The Year of Bad and Lorelei

31DEC2020 - 01 JAN 2021

It's typical to do an end of the year post, right? Well, I haven't posted in a little while, so not only is this a 2020 wrap-up, but it also contains a few other subjects that have been waiting for me to publish. It's a good thing I haven't posted in a bit, means I've been busier than usual.

The Year of Bad

This year...ugh. Started out pretty normal and then, the news started talking about a novel coronavirus. From China. I remember in March, listening to an African-American say, "I'm not worried about COVID, my Auntie told me Black people don't get COVID." 

Little did we know back then. 

I wasn't able to go to my normal work for several months, in fact all the way to summer. COVID meant more work as I adjusted to working from home, at least trying to. Learned a few new tricks, not bad for an old dog.

Summer was a time of worry instead of relaxation and renewal. What would Fall bring? And then when I was able to go back to work, I had to wear a mask all day. That was, is, a lot. It's not 'wear a gas mask for 8 hours' bad, which I've done before, but it is an extra distraction. Try talking through a mask for seven hours a day. 

We still have toilet paper in the garage, and Clorox wipes, just in case another shortage hits. Kobe is gone. Our Christmas Tree ornament this year is a "dumpster fire" ornament. How appropriate.

In authoring news, I re-released a short story this year (The Legacy), an expansion of a previous release. One of my favorite stories actually, and one I hope to revisit again in the coming years to write a sequel or a prequel. I had so much fun expanding it that I might do the same for a few other stories. 

I have a few short story commitments to fulfill at the beginning of the year, one about dragons! Another one is about a time capsule, and a third one I can't say anything about yet, but it's right up my fantasy alley. I'm real happy to work with a publisher I've worked with before.

The short story compilation I am planning on releasing is still in the works, but my energies this year have been focused more on editing. I did several editing jobs for various clients this year, and am finishing out the year working on two more of them. All met with satisfaction and actually earned me more than my writing did this year. They were a lot of work. But of course editing is writing as well, as the editing jobs included all levels of editing, from straight proofing and copy editing all the way to developmental editing, structural editing and marketing material/blurb writing. I even did some decent graphical work. I really have to get back into that. I love graphics. 

A piece of graphic work that probably won't see the light of day anywhere else (from The Canterbury Tales by Chaucer): 

And yes, it's all spelled correctly, at least for the English of that time. It's about as legible to us today as textspeak would be to Chaucer. I can't imagine what English will look like in a hundred years' time.

So some good news and bad news. Good news, authoring/editing revenues are up. Bad news, not much of my own material released this year. I hope to release more next year! Come on 2021!

A bright spot of news in the Year of Bad! Wolfsinger Publications is ramping up publishing again! The owner, editor, publisher, wearer of all hats, Carol Hightshoe, is amazing and wonderful. She has some calls for anthologies out, and is releasing several books this year!

Another indie press outlet, one I haven't worked with yet, is Black Hare Press. They have several interesting anthologies out, but some of them are only available to authors they have published before. 

Piece of secret knowledge for today: Dryads become air elementals after the death of their tree...They fly away fly away fly away free. Anyone who tells you otherwise is One of the Unknowing...

Picture for today: A scene from the ancient tale of Tristan and Isolde. Various spellings, languages and details aside, it is a tragic tale of love and betrayal. One of my favorite adaptations is actually a science fiction version of Camelot in the future that incorporates the doomed pair (Camelot 3000)! Here the two title characters are getting ready to drink a love potion together. For those interested, this picture is free to use, according to the Wikimedia commons. 

No resolutions for the coming year. Bring it on!

Love to all, hope your New Year is in all ways better than the old year! Salud!

 

Light is the Shadow of God

I don't talk religion on here or anywhere else, so bear with me. Not going to really talk religion, but I'm going to get super close as I discuss a few words from an old philosopher. 

Consider the following: 

"Light is the Shadow of God." 

Plato, Greek philosopher from Athens said that. About 2,400 years ago, along with a bunch of other cool things.

That God is so bright his shadow is what illuminates our world. Shooting stars, sparks from flint, lightning, the flame of a lowly match, sunlight, moonlight, bio-luminescence, any source of light is a glimpse of the shadow of God? 

That which what we see by is His shadow. That is pretty deep. Perhaps Plato believed people could not withstand the direct sight of God. I wonder what he would have thought about Marie Curie's discovery? Further emanations from God?

Light is the Shadow of God.

As writers, what can we get from this? 

Two things:

• One, I think it talks to the process of showing not telling. Writers don't need to describe everything in detail, leave something to the imagination. Light is the Shadow of God. 
• Two, as writers we need to stretch our imaginations, use words and meanings for purposes and definitions they weren't meant for but that lead the reader to where you want them to go. Light is the Shadow of God.

~*~

Picture for today is from Anthony Chapel, just outside of Hot Springs, Arkansas. I love this photograph. It is a delicate, abstract interplay of lines, light and shadow, and as a place where people come to be bonded together in the eyes of the Lord, I assume His direct emanations are in there too somewhere. 

We just can't see them.

But they are there, nonetheless. 

Look for them. Not with your eyes, for your eyes are unable to see, but with your soul. 

Contemplate. 

Light is the Shadow of God...

See, told you I wasn't going to talk about religion, but I did get really close.

Songs in Stories - Stories in Song: Long Lankin

Howdy all you cool cats and kittens! Yes, I watched it, my wife made me, lol.

Songs in Stories, Stories in Songs

Something a little different today. 

I stumbled across this old gem whilst wandering around the internets late one night. It's a ballad called Long Lankin. The most common versions are about a stonemason who takes revenge on a Lord for not paying the mason for his work. The mason enters the dwelling he built, sometimes through a secret catch or entry he designed, and lures the Lady downstairs by poking her infant over and over again with a needle, causing him to scream in pain of course. The wet nurse caring for the child calls for the madam to come down because she can't get the baby to stop crying. The mason then kills both the baby and the mother. He is punished for his deeds, usually through hanging, along with the wet nurse. Nothing more is said of the Lord whose refusal to pay caused all of this mess in the first place.

That this was a popular ballad, sung by women no less, is something of a head-scratcher for me. Why would women want to sing a song about a treacherous nurse, the killing of a Lady, and hangings?

