The Little Princess (part 2)

Trouble begins when Princess Adora gains a baby brother…

On Myrddin Publishing’s blog this week, I posted part of a chapter from my forthcoming novel EPIC FANTASY *WITH DRAGONS which described how Princess Adora came to be born. Here is what happened nine years later. (You can read the preceding section here.)

 

As was the custom, lost in the eternal fog of ancient ritual, if the thing produced from the loins of woman had been a male, it would have been quickly removed from the chamber as though it had never been created. No mourning would occur and no announcement of the failure would be made. A female child was placed into the breast cradle and offered a nipple to suck and encouraged to dine with great passion from that first day forward and for as long as the motherly teats gave milk.

Adora, the little princess, noted the arrangement, standing quietly beside the nursing lounger, watching her mother lovingly press the new babe against her large breast.

“What words have you to say to your new sister?” asked Queen Dorothea nine years after birthing little Adora.

“I suppose I will say ‘Welcome to Sannan’ to her.” The pretty girl thought for a moment. “What shall I call her?”

The queen smiled, her chubby cheeks flushing as they often did when she was delighted.

“Let’s call her . . . Lumina. She is so bright. How is that?”

“Lu-mi-na. Yes! I like it!” exclaimed the girl.

“So it is done. The naming. A lovely name for a queen. Almost as great as Adora. Now let the realm know my second daughter is to be called Lumina—Princess Lumina.”

The chief maid exited the slumber chamber to pass the news to the court crier who would make the official announcement.

“What will happen to the other babe?” asked Adora.

The nursing maids chuckled. Such a beautiful, naïve child, they seemed to suggest. Once she returns to her tutors, she will learn more of the customs of Sannan.

“It’s none of your concern. Go and make play for yourself.”

Adora turned to the basket on the floor beside the great slumber seat. In the basket the babe gurgled, threatening to cry, its tiny feet wriggling above the basket’s rim. She wanted to step closer and get a better look, to see if this one was as cute as the babe resting on her mother’s chest sucking the nipple.

“Sometimes the goddesses bless us with extra measure,” the glad queen spoke in a soothing voice. “As always, we must dispense with males, the sons and brothers, fathers and uncles, lest they return our great realm to ancient depravity and ring loud the bellicose bell. You must remember the history of womankind.”

“I do,” said Adora. “I listen to my tutors always.”

“As you should.” The queen spoke to her maids a moment. When she returned her eyes to Adora, she said: “I hire only the best tutors for you, so you can trust what they tell you.”

Adora stared at the babe in the basket. The queen saw her abject attention and waved at one of the nursing maids.

“Remove the waste,” commanded the queen.

When the basket was taken out, Her Majesty turned as best she could, rolling on her side upon the slumber seat, and gazed at her elder daughter.

“When your time comes, little one, a suitable sire will be arranged for you. You need not trouble yourself until then. After the necessary coupling you need never have to see that beast again. Until then, you have plenty of lovely girls to play with. So go on now and play. Those twins Countess Nadal has . . . you always get on with them, don’t you? Delightful girls.”

Adora pouted.

“Do not show a sour face. The maids will think you have erred in some way. And we shall not call you Adora any longer, for you won’t be adorable any longer.”

“But, Mama, I want—”

“Adora!”

“I’m sorry, Mama.”

“Mama? You forget who you are, child!”

The girl bowed her head. “Yes, Your Majesty. Forgive me, Queen Dorothea. I’m only a child.”

“Very well, forgiven you are.”

After a moment, Adora raised her eyes to her mother.

“May I keep it for a pet?”

The queen stared at the child, then shifted her weight upon the great slumber seat, tucking the newborn daughter into the cleft of her elbow with a warm smile. The nursing maids gasped, fearing that the newborn would be crushed.

“A pet?”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

“Already you fancy a pet? You’re not yet of the age for that.”

“I just want to play with it.”

“You must know such creatures will grow into adulthood, just as  you shall. It is not a good thing. Not much of a pet then. By such age it will be dangerous. They surely will be violent.”

“I only wish a pet for now,” said Adora, daring to raise her eyes to the queen. “If it please Your Majesty. I think caring for a pet will teach me many responsibilities.”

“Responsibilities!”

The queen chuckled. She rolled over onto her back once more to hand off the newborn babe to a nursing maid.

“Better you had a canine or feline for that kind of lesson, or even a small dragon would do as well. Not a male babe.”

“I beg you, Ma—Your Majesty!”

“Begging? That’s not very becoming of a princess.”

The queen thought for a moment, her chubby fingers stroking her daughter’s soft cheek.

“Very well, child. You shall have the male babe as a pet. Yet only until it reaches the size you are now. Then it must be set aside as the others are. Before it can do any harm.”

“What will become of the babe then?”

“Likely it will be sent to the workhouse for training. All the males we keep become either warriors or laborers, as you should know. The lesson needs teaching to you this week. Ask your tutor for the lesson about males. Only the tests will determine which path it goes. If a warrior, then we may need a few battles to be able to determine who of them is worthy of service for our younger women.” She raised her voice for the note taker’s benefit: “We owe a battle to Anjoz, don’t we? They dare encroach on our south shore once more.” Returning her attention to the princess, she continued: “Those warriors who are victorious will endure and serve. Those who do not pass become at best common laborers, at worst farm fodder.”

The girl gasped, as though expecting a pinch of pain.

