Category Archives: Plots (Complicated)

IT COULDN’T HAPPEN HERE (Patriots’ Stories)

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Don’t worry folks. This is only A STORY . THAT’S ALL- A STORY.

The Turn Around of the Mid 21st Century; the movement back to moderation. This you are about to read is a fanciful, far fetched myth as to how that took place. Naturally too fantastic to be credible. What obviously did take place was simply the usual shifting of political tides, albeit it with a few pieces of the normal dramas which got blown out of all proportions. Mere entertainment this, and no more. It never happened.

Marcia Handsbrooke checked her hair in the hall mirror, set her President’s Support Cap carefully in place, checked her hair again, then with a spring in her step and a sunny determination stepped out in bright early summer’s morn. Her day all laid out before her. First to the weekly morning meeting to brief the other ‘Girls’ of The Mothers Vigilant on the latest warnings of Woke activity, nationally, regionally and in the town itself, making sure everyone was up to speed, on the same page, and prepped, there would also be the Church Committee meeting at midday and the PTA in the afternoon, though they tended to defer to the Mothers’ Vigilant these days, a very hard slog but worth it. Then in the evening after dinner it would be onto the Social Media. Yes the work was never done, but it was all worth it. And Mike bless him was so supportive, he never argued. There was much to be done these days. The news was often reporting disturbances in the big cities, the would be another piece about towns going through a sort of liberal woke secession. And there were always the problems in Statonville itself. The small independent church on West Tree. Those two unofficial libraries. At least two ‘underground newspapers’. Nasty scenes in public. You had to be vigilant indeed.

On stepping into her driveway she noticed idling up the street an unfamiliar blue car. That ‘H’ caught in the sunlight. No one in the street had a Honda. Inside a white couple, dressed well and appearing to be in conversation. They drew alongside, the driver rolled down his window, he looked extremely refined and respectable.
‘Excuse us m’am. Our GPS has gotten us confused, we’re looking for,’
At this point the woman, younger than him got out of the car and began to stretch and flex her leg.
‘Sorry leg’s cricked after the journey,’
‘It’s those half marathons,’ he replied in a mild, scolding, patriarchal way ‘Anyway as I was saying m’am, whereas we’ve found your lovely town of Statonville. We can’t find this ‘Brakeleaf Road?’
‘Brakeleaf Road?’ quizzed Marcia ‘I’ve lived here all of my life. Never heard of that. Can I see that piece of paper you have there? Check the zip code for you. Marcia Handsbrooke by the way,’
‘Jon Wyndale,’ he replied, smile and a brief civil handshake ‘And the Olympiad there is Feylena Raff,’ who smiled and waved as she passed Marcia’s car pacing off her crick.
Marcia looked at the document laughed.
‘Oh no wonder. You’re looking for Drakelane Road. That’s down near the town centre. I’m on my way in that direction. You can follow me,’
‘Oh computers. How do they mangled an address? That’s nice of you Marcia,’ said Jon he glanced at his watch ‘We’re running late as it is. Hey! C’mon Amy Cragg. Marcia is going to be our guide,’
Feylena still hobbling back from the driveway opening ‘Ha-ha’d and moved to their car. Marcia went to hers and gasped.
‘Oh shoot. I’ve got a flat. Mike always handles this. And I have a meeting to attend,’
Feylena placed a friendly hand on Marcia’s arm.
‘Oh they are the worst. I had two in one month. Look you’ve been so helpful to us. If you just guide us to town, can we take you to your meeting place,’
Jon chimed in.
‘Sure. I mean I can change a flat, but if you are pressed for time. And we’re happy to help,’
Feeling a bit mean for being cautious Marcia nonetheless glance in the car. The shoulder bag was open, she could see the black and gold of a bible. And the latest by Bart Murth her favourite conservative author, Feylena was slipping in the back and rummaging through it.
‘Such a mess,’ she muttered.
Marcia sat next to Jon and he followed her directions. She phoned up Mike gave him a brief account, he said he would get it sorted. He was a bit brief and edgy today, always an indication he was closing on an order. Mind you these days.
Jon’s drive was a bit speedy for Marcia’s taste, but he was obviously a good driver, reflexes very sharp, and composed too, no running commentary about flaws of other drivers, in fact hardly any talk, it was Feylena who did the chatting about how nice the town looked, finally he spoke.
‘Quiet little town,’ he said to Marcia. She was glad it gave that impression. Although…
‘It seems to be today,’ she replied almost to herself. Two places hadn’t opened. Jeff’s gun store, maybe he wasn’t well again. The local party office being shuttered was a surprise. Bret, Jane and Trevor between them normally kept it going through sun, rain or snow, strange not being able to see the smiling confident presidential face beaming out. It was a pity about the shutters, though even here in Statonville there were stone throwers.
‘And the next right. Thank you,’ she said.
Jon took the turning at what she felt was a pace.
‘There’s the meeting hall,’ Marcia said pointing to a building on the right ‘Just in front of the police station,’ which she noticed seemed to have more than the usual patrol cars parked outside, and a few unfamiliar vehicles. Anyway she relaxed there was no one waiting at the hall, waiting for her to unlock the door, Geraldine was after her chairship and would use any slip to complain in that passive way. Jon drove straight to the station though.

The pace of the morning moved faster and things unravelled. As soon as Jon’s car stopped, close to the entrance Feylena, now quite agile, was out of the back seat opening Marcia’s door, unfastening her seat belt and setting a firm hand of Marcia’s arm.
‘Quick Marcia,’ she said in a low voice ‘Get inside. Now,’
Taken a back, confused and a little scared Marcia blankly responded to the now very authoritative military affirmative tone. She did manage a ‘What is going on?’ as Feylena’s now firm grip steered through her the station door, Jon close behind, apparently with his back to her.
Marcia didn’t have a lot of time to take things in as she was hurried through the main office Feylena and Jon now quiet silent, that grip tighter. On her frequent social and civic visits, she’d got to know the officers. A few regular desk folk were not there. Others seemed very muted, heads down. There were some unfamiliar figures. Three in a military style outfits, one of them at a desk and a computer, the two others, still and observant. She had this sudden feeling of being under threat and this pair were protecting her.
As they went through another set of doors she found her voice and senses, mostly now fear driven.
‘Please tell me what is going on?’
From behind her Jon spoke, soft, calming.
‘It’s for your own safety Marcia,’
Oh my, she thought, she had been right.
Her mind now frenetic with ideas of terrorists. Here in Statonville. Was she targeted? You heard on the news about random shootings of folk, prominent in their localities. Mike? The boys? What about them?
She realised, the normally friendly officers and staff, all looking straight ahead, carrying papers, or tapping on phone, tablets. Seeming too absorbed to speak to her.
And into Chief Phelbarg’s office. Only he was not there. An older man, gaunt faced with an air similar to old Principal Dyrsmere at High School, he had been a firm but fair man you never really wanted to be summoned to though.
‘This is Mrs Marcia Handsbrooke sir,’ Jon said in a respectful tone.
‘Thank you agents,’ the man spoke in a deep southern accent, gestured to the chair ‘Please sit down Mrs Handsbooke,’ Marcia now sweating and shaking noticed how he had one of those courtly southern ways she thought only existed in films ‘Agent Raff. Water for Mrs Handsbooke please. You must be quite shaken Mrs Handsbooke. You may take a few minutes, then we will talk,’
‘You should drink,’ Feylena said solicitously handing Marcia a cup of water, and she did as suggested, her mouth was very dry, she could hardly speak, her thoughts all jumbled.
‘Where is Chief Phelbarg?’ she asked, the only question she could frame. The man smiled, gently.
‘He’s busy with other matters Mrs Handsbrooke,’
‘I would like to speak with my lawyer,’ with the sips of water she found clarity.
‘Mr Garmith of Halsdech and Garmith?’ the man asked.
‘Yes,’ she said shaken again, How did he know? The gentle smile again.
‘I believe the partnership is somewhat occupied this morning,’ the smile faded a sadness replaced it ‘There is a suddenness of Uncertainty Mrs Handsbrooke. Even in Statonville,’
With that he referred to a laptop.
‘I am sorry to hurry you Mrs Handsbrooke,’ he turned to a side door calling out ‘Mr Aideren. Mrs Handsbrooke’s file please,’
File?
A young collegiate fellow appeared, smiled briefly handed a manilla folder to the man and sat down, a tablet on his lap. The man lifted out one piece of paper and turned it towards Marcia.
‘Mrs Handsbrooke. Will you please examine this document and confirm all the details are correct?’
Her married name, her maiden name, names of her family. Mike’s business details. Her various associated groups. Bank account details. And more. Twenty five of her forty years all laid out. Marcia found her outrage, she spluttered. She demanded to know what was going on. Who were you? You people. Jon blocked the door. Feylena patted her shoulder. The young man was tapping something on his tablet. The older man could have been Principal Dyrsmere. Serious untroubled features.
‘Please answer my question Mrs Handsbrooke. I assure you it is for the best. The more you co-operate, the more you will understand,’
‘Please Mrs Handsbrooke,’ that was Jon, he sounded so sorry for her, in her shock and more confusion she wilted.
‘Yes. Those details are correct,’ she croaked.
‘Thank you Marcia,’ whispered Feylena. The young man kept tapping. The man continued, he looked stern now. Like the time Principal Dyrsmere reprimanded her and Shirl’ for being caught smoking under the bleachers.