There are other notable versions and histories of the ballad out there, such as the roots of this ballad may have something to do with old rituals of 'blooding the foundations' of new buildings with a sacrifice, and the mason in some versions is a leper who used a silver basin to catch the blood of the baby as a possible cure for his disease. But I get ahead of myself... 

Here is the ballad, sung by the band Steeleye Span, for your ears to feast on. Lyrics below the lace picture, which I promise will make sense down the road.

Long Lankin

Said my lord to my lady, as he mounted his horse:
"Beware of Long Lankin that lives in the moss."

Said my lord to my lady, as he rode away:
"Beware of Long Lankin that lives in the hay."

"Let the doors be all bolted and the windows all pinned,
And leave not a hole for a mouse to creep in."

So he kissed his fair lady and he rode away,
And he was in fair London before the break of day.

The doors were all bolted and the windows all pinned,
Except one little window where Long Lankin crept in.

"Where's the lord of this house?" Said Long Lankin,
"He's away in fair London." said the false [wet] nurse to him.
"Where's the little heir of this house ?" said Long Lankin.
"He's asleep in his cradle," said the false nurse to him.

"We'll prick him, we'll prick him all over with a pin,
And that'll make my lady to come down to him.'

So he pricked him, he pricked him all over with a pin,
And the nurse held the basin for the blood to flow in.

"O nurse, how you slumber. O nurse, how you sleep.
You leave my little son Johnson to cry and to weep."

"O nurse, how you slumber, O nurse how you snore.
You leave my little son Johnson to cry and to roar."

"I've tried him with an apple, I've tried him with a pear.
Come down, my fair lady, and rock him in your chair."

"I've tried him with milk and I've tried him with pap.
Come down, my fair lady, and rock him in your lap."

"How durst I go down in the dead of the night
Where there's no fire a-kindled and no candle alight?"

"You have three silver mantles as bright as the sun.
Come down, my fair lady, all by the light of one."

My lady came down, she was thinking no harm
Long Lankin stood ready to catch her in his arm.

Here's blood in the kitchen. Here's blood in the hall
Here's blood in the parlour where my lady did fall.

Her maiden looked out from the turret so high
And she saw her master from London riding by.

"O master, O master, don't lay the blame on me
'Twas the false nurse and Lankin that killed your lady."

Long Lankin was hung on a gibbet so high
And the false nurse was burnt in a fire close by.

There are many versions of this song, once used by European lace workers in the 18th century as a 'lace tell', a tune to keep their fingers fiddling in correct cadence. The version above is from The Penguin Book of English Folk Songs, by Williams and Lloyd. The list of songs inside can be found here. 

Upon further diving, I discovered a few other possible meanings for the words of the song and came up with an interesting story idea. What if the song were a hidden lace pattern? See if you can follow the crumbs as I weave together true facts and fiction and create a story from a song, but not the one you hear...

The name Lankin (in some versions the name changes to lambkin and other names which further muddle possible meanings) can be tied to Lanking pins, which are pins that have a conspicuous head, placed along the foot and the head of the lace in order to keep a firm edge. There are also Long Toms, which is a name for general purpose pins. Could the name Long Lankin be a combination of these two terms, and meant to tell a lace worker what pins to use? All without a non-lace worker's knowledge? 

The whole ballad then becomes a hidden lace pattern. Start working on the 'building', maybe some fundamental lace pattern that all lace workers would know. It has an lower and upper floor, so maybe it has two main portions or patterns? Then the lace worker stops at a certain point and 'asks for payment' (the main pattern is stopped and the lace worker switches to something else, maybe takes a break, maybe uses a different type of thread, starts a frill pattern or a simple pattern known as the Cheapskate). 

No payment is forthcoming, so we sneak in (start a new lace that interlaces with the main base pattern at a certain point) and 'poke the baby' over and over (not sure what this would correspond with, maybe some very delicate or intricate work at the heart of the pattern or along the bottom portion of the main pattern). The wet nurse on the main floor (a specific lower portion of the main pattern such as a rose or design) calls the Lady down (maybe Lady refers to a rose or design that's fancier than the wet nurse, and calling the Lady down means attaching a portion of the upper part of the lace pattern with the invasive stitching)? 

Can you see the story and lace pattern coming together? Other key words in the ballad can direct the lace worker to add certain flourishes or details. I am not sure what this pattern creates, but I could see it being used in a story somewhere as a way for a seemingly harmless lady creating something plot-advancing.

When writing tunes for your own manuscripts, keep in mind that they should do something more than entertain musically. Does the song move the plot along? Does it provide background, world-building, or another way to dump information? As long as it serves some function, then go ahead!

And now I got to get on this hidden lace story! 

Happy writing to all!

Tuberculosis versus COVID-19

04 AUG 2020
[for those who care about this sort of thing, this was also put out on my FB page as well. I decided to include it here for wider coverage]. Sorry in advance for yelling...

Tuberculosis (TB) vs Covid-19

I've seen too many shared posts about this. So let me see if this former science teacher can spread some truth...

There are posts going around saying "why are we shutting down the world for COVID-19 and not for TB?"

SHORT VERSION: You should worry about COVID-19 way more than TB. How much you worry about COVID-19 is up to you. A little over five hundred TB deaths in the US for 2017. COVID-19 US deaths in the last seven months: 159,000 and counting...You do the math...

*******************************************************

Some TB data: About 1.5 million people died from TB in 2018. That's a lot! This works out to more than 4,000 deaths a day due to TB in 2018. So how come we're all up in arms about COVID-19? Why not shut down the world for TB?

TB, if untreated, has a mortality rate of 45%! OH NO!

What's the mortality rate of COVID-19 you ask? Well, the easy answer is COVID-19 is too new to nail down the mortality rate. We don't know exactly how many cases there are, for several reasons. For example, not everyone is getting tested before/after passing away. Some reports estimate mortality rates for COVID-19 anywhere from 1.5% to 20%, with 20% being the super high range of the estimates for Wuhan, China, where the virus first showed up. Until we get more accurate numbers for who does and doesn't die from COVID-19, we won't be able to nail down the mortality rate for COVID-19 for a while yet.

