the departure everyone now sought. The dwarves reluctantly conceded the need to bring the horses, but it was quickly obvious that that would be no easy task. Nor were supplies an easy matter despite the short trip. The deep tunnels were not a place where food for travelers, horses, or their guides could be supplemented along the route with grazing, hunting, or quick purchases. Pegger and his cronies insisted that the use of blindfolds continue for the first and last parts of the journey--Cleats mocked them for suggesting they were needed all the way.

"What, you credit elves and humans with the skills to navigate the labyrinth without a mountain guide? I didn't realize you held them in such respect." They threatened to argue the number of guides and guards until Cleats declared himself in charge of the whole trek, guiding, guarding, and leading the route himself. He quickly made decisions, and as quickly revised them after the horses had been moved into a cave to wait an hour. Two miscreants were assigned the task of cleaning up after the beasts. They estimated at most a two day journey under the Mouth and through the mountain on the other side, but planned for three and brought food that could be stretched to four in case they encountered some barrier to the horses' passage near the farthest end.

"Are you certain you can't do without the horses?" Cleats had asked after the first attempt by the dwarves to lead the horses into the caves failed.

"Do you want to carry the ladies, fighting all the way?" Kramer asked the captain's aide. "And it won't go unnoticed if Glimmer makes his way home without me, again. Even accompanied by humans who could explain the reason, his arrival riderless stirred up a row the last time." Toamm had already confided to him that only their willingness to go to the trouble of bringing Glimmer and Sheba had convinced her the whole thing wasn't a ruse, a way to kill them well away from dwarfish homes. The dwarves might take them into the Labyrinth and abandon them there, trap them in some cave until starvation or madness from the endless dark killed them.

The presence of horses necessitated the presence of four handlers--two for each steed-- coached by Kramer and the elves, as well as two to clean up in their wake. The three travelers would each have their own guides while they were blindfolded, and Cleats insisted on a minimum of four more that would guard ahead and behind as they walked. Those guiding the travelers could join the guard force when the blindfolds were removed. He considered more guards, considering the numbers that had been sent against the four in the swamp, but seventeen people and two horses would be as large a group as some of the passages could readily handle. More than that would just get in the way.

Cleats took it all in stride, acting--except for frequent sighs--as if it were the most natural thing to make plans and change them every few minutes. His feet and heart were planted equally deep in the stable earth but his legs were flexible as willow trees above the ground at need. The horses' brand of stubbornness tested his will, but he learned to listen to their riders, and came to see why their riders would be loath to give up such loyal and intelligent steeds.

The packs and surviving gear of the man and elves were distributed among the dwarves, as was food for the horses for the journey, since Cleats would not have the travelers carry packs while they were walking blindfolded. Elves and even humans could travel quietly through caves of dwarfish making, and the click click of horses hooves would more likely be mistaken than correctly guessed by anyone with the ears to hear it. No need to add curses from packs catching and bumping on unseen formations.

Shifting things around

2011-12-06T20:01:00.002-06:00

I've moved my gardening and cooking notes, especially cooking notes, to my other blogspot blog. You might be able to navigate to my home page but in case you can't, it's at http://enefood.blogspot.com

This week I'm participating in a blog tour for a book - Corus the Champion, a teen/young adult fantasy novel by D.Barkley Briggs. Its Monday through Wednesday and one of the Monday posts has a list of other blog participants if you'd like to learn more about the book and get other opinions. It's posted at my blog that is mostly how I write stories and information for writers - http://home.earthlink.net/~wyverns

High fantasy

2011-11-25T22:06:00.003-06:00

On my other blog and on the science fiction and fantasy group on facebook, I and others have occasionally discussed changes in science fiction over the last generation; changes in definition, changes is audience and what's being published and how they impact each other. But as I think about the fantasy story I've been posting on this blog, I realize the same is happening with fantasy, to a degree. Fantasy enjoys far better success (and much of the more successful so-called science fiction is really fantasy in many respects, too) as exemplified by what makes it into tv and movies (and that's what most publishers are hoping for in the novels they choose, because that's where the big money comes in besides the stuff that makes it into the classroom as required reading). In some respects, old classic fantasy (including fair tales) are even staging something of a comeback. But like science fiction, it's all got a new, modern twist, being set in near-contemporary worlds and mixed up with contemporary fiction genre's (Grimm being a cop show, for example). Even Harry Potter is set in modern England, though some who aren't fans see the victorian-era garb and assume it has a historical setting).

I've seen and heard discussions of high fantasy as if it were still popular. It at least doesn't seem to have lost its definition as much science fiction has, but I'm not seeing any make it big. Am I missing something? For awhile, I saw quite a few books that might almost fit into it: pseudo medieval settings of elf-like beings or beings calling themselves elves (though they don't fit either the fairy tale or Tolkein definition that I can tell), but none recently. The closest that I saw get good billing was Dwarf or Dwarves. (The really cool helm on the cover is what sticks in my mind more than the name.

It would be sad if high fantasy slid into the obscure past, another lost genre, just when we have writers that let the women play cool roles in them. Women having cool roles was notably lacking in most of what I had been finding when it was more popular and it remains rare in the newer sorts of fantasy I've been seeing. I hope it's not a trend that every time a sub genre gets cool women characters, it fades out. I was encouraged to believe that women in lead roles was the in thing (since the guys don't seem to mind at all and the women certainly enjoy it). McCaffrey was billed as a trend setter in that regard, and a few other SF writers have had varying degrees of success with female or mixed leads (though none of them stick in my mind the way Menolly, Lessa, and Helva do) but it's not a trend that has made it to media and will only stay a trend if publishers accept it as such.

BTW Chapter 22 part 1

2011-11-25T22:03:00.001-06:00

Kramer and Onaline rested and dozed, relatively comfortable in the cool air of the caverns now that their hands were unbound and their eyes once again uncovered. Toamm remained awake, resting a little in elvish fashion but mostly vigilant, gazing at the doorway. She was determined to continue so for years if she must, rather than close her eyes within a prison of stone.

Gem and Grant, both in their forties, were barely more than adolescents by mountain reckoning, They had taken the three to bathing pools fed by hot springs and sent messengers to bring fresh bandages and medicines for their wounds. The travelers had then been permitted outside briefly to see to the needs of their horses. When they returned, it had been to a larger sleeping cave, which was quickly cleared and dusted at the stern insistence and under the close supervision of Gem and Grant, taking the order for the comfort of their charges in the broadest sense.

Still no word came. When sleep fled, Onaline sat up and tucked her feet under her, cross-legged on her pallet, rocking slowly back and forth as her thoughts churned. When Kramer was awake, they had filled the time with a slow dribble of conversation, memories of Gliffonel, observations on their situation, and consideration of their next step as if thy were free to leave whenever they felt ready. After several hours the pretense was wearing thin.

"Onaline, how is thy side?"

"The pain has faded. In Hadon I was reminded of the wound like a sudden strong memory, no more. This is the first time the actual pain has returned, as if the wound was new."

"Before, he was perhaps sensing only your nature, but you said in Hadon that he sensed what was going on around you. With each such moment of connection, he will learn more. It may be no more, yet, than that you are a half-elf from Beyond. If he stood in this place, this moment, he might not recognize that you were the one he sought. Soon, with the torgs who captured Gliffonel reporting what they saw of his traveling companions, he may soon know more of who you are."
"
Perhaps it is simpler than that," Captain's Aide Cleats suggested from the doorway. He bowed and asked permission to enter and they waved agreement, wondering how he would have reacted to a refusal. There was something about this dwarf that suggested he would have gone away, merely saddened by the encounter. "You were discussing how the torgs found you? perhaps the clue was something you carried, some object he wants but you don't see as valuable."

His guess on the topic was a little off the mark, but the suggestion applied well enough. Onaline looked down at herself, and saw nothing more of note than in the past, just her dusty leathers and pouches of herbs, nothing of value to one who ruled and entire kingdom and wielded powers beyond her understanding. "The only thing I have had with me since he first showed his hands was a sheath, now wherever they have taken our weapons."

"No piece of jewelry, perhaps?" Cleats offered. "Certain crystals are known to have powers even the dwarves don't always understand, though we value what we discover. Amber, mineral salts, certain composites of iron are especially known for being imbued with their own magic."

"I have no jewelry, but my sheath has several stones. Medwen said was one a Moonstone. I don't know their names or nature of the rest, though Gliffonel thought it might be of dwarfish making."

Gem fetched it so quickly it must have been only feet away, and she brought the rest of their weapons along with, piled high and awkwardly but passing them carefully through the low doorway. Onaline explained the sheath's history as far as she knew it. As Gliffonel had done, Cleats noted the ancient runes but could not read them, recognized mountain craftsmanship and the incongruity of such skill being used to make an elvish styled long knife. He noted that the bloodstones were the most valuable as well as distinctive decoration and showed appreciation for the embroidered while flowers that looked so real. While the deep red stones seemed to glow with an inner flame when held up to a candle, it was not a fire of true light or any other power that Cleats could discern. "If it is this, its power sleeps."

For Onaline's own quest, Cleats had a little more encouragement to offer. "Up here, we watch and guard and have little contact with humans. Nor have we much trade, for the mines here produce little of value save to us. But in the north and west, there's both commerce and communication. Hadon forgets but Western Reaches is in frequent contact with Captain Strotum and his people beyond the Mouth, and more near Crown Mountain in the north. Some of our old ones there might know the runes. I would guess that a human commissioned a knife for an elf. If he were willing to pay enough, a human could have persuaded mountain craftsmen to make such a blade, and a sheath to match it."

Onaline also took the bandage off her hand--the cut was already nearly healed--and showed Cleats her star. "Could he think to steal my star as if it were a stone of magic?" she wondered aloud. She held her hand out to him, pam up and the three-ar
med star glinted in the dim lighting.

"Only if he's a fool, though he may hope somehow to use whatever gift it gives you."

"Then perhaps he can tell me what that gift is. I have discovered none that my mixed birth couldn't have given me."

"Such things are likely to be learned of necessity rather than any conscious effort. No matter. You'll have the chance to ask Captain Strotum about the trade with humans yourself for I have good news." He gestured to the pile of weapons. "It has been agreed that all three of you will be provided safe passage through the Labyrinth, under the Mouth. Once through, Strotum can put you in contact with the humans of Western Reaches, if that is your wish, or release you to your own mutual help and protection. Someone among his folk might volunteer to accompany you further, taking Gliffonel's place, but we can make no guarantee of that."

Only Toamm frowned, doubting greatly the value of this good news. A labyrinth did not sound like a place anyone could pass through safely, and she was certain that she wouldn't be safe until she walked among the trees of the west.

Onaline was intrigued. "What persuaded them?"

Cleats shrugged. "I reminded them that Gliffonel had been captured, not killed. If he was just in the way of reaching you, they wouldn't have bothered taking him prisoner. Even Pegger and his tunnelmates had to see it meant the torgs might come for Toamm, too, if we held her here. The torgs are trouble enough without storing torg bait in our midst.

Kramer nodded. Had he not tried to make the same argument with his father? "Not cowards, but they recognize undue danger when they see it."

Christmas shopping lists

2011-11-15T21:18:00.003-06:00

There are lots of ways to Christmas shop. I shop all year, finding it easier to find interesting gifts at unfamiliar stores when I travel. Toward the end of the year, though, it's time to be a little more organized and I start matching gifts to recipients, to make sure that I have something for everyone, and to make sure I haven't bought enough for a couple of Christmases. When the budget is tight, I check sooner. Give yourself a budget for gifts and stick to it. A "little extra" adds up rapidly over several gifts for several people.

The other way to handle limited financial budgets (or something to consider if not limited) is to consider whether it might be appropriate to spend time instead of money. Crafters say that the time it takes to make something is worth ten times the material cost of supplies, and the reactions of recipients often seem to prove the point, even for crafts that don't take much skill or training. It's like certain wonderful treats (one of the ones I like is ginger-candied orange peels, but it takes a lot of careful peeling to make a little pile of treats) that you know are a pain to make: you so appreciate the person who went to the bother of making it because it's your favorite! Since I've been doing a bunch of crochet this year, I became aware that crocheted and knitted things have become more rare in the stores, so a certain uniqueness value is added, too. Handmade Christmas ornaments might not get much use, but can be an annual reminder of you and your interest in the recipient, much more so than something purchased at a store. Time is precious. Spending a little of it on a friend or family members can make a great gift.

BTW Chapter 21 part 5

2011-11-15T21:08:00.001-06:00

Onaline told them briefly what Gliffonel had told her in the mountains, barely more than a reaction to her appearance and her interest in Turamur. "As to how I came here, from Mattias, the wall of trees is a wall of stone and wood on the other side, with many openings into a vast maze of halls and stairs and gaping holes and dead-end passageways. I could not have been the first though, to come through. Someone must have carried me through as an infant from here. No elves or dwarves have lived on the other side since the time of division."

To Cleat's annoyance and the amusement of Onaline, the line of questioning took a turn away from the present day reality into philosophy and history and Onaline was reminded of many discussions she had witnessed among the lore folk of Mattias, and of Tie Chao's accounts of the Grand Council of Loremen when it was being notably obtuse. They didn't even have the careful teachings of lore masters and stacks of old books at hand on which to base their argument, but they were all full of ideas about the meaning of the ancient sayings, and whether or not their theories could ‘prove' whether Onaline had come from the other Beyond and still have the blood of the mountains in her veins. That the argument was carried out in at least two languages only added to the similarity and added to the amusement of the sorrowful travelers.

Captain's Aide Cleats, who occasionally managed to reclaim the floor for a brief comment, always spoke in the common tongue and Nostrum usually did. Some defended their right to speak in the mountain tongue by doing so, often loudly, while most were somewhat inconsistent, using common tongue when they wanted the travelers to understand either explanations that perhaps others were trying to conceal, or blatant insults about the honesty, character, and historic reliability of the travelers and their kinds.

They held their tongues for the most part, but when Pegger, in common tongue, accused Gliffonel of madness or treachery, Toamm jumped to her feet ready to fight and defend his name, and the others close behind her. "Gliffonel is brighter and more steadfast than any of this lot of babble and nonsense! He listened to facts and discarded traditions that no longer made sense, and did all that he could to protect good and defeat the evil that threatens us all."

Cleats was shocked. It was unheard of, surely, for an elf to speak on behalf of one dwarf against another. What strange circumstances could bring such behavior? Surely this was as great a portent as someone coming from Beyond. He found the answers disturbingly tenuous. He, like most of his kind, preferred a subject he could grasp with both hands, and facts that fit a pattern like the facets of a crystal

Kramer's reaction to it all was to stand in a stony silence. He buried his anger and frustration at Gliffonel's capture, though it was awakened again briefly by the rude insults of those who should have known better--so that he could consider the future, the need to protect the ladies that had become more urgent. It hardly mattered why they came to their decision. What mattered more was how he and the ladies must respond if the decision went against them, He could hardly consider such things seriously while bound and blindfolded, unable even to scout his immediate surroundings, and he suppressed a yawn. Even the hidden energy that had come to him during battle, helping him to continue a fight that had begun when he was already exhausted, fled him now.

Onaline wanted to make them understand that their decision would not only effect the three, but all of them, even the whole world, though she could hardly credit herself that anything that happened to her could have such an impact. Some few of them came close to understanding aspects of it, seemed to grasp a wider impact to their actions. "If we let them go, they could turn against us." "If they are dead, what will He do, then?" Such words chilled her to the core, but the questions were wrong, as if truth had been given a twist. Why should the three do anything, if they were set happily free? Why should the three be killed for merely being who they were? What of the dwarves if they killed the innocent travelers that they had fought so hard to save? Nor was it only their words that disturbed her, but their voices. The speech, the terse, straightforward phrases and and course voices were all like Gliffonel's, yet some quality seemed to be missing. It wasn't him. Perhaps if she could see their faces, that missing quality would prove to be a visual expression of character, but more likely the difference would be made more obvious. None of these were Gliff, much though she wanted him to be here and safe among them.

Nostrum's voice, ringing clear through the cavern underlined the fact that the others had fallen quiet. "Ladies, Lord Kramer. I've decided to aide Onaline and the human past the mouth, but the elf stays."

Onaline and Kramer jumped to their feet. "No! " "You can't 'keep her prisoner."

"What of when they are beyond the Mouth?" Toamm asked quietly.

"It doesn't matter, Toamm, we won't let... "

"They will be allowed to continue."

"No. If you're going to send them off without me, you must send some of your people with to protect them. We've already lost Gliffonel."

"You think you are with several of us?"

"With my own weapons, certainly more." Her words were like a song of pride and one no one would question who had seen her wield her bow, knife, and sword against the creatures of evil. Onaline was pleased to hear that her friend's spirit had been reawakened, but it was unacceptable that she male such a plea for her friends while accepting such an evil fate for herself. If she remained here, the full elf might never again see open skies or green and growing things. "Never" was a very long time for an elf!

"I won't leave here without Toamm, unless to see her returned safe and free to the green places of wood or Vale. I have one friend a prisoner, I will do whatever I must to prevent there being two."

Grumbles circled around Onaline at these words. Clearly the dwarves didn't appreciate the clear parallel between the Evil One and themselves. They had wanted the safety of Onaline's absence and a token for their troubles to retain, and knew well that even the gentlest captivity would be torture to the Free Folk, the Immortals who would never accept a room or home of stone by choice. Confidence in the equanimity of their decision crumbled like sandstone and the argument erupted again. Quietly Captain's Aide Cleat instructed his children "Gem, Grant, find them a sleeping chamber and see to their needs."

A Culture of Solitude

2011-11-11T12:26:00.002-06:00

Cuani walked without seeing, the countryside around her empty of the people that could give her sight. It was a rare joy. The wind was a warm comfort against her face and set the drapes of her shield mesh dancing across her legs. She pulled the mesh, a shapeless dress of web-thin ceramic beads, off over her head and draped it around her shoulders, realizing that here she didn't need it. Here she was not inundated by the sensations and thoughts of other people. She could feel instead the reality of the nuanen farmland through which she strode.

"Stay on the road til there is no more road, if you really want to walk that far, then turn left. There's a driveway but it's kind of windy, and the house a bit up slope to the right. Hopefully they'll spot you if you can't find the house. It's open enough, but they might not be looking."

That's what the shuttle pilot had told her when she disembarked and asked for directions instead of a ride. The shuttle wasn't allowed in the farmlands, nor motorized vehicles, but buggy drivers could be booked in advance. Buggy drivers and hosts and empaths were all that were allowed. And her. Wherever empaths but not telepaths, wherever telepaths but not empaths, she could go almost always. But she had checked. The exceptions were rare but important. She hadn't bothered with the buggy driver. It was a walkable distance and she wanted to experience it without the encumberance of people.

The sun, she could feel, was already high overhead, warming her hair, her forehead, a little of one cheek. The mesh was keeping the sun from heating her shoulders, an unexpected benefit. Academically, she knew the mesh was a kind of temperature moderator, but that wasn't it's purpose, just a side bonus she forgot about in the already-controlled temperatures of the comm center where she lived and worked. Her legs, lightly wrapped by the thin overalls, were cooled by the light breeze, almost chill despite the high sun and she reminded herself not to pause in her walking. She would want to be there by the time the sun fell. Her luggage had been sent ahead with another buggy rider and she hadn't thought to grab a coat.

