So here I sit, a glass of metaphorical champagne in hand, and contemplating this year's book list. I, Rahina McWethy, have read fourty books this year, and am now going to bore everybody with a nice juicy list of them.
The Well of the Unicorn - Fletcher Pratt
Pratt was a contemporary of Tolkien, and a historian. So this fantasy is surprisingly sane, with a greater emphasis on battles and sieges than spellcasting. The archaic style is off-putting, but I found it refreshingly different.
The Norse Myths - Kevin Crossley-Holland
Retellings of a bunch of Norse myths. Other than the druggy imagery, total lack of morality in the Gods' actions and flat characterizations, I suppose I was entertained.
Alcatraz Versus the Evil Librarians - Brandon Sanderson
About as silly as it sounds. Lots of snark, so you're guaranteed at least one good laugh every chapter. Wonderful narrator and a plot that keeps you turning pages frantically. I had a lot of fun with this book.
The Miraculous Journey of Edward Tulane - Kate DiCamillo
One of my favorite authors, this dark little story is of a selfish china rabbit passed from owner to owner, who slowly learns how to love. And consequently gets his heart broken. Complimented by beautiful illustrations.
Wolf Brother - Michelle Paver
Nothing deep, just a rip-roaring fantasy set in prehistory. I tore through it.
By These Ten Bones - Clare B. Dunkle
An incredibly gothic horror story. Werewolves in Scotland, set in a time when everyone believed in monsters. Dripping atmosphere. Grisly murders, romance, self-sacrifice... This has it all.
War and Peace - Leo Tolstoy
I can't really count this one, since the reading dates took me from April 2008 to March 2009. But this year's when I finished it, so this is where it goes. Simply the greatest novel ever written. Save yourself the trouble and skip the epilogues though.
Beauty That Must Die - Barbara James
Nominally a "gothic novel," but useless at it. More along the lines of romantic suspense. A bit of a murder mystery, with an actress the heroine suspects was having an affair with her husband getting killed. She goes poking about trying to solve the murder and win her husband back. A quick, entertaining trifle.
The Book Thief - Markus Zusak
Set in Nazi Germany, narrated by Death, this is of course a very dark read. But brimming with humanity, full of characters I truly cared about. It packed an emotional wallop and was intensely evocative. No real plot, just the story of a girl who learns to read living from day to day. I thought it was beautiful.
The Trimmed Lamp and Other Stories - O. Henry
Henry was a great storyteller. Humorous and quirky, clearly a fan of New York City, and a master at twist endings. The formula does wear thin after a while, but until then, I was entertained.
Poison Study - Maria V. Snyder
One of the best fantasies I've ever read. It got everything right, from characters to worldbuilding, getting plot, magic system, emotional resonance, pacing and writing down pat. Flawless.
The Shell Seekers - Rosamunde Pilcher
My mind still boggles at this one. Mainstream women's entertainment - not at all my style. And it proves that a good author can pull off anything, even an epic family saga with star-crossed lovers tossed in. I'm still amazed at how good this was.
By Fire, By Moonlight - Mary Stanton
Book 4 in an ancient kids series called Unicorns of Balinor. Read on a whim, took next to no time, and that is also how long I continued to think about it. Can't remember much about it now. Had unicorns in it, I think...
Close Kin - Clare B. Dunkle
Sequel to The Hollow Kingdom, which I read last year and adored. This was a worthy successor, almost as good as the previous one. Part of one of my favorite trilogies.
The Beginning - Skyla Dawn Cameron
Part one in a hokey sounding e-serial called Children of the Apocalypse. This first story is somewhat action-orientated, but is really driven by character evolutions. Skyla is a very talented author when it comes to characters and dialouge.
The Immortal - Skyla Dawn Cameron
Sequel to the above book. Longer, far more complicated, and therefore, in my opinion, the better of the two.
I, Coriander - Sally Gardner
Great fantasy imagery, but really awkward pacing. Black and white characters, and just a so-so plot. My hopes were too high for this one.
In the Coils of the Snake - Clare B. Dunkle
Last in The Hollow Kingdom trilogy, and a wonderful wrap-up. An integral character dies in the beginning, yet Clare keeps her head above water and makes this a tour de force on level with the other two. Great moral questions too.
The Party and Other Stories - Anton Chekhov
Too much of this guy can really bring you down... But despite that, I mostly enjoyed this set. A Trifle From Life, A Woman's Kingdom and The Kiss were the best of the lot.
Haunted Heirloom - Marjorie Eatock
One of those rare gothics that takes its time with the set-up, and doesn't throw everything at you at once. Very plausible, much more suspenseful than most, and with a really good setting. The ending completely flakes out and is a mess, but up 'till that, it was one of the best of the genre.
The Ruby in the Smoke - Philip Pullman
A mystery set in Victorian England, containing an intrepid heroine with a mysterious past, a stolen ruby, opium dens, an irredeemably evil old hag, and a likable supporting cast. It started out perfectly, yet for some inexplicable reason, wound down as it went. Good, but not brilliant. Again with the too high expectations...
A Wrinkle in Time - Madeleine L'engle
Famous. Won a Newbery medal. Adventures in time and space, demanding a surprising amount from the imagination and giving great rewards. Short, thought-provoking, charming and a bit dated.
Bozo the Woodchuck - .....forgot the name.....
Being very bored one fine summer day, I picked up this deservedly forgotten childrens book and read it. Cute woodchuck does endearing things while looked after by a score of humans spouting incredibly wooden dialogue...
The Master of Ballantrae - Robert Louis Stevenson
A ripping good yarn. Short and dense, and rather ignored minor classic. Covers a lot of ground, keeps you turning pages, and despite a predictable setup, quickly goes in unexpected directions...
A Wind in the Door - Madeleine L'engle
Sequel to A Wrinkle in Time. Or rather a companion, since the events of that installment seem to have been completely forgotten by the Murray family. Nevertheless, it contains the same set of pros and cons.
Magic Study - Maria V. Snyder
Sequel to Poison Study, and almost its equal. But in the last quarter it becomes action-orientated, Yelena becomes almost superhumanly powerful, banter replaces character interaction and all problems are resolved with off-putting ease. Rather diminished my enthusiasm to read book three.
In Watermelon Sugar - Richard Brautigan
Really short, unbelievably odd story. Almost plotless, but very readable. Weirdest thing I've ever read. Seemingly pointless, but thought-provoking. I'm glad I read it. I guess.
Anna of Byzantium - Tracy Barrett
Historical fiction about Anna Comnena. Heavily fictionalised account of her life, and rather uneventful. It gave me a slight interest in the time period, and had evocative narration, but it didn't really stay in my head after I finished it.
Ravenscroft - Dorothy Eden
Eden is one of the best writers of gothic suspense. It certainly benefits this book. Unfortunately, all the characters are dislikable. Our heroine is an elitist, opinionated bitch, her nice sister goes insane under stress, the hero is repugnantly cold, the servants are scheming devils, etc. Not recommended.
The Oxford Book of Narrative Verse - Chosen by Iona and Peter Opie
An excellent introduction to poetry, as every one of these selections (some edited down from larger texts) tells a story. Humor, romance, adventure, murder, the supernatural... It's all here. Some works aren't much to talk about (The Rape of the Lock bored me near death), but it's pretty good overall.
Lassie Come-Home - Eric Knight
I wasn't expecting much, given the slow start, but once Lassie starts out on her famous travels, it really got going. Mr. Knight really brings out the incredible hardship of her cross-country trek, and has her behave as a real dog, not like the wonderdog pop culture transformed her into. Deserves to be remembered as a classic dog story.
How to Learn Another Language - Barry Farber
A very convincing portrait of how and why to learn another language. Made me almost believe I could, and Barry has a wonderful sense of humour that makes it worth reading just for entertainment. It didn't manage to convert me, as I lost a friend shortly upon completion. Naturally, that rather took the wind out of my sails for learning French or Latin... Maybe someday.
Never Trust a Dead Man - Vivian Vande Velde
A weekend read. Short little fantasy. A mystery in which a condemned man summons the spirit of the man he's been accused of murdering, to snuff out the real killer. Unfortunately, the dead man doesn't know who did it either. A comedy adventure
Standing in the Light - Mary Pope Osborne
One of the seemingly endless books in the Dear America series. Told via a girl's diary, it details the story of her capture by Indians and intergration into their society. Surprisingly realistic character development, and also quite dark for this sort of thing.
The Autobiography - Benjamin Franklin
I actually read this twice (second time out loud to my brother), so one could argue I read 41 books this year. But whether or not, this was marvelous, even in its unfinished state. Franklin could tell great anecdotes, was very intelligent and had a perfect sense of humour. Highly enjoyable.
Dracula - Bram Stoker
You bloggers already know my opnions on this one. See [Dracula notes].
No Blade of Grass - John Christopher
An apocalypse novel from the seventies. Impossibly well done. Kept me turning the pages, had a surprisingly dynamic (not to mention amoral) cast, and a plausible reaction to a really bad situation. Good writing too.
Pudd'nhead Wilson - Mark Twain
Again, I won't take space and repeat myself. See [A problem].
Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix - J. K. Rowling
Oh my GOD, does Ms. Rowling need an editor. Yet it is impressive, that she manages to make something so overstuffed with periphory details as readable as this book was.
The Annotated Christmas Carol - Charles Dickens
See [A fine ode to benevolence].
Moonage Daydream - David Bowie and Mick Rock
In a fit of depression, I sat down one evening and read this cover to cover. Not that that's much to boast about, since it's mostly pictures. A chronicle of sorts, looking at the entirety of Bowie's Ziggy Stardust era in pictures. Bowie himself provides a great set of rather humourous memories of the time. Good information is included.
If you're still here after that, I'm very impressed. So, we have reached the metaphorical twelve o'clock, and I have ranted as much as I'm going to today. Cheers. (Smashes champagne glass in the fireplace)
Happy New Year, and thank God for the old one.
Thursday, December 31, 2009
Monday, December 28, 2009
A fine ode to benevolence
I'm now going to review A Christmas Carol by Charles Dickens.
My version of this timeless classic is Annotated, which I would certainly recommend as the ideal binding. There are a surprising number of "slang" terms of the time, and the footnotes can come in handy, I felt.
I won't summarise the story, since everyone ought to know it by now. But even if you know everything, and sneer at Tiny Tim as sentimental and the character transformation of Scrooge as implausible, I really would advise you to read the story before you condemn it. I was quite surprised by its enjoyability.
One doesn't think of Dickens and fantasy as going together, does one? But this story proves he had a fine, vivid imagination in that direction, and hence the supernatural is effortlessly crafted. Imagery for Marley and the Three Spirits is sublime, each one seeming to outdo the last.
The other key set of descriptions in this story is that of Dickens' London. A superb creation. The imagery of Christmas is beautifully evoked, what with mouth-watering descriptions of a streetmarket and economically elegant passages devoted to bleak coastal celebrations...
The prose isn't perfect, of course. Each chapter bulges with at least a few overactive details, and sometimes the wording is garbled and in need of editing. And in terms of plot and character, Dickens famed sentimentality does intrude from time to time - such as in the character of Belle (the Angel of the House) and during the Fezziwig ball scene.
Yet what does it matter? Despite these flaws, A Christmas Carol is marvelous. To begin with Scrooge and see it all happen with him, is in a way, to take part in that redemption as well. I found his transformation entirely plausible, and by the time I reached the final act, I shared his joy entirely. Happiness radiated from the pages, and I finally understood why this is considered such a timeless part of the Christmas tradition.