“And laborers do not touch maidens.”

“Correct, child. Your tutors have taught you well. I shall add to their wages.”

“Will there be a battle soon?” asked Adora.

The queen chuckled. “Why soon?”

“I wish to know if it will stay or go before I devote my attention to caring for it.”

The queen patted the girl’s head. “You will make a fine queen some day, Princess Adora. You are always planning for the future and wanting it now. Such a delight!”

The queen gave the command and the basket was retrieved with some effort and returned to the slumber chamber.

Set on the floor at Adora’s feet, the male babe wriggled and cooed contentedly in the basket as though nothing awful had happened or was about to happen. That was as it should be, thought Adora as she gazed down upon her baby brother.

Surreal Photos Of Fireflies From Japan’s 2016 Summer | Bored Panda

Here at Edgewise Words Inn we love great photography, and today we have Fireflies, brought to you by the people at Bored Panda! Read on, and click on through to see the wonderful images:


We often give you great reasons to visit Japan, but for those of you who still aren’t convinced, here’s yet another brilliant excuse to visit the Land of the Rising Sun. Fireflies!

Source: Surreal Photos Of Fireflies From Japan’s 2016 Summer | Bored Panda

#flashfictionfriday: Short Poetry: I Have Seen the Stars

Reblogged from Life in the Realm of Fantasy

Life in the Realm of Fantasy

Admiring the Galaxy |CCA 4.0 ESO/A. Fitzsimmons Admiring the Galaxy |CCA 4.0 ESO/A. Fitzsimmons


I have seen the stars hung bright

Across the inky dark of night

Such beauty there displayed for me

I scarce can know their mystery.

Heaven’s vault with diamonds flung

Summer’s sky with beauty hung

Bursting forth, the joy in me

Humbled by the majesty.


I have Seen the Stars © Connie J. Jasperson 2016

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Once I was…

A beautiful poem by Sri Sudha K – gave me chills, it struck such a chord in me.

Naa Prapancham,My World...

image

I was a river – once flowing freely,
Was a part of the nature lovely…
Through the mountains n plains…
But, I have now become waters still…

From hills to plains I tread paths,
Paths for lives of people
Taking in all their prayers n pains…
But, I have now become waters still…

I have blessing the plains with silt,
Making them fertile, n set for cities built…
Absorbed all the dumps n drains…
But, I have now become waters still…

All my takings made you sick,
To the nature rules you never stick,
Bound me inside the dams n slains…
But, I have now become waters still…

I am the base for your survival,
Respect me and let me follow the trial…
I’m filling myself with rains…
But, I have now become waters still…
————————————————-
A Kyrielle is a French form of rhyming poetry written in quatrains (a stanza…

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Rebooting Beloved IP #rant

Author Lee French discusses the modern obsession with remaking iconic movies, and does so with class.

Lee French

I’m busy, so I didn’t read anything this week. Instead, I took a few minutes to watch the new trailers for the MacGyver reboot and Star Trek Beyond, and I ran across a heated discussion about the new Ghostbusters movie. All these are reboots of beloved intellectual properties.

Note: I happen to like every single Star Trek movie ever, even the “bad” ones. I like some of them more than others, and a few fare much better in rewatching. Still, I’ve enjoyed them all.

I don’t understand. Why is it necessary to reboot things we loved ten, twenty, thirty or more years ago? What is the magic reason we can’t take some IP that did phenomenally at the time and imagine what life is like that many years later? Why does it have to be a redo instead of a continuation?

In the cases of both Ghostbusters and MacGyver, the producers and writers…

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The Peanut Encounter #amwriting

Peanut.pngA peanut shaped planetoid came into focus on Sci-Tech Mason’s optic viewer. She compared the sensor information to her data cache and mentally engaged a comm-link, “LT, we’re there.”

“Thank you, Connie. I’ll join you soon.”

Lieutenant Jasper Gregson sat at a foldout desk in his quarter’s editing a message to his wife. He sat back and read it one more time.

It’s been six months since I took command of PC-109. I have to admit I was nervous as hell to have a command on my own, even a lowly Patrol Craft, but I’ve loved it. My crew’s great. We’ve arrested three smugglers and destroyed a pirate base without killing a soul.  I’m proud of them.

The crew is cross-trained, of course. Our long distance missions require it, but some perform better than others in their secondary roles. Ensign Connie Mason, my exec, could handle the boat by herself if she had to, but she couldn’t hit Phobos with an asteroid from a hundred yards. Don’t tell her I said it, though. Pilot-Navigator Trout is green, but he shows promise.

Gunnery Sergeant Emily Rutherford, could hit a watermelon at a hundred miles and make an AU drive purr with her smile, but she couldn’t pilot the boat through a hole the size of Sol.

Medic and comm-tech, Dave Klunker, is quite a character and good for morale. He’s a trusted medic and knows the comms, but he shines as a volunteer cook and makes a mean rodent chili. In a world of Nutripaks, he’s a godsend; however, don’t let him near the engines.

Chief Machinist Mate, Stephen Duggan, has been a great resource to me. I respect his experience and counsel. He can do it all to hear him talk, and he probably could if he didn’t scare the crew with his manner. Everything he says sounds like a snarl, but he’s a puppy in wolf’s clothing. And, get this he’s a confirmed vegan—no rodent chili for him. Oh, and he’s amazing with a rail cannons. All in all, I’ve got a tight-knit crew, ready to do their jobs.

