Writing fiction – Page 2 – S J Lister. Author

Planning for NaNoWriMo

This is a goal for a person I won’t meet.

I have never really been a planner. There I have said it.

For some who know me, this is not a surprise. I like to be organised, I don’t always succeed. Files on a computer are very ordered. Folders in folders and all make sense and are logical.

But when it comes to trying to write short story, a collection on a theme, or even when trying to tackle what I just call ‘ze novel’, probably inspired by watch Snatch too often. It has become an ever growing mass of pages in OneNote, interlinked and so much that I have lost the plot of what the original story was.

I did find the different versions of ‘100 questions‘ idea very helpful, but this did actually just add more to the world creation as opposed to creating a story. (There is also this list of 175 questions which is also helpful with some nice titles).

For example, when considering the social make up of the ‘Border’ Dwarfs (Doesn’t everyone have at least 3 separate groupings of dwarfs?), the back history, the short war between them and the human community that lived on the plains that were by the mountains. How this represented the different doorways for the King of this kingdom and how this created the history of both these kingdoms. – This whole thing began from this one tweet using the word ‘bone‘.

The longer story of this encounter can be found here if interested. But I know what you are thinking, will this ever make it into ‘ze novel’? Well we shall see. The problem with those last 4 words is the same reason I have simply multiple pages of brief dialogue, back history, creation beliefs, religions and even games that are played. I have lost the over prospective of what I am trying to write. There was something that at the beginning, promise!

So with the upcoming #nanowrimo I have sat down and actually mapped out a plan. I was in a meeting at work but this can be out little secret yeh?

So I have a plan, I have added this to yet another page on the OneNote file. But I am determined to actually try and write this out. It’s official title is ‘ze novel 2’.

I will say this again. ‘I have a plan!‘

Will this plan be followed through as the month of July moves on. Time will reveal. I have the plan made for my older self, to try to write about 1700 words a day, for my even older self to have most of ‘ze novel’ to potentially form ‘The novel’.

The End

Where does the world end? This surely is a subjective question to many. To many, it is where the physical plane of earth, rock and mineral ceases. To some, it can be where the last tavern sits before the gates and walls of the city they call home. Some cities have been known to have multiple taverns of similar name, causing many to attempt to trace a route to go drinking through each tavern and establishment through the city as they go. For those poor souls, the end of the world is not normally found in the drink that they choose that evening, but the feeling of they suffer the next morning.

For Roke, the 3rd Commander of the Goblin Guard, who had been called into the office of the representative of the Protector of the city Haven, he felt his world coming to an end when given the task of what is commonly called Legacy of the King. Which normally would mean everyone would hate you and you have to build something big enough to leave a mark at the great Goblin Gate, or have an impact on people’s lives that would mean the King would be remembered. Few would ever remember the person who was given the take of administrator. A cursed role that few voluntarily wanted in any organisation.

The only solace for Roke when being told his new brief, was that he had actually felt worse, and a similar end of the world feeling, when he finally, although supported by a few drinks at his local tavern, plucked up the courage to ask his the future Mrs Roke for a casual game of Siege. If she said no, his friends would laugh at him, but it would also mean his own world would collapse as he had dreamed of asking her to play a game for about 5 years, ever since his own growing changes began. It had always been her. But thankfully she said yes, and despite his nerves, he won the game. He didn’t realise that she wanted to let him win as she knew he had been wanting to ask for at least 3 years since he would not stop staring at her when she worked the in the bakery stretching out the bread for the day to be baked.

It would be the only game she would let him win in their entire life together, “Let them win the first one,” her mother told her when her changes were starting. “That way, they will always feel they can beat you again, and keep trying to get one over you again.” As a person who had herself, failed to keep any partner for more than 2 seasons since her the father of Mrs Roke died in a goblin raid many years before, the advice was weighted, but no one could compete with her father, so her mother’s advice was kept.

But it was when The Captain, walking as he did along the river Co’ombe, which flowed through the city of Co’ombe where he lived, that he stumbled on something that brough his world to an end. Which was fortunate as a new one was about to begin with his discovery.

“What are you doing here?” A giant of a man, as tall as a man and a half, and twice as wide as any, his gentle demeanour was there as long as it was needed. Those who knew him, or worse, the patrons of his Tavern who failed to keep to the rules, knew it could disappear like a coins at a table.

Lying on the floor, wrapped in ripped rags and an orange hat held on by the ears poking through, was a small goblin. Having been a former guard on the Goblin gate, he was used to seeing goblins, they normally held a range of weapons aiming at him along with a snarl that still haunted him on quiet nights when woken by a brawl outside.

But today was about fishing for the specials at lunch as it was going to be packed for the Siege Tournament he had been tricked into hosting. Having a full tavern was one sure way of being able to survive another round of taxes should the farmer knock, and catching fish for free would only maximise his profits. A goblin would only bring trouble.

But this was not the Goblin Gate, this was not a goblin in armour and, he was not in the river patrol militia hunting for goblin raiders. Here lay a shivering, petite goblin, clothes torn and not a weapon in sight. The hordes sent in their warriors, even the rapid attack scouts, with more weapons and provisions than what he found that day on the riverside and caught in the Co’ombe.

-Take her back to The Bell.-

The voice was back, no one else seemed to hear it, but with its encouragement, he couldn’t help but wrap up the goblin in a bundle of wraps and add to his cart. It wasn’t a long journey back to The Bell, but when harbouring a goblin, it would not be an easy one.

Gifts for the new King

The new King, Tymorth, son of Daumere, sat on his throne as the first door was being put into place. Surrounding him were the gifts from the farm collectives that would feed not only his own kingdom, but had become the vital part of trade and the wider economy of the continent. They were all a reminder, that all Kings would never be able to have such impact as their greatest leader. It was this idea that had sent previous kings searching for a quest to rival it, only ending in their warriors to return, defeated, with their King on his shield to be buried in the Tomb of their kin.