But how about this to scare you a bit? The CDC is already pretty much guaranteeing COVID-19 is going to be one of the TOP TEN causes of death in the US for 2020. L.A. Country has already said this as well.

FYI: Here are the top 15 causes of death in the US for 2017 (lots of bad things on the list to watch out for -TB is not one of them):


1. Diseases of heart (HEART DISEASE) 647,457 deaths

2. Malignant neoplasms (CANCER)
3. Accidents (unintentional injuries, OOPSIES)
4. Chronic lower respiratory diseases 160,201 deaths

[current COVID-19 deaths in US is right here...]

5. Cerebrovascular diseases (stroke) 146,383 deaths
6. Alzheimer disease
7. Diabetes mellitus (diabetes)
8. Influenza and pneumonia (FLU)
9. Nephritis, nephrotic syndrome and nephrosis
(kidney disease)
10. Intentional self-harm (SUICIDE)
11. Chronic liver disease & cirrhosis (some by over-drinking)
12. Septicemia (blood poisoning)
13. Essential hypertension and hypertensive renal
disease (hypertension, HIGH BLOOD PRESSURE)
14. Parkinson disease
15. Pneumonitis due to solids and liquids (LUNG INFECTIONS)

TB, if untreated, has a mortality rate of 45%! Super deadly you say! BEWARE! But TB, unlike COVID-19, is not only PREVENTABLE, but it is also TREATABLE. WHO data says global success rate for people who started TB treatment in 2018 was 85%. The 45% mortality rate is for people who don't get treated for it.

So, TB, if untreated, is technically way way deadlier than COVID-19. Nearly half of the people with active, untreated TB disease may die, much more than even the highest mortality estimates for COVID-19.

So, how come we don't shut the world down for TB? Well, we have treatments that work for TB, even the drug-resistant varieties. Right now there are no proven treatments for COVID-19 except supportive treatment, however there are many trials underway right now that may lead to workable vaccines and care regimens.

New Story - Thieves' Oil

28 AUG 2020

[I started this post in May, but events, pandemic and otherwise, pushed it to the back burner until now...]

Starting off this post with a pair of quotations:

• *Author Charles Godfrey Leland: "...witchcraft, like the truffle, grows best and has its raci[e]st flavour when most deeply hidden."
• What a great way to conjure up an image through comparison.

• Lactantius (an early Christian author who became an advisor to the first Christian Roman emperor, Constantine I): “Devils so work that things which are not, appear to men as if they were real.”
• What a great way description from back in the early beginning of the Christian religion.

Through the Lens

Well, I just posted a short story in progress, and I was pretty happy with that side of my creativity, so let's do something else. I haven't posted pictures in a while, so here's a post of things I've seen and wish to share with others. 

First set are scenes from a chair. I believe this is slime mold. It was there after a long morning rain and vanished after a day of heat.

This next set are various creatures found in and around the house. One is my truck spider, an ordinary Yellow & Black Garden Spider that decided my truck bed would make a good home. He's logged some decent mileage and is still there. 

The next one is a young heron we think, that thought of using the swimming pool before changing his mind and flying off to greener pastures. In the picture he's standing on the diving board!

This guy is a baby Cattle Egret in the neighbor's yard. He started off in our window and then patrolled the neighborhood for a while. Someone said they thought his wing was injured and he was around until it healed enough to fly.

Last ones. Here is a lovely little thing that sang his heart out for a gal on another part of the fence. He didn't even mind when I came up to him with my camera.

Here she is...

And then finally the two of them together...

Sun and Moon, Part II

A few months ago, I posted the first steps I took toward a new story. You can find the original post here.

Today I want to share with you where the story is now. So, for your reading pleasure, here is the second step in the evolution of a short story. Rough story first, and then the background knowledge/World rules after that. It is important to set the ground rules before you write the story so you know what you can and cannot do for climaxes, roadblocks, and solutions. 

Story: 

Coronation and Ceremony

The hermit measured his steps on the long road, leaning on his gnarled cane when needed. His robe was a worn, yellow-ish crème color, though he could easily afford a newer one.

Apprentice Caden paced restlessly by his side. His robe was sparkling white. Even burdened by the pack on his back, Caden could have easily gone twice as fast, but he maintained a close distance to Father Barosh, who was also known by his official title, The Senior Emissary of the Sun.

Just two week ago, Caden had been apprentice to the third assistant Chandler. His duties had included delivering candles to other temples and merchants, not people. But circumstances changed after the Coronation of the New Sun, and here he was, shepherding the oldest Emissary he had ever seen. It was something of an honor, as this same man had presided over the Coronation. They were now on their way to another. As witness only, this time.

“Hurry up, Father. We don’t want to be late!” Other travelers, presumably headed to the same destination, passed them by. Some flew overhead, even though the sun was still above the horizon. It always puzzled the young apprentice how moonpower worked, even though the Sacred Sun was still in the sky. The Chandler had explained to him that it was because the moon was up in the heavens as well. As long as the moon was up there, moonpower worked. Caden looked, but saw no moon in the sky. Only the Sacred Sun.

“They won’t start without us, son,” Father Barosh said, interrupting his search. “No need to worry or hurry.”

“Where is the moon, Father?”

Without looking up from the road, Father Barosh responded. “It is hidden from us. The Ceremony of Moons is always performed during what they call the New Moon, when the moon is hidden in the sky.”

“Why?”

“Their ways are different from ours, son. While we have a Sun until he loses the Challenge, their rulers can serve again and again, just not continuously. They change as the moon changes, and that includes returning to things as they once were, much like the moon changes yet looks the same.”

“But why during the New Moon? Why are they doing it near the same time as the Challenge and Coronation? Why couldn’t they wait?”

“Perhaps you will find the answer to your question during the ceremony, young one.”

They continued walking. They had ridden much of the distance from the capitol, but the hermit insisted on walking the last stretch of the road. The ceremony would take place in the larger temple south of Trew, the nearest town.

The sun was setting as the temple’s outer walls appeared ahead. Caden looked at the Emissary in confusion, unsure, thinking it blasphemous to perform the sacred rights so close to a moon temple, but Father Barosh impelled him to his task with a wave of his hand. A few of the other travelers paused and watched respectfully as the apprentice performed the Farewell to the Sun for both himself and the Emissary. No one joined in. The hermit rested behind him on a boulder. 