(By the way, has carolling and busking died out in the modern era? Sad if it has.)
My version of this timeless classic is Annotated, which I would certainly recommend as the ideal binding. There are a surprising number of "slang" terms of the time, and the footnotes can come in handy, I felt.
I won't summarise the story, since everyone ought to know it by now. But even if you know everything, and sneer at Tiny Tim as sentimental and the character transformation of Scrooge as implausible, I really would advise you to read the story before you condemn it. I was quite surprised by its enjoyability.
One doesn't think of Dickens and fantasy as going together, does one? But this story proves he had a fine, vivid imagination in that direction, and hence the supernatural is effortlessly crafted. Imagery for Marley and the Three Spirits is sublime, each one seeming to outdo the last.
The other key set of descriptions in this story is that of Dickens' London. A superb creation. The imagery of Christmas is beautifully evoked, what with mouth-watering descriptions of a streetmarket and economically elegant passages devoted to bleak coastal celebrations...
The prose isn't perfect, of course. Each chapter bulges with at least a few overactive details, and sometimes the wording is garbled and in need of editing. And in terms of plot and character, Dickens famed sentimentality does intrude from time to time - such as in the character of Belle (the Angel of the House) and during the Fezziwig ball scene.
Yet what does it matter? Despite these flaws, A Christmas Carol is marvelous. To begin with Scrooge and see it all happen with him, is in a way, to take part in that redemption as well. I found his transformation entirely plausible, and by the time I reached the final act, I shared his joy entirely. Happiness radiated from the pages, and I finally understood why this is considered such a timeless part of the Christmas tradition.
(By the way, has carolling and busking died out in the modern era? Sad if it has.)
Thursday, December 24, 2009
Let's talk about Christmas...
Just for a minute.
When you take away the tree, presents, tunes and snow, what is left? It's all about peace on Earth and good will toward men, but I view it as a great deal more about festivities. You eat good food, invite your favorite relatives around, watch a classic film (more on them in a bit), delight the children with toys and treats, decorate the house and sing "Here Comes Santa Claus" alongside Elvis Presley. You're really happy and that puts you in a frame of mind to give good will toward men and all that.
People care about this holiday more than the rest. It's an icon of the whole year. But what I wonder is can you take all the trappings away and still keep Christmas? Does it work without tradition, family, merchandise and ornamentation? This is philosophy. If you don't celebrate a holiday, does it still exist? If you ignore or can't manage the extras, is it enough to cherish your family, have good will toward all, love thy neighbour and forgive those who have hurt you? Does that mean you have upheld the Christmas Spirit in your home? Does that mean, despite the lack of extras, you have had a good holiday?
I've seen four classic Christmas films now, and they all go in eerily similar directions.
The Bishop's Wife, in which an angel comes to remind the Bishop that he's mixed up his priorities, paying more attention to his job than his sad, neglected wife.
Miracle on 34th Street, in which a man who claims to be Santa Claus befriends a workohaulic mother and her jaded little girl and battles corporate greed.
A Christmas Carol (with Alastair Sim), in which a miserly old man is visited by ghosts who show him his wasted life, the sad state of affairs currently, and the tragic consequences that will follow if he doesn't mend his ways.
It's a Wonderful Life, in which a selfless, kind man in utter despair of his life is sent an angel to show him what the world would be like without him.
All four of these are wonderful films. Ah well. I can't solve this question right now. And I promised not to take up too much time, so.. Rant done. Maybe after Christmas, I'll have more evaluating, and even some conclusions...
When you take away the tree, presents, tunes and snow, what is left? It's all about peace on Earth and good will toward men, but I view it as a great deal more about festivities. You eat good food, invite your favorite relatives around, watch a classic film (more on them in a bit), delight the children with toys and treats, decorate the house and sing "Here Comes Santa Claus" alongside Elvis Presley. You're really happy and that puts you in a frame of mind to give good will toward men and all that.
People care about this holiday more than the rest. It's an icon of the whole year. But what I wonder is can you take all the trappings away and still keep Christmas? Does it work without tradition, family, merchandise and ornamentation? This is philosophy. If you don't celebrate a holiday, does it still exist? If you ignore or can't manage the extras, is it enough to cherish your family, have good will toward all, love thy neighbour and forgive those who have hurt you? Does that mean you have upheld the Christmas Spirit in your home? Does that mean, despite the lack of extras, you have had a good holiday?
I've seen four classic Christmas films now, and they all go in eerily similar directions.
The Bishop's Wife, in which an angel comes to remind the Bishop that he's mixed up his priorities, paying more attention to his job than his sad, neglected wife.
Miracle on 34th Street, in which a man who claims to be Santa Claus befriends a workohaulic mother and her jaded little girl and battles corporate greed.
A Christmas Carol (with Alastair Sim), in which a miserly old man is visited by ghosts who show him his wasted life, the sad state of affairs currently, and the tragic consequences that will follow if he doesn't mend his ways.
It's a Wonderful Life, in which a selfless, kind man in utter despair of his life is sent an angel to show him what the world would be like without him.
All four of these are wonderful films. Ah well. I can't solve this question right now. And I promised not to take up too much time, so.. Rant done. Maybe after Christmas, I'll have more evaluating, and even some conclusions...
Monday, December 14, 2009
A problem
I'm afraid everybody who reads my blogs (all one of you) are going to have a link for your next review. Blogger doesn't let me copy in a review writ elsewhere. You can see the font problems my last import had.
So, my review for Pudd'nhead Wilson will be found at LibraryThing. But unfortunately, I can't paste in a link either. So that's that. If you really want to read my review, you'll have to go to LibraryThing and look up the book there. My review is under the name Nymith.
Cheers.
So, my review for Pudd'nhead Wilson will be found at LibraryThing. But unfortunately, I can't paste in a link either. So that's that. If you really want to read my review, you'll have to go to LibraryThing and look up the book there. My review is under the name Nymith.
Cheers.
Wednesday, December 2, 2009
Dracula notes
Since autumn of 2007 I have embarked upon the reading of classic novels... I'd read those typical of children before then, but with The Mayor of Casterbridge, I was gone and never looked back. I have since read War and Peace, a decent supply of Chekhov and O. Henry, The Master of Ballantrae by Robert Louis Stevenson, and I have the beginnings of a knowledge of poetry. I freely admit to meeting Waterloo with Henry James' The Ambassadors... I'm also in the process of reading my way through the Harvard Classics (which will give me a fine education, I'm sure) and have recently completed Benjamin Franklin's Autobiography.
This brings me up to date. My most recent conquest in this enjoyable campaign is Bram Stoker's Dracula.
When I picked this book up, I was expecting a rather dated Victorian potboiler. Trite, tame, tepid, turgid... I was pleasantly surprised to find it anything but.
Even if you've never read the book, and never seen even a clip from a film (which isn't very likely), chances are good you still know the Transylvanian Count. As a joke, if nothing else. He is simply iconic.
There is nothing deep about the novel. It's not a character-driven morality play, and it won't leave you with deep thoughts. It's meant as entertainment, and does its job very well. Told via journals (which Stoker does an admirable job of creating seperate voices for), it traces the story of Dracula as he moves to London and preys upon two virtuous, angelic young women - Lucy Westenra and her friend Mina Murray. A band of young men join forces to try and save the ladies, though it isn't until halfway through the book that they finally realise they're fighting vampires. This group consists of Jonathan Harker, Mina's fiance; Lord Godalming, the same for Lucy; Quincey Morris, an american; Dr. Seward, who runs an insane asylum; and the elderly Van Helsing, the shrewd professor with the broken english and cryptic advice...
This appealing cast is one of the most enjoyable things about the book, especially in regard to the movies. Whether it's Tod Browning or Hammer Horror, when adapted for the screen half the characters are ignored and the rest have their personalities all but removed. The films can't help themselves. They tamper with an excellent, very intricate plot; they simplify the narration; and those actions take away from the menace and dread Dracula should inspire. Truly I don't think I'll ever be able to watch another Dracula movie ever again.
The plot is the real draw. It can be divided into roughly four sections, and three of them are simply marvelous. For three quarters of the novel, there are so many small nuances (Renfield being the best example, and also the dead ship), so many tales within tales that the pages are turned frantically to see what's coming next. There's a surprising lack of the Count in these pages, and yet he permeates every occurence, a truly menacing, otherworldly villian.
Make no mistake, this is a gothic novel. At times it simply drips with atmosphere. Who would think the sight of the Count crawling out of a window could send a chill down your spine? The grotesque, the macabre, the bloodcurdling, the violent and the erotic all get their small moments in the spotlight.
Unfortunately, this isn't a perfect book. In the last quarter, Drac goes on the run, and much of the suspense that had been so excellently maintained is lost in this turn of events. Subtlety also dwindles, replaced by relentless melodrama, and the characters wax poetic about their internal agonies. There's a death scene - rendered a little trite by overwrought last words and Mina's inability to express the proper emotion toward this event. (The journalistic style does present a few problems like that. These people are all too handy at remembering very long speeches and they write in a way to heighten drama)
So perhaps the novel suffers a bit from the standards of the time. But even there, some differences are noticable. Mina adheres to the standard Angel of the House ideal, yet appears as the strong-willed heroine, resourceful and intelligent. Her high-flown wording taxes credulity a bit, but she reminds me of a better Rose Maylie (Oliver Twist).
Well, despite the ending, the journey there is well worth it. An appealing cast, an excellent style of narration, a very well crafted plot... The prose did get stuffy at points, but for the most part, it was definitely an asset. Not very realistic (my mother, a medical transcriptionist, tells me Lucy's blood transfusions were hopelessly inaccurate), but it makes for a wonderful entertainment. I'm glad to have made its acquaintance.
I'll be reading Mark Twain (Pudd'nhead Wilson) and Emily Dickinson next. Current Harvard is The Journal of John Woolman.
This brings me up to date. My most recent conquest in this enjoyable campaign is Bram Stoker's Dracula.
When I picked this book up, I was expecting a rather dated Victorian potboiler. Trite, tame, tepid, turgid... I was pleasantly surprised to find it anything but.
Even if you've never read the book, and never seen even a clip from a film (which isn't very likely), chances are good you still know the Transylvanian Count. As a joke, if nothing else. He is simply iconic.
There is nothing deep about the novel. It's not a character-driven morality play, and it won't leave you with deep thoughts. It's meant as entertainment, and does its job very well. Told via journals (which Stoker does an admirable job of creating seperate voices for), it traces the story of Dracula as he moves to London and preys upon two virtuous, angelic young women - Lucy Westenra and her friend Mina Murray. A band of young men join forces to try and save the ladies, though it isn't until halfway through the book that they finally realise they're fighting vampires. This group consists of Jonathan Harker, Mina's fiance; Lord Godalming, the same for Lucy; Quincey Morris, an american; Dr. Seward, who runs an insane asylum; and the elderly Van Helsing, the shrewd professor with the broken english and cryptic advice...
This appealing cast is one of the most enjoyable things about the book, especially in regard to the movies. Whether it's Tod Browning or Hammer Horror, when adapted for the screen half the characters are ignored and the rest have their personalities all but removed. The films can't help themselves. They tamper with an excellent, very intricate plot; they simplify the narration; and those actions take away from the menace and dread Dracula should inspire. Truly I don't think I'll ever be able to watch another Dracula movie ever again.