The rough face of the young leader perused the hoard, each a reminder of the connections with the Kingdom that he would have to carefully manage, but also to the links outside the natural barrier that kept them safe from the farthest of enemies that might threaten mankind. There was the usual collection of gold, weapons, treasures from the past that to the right holder would have them giggling with glee to hold such vestiges of history in their hands. The axe that slay the last goblin Grute that entered the natural barrier, heralding such honour that it was the mightiest of Goblins to have marched through the kingdoms of man all those years ago. But to the casual passer-by, it was a half rotten handle that had barely kept its shape along with a heavily oiled axe head to attempt to keep it from ruin. The box it travelled in had been rebuilt countless times, one day it will only be a piece of metal, that if the label got lost, could easily have been tossed away.

What caught the young King’s eye first, was the comb, hand delivered by the Dwarves that live just outside his Kingdom. As jovial relations are with them, the threat they could pose was always in mind. All villages knew the horror that a dwarven attack could bring, every family had tales of what they had witnessed, who they had lost. The Border Wars was not just a story, it kept the warriors well trained knowing a friend can easily become an enemy, and a line in the ground does not mean the same to another as it might to you.

There were a collection of tokens, but the dwarf, who had been dressed in ceremonial clothing and armour, at least for that was what his advisor had told him they were dressed in. The rumours of the Dwarf skill at metal work and fine jewels appeared to be fairy tales from what he saw in their clothing. But those of the Hammer and those of the Smith were different to the Border Dwarfs. To their kin they were seen as wild, untamed and ones to be avoided. The emissary from the Dwarfs of the Hammer had delayed their trip for 3 days, to simply make sure there would be no time for them to meet, or even be in the same land as each other if possible.

His accent was strange, but one that was understandable to the young King. ‘Greetings young King,’ Was this an attempt at insult for meeting a freshly crowned head? ‘You have a strong line behind you and your ancestors will be proud. The runes speak of a strong arm for an axe, or a sword if you prefer. A steady shield we see in your future, one that protects not just you, but those behind you.’

It wasn’t until his uncle made a sign to do something that the young Kind realised that they were all waiting for him to respond. ‘My thanks to you, emissary of the Dwarfs.’

‘I am not an emissary of the Dwarf. I come from my own kin and we are here to welcome you to your new seat. I see that you will have to add some elements of the world to your learning in between your weapon, and farming, lessons.’

The mottled grey of chainmail and the wolf skins on top might look more for show than those standing behind the Dwarven figure, but the shining axe by his side and shield held on his back made it clear that he could use them if required. The young King looked at the dwarf, now testing the water with the him, the warnings of how he should be with them, and not to anger them was clear, but if his uncle was to be in charge, he would be doomed to be a King in name only.

‘I can see that we both need lessons, one of my understanding of the dwarven kin and kingdoms, and for you,’ a moments pause to collect a breath, it was only a moment but the stories of the young boy in front of a dwarf in the wars and the rapid changes that can happen in a blink of an eye, a slice of an axe, a moment can appear to feel a long time when there is suddenly one in front of you not attempting to hide slight insults to you. ‘For you, I feel we need to explore more how we shall talk to each other. We do not call our leaders young or make fun of them in front of others. It can be seen as rude and challenging.’

It had slipped out. His uncle visibly froze to hold his hand back, the phrase had almost been written on every wall in each village, never challenge a dwarf. The young King held his gaze and waited for what would be coming. In the middle of the throne room stood the dwarf chosen to represent the dwarfs who were called wild by their own kin, with 6 ceremonial guards to follow. Each with gilded weapons but the steel was there to fight if needed.

‘I knew you would be a good choice for this Kingdom!’ The laughter echoed around the room with a sigh from the guards at the door who heard every word. ‘I told our chief that you were a good one, your father always spoke of you kindly, but said you had a stubborn streak that was not to be tested.’

With the abrupt laughter, came an about turn, and they left.

No one spoke until the King’s uncle came to speak but the first words were the Kings. ‘Before you try to lecture me on how to talk and greet these dwarves into my kingdom remember, I am the King that makes the call to the villages to put down their seeds, and pick up their swords. I am the one who sits and sees the first shield come in from the war. I am the one who needs to not flinch when an axe holder is there in front of me. Leave my side now uncle. I will call for you after the moon has gone.’

Slowly the room filtered out, the entourage of his uncle followed, allowing the King’s own guards replace themselves elsewhere to guard down the corridor, leaving the new King and his personal aid to review the gifts they had been given and the great catalogue could begin for the start of his reign.

‘You didn’t need to be so hard on your uncle there Tymorth.’

‘What would you have me do? Let him order me around in front of everyone?’ His eye were drawn to the Goblin Axe, the history of the great deeds always were a reminder to a new king. The long corridor for all visitors past the archways. A reminder to the new bearer of the throne that there could be a door added to each to show their great deeds. Or, as the axe whispered to all that held it in their possession, their actions can leave behind stories when they themselves have passed to be collected by one of the family.

‘So what did the dwarves bring?’ Ja’Mar was always interested in symbolism, the idea of a gift being given had to have a meaning. He always wanted to find something that had a meaning to the person he was giving as opposed to the large golden jewel encrusted pieces that people might choose to give. The small objects often had pride of place, jewels were to be hidden away if possible.

The idea of these dwarves giving a gift to a new king was rare, his father was given a chest of items, an axe made by their blacksmiths, but it was designed for a strong warrior meaning his father could never weald it. His childhood disease stopped him from being able to use both arms properly. To those that live by what they produce, it was a mark of dishonour that took many years to repair as they had made the gift, finely balanced to excellent detail, but the choice of metal meant it was wrong.

When Tymorth was born, they attempted to bring a small gift, a toy that their young would play with, to make them grow up to be strong warriors. Not many knew, but he still had it in his most prized possessions, but never dared ask anyone how he was meant to play with it. It would be ignorant to ask his father as he should know, and to ask anyone else would reflect on his father failing to teach him.

‘So here we have the most unknown community around, giving you a light axe, I guess they didn’t want to repeat the last time.’ His eyes spoke with fondness of the past King, a beloved leader to his people and a personal mentor to Ja’Mar. ‘Interesting, they have given a comb, I guess this is to welcome you to manhood when you decide to grow a beard of quality. Dwarves like a good beard, tells a story by how you plate and decorate it.’