Hefting the pack back onto his shoulders, the apprentice and the Emissary continued on in the twilight. People were rushing passed them now, eager to get a good seat for the ceremony soon to commence.

As the night grew stronger, it could be seen that the hermit was glowing slightly.



“Welcome honored guests. We are gathered here under the Hidden Luna, to change leadership from one to another. Just as Luna changes, so must we.”

Father Barosh, in his official capacity as Senior Emissary of the Sun, bestows the gift to the New Moon Mother as part of the ceremony. Earlier in the month, he had presided over the Coronation of the New Sun. It was a special duty of the Senior Emissary to bear a gift and to witness the ceremonies when they both occur in the same month.

Father Barosh and Apprentice Caden witness the peaceful turnover from old moon to new (coronation of the Moon mother). He had been present for the last four change overs occurring at the same time as the Challenge (24 years). [Dialogue here should foreshadow radiation discovery, and deterioration of the relationship between Sun and Moon]

***Five years pass***

He ran toward the sunset, toward Death.

Witches had flown out of the sky an hour after sunset, when even the last light of the Holy Sun was gone.

With no warning they overthrew the defenses and ransacked the temple. They flew among the columns and the rooms open to the air. Amber was depleted defending the temple, but losses among the witches were few. No one expected the witches to attack this temple! There was no cause! It was a quiet place, away from the mainstream, just full of hermits.

The Invisible Sun

He had dangerous knowledge, knowledge that would tip the balance in the Sun’s favor even more. His life was forfeit every night. In order to survive, he must find safe places, and workarounds for not being able to call on the sun in shade or shadow, and later on during the darkest nights. Stolen pieces of amber and sunflower seeds help. Sun magic can only be done while in sunlight.

He saw them. Witches in the sky. He ran. As he ran, his mind flashed back to his fever dream. He had been out in the sun too long, become delirious, but in his delirium, he realized that the sun must give out invisible rays that make it through the clouds and other barriers. These invisible rays could be used by those who knew of them. They gave even greater power to the sun mages. This is the knowledge that would cost him his life if the witches and warlocks found him.

He comes across a small village, where a mother is ready to give birth. He hides nearby and listens as he recovers and hydrates.

“Hurry! It’s almost noon!”

The midwife was an island of calm. “Nature must take its course, good sir. We cannot deliver the baby early or late, but only on time.” The hermit nodded, unseen. Countless stories are told of what happens if babies are forcibly born early or late. No power. The Sun does not like being played with.

Another male tried to cheer up the expectant father. “Maybe the witch was wrong? We can hope, right?”

The father-to-be stared at the stick. The stick’s shadow slowly disappeared. He yelled through the doorway to the midwife, “I don’t care what you have to do but get that baby out now!”

“Push!”

“Ahhh!”

The high-pitched cry of a newborn babe came through the doorway. “Waa! Waa!”

“It’s a girl.” He let out the breath he had been holding longer than he realized.

His friend sighed. “Ah geez. All that effort for nothing! A girl! During the day even! What a waste.”

“Uh-uh.” The father said nothing more as he paced back and forth, waiting to see his new child.

“Damn. An Untouched. Maybe you can marry her off?”

The father’s face told a different story. “I will love her, of course.”

The infant is brought out. He holds the precious bundle in his arms. “She is perfect. Not a boy, but she is already my heart and soul.” He smiled while his best friend scowled. “We will call her Anna.”

The hermit wasted some of his power and gave a blessing of invigoration and growth to the new child. She would be powerless, because women were not blessed with power from the Sun, and the moon was not in the sky, but she would be strong and healthy.

The Hermit continued running. He hoped to make it to neutral ground. A stone marker caught his eye. It was half-buried in the dirt by the roadside. He rubbed his hand over the carving depicting a bundle of reeds.

He was headed in the right direction.

He limped along, digging deep into his reserves to find the strength to continue.

Shadows appeared in the trees on either side of him. Unnatural shadows. They paced him, angling to intercept him before he reached his goal.

He limped faster.



The Place of the Reeds

He collapsed on the cold stones.

The shadows howled, but they dared not touch him now. Defeated, they slinked toward the large temple to the west.

He rested there on the stones, enjoying the chill they brought to his bones.

He knew where he was. He was on the Avenue of the Skies. It was a broad pathway of large stones that ran east to west, with a Temple of the Sun at the East end of the pathway and a Temple of the Moon at the west end. Smaller pyramids for the other powers in the sky were on either side of him, lining the pathway between the two large temples at the ends. The Sun temple ruins to his left was larger than all the other temples combined. This was the Place of Reeds, an ancient set of ruins built long ago.

The ruins are neutral ground, where meetings used to be held between followers of the Sun and followers of the Moon. The hermit remembered his training. The original builders are unknown but assumed to be Sun worshippers because of the pyramids, which followers of the moon do not build. Many believe that Followers of the Sun built the entire place as a peace offering.

The ruins were originally signified by carved images of a bundle of reeds tied together with a cord. The original name has been long lost. It has long been referred to as the Place of Reeds. It is thought that the carvings signified it was a good place for growing food and that many people were welcome.



Eclipse

The Day mages were charged with anger. “Chase the witches all the way to the ocean if you have to!”

First rule of war: Choose the battlefield. They ‘retreated’ toward the shore, toward the ocean.

The witches knew. They were in touch with the phases of the moon. They knew what was coming. The Heliomancers only cared that the sun would rise each day.

The Old Moon, the Moon Aunts and the soon-to-be Moon Mother led the fight.

The water crashed further inland, wiping out part of the solar forces. The moon mother’s knowledge of the tides had helped even the fight.

Three more Day mages charged the lines with fire in their eyes. They yelled louder and louder and blew themselves up, taking out a dozen witches on the southern flank.

All eyes were drawn toward the heavens. The skies grew dark as the Almighty Sun, the sun that always shines, was blocked and overpowered by the ever-changing Moon. Day turned into Night. The fireballs stopped. Men wept openly and were without power.