The plot is the real draw. It can be divided into roughly four sections, and three of them are simply marvelous. For three quarters of the novel, there are so many small nuances (Renfield being the best example, and also the dead ship), so many tales within tales that the pages are turned frantically to see what's coming next. There's a surprising lack of the Count in these pages, and yet he permeates every occurence, a truly menacing, otherworldly villian.
Make no mistake, this is a gothic novel. At times it simply drips with atmosphere. Who would think the sight of the Count crawling out of a window could send a chill down your spine? The grotesque, the macabre, the bloodcurdling, the violent and the erotic all get their small moments in the spotlight.
Unfortunately, this isn't a perfect book. In the last quarter, Drac goes on the run, and much of the suspense that had been so excellently maintained is lost in this turn of events. Subtlety also dwindles, replaced by relentless melodrama, and the characters wax poetic about their internal agonies. There's a death scene - rendered a little trite by overwrought last words and Mina's inability to express the proper emotion toward this event. (The journalistic style does present a few problems like that. These people are all too handy at remembering very long speeches and they write in a way to heighten drama)
So perhaps the novel suffers a bit from the standards of the time. But even there, some differences are noticable. Mina adheres to the standard Angel of the House ideal, yet appears as the strong-willed heroine, resourceful and intelligent. Her high-flown wording taxes credulity a bit, but she reminds me of a better Rose Maylie (Oliver Twist).
Well, despite the ending, the journey there is well worth it. An appealing cast, an excellent style of narration, a very well crafted plot... The prose did get stuffy at points, but for the most part, it was definitely an asset. Not very realistic (my mother, a medical transcriptionist, tells me Lucy's blood transfusions were hopelessly inaccurate), but it makes for a wonderful entertainment. I'm glad to have made its acquaintance.
I'll be reading Mark Twain (Pudd'nhead Wilson) and Emily Dickinson next. Current Harvard is The Journal of John Woolman.
Friday, November 27, 2009
Extra experiments
I did very little writing this past summer. But among what I did create, I'm now going to put up for consideration two of the strangest things I have ever written. The first is a fake news article, all about the importance of banning H.P. Lovecraft from elementary schools. Yes, it's shameful how easily one can make fun of the writings of Mr. Lovecraft, but even so...
Banning Lovecraft: An article on damage done by slack librarians
Dear Mom,
We Have ALway a LAived in the Xastle. So beholded in us:
shke hresr vthule shksas ans mthtrod!!!!!
I AMM Joseph Curwen?
HYEs. So beholden upon us and aud ke!!!
This is proof of the damaging qualities of H.P. Lovecraft on young minds, and is one of over a hundred such examples. This letter, dated 12/12/94,was written by eleven year old Scotty Walker, born and raised in Philbrook, Pennsylvania, and a student in nearby McCarthy Elementary School.
According to Emma Sacher, one of the two school librarians, Scotty had checked out The Case of Charles Dexter Ward, by Howard Phillips Lovecraft, earlier during the school year. He then proceeded to read with great avarice such short stories as "The Call of Cthulu," "Winged Death," "The Thing on the Doorstep," and "The Nameless City."
His mother, former Trekkie Debra Walker, was quite enthusiastic at the time. "I thought the subject matter odd, but felt that as long as he was reading something it was a good thing. And I know what it's like to be a tremendous fan of one particular subject. I was certain he'd pass through it."
But Lovecraft proved to have a far more powerful hold on young Scotty than Kirk, Spock and the Enterprise had ever had on his mother. By mid-October, a distinct change had come over the impressionable boy.
"I found him lurking down in the cellars a coupla times," said school curate, Wyndham Ford. "Freaked me right out, he did. Should have been out with the other kids, as I rightly remember it was recess. Sent him up with a flea in his ear, that I did. T'ain't natural, being in basements on good days."
Even then, Scotty did not return to the other children, but spent recess in the library. Ms. Sachar saw him everyday, but he was well-known for being studious, so she thought little of it.
"To be honest, I liked the company. Sometimes I'd stop and chat with him. He was mostly quite friendly, though he never let me see what he was working on. Every now and again though, he would get awfully moody, cross with me for interrupting him. And sometimes I couldn't get his attention for the world. He'd stare into space rather than answer. That's when I decided to get Dr. Rumstead."
Rumstead, McCarthy Elementary's child psycaiatrist, prescribed an extended vacation longer than the usual Christmas break. Scotty obstinately refused to talk to him. But he did confide in his mother. Debra heard a great deal about Scotty's beliefs during the four weeks he spent home from school.
"He told me how afraid he was. That there are things in the world older than man, infinitely deadly elder gods of a sort. He claimed they seek to enslave us, and lurk in dark foul places... like crypts...
"I remember he mentioned a book. It was called the..the Necromonican, or something similar. He expressed frustration over being unable to get it through Friends of the Library. He called Lovecraft "my mentor," and said the man had actually been transcribing true accounts. A professor of the supernatural. And he insisted the Necro book was key to understanding, and taught how to summon and banish these elder gods. I was very worried about him."
Then on December 10th, Scotty vanished from his home, sometime between 11:00 and 4:00 at night.
"I turned in at ten-thirty," Debra recalls. "And when I went to the bathroom at four-ten, the door to his room was open. So was his window. I was so scared, and phoned the cops right away."
By noon the next morning, Scotty had been found, in the shrubbery by the banks of the Susquehanna River. Not one legible word was got out of him after that.
Until he wrote the note which opens this article, in a style so unlike him, Debra was amazed. "He was always exceptional at spelling and letters."
He then fled the house for a second time.
And Scotty Walker was never found.
As I said, this is one of too many cases where young people whose minds have not yet fully developed stumble upon the work of H.P. Lovecraft, and become obsessed. Adults do not seem to have this trouble, and certainly most pre-teens would find his archaic style off-putting. But there is always one exception, and it is to protect these impressionable girls and boys that there is now a great, country-wide movement to try and ban Lovecraft's work from elementary schools.
Says Lara Tall of Detroit "It's the saddest story I've ever heard."
Marian Henry of Bluefield, West Virginia claimed "we've got to protect the young until they're old enough to see sense. I never let my kids look sideways at a fantasy novel until they were in High School. 'Cause you never know when they could go investigate haunted houses looking for weird old ladies; stuff themselves in the back of old wardrobes, dig in sand on beaches in a fruitless search for little creatures, run into brick walls when at train stations. The list is endless..."
Ezekial Fielding of Aitken, Minnesota said "If my son came home spewing Scotty Walker's garbage, I'd beat the crap out of him. And when he was thirty, with a steady job, three kids, a house and a car with no down payments, he would thank me."
FINIS
There it all is, my light-hearted mockery of Lovecraft, Trekkies, and those who want to ban fantasy. I got the idea from an article I read on The Onion, about a teacher who went mad from the writings of that great cult author. I took the idea and ran with it.
I only ever read two Lovecraft stories, the novellas At the Mountains of Madness and The Case of Charles Dexter Ward. I preferred the former, as its setting was more interesting to me. Personally, I'd say Lovecraft was a terrible writer with a superb imagination. It seems to me that his sense of pacing was non-existent - I was left slogging through chapters of dry facts, with nothing but a slow menace to keep me reading. Luckily, with Lovecraft, there always was a payoff. He's a flawed gem of an author.
So, do you think I've a future writing for The Onion and other schlocky rags? Or perhaps I should turn my thoughts to crass advertising instead? (Drumroll...)
The simple effort of good living makes none of the mistakes and has all of the virtues of fine dining, bourgeous cliches aside. It isn't so much a difficulty as difficult for healthy, uneducated minds to cultivate a true knowledge and understanding of such stuff. And now, creative minds around the globe have come up with a way for you too, to enjoy a good life, powered by optimism and good conduct. We have invented a Harvard Education in fine living! And we'll send you the secret FREE, if you order within the next twenty-four hours.Unusual Advertising
To get your copy of The Secrets of Good Living: Tools of the Genteel Trade, just call 1-800-234-0909. The magazine will give you unabridged, short, simple instructions on how to greet prominent people, what a salad fork actually is, twenty great anecdotes for the dinner table, how to speak in a detached yet personal way, where to get a good deal on genuine white calfskin gloves, and more! We repeat: just call 1-800-234-0909, or go to www.GoodLiving.com, and we'll give a crash course in how to be a member of the landed gentry. Order today!
I scarcely thought about what I was writing when I threw those two paragraphs together. I was rather surprised at the utter baseness of the above concoction, but I still feel it makes for an interesting curio, so there you have it. (The link isn't supposed to go anywhere, by the way. It just adds colour)
So should I spare you all in future, and focus on the plain old dignity of the short story? I probably will stick to that format, as I'm more comfortable with it, but I don't think that's a reason to box myself in...
By the way, I don't know what went wrong with the bloody font settings for this post... My apologies.
Thursday, November 26, 2009
Sabrina and Sabrina
Alright, this time I'm on here for real, to post with regularity and talk/mutter/rant/complain and occasionally praise the world I'm in. I've been down and out, first without a use for this blog and no need to talk, and then too low to want to. But now I'm feeling stronger and am read to come out of my shell a bit.
This is going to be my new start. Take it as a late birthday resolution, or an early New Year's one.
And so it's Thanksgiving, and my mother and I watched Sabrina. The original with Audrey Hepburn, Humphrey Bogart (in a role wonderfully out of character for him), and William Holden. Earlier this autumn, we saw the remake with Julia Ormond and Harrison Ford. Both were what amount to fairytales, and now I'm having a fine time comparing them.
The focus in the remake was really more on Linus Larraby (who was excellently developed), and it also had more laughs. It also did a better job with the duckling to swan plot device, as Audrey Hepburn looked stunning right from the beginning, unlike Julia.
On the other hand... Julia's character had glasses... which she ditched. That's a real pet peeve of mine. Glasses don't have to be unattractive, you know...
In favor of the original, it was far more romantic, perhaps because it wasn't played for laughs. It also had gorgeous black-and-white cinematography, and a hard to pinpoint quality of understatement. Perhaps I did enjoy the original more, but I appreciate them both on their own terms.
Both films had perfect casting, and one of my favorite heroines of all time. Sabrina Fairchild is in every way an admirable person. She goes to Paris and finds not just poise and style, but herself and her inner strength. My favorite scene in both films is the confrontation with Linus. She reacts as a perfect lady, and if I could find half that grace in my own soul, I would be happy for all my days.
This set of films also made me a fan of the song La Vie En Rose. My favorite Edith Piaf song is always going to be La Foule, but Rose is also beautiful.
Sabrina (1954) *****
Sabrina (1995) ****1/2
Combining this with My Fair Lady, I now count Audrey Hepburn on my list of favorite actresses of all time. I'll keep an eye out for more of her movies. Bogart I've been a fan of for years, and I like Ormond a great deal. I've never seen Indiana Jones, so other than Sabrina '95 and Star Wars, I'm drawing a blank on Ford. (Oh! But he was in an episode of Kung Fu!)
This is going to be my new start. Take it as a late birthday resolution, or an early New Year's one.
And so it's Thanksgiving, and my mother and I watched Sabrina. The original with Audrey Hepburn, Humphrey Bogart (in a role wonderfully out of character for him), and William Holden. Earlier this autumn, we saw the remake with Julia Ormond and Harrison Ford. Both were what amount to fairytales, and now I'm having a fine time comparing them.
The focus in the remake was really more on Linus Larraby (who was excellently developed), and it also had more laughs. It also did a better job with the duckling to swan plot device, as Audrey Hepburn looked stunning right from the beginning, unlike Julia.