He passed the comb over to Tymorth. The weight was light but strong to sort out what must be messy beards for them. They always seemed to glisten in the light from the torch light. The oils they used must resilient to heat or that would cause a problem in itself.

‘What else have they given me then?’

Ja’Mar had already laid out the items to review and record. Writing was a skill not all got to learn, but one that he liked to use whenever it was possible to. ‘Let me see. We have the comb, the axe, a series of 5 golden coins with some markings on each. A map of our border with them on hide. I guess this is a reminder that they honour the treaty. Looks to be the same. Might be worth having someone check it for fine details.’

Tymorth was listening but the way comb was shaped. It fit into his hand as if it was made for him. There were numerous finger points for when it motioned the combing of a future beard, if he were to grow one. “Say what you will about the Border Dwarven Kingdom, but they mighth produce the best beard combs in the Kingdom.”

“You know they use the bones from their enemies to show how they have conquered them, meaning our grandparents from the Border Wars?”

“Well that ruined that gift from the King.”

Carefully, the comb was placed down next to him as he pushed it over the Ja’Mar to add to the pile for sorting and storing. Each gift would have to be responded to properly to make sure no slight was given to those who have joined in the celebration of a new King.

The returning of a bone from someone who was killed in combat, the Dwarfs had been said to have different traditions, this was one that might need to be explored further.

A jumbled mess…

There have been many benefits to my decision to leave teaching. There are also many things about teaching that I miss. But there is one thing I have noticed, by not constantly thinking about planning lessons, reviewing lessons and wondering how I can add something new to the curriculum for my History department, my creativity has gone all over the place.

So I have attempted to explore the idea of writing stories. Some have even been published in different forms, something I am unbelievably proud of and still in disbelief. Being a person with ADHD, I find that I can have my ideas go far and wide, and often stray from one point. This is probably why I have multiple WIP stories at the same time.

The creative process has always intrigued me. Knowing authors who can sit down on a rigid timeframe and just write for a few hours in the morning, or in the evening. I am amazed. I sadly find the idea of sitting down at 9am to punch in to create the dialogue between The Captain and Kajuna while they discuss the changes currently happening in the city of Coombe with the threat of a Goblin invasion. Well some people can hold it in until their allotted time. I can’t.

But today I seem to have found a good thing to help move forward on something bigger than a short story. The humble whiteboard. It was something that I used everyday. Every revision lesson, or just a general lesson in the classroom, the whiteboard with a spider diagram united many of my classes by visualising their ideas.

The image from today’s point isn’t going to be ground breaking, I have tried to do something similar on OneNote that I use for all my writing. But it has never had the same impact that I would have expected. But using it, I almost feel that I have a potential story arc to build on today past the 5k word count and link what I have already written.

I just need to remember to step away from the computer to eat and sleep tonight when trying to merge, blend and create the bigger picture of ‘the novel’.

The call for the Robin’s return

The moon perched itself up high and bright while its light broke through the clouds as they past with a mild breeze. Below danced a young maiden, her headdress was made of leaves that had been chosen for their colour and kept for this night. As she frolicked around a fire, the shadows filled the field with a myriad of shades along the rows of vines down the banks. The Kings maiden however, had not been chosen for her skills as a dancer, nor her ability to lead the people on this night when the procession forms. His steward had chosen the young maiden for how she looked, soft on the eye with her long hair flowing around her while she danced.

When one of the men from the tables on high walked to her she would gracefully twirl to collect a ladle from the pot over the fire to refill the cups brought to her. The slow steam coming off the pot was a sign that the liquid was warm but not boiling, allowing the alcohol and herbs to mix. The space around the pot filled with the aroma of fruits and spices. With a tent set around the fire the smell was strongest and as the evening went on, the young maidens dancing strengthened, powered by the mixture coming from the pot.

Up the hill, under a cover of a tent sat the King and Queen, their faces illuminated by the torches around the edges. The steward, watching his choice closely for the night, sat to the side of the King, listening. To the other side of the Royal couple sat an empty chair. Vacant, and waiting for the King’s son to appear, to take his place above the gathering to bring in the new year.

With the tables filled, the feast was brought out. A blend of the year’s harvest and gifts from those who attended the meal. The change was subtle, but as the servants brought plates out to those further from the king, the platters slowly shrunk as did the plates. By the time the servants brought out the food for the tables furthest from the King, the platters were half the size, but the chairs were double. But tonight, was not to about feasting and to engorge your stomach, it was a moment to end the year and bring in the new.

As the King picked up his knife to begin the feast a roar could be heard from down the field. The atmosphere down the field was filled with song, music and a beer being shared. The sound matched the dancing and shadows of the young maiden but the quiet music by the King was being drowned out by the guttural sound from below.

‘Go and fetch my son’. The orders were spoken quietly from the King to his steward. The sheep skin pelts of the king shifted as he turned to his steward to give him the order. The night had grown cold and the elaborate clothes of the King had become buried under layers of pelts, each a gift to show his power, carefully laid on each other to show the sheep, wolf and bear skins that covered him to keep him warm.

The steward, dressed in fine clothes collected his black fur pelt to cover his shoulders, help together by a golden clasp marking him at the Kings steward, a token he wore with pride no matter the occasion. Carefully, he rose from his seat as a servant pulled back his chair. A purposeful walk, one that he took pride in holding, he often felt dignified in walking slowly regardless of the moment. Only a rushed man was to be ordered about. With his back straight and collected posture, he felt the eyes of those he deemed below him look his way, only to quickly hide behind mugs and food if he hinted at looking down the tables he walked past.

As he walked down the hill, he felt the cold breeze brush by him, thankful for his warm clothes he strolled through the hedge rimmed path and turned down the path. He watched the young maiden dance herself into a frenzy as the string instruments tried to keep up with her path. The aroma from the warm liquid in the pot taking its affect slowly. Next to him the rows of vines stretched far to both sides, having been prepared for the new year and next years harvest. The first signs of growth and the rich fruits they will grow not yet showing. The risk of a late frost was always a worry for the farmers and the new year.