She took a deeper, cautious, breath, reminding herself that, though this wasn't the filtered air of the comms center, the odors might be better as easily as worse. She sniffed with her nose, took a deep breath with her nose, smiled her own smile with her own delight. Bread, she thought. Warm bread baked with flower petals and served with honey butter, perhaps, or, no, herbed butter. Sweet and savory herbs eaten on a picnic blanket with crushed grass underneath. She stumbled and laughed at herself with her own amusement. The eyes of people around her gave her sight, and the floors of the comm center were smooth unless someone had left a box or bag in the walkway, but she gladly gave up the sight they offered for the pleasure of knowing she wasn't smiling because someeone else was happy, her own feelings lost and buried by the joys and sorrows and frustrations and amusements of everyone around her.

She paused, made sure she was still feeling the grainy texture of the stone beneath her boots and that she hadn't stumbled because of shifting off to the shoulder or into the fields that would line the road to the farm houses. Yes, still road, and the soft feel of distance presences, the cluster of homes and stores and services around the shuttle dock, remained behind her. She lifted her arms to feel the air more fully, breathed through her nose again, and considered turning around just to dance in the emptiness of it all and the warmth of the sun and the cool of the air, but kept herself from doing so. Keeping to a straight line was relatively easy, getting on the right straight line again not so much. For just a moment she might dance when the hosts at the farm were close enough to sense, so long as they were happy to see her.

Fiction Friday Prompt: Use this phrase or sentiment in your story ” a culture of solitude”

BTW Chapter 21 part 4

2011-11-10T21:14:00.000-06:00

They had allowed the lantern light to grow dim, leaving the corners of the room to disappear into shadow. Kramer sat at the table, resting his head on it and wishing his hands were free to use as a pillow. Toamm perched on a chair in one corner and Onaline had accepted the stone bed, hoping to rest. Occasionally she even dosed her eyes for a moment, but nightmare imagers came almost instantly and she woke again. Onaline was glad enough when more of the dwarves came, but Toamm jumped up to the back of the chair, futilely trying to reach for Mirrowind much as Kramer had reached for his own weapon earlier. The sword, though, had been taken away, even if she had a better reach. For a moment the chair balanced on two legs as Toamm perched on its back, but Onaline persuaded her to come down. When the two stated their intent, in soft respectful tones but with clearly no offer of an alternative, Toamm leapt back on her chair. She would fight with her feet rather than allow herself to be blindfolded. Walls already blocked too much of her view of the world.

Onaline sat on the pallet, wishing for enough clear water to at least wash her face properly. A river to bathe in would be even better. The dried mud was turning her leather pants and coat stiff and crackly as pottery. "Must we all go? I can answer questions for all of us." The two stood firm, with their hands on their hips, immovable objects. Youthful eyes studied the three with barely checked curiosity, and Onaline realized they were young enough never to have seen elves before. It was one thing to be told about their ancient enemy, quite another to see some for themselves.

Goldy had been right, Gem thought. These three hardly looked to be anything the Evil One could have an interest in. They were obviously fragile creatures, and ailing from the look of them. It was a wonder that the old ones could be so afraid of such weak creatures.

Grant forced himself to remember that they were prisoners and wished the beard on his chin were not so youthful soft, so that he might look more stern. "The captain said to bring all of you. All of you will come," he said stiffly, trying to not let sympathy leak through his voice.

Onaline turned her brown eyes up toward Toamm. The full elf looked ready to jump from her own skin, she was so on edge. In elvish Onaline told her, "My friend, I don't wish either to lose my vision but it seems important to them that we not see the way. Would thy people do less? Would these be allowed to wander about the Woods or the Vale?"

Kramer shook his hair back from his face. "Here sir, ma'am, blindfold me first," he volunteered, wondering how young the new escorts were. "Show my friends that you are both well able to guide me, though I am clumsier than they. I will trust you. Only don't forget that I and Toamm are taller than either of you."

The pair exchanged surprised looks, and stared as Onaline rose to stand beside them, only a couple finger spans taller than they despite her elvish proportions.

They followed Kramer's suggestion, wrapped a clean red kerchief snugly over his eyes and guided him around the room. They reached up gently to pull his head down and he knew they wee guiding him through the entry way and there left him standing.

Onaline allowed herself to be blindfolded next. Though the kerchief adequately kept her from seeing more than a vague sense of light beyond the cloth, and a tiny spot of stone floor near her feet, she was still aware of the rock walls that surrounded her, knew when the young female walked around from behind her to take the lead, could almost picture her standing once again in front of her with one hand on her solid hips, checking that the blindfold was adequate to the job.

"It isn't so bad," Onaline assured the full elf. "They can't take our other senses away, and we have more than they know." Gem and Grant frowned at the use of the elvish tongue but shrugged. They hadn't been ordered to gag the elves, and neither fancied trying to force the elf to take a blindfold or to lead her if she resisted.

"I won't have them take you out of my presence, even if all is taken from my sight," Toamm finally conceded. A slight scraping of the wooden chair on the floor told Onaline that Toamm had stepped down. Easy movements by the dwarves indicated that she didn't fight them but rather allowed herself to be blindfolded. Out in the hall, an additional escort of dwarves in rattling battle gear joined them. A long tunnel, a step down, a sloping walkway that seemed steeper than it was to the blindfolded travelers, and a series of small chambers took them finally down to the big chamber where the council meeting was being held. A mutter like a distant waterfall rolled around the room at their arrival.

Several long, shallow steps took them down to the front of the room and the seats from which Grant and Gem had come, in front of the small raised stage where Nostrum sat hoping for the answers that would guide his decision. He raised his voice so that all could hear the questions that he asked the prisoners.

Onaline took a deep breath and tried to settle her feet in a comfortable position, but she still did not have Gliffonel's knack for balancing her weight evenly over the bottom of her feet for comfort, nor quite full elvish skill at making herself rest lightly on the floor when the solidness of the floor seemed to press back. She tried to imagine that she was standing on a grassy meadow, letting the grasses take only the fraction of her weight, resting instead on the air, but there was still a fever heat in her side from the wound of long ago. Then she mocked herself. Gliffonel would be enduring far worse because of her and she had no cause for complaint.

"We need more information before I decide your fate. First, who are you?"

Smiles tugged momentarily at Onaline's lips. A question long overdue! Even Cleats smiled and shook his head, having forgotten to consider that question himself. Would that be enough to answer the "Why" that they were looking for?

"I am Onaline of Mattias, the land beyond the Wall, what some here call... "

"Lies! Dark Magic!" and sharp words in the Mountain tongue spilled around the room.

"Hold! Hold! Else I'll turn this into a meeting of Six." Not but what his council of six weren't the loudest of the bunch, Nostrum sighed to himself. "What of you human?"

"I am Kramer, Lord of Towergrove and son of Todell, son of kings of Hadon."

Again the avalanche of sound erupting around them, his name repeated, calls of "Liar" in the common, meant to insult, and sharp discussion in the Mountain language.

"Prince Kramer, son of the king?"

When he thought his voice might be heard, Kramer explained. "In our reckoning, my brother is the only Prince, though King Todell is my legitimate father."

"Well enough. He would be displeased if you died, even though you are in disfavor," Nostrum looked to Pegger, to be certain he heard and understood. " And you, elf?"

"I am Toamm, daughter of Candell and Mira, niece of Medwen Maladen, wisest of the elves of the Golden Vale."

The murmurs were softer with a more ominous note and the name "Mirrowind" floated among the dwarfish words. The eldest of them remembered Toamm's own name, and her prowess with the sword, even if time had dimmed recollection of her face. Even the young had heard the name of Medwen, ever cursed for the skills he had used against them in past wars.

Though they could not see it, Nostrum nodded acknowledgement to them all. "You are each important in your own right, at least to some, but what makes you important to HIm? Why was Captain Gliffonel taken?"

"Gliffonel was taken because he was traveling with me," Onaline explained. "What the Angrimainu wants of me, I don't know. Perhaps there is some secret he thinks I hold."

"She has a soul of fools gold, not an ounce of truth in her."

"How could she not know?"

"It he wants her, hand her over to the torgs. We don't want his armies coming here."

"The tree lover is just trying to save her skin. Who is she really?"

As the shouts rose up around her, the fire in Onaline's side burned stronger and she again saw the glowing eyes, heard the deep echoing laughter of his delight. He would be well pleased to have his enemies wrap her up and hand her to him like an ally's gift. To hear friends argue with each other and against those who should be their allies against him was his meat and bread, the foundation of his power. Did he seek her, she wondered, for the sole purpose of causing such disputes? Dispute surely followed her! Kramer's soldiers had argued among each other when the elves came among them. Men and dwarves had come close to battle in the small cave on the mountain pass. All through Hadon, humans had argued with each other over the right of elves and dwarves to be among them, even among Kramer's family, no matter that she had only come in hopes of finding her family name.

His joy grew with her sorrow and seared through her side. "I speak the truth!"

Toamm heard only the shuffle of feet and a sound too much like a moan of pain after Onaline's protest, tried to reach out for her, and connected only with dwarf armor. She fought to free her hands but hard, short fingered hands gripped her wrists. A soft, young voice whispered in her ear "Wait. She‘s okay."

Onaline's voice followed close behind "I'm all right. He watches and delights in our troubles, though he can't find us."

"And someone had to be persuaded to lend an elf a chair," Grant growled an octave below his sister's whisper and just as quiet.

Onaline and Toamm both laughed softly, relieved and comforted by the soothing flow of humor. Onaline thought that he might also sense the concern that had whirled around her as she doubled over, the brief scuffle that had gotten her a place to sit. Compassion was as much his enemy as cooperation, and the pain in her side eased as if the warm feelings had pushed his cold heart, and his burning attention, away from her like a shield.

One voice remained conspicuous by its absence. As one, the elves queried, "Kramer?"

"Fine, fine, " he breathed heavily, his voice coming from near ground level. "I fell over something when I heard the commotion over my lady."

"I'm no ‘thing', sir," Captain's Aide Cleats said from nearby. "Here, get these others seats or allow them to remove their blindfolds before someone is really hurt. They are none of them free of injury after defending themselves against such odds." He knew the need for this questioning but a little consideration would not harm anyone. He himself felt no steadier of limb than sandstone after a night of battle.

Chairs were brought down and seating in the front row was rearranged. Cleats thought the break could be valuable. They should have taken a break while the travelers were fetched, instead they had discussed other matters regarding the torgs and plans for additional security. Now, while seats were shuffled and tempers cooled, there was time to think, to sift through the rubble of confused ideas and find what he hoped would be true gemstones. Cleats only feared that too many of the stones would be clouded by the flaws of hatred and ancient memory, and he suspected that the best nugget of information, that someone had come from beyond the divide, was being overlooked and undervalued. That such a one should have elven blood... Had any of their ancestors foreseen that?

As soon as the travelers were settled and most of the rest of the room had quieted, Captain's Aide Cleats claimed the floor again. Groans and calls for him to sit greeted him, most of them in good humor for he could be a long-winded speaker when he chose to be. He waved to those and ignored the rest.

"Look at her." he stabbed a finger toward Onaline. "You call Captain Gliffonel crazy for suggesting the blood of mountains could be in her. Even the dull eyed and dim -witted can see that she's not a full blooded elf. Maybe he'd good reason to think the other half was our own kin in the north. No one's asked. And some of you wouldn't believe her if she said the sun shone by day. Maybe it's not where she's from but how a half-elf, half-dwarf came to be there that interests him. And now that she's here, no one is asking how she got here, from beyond division. The Old Ones said it couldn't be done, that no one could come from beyond division until the Light shone, Darkness rose, and the Reign of Life ended. Maybe its time we asked what that means. Can you enlighten us, Onaline?"

BTW Chapter 21 part 3

2011-11-03T22:05:00.002-05:00

"I say send them on their way. We want none of their kind in our caves and we haven't supplies nor space to waste on them here." Captain's Aide Pegger glowered around the vast cavern at the many dwarves assembled there, then smiled when nods of long bearded heads showed that many of the seniors agreed with him. That most of the younger ones frowned mattered little. Age was, after all, wisdom, and it was the gray beards whose voices would be heard.

Not all of the old ones, though, were in agreement. Minrith whose ancestors were long dead and forgotten was among the oldest. His beard, more white than silver, flowed across his lap and he no longer stood every time he spoke. "I say we can't let the tree eaters free. If you don't want to feed them, don't."

Captain's Aide Cleats chuckled as he stood. "What? After going to all that bother rescuing them from the torgs? How would that look in our reports?" That brought deep throated chuckles from around the room, as much because of the generally held belief that half of the reports sent to Crown Mountain were never looked at as for the irony of the situation. The amusement was short lived. Five had died to save the three, and rumor was already strong that they had failed to save one that would have been worth the effort. Pegger and his cronies only frowned. Nothing Cleats said would please that gang save his resignation, for they found his style annoying and his successes more so, and considered all his joking to be ill suited to a captain's aide.

Cleats was of a medium build and middle age, just a finger-width taller than average and less than some. His hairline was receding but his hair was still coal black save for two fine steaks of silver in his beard--more than respectable for one who had made it to the rank of captain's aide in a time of relative peace. That time, though , was being left behind. In all seriousness he pointed out, "Gliffonel thought they were worth protecting. I trust that. The king may favor his kin but wouldn't give Turamur to anyone with a hollow head, nor make him captain."

"Gliffonel was obviously stuck in ice and torg caves too long. He was crazy to travel with elves," Pegger insisted, "and to suggest that the elf could be our blood... ! The child's no more of the earth than I am of the air."

"You're full of hot air today, Pegger. You declare the elves our enemy in one breath and accept every word they've said of Gliffonel in the next. Did your mother spend much time above before you were born?"

There was more laughter and wisecracks around the room and Captain Nostrum let it flow for a few minutes. When the arguments started to sour in tone, he put the full capacity of his broad chest to use, bringing silence with a single short bellow. "It doesn't matter whether she is or isn't. They could be three elves rather than two and a human, or all humans. It matters only that He wants them. One way or another, He must not get them. The question is how we prevent it."

"Why should He want them, and captive at that? Did the tattle-tellers tell that?" Pegger had stood to speak and remained standing as if he intended to claim the floor until every question was answered to his personal satisfaction.

"It doesn't matter," Cleats echoed the captain. "That he wants them is enough. While he doesn't have them, he will continue looking, and the longer the better."

Goldy stood to claim the floor and Cleats smiled at her fondly. She wasn't the prettiest of dwarves, but she always spoke with good sense. "Captain Nostrum, did the rock folk say who in their company He wanted? What if it was only Gliffonel? These three seem hardly worth the attention."

"If He even wanted any of them. You put a lot of faith in the tattle-tellers," one of those beside Pegger added.

"The four were there as we were warned, in desperate need of all the forces we sent, and the beacon guided us straight to them," Cleats pointed out. "The rock pixies have means of knowing things. In such circumstances, the greater risk is to ignore them than to accept that they may be right." He tried to be conciliatory and offered the others a point of agreement. "It may help to know why he wants them, in order to know how best to keep Him from capturing them."

Nostrum looked from Cleats to Pegger. A little more information would be useful, but they had only one source for answers, since they couldn't ask the Evil One himself. Nostrum looked to the front row of seats and addressed two of the young ones there. "Gem, Grant, blindfold the prisoners and bring them here."

Grimm

2011-10-28T21:29:00.002-05:00

Saw it. Liked it for now but we'll see if they can keep it up. A little heavy on the almost-werewolf stuff as opposed to the other story elements of the Brothers Grimm stories, but maybe it will help the transition to have something that has been recently popular, as does the contemporary detective-story-like setting. Not brand new fantasy by any means, nor high fantasy (my favorite) but I'm always happy to see anything with strong traditional elements because it means things that were popular awhile back might become popular again and some of my own writings are not in the current pop themes.

I caught a glimpse of some other show last weekend that I thought was the same series but obviously it's a competitor, with strong similarities and distinct differences (that one seemed to switch between contemporary worlds and somewhere else in a way that this one does not, but I didn't catch enough of it to be sure. Often I've seen stations come out with shows and movie producers come out with movies that have such an obviously shared basis or premise that I wonder if they are two scripts based very loosely on the same book or story, whether someone writes a proposal like a back-of-book blurb and the stories are written based on just that much info, or whether its more like a writing prompt, where a phrase or statement is presented and everyone--at the conference or web site or whatever--is invited to write their own version. I get the challenge, I can see it in series at the same network - hallway chatter? A news blurb passed around the e-mail net that inspires? But when there are so many themes and premises and all out there, can't we get a little wider range of material to choose from?

Don't mix ink and clothes

2011-10-26T18:57:00.002-05:00

Especially check pockets to make sure that pens are still not in pockets when the clothes are put in washing machine or drier. They sometimes survive the washer, but rarely the drier, and replacing clothes is always a bit hard on the budget. yeah, personal experience and periodic reminders...

Holiday Foods Cheaper

2011-10-21T10:54:00.003-05:00

With the approach of the holidays, my mind always turns to food and menus. I like to try new recipis and experiment though the family doesn't always appreciate it and the bulk of the menu is usually family traditional. Still, the budget has varied and the food with it. Along the way, experiments and all, I've found some good tricks for serving festive and formal meals that didn't have to be expensive. Here are a few tips:

Hors d'ouvers (however that's spelled) always add something to the party atmosphere. They can be as cheap as "dollar store" ingredients or pricy, and it won't matter a whit to your guests: what matters is that you spend a little bit of time putting them together, preferably in several colorful combinations: crackers topped with cheese spread, some with an olive half, some with a quarter sausage slice will do nicely. Sliced hotdogs heated in barbecue sauce and served with toothpicks makes a nice hot alternative and give the host or hostess a chance to mingle with guests as he brings them around, still hot.

Basic foods "dressed up" will also add to the sense that you're giving your guests a treat. We dress up macaroni and cheese or other casserole foods by piling it into a baking dish (lightly oiled). We crush six or eight saltines with a little melted butter, and sprinkle the results on top. Bake for half an hour (forty five minutes if the cassarole was made ahead and is cold) to brown the crackers. Alternatively , dress up a bowl of mac and cheese with a sprinkling of paprika or a pattern of paprika and parsley for a pretty effect. Dress up canned beans by adding slivered almonds. The little added touches turn a common meal into something special.

Cheap meats can serve as well as expensive ones: the main thing is to cook them appropriately. Don't buy a cheap roast and cook it like a steak. The results will be unpleasant in all respects. Instead, cook it appropriately for a roast and present it on a pretty platter. If you do it as a pot roast, take the large chunk vegetables (we usually do quartered potatoes, small or halved carrots, and onion quarters with a pot roast, foil-wrapped baked potatoes with an oven roast, with thinly sliced onions as a flavoring on the roast itslf) and spread them around the side of the meat on a platter. Serve the broth on the side for gravy or save it as a soup base for leftovers and rice.

If you need to make several meals for guests staying over, you can keep them satisfied and your budget in control by stretching a soup lunch with the addition of rice, potatoes, or pasta. Pasta can be added directly to the soup (it will tend to turn it into a cassarole) or cream soups and thicker soups like chili can be served as a generous sauce over the top of pasta for a filling meal.