‘Now Mrs Handsbrooke. Your membership of the Mothers Vigilant. Did you of your own free will, six times vocally and five times in written documentation or the computer equivalent use the word ‘Purge’ in relation to fellow citizens of Statonville or concerning elected officials of this state you are resident in?’ he handed her another paper. To her horror she saw itemised in print comments she could recognise, maybe not the exact words ‘In addition. Did you  of your own free will ten times vocally and seven times in written documentation or the computer equivalent make hostile remarks concerning the race, religion or social orientation of citizens of this nation?’ another piece of paper. The process was repeated three other times in swift fashion his voice beginning quicker, more demanding. Marcia could only stammer, make half sentences of protest, excuse or weak demand. Was this all right? She could not recall ever word she had said. From somewhere within a flurry of anger burst out.
‘It’s true then. There is a Deep State,’
And there was Feylena’s hand on her shoulder a slight squeeze, when she looked up to the young woman, this time the expression was firm, the eyes fixed on a tv screen, with the volume turned down. To one side of the news reader was the picture of one of the very vocal colourful rising stars in the current government. According to the feed he had died in a car accident, no other vehicles involved. Other words coming out on the feed. Erratic driving. DUI? Marcia was not a stupid woman. She made the connection. Without one word said.
The questions were repeated. She could not answer though. She was gripped with fresh waves of anger, fear and confusion. Feylena’s hand on her shoulder again, this time it came with a pat, like the expression firm.
‘I think Mrs Handsbrooke needs time sir,’
The man nodded to Jon. Jon also firm faced stood the other side of Marcia, he and Feylena led Marcia out, this time through a back exit. There was a sturdy vehicle, no windows, inside sat three other women seated, belted in silent, she recognised them, a woman guard in uniform and of stone face regarded Marcia cold eyes silencing her.
‘You will sit please. Do not converse with the others. Look straight ahead,’ Marcia shaken did as she was told, there was a gathering numbness of thought, a lack of will. Someone was belting her in. The seats she thought were surprisingly comfy. She had been grateful for that water, so clear, so cool.
The doors closed. There was a slight jolt as the van moved off.

Jon and Feylena exchanged looks.
‘I do prefer a soft deceptive pick up. No distractions. No nosy neighbours,’ he said
‘That was easy,’ she said ‘Comparatively speaking,’
‘Yep. Final part. Another Hot Spot town secure,’
There was a grunt
‘You think? You pair don’t get off so easy this time,’ their superior had joined them ‘Our demonstration is getting a bit more active than we wanted. Some clown’s doing a Washington 2021 and brought a noose. The editor of the local, pro-presidential newspaper has locked himself in the john and is screaming for help,’
‘Good place to hide out. Very convenient ,’ mused Feylena.
‘I’ve said it before’ Jon said with irony ‘None so deadly as liberals, let loose,’
‘I hate crowd control,’ Feylena grumbled ‘I always get kicked in the ankle by some old biddy. I mean a six foot male lummox; you can deal it out and no one minds. But a five foot festy granny?’
Jon patted her on the shoulder. Very sarcastically funny, she thought.
‘I’m sure the director himself will visit you in hospital,’
Naturally she was not mollified.
‘It’s not like we even arranged the demo. That Swatson. He always gets them so fired and agitated. There’s an art to arranging an effective spontaneous demonstration,’
‘I’ll bring you flowers and candy,’ Jon assured.

A month later Marcia was in complete co-operation with the authorities. The diet of dull food, routine low key questioning, isolation and a newsfeeds concerning a high profile financial scandal masked by a government bills and presidential decrees was lose and running all day. She could not be sure what was true. Actually she didn’t care. Because….
The first week. There had been the shown to her video footage of Mike being interviewed by some other men, again polite and low-key. They were thanking him for his assistance.

‘Well I knew she was being politically active, But I thought that was just Marcia. I mean she always did have strong views. Some many folk do these days. I didn’t think there was anything like that to it. I mean violence? Well yes she has her own handgun, but these days who doesn’t it? And she always kept it locked up from the boys,’ at that stage he had started to cry ‘The boys. What do I say to the boys? Boys, your mom has been arrested for being a,’ and he broke down.
The hand on the shoulder.
‘We appreciate this is very hard for you sir. Mr Handbrooke. We thank you for informing us of your concerns in the first place,’ There was sympathy.
‘But I thought you would only be concerned with those she was associating with. Just give her a warning,’ and more sympathy.
That had been the first real body blow. Mike had informed on her.

Then she could not see the boys. She was told by a very empathetic matronly woman it was all for the best. They were safe and the media being kept away. She talked a lot to that woman.
The woman was a good listener. And a very good compiler of reports. As were others.
They decided it was best not for folk such as Marcia to see the programme.
‘Living With a Terrorist’ actually there had been a great deal of debate over the title, some wanted it toned down. Others argued it was necessary to keep the Liberal population on edge and give the moderate conservatives something to think about. Mike was on it, though at his request his face was in shadow and his voice changed.

There were howls of outrage from some conservatives but in the wake of the three school bombings by the right-wing militia the Sons of Liberty, the tide of the nation was turning. There had been some debate about using schools as arranged targets, but though these were spectacular there were only a few cuts and bruises ,and shocks. It was also an ideal cover to efficiently with no quarter terminate several of the militia in shoot-outs, the rest lost the will.

Six months after the Vice President resigned following revelations of their links to the Big Money Scandal (You think we could have come up with a better title? It worked didn’t it?), the lead coming from papers found in the care of that DUI accident. The President stepped down due to severe health issues. The midterms saw a move to the centre. Nothing so useful as a disillusioned or embarrassed conservative. The staged mass burnings of Presidential memorabilia were popular and there were spontaneous ones.

‘Hi there hero. How’s the leg?’
‘Will you tell those so-called jokers back at Office. No more ironic balloons or flowers. Your candy I appreciated. But Look at the place! Like a florists! Anyway the leg hurts like crap. I’m gonna have a scar for life. How is that going to look on the beach? Normally, yeah part of the job.  But taking a bullet for that that a-hole? A rampant misogynist, last holdout of the cabinet,’
‘Yeah, but his blubbering and peeping his pants on TV? Character assassination at its finest there partner,’
Feylena was not assuaged.
‘Another inch and it would have been my ass. My sweet sensational ass,’
Jon patted her other leg.
‘They can do wonders for scars these days. Anyway, what red-blooded American girl doesn’t go for someone with a mysterious scar?’
‘Jenny does not care for me to being the focus of other red-blooded American girls. I get fan mail! I shall have to get another new hair job,’
‘You’ll get a commendation,’
A rude noise followed. Then.
‘Put the word out that when I get out I’ll be looking for the sniper and when I find them, irrespective of rank or clearance I’ll shove their fancy customised rifle so far up. There’s only so much staged reality a girl can take dammit,’

In the government location…
They had been chosen. On the whole they did not care to have been chosen. Some secrets you best steered cleared away from. But they had been drafted in. A back-handed compliment. Each in their own way wondered how the people on the other side of the table dealt with such details on a day to day basis. Seniors in Law Enforcement, Security, Intelligence and The Military. When the chosen had read the reports and closed the folders their spokesperson started.
‘Thank you for your confidence in us. You have our assurance on this, the political side of the equation will not be allowed to be known. We assess there will be documentation to be signed which will make us complicit, each one,’
‘Correct Senator. We on this side of as you say the equation value your understanding, perspective and sense of responsibility to the Nation,’
‘Will we ever meet the planners and executives of this series of strategies?’
‘They will remain to the nation and colleagues, unknown, unremarkable, middle ranking functionaries, albeit ones with a great interest in Constitutional Law, Political and Social History, but those would be seen as parts of their official jobs,’
‘And yet. They spent their true careers thinking The Unthinkable, planning for situations such as these and laying in place strategies within strategies, having to shift and alert with varying political climes. Incredible that it worked so well,’
‘As we understand it, the basis has been in place for some One Hundred and Fifty years. The vital stability of the nation, the inviolability of the cohesion of the federal system as laid down in the Constitution. It has been utilised on a few occasions, although not to this extent. This was indeed one whole year in the detail planning,’
‘How could you be sure of the loyalty and co-operation of all staff on the ground?’
‘There had been that previous year of sifting through those whose loyalty was to the administration and not The Constitution. They were, one way or another neutralised or isolated. The details are in Appendix K,’
‘A mighty endeavour indeed. Some might argue a coup. Some romantics a conspiracy. But then these would not be realists. And of course, the viability and stability of a state can only be continued by realism. A shame about the number of deaths and lives ruined, but there again had this been an invasion by an outside power all this would have been accepted as a price,’
‘We are glad that the political side of the equation sees things that way,’
‘And we in turn are glad that you who hold so much in the way of, shall we say hardware, did not decide to take over the whole control,’
‘We hand you back The Constitution. Please keep it secure,’
Papers were signed documents secured in safes deep in rooms, within rooms known only to a very few.
There was a brief exchange of words between the political side of the equation.
‘Quite the price paid,’
‘The alternatives would have been so much worse,’
‘We are agreed on that,’
And everyone returned to the business of repairing and instigating the return to the mundane.