On the other hand... Julia's character had glasses... which she ditched. That's a real pet peeve of mine. Glasses don't have to be unattractive, you know...
In favor of the original, it was far more romantic, perhaps because it wasn't played for laughs. It also had gorgeous black-and-white cinematography, and a hard to pinpoint quality of understatement. Perhaps I did enjoy the original more, but I appreciate them both on their own terms.
Both films had perfect casting, and one of my favorite heroines of all time. Sabrina Fairchild is in every way an admirable person. She goes to Paris and finds not just poise and style, but herself and her inner strength. My favorite scene in both films is the confrontation with Linus. She reacts as a perfect lady, and if I could find half that grace in my own soul, I would be happy for all my days.
This set of films also made me a fan of the song La Vie En Rose. My favorite Edith Piaf song is always going to be La Foule, but Rose is also beautiful.
Sabrina (1954) *****
Sabrina (1995) ****1/2
Combining this with My Fair Lady, I now count Audrey Hepburn on my list of favorite actresses of all time. I'll keep an eye out for more of her movies. Bogart I've been a fan of for years, and I like Ormond a great deal. I've never seen Indiana Jones, so other than Sabrina '95 and Star Wars, I'm drawing a blank on Ford. (Oh! But he was in an episode of Kung Fu!)
Monday, July 27, 2009
Outsider Art
It seems a shame to me that some really phenomenal, mind-boggling, creative artists of the modern days are virtually unheard of by everybody. I found a nice array of them, and on a whim, have decided to post links to it all here. Anybody who peruses this blog can now look at some examples of what can be done with art, if you think outside the box.
http://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/worldnews/article-1201398/Now-you-dont-The-artist-turns-Invisible-Man.html
This first one is the single most astonishing for me.
http://www.mailonsunday.co.uk/news/worldnews/article-1198381/Bizarre-spectacle-giant-crop-murals-covering-rice-fields-Japan.html
Aliens my foot! This is proof of what humans can do with agriculture when they put their minds to it.
http://www.sfgate.com/cgi-bin/article.cgi?f=/c/a/2009/06/20/BAK418AKS1.DTL
Then there is of course the argument that people doing this kind of stuff just have too much time on their hands...
There are two more I'd like to post up, but they're YouTube items, and that site appears to be malfunctioning on my computer so it'll have to wait.
I hope these articles prove that art is not dead. Just time-consuming and bizarre.
http://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/worldnews/article-1201398/Now-you-dont-The-artist-turns-Invisible-Man.html
This first one is the single most astonishing for me.
http://www.mailonsunday.co.uk/news/worldnews/article-1198381/Bizarre-spectacle-giant-crop-murals-covering-rice-fields-Japan.html
Aliens my foot! This is proof of what humans can do with agriculture when they put their minds to it.
http://www.sfgate.com/cgi-bin/article.cgi?f=/c/a/2009/06/20/BAK418AKS1.DTL
Then there is of course the argument that people doing this kind of stuff just have too much time on their hands...
There are two more I'd like to post up, but they're YouTube items, and that site appears to be malfunctioning on my computer so it'll have to wait.
I hope these articles prove that art is not dead. Just time-consuming and bizarre.
Friday, April 24, 2009
Finale
I sincerely hope this story is going over well...
******
Time came calling shortly thereafter. And he was indeed, timeless. He had a youthful face, though his beard was gray; arthritic hands that retained speed and dexterity. He wore a gray robe, smoked a hooka and had a tendency to glide instead of walk. He also didn't say much.
He arrived for brunch, and Algernon brought out a tray containing tea, yogurt, lemon-poppyseed muffins and chocolate eclairs. Time tucked in with muttered thanks.
Meanwhile, Christina helped Death set up a chessboard in the parlor. It was typically grand, with intricately carved marble chessmen, and ebony inlays on the board. Though the day was perfectly warm, the fireplace ran full tilt. She quickly realised it was just for ambiance and gave no heat.
Algernon (who was doubling as manservant that day) guided Time into the room shortly thereafter and everyone sat down with a stiff, formal air.
It was Death who broke the silence. "Now Time, I only requested your company on a business matter. You see the lady over there?"
Time didn't even glance at Christina but nodded anyway.
"Well, I've God's permission to train her in as my assistant. A Lady Death, so to speak. She's got the cane, the robe, the immortality. But without your blessing she'll age forever, an unpleasant prospect. What do you say to removing her from your grand design?"
Time looked at Christina for a long moment, then said to his friend "win the game," with a gesture at the fresh chess match. Algernon moaned at this foregone conclusion and he and Christina were cursorily dismissed.
******
She saw nothing of her mentor and Time for nearly a full week. They stayed in the parlor, playing chess over her fate. Algernon delivered Time his meals at the door, spending the rest of his days in a huff over the dirth of compliments he recieved.
Christina therefore spent most of her time outside with her daughter, watching the trains. They never moved. The almost full one needed twenty-five more members to fill the quota. The porters were quite bitter over Death's long vacation from the job, though they were all very polite.
But at last the dull week was through. Late one evening, during supper, the two chess players emerged into the hall, and Death announced "I've won."
Then Time approached Christina, who stood nervously. "Hold still," he said, and reached out to her neck. He carefully pulled a thing chain she'd never seen before up and over her head. And suddenly a weight she'd always carried as if it was natural was gone.
In his hands, Time held a chain of metal links. The colour of the metal slowly shifted from silver to copper to gold and then back. It had been around her neck always, and she'd never known. Now it was gone, and Christina knew why Time glid everywhere. She felt she could all but fly.
Death watched in curiosity, and then said, "if you don't need that chain, may I keep it for my collection?"
"Be my guest," Time replied, and Death disappeared into his paneled room to find a place for it. Algernon escorted Time to the door and life resumed its normal course. For a few days.
******
Then Christina started accompanying Death on his errands. And it was a strange experiance, to descend the stairs after weeks only to find the world still caught in the glow of the Icon Effect.
The first day she simply observed. The Flanders sisters, who'd gone skiing against all reason that day. Jak Gard, the notorious cat-burglar of CableTown, finally brought to ground by the long arm of the law.
The second day, Christina was allowed to carry Death's scroll as they went from place to place. The train was filled, though only Isabella watched it drive away.
Then Death became the observer, leaving Christina to do everything herself. It was a miraculous job, and she adapted swiftly. He lost no time in getting her a list of her own, telling her to deal with as much as possible before calling it a day.
To her annoyance, the double doors would not swing open at her approach the way they did for Death. So she simply left them open, to be closed when they both got off work.
Her job was simple for days, dealing with everyone from a drowned girl in a river to a man killed over a game of snooker. Then she collected an old man named Omar Cline, killed in a back alley of Hyvar for his shoes. He was quite vocal about the cause of his plight, and Christina tuned him out in annoyance.
"...It's all that bloody Frank's fault," he was saying vehemently as they ascended the stairs. "We traveled as friends, watched each other's back. This woulld never have happened if he'd been around today. But oh no! He abandoned me on the streets during Easter. Cast me aside like last week's garbage. Left me to rot and stole a horse. After all we went through, for him to pull a stunt like that... No chance he's dead yet, I suppose? Damn it, I knew I'd be first in the grave..."
He sank into an awed silence as they passed through the Cathedral and down to the station. But just before he boarded, Omar Cline asked "keep an eye out for him, why don't you? Remember me when you meet him. He's a young man, though he looks about fifty. Red hair. Army deserter. Frank Gordon." Then he was gone.
For the next few days Christina was extremely distracted. She'd gaze into the distance, wasting hours on silent consideration. She all but ignored Isabella and Algernon, and scarcely said two words to Death.
One day, he finally got fed up and brought her into the parlour for a chat. "Did I make a mistake? Does it turn out that you haven't the guts for the job after all? What is wrong Christina? I can hardly help you if I don't know the problem."
She stared at her pacing mentor in miserable confusion and explained her meeting with Omar. Death sat down and gazed at the ceiling. Then said "you took it upon yourself to become Lady Death for your daughter's sake, as I recall. Before that, you raised her alone in an underground slum. Where was your husband all that time, hmm?"
Christina squared her shoulders and said quietly "I wasn't alone down there. I had Lee. And Frank wasn't my husband, though we would have got married if the war hadn't interfered... I loved him. A lot. He got conscripted into the army and I only realised I was pregnant after he'd gone. I wrote him a letter begging him to return on leave and marry me, but it came back unopened, stamped with M.I.A.
"When my father found out about my condition, he threw me out. I couldn't get any work. I'd heard there was a P.O.W camp in Hel, and went there to ask after Frank. Lee was a friend of mine, and he followed me. Tracked me down, got a job and a little place for me to stay until Isabella was born.
Then police called for a lockdown, and we got trapped in Hel. Lee lost his job, I couldn't find work. We became beggars with the rest of them and got to living from day to day. In doorways mostly. Lee said he loved me. I believed him, but somehow couldn't forget about Frank. I was so certain he'd been prevented from coming home somehow. He was in a different camp, or hospital or behind enemy lines. Or trying to find me.
"The thought kept me going awhile. But I forgot about him in my concern over Isabella. Forgot Lee too. Hardly mattered, compared to her. And now I hear that Frank was just a deserter. And I want to find him, ask him what happened. I want to live it all again so that I can do it right, but it's too late isn't it?"
Death stared at her. She stared at the floor. This abbreviated life story hinted at so much misery. No wonder she'd agreed so swiftly to the idea of being his apprentice. Now she was having some sort of regretful relapse. And if he could talk her out of it, everything would turn out fine.
******
Outside, Isabella stood still and watched the trains. They filled quickly these days, putting the porters in good spirits. Already one was nearly full and the other hadn't yet returned.
The porters liked Isabella, with her quiet ways and keen observations. And she liked them, cheerful and content. All at once her own life had become comfortable and almost frighteningly beautiful. She enjoyed the fact that it was a small world. She'd already discovered that if you walked beyond the station, into the hills, you'd be on your way back to the Cathedral in short order. It was a lovely feeling of enclosed space, coupled with the vast sky and Death's opulent house.
She's long since come to the conclusion that she never wanted to leave.
Inside, on her way past the parlour door, she ran into Death coming out. Beyond, she could see her mother weeping. It filled her with alarm, but Death prevented her from entering. "Come with me," he said quietly, "Your mother needs some space."
"what's wrong with her?" the little girl asked as she followed him into what he termed the library. It was twice as big as the entrance hall, and a maze of shelves. The roof was glass and lamps were abundant.
Death selected a small book and sat down in a comfortable armchair with red velvet upholstery. "She's been re-evaluating her life," he replied honestly. "She's just realised she wasted her love on the wrong man, and the only person who really cared about her is never coming back. It's upset her. She'll come to terms with it in a few days. Don't worry."
"Now," he said, pulling up a small stool next to him, "come here and pay attention. Today, you're going to learn how to read."
*********THE END*********
Here ends this story. I hope it entertained, and the idea was good. Depending on feedback, I will either continue to post my experiments or not.
******
Time came calling shortly thereafter. And he was indeed, timeless. He had a youthful face, though his beard was gray; arthritic hands that retained speed and dexterity. He wore a gray robe, smoked a hooka and had a tendency to glide instead of walk. He also didn't say much.
He arrived for brunch, and Algernon brought out a tray containing tea, yogurt, lemon-poppyseed muffins and chocolate eclairs. Time tucked in with muttered thanks.