I can’t say much about our mission because Mars Confederation is paranoid about security these days. I don’t expect it to be very exciting, though.  Hug the girls for me. I’ll see you soon.

Love, J.

Jasper sent the message and hoped it would clear MC security.

***

Jasper walked through the bulkhead door and said, “At ease.”

“Why do you always say at-ease when you enter the bridge LT?” Trout asked.

“Connie, is our PN as naive as his question?”

“I’m afraid so LT.” PN Rob Trout had been onboard only a month. He stared at Connie trying to figure out how he’d screwed up this time. “Trout, let me explain. If the LT joins us and doesn’t say at-ease, one of us better say captain on the bridge and come to attention.”

“But LT, you’re not a steel-neck,” Trout said.

“Your next CO might be, and it would reflect poorly on me if you’re a screw-up. What’s our status, Connie?”

“Active scans limited to five hundred miles, as ordered. The planetoid meets all expected criteria for 5152. No scan or communication signals have been detected. We’re a hundred miles away and snuggling an M-type asteroid ten times our mass.”

“Thank you, Connie. Turn off active scans but maintain passives.”

“Aye, sir.”

Jasper opened the boat-wide comm-link. “Klunker, Rutherford, and Chief Duggan link up and listen in.” Their acknowledgments flashed on his optic-viewer. “Mars Confederation believes that Earth Federation plans to establish a forward observation post in the Belt on planetoid 5152,  a.k.a. Peanut. If they do, it will breach the Luna Treaty. It’s our mission to observe and report to Ceres by point-to-point hyper-pulse if we encounter the EF.”

“LT, we’ve only got a hand-full of kinetic torpedoes and the quad-rail cannon. What do we do if EF shows up in force?” Trout asked.

Connie spoke first, “Change your underwear.”

***

Connie activated the general alarm and comm-linked Jasper.  “LT, it’s my best guess that a large ship is four to five hundred miles out, standby for gravimetric and optic analysis.”

Jasper had taken his command chair before Connie stopped talking. “Klunker standby for Connie’s data feed and triple check your target intersect. You may not have time to adjust the Ceres coordinates if things go sideways. And, include a no-reply-command. I don’t want EF to know we’re here.”

“Aye, aye sir.”

 

The gravimetric analysis proved Connie’s educated guess to be wrong.  A fleet of ships was a thousand miles out and closing fast. “Connie, can you identify the individual ships?”

“Not yet, LT. They’re moving too fast for my analyzer. Give me thirty minutes. They should slow enough by then, provided Peanut is their destination.”

“This isn’t a simple observation post,” Jasper said.

“The EF has never liked Mars and the Belt being independent,” Connie responded.

“True, but Earth’s bureaucrats had accepted it because it was cheaper than war. Something has changed,” Jasper said.

 

Connie fought to keep her voice professional. “LT, we’re facing a reinforced Fighter-Bomber Carrier group. Eight ships in all, the carrier, plus a light cruiser, four destroyers, and two supply ships.

“Emily, how many ships can you disable?”

“I’ve got six remote torpedoes. If I have time to position the torps accurately, I should be able to take out six,” Emily said.

“That’s too risky. Reserve one of them. Target the carrier with three, and create as much confusion as you can with the other two.”

Emily smiled and answered, “Give me some time to study the threat board and I’ll soon have them turning in circles looking for their butts.”

“Chief, how close to our asteroid can we be when we engage the AU drive?”

“By the book, LT?” Chief Duggan asked.

“Hell no, Chief! MC sent us on a suicide mission, but we aren’t going to die if I can help it.”

“Give me three miles and you can engage the AU, but we might miss Ceres.”

“We’ll worry about that later. Klunker, add the following to the hyper-pulse message: ‘Sit-Rep: Lt. Gregson: EF deployment is an attempt to blockade Ceres, Vesta, and Ganymede from reinforcing Mars. Mars is the primary target.’”

“Aye, LT. Will they believe you?”

“I hope so because Mars is about to be thumped hard.”

“The point-to-point is ready LT,” Klunker reported.

“Send it.” Jasper noticed Connie’s comm-link blinking again. “Go Connie.”

“LT, there’s a second fleet appearing on the scans.”

“Connie! That’s not funny.”

Connie laughed. It relaxed her and everyone else.

Jasper opened the boat comm-link. “Alright everybody, the ballet begins. Stay calm and follow the plan until it turns to crap, then do what you all do best, improvise.  Standby for H-hour minus 75, and on my mark engage the diversionary measures.” Jasper said.

“Aye, sir. H-hour, minus 75, acknowledged,” Emily said.

On his mark, two torpedoes, under nav-thrust control only, floated away from the boat at modest velocity. They were unlikely to be noticed by the EF. At least, that was the plan. Little by little, the torps would flank the left and right sides of the EF forces and reduce the range to their targets in the process.

Time crawled for the Jasper.

“Connie, update the EF position,” Jasper said twenty minutes later. He could look at his optic viewer but wanted to hear the information.

“Wait one…they’re 283.5 miles from our position. The flotilla is slowing more than expected, and the carrier should arrive at Peanut at H-hour plus 10. The lead destroyers are ahead by 15 minutes.”

“Emily, I need a new fire-solution.”

“Aye, LT…”

“Emily?”