The one who had been vice-president did ensure they did not drink much. Too much drink and you could make a careless comment, which would be found out. There were monthly visits from very civil men to ask after the disgraced vice-president’s welfare and chat about that month’s activities. Those monthly reminders. At least those kept the threat of legal charges and imprisonment at bay. This must be going on in a few locations. Once the theoretically second most important person in the USA  did not ask about anyone else. It was all for the best. If they were very lucky everyone would forget about this vice-president, they would become a footnote. What a welcome fate.

Marcia was released. She had not contested the divorce. She could not think much these days. She just wanted it all to stop. A charity found her a part time job and a small apartment in a small, quiet town. All she had to do was register once a month with the local police who treated her civilly enough. She kept herself to herself, grew potted plants and adopted a rescued dog, she cuddled and cried to it a lot. Because she could trust the dog. She would never be involved in any committee or organisation again. It was noted and recorded she never voted again on anything.

Federal funds paid for Agent Raff’s cosmetic surgery and new hairstyle. She was assigned to training. The profile was deemed satisfactorily lower. A woman named simply as ‘Jenny’ agreed with the style and the posting.

Remember. This is only story. A fanciful tale. There is no evidence of anything so outrageous taking place. People simply had enough of the overblown antics taking place and gave up on the administration of the time, going back to more calm times.

The End.

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

Footnote: Thanks to Jill Dennison of Filosofa for the series Parent’s (Night)mare

https://wordpress.com/reader/feeds/12093442/posts/5629704699

Being the inspiration for this ‘alternative history’ take on her series.

Escape Velocity Has Been Achieved and Craft Holding (Another Chapter in a Very Irregular Series About One Person’s Approach to Writing)

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A while back I took the step of announcing the start of a new writing project

On Outlining A New Writing Venture (A post with no reason other than I was having fun with it)

The exercise was conducted to make sure that having ‘gone public’ I had better well carry on with this venture, there having been numerous other attempts which had faded away. The announcement was a boost to ensure my momentum kept moving to escape velocity. This is problem A Panster will often encounter. The process of not working from a true outline, or several pages of notes, but instead relying on ‘something’ popping into the imagination, or being inspired by the last few hundred words while only having maybe the vaguest of ideas as to where ‘this’ is going. Such an outlook can lead to falling prey to Life’s Daily Distraction or an attack of the Existentialist ‘What Is The Point Of It All’, or worse ‘Oh Heck…I’ve done all this before with different names and locations‘   (More about that problem a little later on)

My dependable notion of ‘Never Waste A Good World Build’ once more came to my aid. The Narrative would be set in the world of my previous trilogy. The fact that I could not decide whether in the Past, Present or Future of the previous trilogy’s setting was at the onset of little consequence at least there was a backdrop. As the narrative progress ‘The Future’ seemed the most suitable, this was made easier by the fact that in this ‘world’ of mine, Time was a flexible quality anyway, and there was the good old dependable ‘Ethereal’ an elemental force which is all things to all folk but woe to those who took it for granted or tried to control or expunge it. In this environment Continuity was not really a problem; and as a bonus enabled me to possibly sneak in the spice of a Hidden or Forbidden History factor. I kept the same Empire, Religion and some of the more powerful agencies as this would be useful for later on as to who was keeping what History from who and naturally for some stalwart characters to uncover ‘Stuff’.   

Maybe it’s because of having strong stalwart women in my life; my wife of 51 years, two daughters, a granddaughter and daughter-in-law that I have always tended to place women at the forefront of my stories (also because it will annoy the heck out of those lesser males who object to strong women). Thus, as I started off, there were another three women being drawn into very unexpected situations, and meeting and bonding, even the rather same types as before; trouble? Not really; at the onset this suggested a link between the previous three books. Descendants? That might be stretching things a bit and requiring a lot of explanations out of character with the previous three central figures. No, what was required here was an element explored in the previous works- The Ethereal as a reactive force drawing certain types of folks together; this gave some of the more dogged lesser characters cause to explore into what was taking place and delve into that ‘Forbidden History’ and of course all reach different conclusions. That could be interesting, all manner of possibilities.

Now what was missing? Oh yes….

As usual I had forgotten a central plot. Yes, my BIG failing, getting so much wound up with the characters that their day to day events become the whole story, and whereas it is fun to write you can’t really expect folk to read an entire book’s worth, not in a fantasy background anyway.

Thus far though plenty of material to weave in….

1.One heir to a throne has to get married soon, two rival houses intending their daughters to be his bride. He is very agitated with the politics and takes a ‘gap’ to clear his head he goes out with a military border patrol; lots more politics there. Suddenly ambushed! Escapes! How will this work out? Will he survive and how will his character develop? (By the way there is an Ethereal link between him and the three central women characters- one that none of them really know about, him least of all. What kind of relationships?) 
2.Somewhere else in the empire a very determined fundamentalist branch of the state religion are working up to a crusade. One fellow in particular. Note, don’t make him a pantomime villain. Give his side of things. Also they HATE the Ethereal. And let us not forget that no group is free from the whimsy of factionalism.
3. Where most of the characters live. Lots of local politics between two princedoms and one independent Dukedom, the latter favoured by the Empire. Also folk lurking in the wings there either barely seen or only thus far mentioned in name.
4. Also there’s The Empire, well a writer can certainly work with An Empire’s shenanigans. 
5. AND – Of course The Ethereal and those forbidden / unknown histories.
6. AND EVEN MORESO – All the ‘stuff’ I mentioned above with the central characters.
7. Not to mention several lesser characters with promise to develop.  And a few loose threads that need tightening.
Also
8, 9 & 10 – As write I don’t know what they are, but they are bound to be lurking around somewhere.

Plenty to work with. In fact so much I detect another trilogy. Too much colour and potential to spoil with a planned layout. In real life Wars and Politics never go to plan. One theme I am using again, the three central characters being swept up in events. Like real Life.  

Also this is a first draft and a writer will know that’s a terrible version. There is plenty to be re-written, replaced, downright ditched. Onward- ever onward. To where I know not.

Gosh, this is fun….
Advice for Writers starting off and New Writers struggling……Keep all those scraps you have written or have buzzing around in your head, you never know when they will come in handy, get it down on paper or ‘doc’ and worry about the finer points later on. 

Writers: On The Risk of, Maybe Packing Too Much Into A Project

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After the sixteenth (or was it the seventeenth?) attempt at launching a new project there was a great temptation to indulge in the traditional Indy / Indie writer’s angst of episodic lamentations and cries of ‘ What is the point of it all’ and thence gloomy introspection.

Hamlet 1

However, it is also the curse / blessing within the Indy / Indie writer to be a’fix(ed) with the urge and need to keep on writing, and seek ever beyond the horizon fulfilment of that next, and in my case evasive big project. There’s six of the efforts marking up to roughly 100,000 words which are still archived in case there’s a need to ‘Copy & Paste’ useful chunks. And there is a new one which is tottering on the launch pad. You would think that with a pretty strong World Build there would be no shortage of material, inspiration and plot lines, so how come just ‘Might Have Beens’?

win_20210522_11_00_43_pro…Ponder….ponder…..ponder

On referring back to the previous trilogy….