The merry singing and the cheers appear to reach its peak as the steward met a soldier on guard at the orchard gates. The smell of ale met him before the words of greetings came from his lips. The steward, often called by his title and not his name, Atolfyr, walked past knowing a conversation would neither end well, nor be meaningful. In front of him would normally be a open space with a well neatly in the middle with the sparse barns to his left. Of course, this was not a normal day, and the space for carts and sorting servants and slaves was filled with Ale drinking and dancing. Fire pits had been set up leaving space for the procession to pass later that night. But he had to push his way through. Something he had become unaccustomed to with his title, and knights usually in front doing the work for him. The more he ordered people to move, the less willing they seemed to be.

Finding the King’s son was not going to be difficult. The ale was being poured from the large barrels stored in one of the barns and the mass of people needing their jugs refilled showed him quickly where to go. It is not often to see a prince acting the servant, and when he saw him pouring drink, Atolfyr was unsure when he had ever experienced such a sight. When the prince saw him appear in the crowd, he beckoned him over.

‘Make way you drunken fools’, his voice cut clear across the crowd and the rabble moved eloquently to let Atolfyr through with no hindrance. ‘Can’t you see the steward of the King, the great Atolfyr has come to grace us with his presence.’ Although his voice was merry and cheery, Atolfyr never took to being referred to as Great from the Prince. It was never meant in a kindly manor, which was the norm for how he spoke toward him. Even the prince understood that the steward represented the King, and to speak to the king’s steward in such a tone was to insult the King himself. A complaint that had been made often.

The barn doors were wide open, wide enough for a cart to be put in the middle and for men to walk either side of it with barrels on their shoulders if need be. These had been pegged open and a table had been put in the opening to allow the crowd to stand one side while the ale and cider were collected for the merry crowd. Atolfyr was not used to standing this side of the table but the crowd did not move to allow him to go round. The noise of the crowd appeared to rise with each step he had taken towards the table and he knew he would have to shout to get his orders across.

Atolfyr stood up straight, these were the words of the King he was to relay, he had to make sure they were clear and sound. ‘The king demands your presence for the feast of the New Year.’
The crowd fell silent.

All eyes appeared to go from their own fires, friends and fellow drinkers to the steward now stood tall in front of the prince.
The prince finished pouring the horn of Ale and handed it to the man next to the steward, who standing at least 2 heads taller than the Atolfyr received his drink but did not move. Atolfyr was not sure what caused it, but something glinted in the fire light that came from the numerous fire pits that had been made for the celebrations for the night.

‘Is this not the celebration of the new year around you fair steward’. The prince pointed at the gathering of people around the barns and fires. His face jolly and smiling at those as he raised his own jug at them and drained the contents before turning to refill. Something he had clearly done many times already on this day, with the accompanying cheer from the crowd with a mug drained in their honour. The prince continued but this time looking Atolfyr in the eye, ‘Why would I want to leave this gathering to come and sit at the tables with you, while you letch after the women dancing around the fire up there.’

The crowd rustled closer to Atolfyr, with the sensing of movement he instinctively moved his hand to hold the clasp across his chest.

‘Do not think that the golden clasp of my father will save you when the wolf comes for you little man’ the Prince jumped on the table and raised his axe high for the crowd to see. ‘For the wolf is out there, waiting for all of us. We wish to meet the mother on our day, but we all know that when the day comes, too many of us are left. Left for the wolf to come and find us, to pick at the scraps left after the glory is taken by those on high’.

The crowd whispers and watches to see how the steward chooses to react to the prince. But before anything can happen, the prince jumps down and picks up his jug of Ale. ‘However, today is a day of celebration for all. Why should we be parted from our family and kin?’

Atolfyr carefully breathes a sigh of relief, fearing that the prince may take a turn that he was not protected from. It was well known that he did not act like a prince should, too often talking to those beneath his station, allowing others to speak before others above them and the rumours continued to flow to his office. His evening activities were spoken of too often for it to be ignored much longer. The balance of ruling and staying true to the way of things was a fine one. His father had defended the kingdom from the goblin threat and, although there was a great cost to some, the treasury continued to grow, and no goblin had set foot in the kingdom. The kingdom continued to be safe and that was the purpose of the King.

‘Come all, let us join together up the hill to celebrate the new year and start the procession together’. The prince’s words took a moment to sink in to Atolfyr. In the moment it took him the man two heads taller than him had moved in front of him to begin the journey up the hill.

When the Prince reached the gateway to enter the vineyard and the field with the king’s party he found a series of guards stationed there. There was nearly no place where the prince would be stopped from entering but the same was not for the crowd behind him. The poles crossed blocking the path of the crowd once the prince and gone through.

‘Let my friends passed’. The Prince, all traces of his stance from before with the crowd now gone, this was the prince of the realm. His arms behind his back and the mug of Ale being held carefully so not to spill.

The guards did not move. Only a few could give orders that meant they would not listen to him. The prince told the crowd to wait, and he would shortly return to join them for the procession of the New Year. The time had come to bring in a new year and they began to collect their torches and prepare to scare away the evil spirits that had collected through the cold months, the growing crowd could be seen by the passing of torches spreading from the guards back towards the barns down the hill.

When the prince reached the King’s table he did not sit. He stood in front and calmly greeted his father and mother. The crowd had finished their meal and he noticed his plate of food was still their, waiting for him to eat before the festivities of the night continued. Bulging with a plethora of specialities from across the kingdom.

‘Badabryn, such joy for you to join us on this night’, the King’s joy at seeing his son hid the anger at his being so late and, once again, choosing to be with the workers in the field and not his family. A discussion that they have had many times before, and would be needed again.

‘Father, on this joyous night to banish the evil from these lands, should we not be celebrating together’, the jolly prince had returned and his Ale jug in had. ‘I see the fair maiden had joined us in the frenzy of the evening and you are surrounded by those who have helped to lead the kingdom through this past year.’

The crowd had turned to watch and listen to the prince, who so often heard through rumour and not seen in public with the crowd.
‘For the leaders of the 14 territories that make up this fine kingdom, I see you have all been brought here to bask in the richness and power of the Kingdom’. Raising his mug to toast all the leaders as they returned the gesture politely.