Meanwhile, Christina helped Death set up a chessboard in the parlor. It was typically grand, with intricately carved marble chessmen, and ebony inlays on the board. Though the day was perfectly warm, the fireplace ran full tilt. She quickly realised it was just for ambiance and gave no heat.
Algernon (who was doubling as manservant that day) guided Time into the room shortly thereafter and everyone sat down with a stiff, formal air.
It was Death who broke the silence. "Now Time, I only requested your company on a business matter. You see the lady over there?"
Time didn't even glance at Christina but nodded anyway.
"Well, I've God's permission to train her in as my assistant. A Lady Death, so to speak. She's got the cane, the robe, the immortality. But without your blessing she'll age forever, an unpleasant prospect. What do you say to removing her from your grand design?"
Time looked at Christina for a long moment, then said to his friend "win the game," with a gesture at the fresh chess match. Algernon moaned at this foregone conclusion and he and Christina were cursorily dismissed.
******
She saw nothing of her mentor and Time for nearly a full week. They stayed in the parlor, playing chess over her fate. Algernon delivered Time his meals at the door, spending the rest of his days in a huff over the dirth of compliments he recieved.
Christina therefore spent most of her time outside with her daughter, watching the trains. They never moved. The almost full one needed twenty-five more members to fill the quota. The porters were quite bitter over Death's long vacation from the job, though they were all very polite.
But at last the dull week was through. Late one evening, during supper, the two chess players emerged into the hall, and Death announced "I've won."
Then Time approached Christina, who stood nervously. "Hold still," he said, and reached out to her neck. He carefully pulled a thing chain she'd never seen before up and over her head. And suddenly a weight she'd always carried as if it was natural was gone.
In his hands, Time held a chain of metal links. The colour of the metal slowly shifted from silver to copper to gold and then back. It had been around her neck always, and she'd never known. Now it was gone, and Christina knew why Time glid everywhere. She felt she could all but fly.
Death watched in curiosity, and then said, "if you don't need that chain, may I keep it for my collection?"
"Be my guest," Time replied, and Death disappeared into his paneled room to find a place for it. Algernon escorted Time to the door and life resumed its normal course. For a few days.
******
Then Christina started accompanying Death on his errands. And it was a strange experiance, to descend the stairs after weeks only to find the world still caught in the glow of the Icon Effect.
The first day she simply observed. The Flanders sisters, who'd gone skiing against all reason that day. Jak Gard, the notorious cat-burglar of CableTown, finally brought to ground by the long arm of the law.
The second day, Christina was allowed to carry Death's scroll as they went from place to place. The train was filled, though only Isabella watched it drive away.
Then Death became the observer, leaving Christina to do everything herself. It was a miraculous job, and she adapted swiftly. He lost no time in getting her a list of her own, telling her to deal with as much as possible before calling it a day.
To her annoyance, the double doors would not swing open at her approach the way they did for Death. So she simply left them open, to be closed when they both got off work.
Her job was simple for days, dealing with everyone from a drowned girl in a river to a man killed over a game of snooker. Then she collected an old man named Omar Cline, killed in a back alley of Hyvar for his shoes. He was quite vocal about the cause of his plight, and Christina tuned him out in annoyance.
"...It's all that bloody Frank's fault," he was saying vehemently as they ascended the stairs. "We traveled as friends, watched each other's back. This woulld never have happened if he'd been around today. But oh no! He abandoned me on the streets during Easter. Cast me aside like last week's garbage. Left me to rot and stole a horse. After all we went through, for him to pull a stunt like that... No chance he's dead yet, I suppose? Damn it, I knew I'd be first in the grave..."
He sank into an awed silence as they passed through the Cathedral and down to the station. But just before he boarded, Omar Cline asked "keep an eye out for him, why don't you? Remember me when you meet him. He's a young man, though he looks about fifty. Red hair. Army deserter. Frank Gordon." Then he was gone.
For the next few days Christina was extremely distracted. She'd gaze into the distance, wasting hours on silent consideration. She all but ignored Isabella and Algernon, and scarcely said two words to Death.
One day, he finally got fed up and brought her into the parlour for a chat. "Did I make a mistake? Does it turn out that you haven't the guts for the job after all? What is wrong Christina? I can hardly help you if I don't know the problem."
She stared at her pacing mentor in miserable confusion and explained her meeting with Omar. Death sat down and gazed at the ceiling. Then said "you took it upon yourself to become Lady Death for your daughter's sake, as I recall. Before that, you raised her alone in an underground slum. Where was your husband all that time, hmm?"
Christina squared her shoulders and said quietly "I wasn't alone down there. I had Lee. And Frank wasn't my husband, though we would have got married if the war hadn't interfered... I loved him. A lot. He got conscripted into the army and I only realised I was pregnant after he'd gone. I wrote him a letter begging him to return on leave and marry me, but it came back unopened, stamped with M.I.A.
"When my father found out about my condition, he threw me out. I couldn't get any work. I'd heard there was a P.O.W camp in Hel, and went there to ask after Frank. Lee was a friend of mine, and he followed me. Tracked me down, got a job and a little place for me to stay until Isabella was born.
Then police called for a lockdown, and we got trapped in Hel. Lee lost his job, I couldn't find work. We became beggars with the rest of them and got to living from day to day. In doorways mostly. Lee said he loved me. I believed him, but somehow couldn't forget about Frank. I was so certain he'd been prevented from coming home somehow. He was in a different camp, or hospital or behind enemy lines. Or trying to find me.
"The thought kept me going awhile. But I forgot about him in my concern over Isabella. Forgot Lee too. Hardly mattered, compared to her. And now I hear that Frank was just a deserter. And I want to find him, ask him what happened. I want to live it all again so that I can do it right, but it's too late isn't it?"
Death stared at her. She stared at the floor. This abbreviated life story hinted at so much misery. No wonder she'd agreed so swiftly to the idea of being his apprentice. Now she was having some sort of regretful relapse. And if he could talk her out of it, everything would turn out fine.
******
Outside, Isabella stood still and watched the trains. They filled quickly these days, putting the porters in good spirits. Already one was nearly full and the other hadn't yet returned.
The porters liked Isabella, with her quiet ways and keen observations. And she liked them, cheerful and content. All at once her own life had become comfortable and almost frighteningly beautiful. She enjoyed the fact that it was a small world. She'd already discovered that if you walked beyond the station, into the hills, you'd be on your way back to the Cathedral in short order. It was a lovely feeling of enclosed space, coupled with the vast sky and Death's opulent house.
She's long since come to the conclusion that she never wanted to leave.
Inside, on her way past the parlour door, she ran into Death coming out. Beyond, she could see her mother weeping. It filled her with alarm, but Death prevented her from entering. "Come with me," he said quietly, "Your mother needs some space."
"what's wrong with her?" the little girl asked as she followed him into what he termed the library. It was twice as big as the entrance hall, and a maze of shelves. The roof was glass and lamps were abundant.
Death selected a small book and sat down in a comfortable armchair with red velvet upholstery. "She's been re-evaluating her life," he replied honestly. "She's just realised she wasted her love on the wrong man, and the only person who really cared about her is never coming back. It's upset her. She'll come to terms with it in a few days. Don't worry."
"Now," he said, pulling up a small stool next to him, "come here and pay attention. Today, you're going to learn how to read."
*********THE END*********
Here ends this story. I hope it entertained, and the idea was good. Depending on feedback, I will either continue to post my experiments or not.
Thursday, April 23, 2009
Short story in progress
Part three.
******
With the go-ahead given, Christina was next led into a small paneled room with a table in the center. Death touched one of the panels and it slid back to reveal a glass box, which he carefully moved to the table.
"Now," he said, "comes the difficult bit. I've got another staff for you, just made. But it kills the living; so if you touch it now you'll die. You've got to trick it into registering you as deceased. It can only kill you once. And that's what this little contraption is for."
The box had little for detail. Even the pegs it stood on were glass. The two sides Death had touched were clear, as was the top and bottom. However, the other sides were different. One was tinted pale red, the other pale blue.
"To handle the staff, you must be immune to it," Death lectured. "This is the ticket. It will hold your soul for you. Only place your hand against the red glass to draw your soul out, and then (if you can function) place your other hand on the blue to regain it. If you hold both sides at once, you'll start looping in and out of yourself, which is probably harmful. I haven't used it, so I wouldn't know. But don't ever remove both hands at once; there's a good chance your soul will get seperated, and I know that causes permanant damage. That's all you need to know... so whenever you're ready, Christina."
Fear rose in her as she looked at the little box. Doubts assailed her. "Will I be at all changed?" she murmured.
"You'll never die,' Death stated impatiently. "Otherwise no, no changes unless you cause them yourself. Get on with it or hit the road."
Christina glared at him, as he knew she would, and braced herself. Leaning forward she gently rested the palm of her hand on the red glass.
That was all it took.
First her memories drained away. The past, even five minutes, was forgotten. There was only here and now.
This lack of awareness didn't alarm her, or even strike her as odd. It had little importance. In fact, everything had little importance.
Her will to do things, to look, move around...that went away as well. Had she been thrown in a lake, she'd have made no effort to save herself.
The other still more intangible elements of her soul also got caught in the box. She was left standing there, hardly breathing, brown eyes utterly vacant. You could tell the box had something in it, as it was clouded over with purple-gray condensation. Death watched all this happen with great interest.
When several minutes went by, and it became clear that she was unlikely to move by herself, he stepped forward and removed her hand from the glass; then guided her from the room.
His staff was propped in the hallway, and her's had been put next to it. The only difference between them was that his looked extremely old,and her's was freshly varnished and just made. It all but had wrapping paper on it. He handed it to her without ceremony. In her state, she wasn't fit to appreciate it.
She took the staff blankly. Then her heart gave out and she crumpled to the floor. Death knelt and checked for a pulse. Found none. And no soul to stand up and be escorted to the station.
So he brought the glass box to her, thanking his lucky stars that he'd had the forethought to toss Isabella into the gardens. Then he positioned her left hand so that when he let it go, it fell against the blue side and remained there.
He didn't wait for signs of life, merely bustled off to the kitchens to ask his cook to pass the brandy. He'd read it was a good antidote to unusual shocks.
******
"Can I please let go now?" Christina asked groggily as the last of the coloured mist evaporated. She'd been there for over fifteen minutes.
Death tapped his steepled fingers together and deliberated. "You feel perfectly normal?" he asked.
"I'm quite alright. Just a bit tired is all. Now where is Isabella?"
"Still outside, and I can assure you she's fine. And you're apt to feel tired for a few days, considering you've just been killed-"
"-I think she should come inside now," Christina persisted, starting to grow anxious. Death, after swiftly examining the box, gave her leave to remove her hand and jumped up to fetch Isabella from the gardener's care.
Christina sat up and ran a hand through her hair, wincing as she encountered knots. Then she realised an angel was sitting a polite distance away, with a brandy decanter and a goblet by his side.
He was, for the most part, a typical church's depiction of an angel, with huge snowy wings and a white robe, though he'd rolled the sleeves up. His eyes were green and he had blonde hair, though he'd tied it back from his face. These were odd enough, but no church angel was ever depicted with a tall, puffy chef's hat.
"You're the chef," she stated. He smiled in response and poured her a drink.
"Algernon Barclay," he said with considerable pride, handing her the goblet. Crystal, she realised on taking it.
"Christina Abbott," she answered before downing the brandy and nearly choking on it. It had been a long time since she'd had spirits.