It occurred to me amongst the total of 660,000 + words, aside from the traditional World Build, adventurous quests or tasks, conflicts and challenges set to three strong characters, the array of minor and not so minor characters with their own tales to tell there were a great deal of other themes and sub-plots which had found their ways in. Out of this grew the comic interludes, satires on common themes in fantasy novels, whole commentaries on various cultures and locations, parodies on traditional villain types, parallel realities, romances, personal sacrifices, allegories with various historical military blunders, the construction of an imperial administration and its agencies, threads which went in various directions and managed to tie up, entire family lives, one rather massive risk of a plot twist and a small tough ragged horse which travelled through realities without any explanation given. Along with some other stuff to do with lesser characters just put in because I felt like it suited the whole canvas, like my predilection to weave in John LeCarre style machinations of various government agencies simply for atmosphere.    

 And dear reader one has to ask ones’ self as you might. Was all of that necessary? In my defence, at the time it seemed so. When reading / listening to my favourite subject of military history as must be the case with other historical studies, there is encountered the factor of the importance of the small folk, not the Great and Influential, for without the small folk what would the Great and Influential achieve? Then there is the ‘Grit In The Machine’ factor which in the way of many a Grand Strategy, the overlooked seemingly inconsequential yet important item, the events of the second book hinged on such a quantity. These had, I reckoned, to be taken into account. And also how the events affected folks’ lives, motivations and own plans. Of course all and everything was necessary and fitted.

The problem with ‘Of Course’s being one might fit one type of book, ie factual history but might not work in a fictional setting, and that most important of persons, the reader could lose interest and particularly in Heroic Fantasy be looking for more dramatic interludes linking into one magnificent conclusion. Maybe.

I could of course cite the works of David Gemmel who would take minor and sometimes grimy characters and through the narrative elevate them, often against their will to major players. Brandon Sanderson and Joe Abercrombie are of the type of writer who populate their books with large lists of lesser characters who come and go through the narrative, sometimes returning when you least expect them and playing for maybe only a short while a vital role. They, Abercrombie in particular do not go in for Happy or Cleanly Ethical endings, which can be argued are most realistic. Me, I do veer towards clean, just and tidy endings, and the intention to do so without a Deux Machina (or several) might, just might have had an effect upon the whole narrative, for whereas I only had the haziest of ideas about the rest of the narrative that sort of ending  was a given. 

I could stand by all those decisions and maintain them by the dogged outlook beloved of a more stubborn sort of Indy / Indie writer summed up as ‘So what? If you don’t like It…Tough. It’s My Book’ . Somehow that might be avoiding the issue.

Is the reason why a new project is not taking off, because I have used up all my good ideas, scenarios, situations, themes and sub-plots? And will anything else be just repetition? There is an ‘Of Course’ there too. Since my work to date has had little to no success and in consequence a double edged truth would be; ‘Who would notice? Or care?’ . Now where that ties in with or contradicts the previous ‘So what? If you don’t like It…Tough. It’s My Book’ is another topic for debate. 

Thus having paused to muse over the whole business while doing my turn at the washing up and washing loading duties, I was left to conclude…… Was I taking ‘pantsing’ too far? Should I have laid out all of the ideas which came to mind and put some to one side for another day? Should I have edited the books into shorter volumes and instead of three weighty tomes have had six, or seven, or eight smaller volumes and attracted an audience who prefer shorter books with cliff-hangers? Did I cram far too much in. Truth be known from time to time the thought of dismantling all three, starting from scratch and taking that approach has occured….But…Ah me, the effort, seemed too much were I say thirty years younger…..

My advice then for anyone starting out, is by all means dive in and rattle away, letting your ideas flow like rivers, and the first drafts (there are always several) be a hodge-podges of all sorts of stuff, but then maybe step back and consider whether there is more than one book there, or maybe there should be more than one book there, which in turn will lead to more books.   

Maybe it is the genre…Fantasy…. Maybe we all would like to be a Tolkien and feel we have out own private Lord of The Rings simmering away. Maybe we should not give way to that lure. I can’t comment on Martin’s Ice and Fire series, they never appealed to me, but I would guess the same sort of conclusion would apply.

Anyway, the muses are tugging, the collection of characters might well have the inclination to nag at me to get going and shove a whole lot of their own ideas onto my table. Who knows, maybe this time I will get past the 75,000 word barrier and start to really once more have fun writing, and perhaps a bit of restraint?

Who can tell what lies beyond the next paragraph? 

When The War Comes, Will We Have Anyone To Send ? #Blog Battle : June Unaware

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Watching

Foreword: Sometimes a character in a short story will not slip back into the From Whence They Came. Their back story, forward stories stay around, an aura of possibilities. This is one such. For those who have not read of the previous accounts here are the links:

The Day When The Stationery Was No Longer Stationary – #Blog Battle – March  Miscellanarian

Revisit, Review, Revise. #Blog Battle : May –Extract

And here is the latest:

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

The dark boat slipped through the still waters of the clouded night, propelled by a small black sail, making landfall in a small cove. The four men were swift and light-footed, making their way to the house slipping over the wall, and expertly mastering the locks. In this deep part of the night most were asleep. The guard silenced.

Her eyes snapped open. People in the room. This was the kidnap, and she’d been told a girl should always remain calm. She sat up, sheet to her chin. She assumed the one putting a finger to his lips was the leader, a tall man, very quiet. By the lack of any sound or unnecessary effort, she assumed these were professionals. They allowed her to put a coat on, and even gather some clothing. Confident too.

Down to the beach and the craft, she was helped into the boat.  They were out to sea and not long in reaching the equally dark small ship. After being assisted on board, she was escorted to a small cabin. Then her rather comfortable gag was removed. No one had and even then spoke to her. She was left; with a jug of water, also a small loaf of bread. There was even a reasonable bunk. This was all very civilised. Murmurings going on, but no unnecessary sounds. All very efficient. The door would be locked to a high standard.

Captain Volper gave out the next draft of orders thus The Marlin turned to make a prompt exit from the region. Everything had, thus far gone very well. He would only truly relax when they made harbour and the captive was handed over to the officers of the Knights’ Commander.

He was not surprised when his bosun an experienced man he had worked with these two years disturbed his sleep. This time he had the air of one, instructing

‘We have something interesting Captain,’ the man said,

‘Our guest? What sort of Interesting?’

‘She opened cabin porthole,’

‘She tried to slip out? Must be a good swimmer,’

‘Wasn’t her intention. Meyga on sentry saw the glimmer of a mirror. She’s watching us watching her,’

‘Ask Weatherman Dolenger here,’

Weatherman was the watch-name. Seemingly a crew member with a gift for reading subtle changes in weather. The name to keep excessive religious types away from someone gifted with Ethereal senses. Like all in his trade, Dolenger was quiet, careful not to draw attention to himself, and vigilant.

‘Watch do you reckon Weatherman?’ Volper asked.

‘She’s lying low Captain. She’s either cautious or skilled in some Ethereal thing. Not any merchant’s pretty, precious daughter,’

‘I wish the Knights’ Commander office would keep us fully appraised of matters. Triple the watch on her cabin, lower a boat and keep vigilance there. Weatherman keep vigilant. We’ll wait until dawn,’

Definitely not ordinary pirates.

Satisfied as only someone in her role could feel with that conclusion she hauled the rudimentary pillow and sheet to the door. With a pillow behind her and sheet over her she positioned herself against the door as comfy as possible as a human barrier could be, twisted the ring on her right third finger, and settled down to wait.

See what dawn would bring.

Volper mused on his Weatherman’s latest opinion there was an aura of calculation about the woman.

‘We’ll assume she’s more than a decoy for Thelesima, youngest daughter of the Merchant Lord Strambos,’ Volper said to his bosun ‘And since it’s sun up. Let’s see if she’s willing to talk,’

‘Yes. Let’s’ the bosun said.

Volper was not have been surprised by two crew scowling at the door, he was puzzled though.

‘She’s barricaded herself in,’ one said ‘ Must be sitting against the door. Says she wants to speak with you,’’

He looked to his Weatherman, who was frowning at the door. Oh, trouble.

‘Bosun. The Marlin is yours for the present,’ the man nodded and left, peering at the door.

‘There’s something stormy in there Captain,’

‘Thank you, Weatherman. Let’s find out then if it’s navigable,’ he was all business to the door ‘ This is Captain Volper. What do you require? And your name would be useful,’

Some said she took risks with too unpredictable outcomes. She reasoned conflict relied on such when you were out here, or there, relying on yourself.

‘Principal Lieutenant Zwanglos of the LifeGuard,’ she announced in her official voice ‘Your cautious actions indicate you have a level of discipline and are acting on orders. Identify your chain of command,’

Her impulse had been to voice a pithier more natural

‘LifeGuard. We wanna know wot yer up to sunshine,’

But, sometimes you just had to sound official.

Volper stifled down his surprise. A professional thief or adventurer with a quirky manner and gift of The Sales Talk acting on a commission would have been expected. The LifeGuard though, on the very flexible southern borders of the Centrus Sea? He told himself, he had a distinct tactical advantage. And his bosun was paying rapt attention.