Jello can be made into an elegant dessert by making it with an extra packet of gelatin, cutting it up when it's firm, and mixing it with whipped topping and maybe fresh fruit. For a large group, use more than one flavor, make them separately, and mix the cubes together for a colorful treat. Alternatively, separate the liquid from a single flavor into two or three separate dishes, one of them them the serving dish or a series of individual dessert dishes. Chill the other parts only part way: whip. Add one to the serving dish in its new foamy state, stir whipped topping into the other third and put it on top of the rest for a three-layer dessert. It's the obvious effort to make it pleasing to both eye and pallat, not the expense of the dessert, that impresses friends and family best. (And a light dessert is all folks will have room for after a filling meal.)

Fiction Friday Drowning Sorrows

2011-09-23T12:10:00.002-05:00

What is a sorrow, that it should be able to drown, I asked myself. A thing, surely, if only because it is a noun, but a thought or feeling cannot drown, surely? Yet the universe is a big place full of mysteries and so I set out to find a sorrow that could be drowned, that I could hold in my hand and place in the water or some other liquid and be shut of forever (presuming that was the purpose of drowning the sorrow).

I found sparrows and laurels and yellow things of all sorts, not quite getting the word right. I found memorials and reminiscences and monuments, and walls. Things that could be put into the water many of them, but not readily and only so as to make them wet.

I found sad people and melancholy, rainy wet days and people with their face lifted to the rain. I found people in mourning and people sorrowing for no reason anyone outside their own minds could find cause for.

I found tears and wrung cloths, wreaths, flowers, and spices, herbs and green plants and flowering plants and bight growing things, ease, relief, and cheer.... ooops, not sorrow that, surely, though one came from the prior and led to the next.

I wandered further afield and found empaths that could share sorrow as it suited them, or not, beings who used emotions as energy, troubles and tribbles and purring things offering comfort, soft things to soothe sorrow, and slow smiles and sweet wine, and .... ooops, not sorrow that in the end, either.

So I went home and read a newspaper and found that it was full of sorrows, death, crime, bad decisions, unwise choices, fates and fears and all the things that bring sorrow and I lowered into the sink and pushed it down and watched the soy ink blur, the paper go transparent. I pushed and pulled and the paper became as flakes of ash, fragile and weak and easily crushed and I tore it into shreds with a feather stroke and finally drowned the sorrows into nothing and mixed it into the soil and tucked it around a green, flowering plant and like all sorrows, it waits only a little time to turn it into melancholy and memory to make room for joy.

Okay, that one didn't quite make it into a story but the rules say don't edit, so here it is.

Try cooking again

2011-09-16T22:31:00.003-05:00

We laughed at the recent news about food stamps and fast food that suggested fast food could be cheaper than eating in. Not if you are comparing apples to apples, and not if you are paying attention to what you buy! Fast food is cheap food. You can make a lot of hamburgers with a loaf of bread and a pound of cheap ground beef, but you can only buy a couple for the same price. (What, three dollars, maybe as little as two for a quarter pounder, times four for a pound of ground beef, so eight to twelve dollars for a pound of beef and a loaf of bread? Where are these news people doing their shopping? Is it ground filet minon?) You can buy several potatoes for the price of french fries, too.

Now, if you are eating better at home than fast food fare, that's different. In some areas, garden vegetables and even canned and frozen vegetables have gone up in price, but an entire can of green beans, peas, or carrots is still normally cheaper than any dollar menu item, and both healthier and more filling. A 2 liter bottle of soda might cost more than a medium soda but probably less than a large for twice as much. An entire dozen eggs is cheaper than any fast food breakfast sandwich and contains less salt and fat. Yes, fast food is cheaper than a steak grilled at home, but hardly a fair comparison. It's not cheaper than fast food made at home and fast food restaurants for more than an occasional treat aren't a wise choice for anyone on a limited budget or anyone trying to save up for something special.

stats, quilts, and other themes

2011-09-16T22:02:00.003-05:00

I can look at some stats on both my blogs and generally do, and try not to let them discourage me. Sometimes they surprise me, like the several weeks that stats showed high readership when I was out of pocket with not means of blogging, followed by a sharp decline starting the day I was able to resume. So they were checking repeatedly to see if I had posted and the real number of readers was the small number, or they gave up just before my return? Lately my numbers on my other blog have been modestly high steadily, then dropped like a rock the last couple of days. Should I blame internet problems, the one day late post, or was it a comment on the theme?

In this case, the latter seems likely enough. I mentioned my 9-11 themed quilted wall hanging I made for a display, just a little thing but I tried to fill it with symbols, maybe a few too many, but collages are like that. Anyway, I know I regularly get a lot of hits from somewhere in the midEast, periodically at least, probably because ene is a word in some Arabic or related language, so maybe the reference didn't go over well. Or maybe some readers had been thinking I was something other than American and were disappointed I wasn't from wherever they thought I was from. But I don't know so I go on and wonder why I keep looking at the numbers. There's always the thought that maybe they will improve tomorrow... and the fact that the news likes to mention big numbers when some site, usually a video clip, goes big, which subtlely conveys the messages that numbers count.

Anyway, I intended to talk about symbology in writing and derailed myself so decided to mention it here. I like using symbols in my quilt and other art projects as occasion permits. i try to be aware when I see it (medieval illuminations are full of it but you need a manual to sort them out and figure out the story as if each mini picture was a hieroglyphic that told a whole story, or a language like they had on Star Trek Next Gen, where they spoke in phrases that were each a reference to a story with the apropriate theme for the message at hand. Sometimes I think the really great writer is the one that can invent such a reference and use it in such a way that the reader not only understands it but is ready to use it in their own natural speech, not even knowing where the word or phrase came from, but I don't think it's the sort of thing you can achieve on purpose.

It is, however, the ultimate sort of metaphor, and the primary way I can think of to build a verbal symbol, especially in a science fiction or fantasy, where presumably the world is different that that of the reader (ignoring magical fantasies and near-future SF set in the contemporary world): a reference to a story that is conveyed to the reader as a small story within the story or described in a sentence or two, an event with a name, a date with a meaning, or a flower or other object that plays a role in one scene to turn it into a symbol of that scene, and its use later. Such symbol goes unnoticed, but if they are there, the discerning reader will eventually appreciate them and they are a way to reward the repeat reader. More subtle ones can be built in with allusions to popular novels and books that the reader might be familiar with even if they can mean nothing to the characters. So, symbols are possible in the verbal arts as well as the visual arts, and like in the visual arts, they might need a translator, but I like to think the stories are the richer, however invisibly, for being there.

What do you think?

battle scene follow up

2011-08-18T20:40:00.002-05:00

How was that for a battle scene? I have mostly been posting the story pieces and not commentary on their writing, but battle scenes always take more work than the rest, and I'm never sure they come across to readers as I intend. How was the pace, the feel? Over dramztized, too little tension? Too quick to feel like a battle? One of the typical pieces of advice that is hard to successfully follow is to develop a fast paced scene in fine detail, describing every moment, and generalize for a slower scene. Another piece of advice is to avoid all narration, to provide explanations for anything that needs explaining before or after, but the line between detail and narration can become blurred.

It's not saving if you're spending

2011-06-03T20:35:00.002-05:00

Sale's, specials, and package deals often push how much the buyer "saves". In reality, purchasing something on sale is still spending. Saving means putting money in the bank. Sometimes the deals are really good: if you think they are, do the math, consider if you would soon buy it anyway: but if you wouldn't, don't buy. It's still money going out that you would otherwise have kept hold of. The trick with package deals is that they often include something you wouldn't buy normally. If the deal is so good that the things you would buy, ignoring that you get something extra, too, then it might be worth considering, but if you still have to pay some extra to get the extra, there is no savings, only more spending than you would have done otherwise.

Some changes to E-ships

2011-05-22T08:31:00.003-05:00

I've been revamping things in E-ships even as I post and now some of the changes are going to impact what you read here. Not a lot, most of the changes are in parts of the story that I haven't posted yet, but Kurgan Brown's name is changing to Kurgan Umbago and the chapter breaks are different so the numbering may be just a bit off for the next post. It's not that any of the story is missing or repeated, just that the chapters have been renumbered.

I've never noticed a set pattern for chapter heading, in science fiction or fantasy any more than other genres, just that some people will do more than one scene per chapter and some won't. I do, generally, and don't like to have 50 chapters in a short book, and that makes it a little more of a challenge to know when to make a chapter break, but when I noticed that various other changes had created chapters that went on for more than 50 pages, I decided it was time to rethink the chapter structure. It's still a tad on the arbitrary side, aiming for 15-20 pages on average and once or twice breaking what would otherwise have been a single scene, but it seemed appropriate at the time.

If this leads to too much confusion, since you won't have the previous chapters to check back against for clarity, let me know and I can send you a copy of the new version of the preceding chapters of the book. More of the changes, however, will be in the flow and polish of the chapters to come and I hope you will enjoy them. Let me know if anything I'm doing makes it worse! Improvement is always a desirable change in fiction writing, never making it worse!

E Chapter 7 part 1

2011-05-11T16:31:00.000-05:00

When the uncomfortable position on the cool floor woke Mxyra, she jumped to her feet in alarm. Finally they took her to a sleeping room. Awake for the moment, briefly alert, she stood a little longer in the doorway and addressed Duvite. "Would you tell them that I would appreciate a spare shirt for tomorrow, maybe two if we're to be kept here long?"

The discussion was longer than she expected but she didn't try to follow it. Duvite told her, "They'll have a couple of changes of clothing brought. You'll be kept under guard for now because they haven't decided your status, but you're to feel free to ask for anything, as an honored guest. I'll bring familiar food when I come back, but theirs isn't bad if you avoid the protein."

The thought of food instantly appealed, but she knew her hunger belonged mostly to Regulus, sitting unfueled and likely to remain so. "Can I have my helmet back?" she asked, trying to hide her eagerness. Brown, who had continued to carry it with him in the landing bay, finally gave it to her.

#

Mxyra paced the room. She told herself to rest and relax, stretched all her muscles in turn. It did little to ease the tension that had resumed as soon as the door closed, more for the ache in her arm and shoulder that the pain pills only partially hid. She fought an almost irresistible urge to scratch the inside of her brain and under her skin to relieve the itch of alienness that continued to slide through her senses even here.

A shelf in the wall was more than generous enough for her gloves,. She hung her belt and coat on a hook, and lined her shoes up with the end of the high bed. She combed out her hair with unnecessary vigor, and forced herself to lie down. Instantly she felt as if she were being pulled down into the bed, into the floor by the spin of the great ship, far different from that of the Habaria. She imagined she was held down, trapped, and jumped to her feet to prove that she wasn't.

Twice, Mxyra moved toward the door to open it, but she stopped herself before testing the handle. She had heard the lock click when it closed. She could imagine that the click was something else, that she wasn't trapped in the enclosed room only so long as she didn't test the door.

Even when her body was still and confined in the cockpit of Regulus, Mxyra was always experiencing his sense of freedom and movement, besides the soft movement of the seat to prevent stiffness. At any other time she could move where she wished, when she wished, look out a port, walk a hallway, go about her other duties or sit quietly and study. They said she could ask for things, but not that she could wander the big ship freely, so she paced.

Finally, she was too weary to pace and convinced herself that she was free to do the one thing she had wanted to do for hours. She laid down and slept.

#

He flew outside of space, slicing through it only to cut across time, following the gravity lines, catching intersections of equal potential between the stars. He could speed on forever, requiring little of the power burning through his legs to attain freedom. In the spaces between atoms and gravity wells, there were no currents to catch, no winds, no forces to draw him out of perfect alignment with the stars, and fuel pumped only slowly through his belly. He needed not even wings to fly but enjoyed the sensation of flight, of the phaze lines skimming between his wings as if they were wind currents, tugging at the slight differential between the farthest stretch of his wingtips. The skin of his wings was a sensor net that guided him through the otherness of phaze, and his wingtip thrusters steered him as the phaze lines offered him endless choices of direction.

Sliding toward infinity, his eyes tingled with the dimensionless perfection of touching all of space simultaneously, carrying him from space to the realm of dreams.

Mxyra woke and cried out at the shock of physical sensation. Every nerve vibrated with the feel of hundreds of alien bodies in all their strange and myriad positions and activities. Her ears rang with the echoed hum of engines and her own shout. After long hours in the harsh alien light, her eyes ached, and her belly called for food, her whole body for flight and movement and a return to her dreams of Regulus.

Sorting through the morass of sensations to ease herself back into the increasingly familiar feel of the alien ship, Mxyra wondered at the clarity of her dream. She had been Regulus. She had been linked. She was certain of it. Without need for light, she reached for the helmet on the table beside her bed.

Regulus awoke to a strident call on his communications net. It was not an audible tone but it was no less insistent than a siren. (The bio jumped to her feet, ready to run to the ship as on alert, but the ever-spinning world seemed to tumble).

"This is Regulus." (The ship threatened to fall over the bio's head, and she dropped onto the poofy thing she'd tossed to the floor while getting ready for bed.)

"This is Senior Lieutenant Frinan Ta. We require contact with your bio-unit."

"Pilot is not aboard. Will relay."

Regulus picked up background sounds indicating that external transcievers had been activated and Mxyra and Regulus were pleased to hear the other voices gathered around SL Frinan Ta, including those of Chancellor Haberand and Cambereda.

They greeted her with relief, joy, and concern. "I am well," Regulus conveyed for the bio. "I wounded the pirate. A free trader is helping me translate. A level two T-ship."

"When are you returning?" Frinan Ta asked.

"I don't know. I don't know if I can. I'm at fifteen percent optimum fuel, in range of host position 2100, left wing stuck at minimum extension, and the pirate needs repair preflight."

"Leave him behind, if you have to. Range is variable, near maximum. Their ship is bypassing the Maze, but Habaria is termporarily paused. Are they enemies?"

Regulus and Mxyra both hesitated as much over the importance of the question as over how to answer. "Uncertain. They claim some damage in the exchange and are investigating, but it may be asteroids or a bluff for concessions. Communications remain discontinuous, cluttered... I've sent a language download to base from what I've been able to pick up so far, but it's not much."

"X'lav worried that they had... You are a prisoner. Tell them when they are asking too much, but do what you must to survive. Nothing they or you do can bring you disgrace when the choices aren't free."

The bio curled up and Regulus clung tight in the face of Cambereda's words, knowing that they couldn't think a ship would be disgraced and unwilling to recall all the closed doors or consider what they might mean. "Will relay to biounit. We will learn what we can of the alien city-ship."

"You aren't a spy, Regulus or Mxyra," Chancellor Haberan's voice said. "Don't make yourself their enemy unless they force your hand."

"We'll be - " no alarm was triggered, but Regulus sent more power to his sensors as if they had.

"Mxyra, what's wrong?" Cambereda asked.

"Uncertain. Must investigate. Out."

Buy the Right Thing at the Right Time

2011-04-30T11:15:00.002-05:00

Often, the right thing to buy is the more expensive one. Food, not so much, unless you need it for something special, like a fancy dinner or a hiking trip where every ounce of weight and every day it lasts is important. We go to the cheapest stores that carry what we need for our every-day meals. but when we buy things that are intended to last, we shop with something besides cost in mind. We've done the cheap route, and for some products, cheap lasts as long as the more expensive and does what it needs to do, but for many things, especially gadgets, cheap can be expensive. Cheap appliances have to replaced more frequently, cheap furniture doesn't stay looking nice for long, and cheap bookcases having sagging shelves shortly for anything but paperbacks. So we looked for quality, too, and if more expensive means better construction, we'll pay the difference.

On the other hand, we don't buy the better one when we have one that works. Chairs wear, but they wear slowly. Only when we see that over time a chair is beginning to wear out and it's not something that can be readily repaired (chairs can be re-apholstered if the stuffing beneath is still good, but sometimes it gets mushed beyond fluffing or decays, or springs give way and start poking through. Then it's time to start shopping, but not necessarily to buy immediately. Watch for stores that have regular or frequent sales. Study the options so that you're buying something you'll like for years, not just something that looks like what you have now or fits the current fad.

If you like brand names, look for brand names with a reputation of reliability and quality, not fashion, double for appliances and tools, which can look identical but are worlds apart in the quality of the metal and other materials and parts. For things that move, look for metal. If plastic is the only option, look for plastic that is strong, with sharper turns and steep angles. Gears and zippers that are rounded and shallow are more likely to become unusable quickly, because they are made that way when cheap, weak plastic is being used to make them.

Periodically, even long-lasting things begin to deteriorate or no longer served the purpose you need them for and expensive purchases will need to be made, but if the purchase is done with thought and care, it will be a long time before you need to do a second time.

2011-04-30T10:44:00.004-05:00

I've put the follower button up top of the side bar hoping a few more of my readers will let me know they are out there. I've appreciated the occasionally comment (statistics show that no more than one in a hundred readers will post anything) but on my other blog (about writing, without the stories) I can also see stats, and that gives me a feeling for how well folks are enjoying my posts (or not). If there's a way to do that on this one, I haven't found it, yet, or don't understand what I'm seeing), so the follower button tells me a little, too. When I started, I thought it would be a pain to sign up, but it turned out to be fairly painless, and for me that's saying a lot.

I haven't posted a reminder about the stories, either, lately, so thought I should: I periodically clear out older story posts from the archive only because it's the opinion of some fellow writers that stories permanently posted online are less likely to sell to some publishers, even though the online version is always far different from the final published version and even though it actually helps build a fan base in practice. Still, I realize that some readers are coming in late and I'm willing to send the whole story to date if you'll drop me a line. On the other hand, I've found the feedback of those joining in late without the previous parts of the story to be very valuable: a good story will tell itself even in the absence of prior knowledge, like a sequel, and if things aren't making sense after a scene or less, the scene's probably need some work and clarifying.

More chapters to come!

Easter Egg mystery

2011-04-20T15:24:00.002-05:00

Exploring the web is always something I lose patience with as heavy graphics slow things down and graphics are popular. Still, a quick look before I back up to a faster page can provide a lot of information. Today I looked for egg dying methods and opted for onions, but a quick scan showed me lots of options for that, too, including free floating onion skins, different kinds of onion skins, holding them onto the egg with rubberbands, coffee filters, old nylon knee highs, and cheese cloth or fabric (it will dye the fabric too but may not be colorfast). I also came across references to adding shapes and colors with flowers and parsley tyed on the same ways. I'll have to try the parsley sometime, especially.

I opted for free floating, not knowing my family's reaction to seeing nylons in the pot, the kind of onions we had in the house (though the skins are rather pale) and have achieved subtle marbling and pale but pretty ochre for a color, and a question about how eggs are handled before they reach my house. About half the eggs I dyed have two very neat stripes of white circling them at about the third and two-thirds points of the height if you stand the eggs on end. It's kind of the effect, in reverse, I might expect of rubber banding if one were very neat and didn't cross the two rubber bands, but what would cause it in the trip from hen to kitchen? And do I want to know? Anyway, it looks like I went to a little extra work to decorate the eggs, so I'm not complaining.

Green on Fiction Friday

2011-04-08T17:51:00.003-05:00

"Looks can be deceiving," Hammer quoted.

"Sure, but they aren't always," Lynn countered. "Look at the man. He's short, thin, green. Green. What else but one of the Visitors?"

"Well that much is obvious."

"What then?"