With the last of his Ale finished, Badabryn slammed down his jug in front of his father cracking the side of it. ‘But I don’t see any of those who worked on the field,’ the words now through gritted teeth. ‘The soldiers who at coming of age have been sent to the wall to defend our rich kingdom, nor do I see any of the mothers who bore the children into this world to support us.’

As he finished a loud call could be heard from the vines, behind the fire, ‘Sire’, the wail of Atolfyr broke through the silence turning the heads to see a crowd had formed. Atolfyr was held by the man two heads above him, while the guards who had held the poles and being led forward by the crowd, their weapons no more and their helmets removed.

All eyes turned to the King for guidance but the silence was broken not by him, but by the maiden from the fire. She walked up from the tent down to the steward and whispered softly into his ear ‘You think it was by chance you picked me out you sordid little man. A quick flash of an innocent eye and a well-placed apple to be picked up and you go where the spirits want you to’.

The flash of light was as quick as she turned, but while she began to walk back up the hill, Atolfyr’s throat was cut and he hung in the man’s arms while blood poured over the ground.

The guards saw this and began to struggle, causing the group holding them to tighten their hold. Eventually they were kicked to the floor on their knees. Their fate would be sealed by the kings choice of words to come.

‘What is the meaning of this!’, the king bellowed and many in the crowd backed away from their tables to stand clear of the maiden as she hopped from table to table up the hill.

The prince quietly bowed to the maiden as she picked up a cloth to clean her knife of blood. The cloth turned red as each drip was carefully cleaned off the knife, for a moment the King could but only stand there while the maiden carefully cleaned and placed it back in the scabbard hidden among the layers of her outfit chosen by the steward.

‘For too long father some of us have sat and grown fat while others toiled the ground beneath them’. The prince carefully spoke to be heard across the crowd of people at the tables. Despite his words many could not take their eyes of the corpse of the Atolfyr, now dropped on the floor and left. The flames caught the sight of the blood pooling around his body staining the grass. ‘You see, there was a time when this event was to scare away the evil. But now it seems the spirits can only do so much as a new evil has settled over these lands.’.

The young maiden leapt onto the table in front of the King who fell backwards over his chair onto the floor in shock. Slowly, the maiden crept forward to the Queen. ‘Everyone looks to the King for power’, she whispered. ‘But the mother brought life into this world, and it is she who takes those who have used it wisely at the end.’

The young maiden moved opposite the Queen, her hands were moved slowly, removing the crown as a dirty rag and peering into her eyes. Poking and massaging the skin to look at every crevasse. The Queen sat quietly, fighting the shakes that were spreading through her body.

‘Your time has come to an end’, the maiden’s hands held each side of her head and in one motion the queen found herself pulled over the table onto the floor. The maiden dragged her to the fire where the pot was still simmering away with the mixture of aromas as it had done through the evening.

The King tried to call for his guards, but he soon realised that the only ones that appeared were covered in the same colour as the grass by the steward. His thoughts fell to his son, wondering what had transpired to cause him to act in such a way. Why was he doing this to his father, his mother. How could he allow anyone to act in this way to his Kingdom, one that he was meant to lead against the dangers outside, not create a new one within.

The cheers from the crowd moving through the vines stopped as they began hold the lords and ladies that had sat around the top few tables, letting the others move through them as they tried to get away.
The King tried to climb over the table, ‘Bada’, the calls of the panicked King to his son pierced through the joyous laughter of the group holding steady the squealing lords and ladies, and collecting what was left from the tables. Sharing the meals of the kingdom together, as was the custom for this time of year. ‘Badabryn what are you doing? Is this your will to have your mother dragged through the mud by this yald’.

The word shot through the laughter and the crowd paused. The maiden let go of the Queen staring the King in the eye at the insult called out. Every hand could be seen on a sword, axe or knife. Without warning, Badabryn, had found his sword at the king’s throat.

‘You use words your majesty that are beneath a man of such a position’. The words leaked out through gritted teeth. With each syllable the tip pressed into the skin. ‘There were wise words I once heard when I was a boy. For tradition must be respected, but convention may be broken. When I was told these words I used to believe that it was the tradition of the King you spoke of.’

Badabryn turned to the young maiden, who now had the queen held with her knife in the fire, creating a warm glow around the shimmering metal. It did not shine like iron or steel, this silvery shimmer had a glow to it where markings, not of battle, began to shine.

‘What have you done?’, the King looked at the knife fearing what it will mean, not just for his wife, but what he feared it might mean.

‘But you see dear father’, Badabryn continued with a relaxed tone that was very different to the surroundings. ‘Your should indeed, respect tradition, but you are not tradition are you dear father. No, you are in fact, convention. A convention that has lasted too long, and forgotten are the traditions that protected these lands and the people who live here’.

While Badabryn spoke to his father, the guards who the King hoped would be saving him had appeared next to the lords and ladies. Each held in place by at least two of the workers from below. The feast that had now paused and a slow hum grew from the fire pit. The blade in the fire began to steam with the heat, the markings appeared to shimmer a glow, but not of heat, a colour that is only seen in battle.

The slow hum paused and the young maiden pulled the knife out of the fire, holding it high for all to see. ‘The King and Queen of the harvest have grown fat on the many years that they have seen. It is time for the land to be cleansed of the evil spirits that has settled here. The robins are coming home to bring in the harvest’

What followed seemed to happen without question. The knife from the maiden flew through the air, leaving a trail of heat where it went. The target was the King and it sizzled in the chest. The King fell to his knees and tried to pull out the knife.

Badabryn carefully kneeled in front of his father, cupping his hands over the fumbling fingers on the knife in his chest. ‘You see father, your time has come to an end. You have turned your back on what the ways of this land. Your convention has come to an end.’

With a twist, the knife was removed from the Kings chest leaving the blood to pour over the soil. Carefully, he walked over to the maiden to return her knife. His mother was held, weeping at the sight of her husband lying on the floor. Glistening from the flames as the light from the fires caught in the pool now spreading from the king.