“Sorry LT. I have a new solution. I need to release the carrier torps 15 minutes early, and to increase the nav-thrust acceleration by 5%.”

“Won’t that put Peanut in the way?”

“Not if I switch to a conical launch pattern. Peanut will provide cover for a time and the torp attack angles will be difficult for their defenses.”

“Make it happen.”

“Aye, sir.” Emily released the attack torpedoes ten minutes later. They formed a cone as they neared their prey.

***

H-hour minus one minute, Connie called out. Trout stood by to engage his docking thrusters so that PC 109 could float away from its more massive neighbor. And Duggan took his battle station at the quad-cannon.

“On my mark,” Jasper said.

Emily exploded the left-flank torpedo with a shaped beam that sent a wall of debris from an iron rich asteroid toward a supply ship. As she hoped, it didn’t take defensive maneuvers. However it, and its sister ships slowed down. Her second shaped beam sent a small mountain toward the Cruiser on the right flank, again no defensive reaction because the explosion had been blocked from their sensors. So far so good, Jasper thought as he watched his monitor.

But it didn’t last. Twenty miles from Mr. Peanut, six EF MB-51 fighters launched and passed the planetoid at high speed, apparently on a recon mission. PC-109 was doomed if the MBs spotted them. “Emily, we’ve got bees looking for our pollen, can you initiate your attack on the carrier?”

“Not yet, LT. I need five minutes or their point defenses will block my attack.”

“Can you divert an attack torpedo to take out the bees?”

Emily studied the threat board. “No sir, but I could use our reserve torp.”

“Not yet,” Jasper said. He’d feared she’d say that. He meant the final torpedo to create a diversion so they could engage the AU drives before the carrier took them out. Timing would be tighter than a new cadet’s sphincter because the AU needed three minutes to power up.

“Emily, get ready to…wait-one. Go, Connie.”

“Four of the fighters have peeled off. It looks like they’re going to investigate Emily’s distractions. The remaining two are slowing and fanning out. They’re actively pinging and brighter than sparklers at a Mars Day party on our sensors. ”

“Do you see them Chief?”

“Aye, LT. They stand out like my wife’s nipples in a cold shower.”

“Focus Chief. Your job is to deflate those nipples before they can attack.”

Emily’s cone torpedoes were floating toward their launch points. Once ignited it would be a competition between her timing and the EF crew’s training. PC-109 cleared the three-mile point, and Jasper initiated the AU warmup.

“Trout, launch a camera drone programmed to observe Peanut for an hour and then return to Ceres.”

“Aye, sir. Drone is away.”

The ship shook as Duggan engaged an EF fighter. The attack run began when the AU started to warm up. Emily saw it and launched her final torpedo, but not at the fighters.

“Trout, get us out of here,” Jasper ordered.

“I’m not in position for Ceres.”

“I don’t care. Engage the AU as soon as possible.”

The final torpedo exploded. A brilliant sphere of red, green and violet formed as thousands of armor-piercing chunks flew from the torpedo and vaporized an ice asteroid that blinded the carrier’s sensors and took out one MB at the same time.

Chief Duggan watched the second fighter’s approach, anticipated where it would be, and fired a barrage of iridium alloy slugs. The fighter launched a missile an instant before it turned into a yellow ball of plasma. “Incoming,” he yelled. The AU engaged as he caught his breath only to lose it again under the AU’s acceleration.

***

“Where are we, Rob?” Jasper asked.

“Captain, you didn’t call me Trout.”

“No, I didn’t. You’re Rob on this boat from now on. You did well.”

“Thank you, sir. We’re equidistant between Mars and Ceres. What are your orders?”

“As much as I’d like to go home, Mars needs our help. Set a course for Port Phobos.”


(c) 2016 David P. Cantrell contributor and staff member of EWI

#flashfic: Bleakbourne on Heath: An Tuscar

800px-Winslow_Homer_-_Early_Morning_After_a_Storm_at_SeaMorgause remembered a time when she had not been a cat. Sometimes that thought made her sad if a cat could be said to feel regret. She knew she was not like other cats, but liked who she was and where she lived.

She padded through the halls, checking in every corner. A fierce storm was rolling in, one that would likely cause a significant amount of damage in town, but she could do nothing about it.

Having made her nightly rounds and finding the inn at peace, Morgause padded into Rosie’s room and jumped up on the bed. Still sleeping, Rosie moved over, making room and the cat snuggled down enjoying the warmth.

Although the cat seemed to be snoozing, she was not. Morgause sent out her awareness, hoping to find Lancelyn and Galahad, and when she did…her men were in trouble. She knew it was bad, but…what could she do?

Cats were inherently creatures of magic. Their magic was different, a matter of the spirit, as she had discovered when trying to help Merlin heal Rosie. But it was a surprisingly powerful magic, and now she knew why cats made such excellent familiars. She knew she would figure some way to help them.

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800px-I._E._C._Rasmussen_-_Summer in the Greenland coast circa year 1000Tristan Reynfrey was quite elderly and no longer went to sea. For this trading run, he had sent his eldest son, Geraint, with three ships, all of them carrying wine from the Northman lands of Bryttonia, along with fine Wēalish pottery. The Northman wine had come from across the Anglish Channel and was a precious cargo that would earn him a great deal of gold.

Geraint Reynfrey had been sailing his noble father’s vessels across the Eyrish Sea all his life. When his younger brother, Lancelyn, had approached him requiring transport to Wixfyorde, he had agreed to take him, as he was making a trading voyage there anyway.