‘We are marines of the Knights of The Lord God’s Vigilance and are about the task of keeping the imperial coastline safe for honest merchants and perilous to those of ill-intent,’ sometimes using the official statement was easier than trying to explain details

There was a distinct snort from the other side of the door. The voice’s accent hardened, the tone dismissive.

‘Well, you’re going about it in a fribbin’ peculiar way. Running off with merchants’ family members. That’s not conducive to Imperial Stability,’

‘We have information which indicates there is a cartel,’

‘Not one we’re aware of that is a threat to Stability,’

He paused to fume. LifeGuard and their Stability. The biggest crook in Humanity could sit on the Imperial throne, as long as they kept things ‘Stable’. His pause had allowed her to continue.

‘Now I know wot’s wot…..’

‘Wot’s wot’…Oh, she’s an elidian, they are the biggest crooks. Makes sense now.

‘I feel it fayre to point out I’ve put out a marker on your craft, and my commanders know just where you are. If my personal transmission comes to an abrupt end, so shall your craft. Give me a little boat I’ll row back. Take this to your Knights as a warning,’

The Weatherman twitched.

‘There have been tales about The LifeGuard’s long reach Captain. If she threatens to have us sunk. Don’t dismiss it,’ he looked skywards.

Volper was certainly not. Yet he was senior here. He navigated on.

‘All we are doing,’ he said with great restraint ‘Is requiring certain Merchants to cease activities detrimental to the commercial and moral integrity of the coastal regions. It may seem rough to kidnap but I can assure you these family members are kept in respectable comfort. It had been judged the only way to reach out for dialogue,’

There was a pause, the door opened enough for one hand to appear, slender rings on the left index, middle, and third ginger twinkling.

‘The authority and ability,’ she announced.

The Weatherman tugged his Captain’s sleeve.

‘Those rings. Ethereal. They whisper,’

From his years of service, Volper did not think it was likely that the Knights or their final authority The Ecclesiastes would have been so blind to the LifeGuard’s constant and invasive observations of all aspects Imperial. Yet he had not been warned of this likelihood of  Decoy, or Ambush to use as a threat.

‘Principal Lieutenant Zwanglos. If you were to step outside. We can discuss this. I respect your potential. You should therefore respect my situation,’

There was a pause, then the door opened. The dress had been replaced by leggings and light shirt, a knife on a slender belt, and a leg of the chair tucked in as a cudgel. Volper thought her all too well prepared. And warned?

‘As you can see,’ she began then frowned, looking down at the rings, at the same time The Weatherman drawled out one swear word. The pair exchanged sudden knowing looks.

‘Better get the mechanical engines going Captain,’ he warned.

‘Zig-zag course,’ she added, then cursing, in disbelief at the rings, raised her hand to her mouth calling out

‘I have not enacted. I have not enacted. Withhold. Withhold,’

The Weatherman once more regarded the sky.

‘Oh yes. Storm’s a’coming,’

He said not to his Captain but to her.

The LifeGuard continued her enraged converse. Volper’s crew alert to all threats the Centrus could swiftly have the engine working while manoeuvring unpredictably. As Zwanglos suddenly felt a small object, probably stale bread strike her scalp, swinging round she saw the bosun leaning over the quarter-deck rail, looking sharp with realisation.

‘Hoi!’ he called his accent suddenly clear elidian ‘You’re the one wot’s stitched up l’tenant. You bin set up good ‘n proper,’

‘Me?’ she called back, though the surprise was quickly replaced by anguished understanding, causing her to pull in savage determination at the rings, uncaring of the skin being ripped off in the process.

‘Counting down from two hundred?’ she demanded of The Weatherman as she threw the rings into the sea.

‘Give or take fifty,’ he said after a glance to the sky.

Shrugging off a staying hand as she grabbed the port side of the weaving craft, Zwanglos turned back to Volper, wry bitterness contorting her features.

‘Take wot you’ve seen an’ heard. Use it spare yer crew an’ yerself. Now turn your ship or boat or wotnot away from me. I was not aware dammit,’ and dived into the water, vanishing from sight.

‘Hundred and fifty Captain,’ warned the Weatherman.

The bosun stared out at the last sighting of the girl

With sail and engine at full use, the craft skimmed away.

‘Heads down and cover your eyes,’ called out The Weatherman.

There came a thin split in the sky, a long narrow yellow brightness tormented a small locality of the sea into a place of steam and violent bubbling as high as the Marlin’s sail, causing waves to circle out for enough distance for some to slap against the stern, making the craft to buck enough to for all to fear it would near topple over.

And then all was still.

Opinion was divided on whether the fate might have been slit in two, blown into bits, or set a’ blaze from stern to bow. Everyone agreed they would not have survived.

‘What do we do now Captain?’ was the next thing most asked.

Volper had the course set to their home port, concluded the whole crew needed to hear whatever the bosun had to say to explain his warning to the girl. His words came slow and thoughtful, still trying to make explainable sense. His accent was quite different, again, something of the far north, where seas were cold and troubled grey.

‘In daylight, description matched. One who had been in The Ecclesiastes’ ranks. Talented but unpopular. Controversial, maybe heretical. Then she skipped to the LifeGuard. There are games within games being played. In the Ecclesiastes, there was deal with parts of the LifeGuard and she was the price,’ he sighed ‘We were bait. She must have thought she was just the messenger, not the catch, until,’ he nodded to the Weatherman ‘She got a storm warning,’

‘And gave her life for us,’ said Volper.

‘All except me,’ said the bosun ‘I fell overboard, never seen again. I leave it up to you merry lads to work out the details. I have other work to do. Find out who are doing deals with The LifeGuard and why. My reason for being here in the first place. Games within Games,’

Somewhere, out at sea. Floating on an Ethereal. Pained and scared. But still angry enough to be alive.

She was vaguely aware of another swift slender craft approaching, bemused at more decent treatment as she was carefully hauled on board.

‘Thank you,’ she rasped. ‘Whoever you are,’

‘Work to be done Zwanglos,’

A bottle touched her lips, hands gently held her head as she drank.

As the pain slipped away and sleep called to her she managed one last message.

‘I was unaware,’

One other thought.

‘And unaware now,’

Of Maze and Mists Folk (July#BattleBlog- Hatch)

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The Maze Folk

          Threll, Invigilator Civic to Prince Machthaber of  Dienlich, was a man who wielded calm patience as a weapon of fearful effectiveness. Nobody wanted to be the one who caused him to lose his temper; in his usual demeanour he left an efficient enough trail of woe upon any who suffered his professional displeasure.

          ‘This is most unfortunate,’

          He sounded as if an unforeseen weather event was causing cancellation of an afternoon’s repose in his garden. However the slight furrowing of his brow warned the two before him. One was trying to keep the word ‘grave’ out of their thoughts; it gave a prescient air to matters.

          Both knew not to serve excuses up to Threll. Reasons and self-criticism were your best hopes; no babbling either. Calm and composed, was the way

          ‘Very unfortunate,’ Surveyoress Bekwaam said, contrition in her voice, encouraging her colleague.

          ‘Quite so,’ Surveyor Ervaren agreed.

          Threll considered the two of his senior staff.

          ‘Indeed,’ he said ‘And have you formulated how the deep coded false message to the rebel group to act, thus showing their hand actually contained a warning they had been compromised? It should have been impossible considering our failsafe programmes,’

          Bekwamm straightened clutching the file into the crook of her arm.

          ‘Three separate layers of code, each with their own clerkes did not account for clerical errors being transposed,’ she swallowed ‘We should have considered this,’ and handed The Analysis to her superior.

 

          Some days before.

          ‘Time to unlatch the hatch, and sneak the catch,’ the fellow trilled.

          Ven being the professional thief of the duo gripped the fellow. Palavelle by name, being a rogue Mechanical. His talents enabled him to work through a quadruple lock with three sets of alarms, his lack of common sense allowed him to announce his success to the locality and would have had him march into the final, least subtle but most effect trap.

          Two axes swung down from the walls in a criss-cross motion.

          ‘An’t you lucky,’ Ven hissed ‘I know the classics. Now let’s get in before someone comes to find out who is singing damn silly songs, this far from a tavern,’

          Once they eased passed the still slightly swaying blades Ven had the man relock everything.

          ‘Ah latch the catch. There’s the thing,’

          Why, Ven mused to himself did these rogue Mechanicals have to been so artisy and showy? They didn’t impress nobody down the working end of the City. After this job was done he’d have quiet words with his Guv’nor, Old Fryd about this one. Even if a contract was a contract, and the whole job was for someone, who might be acting for another someone else, if fellows like Ven Jek was caught, the last conversation would be with a rope.