‘Lords, ladies and stewards’, the jolly prince greeted those who had stuck to their chairs in silence as the maiden turned back to humming her tune by the fire. Warming her knife again while stroking the queens hair. ‘Tonight our kingdom will return to the tradition that many of us have turned our backs on. We will regrow our lands, to make sure all of us can be rewarded by the harvest, and together we can keep the goblin gate strong from the threat to our north.’

Badabryn strolled to the body of the king and, using his sword, picked up the crown of the fallen king. By right, he was now the King of the Kingdom, leader of his kin. The lords surrounding him had to choose quickly what they would do or risk the same fate as the King. If they had the choice to make at all.

The maiden skipped over to one of the torches, gently picking it up. Holding it firmly she handed it to the prince. ‘It is time for the new year to start,’ she began softly. ‘These lands need to have the evil spirits cleansed, the old tree has been touched and needs to be refreshed’.
With her last words she stroked the neck of the queen, who had frozen while she listened and watched. A shudder drove through her back while the maiden’s fingers touched her.

The prince motioned for the guards to move the crowd, while the man who ended the life of the steward walked over to carry the Queen and placed her one his shoulder. The procession was to start.

Through the vine yards the crowd followed the maiden, who danced as she had around the fire. Through the paths, stroking each line of vines and the trees that grew down in the orchard. This continued with the crowd continuing their songs from before with a silence that emanated from those who had sat up on the tables. The maiden waited under the tree and motioned for the Queen to be placed on a low branch. There she clung to the tree, thoughts of rumours she had heard as a girl about the actions in the forests of those who have lived in the kingdom before they were united.

The crowd surrounded the maiden with the lords and ladies of the kingdom in front. Torches were pushed into the ground to give the circle an even glow for all to see. The songs stopped and all eyes were on the maiden, with the prince standing in the crowd.

‘Oh blessed apple tree,
We come here to thee.
Our way has become a drift,
Please accept this pleasing gift.’

The maiden paused and looked at the prince, he walked towards her and took the knife from her hand. He then turned to the queen, his mother, who was holding the tree to steady herself.

The tree was old, the fruit had dried and not come forth for many years. Around the base of the tree there were no weeds, the soil was stale, and nothing grew. The tree had cracked, and it looked like a stiff breeze would break a branch off.

Badabryn looked up at his mother and reached his hand up to her. He placed the knife in his belt and offered to bring his mother down from the tree. ‘It is ok mother, the trouble has ended. We will bring prosperity back to the orchard and the kingdom.’

Shakily, she took his hand and begin to edge off the branch. But the tradition required something big, it had been a long time since the ancient tree had been part of the new year tradition. From leaving the branch his mother sighed as her feet landed on the ground next to the tree. She blinked in disbelief that she would see the morning of the next day.

Then the horror around her met her eyes. The 14 lords in a circle fell at once to the floor. A motion she was used to Queen of the kingdom. However, this time the ground became sodden with the blood of the kingdoms. A gift from all the regions to the tree at the centre.

‘Come to help us here dear robin,
For what we need is bread.
Without you beside us here,
We would surely lose our head!’

The maiden chuckled as she turned to the queen, her eyes had changed from the young maiden dancing around the fire, the green glow was bright, empowered by the 14 lords surrounding her. The prince, taking the knife from his belt, held it out to the maiden while she chanted the words for all to hear. Calling for the robin of the orchard to return for the new year.

The Queen, recognising the words from stories as a young girl, turned to her son knowing her time had come. ‘What have you done my boy?’. The moment her last words had be spoken the warm knife found her throat.

‘The life of the Queen will bring in new life for the year ahead.’ The Maiden shrieked for the crowd to hear. The cheers followed and barrels of wood and kindling were quickly assembled into a ring around the tree and the torches were used to start it.

The merriment continued until the fire ended deep into the morning. The maiden sat in the tree listening to the crowd taking turns to jump over the fire to call out for their wishes for the year ahead. The crowd in turn, repeating each wish.

The prince, made his way up the hill back to the where his father’s body was still on the ground. The body, now covered in blood and mud from when he tried to crawl up the hill, was the old way of life after the events from down below. No longer would the new King’s people rely on just the will of the King, or the steel of the men at the Goblin Gate for protection. Now they had renewed their bond with the spirits of the land. The prince, no the King, King Badabryn. The title sounded odd in his mind. He never thought the day would come. He never imagined that it would be in a field of blood. His fathers blood. He looked at his hands, his clothes, even his sword was in a state that his father would disapprove of, for a king.

The new king looked at his surroundings. The mist was settling around the hills to bring in the new day but the festivities would last until the afternoon for some. The maiden had left the circle to join the new king. She smiled at him while he surveyed his kingdom. Then catching his eye, she smiled for the first time since calling on the robin to return.

‘Are you ready?’

Alphabet Project – A

There is a door down the street, there always is for the right person. As you walk down there are dull streetlights hanging limply over some park cars, some have seen better days, one is more duct tape than paint. The door you are looking for is all that breaks up a row of terraced housing among the gloomy lamps will be on the left, or the right depending on your persuasion or direction of travel. Along with how you comprehend left and right. Some do not.

But along this road, there is a door, somewhere, and when you do find it, you might try to open it. There are houses on both sides, so if it opens, you will only find a corridor. Nothing fancy, plain walls. A few pictures of some of the founding members for the establishment. One is a politician, it doesn’t need a name tag, you will know when you see.

But at the end of the corridor, apart from a small box, is another door. This one is another front door, albeit a little more fancy, the type of one that has glass that you can see yourself in and a shiny handle which can show your fillings. No number.

You have come this far, why not go a little further?

Beyond is what you need. For some, there is a long bar, a stool to sit on and a person behind it cleaning a glass with a towel, just like you have seen done in the movies. You may tell your friends that there is an amazing secret bar hidden in the street that you have found. In the future they will see the bar, drink there and toast to your find.

There may, of course, be more of a club scene when you enter. The music is all the classics from your youth when you danced the night away with that special someone who got away. The happy memories when you were young and didn’t have a care in the world. The next day, like when you were young, you have no hangover, not tired. It was a night just like the good old days.