Did the witches and warlocks manage the inconceivable, stopping Luna in her tracks to overpower the sun? 

End

Myths and Constellations

So at least one of my daughters loves the imaginary patterns of stars in the skies. Enough so that she can spend an evening gazing through her telescope, purring away like a cream-fat kitten. 

My favorite constellation is Orion, so one evening as we talked, she asked me to make up a new story about the constellations and the following is the result. Sit back and enjoy, all you stargazers, as I tell you an untold tale of Orion.

Music and Mock Man Press

Looking from a window above, it's like a story of love

Can you hear me?

Came back only yesterday

I'm moving further away

Want you near me

All I needed was the love you gave

All I needed for another day

And all I ever knew

Only you

Oh how music can transport you! I was watching TV the other day with my wife and a song came on -immediately took me back decades. The song was from the band called Yaz in the states, Yazoo in the UK. Band members were also involved in Depeche Mode, Erasure, and some great solo works. Only You was the song that blew the dust off past times, not to take away anything from another great Only You song from 1968. Guess it's only fair to post the first two stanzas from The Platter's song as well: 

Only you can make all this world seem right

Only you can make the darkness bright

Only you and you alone

Can thrill me like you do

And fill my heart with love for only you

Only you can make all this change in me

For it's true, you are my destiny

When you hold my hand

I understand the magic that you do

You're my dream come true

My one and only you

Upstairs at Eric's is the name of the Yaz/Yahoo album. If you like Adele then you will love the lead singer of Yaz, Alison Moyet. They are very much like her. The song is a nice electronic ballad, the rest of the album ranges from the great to the odd but all good. It hearkens back to the days when you searched the 'imports' section of your local record store. Sometimes you were able to buy the singles of your favorites if they offered them for sale. In fact I remember buying a singles of one of Alison Moyet's later solo songs. My how things have changed. 

Both songs are wonderful examples of writing. The first song is minimal, impactful writing, the second more lyrical and scaffolded. I don't deal with love too much in my writing, not a fan of romance, but it is there of course. How can anyone not write about love? Love is one of the main driving forces in life! The seeking love of adventure, the passionate love between couples, the warmth of family ties. Maybe I should write more romancy stuff. It sells the best for sure. But that's not for me, I'll leave that to others. I write for me first, and hope that others enjoy my words. 

Picture for today: A recent purchase I am very happy with. This one is mine, go get your own! Jason Thompson, also known as Mock Man, drew a great black and white graphic telling of the Dream-quest of Unknown Kadath and a few other HPL stories. The book is available here. Follow the link to see beautiful pictures from the interior. The detail on each page is incredible and must be seen to be believed. One reason I love this purchase is I look forward to the day when drawings are made of my stories, whether it is from my own hand, my wife's considerable drawing talents, or from others.

Mock Man as the great dreamer Randolph Carter

Rambo, Frankenstein, and Romeo & Juliet

18 MAY 2020

Today's post is inspiration for authors out there struggling to come up with new ideas. 

Point blank: There are no new ideas. 

Just write what you want to write and do it well! 

Short example: Did you know that Rambo loosely follows the story of Frankenstein? Think on that! Looks like Rambo's growling a little bit in the picture below. 

Longer example: The classic tale of Romeo & Juliet takes its inspiration from an even older Greek Tale called Pyramus and Thisbe, which itself is based on an ancient tale set in a different city. Pyramis and Thisbe are neighbors that fall in love but are denied matrimonial union by their respective families. Tragedy ensues when they agree to meet but happenstance causes one to believe the other is already dead, which causes the other to commit suicide, which in turn leads to the other one to die as well. Tragic ending. The stories are not exactly the same, but you can clearly see the inspiration.

In the earliest tales, their passion and endings are used to explain the color change from white to blood color of the mulberry tree under which they ended their lives. The Greeks were big on stories that explained natural phenomenon (called origin myths or etiological myths).

"Why do mulberries change from white to red, Momma?" 

"Well..."

Read on to see Ovid's telling, and be inspired by his word choices and turns of phrase.

    

Thisbe, listening for her beau, Pyramus

The Tale of Pyramus and Thisbe:

(From Ovid's Metamorphosis)

In Babylon, where first her queen, for state
Rais'd walls of brick magnificently great,
Liv'd Pyramus, and Thisbe, lovely pair!
He found no eastern youth his equal there,
And she beyond the fairest nymph was fair.
A closer neighbourhood was never known,
Tho' two the houses, yet the roof was one.
Acquaintance grew, th' acquaintance they improve
To friendship, friendship ripen'd into love:
Love had been crown'd, but impotently mad,
What parents could not hinder, they forbad.
For with fierce flames young Pyramus still burn'd,
And grateful Thisbe flames as fierce return'd.
Aloud in words their thoughts they dare not break,
But silent stand; and silent looks can speak.
The fire of love the more it is supprest,
The more it glows, and rages in the breast.

When the division-wall was built, a chink
Was left, the cement unobserv'd to shrink.
So slight the cranny, that it still had been
For centuries unclos'd, because unseen.
But oh! what thing so small, so secret lies,
Which scapes, if form'd for love, a lover's eyes?
Ev'n in this narrow chink they quickly found
A friendly passage for a trackless sound.
Safely they told their sorrows, and their joys,
In whisper'd murmurs, and a dying noise,
By turns to catch each other's breath they strove,
And suck'd in all the balmy breeze of love.
Oft as on diff'rent sides they stood, they cry'd,
Malicious wall, thus lovers to divide!
Suppose, thou should'st a-while to us give place
To lock, and fasten in a close embrace:
But if too much to grant so sweet a bliss,
Indulge at least the pleasure of a kiss.
We scorn ingratitude: to thee, we know,
This safe conveyance of our minds we owe.