          Meanwhile, get the business done. Hope everyone in the town house of a lesser duke, one Sabatch, placed too much faith in that lock and assumed it was doing all the work. 

          ‘Stop humming. This is no social visit,’

          ‘You should be happy in your work,’

          ‘I save, Happy, for when the job is over. Save all your talents for third door up on the left,’

 

          ‘It’s not a bad piece of work Guv’nor,’ Ven said handing over the ornately carved lapis lazuli statuette. Old Fryd surveyed with work with a veteran’s eye, but nonetheless passed it to the gang’s own antique expert.

          ‘Actually, very nice,’ the fellow said examining details through magnifier ‘Well done young Ven for bringing such a delicate piece out intact. I’ve seen a thousand golds literally knocked off the value through carelessness,’

          Old Fryd winced at the memories.

          ‘How was our,’ he coughed dryly ‘Specialist,’

          ‘Typical talented risk from the Comfy Class, getting his thrills,’ Ven said sourly. ‘Lucky, we didn’t raid some sort of professional Antique collector, not so legal,’ 

          Their own expert pulled a face.

          ‘They do get very cross and usually have accurate ideas where to express their displeasure. Did he pick up anything of for his own collection, a souvenir?’

          Ven shrugged.

          ‘He fiddled and nosed with a few bits; that was all. Shouldn’t use him again Guv’nor. Him and his damn sing-song silly rhymes. As if everyone appreciates them,’  

          ‘I’ll take care of those words Ven. That I will,’        

 

          Around the same time.

          ‘Imagine how embarrassing it would be to have the name of Hatchapatch,’

          Fegdale tightened putting down his newspaper in a sharp movement. The club was a place where one was supposed to sit and enjoy silence.

          ‘The matter has never occurred to me, Wingsleyden. In fact, I would say I couldn’t care two straws on the subject,’

          ‘Even so,’ the man had continued as if the matter were of fundamental philosophical concern ‘It would be fairly hard going for the poor fellow. You could make all sorts of poor jokes at his expense,’

          Fegdale glowered at Wingsleyden, who seemed unconcerned by the sight.

          ‘Why this sudden morbid interest in such an unlikely name?’

          Wingsleyden waved his own newspaper in response.

          ‘Why? Because I encountered the name in this journal. He’s suffered a ballooning accident at a farm cottage. And the bally paper has made light of it,’ his voice took on an injured tone as he waved the broadsheet in Fegdale’s face, pointing to a small column set aside for trivia ‘Hatchapatch Catches The Thatch In An Inflated Despatch,’

          The irony that one of the biggest fatheads in town was inadvertently blurting out a significance message was not lost on Fegdale. There was no time to reflect on such synchronicity. At least the warning had reached him sooner than the usual network of bemused gossip arising from a seemingly random quirky newspapers items. He grunted his excuse for leaving.

          ‘It comes to something when a fellow cannot find peace and quiet at his club,’

          The bustle of night time mixed with the steady autumn rain would provide distractions and cover. As watchman this was one of his roles. Raise the alarm.

 

          ‘This is very thorough, and it has to be said honest work,’ Thrall said to the pair, at the next meeting. ‘Taking full responsibility for all of your region’s status,’

          Ervaren took the lead.

          ‘We should have been more vigilant with the codes. Both in their drafting and overseeing. Complex systems need constant surveillance,’

          ‘Always a problem,’ Thrall agreed ‘ Balancing a system’s theoretical composition not to be compromised with its efficiency in practice,’      

          ‘Mistakes have been made, I hope lessons learnt,’ Bekwamm added ‘At least the rebels should be relatively easy to trace, with their nascent unprofessional approach,’ 

          ‘Yes,’ agreed Thrall ‘As the old tag-line goes. Good luck, bad luck. Who can say?’

          And sighed.

          The duo laughed, lightly.

          Slightly relieved.

 

          Palavelle relaxed and then only slightly when the coastline slipped from view. Even in uncouth company, being a simple conveyor dropping a message tube into an indifferent vase had been a thrill. All the fuss afterwards though; folk vanishing, strangers come to spirit you out of town. Far too rich a diet for him. Exile it would have to be.

          ‘Do you think he ever knew who he was working for?’ Ven Jek asked from the alley shadows as the ship sailed on.

          ‘Doubt it,’ Wingsleyden drawled glad to be relieved of his public voice.

          ‘Fribbin’ Comfies thinking it’s game,’ Ven spat. ‘Speaking code without checking,’

          ‘You try being one, year in year out chum,’ Wingsleyden said in grim humour ‘Forget your own name in a while, you will,’

 

          Fegdale was carefully drafting his confession, making sure it was officially obvious he had actually been working for the princedom as a decoy agent within the Dukes’ rebellion. That was what he had been told to write. He confessed to being quite wrong, the prince’s administration was very efficient. And was that not what everyone wanted? From his cell window he could see the scaffold. He shuddered thinking on his narrow escape.

 

          Maid Bekwaam comforted by her last herbal tea, walked composed to the scaffold. There was no more to be said. She had been caught in acts of treason. At least Thrall had assured her, her mother would be protected from the threats which had forced Bekwaam into the rebels’ hands. How they had targeted her was still being investigated. She was glad it was autumn, she would hate to be seen sweating.

 

          Bekwaam could remember the rope, it was silken, then the brief tightness. Now she was blinking? Someone was peering into her face with a magnifier. And she was breathing?

          ‘Yes. She is recovering,’ the someone said, her focus returned, he was elderly and maybe familiar?

          Two pairs of women’s hands raised her gently, sweet clear water to her lips, she knew enough to sip, and wait for clarity.

 

          She knew this one; Franzet ‘Old Fryd’ Durchtrieben. In criminal terms equivalent to nobility, always careful in his playing of sides. Thus, not surprising to learn now his network had found out her fate, unbeknown to her smuggled a powerful narcotic into her tea; the resulting feigned death, her coffin switched with another. All an effective rescue. Further details she might know eventually. Until then, be guardedly grateful.

          ‘Hello Miss Bekwaam. I won’t repeat the explanations. Glad to see you looking well,’ he tutted ‘Hate to see good resources wasted. Can’t have that,’

          ‘Thank you for thinking so,’ she replied, still a little croaky.

          ‘We’ll be easing you elsewhere. Five hundred myles south and west to Elinid. I expect you have a working knowledge about how that city is run. We have an agreement with the Silc clan there. They could use someone of your deductive and organisational talents. You’ll like it. Not so stuffy. Still spry enough to start afresh,’ he winked ‘And we’ll arrange for you to keep in touch with your old Mum. We got tender folk are already explaining basic matters to her, so it won’t come as a shock,’

          Bekwaam had to admit, currently this was a better outcome. She could not help but wonder if Thrall had some idea about this. A much broader and deeper game maybe.

 

          Ervaren brooded into the into the glass. He should have helped Bekwaam and not been instrumental in laying her upon Strategy’s bloody altar, our sacrifice of gratitude for a bountiful harvest of the treacherous, all to ensure our prince slept well.

          Without the usual knock the door to his study opened. His servant, a solid veteran entered, three men followed him, stern. Ervaren was familiar with the type, those who did not need to be obvious. He managed a harsh laugh and swilled his wine.

          ‘And so, the covering of the traces. My turn then,’ he raised his glass in a sincere salutation. ‘Make it quick and dignified. And Lave here, I bear you no ill-will,’

          One man of iron-grey short hair afforded Ervaren a softening of his expression.

           ‘Surveyor Ervaren. Your remorse and the urge for self-chastisement are understandable. However, these are pragmatic times. The empire’s stability always paramount. Invigilator Civic Thrall is willing for your talents to be seconded,’

          ‘Seconded?’ the effects of the wine flushed out by professionalism.

          ‘Yes,’ the voice was now shielded ‘The Invigilator understands he is too close to be effective on one issue. There are concerns regarding Prince Machthaber. Being the subject of avaricious potential rebellions does not exclude a prince from suspicion on other issues. You will receive instructions on methods of reporting,’ a thin smile ‘All for the stability of the Empire,’

          Later, pondering, Ervaren could not help but feel it could just as easily have been Bekwaam receiving those words. Imperial Stability was such an amoral concept.

 

          Duke Sabatch was vexed. Another occasion of Court People trampling through his town house. He would vet his staff better.

 

          Thrall made fresh entries upon the map of relationships and alliances. It would not do to lose track of who was who and what was being hatched by all sides. At least Sabatch was consistent, The Useful Idiot.