"I have to say I'm enormously grateful to you and your daughter," Agernon said when she'd caught her breath. "It was so dull before I had someone else to cook for. On a regular basis, you understand. Before, I'd usually have to invite old friends, and it's quite impossible to play host when you're cooking breakfast. I'm indebted to you. And I do hope you're enjoying the food?" he added anxiously.
Christina remembered Death saying he was tempermental on purpose, and smiled at the thought. "I've loved everything you've served so far," she said honestly. "And so has Isabella."
No more was said until Death came back with the girl. She said curiously, "mother, what are doing on the floor?"
Death cautiously picked up the box to store out of harms way as Christina said "just resting dear. Now come along with me. We'll go for a walk and I want to hear all about your day..."
(And that's where I stop today)
******
With the go-ahead given, Christina was next led into a small paneled room with a table in the center. Death touched one of the panels and it slid back to reveal a glass box, which he carefully moved to the table.
"Now," he said, "comes the difficult bit. I've got another staff for you, just made. But it kills the living; so if you touch it now you'll die. You've got to trick it into registering you as deceased. It can only kill you once. And that's what this little contraption is for."
The box had little for detail. Even the pegs it stood on were glass. The two sides Death had touched were clear, as was the top and bottom. However, the other sides were different. One was tinted pale red, the other pale blue.
"To handle the staff, you must be immune to it," Death lectured. "This is the ticket. It will hold your soul for you. Only place your hand against the red glass to draw your soul out, and then (if you can function) place your other hand on the blue to regain it. If you hold both sides at once, you'll start looping in and out of yourself, which is probably harmful. I haven't used it, so I wouldn't know. But don't ever remove both hands at once; there's a good chance your soul will get seperated, and I know that causes permanant damage. That's all you need to know... so whenever you're ready, Christina."
Fear rose in her as she looked at the little box. Doubts assailed her. "Will I be at all changed?" she murmured.
"You'll never die,' Death stated impatiently. "Otherwise no, no changes unless you cause them yourself. Get on with it or hit the road."
Christina glared at him, as he knew she would, and braced herself. Leaning forward she gently rested the palm of her hand on the red glass.
That was all it took.
First her memories drained away. The past, even five minutes, was forgotten. There was only here and now.
This lack of awareness didn't alarm her, or even strike her as odd. It had little importance. In fact, everything had little importance.
Her will to do things, to look, move around...that went away as well. Had she been thrown in a lake, she'd have made no effort to save herself.
The other still more intangible elements of her soul also got caught in the box. She was left standing there, hardly breathing, brown eyes utterly vacant. You could tell the box had something in it, as it was clouded over with purple-gray condensation. Death watched all this happen with great interest.
When several minutes went by, and it became clear that she was unlikely to move by herself, he stepped forward and removed her hand from the glass; then guided her from the room.
His staff was propped in the hallway, and her's had been put next to it. The only difference between them was that his looked extremely old,and her's was freshly varnished and just made. It all but had wrapping paper on it. He handed it to her without ceremony. In her state, she wasn't fit to appreciate it.
She took the staff blankly. Then her heart gave out and she crumpled to the floor. Death knelt and checked for a pulse. Found none. And no soul to stand up and be escorted to the station.
So he brought the glass box to her, thanking his lucky stars that he'd had the forethought to toss Isabella into the gardens. Then he positioned her left hand so that when he let it go, it fell against the blue side and remained there.
He didn't wait for signs of life, merely bustled off to the kitchens to ask his cook to pass the brandy. He'd read it was a good antidote to unusual shocks.
******
"Can I please let go now?" Christina asked groggily as the last of the coloured mist evaporated. She'd been there for over fifteen minutes.
Death tapped his steepled fingers together and deliberated. "You feel perfectly normal?" he asked.
"I'm quite alright. Just a bit tired is all. Now where is Isabella?"
"Still outside, and I can assure you she's fine. And you're apt to feel tired for a few days, considering you've just been killed-"
"-I think she should come inside now," Christina persisted, starting to grow anxious. Death, after swiftly examining the box, gave her leave to remove her hand and jumped up to fetch Isabella from the gardener's care.
Christina sat up and ran a hand through her hair, wincing as she encountered knots. Then she realised an angel was sitting a polite distance away, with a brandy decanter and a goblet by his side.
He was, for the most part, a typical church's depiction of an angel, with huge snowy wings and a white robe, though he'd rolled the sleeves up. His eyes were green and he had blonde hair, though he'd tied it back from his face. These were odd enough, but no church angel was ever depicted with a tall, puffy chef's hat.
"You're the chef," she stated. He smiled in response and poured her a drink.
"Algernon Barclay," he said with considerable pride, handing her the goblet. Crystal, she realised on taking it.
"Christina Abbott," she answered before downing the brandy and nearly choking on it. It had been a long time since she'd had spirits.
"I have to say I'm enormously grateful to you and your daughter," Agernon said when she'd caught her breath. "It was so dull before I had someone else to cook for. On a regular basis, you understand. Before, I'd usually have to invite old friends, and it's quite impossible to play host when you're cooking breakfast. I'm indebted to you. And I do hope you're enjoying the food?" he added anxiously.
Christina remembered Death saying he was tempermental on purpose, and smiled at the thought. "I've loved everything you've served so far," she said honestly. "And so has Isabella."
No more was said until Death came back with the girl. She said curiously, "mother, what are doing on the floor?"
Death cautiously picked up the box to store out of harms way as Christina said "just resting dear. Now come along with me. We'll go for a walk and I want to hear all about your day..."
(And that's where I stop today)
Monday, April 20, 2009
A bit more writing
Now for part two.
******
When enought time had passed for the sun to start setting, Frank finally risked pulling off his kerchief and dunking his head in the nearest horse trough. After mopping his face dry, he glanced about for Omar, but his slippery friend had gone. With the gathering dusk softening the glow of the Icon Effect he cast the sodden cloth aside. If he worked fast, he could bolt town before nightfall. What he needed was a horse.
As of yet no one had come out to check on livestock, so Frank poked about the backbuildings of Hyvar until he found a stable and pasture. He knew a little about horses from his short stint in the army, so he quickly caught and harnassed one. Being a small man, he had to climb the fence to mount the stolen animal, which took a few tries to get right.
Then he aimed for the fields that bordered Hyvar and galloped away. He had no real qualms over what he'd done. After all, there were two others left and no one had thought twice about how well he was doing all those years.
When he reached the ford at Elm River, Hyvar was a distant glow on the horizon. And tomorrow that will fade and we can live in peace for ten more years, he thought in satisfaction. His eyes still ached.
The ford at Elm River was an unmanned raft tethered by a rope to two posts, one on either side of the river. It was primitive and rarely used, but Frank had no intention of registering at a proper bridge. This way was illegal and dangerous, but he was listed as a deserter, and he wasn't sure how long it took after a war to drop those charges. Better to use an unorthodox bridge, than be in jail or executed.
His destination was Scorsaw, usually referred to as the City of Dogs. It was a useless, miserable place, the poverty center of the world, where people lived in tents and drank river water. A reject like Frank would be more than welcome.
******
When Christina came to the top of the stairs, it took her eyes a few minutes to adjust. She was standing in a vast hall, filled with rows of pews. The stairs were situated just behind the pulpit. It was a church, only far grander than any she'd seen. In truth, it was a cathedral.
Then Isabella caught sight of the stained glass windows, and all but flung herself to the floor. Once free, she ran to the wall and gazed at the vibrant colors in awe. When Christina came to get her, she said "we'll stay here, won't we? Mother? I can't go back down there now. Tell me we're not going back."
Christina stared at her daughter in surprise. She'd never strung that many words together before. She glanced at Death's expressionless face and said quickly, "I'm sorry dearest, but we can't possibly stay. This place is for the dead..."
Then she stared at Lee, faithful Lee who'd followed her to Hel and done his best to help her and Isabella. He didn't look dead.
Death laughed then, and said, "you're a bit off-base, lady. This is a vast building, but it could never hold all the souls in the world. This is my home. Outside is where all the dead must travel on. If you'll follow me..."
On the far side of the hall stood two large double doors. They both swung open of their own accord as Death came toward them. One led into another room of the Cathedral. The other went outdoors, onto a sloping, grassy hill.
They all went down it, and at the bottom there was a train station. Two trains waited; one entirely empty, the other packed with people. It was to this one that Lee was directed.
"Now sonny boy," said Death in relief, " say bye-bye to your lady friend here and climb aboard. Answer the Porters questions honestly and accurately and enjoy the ride. You'll be judged at the first stop...or maybe the one afterwards. I can never keep them straight. Just don't dawdle."
The emaciated young man turned to Christina and said an awkward goodbye. Then he added "I hope you'll miss me, now I'm leaving you. Spare me a thought. If you can." Then he went inside. The train remained in place.
Death turned and walked back toward the Cathedral, pulling a scroll of paper from his robe's only pocket. Christina, thankful for the distraction, followed him, craning her neck to see what he was reading.
Peggy and Doris Flanders (ski crash) The Grande Hotel, Oprano
Jak Gard (gunshot wound) The corner of 9th and Monteverde, CableTown
Christina stopped reading in horror. Death noticed. "It's a rough job, takes some getting used to. But it's not so bad. Humans die, but their souls are just sleeping afterwards. Until I wake them up. That's what the staff's for. I escort them to the station, and the porters handle them from there.
"They're angels actually, but don't ever call them that. They find it demeaning. And Time helps. He let my land out of his loop, so I can take a vacation and never fall behind. Unless I take it in your world, which is against the rules.
"But why should I be telling you all this? You shouldn't even be here. So where do you want to go? I'd be happy to drop you off, it's almost certain to be on my route."
Christina was at a momentary loss for words during this speech. But she realised what the final question meant. It meant trying to live again, trying to make the world go her way and make a place for Isabella's prosperous future. It meant trying to carve out a place for herself. It was an idea that made her head hurt. She'd tried it all before and ended up on the streets of Hel, dying in th sulphur-laced air of Easter Sunday.
Not again, she thought. So she said "couldn't we stay here? Just to rest and recuperate. Don't send us back, not right away. We'd never make it." He's death, he doesn't care, she thought as she looked at his face. Growing desperate she added, "I'd work for my keep. There's got to be some job for me; anything would do. I just don't want to go back out there yet. What would happen to Isabella?"
Death interupted her at this point. "The only help I need right now is an extra pair of hands. And I doubt you're game to play Lady Death and collect souls. So you must return. It's that simple. Are you willing to take on an apprenticeship to me for Isabella's sake?"
The color drained from her face as she considered it. "I thought so," he said bitterly. Then she glanced at her daughter, who'd wandered back up the hill, and was staring at the windows yet again.
Her heart rose withing her. Yes, she'd take the job. For her child's sake, she'd do anything. She returned her gaze to Death, resolved. "Teach me."
******
Being apprenticed to Death was, in truth, no great difficulty. The fact was, Christina's life had never been easy; she'd often struggled hard just for enought food to get by. Though she felt a certain amount of guilt over her choice, it was quickly replaced with relief.
First, Death guided her to the bath, and found a spare robe for her while her nightgown was washed. Then after Isabella was given the same treatment, they were brought to the dinng room; a vast hall with over 20 chairs pulled up around a trestle table. It was a ridiculous amount of space for three people. And Death didn't touch the food, though it was delicious.
"Who does the cooking?' Christina said. It seemed a safe question.
"An angel," said Death, who was busy making a pyramid of cards. "Brilliant in the kitchen. He acts very tempermental, because he thinks that's how chefs are supposed to behave. But he's a great conversationist, once you get used to his little foibles. Good company."