Pyramus and Thisbe conversing through a crack in the wall

Thus they their vain petition did renew
'Till night, and then they softly sigh'd adieu.
But first they strove to kiss, and that was all;
Their kisses dy'd untasted on the wall.
Soon as the morn had o'er the stars prevail'd,
And warm'd by Phoebus, flow'rs their dews exhal'd,
The lovers to their well-known place return,
Alike they suffer, and alike they mourn.
At last their parents they resolve to cheat
(If to deceive in love be call'd deceit),
To steal by night from home, and thence unknown
To seek the fields, and quit th' unfaithful town.
But, to prevent their wand'ring in the dark,
They both agree to fix upon a mark;
A mark, that could not their designs expose:
The tomb of Ninus was the mark they chose.
There they might rest secure beneath the shade,
Which boughs, with snowy fruit encumber'd, made:
A wide-spread mulberry its rise had took
Just on the margin of a gurgling brook.
Impatient for the friendly dusk they stay;
And chide the slowness of departing day;
In western seas down sunk at last the light,
From western seas up-rose the shades of night.
The loving Thisbe ev'n prevents the hour,
With cautious silence she unlocks the door,
And veils her face, and marching thro' the gloom
Swiftly arrives at th' assignation-tomb.
For still the fearful sex can fearless prove;
Boldly they act, if spirited by love.
When lo! a lioness rush'd o'er the plain,
Grimly besmear'd with blood of oxen slain:
And what to the dire sight new horrors brought,
To slake her thirst the neighb'ring spring she sought.
Which, by the moon, when trembling Thisbe spies,
Wing'd with her fear, swift, as the wind, she flies;
And in a cave recovers from her fright,
But drop'd her veil, confounded in her flight.
When sated with repeated draughts, again
The queen of beasts scour'd back along the plain,
She found the veil, and mouthing it all o'er,
With bloody jaws the lifeless prey she tore.

The youth, who could not cheat his guards so soon,
Late came, and noted by the glimm'ring moon
Some savage feet, new printed on the ground,
His cheeks turn'd pale, his limbs no vigour found;
But when, advancing on, the veil he spied
Distain'd with blood, and ghastly torn, he cried,
One night shall death to two young lovers give,
But she deserv'd unnumber'd years to live!
'Tis I am guilty, I have thee betray'd,
Who came not early, as my charming maid.
Whatever slew thee, I the cause remain,
I nam'd, and fix'd the place where thou wast slain.
Ye lions from your neighb'ring dens repair,
Pity the wretch, this impious body tear!
But cowards thus for death can idly cry;
The brave still have it in their pow'r to die.
Then to th' appointed tree he hastes away,
The veil first gather'd, tho' all rent it lay:
The veil all rent yet still it self endears,
He kist, and kissing, wash'd it with his tears.
Tho' rich (he cry'd) with many a precious stain,
Still from my blood a deeper tincture gain.
Then in his breast his shining sword he drown'd,
And fell supine, extended on the ground.
As out again the blade lie dying drew,
Out spun the blood, and streaming upwards flew.
So if a conduit-pipe e'er burst you saw,
Swift spring the gushing waters thro' the flaw:
Then spouting in a bow, they rise on high,
And a new fountain plays amid the sky.
The berries, stain'd with blood, began to show
A dark complexion, and forgot their snow;
While fatten'd with the flowing gore, the root
Was doom'd for ever to a purple fruit.

Mean-time poor Thisbe fear'd, so long she stay'd,
Her lover might suspect a perjur'd maid.
Her fright scarce o'er, she strove the youth to find
With ardent eyes, which spoke an ardent mind.
Already in his arms, she hears him sigh
At her destruction, which was once so nigh.
The tomb, the tree, but not the fruit she knew,
The fruit she doubted for its alter'd hue.
Still as she doubts, her eyes a body found
Quiv'ring in death, and gasping on the ground.
She started back, the red her cheeks forsook,
And ev'ry nerve with thrilling horrors shook.
So trembles the smooth surface of the seas,
If brush'd o'er gently with a rising breeze.
But when her view her bleeding love confest,
She shriek'd, she tore her hair, she beat her breast.
She rais'd the body, and embrac'd it round,
And bath'd with tears unfeign'd the gaping wound.
Then her warm lips to the cold face apply'd,
And is it thus, ah! thus we meet, she cry'd!
My Pyramus! whence sprung thy cruel fate?
My Pyramus!-ah! speak, ere 'tis too late.
I, thy own Thisbe, but one word implore,
One word thy Thisbe never ask'd before.
At Thisbe's name, awak'd, he open'd wide
His dying eyes; with dying eyes he try'd
On her to dwell, but clos'd them slow, and dy'd.

The fatal cause was now at last explor'd,
Her veil she knew, and saw his sheathless sword:
From thy own hand thy ruin thou hast found,
She said, but love first taught that hand to wound,
Ev'n I for thee as bold a hand can show,
And love, which shall as true direct the blow.
I will against the woman's weakness strive,
And never thee, lamented youth, survive.
The world may say, I caus'd, alas! thy death,
But saw thee breathless, and resign'd my breath.
Fate, tho' it conquers, shall no triumph gain,
Fate, that divides us, still divides in vain.

Now, both our cruel parents, hear my pray'r;
My pray'r to offer for us both I dare;
Oh! see our ashes in one urn confin'd,
Whom love at first, and fate at last has join'd.
The bliss, you envy'd, is not our request;
Lovers, when dead, may sure together rest.
Thou, tree, where now one lifeless lump is laid,
Ere-long o'er two shalt cast a friendly shade.
Still let our loves from thee be understood,
Still witness in thy purple fruit our blood.
She spoke, and in her bosom plung'd the sword,
All warm and reeking from its slaughter'd lord.
The pray'r, which dying Thisbe had preferr'd,
Both Gods, and parents, with compassion heard.
The whiteness of the mulberry soon fled,
And rip'ning, sadden'd in a dusky red:
While both their parents their lost children mourn,
And mix their ashes in one golden urn.

Thus did the melancholy tale conclude,
And a short, silent interval ensu'd.
The next in birth unloos'd her artful tongue,
And drew attentive all the sister-throng.

Sun and Moon

16 MAY 2020

Today I'm going to be spit-balling a fantasy story idea. This blogpost will change as the story details become fine-tuned.

Imagine a world much like ours, but where magic exists. Magic based solely on heavenly bodies, with the Sun and Moon, as the closest heavenly bodies, being the dominant sources of magic. There are no other types of magic except those based on heavenly bodies. Mages of the other heavenly bodies ( Mercury, Venus, Mars, Jupiter, Saturn) are too weak to be major players. They do have some powers though and will be used to reinforce the worldview. 