He was fifteen years older than Lance, and hadn’t been as involved in his upbringing as he should have been—he’d had his own family to care for when he wasn’t away at sea. But despite being the spoiled son of their father’s old age, the lad seemed to have pulled himself together.

Unfortunately, Geraint’s fleet was caught in the grip of a hurricane the likes of which he’d never dealt with before. He could see nothing, barely able to make out the Dragon that graced Morag’s prow. In the dark and the chaos of the storm, he had lost sight of the ships he traveled with, and fear for his son, Branor, and his nephew, Gawain, who captained the two other vessels, had begun to dominate his thoughts.

Generally, Morag rode easily on the sea no matter what the weather, but now she was at the mercy of the treacherous waves. She was a cargo-carrying longship of the type known as a knarr and was the pride of his father’s fleet. Tristan Reynfrey’s ships regularly voyaged across the Eyrish Sea between Tyrwyddn and Wixfyorde in the Eyrish country of Cúige Laighean, and Geraint had many tales regarding the notoriously awful weather.

Galahad had wedged himself between the cargo hold and the rail, passing bucket after bucket of the seawater that slowly filled the hold, handing them to the men who doggedly tossed the water overboard, only to have it thrown back in greater proportions. Then he passed the empty buckets back down the hole, and the cycle began again. The crew’s world had narrowed to bailing water out with no respite or rest, trying to stay ahead of the task.

That simple job was becoming impossible, as the water came in faster than they could cope with it.

To Galahad’s horror, an immense wave slammed over the ship, and the two men beside him at the rail were suddenly gone, along with one of their precious buckets. He could hear Geraint calling orders above the roar of the waves, but his words were lost in the wailing of the wind. “What? Say it again!”

Geraint shouted, “I said get Nolan and Davies out of the hold and up to the rail! Tell them to lash themselves down! Then come back here and help with this.”

Galahad passed the captain’s orders on to the crew, then worked his way aft to Geraint. It took all his effort to navigate the rolling, pitching deck as he struggled to get back to the steering board.

The small ship crested the top of a giant wave and raced down the other side. Galahad braced himself for the wall of water that was sure to follow.

Though the Morag did her best work when running before an angry wind, this was no ordinary storm, and the sail had been reefed. When it first caught them, it had seemed no different than any winter tempest, but soon it had grown out of all proportion into something incomprehensible; a living, breathing beast bent on devouring them.

Lancelyn knelt beside Geraint, bracing him. The two struggled against the high seas to keep control of the steering board.

Geraint felt the loss of his two crewmen keenly. It was a terrible blow and one that would devastate the village of Tyrwyddn. “How am I going to tell their families? Are you sure your wife isn’t behind this?” The scowl Geraint directed at Lance turned to an expression of shock as the board was wrenched from their grasp. The two managed to wrestle it back before it was torn off the ship. “This smacks of sorcery, and that’s her sort thing if I recall.”

Lance hadn’t told his brother of his wife’s currently feline condition and had no intention of doing so. Still, the mention of Morgause cut through the fear, filling him with longing for Bleakbourne, for her soothing presence. “Curses are far more her style–she doesn’t meddle with the weather. This is too big, even for Morgause. Besides, since we moved to Bleakbourne she and I are living well together.”

The ship shuddered under the onslaught of another wave, sliding down the trough nearly sideways.  For a terrifying moment they thought they were going to capsize, but somehow Geraint got her straightened a bit.

Lancelyn slipped and then braced himself better. “I don’t know how long we can hang on. Why don’t you lash me to this…Gah! I need to get wedged better…you’ll be able to steer.”

His brother shouted for a rope, then said. “I fear we’re approaching the coast of Eyrland.”

“But that’s good, isn’t it? We’ll be safe once we get there.”

“Not necessarily.” Geraint’s features showed his apprehension as much as his words. “I have no idea how far off course we’ve been blown, but we’ve no way of changing course and no way of stopping until we can use the sweeps again.”

“No way of stopping?” The cliffs and rocky shores of Eyrland were well-known as the graveyard of many ships. “What are we going to do?”

“As soon as I can get my bearings, I’ll steer us along the coast, but it’s dangerous waters we’re approaching, and we’re being pushed along at too fast a speed. I fear we’ve been blown too far south of the harbor at Wixfjorde, but there will be a bay somewhere if we don’t get sideways and keel over first, or don’t run aground.”

Galahad had returned to Lance and Geraint, throwing his weight in behind them, and with his assistance, Geraint regained control, nosing the Morag into the waves head-on again.

The wild winds drove the sea, and even without her sail, the Morag flew, racing up the long, mountainous shoulders of one wave, higher than any hill, and cresting the top. Then she plummeted down into the trough again, before being carried up the back of the next wave. The rain stung their faces, so much so they couldn’t see, striking with the force of a hail of pebbles.

A sudden lessening of the wind brought a brief letup from the driving rain, blessed, despite the brevity. Unfortunately, the lull also allowed Geraint to see the black prominence that loomed directly ahead. “An Tuscar! The gods are against us! Brace yourselves!”

With a horrible grind noise, the Morag shuddered to a halt, shattering against the leading edge of the rock island known as An Tuscar, throwing men and cargo into the stormy sea. Still clutching the steering board, the shock of the chill water took Lancelyn’s breath away. He fought to breathe, gasping and choking as his head emerged into air nearly as full of water as the sea itself.