 

From Unexpected Places (Something Concerning Odd Motivations)

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Inspiration and Themes

It’s another ‘You know how it goes’ . You’ve finished your latest work, truly finished. The end was reached the several re-writes, editings, and other associated efforts have been navigated. (Including the occasional episode when the book cover was being put in place, the artist adds a little something and you thought ‘Wow, I have to fit that into the narrative!! ‘ And under the spell of the image you unravel some little part……). All this attended to by one means or another your work is then made available to the public and belongs unto the Ages.

Thus, should follow an interlude of rest and repose. Working at a factory pace does not suit Creativity or Perspective. A writer should not find, one morning their writing has become a chore they feel they must do. Writing should either come from the joy or the restlessness to see ideas taking shape as words. A ‘Because’ not a ‘Have To’.

So time to look at a Fantasy idea. There might be promise there. I would attend. I started.

And stopped. Basically, although there were a couple of amusing bits, it was not working; the word ‘Re-hash’ kept cropping up whenever I read the day’s output. Ah well, something to be left for another day….

Time to revisit the Quantum Space Opera project. On to the opening chapter. There was that word ‘Re-hash’ again. Seems I had invested so much time and effort into my previous project my creativity was still running on the loop. BlogBattle challenges were welcome, making me move elsewhere, but left to my own devices I was running in that loop. The one hope I had was another word… ‘Screwball’ as in 1930s and 1940s Comedy Films, in short when stuck, look for something outside of Serious. There was inspiration here because when scrolling through the Audio Book selection of SF, and seeing the endless lists of Genocidal Aliens, Ancient Long Forgotten Evils, Another Colonial Marines / WH40K Space Marines series one phrase kept popping into my creative mind when relating to the evil protagonists…. ‘Their heads fell off’; it broke the monotony. Thinking there might be a start of a way out, I pondered on this phrase. Now obviously such a gem had to be used sparingly, or if the pace was very fast with mocking frequency. The plot still eluded me though. Even the great Robert Sheckley would not build an entire book around heads falling off, maybe a chapter or paragraph here or there but he was a master of his art / craft. No, the whole structure needed more thought. Still, it was a start.

Buoyed by this slender hope, the musing phase started, as to what would prompt such a statement and where would the exclamation or discovery fit it. Musing on such an aspect does not require a serious frame of mind; irreverently speculative would be a better turn of phrase. Such a state is of course very volatile and unpredictable. In consequence it was with some delight, although not surprise, that bursting into the musing came a small scenario drenched with very inappropriate and excessively farcical humour based on a misunderstanding in verbal translation. There were inane sniggers, for it is a fact of Male Human Nature that no matter their age, life experience, social standing or professional achievements no man ever rids himself of that adolescent streak. However, this ‘situation’ arose, the attendant, events leading up to, social interactions, ramifications, motivations etc were causing the dust of musing to coalesce. The original slender thread of the plot began to take on shape, birthed by an urge to place both comic ideas into some context. They would only be additions of course to a deeper and wider narrative, but in doing so gave some basis and inspiration for getting there. ‘The plot became the thing, wherein the comedy I could bring’ (sorry about that Mr. Shakespeare- no apologies to you Hamlet, to me you always were a royal pain)

Now the words and the possibilities are forming with some ease. Being of the ‘Pantser’ school I have not much of an idea where this particular project is going to go. But if I did, where would the fun in that be?? No, I’m just going enjoy the whole uncertainty happy in the security of the knowledge someone, somewhere, will be involved in a humorously unfortunate incident and some group with suffer from sudden detachment of heads.

Oh, in case anyone was wondering. The Quantum aspect? In comparison with starting a plot for a book, simply no trouble at all to fit in.

Here’s to Inspiration, no matter where or how the dear muse should turn up.

And I do believe I have inadvertently created a template for a book cover.

One Prologue is Worth a Dozen Chapters

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Sometimes your have one volume with a very complicated plot which requires a foundation so the reader isn’t pestered with blank spaces which are filled in some stage down the narrative by one character suddenly breaking into a quite out of context explanation or the sudden desire to give a back story.

There again you may have embarked upon a multi-volume work and are up to your syntax and continuity in characters of various degrees of importance, plots, sub-plots and conflicts of interest. Whereas you may be living a portion of your life in this world you should not expect your readership to so and thus remember whether this character vital to Volume III had had a walk-on part in Volume I.

In these situations The Prologue is a useful device. If you are writing Fantasy…

He’s up to something….No I am not. It’s a prologue of a prologue!!

… it is almost a necessity otherwise you do have characters indulging in long explanations to another character which in normal circumstances the latter would not require, being it is hoped familiar with the nuances of their own world. In this genre you will have enough of a problem fitting in those explanations or discoveries which are generally unknown without having to include a running commentary for the reader. Prologues set the scene. Many successful authors use this device. As did many before The Bard and contemporaneous with Shakespeare. For instance he has a Chorus in the opening Scenes of Henry V and in Romeo and Juliet and you should not quibble over the fact this is one person, it would only sound confusing to have a lot of folk saying the same thing. Thus, if you are paying attention you will have an idea of ‘what’s what’.

A prologue can take many forms, a piece of action or dialogue before the main narrative. Sometimes it can take the form of a potted portion of history, this type should be approached with caution, lest it morph into a style which would be better suited to a factual history book. I had this problem upon reaching Vol III of my Fantasy trilogy….

Here it comes folks!.. Stealth Marketing…. I shall ignore that with all the dignity at my disposal

….. I was simply going to record because the overall plot was reflecting the many facetted aspects of conflicts political and military when more then two parties are involved. There was by then a great deal of detail swirling around and this begged a summary. So I tried a few ‘historical accounts’ by various anonymous writers and none worked (See above-History)

It then occurred to me, at least one character would be in a similar situation trying to make sense of everything. The natural choice was Arketre Beritt, being military and without particular ‘Ethereal’ Powers she would be short of the extra perceptions Karlyn & Trelli have, and since she was military would be wary as to where the next crisis might come from. Thus between us (I always work with the characters, they have a far better insight than I do) we put together an incident where she attempts to chart and list all the possible threats, influences and problems on the various horizons.

Aside from this prologue having an element of acerbic comedy, which is Arketre’s forte, it would also serve to show the reader just what a convoluted hoo-hah everything had become. This state of affairs being a visualisation of the tangle which became WWII, Vietnam in the 1950s-1970s, Iraq in the previous decade and any patch of European history between …..well any time …In short no one was every truly in control or genuinely working with each other. We decided italics would work best to illustrate when she was writing or maybe having particularly vivid (polite alternative) thoughts.

Thus Arketre and I give you…The Prologue (aside from the initial physical scene setting and Arketre’s brief look-back, left out as not truly pertinent to the post). The romantic ending is deliberately left in as that plays several very important parts in the narrative….No, not The Relationship in general, causes for banter, noble sacrifice, tensions and scenes of an intimate nature. You need the book to find out…

Oh Marketing! The Horror! The Horror!

 …….         Late night in the town of Yermetz. The air chill, a reminder Spring was still young. A figure seated at a desk, candle flickering due to a draft whose source still evaded detection.

          As satisfied as she was Beritt was not inclined to be complacent and expect things to go on this easy. There were wars brewing, wars happening, wars in places far away and wars right under your nose, most folk could not see those last sort of wars. Beritt was realistic enough to appreciate she could only see a fraction of them at any time, so all the more reason to make sure she would be alert to anything coming her way.

          It was a simple task really. Sit down with a large sheet of parchment, in the centre draw three circles with their first names written therein, then around them draw more circles with the names of all the organisations and people she reckoned could affect them. Once this was accomplished draw lines from these others to Me, Kitlin and Trelli, then lines which would link each of the organisation or people to each other. It would be like drawing a map, on scouting missions, you just had to keep a clear head and be methodical.

          She carefully inscribed their names, adding extra curves to the letters K-I-T-L-I-N.

          Then those to watch out for. The LifeGuard were, naturally, her first choice, only she found herself writing under its big circle, smaller ones to hold the names ‘Centre of Command and Decision- Drygnest’, ‘Colonel Rachteg’ and ‘Captain Dekyria’, because all three had been in contact with her or once through Kitlin at differing times with differing messages or in the case of the amorphous first trying to incinerate her as an acceptable loss. She didn’t feel inclined to draw lines yet.

          Next came ‘The Libratery’, she had once been a member; a humble Novice Devoted. Take into account Trelli had grown up in one of their orphanages and of late had been at their tuscatalian fortress Altoviani Settentrionali, working for them. Bear in mind, last year when seeking out Trelli, apparently Kitlin had annoyed a Surveyoress Coltello who Trelli reckoned was up to more than she seemed. Thus once more two separate circles under a bigger circle. The lines would certainly take some careful work. Then she remembered The Devoteds had Ragithyl sort of imprisoned or something. So she had to add his name, grunting to herself for he would cause a tangle.