"I meant like his age," Hammer argued with a dismissive wave for Lynn's question. "You never know with Visitors. Maybe he's a grandfather, maybe barely past puberty. He looks like a forty year old human, mostly. Small but not particularly ugly to us but maybe other Visitors think him hideous. Maybe that's why he's standing in the cosmetics section."

"He's standing in the cosmetics section because it's the one nearest the door."

"So appearances suggest, but he could be heading out, or making a second round of the store."

"And still damp?" Lynn asked.

"Okay, that one's hard to explain. And maybe the green clothes are a fashion statement, so he's handsome, vein, and looking for hair highlights. Or coloring. I don't recall too many with green hair. Not too popular among the Visitors maybe."

"Hair? Oh, yeah, that is hair. I didn't think they had any at all, green or otherwise." Lynn peered at the man between suits on the hanging rack they were supposed to be straightening.

"Oh, yeah, that's why I couldn't think of what other colors of hair they might have. Let's go see what he wants. He doesn't seem to be making much progress in his shopping."

They walked over. Hammer had made the suggestion but he hung back and let Lynn do the talking.

"May I help you, sir," Lynn said to the man, wondering if the green visitor spoke English.

"Hey, yeah, do any of these skin cleaners take off paint? The painters outside just knocked a bucket on me and it's drying fast."

Prompt: the phrase "Looks can be deceiving"

Check out other stories based on this prompt at:
http://writeanything.wordpress.com/2011/04/08/fiction-friday-challenge-202/

2011-04-08T17:15:00.003-05:00

OOOh, there are times I'm reminded not to talk to co-workers on topics that even border on politics. One learns things one would rather not. Politics not only come out, but people reveal too much information about other aspects of their life, as if the normally taboo subject of politics opened a door. Among other things, I'm always amazed to find out that people making a decent living at a full time job often still have outside jobs, apparently just to fill their time. I don't get it. Noe if they loved the work... well, I suppose they at least like the work, but to me it often sounds like work, not like writing.

Okay, I know plenty of people that don't get that writing isn't work, that revising can be enjoyable (it is, after all, the core of writing). So I suppose other people are allowed to enjoy things that I find to be work. Still, I wonder how many of them find it to be work, too, and just do it to fill the time, as it sounds. Are they deceiving themselves, unwilling to admit they like it (because it is seen as work and not pleasant by many and are taught to think of it as such). Or do they just really not have things to fill their time? I really can't imagine it myself. If my mind needs a break, I crochet or quilt (the quilting part is fairly mindless, not the designing part). If my hands need a break, typing and revising is less demanding than hand writing. If I get bored (unlikely but it can happen) and have a little energy left, there's always some corner of the house that needs to be pulled apart and cleaned and put back together again. (Did you picture a corner structure of brick or wood being pulled apart and reassembled with mortar or nails? I thought of that interpretation just as I finished the sentence; slang has its place, but it does not add clarity in content)

First Born on Fiction Friday

2011-04-01T20:00:00.006-05:00

Fiction Friday challenges/prompts have tended to the contemporary, not always useful for science fiction and fantasy. I've occasionally made an attempt at contemporary stories for the challenge but rarely been pleased with the results. Today's prompt is (a longer version of essentially) famous people and the unusual name of their new baby. Well, the future and aliens have famous people and naming issues, too, so...

"You can't be serious, Kakkemoralin. Your father's name? He's a farmer. 'Jorlie' is the ultimate farmer's name," Jolo said with a chuckle, then rocked back on her nest to stroke the long blue egg beneath her. "Don't worry my precious, hes not serious."

"It was my name, too, and I'm no farmer," Kakkemoralin said, with a jaunty lift of his cockaded head. He straightened a nest twig, preened a colorful wing.

"You changed your name for a reason. If you must go with fathers, go with mine. Hafferolibin Nabarakkel, or Grandfather's name. Smorsa Inthicallicum," Jolo suggested, rolling the egg over before she settled back into place. She smoothed her shawl over her delightfully round belly, to be sure the smooth curve of it was obvious. One never knew when the newsies might peak over the nest box and grab a photo op of a starlet mom.

"You just want a two-part name because it will make him sound like a wide continental."

"We're on the Wide Continent, now. Wideway is the place for stage stars, after all. He should have a name that fits," Kekkemoralin argued lightly.

"Fine, then we'll combine them all, and my Grandfather's, too, Thallam. Take the first letters of each."

"You must be joking. It will be a nonsense name. He'll be a laughing stock."

"It's that or Jorlie. We can still make it a two-part name and everyone will know he belongs on Wideway or Sacredhill."

Jolo sighed, trying not to distort her face too strongly as she frowned over the notion. It could make for hideous photos, and the two of them, sitting together in their nest box should only be a beautiful sight. Besides, she had to admit it would at least be a unique name. No one else would ever have come up with such a combination of letters and think of it as a name. "Okay."

"John Smith it is," Kekkamoralin said with another shake of his proud cockade.

See http://writeanything.wordpress.com/2011/04/01/fiction-friday-challenge-201/ for other responses to the challenge

Ads and blogging

2011-03-11T10:28:00.002-06:00

Well, I've taken my blogging to the next level as an experiment and applied for ads via adSense, a Google thing. The descriptions of the payment and pricing have gotten more complex than I remember, but it still promises to aim for ads that are related to my posts somehow, probably key words. In my experience, that probably means that they will be fairly useless. Writer blogs tend to get a lot of ads for vanity press publishing, in my experience, and I really discourage going that route. I've heard one or two people say they had some luck with vanity digital press, but mostly all that does it prevent the collection of hundreds of books that most books stores won't take, from what I've heard.

About the only vanity press type thing I might try is a family cookbook/scrap book affair such that you didn't plan on making money, only to give it as gifts to the family. There are companies that will even assemble the cookbook for you if you provide the recipis, and churches and other groups use them as fund raisers, but you have to watch really close to see how much they'll allow in the way of, fro example, family or other personal pictures, a useful index (some are useless, no more than alphabetized lists of the dish names, so Aunt Mary's cassarole will be right after Aunt Jane's cookies, but there's no listing of cookies or cassaroles except for the table of contents header) and other features that make it a cookbook worth the giving. For more effort on your part and the help of publishing software, you can probably do better on your own at Kinkos.

Anyway, we'll see what happens. I'm not sure how much say I have over size, location and such and I may dump it if its too obnoxious. One of the pages implied that I would have a lot of say or at least be able to select from several options, but I didn't find a place that asks once I started the sign up process so we'll see. I was pleased to see it didn't require a PayPal account or anything because when I checked out their website I found it hard to get any real information. They were so busy trying to persuade people to use their services that they made it hard for those already considering it to get the answers needed to make the final decision. NOT a good way to drum up business, especially for an already well-known dot com/brand. At this stage, they can afford to let word of mouth persuade, and focus on being a good, functional site, don't you think?

writing notes

2011-03-08T21:37:00.003-06:00

I was going to post the next scene of E-ships tonight but encountered a problem: big bold notes in the text that say "character description here". I have a couple of characters to introduce and while they have been mentioned, the reader hasn't had a chance to meet them, so I need to write a few sentences to introduce them properly. I'll do that tonight and try to post the scene tomorrow. I've finished the quilting of the quilt I was working on and only need to do the border, which shouldn't take all evening, so it's just a matter of whether I get enough sleep to be conscious in the evening and remember my plans... I sometimes get carried away with writing, or with imagining scenes, that I don't get to sleep as early as I should.

I may have to invent a name, too. Some of my characters have no more than a role or title, like Colonel or Director, and as I introduce them I will invent their names, or at least a step toward a name. The names do change, like other things, but usually in the ballpark of where they started. In this case, the new arrivals on the scene need identifiable sorts of names, appropriate to the nature of the colony, which gives me almost too much variety to chose from, but we'll see. If I get desperate, phone books always have more fascinating names (including great alien names, without much change...) than you would ever guess!

Traditional Hand Quilting tips

2011-03-06T10:23:00.000-06:00

These are probably the same tips available in any number of books, but lately books on hand quilting have gotten harder and harder to find in favor of books on machine quilting (typically long-arm machine quilting), and I didn't learn from a book but mouth-to-mouth, so I thought I would share some basic tips and reminders here.

If your thread starts to catch after awhile, use a shorter thread the next time. With tight weave fabrics, even the smoothest quilting thread can get frayed. Looser weaves allow longer pieces of thread.

If you are having a hard time getting the needle through the fabric, find a thinner needle. They are easier to break but work better while they last and a fractional difference can translate to a significant difference in ease of sewing.

Hand quilting patterns can be complex or simple: complex takes lots more time, too simple and widely spaced can lead to bunched up batting:
Cotton battings should be quilted with spacing no larger than about three inches unless they have a strong surface (and those will be stiffer and harder to quilt)
Polyester battings are typically less inclined to bunch but are also poofier and should probably have stitching spaced no more than 4 inches apart.
The spacing need not be even or consistent: alphabets and numbers on baby quilts, quilting that follows pictures are all allowed: just watch for large areas with no stitching and fill with appropriate patterns and shapes.

Shorter needles allow for more closely spaced stitching, especially desirable if stitching will stand out visibly (e.g., white on a dark, plain background, large areas of plain fabric, closely spaced stitched patterns, etc.). On the other hand, if the quilting is simple and merely intended to keep the quilt layers together for the duration, a longer needle will allow more stitches at a time and quicker progress.

Best Wishes to the teachers

2011-02-20T20:30:00.002-06:00

Will it be a new era, or merely a minor spat as the citizens of America give up yet another of so many rights that we have lost this decade? Last I heard, the teachers had even accepted the budget changes, all to their loss despite their typically low state government pay (but nice benefits such as every full-time employee should be able to have). What they really want is to keep their democratic rights, collective bargaining, hard won and long accepted as a symbol of the power of the people, now so active in Egypt and its neighbors. To have it snatched away without debate (I smile with delight and offer encouragement to the senators,too, who delay the premature vote and aide the debate their rivals would end unbegun) is not democracy but short sightedness and the loss of yet another freedom in the name of expediency. Power to the teachers and the other state employees. Power to the people and to the remnants of American democracy.

side characters

2011-02-09T19:35:00.003-06:00

I enjoyed incorporating the character Karinne into Beyond the Wall. I still have some difficulty in cultivating related characters in science fiction and know it is an inappropriate bias: the future, spece, the world of science, more "appropriately" has strong, intelligent, not-so-feminine characters as those in fantasy, where classic ladies in silk gowns, gentle manners, and all the actionable aspects of lady-like feminin flavor are almost assumed except for the worst or wildest women.

But really, we have some pretty feminine women these days with gentle, good manners, even if they can rarely lay the perfect table, and nervous as well as bold women. Why shouldn't the distant future? The question becomes, where do they fit? Mxyra in E-ships offers something of the question, but she is about as far as it goes in her world as I've built it, at least outside the mountains. In flashbacks, I could offer something of her fellow village women, and there's the Chancellor's daughter... easily sliding into the negative connotations rather than the positive, bright personality of Karinne. Karinne is one of those characters that fits her world well, I think: at least I can't quite picture her handling Mxyra's world very well. I wonder, though, is that a weakness for Karinne, or a problem with my expectations for the future?

Best Wishes to Egypt

2011-02-03T20:39:00.003-06:00

I'm not a big news watcher, and these days my first thought is always, how distorted is the news from reality, still, the apparent awakening of the populace in Egypt struck me as classic democracy in action that I felt a desire to cheer when I first heard about it. It's never just the people all getting fed up with an out of date system all at once. There are surely triggers, though nothing necessarily that an outsider would notice or comprehend, but still, the need for change became recognized and thus we have a classic revolution, though it is unfortunate that it has turned to violence.

In some ways, I suppose that it is inevitable, though violence should never be. A man who has ruled for thirty years should be ready to retire, but no one likes to be pressured into change, especially into a change that feels like a loss instead of merely a change. the fact remains that no one can rule effectively for thirty years, even in middle management. The ivory tower at the top or even the upper windows of the corporation highrise, offers too poor a view of what is happening on the ground, and thirty years of memories, even if they are undistorted by time, convey nothing of the changes in technology, culture, attitudes, needs, and expectations. A leader cannot lead effectively a people that they no longer know.

A few years is typical, ten if the leader is a good listener and brilliant, but no one in a position of ultimate power can be effective for thirty years. If nothing else, being effective is typically exhausting unless there is a solid structure beneath doing most of the ruling and maintaining contact with the people. If that were true Cairo, I suspect there wouldn't have been more than a token protest, as a reminder, and the leader would have been more ready to step down to contented retirement long ago.

Names and things

2011-01-04T21:07:00.003-06:00

Names are always an interesting challenge with fiction writing, complicated by modern naming practices (I named a character Mandy, thinking it an old-fashioned name, Amanda, but got many people telling me it was not only in common use (about half a generation later than myself) but had a character type in movies, not the association I wanted for a medieval peasant. I like period names, but peasant names aren't well documented, (unlike noble and educated names for which I have many lists to refer to and sometimes use, especially for minor side characters).

E-ships adds an extra measure of complication. SF allows a wide range of possibilities, but also interesting challenges: how do you name a ship with sufficient character to need nick names and unique references? And how do you have space-associated names without being trite (Andromeda has to go, I know, but I haven't settled on a replacement. Eventually I'll do a global replace for the full name and the nick name(s).) I've also named spacial phenomenon (much as planet bound travelers use rivers, interchanges, and other geomarkers as reference for where they go, but also giving names to the phenomenon type that I either made up or don't know a scientific name for), and had to create a pseudo military ranking system (The forces aren't exactly military... but police use ranks, too.)

That leads to another issue of naming - titles and ranks add not-always-desirable length to "full names" and another reference on top of names, nick names, and in this case ship identities. Many characters would appropriately use ranks as much as names so I tend to abbreviate, but I can't use the classic rule in non fiction writing - once spelled out, abbreviate. Readers unfamiliar with even common ranks (lieutenant) are not going to be comfortable with alien variations, so I try to spell out periodically, such as at the start of scenes or chapters. Knowing the right rate of use though... I hope an editor has a handle on it, and doesn't mind if my original pacing isn't quite what they have in mind for the final published version...

How do you handle naming?

short scenes and problem detection

2011-01-02T13:22:00.002-06:00

I am always concerned about short scenes, especially when I have several in a row as in my last posting for E-ships. For one, I usually suspect that they are not complete scenes in themselves. For another, I like them to be more clearly stand-alone. The number symbols help, but when they are published, it's often just a line space separation and it has to be clear with the words that the reader has gone from one scene to another, one time to another, one place to another. Otherwise, the bit of dialog should probably be part of a more substantial scene, to incorporate that clarity. It is possible to get all the elements of a scene into a short space, but on rewrite, I will exam short scenes especially closely, and often find that they are missing a key element, such as clarity of character, mood, setting, or change/story progress. In many cases, they hardly achieve one much less all of the needed elements, though the rest were clear in my mind. Getting the writer's image to the reader though... always the ultimate challenge.

The reader may also have noticed that I'm missing some character and place names. I have a name for the chief of the ground crew, but have to look it up and forgot to put it in my list of characters, so that looking it up means scanning a lot of text to find it. The place name I don't have yet, and haven't decided even whether I need a place name or a better topic of discussion. Places that have no role in the story... usually that means the whole reference to them adds nothing to the story and needs to be replaced or dropped. Enough topics within the story are worthy of expansion that every single sentence and every phrase in a dialog can and should add depth, not irrelevancies, even if the reason for using it in a given scene is separate from the content, a means of conveying the nature of the relationship between characters, the nature of the business they are in, or some other element of the culture.

Every scene a story

2010-12-27T20:42:00.003-06:00

I sometimes have the illusion that I can write short stories, but ultimately, readers recognize that they are, could be, or should be part of a novel or a series, a larger world than a short story. The illusion, I think comes from noel scene writing. The ideal scene is a story in itself: characters, setting, emotions, a change. A short story doesn't really require any more than that, although to be a really good scene or an adequate short story, all of those have to be really well developed. Where they differ is that the scene must carry the greater story arc of the novel, take it forward a step. I suspect that where I go wrong with short stories is that I have in mind more of the world, what came before, what will come after, and it leaks into the story even when I want it as a story rather than a scene.

Similarly, where I find myself less satisfied with my science fiction scenes than my quest fantasies, is that there are always new scene settings for the quest fantasies, whereas my space SF tend to be rather contained in a ship or two, a city or two, or as one I am working on, air-base prisons that are much the same from one to the next. That means that many scenes might share the same setting, and I don't have to, shouldn't spend as much of the scene describing that setting. Even if I include a few words and phrases to remeind the reader where they are at, add a different detail as some prop becomes more pat of the scene instead of an unspecified background element, I still end up with less richly described scenes. It's appropriate, but leaves me feeling like something is missing as I work on my revisions.

What do you look for when you revise your scenes?

alien versions of English

2010-12-20T21:22:00.003-06:00

Okay, right off, I know the ast scene in E-ships has problems, for one, valley hillbilly doesn't really make sense, and certainly isn't the sort of phrase these people would use. On the other hand, is it something my readers will understand? Think amusing? Hillbilly has all kinds of implicatinos, mostly what I intend here, including the mountain base (though outsiders think of them as coming from the valleys, they themsleves think of themselves as living on the mountains) but are there other words that would provide the meaning without the apparent contradiction? And is the contradiction absurd, or clever? Sometimes, I just don't know.

And then there is the "witty reparte" between the two. Does it come off right? Endeavor is probably too high end a word for the hillbilly. I enjoy writing the word play and rarely have the characters who would participate. I suspect half of it is a stretch of my imagination to see a connection between the words at all, and that the other half is too blatent to seem anything but trite, but that, too, is hard to tell from the writer side of the equation. How does it come across to the reader?

I think I'm Back

2010-11-12T17:09:00.002-06:00

A computer crash turned out to be more complete than originally hoped so I now have a new computer, new versions of all my old files, and access to the internet at LOOONG last. Meanwhile, Earthlink changed some of their web software so it is no longer compatible with Firefox and I can't update my story that I was presenting there. So, that one will join E-ships on this blog (in it's own category) as soon as I figure out where I was. As I generally do when I am sans computer, I wrote a lot of stuff on paper which now has to be typed and I have to re-establish my posting schedule, so it is likely to be irratic, especially with the upcoming holidays. Please bare with me as I find the most effective new pattern for getting on line, and I hope you enjoy the side order of fantasy to accompany the science fiction.

revising notes - the other book

2010-09-04T09:24:00.004-05:00

I may have mentioned (or may not) that I was reviewing sequels to a book I'm trying to find a agent for and found them a bit of a mess. I did some preliminary fixes, read them aloud to my sister during a recent trip - the third book is still a sorry mess with many gaps, and noted lots of minor fixes and a couple of major ones for the second book.

Following Context, I'm going through it again, the same paper version in a binder, looking for other specifics including names and descriptions (yellow highlighter) of people, places, and things, so that I can create a listing and to ensure consistency. At the same time, I am drafting small filler bits I noted as needed and deleting lots of sentences that explain the same things repeatedly or explain things that don't need explaining. I do that a lot. Some of it I know I do, especially in early drafts, as reminders to myself, so I know why i did something and don't forget and accidentally delete something will be important to a later scene if not obviously the current one, but in the final draft, they all have to go. It must be left up to the reader to figure it out (if they even notice) as a small mystery, a hint, a forshadowing, or whatever. Otherwise too much of the pleasure of continuing to read (looking for answers) is lost.