Clinging to debris, Geraint’s shouts carried on the wind. “Save yourselves! Get to the rock! We’ll worry about getting off it later!”

Numb hands clutched planks, struggling to hang on as men and wreckage alike were dashed against the tiny island. Riding the crest of a wave, Lancelyn watched with horror as Geraint was struck in the head by a large timber. The last he saw of his brother was his bloody face, sinking below the waves, and not resurfacing.

He tried to concentrate on what had to be done. Men were dying, and he had to save them. Tears burned his eyes as each attempt to reach the men who struggled in the churning sea failed. Drowning men slipped beneath the waves, his desperate fingers catching only water as they were snatched from his grasp.

Lance scanned the debris for Galahad, not seeing him, feeling overcome by disbelief. Panic such as he’d never felt took him, and he searched the waters for the man who was the love of his life. Laid over that terror was the loss of the brother he’d loved and admired but had never told so.

At last, alone, and fully comprehending what real despair was, Lancelyn climbed from the sea, the sharp stones tearing his hands. He lay on his stomach, puking up seawater, and sobbing. His tears flew away on the wind, mingled with the salt of the sea and the wind-driven rain.

Darkness overtook him, and he welcomed it; yearning for death.

>><<< 

Lancelyn stirred. The sensation of having been licked by a cat woke him, and for a brief, deliriously happy moment the cat’s presence was so strong he thought he was in his bed in Bleakbourne with Morgause and Galahad. But the chill in his limbs and burning sting of his many scratches and abrasions told him he was alive, and stranded on a small rock in the middle of the Eyrish Sea.

It took all his effort, but he managed to crawl further up the rock, although why he was bothering, he didn’t know. Once again he gave into despair, wondering why he had been saved.

The storm had begun to abate, but the effort to climb out of the reach of the waves had taken all his energy and darkness reclaimed him.

>>><<<

A massive wave had tossed Galahad onto the rocky shore, knocking the wind out of him. He lay there a long while, battered and senseless. Gradually he woke to the sensation of a cat licking his face. At last, he stirred, slowly dragging himself further up the rock. Unable to stand, he crawled until he was out of all but the heaviest waves’ spray. He climbed on all fours until he had a view of the whole, tiny island. Corpses and wreckage floated on the waves. He saw a body lying face down just out of reach of the waves, and his heart stopped as he realized it was Lance.

“Oh, no…Please, dear God…no….” Grief gave him strength and he managed to make his way to him. Fear and dread for what he would find nearly stayed his hand, but, kneeling beside him, he turned Lancelyn over.

Relief made him weak and giddy when he saw Lance still breathed. Raising him up, he crushed him to his breast, thanking God with all his heart. Lancelyn’s salt-crusted eyes opened, for a moment unseeing, but it was enough and Galahad wept with joy.

When Lance realized it truly was Galahad’s battered face that he beheld and that he had survived the calamity, he burst into tears, clutching him and sobbing.

No embrace had ever been so sweet.

>>><<<

800px-Loutherbourg-Scène_de_naufrageMorgause couldn’t hear their words, but her two men were huddled together, exhausted, and wounded from where the rocks had bruised their bodies and cut their hands and faces.

She cast her senses out again, seeing several crates, which she guided onto the shore. Floating just offshore was the striped sail, still attached to the yardarm. Concentrating, she maneuvered it so a wave could toss it onshore, near where her men crouched.

Straining with all her might, she nudged Lance until he looked up and saw the sail snagged on the rocks at the edge of the waves. With that last effort, she had to rest.

When she woke up next, Morgause cast her awareness out again, seeing that Lance and Galahad had made a shelter using the sail to wrap themselves in for warmth and the crates to block the wind, along with other debris that had washed up.

She cast out further until she found a ship, one that had set sail with them from Tyrwyddn. With the last of her strength, she located the captain, Lancelyn’s sister Leothe’s son, Gawain, who desperately searched the horizon, looking for any sign of the other ships.

She nudged him until, at the edge of his vision, he spied the red and white of the sail against the black rock, where no colors should be.

Gawain shouted orders, and his crew began rowing toward An Tuscar, hoping for the best.


 

“Bleakbourne on Heath” © 2016 – 2017 Connie J. Jasperson, All Rights Reserved

To Read Previous Episodes of “Bleakbourne on Heath” click here:

Bleakbourne on Heath Series

Basic’s Lessons of Life – Number 5

Airmail Envelope AddressedClaude’s Tool & Die was a busy shop and Paul Brown, the owner, kept a close eye on the workflow. He had just finished the crew’s daily work-in-progress and backlog update when Mary ran in from the office and handed him an envelope trimmed in red and blue dashes and labeled “Airmail.”

“It’s from Joe,” she said, giggling.

“Hurry, Boss. What does he say?” Big John bellowed.

Paul Brown stopped what he was doing and stared at John.

“Sorry, Boss.”

Paul struggled to keep a straight face. He wanted to know what Joe had to say too. He continued to open the fragile paper and then unfolded several pages, cleared his throat and began to read the letter.

“ ‘Dear Paul, I’m sorry I’ve been slow to write. Today is the first chance I’ve had to write a letter in the two weeks I’ve been in this hell-hole. It’s Sunday, and they let us have the afternoon for personal time. What a joke. I just spent two “personal” hours rubbing lacquerer off of brass buckles and putting a spit polish on my combat boots. Then I went to the mess hall.