A short time passed, then Christina tried a more daring question. "Don't you... I mean, can you eat?"
Death shrugged. "Never tried. Never had the slightest urge to. But I entertain on occasion, which I couldn't do if I had no cook."
******
The next morning, Death let Isabella out into the inner courtyard, which was complete with orchards and wild gardens. "Don't leave the paths," he cautioned. "My gardener is a poltergeist, and he'll torment you for days if you put a foot wrong. He's invisible too, so don't go looking for him."
Inside, Death took her mother into his office to sort out more details. Again, it was a ridicuously large space for one person to use. Lots of little tables, desks and chairs. A candle on every surface, and scarcely a foot of flagstone visible under all the rugs.
First, he wrote to God, asking permission for the employment of a Lady Death. The reply came ten minutes later, and was very enthusiastic.
Dear Death,
Jolly good idea. Go right ahead. 'Thou hast my permission' and all that.
Sincerely,
The Man on TOP
Christina stared at this letter in perplexity. "This is the word of God?" she asked.
Death chuckled. "Yep, and his handwriting too. Said he was too busy to waste time on high-flown words. The earliest scribes didn't like that much. So they re-translated his speeches and the new books looked more meaningful and important, so the style stuck. Never would have guessed, would you?"
And Christina considered it and started to laugh.
******
(Have to stop again. You may have noticed the gloomy atmosphere is all but gone by the end. This is the stuff I wrote after the block passed. This made the story take a very different direction, and I'm sorry that the opening was so misleading. More soon)
******
When enought time had passed for the sun to start setting, Frank finally risked pulling off his kerchief and dunking his head in the nearest horse trough. After mopping his face dry, he glanced about for Omar, but his slippery friend had gone. With the gathering dusk softening the glow of the Icon Effect he cast the sodden cloth aside. If he worked fast, he could bolt town before nightfall. What he needed was a horse.
As of yet no one had come out to check on livestock, so Frank poked about the backbuildings of Hyvar until he found a stable and pasture. He knew a little about horses from his short stint in the army, so he quickly caught and harnassed one. Being a small man, he had to climb the fence to mount the stolen animal, which took a few tries to get right.
Then he aimed for the fields that bordered Hyvar and galloped away. He had no real qualms over what he'd done. After all, there were two others left and no one had thought twice about how well he was doing all those years.
When he reached the ford at Elm River, Hyvar was a distant glow on the horizon. And tomorrow that will fade and we can live in peace for ten more years, he thought in satisfaction. His eyes still ached.
The ford at Elm River was an unmanned raft tethered by a rope to two posts, one on either side of the river. It was primitive and rarely used, but Frank had no intention of registering at a proper bridge. This way was illegal and dangerous, but he was listed as a deserter, and he wasn't sure how long it took after a war to drop those charges. Better to use an unorthodox bridge, than be in jail or executed.
His destination was Scorsaw, usually referred to as the City of Dogs. It was a useless, miserable place, the poverty center of the world, where people lived in tents and drank river water. A reject like Frank would be more than welcome.
******
When Christina came to the top of the stairs, it took her eyes a few minutes to adjust. She was standing in a vast hall, filled with rows of pews. The stairs were situated just behind the pulpit. It was a church, only far grander than any she'd seen. In truth, it was a cathedral.
Then Isabella caught sight of the stained glass windows, and all but flung herself to the floor. Once free, she ran to the wall and gazed at the vibrant colors in awe. When Christina came to get her, she said "we'll stay here, won't we? Mother? I can't go back down there now. Tell me we're not going back."
Christina stared at her daughter in surprise. She'd never strung that many words together before. She glanced at Death's expressionless face and said quickly, "I'm sorry dearest, but we can't possibly stay. This place is for the dead..."
Then she stared at Lee, faithful Lee who'd followed her to Hel and done his best to help her and Isabella. He didn't look dead.
Death laughed then, and said, "you're a bit off-base, lady. This is a vast building, but it could never hold all the souls in the world. This is my home. Outside is where all the dead must travel on. If you'll follow me..."
On the far side of the hall stood two large double doors. They both swung open of their own accord as Death came toward them. One led into another room of the Cathedral. The other went outdoors, onto a sloping, grassy hill.
They all went down it, and at the bottom there was a train station. Two trains waited; one entirely empty, the other packed with people. It was to this one that Lee was directed.
"Now sonny boy," said Death in relief, " say bye-bye to your lady friend here and climb aboard. Answer the Porters questions honestly and accurately and enjoy the ride. You'll be judged at the first stop...or maybe the one afterwards. I can never keep them straight. Just don't dawdle."
The emaciated young man turned to Christina and said an awkward goodbye. Then he added "I hope you'll miss me, now I'm leaving you. Spare me a thought. If you can." Then he went inside. The train remained in place.
Death turned and walked back toward the Cathedral, pulling a scroll of paper from his robe's only pocket. Christina, thankful for the distraction, followed him, craning her neck to see what he was reading.
Peggy and Doris Flanders (ski crash) The Grande Hotel, Oprano
Jak Gard (gunshot wound) The corner of 9th and Monteverde, CableTown
Christina stopped reading in horror. Death noticed. "It's a rough job, takes some getting used to. But it's not so bad. Humans die, but their souls are just sleeping afterwards. Until I wake them up. That's what the staff's for. I escort them to the station, and the porters handle them from there.
"They're angels actually, but don't ever call them that. They find it demeaning. And Time helps. He let my land out of his loop, so I can take a vacation and never fall behind. Unless I take it in your world, which is against the rules.
"But why should I be telling you all this? You shouldn't even be here. So where do you want to go? I'd be happy to drop you off, it's almost certain to be on my route."
Christina was at a momentary loss for words during this speech. But she realised what the final question meant. It meant trying to live again, trying to make the world go her way and make a place for Isabella's prosperous future. It meant trying to carve out a place for herself. It was an idea that made her head hurt. She'd tried it all before and ended up on the streets of Hel, dying in th sulphur-laced air of Easter Sunday.
Not again, she thought. So she said "couldn't we stay here? Just to rest and recuperate. Don't send us back, not right away. We'd never make it." He's death, he doesn't care, she thought as she looked at his face. Growing desperate she added, "I'd work for my keep. There's got to be some job for me; anything would do. I just don't want to go back out there yet. What would happen to Isabella?"
Death interupted her at this point. "The only help I need right now is an extra pair of hands. And I doubt you're game to play Lady Death and collect souls. So you must return. It's that simple. Are you willing to take on an apprenticeship to me for Isabella's sake?"
The color drained from her face as she considered it. "I thought so," he said bitterly. Then she glanced at her daughter, who'd wandered back up the hill, and was staring at the windows yet again.
Her heart rose withing her. Yes, she'd take the job. For her child's sake, she'd do anything. She returned her gaze to Death, resolved. "Teach me."
******
Being apprenticed to Death was, in truth, no great difficulty. The fact was, Christina's life had never been easy; she'd often struggled hard just for enought food to get by. Though she felt a certain amount of guilt over her choice, it was quickly replaced with relief.
First, Death guided her to the bath, and found a spare robe for her while her nightgown was washed. Then after Isabella was given the same treatment, they were brought to the dinng room; a vast hall with over 20 chairs pulled up around a trestle table. It was a ridiculous amount of space for three people. And Death didn't touch the food, though it was delicious.
"Who does the cooking?' Christina said. It seemed a safe question.
"An angel," said Death, who was busy making a pyramid of cards. "Brilliant in the kitchen. He acts very tempermental, because he thinks that's how chefs are supposed to behave. But he's a great conversationist, once you get used to his little foibles. Good company."
A short time passed, then Christina tried a more daring question. "Don't you... I mean, can you eat?"
Death shrugged. "Never tried. Never had the slightest urge to. But I entertain on occasion, which I couldn't do if I had no cook."
******
The next morning, Death let Isabella out into the inner courtyard, which was complete with orchards and wild gardens. "Don't leave the paths," he cautioned. "My gardener is a poltergeist, and he'll torment you for days if you put a foot wrong. He's invisible too, so don't go looking for him."
Inside, Death took her mother into his office to sort out more details. Again, it was a ridicuously large space for one person to use. Lots of little tables, desks and chairs. A candle on every surface, and scarcely a foot of flagstone visible under all the rugs.
First, he wrote to God, asking permission for the employment of a Lady Death. The reply came ten minutes later, and was very enthusiastic.
Dear Death,
Jolly good idea. Go right ahead. 'Thou hast my permission' and all that.
Sincerely,
The Man on TOP
Christina stared at this letter in perplexity. "This is the word of God?" she asked.
Death chuckled. "Yep, and his handwriting too. Said he was too busy to waste time on high-flown words. The earliest scribes didn't like that much. So they re-translated his speeches and the new books looked more meaningful and important, so the style stuck. Never would have guessed, would you?"
And Christina considered it and started to laugh.
******
(Have to stop again. You may have noticed the gloomy atmosphere is all but gone by the end. This is the stuff I wrote after the block passed. This made the story take a very different direction, and I'm sorry that the opening was so misleading. More soon)
Sunday, April 19, 2009
A bit of writing
And now to bite the bullet and place a short story I have written on this blog for comments and criticism. It is called The Apprenticeship of Lady Death, and it is the longest short story I have yet written. I started it in January with no clear idea in my head where it was going. I had just listened to the albums Easter and Join Hands at the time it began, which was a heavy inspiration. Then I suffered writers block and didn't return to it for a while.
Reading over the complete work, I've decided it is a respectable enough attempt to let others read. Word of warning: it is set in an alternate world I didn't take the trouble to properly envision. So at times it may make no sense. That does not bother me; I was not going for realism. Without further pontification...
The Apprenticeship of Lady Death.
******
It was Easter Sunday and the streets of Hel glowed. Sulphur danced on the wind, smearing against window panes and obscuring lamplight. The inhabitants of the city stayed indoors, praying for the close of day. The city was underground, but few had lost their innate sense of time.
It was Easter Sunday and the streets of Hyvar glowed. Most people stayed inside to avoid the disorientation such an effect produced. They waited for the day to pass and read their books. The children were dazzled and begged to be let out, but they were universally ignored. Few adults were comfortable with this occurence, called the Icon Effect. It passed by every ten years and they did their best to ignore it.
But the beggars couldn't. The homeless people had to ride it out and suffer the brightness as best they could. Thankfully the day was thickly overcast, muting the glow.
Two of these beggars had camped in an alley with cloth tied over their eyes. They were dressed in ragged tan uniforms like soldiers, for that was what they'd once been. They leaned against each other back to back, and one had not tied his blindfold properly, for his eyes were streaming.
There names were Frank Gordon and Omar Cline.
Frank was the one with the eye problem. He had a shock of red hair and his face was unnaturally lined and haggard for a man in his thirties. He cursed and raised a hand to his face, rocking back and forth in agitation.
Omar, sensing his friends discomfort, began to crawl away from him. He was a much older man, with hair that had turned gray long ago and a flat face. He needed glasses but couldn't afford them. He crawled till he bumped into a wall, then halted. By tomorrow, this would all be a bad dream.
When he realised Omar was missing, Frank called for him, but he was ignored. So he started crawling in widening circles feeling for him. It did no good and only made him lose his bearings.
******
In Hel almost everyone lived as beggars, but they also mostly lived in houses. That day, only three people were on the streets suffering the sulphur-laced air. The glow that surrounded man-made objects by itself was almost beautiful in a place usually so dark. But the sulphur was deadly.