Rooms can change, businesses develop, it could be a quiet café when you go in. A small selection of coffee, nothing pretentious. A place where a black coffee is, a black coffee. The chairs are comfortable and feel solid. They will serve vegetarian marshmallows with oat milk for your hot chocolate if it’s your way. It might be a place where you can sit, relax and work on that novel. Either to read or to write. But a quiet place for you to escape and have some time to get it finished.

When you chose to leave, the door will be waiting for you. You will find the street much like it was. The row of terraced houses will still be there. The duct tape on the car will still be competing for space with paint. But the lights may seem a little brighter. You may walk down the street and whistle, you may pull your coat in a little tighter as your hair flutters from the weather.

The Antidote door may not always fix your problems. But it is there to give you space to try to combat them. To give you a chance to take control and have time for you. Just remember to leave your feedback in the box. That way the room can do better next time. Should you need a second dose.

A is for Antidote.

The Date

Michelle watched the glass slowly fill with grape juice. At least that was what her mother had called it when she was young. It took her longer than she would like to admit, but she eventually realised that when it was called grape, it had really been fermented and made into wine. A drink she was now ordering for a second time, alone.

This was not the first time it had happened, in fact, she was starting to worry that she might be on first name terms with some of the staff soon. She wouldn’t tell anyone, but this was actually the second time within a week. It was probably the suggestion that she would need to end the night by 9.30, the need to be up early and a long day ahead was just a sensible precaution. To Michelle, this was forward planning. To let the person know that when she starts to clock watch at 9pm, it is not them but a need to leave to get a good night sleep.

Her friends had told her that this meant she was really telling the person that there was no chance of a happy ending to the evening. A phrase that always made her shudder and smile in equal measure.

Picking a place for a first meet with someone is always a difficult idea for her. Too fancy and this sends the wrong message, but too cheap implies something maybe too casual or not committed, or that she isn’t successful. Either way, too much thought had been given and trying to make a ratio of average cost on the menu to number of messages over the length of time for talking. Michelle needed to stop making spreadsheets and adapting the formula.

When the restaurant bring over a complimentary dish, this is probably a sign that they have taken pity on you for being stood up. What frustrated her more though, was that the dish looked too appealing to walk out and leave behind. So there she was, a successful, confident and independent women, drinking back a second glass of wine eating a complimentary pity dish with the eyes of all the staff, and probably half the guests too, watching her knock back each morsel.

At least I will be back before 8.30 tonight to prepare for my interview tomorrow.

GSC – Security for those that matter

Joan counted the till for a second time. She knew it could be counted a third, but the result would be the same. It was the same result from when she did a quick count of some of the supplies in the store room. Things were low. Every week Joan counted the receipts, looked at the deliveries, did a random spot stock check. They did not add up.

Sam appeared at the door behind her, his ability to quietly move around was a quality that had often supported him in the past, but Joan sighed as she did not want to ask what she needed to. She trusted Sam, always had since she hired him. The thought of having to swing on her chair to ask him with the numbers fresh and the consistent gaps worried her.

‘Have you seen these figures for the week?’. She placed her pen down next to the computer having ticked off each of the receipts.

Sam looked at Joan straight in the eyes. He did not shy away from difficult conversations by nature. ‘I know what you’re thinking, but no one here is the reason’.

Joan held his look, it was an odd feeling, but she was able to tell he believed he was telling the truth. She could never explain it, but when people lied to her she felt a warmth in the ears every time. She simply replied ‘I never said it was’. The pause felt longer than it was, it was only by counting to 5 in time with the second hand on the clock that managed to keep the weight of it come down on her.

‘I’ve checked each day, spoken to each of them on the floor’. Sam was always calm when he spoke. You would never know what happened to him outside of work. Good or unwelcome news, he was consistent in how he applied himself when he arrived. ‘No one has seen the money go or the stock disappear.’

Joan picked up the pen and hovered it over a pad of paper, bouncing the end of the pen on the paper. What could she write. No one knew anything. No one’s appeared to see anything. There was no point questioning what Sam had been told. Where others saw an issue in having him work in the shop, Joan saw it as a comfort.

‘I have to ask Sam’.

‘I know. I would worry if you did not.’

‘Have you seen anything that is a concern to you?’ The words fumbled out.

‘No. No one on the floor is a concern.’ He looked at the pen hovering over the pad. ‘I also haven’t taken anything either.’

‘I never suggested you did!’ Joan dropped her pen and jumped up, looking Sam in the eye.

‘Joan, calm down.’

The cushion on the seat is not a new one. Held together by more gaffer tape than thread. It was as Joan sat down in disbelief of the conversation some of the tape lost its grip in the struggle to hold it together.

Sam lent against the door frame, looking at the pile of bills pilling up next to the computer. Some were starting to come in with a range of phrases that all meant the same thing, pay up. ‘What do you want to do?’

‘I don’t know.’

The silence was finally broken when Olivia brought in a business card for Joan, passing it to Sam to bring to her.

‘Odd couple of guys wanted me to bring this to the Manager. Seemed shifty but nothing to write home about.’ With Sam’s thumb and finger holding the card Olivia drifted back out. Tapping the railings in the stock room as she walked out.

‘”GSC – Security for those who matter” Looks to be some security card’.

Joan took the card from Sam, it was a plain card with the name across the middle. The back was blank and all that was on the front, apart from the name, was a thin line around the margin squaring it out.

‘Looks like word is out for people to know we are losing something’.

Sam never liked the idea of someone taking advantage of him or his associates. If he ever felt threatened the bulk of him was a reminder that he would not take it lying down. As he straightened up the door frame was a reminder to where he was standing with a bump.

‘Sam, now you need to calm down.’ Her cheeks always showed a dimple when she smiled. It amused her how it could make Sam giggle when he saw them. At first it made her self-conscious, but then she realised the impact it had. There was a time and place for a calming note.

There was a knock on the door again and Sam swiftly moved out of the office doorway, a well-practiced motion for someone who has become accustomed to supporting the person in charge.

The business was still in Joan’s hand while she found herself waving it side to side. Normally, there would be a name, a number, or some form of contact detail for her to use, or chose to not use, pending who the card was from.