I kind of new that and watched for it during my revision, but reading silently to ones self, the repetitive bits are EASY to miss, because they are already in the mind and the second time, its not obvious whether it was in the book already or in the mind, as before. Reading it aloud creates a new memory--the memory of saying the words rather than just the content of them--so even if my audience doesn't recognize the repetition (and usually my sister catches them right away unless they are phrased and focused VERY differently)--I recognize the repetition as I say it and make a quick squiggle in the margin for later revision/deletion (the first occurence doesn't get the squiggle but may be the version that gets deleted when i decide on the revisions). i was kind of aware of the need, but was surprised how much I had done it, and also surprised how often the unneeded explanations were one-liners that I was quite fond of at the end of paragraphs. They always say "kill your darlings" but whenever I've heard it, they were refering to whole scenes that are fun but don't add to the story. in this case, my darlings are a bunch of one liner sentences. Alas. When I put it in the computer, I'll keep it all by saving as a new version and making all the changes there, so it won't be quite as painful, but one way or the other, they have to go, and so do many paragraphs of explanatory narration. Valueable for thinking the subtlties of the story through, but not for the reader.

At Context, one of the teachers who taught the value of planning the plot up front repeated often that it helped avoid writing 150,000 words when you should be aiming for 100,000 or less. But that's definitely not my problem. I'd have to write 150,000 words in order to have a hundred thousand by the time I'm done revising. And its usually the better for being shrunk once all the additions have been made. If I have a complaint about published books, its usually that they didn't get the excess edited out, especially in the later books of any series.

Context was great

2010-08-31T17:49:00.003-05:00

If you are a serious SF or Fantasy (or other speculative or historical fiction) writer and are going to go to one con, go to this one and pay for as many workshops as you can get into. Great material. I have all too many notes for rewriting and fixing Cerelian Gold, especially the center, and once I change the center, the end will probably change as well. Tips i found particularly applicable here were:

Give the characters hope and the illusion of nearing at least their first, lower level goal before dashing it and making them realize they have to deal with a bigger a problem than they hoped.

As you approach the climax, give the characters a big setback so the climb to success (or ultimate failure) is even bigger than it was before.

Add more problems as you go (complications) as well as solutions to the problems that were there from the start.

Lots of work to do.

Also, along the way I realized one of the reasons I was having trouble with my Something New: I have yet to create a character I actually like. I haven't had that problem when I've put the story further away from semi-contemporary life so I'm thinking of creating a character in space, maybe even an alien, or way back in the past, then turning them into a more contemporary human and plopping them back into the world of Something New, with an outsiders view even if they aren't actually an outsider: a lot of people, including but not limited to loners, geeks, and rebels have a tendency to at least feel like outsiders, and they are characters most of us can relate to, even like, so I can start there and see if that doesn't work a little better.

fixing the arc or arch or wave or something

2010-08-13T22:18:00.003-05:00

I've been playing with the ending sections because they had a bit of mashe together feel, rather than the kind of flow I wanted. I don't think it's quite there yet, but I think it is improving overall. the tricky bit with these kinds of big changes is that I've probably left quite a few references to action in other scenes that maynot be out of alignment. If you notice something that seems out of sequence or just wrong, it probably is. Please let me know.

I still probably need to do something with the middle too, the story arc as they call it, though I think it a misnomer. An arc implies a fairly straightforward buildup to a climax, but most stories, especially novel length ones aren't that straightforward, and if they are, they shouldn't be. One description I was given was that it should be more like a W or an M, ups and downs, things seeming to go right as well as going wrong, even if they get undone in the next breath. I think my arc is too smooth an arch and needs some more ups and downs, contradictory forces, or misleads (mystery like). The trick of course it to have those ups and downs, and also changing between action, intensity, and other qualities while overall still building toward a climax. I've been working on one of my other books that does it rather better and noticed the nature of the problem, but haven't yet figured out how to fix it. How to you get a feeling of success as a prisoner on an enemy ship without it seeming a total illusion or a solace?

Another scene, tech as an afterthought

2010-08-08T20:00:00.003-05:00

i started this, thinking to try a short story on an apathy/stagnation theme and it took a different turn as I wrote...

She toyed with the coffee cup, gave the handle a push, and watched it spin. the highly polished alloys, designed to minimize friction and reduce spills wnt rough and round, the soft inwardly curving lip catching the liquid and cycling it back into the cup. She finally grabbed it, watched the coffee slosh itself inward, and took a sip, the cup’ lip adjusting o the light pressure of her lips to allow her to drink the tepid coffee safely. She sighed, bored and wondering what a really hot drink tasted like.

“Another conference freeby?” he asked as he set his own trey down. He grabbed the bttle as if flipped and uprighted it with a practiced flip. He’d gotten it two years ago, an easy-clean, seal-fit replacement for the recyclables -- from the consumables conference, made before they decided that a slightly easier to break version would keep them in business longer.

“just the cafeteria stuff. Thought you’d have recognized their logo by now. Don’t you eat here regularly?”

“Nothing at the salad bar has logos. Besides, that company owns plenty besides cafeterias. Just thought they might have invented it.”

“Probably did. Safety first and all that. Another year and the city will control the last free driving lanes left.”

“So you can sit back and relex, enjoy the commute. Doesn’t mean you can’t go anywhere you want.”

“No, just means I can’t take the route i want, the speed I want, the passing lanes I want... It’ll add twenty minutes to every commute, what do you bet?”

“No takers. They’ll want to make the buses look faster.”

Hope for the future in our fiction

2010-08-02T20:39:00.003-05:00

Agent hunting left me depressed even without any new reject letters, not least its subtle messages about the state of Science Fiction which was not encouraging. So for my new story, something not toooo far into the future, maybe on earth, since that is what they are looking for, but it must be hopeful, even uplifting, which means at least a bit of trajedy along the way as well as cheerful. But what do we hope for?

Things I worry about but have hopes for include:
A shift toward caring about our environment as if it were the natural thing to do as well as the right thing to do. There is a tendency to think that the right thing must be the hard thing, and sometimes it is hard to start, but usually only because it is a change. Many companies going green have discovered that the results were both better and cheaper, and who can beat that? So one of our characters works at a recycled production plant (no point in recycling if no one's going to do anything with the gathered stuff). Is is possible to have a shortage of supplies from recycling, due to minimizing packaging and waste, and the regular habit of reuse as long as possible? That might be a fun problem to address :->

To take my own advice, though, it shouldn't be the main story line. I was once told that children's stories that taught values through some adventure or another, were very good at teaching children to pack their tooth brush and brush their teeth, because the characters always did so when they started their adventure or went to bed, just as a matter of course. So the recled production plant should be the setting, not the story.

Other things I have hopes for are space travel (though I have drafted a blog on that and wonder where we are going in that regard, whether it still serves the same purpose that it did before, and whether it has slid, for the next generation or two, into the impossible dream category). Still, it's there, and one or more of my characters can be aware of it, maybe with background on the state of the Mars project if the near future, or some similar project in the further future, to provide a sense of time. When is the next Haley's commet or some other space event due?

Medicine always progresses, many cancers have become avoidable or treatable, though not all, and the next bit worry seems to be new, less categorized things like autism (I still suspect it's a result of all those comms signals filling our lives from every direction, though some say not, or some other environmental effect that wasn't around in the past). Less invasive medicine would be nice, and better consideration of mixing medicines without all our medical information being stored in too many databases... How much information can be on a card and not give it to the computers using the data...

Well, that's a few pieces of the world to think about as we build some scenes and put some characters in it. More to come.

Where are we going?

2010-08-02T20:31:00.002-05:00

Agent hunting, I came across one listed in the past for Science Fiction and they still are, sort of, but they provided a fairly specifica discussion of what they were looking for, and it was, in my old fashioned view, about as science fiction as Flubber, Shaggy Dog, and that movie more recently where the guy could suddenly read the minds of women--contemporary Earth, near future, with some element a little further along than now or taking a bigger place in someone’s life, all about the people.. I suppose, technically, they could be labeled SF, just like most of the James Bond movies, but such stuff has always been in the main stream, on the general fiction shelves. Do they really need to be on the Science Fiction shelves? Do they belong there? and perhaps more important, is that what science fiction genre fans really want, the future that is no further away than next week or next year? If that’s really all they want, my own science fiction is doomed, but in reality, I haven’t noticed that much of a decline in Star Trek books on the shelves, either.

According to one recent discussion, it would be a sign of a decline in curiosity about the world and science, and leave the science fiction to the Chinese consumers, where curiosity is still growing. To me, the lack of curiosity dooms us to stagnation for years to come, for it is a sign of a generation lacking hope, faith, dreams of better to come, an interest only in the struggles of the day, and in addressing those struggles only in the most short-sighted way, if they can address them at all. Today, ethics, the environment, the sense of right and good, and long term value and meaning all too often seem to lose the argument. Even the books that address them seem too often to sermonize instead of letting the reader or student learn, and that is the approach of the defense, not outreach.

If I wanted to write about the contemporary world, I wouldn’t choose to take the course of science fiction and fantasy (though a few fantasies, like Harry Potter, have done it well and left the genre not in question). Popular fiction inevitably does better than genre fiction, and anything that can take that route should probably do so.

Doorway to Dreams

2010-07-23T22:02:00.003-05:00

This story was my entry for the Parsec competition for Confluence 2010, on the theme Color of Silence. I had a very hard time coming up with anything that fit the theme so didn't end up with a lot of time to polish, besides their being a word count limit shorter than I can normally manage, so this was well outside my comfort zone in writing, but it pushed me to be creative and I think I at least managed that: certainly something very different than my novels! Enjoy!

Doorway to Dreams

Valorie wandered across the cracked surface of the Unreal, crunching the world. The damage had permeated every facet of every place by the battle’s end, but the wound in the Unreal was finally closed. The Unreal beasts had returned from the real world to dreams and nightmares. Now it was time to mend her own places.

Her familiar places in the Unreal weren’t quite Valorie’s own design. The originals from which they had been modeled had been introduced to her by the masters: Xalaphon’s arsenal, Yekellan’s vast castle--though she had turned one of the rooms within it into her own under his tutelage--Confillar’s grove. Still, she had added or changed, removed or modified to make her own versions, partial copies yet separate and distinct from the originals. The masters could visit their versions, she hers, and never would they meet save by mutual consent.

None of them was free of the damage. As if the wound made by the Dark Magician was a crack in a vast crystal, it spidered out in all directions endlessly, until the crystalline structure must crumble into dust. Well, not quite. The Unreal wasn’t solid. During the battles, it had acted more like liquid, pouring itself out into the real world, the nightmares foremost to trample everything in their path. And broken or whole, it would always be there for those who could find it.

The grove had the same trampled feel as the real land. Even the bird song was off, discontinuous, its harmonies in discord with each other and with the quiet setting. The grassy knoll was cracked if still green, and her sight slid through the cracks to see the real world as if it lay beneath. Valorie’s body lay still and limp in the real. Though she knew it was always so while she Walked, she rarely saw it. The mind rebelled to see the self, but the cracked Unreal couldn’t fully hold her mind. Her watcher, Master Confillar today, stirred in reaction, perhaps at some twitch of her body, or perhaps at being watched himself. Val forced her attention back to the Unreal. The grove had mended those parts she had noted as broken: a start; but it would be awhile before she could find every cracked leaf, every misdirected breeze. Finding peaceful solitude amidst its unnatural imperfections would be many visits in coming.

Valorie shifted her attention to her room in Yekellan’s castle with a thought and found herself standing amidst rose and indigo chaos. Her bower, he had called it, but she wondered if he thought of it as something else. Yekellan had taught Val to change the world in her mind, how to change her clothes to fit the setting instead of bringing along those her body wore in the real. He had even taught her to be things she was not, including animals and trees. He had taught her many basics of the Unreal, but he had expressed a preference for teaching her more worldly things, and she had quickly found a new master.

Tiptoeing in soft slippers, Valorie made her way across the chipped tile and felted rugs.

Yekellan had as much as admitted, later, that he had brought a dream image of her to a replica of her bower. The dream image wasn’t her, but the thought of him fantasizing, magically experiencing time with her sent a shiver along her spine and broke her concentration. She left the shattered room in disarray.

As Val left, stepping through the doorway into her favorite picnic site, she shivered again. Only after she had settled into the new vision, herself a tree at the edge of the clearing, did she consider what she had experienced in that fraction of time in the doorway. It wasn’t exactly a crack, or if a crack then one patched in shimmering silk: cool, smooth, and filled with discordant tones that echoed in her bones.

The picnic scene was barely more than an echo of the original grove on which it had been modeled. A few minor flaws had crept in from the Dark Master’s interference: a discontinuity in the plaid of the blanket, some autumn leaves in the perpetual spring setting, a chill breeze that should have been warm with the promise of summer. Val set them to repairing themselves, but her thoughts returned to the doorway.

What she had sensed in the doorway wasn’t a crack, she became sure with time. Nor could it be a patch. It was her bower, her doorway. Even if Yekellan repaired the whole of the castle, it would only be a repair to his own version, not hers, which would remain a wreck until she fixed it. She pushed the disturbing questions away. Perhaps Master Confillar would have an answer.

Before leaving, Valorie plucked a blue flower that should have been yellow, and returned to her body.

"You knew the damage could take many forms," Confillar said.

"What?"

Valorie sat up and looked at the flower. No longer distinctly blue, nor yellow as she had hoped, it had wilted to gray in her hand. She shivered once more. "It should have been whole," she told him. "I thought it might fix when I brought it back, not die."

"Many forms, not for you to worry about."

She thought about the strangeness in the doorway but, certain he would say the same again, Val said nothing more.

#

"You’re afraid to tell me about your troubles? You’re so bold otherwise," Honorr complained.

Val denied the accusation. "I just don’t want to trouble you when you can’t help."

"You’re so sure I can’t help," he pouted.

They walked in silence for some minutes, ostensibly on guard duty though it had been more than a week since the last of the Unreal beasts had been sighted. All indications were that the beasts had been sent to oblivion and harmless nightmares, and the Dark Magician fled to the lifeless hills. The patrols continued only while the masters thought the Dark Magician could return.

"It’s just a thing of the Unreal. Nothing for us to worry about."

"You say that as if that’s what you’ve been told, not what you believe."

"The masters said the damage will take many forms."

"The same masters who told you the Moon Dance was a real magic spell?" Honorr grumped, but a smile escaped his lips as Valorie grinned. "Okay, so you turned it around on them and made it Unreal, after all. The point is, sometimes your understanding and instincts are better than their training."

They continued their last round in silence. To ease the tension and keep awake, Honorr swung his sword at a couple of the deeper shadows, laughed at a scurry of small feet fleeing the movement. He would be happy enough to see his recently gained weapons skills rust.

Their replacements greeted them with a wave. Honorr returned it and directed Valorie right off the path into the woods for privacy.

"So, what does your instinct tell you?" he asked before she recovered from her astonishment.

Valorie nodded. "That something is still wrong. Maybe the Magician left something behind."

"A way for the nightmares to become real again?"

"I don’t know. Maybe just something to keep us from fixing what’s left."

"Can you do something about it?"

"I don’t know, but I think I can find it, then the masters can fix it."

"So what’s stopping you?"

"I need someone to sit and Watch while I’m looking, and none of the other Walkers will do it since the masters didn’t approve."

"Does it have to be a Walker?"

"You’d have to stay all night. Everyone knows the Walkers do it, but it might ruin your rep with the ladies."

"I will know I just Watched, and you’re the only lady I care about just now."

"Then let no one disturb my body, and I will Walk. If I’m still gone with the dawn, do all that you can to wake me."

Honorr laid out his great coat and she settled onto it. Even as he sat beside her to wait, her eyes closed, her body went limp, and her search began.

#

Valorie went first to the bower. It remained in disarray, as if a sharp ax had been taken to the whole of the room. Pink bed curtains hung upside down. The headboard was out of alignment with the foot. A once beautiful silver gown lay across a chair in a patchwork of textures and clashing shades of aqua and gray. She turned quickly away, her eyes feeling twisted as if the whole world were skewed.

The doorway immediately drew her attention. It looked normal enough, with the gray stone of the castle hall visible beyond it, but even from several paces away, she sense the disturbance like quicksilver and silk against her bare skin.

Val took a step toward it and found herself instantly in the doorway, drawn there as by a spider’s thread. It was a dark thought, but she smiled. A spider’s web could also be followed. Val reached for it, seeking where it was strongest. Like working her way from the loose outer rings of a web to the more densely woven center, she sought the gray discontinuity.

As she took another step, the sensation started slipping away, but in the next moment she found it again, not just impinging on her senses, but encompassing her, smooth and cold against her skin as if she were clothed with it. She clung to that feeling and dissolved into chaos.

#

Up was echoes, down a scream. The cardinal directions swirled around her like a blizzard, brushing her with silver and gold threads of hope and despair. Valorie herself was neither plant nor animal, nor even a rock or wandering stream. Briefly she was almost one or another, but most often she seemed to be a song being sung. She flowed continually from some unseen mouth (it seemed to have violet lips) and circled around instruments that played neither melody nor harmony but emitted the stench of refuse piles or the perfume of meadow flowers as she was sent spinning into the chorus.

Valorie tried to grasp for anything familiar but her senses were detached from her missing limbs, and a song could hold onto nothing. She spotted a hand like her old one, saw it repeated like an echo in the same pose, a quill between her spread fingers composing without composer or paper. She tried to follow the echoes but was sung instead across a hill of curiosity. That, too, had something familiar to it and she managed to sustain it into an arpeggio until her eyes ached from the roller coaster ride and she had to let go once again.

She tried to remember why she was here, what she had been looking for, but a song didn’t think for itself and the effort only scattered the notes into a cacophony of colors.

#

Honorr wrapped the tails of his coat and Valorie’s over them both as the night deepened and chilled. The rising moon brought a light breeze that stole all heat from his body. It also shook the leaves and spooked the birds, whose plaintive songs suddenly seemed to fill the night.

The time of battle had made Honorr familiar with the woods and the night and the cold. He tensed at something low and hard beneath the woodland’s natural music, some heavier tread.

As quietly as he could, Honorr stood. The moon put the world into silhouette, black and gray, and Honorr knew to trust better his ears and other senses than his eyes. Yes, a metallic click, a shift of stiffened leather not his own. Making sure he remained in shadow, Honorr slowly drew his sword. Valorie’s legs were in the moonlight, her coat a smooth gray in sharp contrast to the course textures of old leaves. The forest sounds seemed to fade as the thumping of his heart boomed loud.

Movement caught his eye: Valorie, slipping into the shadows... No! Being dragged! He dashed toward her head, knowing someone must be there but seeing nothing. "Leave her be!" he shouted, thrusting his sword into the black void. The tip caught something hard and he stumbled back as a blade flashed near his head.

"You won’t touch her!" he shouted, charging forward again, his blade swinging wide. It was no proper way to fight, but it ensured a connect if the thief was close enough. The blade banged against a shape and an "Oof" said Honorr had connected. He charged again, stumbled over feet and landed hard on a body.