Christina Abbott, her daughter Isabella and a man called Lee St. Cross sat in the wide central square of Hel, where the breeze was unobstructed and therefore a little clearer. They sat in a row and in front of them stood a covered pot of water. Occasionally they would remove the rags covering their lower faces and dip them into the water to make breathing somewhat easier.
Because of the extreme heat, all three were lightly dressed. Lee wore only a pair of shorts and Christina and her daughter wore nightgowns that had probably been white, long ago. Christina had brown hair, roughly cut and uncombed since she had come to Hel just before her daughter was born.
Isabella was now six and was usually silent and withdrawn. She'd never seen such light before today, and the experiance drew her slightly out of her shell as she gazed in wide-eyed wonder at the Icon Effect. Her mother wiled the time away by fingercombing the little girl's hair, brown like her mothers.
Some hours passed and then Lee sank to the ground with labored breath. Christina crawled over to him, but there was nothing she could do. She sat beside him until his last breath had come and gone. Then she held her daughter close and gazed bleakly across the square.
Isabella didn't understand what had just happened, or why her mother was suddenly so upset. All she noticed was the cloaked figure coming toward them at a sprightly pace. She wriggled away from Christina and pointing, said "mother, look."
Christina jerked her head up to see a black cloaked skeleton with a cane come marching toward them. He stopped by Lee's body and gave it a push with his staff, saying "alright, up you get. No, you're not quite dead; yes, I am Death. And there's lots more like you out there, so I haven't got all day to dither with you."
Lee rolled over and moaned in confusion. And Christina remembered the old legend: that if you hung about dead bodies in Hel, you were certain to see Death come collecting. She'd seen far worse than an animate skeleton since living here. So she stood up and asked him "has a Frank Gordon ever passed your way? Sir?"
The eyeless face turned to her in surprise. "Lady, I've known a few Frank Gordons over the millennia. Care to specify?"
"He was a red-haired soldier. Has he died sometime in the last six years?"
Death tapped his stick on the ground, cracking paving stones as he thought. "No," he said at last. "If you haven't seen him, I'm not the cause. He the father?" he added with a glance at Isabella.
"Yeah," Christina said in a voice that spoke of total exaustion. Lee finally got to his feet and seemed quite oblivious of anyones presence. Death gave him a shove toward a sweeping staircase that had suddenly come into view. "Well, tell me about it next time we see each other. Me, I've got to get this sack of potatoes upstairs. Don't have time for chit-chat."
Both of them were surprised to hear Isabella's light but serious voice say "may we come with you?"
Death swung round to her and tilted his head to express puzzlement. "Are you suicidal?" The girl didn't understand. "Do you want to die" he clarified. She just shrugged, so he turned to Christina. "Well, it's a rare request. If you both want ot come I won't stop you, but you won't die. It's not my job to kill people. You humans are good enough at that. Just remember it's frightfully boring, and I'll not be sticking around to give you a guided tour. Keep up!" And he struck off toward the stairs, herding Lee ahead of him.
Christina picked her daughter up and made an instant debate. What was there to stay for? Nothing. And leaving would at least get them away from the noxious air and Lee's dead body. So she followed Death up the stairs.
******
(Being pressed for time, I'll not be completing this story in one outing. I'll get back to it as soon as I can)
Reading over the complete work, I've decided it is a respectable enough attempt to let others read. Word of warning: it is set in an alternate world I didn't take the trouble to properly envision. So at times it may make no sense. That does not bother me; I was not going for realism. Without further pontification...
The Apprenticeship of Lady Death.
******
It was Easter Sunday and the streets of Hel glowed. Sulphur danced on the wind, smearing against window panes and obscuring lamplight. The inhabitants of the city stayed indoors, praying for the close of day. The city was underground, but few had lost their innate sense of time.
It was Easter Sunday and the streets of Hyvar glowed. Most people stayed inside to avoid the disorientation such an effect produced. They waited for the day to pass and read their books. The children were dazzled and begged to be let out, but they were universally ignored. Few adults were comfortable with this occurence, called the Icon Effect. It passed by every ten years and they did their best to ignore it.
But the beggars couldn't. The homeless people had to ride it out and suffer the brightness as best they could. Thankfully the day was thickly overcast, muting the glow.
Two of these beggars had camped in an alley with cloth tied over their eyes. They were dressed in ragged tan uniforms like soldiers, for that was what they'd once been. They leaned against each other back to back, and one had not tied his blindfold properly, for his eyes were streaming.
There names were Frank Gordon and Omar Cline.
Frank was the one with the eye problem. He had a shock of red hair and his face was unnaturally lined and haggard for a man in his thirties. He cursed and raised a hand to his face, rocking back and forth in agitation.
Omar, sensing his friends discomfort, began to crawl away from him. He was a much older man, with hair that had turned gray long ago and a flat face. He needed glasses but couldn't afford them. He crawled till he bumped into a wall, then halted. By tomorrow, this would all be a bad dream.
When he realised Omar was missing, Frank called for him, but he was ignored. So he started crawling in widening circles feeling for him. It did no good and only made him lose his bearings.
******
In Hel almost everyone lived as beggars, but they also mostly lived in houses. That day, only three people were on the streets suffering the sulphur-laced air. The glow that surrounded man-made objects by itself was almost beautiful in a place usually so dark. But the sulphur was deadly.
Christina Abbott, her daughter Isabella and a man called Lee St. Cross sat in the wide central square of Hel, where the breeze was unobstructed and therefore a little clearer. They sat in a row and in front of them stood a covered pot of water. Occasionally they would remove the rags covering their lower faces and dip them into the water to make breathing somewhat easier.
Because of the extreme heat, all three were lightly dressed. Lee wore only a pair of shorts and Christina and her daughter wore nightgowns that had probably been white, long ago. Christina had brown hair, roughly cut and uncombed since she had come to Hel just before her daughter was born.
Isabella was now six and was usually silent and withdrawn. She'd never seen such light before today, and the experiance drew her slightly out of her shell as she gazed in wide-eyed wonder at the Icon Effect. Her mother wiled the time away by fingercombing the little girl's hair, brown like her mothers.
Some hours passed and then Lee sank to the ground with labored breath. Christina crawled over to him, but there was nothing she could do. She sat beside him until his last breath had come and gone. Then she held her daughter close and gazed bleakly across the square.
Isabella didn't understand what had just happened, or why her mother was suddenly so upset. All she noticed was the cloaked figure coming toward them at a sprightly pace. She wriggled away from Christina and pointing, said "mother, look."
Christina jerked her head up to see a black cloaked skeleton with a cane come marching toward them. He stopped by Lee's body and gave it a push with his staff, saying "alright, up you get. No, you're not quite dead; yes, I am Death. And there's lots more like you out there, so I haven't got all day to dither with you."
Lee rolled over and moaned in confusion. And Christina remembered the old legend: that if you hung about dead bodies in Hel, you were certain to see Death come collecting. She'd seen far worse than an animate skeleton since living here. So she stood up and asked him "has a Frank Gordon ever passed your way? Sir?"
The eyeless face turned to her in surprise. "Lady, I've known a few Frank Gordons over the millennia. Care to specify?"
"He was a red-haired soldier. Has he died sometime in the last six years?"
Death tapped his stick on the ground, cracking paving stones as he thought. "No," he said at last. "If you haven't seen him, I'm not the cause. He the father?" he added with a glance at Isabella.
"Yeah," Christina said in a voice that spoke of total exaustion. Lee finally got to his feet and seemed quite oblivious of anyones presence. Death gave him a shove toward a sweeping staircase that had suddenly come into view. "Well, tell me about it next time we see each other. Me, I've got to get this sack of potatoes upstairs. Don't have time for chit-chat."
Both of them were surprised to hear Isabella's light but serious voice say "may we come with you?"
Death swung round to her and tilted his head to express puzzlement. "Are you suicidal?" The girl didn't understand. "Do you want to die" he clarified. She just shrugged, so he turned to Christina. "Well, it's a rare request. If you both want ot come I won't stop you, but you won't die. It's not my job to kill people. You humans are good enough at that. Just remember it's frightfully boring, and I'll not be sticking around to give you a guided tour. Keep up!" And he struck off toward the stairs, herding Lee ahead of him.
Christina picked her daughter up and made an instant debate. What was there to stay for? Nothing. And leaving would at least get them away from the noxious air and Lee's dead body. So she followed Death up the stairs.
******
(Being pressed for time, I'll not be completing this story in one outing. I'll get back to it as soon as I can)
Wednesday, April 8, 2009
Intro for blog no. 2 (dry title, isn't it?)
And so it begins... This is my other blog, the one that isn't attempting to sound professional. Obviously I can't talk about films, or books on a blog that expressly states "music review." That would just look indecisive, or sloppy, like I'd lost sight of my goals.
So, since I can talk about those things here, what was the last film I saw?
The Talented Mr. Ripley, starring Matt Damon, Gwyneth Paltrow and Jude Law. I watched it mainly for Damon, as I've greatly enjoyed all three Bourne films. I'm not sure exactly what I was expecting. I'd heard it was "unsettling."
It was way more than that. When it started, I had a certain amount of sympathy for Tom, but scene by scene it was replaced with total revulsion. The film was beautifully shot and masterfully edited. There was not one wasted line or scene in the whole thing. Even the first ten minutes were full of little details that were key for what followed.
The script was very well-written, and the characters exceptionally detailed. Every actor was praiseworthy, and I loved the cameo role from Cate Blanchett (whom I'd previously never been able to picture as anyone other than Galadriel). The film as a whole was a masterpiece.
However I walked away from it rather shook up, shall we say. It was horrifying, and to be honest, I doubt I'll be seeing it again for a long time. Reminds me a lot of my reaction to seeing The Picture of Dorian Gray earlier this year. A wonderful film that I was glad to have watched, but now I think I'd like to put it out of mind for a while.
Here's the link for the trailer. I can't guarantee that it'll work, since people take things down from YouTube all the time.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pISZ6_0R3Ho
By the way, I've watched a ton of trailers (being a fiend for movies). And in my opinion, the one for Ripley is very well done. That's my two cents.
So, since I can talk about those things here, what was the last film I saw?
The Talented Mr. Ripley, starring Matt Damon, Gwyneth Paltrow and Jude Law. I watched it mainly for Damon, as I've greatly enjoyed all three Bourne films. I'm not sure exactly what I was expecting. I'd heard it was "unsettling."
It was way more than that. When it started, I had a certain amount of sympathy for Tom, but scene by scene it was replaced with total revulsion. The film was beautifully shot and masterfully edited. There was not one wasted line or scene in the whole thing. Even the first ten minutes were full of little details that were key for what followed.
The script was very well-written, and the characters exceptionally detailed. Every actor was praiseworthy, and I loved the cameo role from Cate Blanchett (whom I'd previously never been able to picture as anyone other than Galadriel). The film as a whole was a masterpiece.
However I walked away from it rather shook up, shall we say. It was horrifying, and to be honest, I doubt I'll be seeing it again for a long time. Reminds me a lot of my reaction to seeing The Picture of Dorian Gray earlier this year. A wonderful film that I was glad to have watched, but now I think I'd like to put it out of mind for a while.
Here's the link for the trailer. I can't guarantee that it'll work, since people take things down from YouTube all the time.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pISZ6_0R3Ho
By the way, I've watched a ton of trailers (being a fiend for movies). And in my opinion, the one for Ripley is very well done. That's my two cents.
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