The Sun

Sun worshippers are able to call for heat, fire, growth, beginnings, and illumination. Practitioners are called: Solars/Heliomancers/ Solmancers/ Daymages? Overall they are the most powerful magicians in the world. Their most powerful time is during the summer solstice, their weakest during the winter solstice, the shortest day of the year.

How would our world change if sun and moon magic were real? Births outdoor during the day. maybe attempts to influence when babies are born. 

Loose caste system

* Women who are born during the day have no magic at all.

* Men born at night. They can be weak or strong in moon magic, but no sun magic.

* Women born at night. Strongest in moon magic.

* Men born during the day.

Two rulers, one sun and one moon. The sun ruler is kept or changed out by vote once a year at the summer solstice. And the moon ruler is always changed out every tenth new moon.

Sun magic can only be performed in sunlight, by men only, and is accomplished through prayers to the sacred sun names, dances (always sunwise - to the right), and blood sacrifices (a la Aztecs but not to ensure the Sun rose each day). Hilltops are favored, as are ziggurats (flattened tops). Clouds are their nemesis, and their worst fears can be found underground. Day mages come from babies born at sunrise, high noon, and sunset. Those born at sunrise are starters, nooners are strongest, and sunset babies are the longest-lasting.

The story starts with a Sun mage on the run. He is better off during the day, but defenseless at night. In order to survive, he must find workarounds for not being able to call on the sun in shade or shadow, and later on during the darkest nights. Not sure how he would do that yet. If the magic can only be done while in sunlight, then that means... 

Sunflowers are sacred. They do follow the sun after all. They store sunpower and may be used to replenish solars when they are weak. 

The Moon

Those who worship the moon call on her for coolness, change, undead and other creatures of the night (bats), tides, hidden things. Practitioners are called witches and warlocks. Some of the story hook will be the from the 'traditional' aspect of the moon followers offset with the uniqueness of the Sun mages.

Moon magic may be cast while the moon is in the sky, whether seen or unseen, by men and women. This is a source of much questing. Men are the only ones who can cast either sun or moon magic, depending on when they are born (day or night), but women born during the day are powerless. Women may only cast moon magic. 

Moon magic is accomplished through spells painfully crafted over the years and written down in secretive books of shadows compiled by covens. The moon does not give up its secrets easily. Sensitive moon mages can feel when the moon is in the sky. They are in touch with the phases and the rising and setting times, much more than Sun worshipers, who watch the stretching of the day in the summer and its shrinking in the winter. Babies born during the midnight of the night of the fullest moon or midnight of the the darkest night of the new moon are stronger than others.

The climax of the story takes place during an eclipse. And ends there... Did the witches and warlocks manage the inconceivable, stopping the moon to overpower the sun?

I’ll have to keep working on this, I like it.

Shadows, Thieves, and Hidden Things

30 APR 2020

I will try and put today's blog into some semblance of order, though how that is possible I know not!

If you ever wonder where stories come from, today's blog is one example of story formation.

It all started with a little light reading. "The Double Shadow", a dark fantasy short story written in the 1930s by Clark Ashton Smith (also known by his initials CAS). The magical tale is available online here. 

Clark Ashton Smith in his younger days

Why did I read this piece? Shadows have always intrigued me and I have never read anything by CAS, though I've heard good things and I've read stories by several of his compatriots. He is considered one of the three top writers of Weird Fiction back in the day, along with H.P. Lovecraft and Robert E. Howard. Every good writer should read to improve their craft, especially stories in a similar vein of what they want to produce in order to learn what's out there, what works, and what doesn't work. In this case, what I read was a bit creepy, a lot wordy, and somewhat satisfying for someone who enjoys fantasy.

The story inspired me to tackle crafting my own short story about shadows. Want a sneak peak into it? I'll give you one of the ideas I ran with. What if the spell of the double shadow, while an evil and possessing Thing in Smith's story, could be used to strengthen, to bolster a magician in some key, mystical way? Hm... Instead of being an evil trap to seduce and take over other sorcerers who came across it, the spell had an actual purpose for those who could handle its seemingly malignant power. Hm indeed.

If you're interested in other stories by Smith, some are available online at the Eldritch Dark. Expect the weird...

While I mused about shadows, my random music selection fell upon Moonshadow by Cat Stevens. Serendipity? Who knows. What I do know is that the synchronicity of music and reading brought my thoughts hither and yon...

What is a moonshadow? It's different from a regular shadow, which is the darkness formed when something blocks the sun’s rays, a true outline. A moonshadow is the deeper darkness formed when something blocks the moon’s rays. But the moon’s rays are not the same as the sun’s. They are a reflection, a parody, a transmutation of the sun’s rays. 

So, a moonshadow, to those who can see them, shows not a person’s true outline. It is a weaker, more subtle light. And, unlike regular shadows formed by the Sun, moonshadow outlines are not true…

For my shadow story, I decided Moonshadows can be seen naturally by some creatures. Others not so gifted may view moonshadows through moonglass, which can be created through several methods, including from a type of moonstone (from the moon), or by a simple spell and a drop of water from a source currently reflecting the moon’s light. Moonglass may also be manufactured through an alchemical process that coats normal glass with a special filter. 

Moonshadows in my story will be useful for a bit of foreshadowing...get it? See what I did there? All right, moving on!


Can I Get a Hand? As an author, I look up all sorts of things that probably have me on several government watch lists, lol. Joking of course, good thing I mainly write fantasy! My wife on the other hand, the murder mystery author, is probably on more lists than I am. Anyways, one of my searches while crafting my own shadow story was in regards to a Hand of Glory.

For those thankfully unfamiliar, a Hand of Glory is a grotesque, magical light used for thievery, allegedly. There are several actual Hands to be found around the world, including one that spent some time in a pub, so we've truly gone from the world of fantasy to a mix of fantasy and reality. All in the name of story research I promise!