For a moment they struggled, swinging blindly, catching leather armor, a pieces of hand or face, and finally a solid blow. The stranger in the dark offered a weak grunt and Honorr pulled him into the moonlight to tie him up, wondering if there were more waiting and watching in the dark.

#

"Why do you limit yourself? The Unreal has no limits but those we ourselves impose."

It could not be said that she heard the words. Perhaps someone was singing them through her, trying to create her as his own song, but it was more as if she read them as notes floating by on a scroll, heavy and black as a tune of bases and barrel drums.

"Let your mind experience it. Enjoy the freedom it offers," the argument continued.

"Chaos is not freedom," she tried to send back with her own tones. "It’s insanity. It lacks meaning or purpose." Her song, though, was pale as fog over a sunset, and the mountains of logic were hiding behind clouds of fear.

It was all illusion of course. She knew that she still Walked in the Unreal and Unreal was no more than illusion until she could take some element of it back to the real as knowledge, insight, or some physical object. Fear, though, felt real enough, and she had forgotten where reality was, was losing even her melody.

"Do you give up so easily, my pupil?" she saw scribbled across some ears, perhaps her own. The new score was full of dissonant cords from burning forests.

The words had meaning of a sort and that was more than she had before so she followed along. Perhaps the Unreal offered a lesson. She tried to keep up as they jammed and this time found a chord that fit.

"You remember. If you can’t control it, move with it," a voice scrawled across a roll of flowery blue wallpaper. "Find the rhythm and the flow."

She imagined herself laying back though she had no sense of up and down, forward or back. The maelstrom continued around her but she did remember the early lesson, to move with the forces she couldn’t control until she found a place to plant her feet, until she found herself.

"Wake up, wake up," floated past, lost behind an engine blast, the upshift of a revving motor like red and gold sparks across her vision.
#

Honorr carried Valorie back to the camp swearing loudly and shouting repeatedly for help as the sun rose. Chilled despite his efforts to keep them both warm, he carried her flopping in his arms. Still she refused to wake. Neither a slap nor a kiss had done better. He was sure a fellow Walker could have done more, surely the reason Walkers were usually chosen as Watchers, but he had wanted to help and she had foolishly allowed it.

"What has she done?" the master demanded as Honorr wondered when he would reach the camp. "This way, this way, you turned off your course. What has she done?"

"She went to search. She was certain something was wrong with the Unreal."

"I feared as much. We suspected a trap, which was why I warned her away."

"You didn’t warn her," Honorr growled. "You said it was nothing to worry about!"

"Nothing for her to worry about."

"Well, you didn’t make the difference clear to her! Now you can worry about her!"

"Until she gives some sign, we, too, can only wait."

#

Valorie felt the instructor approaching, almost familiar, a solid presence that had Walked with her in the Unreal before.

"Move with me. Wrap yourself around me. I will guide you." They weren't quite spoken and she heard no voice, but they reached her as clear words, almost real.

Val imagined reaching a hand out, certain he would know the way out of the chaos, certain it was his own creation.

"That’s right, closer, closer. You were always a quick student. Better than the others at noticing the details. Your castle varies very little from my own."

It had to have a pattern, a meaning, some purpose, Val told herself when the familiar presence had allowed her to regain a measure of calm. He remained an unseen figure, no more than a style at the base of the kaleidoscope, a pattern in the random notes of a calliope, yet even a madman had some direction, some perception of the world that drove him.

"You insisted, a perfect copy, save the one room."

"I could hardly design a woman’s bower. It needed... What are you doing?"

Madness night be creative, but it could not change the very fabric of the Unreal. Those with the training and talent could control their own places. Valorie could make even this into her own place if she could find the way and hold her mind together long enough.

"I’m floating in your dream, your nightmare, relaxing, as you said, finding the flow."

Chaos shifted around her but Walking required concentration and just as she could block out forest sounds or a distant party, she could ignore the madness, ignore even her own lack of shape or form. If she had nothing, she could start anew, build her Unreal body anew. In that moment of understanding, Valorie envisioned a clean, empty room, peaceful and silent, waiting to be filled with her own dreams.

"We’re nearly there," she heard distinctly, the message filling her mind, trying to push out all coherent thought, trying to fill even her empty room with his presence. "Nearly together, where we can find freedom."

"Freedom, yes," she said, working again toward the empty, silent room, certain she could find herself there, build her own place.

"Wait! You must experience the ultimate merge of sound and color, darkness and light. We will merge so completely in all our senses that we will be a single entity, Walk in each others places as our own."

"Trade places even?"

"You understand, my perfect pupil."

"But darkness cannot replace light, nor sound silence. I have no desire to smell with my eyes nor see with my ears. Insanity can't find peace in the sanity of another, only bring them both madness."

"In the Unreal, anything is possible, if you will only allow it!" the muddy colors of an old palate exploded around her. A battle of bands tried to wrap her mind in its chaos once more.

"I prefer that up be up," she conveyed as music swirled on a paint brush and bright colors drifting on an ill-defined melody.

He grabbed for her one last time, a screech of anger, a last attempt to sing her as his own song, mold himself permanently into her mind.

Gripping the new doorway with one of the hands she'd seen earlier, she paused, wondering if any part of her old teacher’s mind was still sane. "I finished the lesson you refused to teach, that all the masters refused to teach. They each taught me their song. Now I have learned to paint my own."

#

"A flower wilting and a doorway changed by other than the Walker aren’t the same thing," Confillar pointed out. "Only the Magician has ever been able to affect the places of others."

"How else to make a flower wilt that was fresh in my vision? I saw them as the same."

"Bright insight on your part, not an obvious relationship to the rest of us, even the masters. You should learn to speak up."

"What will happen to Master Yekellan?"

"Likely the madness you encountered was the result of his body failing, the ultimate risk of Walking untended. Even the one who attacked Honorr apparently didn’t know where his master’s body lay."

"Didn’t trust his own people?"

"Or the Watcher fled and couldn’t get back before some wildcat pulled it away and mauled it. That’s why he wanted your body, knew his master would need one, to claim as his own."

Scratches and other verbal doodles

2010-07-21T21:21:00.003-05:00

“What is ‘scratch’ anyway?”

“Nothing. Or at least, only what you can get from fround so hard you can barely scratch the surface. I suppose it means starting fra farm on land that hasn’t the first seed planted, the first row hoed,”

“Hard row to hoe?”

“Exactly. so starting from scratch is starting literally from the ground up, though these days i suppose it’s from the ground down, since everything allowed up is already up as high as it can go.”

“Hardly that. just where it’s easy, where all the infrastructure, people, equipment are all in easy reach. The places not claimed for nature and ecosystem preservation but not city, no one bothers. Requires thought and planning.”

“Can’t have that can we?”

They both laughed.
#

What about us though? City life is okay. All the conveniences if also all the noise and chaos. Half the people aren’t outside long enough to notice if it’s smoggy sky overhead or sun replacement tunnel lighting. Still have to push the sun baths on some people, for the vitamins, but I like it out here, and so do the dogs.”

---------
This scene started as just speculation about the phrase used in the previous one, but as they tend to do, took on a life of its own, prodding character attitudes and potential settings and plot bits as well as reflecting my view of some related topics.

Comments on Chapter 21 part 1

2010-07-20T18:46:00.003-05:00

I had a lot of trouble with this section (Chapter 21 part 1 of Cerelian Gold) and have fiddled with it many times. Part of it is the seduction attempt. How would Dilven try to seduce her in a way that would be in his character (mostly badly); how would Candice react to his efforts, especially in a state of exhaustion aggravated by drugs and stress; and how do I get the right combination to get to the next piece of the story? And wrapped up in that is how far to take it for the audience? I try to recall how much is implied, how much described, how much done with and without description in books I like, movies I like, how much I could stand family members and friends reading of my imagination... (I've read books that go lots further than I opted for, providing much fuel for my already vivid imagination). In this case, I couldn't take it too far because I've set Candice up to not handle it well, and her role isn't done yet. I've also played with the idea of making Dilven better at it, but that would require I know how it could be done... and come up with the right lines for an alien on top of that!

thoughts on a scene

2010-07-16T21:07:00.003-05:00

i finally came up with a true scene for the tale. I have no idea where it will take me but I think it offers several directions and hints at some past events that I havne't yet thought through. My first reactions (I wrote it in pen) when i took it as far as i could at the time that it was very contemporary and could easily be a scene in a contemporary book, but if I recall, that's fairly common for my SF drafts, and it helps ensure real characters that readers can relate to, even if the story goes elsewhere before it's really written.

I have no idea where the names came from. Probably something I've heard on t.v. lately, which adds to the contemporary feel.

"Sary, where are ou going?"

"For a walk, do you mind?"

"It wasn't an accusation."

"Wasn't it? Just becasue you've exprssed affection doesn't mean i't your concern how I epend my time."

"i just woory when I don't know where you are."

"Worry implies a right to know. You don't have that right unless I choose to give it to you. Worry about keeping me happy when we're together. The rest of my time is my buinesss. Unless you don't trust me?"

His eyes went down' and he bit his lip, knowing enough not to admit that, at least. Nor, however, did he deny it an she was in no mood to be tolerant.

"Is that it, jealous already?"

"No. Of course not. I don't worry about you having an affair. i know-"

"You obviously know nothing, Jack," she said, knowing he hated to be called that. "An affair? An affair is what established couples do outside the lines. You and me don't have any lines to be outside."

"But you said-"

"I said I appreciated your interest and would be willing to date. That's all I said and that's all I meant. That was concession enough when we work together on some project at least once a week and often more besides seeing each other outside of work. if you can't deal with-"

"I'mnot a child, Sary. I just care about you. Our date-"

"Will be the last if you push me again, Jack. I'm not so old-fashioned I intend to let even a husband run my life, much less a boy friend." She turned away from him before he could object and the dogs growled at him when he moved as if he might block her path. In her mind, she'd made a great concession to refer to him, still, as a boyfriend. She wasn't going to waste the pleasant weather arguing with him when he should instead simply have apologised for going too far/presuming too much, and let it drop.

--notes--

Why is she so testy or is he being possessive/stalker-like? What other trust issues might be going on here? Is good weather rare where they are at? Why? What kind of work do they do together? Setting? visual elements of the characters? Sensory input?

Title idea: Start from Scratch

What would be starting? What might Scratch represent?

Intellectual vs technical in science fiction

2010-07-11T13:00:00.002-05:00

I guess he didn’t want any advertising for his book because the paragraphs about them wouldn’t copy, but you can read those bits at http://www.concatenation.org/articles/hocking~science~sf.html. They weren’t the bits that interested me, anyway, as much as his clear misunderstanding of the quotes he included in his write up.

“Science fiction comes in so many flavours that defining 'science fiction' is problematic. One aspect of our understanding of SF is that it should be technically accurate.
But is this more important than the story? Should it be compromised to tell a story? asks author and psychologist Ian Hocking” is the blurb at the start of the story.

Ian Hocking makes some good points about the value of some degree of accuracy, and the often misleading results when journalists misrepresent medical findings and translate it into incorrect or misleading advice to their readers (A relationship may not be cause and effect). (Scientists would like to see some of the same correctness in science fiction, knowing that science fiction readers often become science students and ultimately scientists, and benefit from realistic portrayals of current science knowledge.)

“But should science fiction be held to such standards?” he counters, “I would argue not. Because, first and foremost, the responsibility of a storyteller is to tell a story. If the storyteller is primarily concerned with edification -- rather than letting this grow organically from the story -- then an alternative form of dissemination, such as the essay or the documentary, might be more appropriate.”

Hocking further explains: “Perhaps SF is seen as too challenging. My own view, however, is that science fiction is commonly conceived as tedious unless one is interested in gadgets, time paradoxes, poor characterization and the willfully obscure. As an SF writer, I would not agree that this conception is an accurate one, but it does appear to describe the common reaction.”

His further arguments, however, take on a rather sideways perspective. Hocking uses a quote by Ben Bova from an essay on the Cassandra Effect in SF, where Bova assesses that few people read SF because “Perhaps the problem lies with the visual entertainment media: movies and TV. Let's face it, most of Hollywood's "sci-fi" has its origins in comic strips, not actual published science fiction. Many people don't realize that the "sci-fi flicks" on both big and small screens are a far cry from the intellectual and emotional depth of real science fiction.”

Hocking says of this: “I find this problematic in the context of creating fiction. A story is a series of moments that, through the interactions of their meaning, create emotions in the reader. Intellectual depth, it would appear, works at a level incommensurate with the story. Sure, we can be entertained by a bit of techno-jargon, we can go 'Ahhh,' when the author explains how a nifty camouflage suit can lower the wearer's refractive index to zero, rendering them invisible. But this not the story. It is, yes, part of the support structure of the story, but it represents a reduction of forward motion while what the reader should really care about - the characters and what happens to them - is put on hold.”

In my view, Ian Hocking has missed Bova’s point entirely. Hocking equates “intellectual” with technobabble, just because sometimes the technobabble is technically correct and well-researched. I accept that technostuff, accurate or totally made-up, can be problematic, that the story should take priority, and that technobabble) can just slow the story down and discourages readers who have no interest in gadgetry. it’s a problem not exclusive to science fiction, either: look at the spy tales of Clancy). He argues reasonably that “You shouldn't have to be interested in the space stuff to an enjoy an SF story any more than you need to have an intrinsic interest in African territorial jurisdiction to enjoy Casablanca.”

But Hocking misses the point that intellectual and technobabble have nothing to do with each other and may even be contradictory, if the technology stuff is handled badly. A little bit of technology and a lot of ethics, social, or emotional questions surrounding the use of the specified technology and its impact on individual lives--all the makings of “intellectual depth”-- can be the meat of a genuinely good story. No technobabble is needed beyond character’s understandable and realistic dialog. Tolkien put a lot of work into researching the Lord of the Rings and the story is enriched by the language and legends portrayed, truly an intellectual work in many respects, but LoR isn’t an academic study in the those languages and legends, the inclusion as part of the lives of the characters doesn’t make the tale harder to read, and yet the reader still wants “Frodo to reach Mount Doom and you worry for the tragic figure of Gollum.”

Hocking does offer some good advice, even if he got there through a sideways logic: “I guess I've come to this conclusion through the editing process. I've learned that what makes a scene good isn't the tech; it's the meaning conjured by the characters, their struggles, the conflict, and the wider narrative. When working to improve a piece of fiction, you can fiddle with the meaning (I'm using this word in a broad sense that encompasses 'emotion', 'affect', 'interest' and so on) or you can fiddle with the technical stuff. At the end of the day, it's the sharpening of meaning that improves the work by any real margin.”

traitors and other subplots

2010-07-09T22:15:00.003-05:00

A few too many distractions to have made much progress on the new tale, but here's a few more thoughts in that direction. The mind thing is more of SF than Fantasy, but we can still use some of the examples from fantasy of what makes a great, popular, saleable story. Really, it's not just limited to fantasy either:

Interesting side characters as well as protagonist

A classic story line often helps: girl meets boy, one saves the other, not necessarily appreciated, understanding develops, romance develops, then other stuff. Well, as a side story anyway. How about the core story though: good versus evil. Evil should have representative bodies doing dastardly deeds, preferably at least representatives on site, face-to-face, which is why traitors in the midst is a common sub=plot, to give a visible baddie. I didn't do that in Cerel Gold, but maybe I could try that here. Note to self: need scenes with the traitor playing good guy, and others hinting that he (or she) may be something other than it appears. It will be more subtle and mysterious if there are other side characters hiding things (ala mystery suspects).

The traitor needs to be working for someone, something related to the mind control ability or telepathy or related skills.

I'll see if I can keep it on Earth. otherwise I'll get tempted to place it on one of my already existing planets, and that has too many in-built rules already established. the goal here is to start from scratch. The future, but not so far in the future as space travel, then? (At our current rate, that could still be a long long long way in the future, alas, but I won't go that far. Some of the world should be identifiable unless I go for post apocalypse or some such other theme, and those are a breed unto themselves. But far enough in the future that country boundaries don't mean the same thing, that technology has changed again and impacted the biology/ecology, like some suspect of autism's increasing occurances.

Well, that's enough for tonight. If any of my fellow writers are insprited to write a scene, please share. What I've provided so far is still fuel for a million different books and stories and comparability encourages readers.

Tip: Technology will always be ahead

2010-07-07T18:52:00.002-05:00

Don't try to keep up with technology. These days, only the rich and those who have to keep up in one field for their career can hope to stay up-to-date on technical things. So long as the version you have does what you need it to, hand onto it. I upgraded my computer only when it got to the point that the most advanced software it could handle was still too old to go to a lot of the web sites I needed for e-mail, agent hunting and other important online activities. I saw it comeing, was able to save for it, and could afford a good, up-to-date replacement. I've had to replace the hard drive on this, my second computer, once, and plan on holding onto it awhile longer, though i can see the signs of needing a new one and have started to save accordingly.

Besides the obvious of not spending money that you don't have to, waiting has several advantages, especially though not only with technical things.
: With technical things, prices are prone to come down.
: time to save up for big expenses means the opportunity to buy the best, longest-lasting and most up-to-date version so that it is longer before another is needed.
: time to consider what is really needed and buy the right thing.
: the longer it lasts, the more value it has, cost per day as you might say.

More notes on editing and revising

2010-06-29T18:33:00.002-05:00

In trimming the section I've just posted for Cerelian Gold, and for editing and revising in general, I often look for series of prepositional phrases that I've added to clarify a sentence. Prepositional phrases (on the planet, in the hatchway, etc.) can be very useful constructs, but they are easy to overuse and having even two in a row can be a problem. sometimes they can be replaces with a difference sentence construction, a description in another form, but often I simply delete them as not really necessary. They serve primarily to help the reader see the scene as I, the writer do, but unless it impacts the plot, some later action, it's usually alright if the reader visualizes some details in their own way. The more they can imagine it for themselves, and the less the author contradicts a vision of the scene that the reader has already created in their own imagination, the easier the reader can get into the scene.

I think that is one of the reasons that science fiction can be particularly challenging for some readers to get into, and why it remains less popular than fantasy as a general rule: the writer has to describe scenes that the reader cannot readily fill in from their own experience and including concepts that the reader may be hard-pressed to visualize even when thoroughly described. It's probably also why many SF fans are either scientists or young or both: the scientists can get the concepts from knowledge of current science, and the young always have more vivid imaginations. A specific detail or two can be enough to give such readers a picture, without it being the exact same image the writer had in mind, and that's often enough.

Lets Try Something New

2010-06-28T19:39:00.002-05:00

It's been awhile since I did something really new, rather than working on the progress of something I started a long while back, or a modification on the theme. So i thought I would try to come up with a new thing and let the readers follow along.

Often I just think of a scene and go from there. No good scene has come to mind, though, off hand, so I'll play with another approach like I have done for short story competitions and classes: a bit of a plan to get the mind going.

Some framework:
--SF
--mature
--how about an evolved human,,, (or genetically distorted, maybe by environmental conditions, something ala autism? a very different look at the world?)
--a woman with a pair of dogs or doggettes, maybe well-trained, mind-based obedience, part of the other worldly view?. A look made them lay down, another and they went to their sides, one half on the other to that one's annoyance. "Oh, alfight, shift." and that one moved our from under the bitch.