“For those who matter. What does that even mean?” Joan placed it above the pad of paper, which was next to the keyboard on one side, and a pen parallel to the pad on the other. Order. Through order you can be ready for anything. Joan collected her thoughts as she reviewed the items on her desk. Unlike the business outside of her office, all was as it should be.

The Bus Driver. Part 8

With her shoes fixed, dress washed and hanging to dry along with a cheeky takeaway of fish and chips for dinner, the storm of the day calmed as it soaked away in her bath. Agatha eventually explained her day to Andy, who held back his giggles throughout, supported and comforted her after what was a clearly testing, although amusing for him, day.

Despite the worry and chaotic nature of the first day of going back to school, Agatha was pleased to see that even the new rush in the morning and afternoon soon fell into routine. With a regular hand appearing for more sweets back in full swing. As September sailed on, Agatha was pleased to see that the local children were, in general, a lovely group to have on the bus with only one incident that caused Del to stop the bus and get involved. To Agatha’s surprise, the child that was being rude quickly apologised and took their seat. Del, who seemed to have done very little, took control quickly and with what appeared to be very little effort on his part.

The change of leaves was always a good time to be on a bus, driving through the village lanes and seeing the watching the trees go by each day with the hints of orange, yellow and reds coming through. It was a joy that Agatha kept having to jump out of when the bus stopped at the remote stops to pick up passengers going to and from town. The bus was the connector to these parts and Agatha did enjoy meeting the different people, with some recognising her at the different pubs she and Andy would find themselves in. She was even once surprised when she was once offered a drink. Flustered, and out of an in built politeness, she accepted warmly and nearly forgot to go find Andy waiting for her in the car. It wasn’t until he came in to find her sitting at the bar sharing a half with another man, that she remembered where he had gone. Then when she introduced her husband to Nigel, she realised that the sadness that appeared in his eyes was probably from him thinking that, like him, she was a widow and looking for some company. Instead of what she was actually doing which was paying the bar tab from lunch.

Overall, with the flow of children each day, the weekly pub quiz and the growing number of friends they had both met, Agatha was, feeling at home in the new village. Tom had even, twice, tried to explain his different hobbies to her. She had made the mistake of doing the same routine that she does with her brother which was to remember details of what they said last time and then ask questions about it. This, unfortunately for her, gave the impression that she was interested. She was not. The rules of rolling dice, movement of little models and the significant of certain colours being used as paint was made all the more boring when pictures on the computer were used to help explain what they were talking about.

It was on a windy October morning that Del, having realised that Agatha had been caught by Tom by the glint in his eye, came in to save her from the conversation and suggested they needed to get moving as Betsy didn’t like to be kept waiting. Agatha was naturally polite, too much on occasion. Del was not.

‘She doesn’t want to hear about the latest rule changes and whatever you think about the value of a roll of a 4 on a dice.’ Carefully nudging Agatha to the door out of his office. ‘Besides, I am sure you really do have better things to do while in the office and a work schedule needed to get the buses all washed and serviced.’

Once they were out of the door and part way down the hall, Del paused. ‘You really need to stop letting him tell you about his hobbies. The best way, stop asking questions’. He paused, then abruptly turned to go to the bus. He walked off, leaving her behind but waited at the end of the corridor holding the door open while she collected herself.

Most buses had orange pumpkins on them with spiders or other such decorations stuck on them. Betsy didn’t. It was the one bus in the fleet, probably the county, that didn’t appear to express any awareness of the upcoming festivities. Agatha eventually asked about this the day before.

‘Betsy is not a party bus. She is not here to highlight a holiday or pick a football team.’ He managed to become more droll with each word that she was worried if he was able to speak softly to her again. ‘Also, when you decorate the bus, it only attracts more attention and I don’t want silly string in the seats again.’

Two ideas came mind, the first was the idea that there had been silly string sprayed all over the bus once and wondered how bad it got. The second, would this mean should couldn’t wear her elf costume to work when it gets close to Christmas. She might need to build up to that one though.

For now, Agatha was content in knowing that the bus system was working, her change system worked and she felt confident that with the addition of using a card machine soon will work smoothly now that the connect problem had apparently been solved so all cards could work. Well, all except American Express according to Tom.

Losing the fear

Many years ago, I had a colleague, you probably know the type, they were the one who called in sick. A lot.

Not because they were ill, with genuine health concerns, or had unseen mental health concerns. No. This colleague would call in sick because they simply couldn’t be bothered to come in. Or had somewhere they wanted to go that day so didn’t come in.

I know all this because, like all people who feel they are doing something naughty. They told me. They told me each time they did it. In fact, I was once even told before they did it. There were some tickets for an event and it was easier to have a day out too when they went.

When finally confronted about this, their response to me was something that surprised me. They had simply “lost the fear of doing it”. For them, once they had called in sick the first time, what was the problem doing it again.

This has come to lately and as a concept, it has got me thinking. Not about calling in sick, but about doing something that scares me. About how the fear is holding me back.

But losing the fear is something I need to tackle with writing. I remember sitting there last year when I first read out a piece I wrote in a writing class. Scared beforehand. Shaking through it. Followed by wanting to run out before the group could give comments on it. Thankfully, like most writing groups, they were all lovely and I left feeling that I might not be as bad as I thought I was.

So since then I have started this blog. Shared some short stories, book reviews and even some thoughts about the writing process (this piece for example). I have sent short/flash pieces off and am unbelievably happy to have a few online magazines in the process of publishing some pieces. It is therefore today I am using this fear to try something new, to the world of self-publishing with a piece on amazon this week (opening up to yet another group of critics).

It started with attempting to engage with writers via twitter (@lister_fiction) and putting myself out there, the more I share, the more the fear goes away. When, and it will be when I am sure, a negative review comes in, the fear may jump out of the box and show it hasn’t gone away. This, in itself, is a good thing, I think. Fear, a sensible level I mean, makes sure we check the quality of what we do. If we don’t fear, mixed with self-respect/pride in the work we produce, then we won’t be trying to make the best of that thought about a character and throw anything out there with mistakes that could have been found in a draft. Fear can be good, just like the biscuits in the jar in the kitchen, too many is not a good thing.

Just don’t call in sick as you had a late night down the pub and felt a bit tired that morning.