‘Don’t get me wrong. I like eating, but chow was fried chicken—again. We’ve had fried chicken ten times; I counted. The cook does it well, but I’m getting tired of it.

‘Sgt. Tonga is my DI, and he said that each recruit would serve KP two or three times during basic. I’ve been on KP twice. Senior Drill Sergeant Cocker makes up the weekly duty roster and assigns people alphabetically. I guess he doesn’t know the alphabet very well. I’m not surprised. He’s a first class jerk.

‘I feel sorry for the cooks. There are only two of them, and they feed about 180 men three times a day. The cooks (and KPs) start their day at 4:30 am and quit at 10:00 pm. The rumor mill says additional cooks are coming. I don’t put much trust in the rumor mill; it also says that Jane Fonda will be on base for the 4th of July. After her Hanoi-Jane escapade, that seems unlikely.

‘Sgt. Tonga is a crazy Polynesian from Guam. Did you know Guam is a territory of the US? I didn’t. Anyway, he’s never satisfied and calls us all kinds of names. Dog-turd and rat-breath are two of his favorites, and the only ones I can share because Mary will see this letter. (Hi Mary) He’s sadistic and likes us to suffer. The only time I know what he’s thinking is when he smiles, which means something bad is about to happen to one of us or all of us—you never know which.

‘Last Thursday, Tonga blew up when a guy turned the wrong direction during drill. He stopped the platoon and called the guy to the front and made him do twenty pushups. Then he smiled and made the poor guy duck-walk behind the platoon the two blocks back to the barracks. The next day the poor soul could barely walk.—’ ”

“What’s duck-walking?” Mary asked.

Big John answered. “It’s walking while in a crouch. Your butt is as close to the ground as possible, and you have to waddle like a duck to take a step. It’s tough on your lower body. I can’t image doing two blocks.”

“Thanks, John,” Paul said, “But, I’m almost done with the letter. Please, everyone, don’t interrupt.

‘—As bad as Tonga is, Sgt. Hanner is worse. Saturday, he had the 3rd platoon duck-walking around their barracks over and over again. I felt real bad for those guys, but to be honest, I’m glad Hanner’s not my DI. Maybe Tonga’s not so bad after all.

‘God, I miss California. It’s always hot and humid here. I never know if I should dry-off before or after a shower. There isn’t any difference that I can see. I made a friend, JL, from Long Beach. He’s my age and he’s a good guy, but he’s not family. I’m so lonely. I miss you guys most of all. Say hi to everybody for me. Love Joe. P.S. I got a letter from Julie. She dumped me.’ “

Mary started crying at “God I miss California” and reached a full sob by the time “She dumped me” was read. Big John handed her the cleanest shop rag he could find, and she gladly used it to clear her sinuses and calm herself.

“Poor kid,” Mary said. “Julie must be a real cunt to dump him like that.”

The men were taken aback by Julie’s language, but they had to agree with her.

“He’s not the first man dumped after being drafted,” Paul said. “In World War II it was so common that the letters had a unique name. They were called “Dear John” letters.”

“Thank the Lord I never got one,” Big John said. “Then again I didn’t have a girlfriend to dump me when I got drafted in ’59. But, I’ve got a gal now, and I’m not gonna give her a chance to write me no Dear John letter, ’cause I ain’t never leaving her long enough for her to find another John.”

Everyone smiled at John’s declaration. It broke the tension and the crew instinctively knew it was time to put Joe out of mind and return to their lives. Even Mary regained her perkiness and resumed her duties.

Paul Brown carefully folded the letter and carried back to his desk where he reverently put it an employee file labeled Joe K Appleton and thought about when he’d learned the meaning of homesickness in 1943, just as Joe was learning it now. Paul looked at a painting of Diamond Head that hung across from his desk. It was his personal memorial to the friends he’d lost in the war and prayed that Joe wouldn’t join their number.

To be continued…


(c) 2016 David P. Cantrell a contributor and staff member of Edgewise Words Inn

Want more? You’ll find links to previous episodes at the following site, Basic’s Lessons of Life Series

How to Make Purple Prose a little more Read

Eliminate purple prose with clever little metaphors.

Once again, Yours Truly has been accused of writing Purple Prose!

My first thought was which color I was using because my usual font color is black. Then it quickly occurred to me that I really do tend, at times, to lean toward the morbidly obese verbiage when it comes to richly compiled sentences. What I have just written may be an unworthy example of it.

I suppose we are all guilty of flowery language and purple prose when we are writing. At least sometime. It’s not really that we want to show off. It’s not that the scene or the character really needs it in order to be authentic. After all, it slows down the reading, makes the reader have to work harder to comprehend what is happening, and in the end it doesn’t garner us any kudos for our highly honed verbal wordplay.

A while ago, I had a linguistic joust with a colleague who swore she was going to write a blog post on the subject of purple prose. One thing that came from that exchange was the idea that metaphors and, in particular, how a writer can build a beautiful, poignant metaphor can substitute for purple prose or flowery language.

Yes, it’s possible to craft a deep thought or feeling from plain, ordinary language.