Tip: clip coupons for what you buy, not what you don't

2010-06-28T19:09:00.001-05:00

We don't spend lots of time clipping coupons but we do watch for coupons for the kinds of things we always need: toilet paper and tissues, canned vegis and other nonperishable foods, and certain restaurants that we like to go to as the occasional treat. What we don't do is buy just because we have a coupon. Let coupons expire if you don't need them and wouldn't have bought it anyway.

what next and more on definitions in novels

2010-06-24T20:46:00.003-05:00

Cerelian Gold is heading toward climax and ending rapidly but I haven't yet decided what tale to post next, whether science fiction or fantasy and whether to try to keep to the more adult themes rather than the young adult that I post to my other blog. Part of the hesitation is that I might not actually have a choice on the latter as I don't know that I have another grown-up science fiction or fantasy ready for public viewing. I tend toward young adult quite unintentionally and didn't even know that that was what I was writing for many years, many novels. I suppose because the bulk of the science fiction and fantasy novels I was finding and reading when i got started were billed as just that, not specifically as young adult at all, but in retrospect, that's what they really were. Adding substantial romance and the psycho-drama are what really made them different in my view. I wonder what other themes make a book general or adult instead of young adult? Perhaps I will let the readers see how I explore a new idea, long before it becomes a novel... I'll take suggestions for themes.

Tip on grocery shopping

2010-06-24T20:28:00.002-05:00

The big size isn't necessarily the best buy anymore. Stores or producers seem to have decided to take advantage of the long-established practice of selling the bigger size cheaper-per-ounce, by upping the price randomly. For those who use a lot of some item (so that the large size might be worth the buying, if the cost is better), it's well worth checking the per-ounce cost before you buy. There is little use in buying lots that won't be used, though, as getting too much just spends money earlier than needed and often results in significant waste, as well as leaving less to earn interest in the savings account.

Tip:Don't grocery shop on an empty stomach

2010-06-18T22:06:00.002-05:00

Hunger encourages whim buying and discourages taking time to compare prices (and ingredients). Big sizes used to be cheaper, a good buy if you normally go through a lot, but that's often no longer the case as producers or stores take advantage of the common assumption. Check also real contents, not box size: they don't shrink the can or box just because they are selling you less than they used to, or you may be buying more filler and less of what you want.

As an example, check out the juice aisle: 100% juice isn't the same as 100% of the juice on the label. Apple juice and white grape juice are common substitutes: cheap, sweet, and less nutritious than many of the other juices. "Juice drinks" are even worse, barely more than koolaid. Go for the koolaid mix if you're aiming for flavored sugar water and buy some reusable water bottles for taking it along. It's vastly cheaper for the same thing. Shop wise, not just cheap.

What Defines the Science Fiction Classic?

2010-06-15T20:14:00.005-05:00

Came across a blog awhile back about whether there were any modern science fiction classics, that is, science fiction books (rather than movies) that if you mentioned it to an SF reader, they would be almost guaranteed to know the book and probably to have read it. Lots of old ones, but what about in the last half of the 20th C or since? if I say "Pip and Flinx", how many SF readers would recognize the characters and the books they are from? What about Helva, the Ship Who Sang, or the Dragonriders of Pern (though they slide toward fantasy most of the time), but there are plenty of memorable Fantasies.

The question came up again in a discussion at home, and it came up that we'd have a hard time testing even if we thought of a few candidates: how would you know, unless you were involved in discussion outside your local reading group or book club? classices are not always 'favorites" either, as the NY Times best seller lists show. Classics, in the sense I refer to here is more about recognizable quality and long-term memorability and value, that ensures the next generation reads it, too.

With no answers, my thoughts turned to what exactly would define a classic in a genre fiction? What kind of features would make it modestly popular, over more than a single generation, memorable and recognizeably good quality such that a teacher would bring it to the attention of their students? Here are some of my thoughts:

* Well written with a distinctive style, voice
* Helps define the genre or a subgenre, perhaps the first to effectively capture a subgenre and leads the way to many of the same sort, poor imitations of the first.
* A story that a wide audience can relate to (typically relatively basic, even obvious in essence with classic themes of life, family, friends, good and evil, challenges to basic values, but portrayed in such an interesting manner that adults and teens can read and re-read it and find something new to learn and understand, complex enough in content along the course to retain interest.
* Strong emotional content (fear and hate, love and hate, obsession, jealousy, and fierce loyalty
* A new twist, setting, or focus
* Larger than life characters that none the less represent the human condition, with flaws and weaknesses in the same proportion as strength and nobility and purpose.
* In particular for a given genre, it should be an archtype of the genre. For science fiction, a fictitious, pseudo, or future predictive science that is not just present but a key story element.

The last may be an answer to why no science fictions obviously fall into this category: So many kinds of science and science fiction are available for exploration, that finding a representative one may be hard for subgenre's whose true models were written more that a century before: time travel, vampires, monsters, space fiction, and others. A book that tries to address several of the options at once becomes unbelievalbe, a farce or parody, although that can be a kind of classic of its own. Who hadn't heard of the Hitchhikers Guide, even before the movie?

Even if no book achieves it all, I figure any book that aims in the right direction will at least have a great chance at publication success.

Tip: Avoid sale shopping

2010-06-14T19:28:00.002-05:00

It may be counter-intuitive, and there are exceptions, but sales tempt us to buy things we don't need in greater quantity than we need them. A sale is still a purchase, and the best sale price is still more costly than buying nothing at all.

Tip: Learn to Cook

2010-06-14T19:19:00.002-05:00

Home cooked foods are always cheaper than restaurant fare. With a little care, they are usually cheaper and healthier than fast food, too, and being healthier is cheeper than being sick. Basics like rice, simple roasts, potatoes, vegetables and fruit are all easy to prepare with a minimum of guidance. For the bolder cook, sugar and flour and small amounts of ingredients are far cheaper and usually better than store-vought treats (desserts at the store are especially expensive because you are paying for a lot of preparation effort and packaging besides the food itself). If you are interested in recipis, let me know what you are looking for. I have a wide array and am happy to add more detailed instructions for the beginner.

science fiction cultural elements

2010-06-11T21:41:00.003-05:00

I've gotten some fairly good feedback on my current free novel, but I'm not sure if the source is a big science fiction fan. I don't want to undo the mood with lots of technical stuff, but I suspect I need to put in just a little more science fiction, if only a little more alien descriptions of the characters, long faces, one less finger, but more importantly, a little more alien thought pattern and cultural elements: what makes the military officers military? How to they express authority? Not just the shape of a salute but a reflection of some other aspects of their culture that i have barely begun to explore here. I need to spin off some independent short stories to experiment with some ideas. That has always helped on the stories that I have been developing longer.

Tip: Figure out what you want

2010-06-10T20:17:00.002-05:00

Set financial goals and wishes: what do you want that takes some money to achieve or to achieve well. Choose realistic short term and medium term goals but shoot for the moon for the long term future. Find out how much they cost. DON'T try to figure out how much you need to set aside each month to get to the long term goals unless you're really good with compound interest and inflation rates, besides, calculating how much to set aside isn't the point. Setting a goal, and keeping it in mind is an achievement of its own. And keep in mind for that long term dream, the sooner you start saving, the less you'll need to put in the bank.

Tip: keep a spending log

2010-06-10T20:03:00.003-05:00

Keep a spending log, and an income log if your paycheck varies from week to week. Like dieters who record their food intake, the mere act of writing it down regularly can help get it under control by building awareness. Small purchases, especially, can go by unnoticed, but they add up fast and suddenly the wallet is a hundred dollars lighter, much of it spent on things we didn't need. Keeping track for several months also provides enough information to start thinking about making a budget. Too many people try to start with a budget before they know what they regularly spend, get frustrated when it doesn't come out, and quit, and that never helps. Just find a notebook of a comfortable size (not something I would recommend for the computer! even a handheld that you can take with), a comfortable pen, and write down everything you spend when you spend it.

A new category--Finance Lessons from Dad

2010-06-10T19:32:00.003-05:00

The new category isn't just about things Dad said, but things I learned indirectly from those early lessons, and through experience, mostly modestly successful since then. the new category will mostly be little tips and descriptions of my own experience working at being financially "independent" (in my definition, having more than I owe) and maintaining good security ratings and all.

I don't offer advice on achieving real wealth. I haven't figured that one out beyond finding a better paying job than I have, nor how to make money from nothing. I've managed steady if not always great paying work and that's the only starting point I know. Steady income isn't always enough, though. Plenty of people who make more than I do, however, still find themselves floundering in financial confusion and problems, and others just don't seem to make as much progress as they want, so I thought a few practical if inexpert tips might be useful.

Tip #1 -- this one is from Dad -- Keep your credit card balance at 0 and if it isn't, get it there as fast as you can.

He's gotten past not wanting to use them at all, but he, and I, still pay them down every month with very very rare exception. If I can't afford to pay the card off when the bill comes in, then I can't afford it all, that's the concept, because paying interest--and even the better credit cards have a lot-- just means you are spending more money in the long run, and buying less of what you want and need. Once in a grat while I've paid a large bill off in two installments, but I didn't use a credit card again until it was paid off.

repeats

2010-06-05T21:08:00.002-05:00

I haven't been posting as many non-Cerel posts as I have intended. I haven't edited much on the last several scenes, so I didn't have that immediate topic ready to hand. I have several blog topics from notes on my recent trip but havne't typed them up yet, still, I have a few things to say.

I've sent out copies of the whole Cerel novel to a couple of people and started to get feedback. Most of it hasn't been a surprise: there are certain elements of the story that have a certain repetitive flavor. Even if the events need to occur, they should always be different enough not to be mistaken for another similar scene elsewhere or when in the story. Even the possibility of repetition means that some aspect of the story, the characters, the plot, the emotional tension has not progressed as much as it should have. Some repetition has value, but not whole scenes, only themes, phrases. Or if scenes, then a distinct difference that changes the whole flavor and gives a special meaning to the repetition. Mine wasn't that, or at least not enough that and I'll have to work on it.

I think I may have a similar problem with the story on my other blog. I have two visitors to the pirate ship and the course of the visits if not the characters goes very similarly. No point in that as it doesn't expand the reader's understanding of anything and doesn't sufficiently make progress on the story.

I'm back

2010-06-01T21:44:00.001-05:00

I wasn't able to post while I was traveling but i did take lots of notes and have several topics I plan to blog about in the coming days or weeks. For now, I'll post the next scene for Candice and company.

I'll be traveling again

2010-05-07T09:02:00.002-05:00

So my posts will be rather irratic and will vary with access to internet. Probably no Cerel posts since I don't expect to be able to upload files but maybe a few notes on my travels and stories that I work at along the way. Then I'll be back with lots to share so come back soon!

Dialog and narrative

2010-04-27T21:58:00.003-05:00

I've been participating in a blog tour for Raven's Ladder by Jeffrey Overstreet on my other blog and one of the things that I noticed was the dialog. The section I just posted for Cerel Gold has a better balance of dialog and narrative than i ususally manage, I think, neither minimalist nor slowed by narrative expect where slow is appropriate. I think Overstreet goes a bit overboard with the narrative. He crafts beautiful narrative, but I'm more of the minimalist view on dialog: let the speaker's words tell the speaker's story to the degree it can.

I suspect its because of my heavy tv life, which isn't a good thing, but is useful for translation into a script, if any of my stories were movie/tv worthy (Cerelian Gold is probably too much drama, too lttle adventure for an SF movie, but there you are). If I think about it, I like to think narrative should serve a very particulat purpose if it is going to interrupt a discussion: slow the pace for a slow, thoughtufl dialog; convey not just expressions but hidden messages that can't be said aloud for whatever reason, or to hint at lies and such: the reader tends to have to believe what is said unless the author has made clear that a character is a liar. Otherwise, the narrative can go elsewhere.

I've seen it used to explain why characters are saying something, or the reason for reactions to another character's words; but if the writer has done the job, no explanation should be necessary at the time, because the character's and their goals have already been made clear (except in the opening scenes) or it can be explained a little later.

Mussings on stats and stuff

2010-04-27T21:44:00.002-05:00

I can track the statistics on my other blog a bit, to see how many visitors I have. It's leveled out a bit, higher on weekdays than weekends, with a lot of people looking at only one of the pages, though I don't know whether they are following the story or the blog. This one I can only tell if people sign up as followers, but I think that requires at least a minimal Google registration and being myself not one to put much info on line, I sympathise if people are disinclined to register. The lack of comments I have come to expect. Even my fellow writers don't typically write much, statistically speaking, especially if they are just following a story. And on this one, for good or ill, they can go back to previous posts to read the whole story later, albeit with the sections stacked in reverse order. Who knows, my fan base might discover me many years from now. I have no idea if it is even posible to make a blog go away once it is on the net. Ah to dream of future success...

wishy washy characters and revision

2010-04-17T10:01:00.002-05:00

another of my "global" changes was the word perhaps, which I almost inariably type as perhpas. When i saw how many ‘perhpas’ needed changing, i realized I needed more than a spelling correction. I needed at least to vary it with might, maybe, could, and alternative constructions. As I went through, I realized many should simply be eliminated. A strong character cannot come across as strong if everything is caveated with perhaps and maybe. They must be confident even when they shouldn’t be in order for the reader to see the strength, the confidence. So I simply deleted many and in several cases made the sentences stonger still by rephrasing the statement with even greater certainty. If it wasn’t part of the dialog, I almost always eliminated or at least replaced it with a less wishy-washy phrase. This book isn’t one where I follow one character for long scenes, except Candice. The rest of the time it’s intended to be more omniscient, so conveying a character’s uncertainty into the narrative is rarely appropriate. The author must know the truth even if the characters don’t, unless a thought is clearly and specifically credited to a particular character. Then we're back to conveying the strength, or not, of the character.

Revising notes

2010-04-06T20:22:00.003-05:00

I looked ahead and notice that I have much work to do on the ending of Cerel Gold but after doing a rough first draft, I decided to do some mass revisions and fixes, like global replaces on words I always type wrong like "perhpas". Over time I've also noticed a few constructions I overuse and use wrong so i start doing find with variable replacements:

I’ve mostly cured myself of “there are” constructions, but I still over use “that had”, partly as a defense against the tendency to try to eliminate “that” from the English language. It can be over used, and I understand the wish to remove doubles, even though we say such phrases as 'that that' and 'had had' frequently in normal speech. Still, to eliminate 'that' entirely is usually to make sentences grammatically wrong as well as unclear. Ny find function showed that I had used “that had” way too many times even if grammatically correct. So I rephrased maybe half or two thirds to make better, and often shorter sentences, always good when the work is already well over 100000 words.

For the benefit of others who may have similar problems, I provide here some of the kinds of fixes I applied:

Replacing "that had' with "who had" when it refered back to a person rather than a thing. it at least adds variety and maybe clarity.

Condencing with a better word/phrase: replace "displacing all that had come between" with "displacing everything between"

replace "drinks that had been sent" with "drinks sent"

reversing the primary and description and turning the description into something of an adjective: "bedding that had gone unused" becomes "unused bedding"

Any revision and editing tips you would care to share?

comment on the Chap 13 sect 2

2010-03-30T21:14:00.002-05:00

My latest Cerel post is a good example of my typical second drafts: way too long and way too much talking heads with hrdly even a reference to who is speaking, who is listening. I thought I had gone through this section to correct that but I see there are long sections of pure dialog. I like a rich dialog, but it needs trimming, maybe a summary of two, and needs to be interspersed with at least minimal action and references to the people involved. I can tell who is speaking, but I make the reader work too hard to figure it out, I'm sure, without even a hi-said, she-said along the way for pages at a time.

Fortunately, if I improve it by taking out some of the overdone mush and summarizing, it will also shorten the tale a bit, and this one needs shortening. It is well over 120,ooo words currently, and it really needs to be under 100,000 to have a chance of selling. Even that is probably longer than is wise, but my books usually are. One of the reasons i want to get one of them considered for publication is that I would then get an editor. A little guidance would take me a long way toward figuring out what kinds of things can be cut. Whole and half scenes at a time, I'm sure, though I usually trim by phrase and sentence. It's hard to decide what's not needed when in our minds its part of the story we envisioned. We have to ask ourselves, are the ideas covered elsewhere? What would happen to the tale, overall, if a scene or part of a scene was missing? Often enough, the reader wouldn't even encounter a question that the rest of the story couldn't answer. It can be there in our minds, behind the scenes, a moment in time real to us and our characters, a bedroom in the house that we all know is there but that a visitor might never be shown.

Tremors in the Rough

2010-03-27T20:08:00.002-05:00

VAl quickly discarded several idea for a framework for their Walk. Stalking hunters would too easily lead to situations where her companions must guess her vision else pull them all off course. A race course was too likely to wrap back to its beginning instead of continuing to their goal. Then she had it.

TADPOLE became a golf cart, the world a brightly lit green. Their first ball had carried them to the third hole but a little into the rough.

“The monitor is the ball?” Honorr asked, tipping back his cap.

“Don’t try to understand it. just play along and watch for NDMs.”

“Fore!” Fisian called and without leaving the cart or even stopping its easy motion, swung at the ball left-handed with her club. The ball flew out across the fairway and continued rolling until it was precariously close to the bunker.

“Your turn,” Fisian said to Honorr.

He stepped out of the cart as it slowed , positioned his feet carefully, and swung. The ball didn’t go far, but it was back to the center of the fairway and Val was certain he was starting to pick up readings from the sensors..

Honorr was just getting back into the cart when a hand grabbed his elbow. Two more golfers were ont he course, tall and stiff with cream pants and matching green golf shirts but Val couldn’t quite focus on their faces.

“Our turn,” one of them said, smiling. He yanked Honorr away from the cart and both swung their clubs.

“That’s now how the game goes!” Val shouted, ducking a swing toward her head. Fisian blocked the other with her club and reved the cart straight at the nearest, who seemed to step boredly out of its way. Fisian circeld around, putting the cart between Honorr and the green shirts. Val grabbed onto him as he grabbed onto the cart and Fisian charged down the fairway. Despite Fisians wild manueverings, the green shirts were repeatedly able to step diretly in front of the cart, forcing Fisian to swerve until she was almost tipping the cart.

For a moment they continued unimpeded, but there ahead appeared a second golf ball, this one acid orange.

“Get their ball!” Val shouted though she didn’t know how it could help.

Honorr and Val swung bent and dented clubs as the green shirts came at them again, never running but somehow moving faster than the cart.. This time Fizian aimed the cart between them and the garish ball, appeared likely to hit one of them, and he was gone. Non longer fitting quite into the scene, the NDM golfers began to appear and disappear randomly, in front of them, on the side, near the ball and not, but more often a little off, tempting them away from the ball.

“Five iron!” Fizain called, and Honorr handed her another club. For a moment the cart charged toward another green shirt, then With a deft turn, she headed for the ball, scooped it with the iron, and sent it flying away from the hole it had nearly reached. it bounced toward the lake.

The cart and the NDM golfers charged after it. Val scooped up the orange ball as Frisian drove past, and two of the green shirts jumped toward her, nearly knocked her from the cart, and the ball from from her hands, landed near the edge and continued rolling. The green shirted NDMs dove after it. Ball and N-Dimensional Monoliths landed in the water.

As if a meteor had crashed, the water of the lake, its lilies and cat tails and frogs all surged upward and crashed over the cart and its occupants.