          She then wrote ‘Decoryx’ the land of Prince Atherlin. She had been based in his realm and Trelli came from there, and he seemed to be held in ‘Fond Regard’ with The LifeGuard. Not actually pressing into her space, but worth putting down because for her that was where everything had begun. This was going to be more involved than she had reckoned. Some lines would have to bend all the way around the parchment if they weren’t going to get in the way of others. Some might intersect, she would have to think of symbols to indicate what sort of intersection. She frowned, sipped cooling coffee.

          ‘Elinid’ came next. That was where Kitlin originally claimed she had come from. Trelli had ended up there for a short time, so had Ragithyl while Wigran part of Trelli’s earlier life and deeply involved in the original mess now worked for The Silcs, and when you mentioned The Silcs it seemed they were in contact with Captain Dekyria. Another long line which would have to curve. Now there were several more circles all in a little huddle as if they were keeping a secret from her….Oh yeah and the Silcs were probably involved with that Coltello girl……Frib!

          And while she’d been thinking of Kitlin, Custodian Meradat loomed into her head, he was supposed to be of the Office of Custodians (or whatever they called themselves) but didn’t appear to get on with his seniors. Also neither he, his seniors nor The Libratery didn’t seem to pay any attention to the Official top of Religion The Ecclesiastes. She scowled at the thought of the fresh number of circles ,which in a fit of resentment at this intrusion into her military and civil world she placed in the far away bottom right corner of the parchment ensuring they kept out of her way until she was good and ready for them.

          Of course she had to include Terasonia. Of late the land had loomed large in the three women’s lives, this led to her having to include separate items for the Four Grand Dukes, the new prince, More-Than-He-Seemed Zweideutig and The Terasonian Church. Hoping they were no longer her problem she placed them off to the far left in the middle. Her modest amount of satisfaction at this arrangement soured when she remembered Osavus Trelli’s lover. He would have to be included because you could never tell with love what might happen. Beritt was glad she did not know the name of the girl he was betrothed to.

          And when you mentioned Terasonia, you had to mention The Shadow Lords; she put them next to the terasonian collection. She couldn’t really remember if there was more than one lot of Shadow Lords, she decided not to press the issue. Between that grouping and her, Kitlin and Trelli’s names she placed the evil The Zerstorung, got more confused and found she had had to put a separate entry for each group of them, being Air, Land and Deep. She glowered at the name Ragithyl for his previous involvement with at least two of them and cursed him for reminding her of at least of the Silcs being, possibly attached. 

          At this stage she sat back and huffed, then grimaced in spectacular proportions. Several of the circles seemed to want to be somewhere else. Maybe she should have put all the names on small bits of other parchment and shuffled them about on the larger piece. The ever growing numbers of groups and characters caused her to relate it to the patchwork of The Oakhostian Empire. At this thought she ground her teeth, she now had to make one entry for The Oakhostian as an empire and one for the Emperor Loosiderue because if you were a LifeGuard you didn’t think an Emperor as half as important as the whole. An image of the court and the princes came into her thoughts. Princes made her think of Henrich (The Useless) of Valeneg (her current location) and to his eastern borders, Prince Habgierig of Krenderenberg of whom Prince Atherlin of Decoryx had very unfavourable opinions. More circles. More lines. She shuddered at the notion of just how many little coded symbols at the intersections she would have to make. She forced down other names bubbling up, some from the winter’s activities around Terasonia and others due to the possibilities of ‘unpleasantness’ on Valeneg’s borders. Irritation invited her to vent its smouldering by her petulant drawing on the bottom central edge of a very untidy circular shape into which she inserted the phrase ‘Other wobblers and sheep-chasers of the Nobility’

          This done she dropped her elbows onto the table and her chin into her clenched fists, glaring at the confusion of circles whose numbers and arrangements  had there been any further additions these might have been set to form a mocking grin. She looked to ‘Kitlin’ for comfort and fond memories, only to remember her bride had mentioned that evasive fellow ‘Krongar’ in terms which had suggested his own entry and his presence of course reminded her of the danger of Karlyn’s Shadow Lord’s family. With a growl she found a place far from any other and attacked the parchment, the circle was bigger than that of Loosiderue’s for whom, presently she didn’t give a mouldy carrot. She savagely addressed the circle, got as far as ‘Krong-‘  and the tip of the quill snapped off.

          In fact due to impact coupled with the snapping the word looked like ‘Kronpf’ which was a type of honeyed oat cake favoured in the most central regions of the Oakhostian and suggested she might be the clerke for a bakery cartel which had a ridiculously grandiose idea of marketing.

          Cursing quills in general Beritt turned her anger into determination. She had spent precious bedtime on this, her investment would not be lost. She would not cut up the parchment into strips for use in the privy, something Trelli disapproved of, saying used parchment aside from being rough left ink stains on places you did not want ink stains. Also Beritt resolved she would not take the infernal work outside to tear into small bits, an act which might provide interest to the local cats out on nocturnal patrol. No, she could take up her charcoal stick and draw fribbing lines!

          But first to inscribe in angry charcoal letters ‘Kitlin’s Fribbing Interfering Family’.  To anyone else a rather enigmatic statement perched in the top left corner.

          After sometime of trying straight lines, curved lines, lines which went into loops and lines which gleefully forced her to have them cross over each other and despite the invention of symbols still became confused as to their direction; after the appearance of lines, which on other occasions, possibly when drinking wine, might have been seen to form amusingly vulgar shapes Beritt broke the charcoal stick in two and threw it at the wall.

          Obviously the whole business was not one suitable to sane folk. Folk who when attacked by someone simply hit back until that attacker either ran away or stopped moving. Folk who stood ‘here’ and if they had to go ‘there’ went in the least dangerous way. Folk who once in a while would like a very simple set of orders which had a start and a finish. Folk who had not been transferred and thence trained to work in one of the select LifeGuard units. Such as The Office of Expropriation’s Leopard Company, whose members after rigorous training and only having a casual acquaintance with sanity, went out to spy on suspect groups or burn down suspects groups’ habitations or slay as many members of the suspects groups as necessary and slip away, without anyone noticing; all the while not really caring who the groups were or why this group had been selected when a lunation ago the group had been considered allies. 

          No, she would not scrumple up, stamp on, nor tear up or even bite chunks out of the parchment, each urge briefly considered as feasible. She would roll the whole stupid mess up, tie a piece of string about it and place in her backpack for later use. Either as a point of reference, or if the need arose to symbolically wave under the nose of any senior officer who asked her for a report, or in very trying situations she would threaten (at some later stage) to insert up their backside if they dared asked her some damn fool question when she was otherwise engaged.

          The lesson learned. She would simply have to stay alert for danger from all sorts of directions, trusting only in her friend the ever maturing Trelli and, smiling fondly in the direction of the bedroom door, her darling, funny, caring, wonderfully unpredictable Kitlin.

          And she would go back to the easier task of studying the manual on infantry company tactics which she had found in The Translator Pastoral’s library. He had feigned surprise at it being there. She did not ask. 

          Stowing away the parchment roll in a less than tender manner, and disrobing she padded to the bed. She paused to smile fondly at her Kitlin. Maybe the girl was of Shadow Lord’s blood. So what? She was still a beautiful woman, and Beritt congratulated herself on having ensured the girl had finally discarded those concerns, dismissing the pleas made by folk they had encountered who claimed to be relatives. Yes, her Kitlin had spouted off some references to her heritage and expanded on that to those Shadow Lords soldiers but that had all been a bit of an act to scare them. Of late discussions on the subject often ended in Karlyn assuming the role of a haughty princess and Arketre Beritt in other guises, all play with one objective.

          To fall into bed laughing. And then for loving to begin.

          All hers, made formal by a patronising yet useful ceremony. Once more relishing the irony Beritt then as she often did when Karlyn had gone to bed earlier stood and enjoyed the sight.

          Her love was in deep sleeping, arms wrapped around Beritt’s pillow. She gently eased the pillow from out of the embrace; there came a whimper of protest, which she stilled by taking the pillow’s place causing a murmur of delight and a sigh of satisfaction. As she settled in, her Kitlin’s long, lithe arms slipped around her accompanied by a sleepy kiss on the back of her head. Beritt managed to get the pillow back in place and falling into the rhythm of Karlyn’s breathing, joined her beloved in sleep.  These nights she didn’t even need the candle still burning. Her Kitlin’s arms would keep the doubts and fears away..………..

End of Prologue……

If it has worked readers will now be prepared for the lot of tangle, and a fair idea as to the number of who are doing the tangling (or untangling)….

PS: Any long term followers and kind supporters/contributors to my posts and books are more than welcome to ask for a PDF version in advance of the official publication: All enquiries to nnqp1863@yahoo.co.uk