My one and only venture into urban fantasy, my so-called vampire novel A DRY PATCH OF SKIN, provides useful examples. Its well-read protagonist pulls metaphors out of thin air left and right, so I was able to pull a couple of convenient examples. Let’s deconstruct one of them to see how a simple-worded metaphor can stand in for flowery language or purple prose.

[Set-up: At this point in the story, our protagonist suspects he is transforming into a vampire, which is something he doesn’t want. Facing this desperate situation and, with no other recourse, he turns to God – with whom he has been feuding during his search for a cure. The following paragraph comes after the end of the soliloquy (spoken aloud in the story); the novel is a standard first-person narrative.]

A flake of snow alighted on my nose, then more flurries fell around me. Probably it was God sending me a sign, but as usual nicely disguised and suitably vague. But I did not stop to gaze at the snowflakes. I knew they would melt. They always do. And become someone’s tears.

Not a high-brow word in that entire paragraph.

Sentence #1 is merely a statement about the weather. Some readers may instantly latch onto snow as a metaphor, but that would only be because we have been trained through all of our previous reading of the literary canon and so much bad poetry to think that way. But here snow is snow, pure and simple.

In Sentence #2, the protagonist himself makes the comparison between the snow flurries and a message from God, and by extension, so does the reader. His personalized assessment of the message (disguised, vague) gives us some of his (the protagonist’s) mindset, further building the metaphor. Hence, if the sudden snow falling upon him is a message from God, it is typically vague, thus requiring him to interpret the message.

Sentence #3 is a bit of a switchback on the road to metaphor. He takes the snow as a message from God but refuses to get caught up in interpreting the message. Essentially, he is saying: “Take that, God! I’m not going to play your game.”

Sentence #4 becomes a rebuttal to Sentence #3: He did not concern himself with the snow because he knew the flakes would melt. In a metaphorical sense, the symbols that snowflakes represent will melt, hence become nothing (in a moral sense) – or in a practical, realistic way, nothing of significance.

Sentence #5 is simply a trailing fragment of Sentence #4 but, left as a fragment, it becomes a separate, added comment rather than part of the original comment of Sentence #4. The effect is two separate ideas, not one combined idea. There is a difference. If one wanted to, a semi-colon would probably work just as well to join these two sentences.

A day after writing the paragraph, I returned to read through it and make sure it said what I wanted it to say and felt the way I wanted it to feel. Then. almost as a whim, I added the final sentence. Just four simple words.

Sentence #6. Here is the metaphorthe leap of linkage between a fact of snow falling, a character’s thoughts about God that are sparked by the snow falling, then a rebuttal or dismissal of those thoughts, and finally the tears. Snow obviously does not become actual tears. That happens only in the imaginary sense. It is the character who, like many people might, makes that comparison.

That is what metaphor is.

I’ve been reading a fascinating book about metaphor (I is an Other) in which author James Geary declares that everything is a metaphor. Said another way: If it is not the actual, physical thing itself, it can only be a description of the thing (my words), hence metaphor. He further elaborates on the brain’s unique ability to form patterns from each and every experience we have, physical and intellectual. Then, upon encountering a new experience, the brain relies on the patterns it has already stored to determine if the new thing is in any way like something we previously encountered. Metaphor is that practice of pattern-forming. This is like that, therefore, I can identify certain properties of this new thing which match that old thing, and I’m ahead in the game of identification.

But I digress….

In fiction writing, we do not use metaphor for survival or to make patterns per se, but rather as shortcuts, as more interesting ways of introducing emotions, connections, and other perhaps esoteric claptrap. Sometimes they work, sometimes not.* But purple prose and flowery language can be dismissed in favor of the carefully constructed metaphor which, in the end, is usually going to be more powerful and more beautiful than a stream of haughty, vainglorious words themselves.

*My first novel, AFTER ILIUM, has sections of “flowery language” – ’tis true, I admit! – but I believed it was appropriate, reflecting the romantic hero’s mindset as he works his way through a seduction and an affair. Conversely, once the affair ends and cold, hard reality is thrust upon him, the writing style becomes quite lean, even terse, matching the effort he must put forth to survive – where there is no room for frivolous thought or the luxury of metaphors.

EPIC FANTASY *With Dragons UPDATE: We remain dedicated to daily production even when we write ourselves into corners. Still, at present we have reached Chapter 20, which brings us up to page 232 and in the neighborhood of 82,000 words. We are only half-way along on our hero’s journey, yet we remain optimistic that we are indulging the “epic fantasy” length requirements with appropriate acumen and verve! 

‘My Model for Writing Fiction Is to Replicate the Feeling of a Dream’

This article has been relogged from Longreads, one of my favorite sites.

Longreads

Jessica Gross | Longreads | March 2016 | 20 minutes (5,074 words)

In 1989, Daniel Clowes started a comic-book series called Eightball. Instead of lauded superheroes following traditional plotlines, his comics often featured oddballs, meandering or dreamlike sequences, and an acerbic wit.At the time, it felt like he was writing into the abyss.

Since then, Clowes has become one of the most famous cartoonists in the world. Eightball was the original home to what became the standalone graphic novels The Death-Ray, Like a Velvet Glove Cast in Iron, and Ghost World, among others. Ghost World was adapted into a feature film in 2001 (Clowes collaborated on the screenplay); his graphic novel Wilson will have the same fate. Eightball itself was republished in a slipcase edition last year. This is a wildly abridged history, and I haven’t even mentioned the awards.

Clowes’s new work is…

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