An intruder 'arm'ed with a Hand of Glory (which, by the way, is created by cutting off the hand of a hung murderer and using one or more of the fingers of the hand as candles) can open locked doors and see by the light of the Hand (which no else can see). In most stories involving a Hand of Glory, no one but the intruder is able to wake or move in the household either, facilitating the thievery. Here is a snippet of online Hand of Glory lore:

Hand of Glory 
Now open, lock!
To the Dead Man's knock!
Fly, bolt, and bar, and band!
Nor move, nor swerve,
Joint, muscle, or nerve,
At the spell of the Dead Man's hand!
Sleep, all who sleep! -- Wake, all who wake!
But be as the dead for the Dead Man's sake!


A very powerful item indeed. What does this 'magic torch' have to do with the aforementioned shadow story? I was looking for something magical and useful to steal something at a certain plot point. And the Hand, also known as a corpse candle or thieve's light, was a perfect addition to an already fantastic story forming. 

Most of my stories are set in a fantasy setting, and one rule for my world is that undead exist during certain eras. While I was working on my shadow story plot, I thought, if undead exist, and if a Hand of Glory emits an invisible light, might that light be visible to the undead, considering it comes from a dead man's hand? Sort of a 'it belongs to the dead realm' kind of thing. That would be a good twist, even for those who are already aware of a Hand's supposed powers.

Now that I've let you in on some of my thought processes, I must continue on my story!

Be well, and may your days be good and long upon this Earth.

Dark Worlds, Tarzan, and Conan, and the Tales of Biturian Varosh

25 APRIl 2020

First off, I hope everyone is safe and well in this time of Pandemic and social distancing.

Secondly, I haven't been posting very often recently. There are several blog posts built up, waiting to happen in the queue, life has just been rather upended lately! Not all in a bad way, which is good news, but still, time and energy to post has not been there. That said, it's Saturday, things are a little slower now that a busy night of torrential rain, tornado-strength winds, paparazzi lightning, and hail the size of quarters is over. We walked around and inspected for damage. All minor stuff. So, now time to relax a bit and get caught up on other things.

I read an interesting article over at Dark Worlds. It detailed a loose comparison between the characters Tarzan and Conan. 

I've never really thought of Tarzan and Conan in the same breath. To me they are totally different characters in different worlds. Yeah, okay, both savage, both strong men, both 'Kings', one of the jungle, and the other only at times. Thinking on it now, there are plenty of stories to write where their two worlds intersect, which is a very interesting thought as a writer. Maybe Conan has to find an ancient temple taken over by the jungle (not like that story has been done a million times), or Tarzan needed to venture out of the jungle for some reason and bumps into Conan. Presumably the character in his element would be the Alpha, but some interesting ideas arise from the pairing of the two. 

The article showcased a bunch of comic book covers from ages past, mostly from Conan comics. I remember reading one of the issues shown, Conan the Barbarian's #113 "Satan had a Son" issue, many moons ago. 

As you can see from the cover, the young 'man' in the bottom right is actually trying to protect the 'beast' that Conan is attacking! Why would he do that?

The story reminded me obliquely of "The Travels of Biturian Varosh" in the wonderful Glorantha role-playing Cults of Prax supplement (the entire original supplement can be downloaded here, but one should really purchase the expanded version including forty religions originally printed in Cults of Prax, Cults of Terror, and Trollpak here). Great for gaming and just for fantasy inspiration. 

The Travels were a series of short vignettes to help describe interactions between the cults detailed in the supplement. In there, a young, animalistic child named Morak is returned to his kind, sort of. A towering half-man, half-bull creature takes him as his own. I always liked the feel of this wild-child finding where he belongs, where his acting out and odd body bits were seen as the norm.

To end this post, here is one entry from The Travels of Biturian Varosh as an example of the wonderful fantasy elements in there:

"Three days out of Pimper's Block, the head of my baboon escort came to me and asked if he and his followers might retire to a ruin nearby to celebrate an ancient ritual of theirs. I said that I did not hire them to do rituals but to protect my mules. He replied that I could watch if I wished, since he trusted me, and that they would work for me for a week for free if I allowed them to celebrate. 

-Baboons requesting a short stop in order to worship. Biturian Varosh is on the horse, Norayeep the slave girl is standing next to him. Morak, Norayeep's half-brother, is not pictured. [picture can be purchased here]

They [the baboons] began by making a huge fire from rubble wood. One of them, whom I had thought to be a bearer, proved himself a shaman and threw something into the fire. The flames answered by spitting out a burst of green coals which burrowed into the ground where they hit. No one paid attention to them. By nightfall the flames had died, leaving only a heap of ashes and embers. The baboons growled and snarled in their beast speech, and set unlit torches about as wards. The leader asked if I would bless the ground, and I did. Some drank strong drink from gourds while others were sober. All of them smeared their fur with ashes. They began a twirling dance, clashing weapons and falling to the ground to wail like babies. Then two masked baboons appeared on the far side of the ash pile from me. One mask was red, and its wearer held a snake-tail rattle. The other was yellow, and held a staff surmounted by animal horns. These two acted out the ritual of the baboons' survival during the Great Darkness. They claim that Daka Fal went to them first in that awful period, and that all human worship was learned from baboons in the Dark. Their yowling dance reenacted that god's teachings to the Initiates who were present. I could not tell which was supposed to be Daka Fal and which was the baboon Founder. As it progressed, I noticed with surprise that the number of baboons had grown, and I realized that many spirits now were among the group, greedily looking upon the world they had left, mixing like friends among those still alive. Lust for a body was in them. Suddenly I saw the red-masked baboon seized and torn to shreds! The others, the living, panicked and fled behind the other masked creature. Yellow Mask screamed words of power, and all the spirits were forced to hover where the green stones had buried themselves earlier. Yellow Mask chittered to the baboons behind him, then went to the dead Red Mask and touched him in several places. Red Mask, whom I had seen torn limb from limb, sprang up alive again, screaming in triumph. All the others yelled too, and beat their chests in ragged victory until the sun came up. Two of them dug up something and ate it. The shaman, who had been wearing the red mask, dug also, and brought me a nut of a type I never had seen. He indicated I must eat it to get one use of the cult spell Summon Ancestor. Such was the magic of the baboons which I saw." - from The Travels of Biturian Varosh, in Cults of Prax ©2016 Chaosium Inc.

****

Awesome stuff. Makes the mind wander...
Be safe, and may your days be good and long upon this Earth.