#

Val, cold and wet, looked out over a vast gray sea. Honorr walked a little distance from her, studying sea shells while Fisian worked on the TADPOLE.

“I take it you know we won,” Horr said, looking up at her.

“What?”

“You’re grinning.”

“A tsunami isn’t what I, at least, envisioned as a success story.”

“Japan can handle another one. The NDM will just be more rocks on their shore. Better than the world blowing up.”

“They could just try again. Im sure those were just the guard force,” Val said, her smile softening.

“If they understand why the test failed,” Fisian said, joining them almost as mysteriously as the NDMs had. “Three test: one premature, the third a failure. They’ll be back to the drawing board and try again... in another eon or two.”

END

For the curious, TADPOLE is Temporal Anomoly Displacement Projected Onto Limited Exterior

Bake and Shake

2010-03-23T21:08:00.002-05:00

Valorie found the kitchen largely from memory and from memories of her early days as a Walker, when she had to rely on imagination as much as the Unreal to guide her. in the watercolor dreamscape through which she floated, she could no more than imagine walking, assume she was succefully moving her feet in some reality that related to the TADPOLE if to nothing she could sense. In as much as it was possible to feel color or sound, she felt her way around surfaces that she hoped were bulkheads and hatches, ducked the more solid shadows of what she suspected were projections of NDMs onto dimensional space, and finally sensed some quality she was certain related to metal and sharpness though her seeming-eyes detected only chimes and the fingers she couldn’t find curled around-
#

“Val, Val!” Honorr’s face leaned close. “What’d you do, attack them single-handed?”

“That would be you,” Fisian pointed out, apparently floating above him until the world began to right itself into something almost real.

“She said to follw the bits. i could do that much. i attacked to distract them when i saw a bit of Val close to a bit of one of them.”

“She meant follow with the whole TADPOLE.”

“Did she? How do you know? She probably didn’t herself.”

“What append?” Val asked as she sat up, breaking into the impending arguement.

“Their second test. it looks like it was premature so there wasn’t as much damage as their could have been, but it was deep, deep and powerful enough to shake the planet to its core. I’m trying to calculate where the third test is likely to be but so far way north and some distance west is all I’ve got.”

“California?” Honorr asked.

“No, maybe aftershocks from the tremor but the terra firma fissures don’t hold a candle to the Sol Cascade for power effects.”

“Japan, then.”

“Very likely. Or something in the Pacific basin. We;ll head that way and continue monitoring for further signs.”

“Why are you monitoring in here instead of outside?”

“our trip through N-Dimensional space carried us a bit under the surface and the earthquake knocked us deeper.”

“A bit?” Honorr objected with a raised eyebrow.

“Twenty miles is not far. We traveled thousands to get here.”

“up is not over, especially through planetary crust.”

“TADPOLE won’s care, nor Val.”

Val rose and her head, until then sagging wearily, lifted. “We’re sitting here because i was fool enough to get knocked unconscious?”

“We’d have prodded you if it had take more than the time we needed to get the necessary readings. Are you feeling well enough for some local Unreal time? With the whole ship?”

“Size doesn’t matter. But you’ll have to turn off the safeties. TADPOLE’s brain has enough imagination to pull us of course if it gets alarmed.”

“What will it be?” Honorr asked with a grin.

Val stood and patted his bottom. “Nothing that exciting or the ship won’t be the only one alarmed and distracted. Just stand at the consoles and watch for Japan surface. Don’t try to predict the course. let me choose it r the tug of war will knock us out of the Unreal before we can get there.”

Dive N Duck

2010-03-21T18:33:00.002-05:00

The TADPOLE control room was quiet as they attempted to follow the power readings they'd picked up on Haiti. Their progress was slow for the TADPOLE, going no more than continental distances southbound.

“Watch out!” Val shouted though she didn’t know why.

Honorr slammed into the console and fell, gasping for air. Fisian flew into the wall behind her, her quick grip on the console insufficient. Only Val was saved from impact with the TADPOLE’s suddenly stopped surfaces by finding neutral space in midair. She grabbed the console and yanked herself toward Honorr as the wall previously beside her seemed to buckle inward, to change shape, to divide.

“NDM!” she shouted unnecessarily, covered her mouth to keep from shouting again in panic, and reached into the Unreal. It was an insanely dangerous thing to do, leaving her body vulnerable; but being weaponless with NDM aboard was insane, too, and she had no intention of allowing either condition to last. Valorie had also practiced this shift for just such circumstances.

Hands and head were enough. Val was looking around even as the arsenal vision formed around her. With both hands, she grabbed at the most powerful weapons she saw. At first there was nothing actually available to grab but with practiced care she cupped her hands around the image of the weapons with her equally imaginary hands, as if both were real. Then she demanded that they be more real: shape, texture, form, weight. she held the vision firm. Material, substance, hardness, power, she insisted of the Unreal, then grabbed a blade in her teeth and yanked out.

The weapons in her hands flew toward her companions, her aim slightly off from her turn in the Unreal, unmatched by her resting body. Honorr caugh his with a finger tip, then with both hands as it tumbled, fired even as Fisian reached hers. Light and sound spattered again and again against the bulk of the monoliths. Unslowed, they swung their arms in a slow-looking arc that could kill. Several more shots from the powerful weapons and finally one paled, weakened.

Val ducked the swing of another and thrust with the sword. A shock of impact stabbed up her own arm, the wepon barely scratching the thing’s surface as Honorr fired again. His energy shot hit the sword, sent its power down the blade and into the NDM. It sparked, paled, paled further still to an ash gray, and cracked with a sound like granite scraping pebbles. It froze, a featureless figure of stone.

The remaining unharmed one reached out to the damaged but still mobile partner. They blended, merged into the wall, and disappeared, leaving the dead rock behind.

Fisian did something to the console, “We’re following,” she warned.

“What?” Honorr bellowed in disbelief. “You think this is a tournament and we need a round two, in hell?”

#

“It’s just a version of the Unreal,” Val said as the universe rotated into chaos. “You’ve been there before.” She reached out a tentative hand as the world kaliedescoped around them in a visitor of pastel walls, sparkles, and shadow figurines not quite detailed enough to have shape or form.

“This isn’t!” Honorr complained. “The Unreal you’ve shown me has up, down, continuity. Things keep coming in and out of nowhere.”

“Things?”

“Can’t you see them? An elbow, an ear, big.”

“They’re NDMs, shifting between dimensions. We can only see the pieces in our dimensions,” Val said.

“Think of it them as being woven through space when you are looking at a woven basket, you see only the sections of each strand that come out, the alternating sections are hidden behind other strands. Just close your eyes and relax,” Fisian suggested, “as if you were laying down after drinking too much. The world swims around you, spins on its axis, flying through space a million miles a second, but you remain safe and quiet on your couch.”

“The TADPOLE console is still in front of you where it was a moment ago. You’re still holding on,” Valorie added. “The universe moves, we wove within it, but the TADPOLE moves with us.”

“Is your weapon stil in your hand?” Val asked.

“I don’t even have a hand! Nor body!”

“You have sight and a voice, therefore you have a body, even if you can’t find it. It’s all right where it was before.,” Val tried to reassure him. she herself was trying to use other senses than her eyes to find her companions among the shadowy shapes and colors.

“Are we in space?” Honorr asked.

“We are in N-Dimension non-space. Space doesn’t relate. -- I think your weapon is still in your right hand.”

Fisian offered something of an answer, “with respect to Earth it locks like we’ve gone down and down. They’re cooking up something under the Americas. Haiti was just the first test.”

“Are you thinking the usual three?”

“Three is the universal truth. The second will be bigger, the third devastating. Since they are testing so close to what has to be the fault in their effort. The third may turn out to be the real event. It will at least destroy the planet. - Val, can you get us hand weapons? Even if we could figure out how to shoot, we can’t aim them like this.”

“Just keep following whatever pieces you see and I’ll see what I can do. Knives from the kitchen if nothing else."

“If you can find the kitchen.”

comments about the Earthquake story

2010-03-21T18:26:00.003-05:00

When the Earthquake story is done it will be like many of my novels started: a story of sorts in itself, with several characters introduced but not followed very far, explanations proposed but not well fleshed out. I’d like to have a different human involved at each location, with more of a scene to show something of the characters and their nature, have more indicators of the motivation of the N-Dimensional Monolith’s goals. For a short story, I should cut out anything extraneous, but I am always more likely to expand than shrink. More action at the aftershock site, some research into seismology to make the explanations more plausible and teach a little about real quakes and weather change and all in the process, provide more history for the central characters... In this case, Val and Honorr both have an extensive history on several worlds (not planets, but whole fiction worlds) as I play with them, their interactions, side characters, plots, and the rules of their magic. I haven’t found a good fit. Not this one in the end, I’m sure: TADPOLE and Fisian have a history in my never-posted attempts at fanfic and a tv world that some readers may guess despite the name and sex changes. But Val and Honorr make a good pair, so I keep playing. Until I find a good fit, they make a good starting place for challenges and story lines I'm starting to play with.

comments about the

2010-03-21T18:26:00.000-05:00

When the Earthquake story is done it will be like many of my novels started: a story of sorts in itself, with several characters introduced but not followed very far, explanations proposed but not well fleshed out: I’dlike to have a different human involved at each location, with more of a scene to show something of their character, have more indicators of the motivation of the N-Dimensional Monolith’s goals. For a short story, I should cut out anything extraneaous, but i am always more likely to expand than shrink. More action at the aftershock site, some research into seismology to make the explanations more plausible and teach a little about real quakes and weather change and all in the process, provide more history for the central characters... In this case, Val and Honorr both have an extensive history on several worlds (not planets, but whole fiction worlds) as i play with them, their interactions, side characters, plots, and the rules of their magic. I haven’t found a good fit. Not this one in the end, I’m sure: TADPOLE and Fisian have a history in my never posted attempts at fanfic and a tv world that some readers may guess despite the name and sex changes. But Val and Honorr make a good pair so I keep playing and until i find a good fit, they make a good starting place for some kinds of challenges.

Give 'em Another Shake

2010-03-19T20:36:00.001-05:00

“Nice weather so far.”

“The bad weather’s the other side of the ocean. Besides, it’s too hot.”

“Hot is nice,” Fisian said, scanning the area with an HD.

Honorr uprighted the bigger instrument, hit the top pad, and watched as it set itself up, extending three legs and lifting the big box smoothly while maintaining its balance, then extending a whole range of antennae.

“Red lines everywhere,” he reported.

“Let me see,” Val said, poking her head in front of him. “That’s even worse than it felt. We’re getting more.”

“What is that?” a smooth, deep voice said and all three looked up as one of the Haitians strode down from around a hill saddle. “I’ve seen plenty of seismic snesors but nothing like that.”

“It isn’t a seismic sensor,” Valorie explained with a grin at the young, stately man, slightly overdressed for the uncomfortable heat. “It finds universal interstitial anomolies and teporal displacements. How many aftershocks have there been?”

“Sixty thrree. It’s tapering off.”

“Tapering or shifting location,” Fisian asked, her electric blue eyes directing the question at Honorr instead of the local.

“Both,” Honorr said after studying the rig’s displays.

“The energy shifted to the Eurpean stormfront - some of it anyway,” Valorie said, correcting herself thoush she didn’t know why.

Fisian studied the Walker a moment and nodded. “A split would be reasonable. Honorr, aim that thing west.”

Honrr turned the dial in the center and quickly pulled his hand back as the bristling antannae swung, reaching for him, he was certain. He was sure the big rig didnt like operating for anyone but Fisian, but the TADPOLE’s pilot prefered to walk around with the HandHeld sensor.
“Energy radiates outward in all directions from a quake,” the Earther said, not quite laughing at the answers and behavior of the threesome “And it doesn’t change the weather. This is the tropics. The weather is a force of its own.”

Without looking up from her HD, Fisian explained, “Usually, but the weather no less than the rest of the world will feel the impact of these quakes.”

Val sidled toward their visitor, smiling broadly. “Don’t mind them, stranger. Tell me, what brought you here? This place doesn’t look seismiclly significant to me.”

Dr. Celnlebo introduced himself and Valorie offered introductions without titles to him in turn. He flashed a smile of white teeth at her and said. “I assumed for the same thing that brought you, One of the largest aftershocks was centered near here, very close to the surface.”

“No, just lucky I guess,” Val responded softly, sidling closer as if she needed comfort and running a finger down his arm. “Do we have anything to worry about?”

“No more than anyone on this island.”

Val brushed her leg against his. “It’s so hot here.”

“It’s cooler than it often is in February,” he said, his own tone deepening. “Maybe a little warmer with the sun up.”

“Stop that, Val,” Honorr said coolly. “This isn’t the Unreal.”

“Unreal?”

“A halfway region between here and N-Dimensional space where we can sometimes tap into energies that aren’t usually available for direct use. It often takes the form of illusion and touches dreams.”

“Magic. Witchcraft? Miracles?”

“If you wish to put it into religious terms, i suppose. Mostly it takes the form of living visions that, while not real, have a bearing on reality. A strong link can achieve more.”

“And you have that.”

“I have the right training and a certain natural proclivity.”

“You have a prolivity for other things, too,” Honorr murmurred, barely glancing toward them as Val curled one foot around the scientist’s ankle.

Ceinlebo cleared his throat, “And N-dimensional space?”

“You’ve heard of parallel universes?”

“I know of the concept.”

“N-Dimensional space is where they meet. Normally, it takes vast quantities of energy, like the center of a black hone to cross the interface, but the universes aren’t perfect. Cracks and fissures create weak points where it becomes easier. Still really hard, powerful thrusts are required, but only that of say, a geological event.”

“I was following along with the shamanism, but magically induced earthquakes?”

“You were the one called in magic, not me,” Val said with a pout.

“Fisian! Val!” Honorr shouted.

“Another after shock?” Without waiting for an answer, the seismologist fled back over the hill to check on his own instruments. When he returned fifteen minutes later, there was no sign of the trio, no sign that they had ever been there, nor any tracks to suggest how they might have come and gone.

Shake, Rattle, and Roll

2010-03-17T21:54:00.005-05:00

On my other blog, I posted a challenge: write a story to explain the recent spate of earthquakes. I answered my own challenge during my recent travels and will be posting it in a series of posts. Here is the first section:

"What is it, Fisian?" Honorr asked, holding on the console as the whole TADPOLE continued to shake.

"These readings are jibberish. Do you sense anything, Val?"

Valorie hadn't bothere to grab onto anything, merely lifted her feer from the floor in a partial trance. She had already been seeking, knowing what Fisian would ask. she had considered inviting the others to hold onto her, but didn't bother. Fisian was fully occupied at the controls and Honorr could never get past what his eyes told him, would never believe a floating figure more stable than one locked to the shaking deck and bulkheads.

"Earth, of course," Val said. "something in the space-time fault line has shifted," she said, though until she spoke, she had not known the answer. At times, Honorr accused her of making things true with her words, but Valorie left such things to God and the universe. she was merely a reported, using the Unreal to guide her. "Honorr, chek the broadcasts. I'm sure there'll be earthquakes, floods, some disaster and the TAD shock wave won't be much ahead of the EM braodcasts."

Fisian sighed in relief as the sensor displays settled back to normal but shook her head. "What are they playing at this time? Humans are a short-sighted careless lot at the best of times, but I didn't think they were-"

"Their technology is more like a candle to a torch, nowhere near that powerful and they haven't organized the information explosion well enough, yet, for the next leap. Someone else has been playing in their backyard. NDM probably"

"A few Monolith corpses from eons ago is hardly an indicator that they'll return," Honorr chimed in.

"I just said maybe."

"Anyone from this universe would have been noticed," Fisian acknowledged. "You can't just take a hand drill and shift a planet, even one on gaping faultline like the Sol Cascade. It may not be Monoliths, but it's sometthing from the N-Dimensional counter universe poking around."

"As if they needed any help messing up that poor planet," Val grumped.

love scenes and stuff

2010-03-05T22:50:00.005-06:00

Whenever I come to the romantic or sexy (or violent) scenes, I always start wondering if the level is right. Today's is pretty tame and it could be a scene in a young adult book. Sometimes I wonder if they aren't too tame for an adult book. Certainly they would make it more racy on television or a movie, these days, but reading doesn't really equate to a visual portrayal and I trust the readers to fill in more blanks in a sex scene than modern movie makers seem to think their audiences are capable of achieving.

More often in this book I have found myself taking stuff out as being too over the top. If I wouldn't say the word aloud, I don't think I should put it in writing either, for starters. It's possible to say a lot without using those words. I've played with some interesting sex scenes using classic metaphors in tidal waves and sweeping storms and the rise and fall of empires, but really, it's usually enough to get the couple started and encounter them later. Adult readers can fill in the blanks happily so long as the scene is friendly.

The violent sex scenes definitely don't need any details and I find myself wondering if I should change them to nonsexual violence rather than even imply the sexual nature of the violence. I do in anything young adult. i don't write young adult dramas about people coping with horror; I like fun adventures. The propensity for sexual violence on the tv shows (never shown, sometimes implied even when it doesn't happen, especially in advertisements for the episode) is plenty and too much as it is. Still, I've included some in Cerel Gold. Candice's past is all about every kind of violence I could think of and it's only a matter of how much to imply, how much to describe, and the tone to take in the description.

In the case of violence and generating either sympathy or horror or other reactions, I think there is a kind of magic required, and what we think will work may have the opposite effect. I think a certain degree of coldness and unsympathy in the writer, being mean to our characters as I've heard it described, will actually get more sympathy from a reader, whereas some of the best horrors are very amusing or sympathetic in tone. I haven't found the magic, but I keep trying.

For now, I've finished a couple of quilt tops and now have much quilting to do but neither that nor blogging will get done for about a week and a half, so no posts meanwhile. Let your imagination play in other worlds but come back in a couple of weeks!

tension and dialog

2010-03-02T20:40:00.002-06:00

Cerel is obviously heavy in dialog, probably too much so, but for this draft it's a good way to practice dialog and making it interesting. The scene just posted went through a lot of revision, going from a tame dialog to an expression of tense emotions, weariness, arguments, changing perceptions. At least that was what I was aiming for, though it's hard to ever be sure that readers see what I tried to present. I suspect I still need to work on some of the word choices. What words make a sentence sarcastic or angry rather than merely factual? It's not something I've ever found guidance for. Mostly I've done it through side comments and physical actions, although I want to do more of that, too. Anger through shorter sentences is one of the few "rules" I know. Terse, less philosophical content in an argument, but what if the argument is philosophical in nature? And each character has their own speach patterns, though sometimes I'm not sure even I could define them well unless I've exaggerated them. How does the pattern change for accusation, anger, weariness... I've made some stabs at all of them here. Does it work?

A career suggestion

2010-02-26T22:01:00.002-06:00

Between ads, census, chance encounters, and young people at work, I think a great career choice these days would be geospatial information system stuff, especially if the student combined it with studies of communications (journalism perhaps) and maybe a regional minor. In the end, the region doesn't matter; it's just a way to learn how to apply the GIS stuff to something substantial, but with all the GPS, census, weather, and other data being collected every which way around us, any company with sense is going to be hiring the GIS analyst type who can make order of the data. And they'll be looking for people who can communicate the technical gibberish to customers, sales people, and managers quickly and effectively. It's a rare skill combination with endless demand soon to come.