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I've had such fun of late creating flash fiction tales inspired by pics, that I thought I'd do it again. Here's the one I chose this time around. What do you think of it?  This image, entitled Steam Punk Assassin, from Giby-Joseph is also posted on Pinterest. Notwithstanding its title, it summons a wide range of possible storylines. I try my best to keep my flash fiction stories within 1000 words. This time, I just hit the mark, after honing the story down, down, down. (It is more difficult than you might think!) Please take a minute, enjoy, then share your thoughts. A Minor Magician |
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As to the quotes that have inspired me and why, I will reach to my all time favorite, Les Miserables (1862), by Victor Hugo, who also wrote other works I’ve read and loved. (They include Notre-Dame de Paris, better known as Hunchback of Notre Dame (1831) (which is not the story Disney told!), and Les Travailleurs de la Mer (Toilers of the Sea) (1866), which, like Les Miserables, also tells a story of great self-sacrifice.)
Hugo lived in a time of social upheaval and his works reflect that, as they include commentary on social issues, misery and poverty. He greatly influenced later writers, far and wide, including Charles Dickens and Fyodor Dostoyevsky. Not only is Les Miserables replete with beautiful, poetic prose (such as, by way of example, the following: “Music expresses that which cannot be put into words, and that which cannot remain silent.”), but it also speaks out about “speaking out.” Perhaps because it seems difficult to engage in genuine discussion about hearty issues these days, I though I'd share a few of my favorites on that topic:
Hugo lived in a time of social upheaval and his works reflect that, as they include commentary on social issues, misery and poverty. He greatly influenced later writers, far and wide, including Charles Dickens and Fyodor Dostoyevsky. Not only is Les Miserables replete with beautiful, poetic prose (such as, by way of example, the following: “Music expresses that which cannot be put into words, and that which cannot remain silent.”), but it also speaks out about “speaking out.” Perhaps because it seems difficult to engage in genuine discussion about hearty issues these days, I though I'd share a few of my favorites on that topic:
Not being heard is no reason for silence.
You ask me what forced me to speak? A strange thing: my conscience.
It is not easy to keep silent when silence is a lie.
Add to that a thought on the need and value of education, and you get a good feeling for why I so admire Hugo:
As with stomachs, we should pity minds that do not eat.
 | My next quote comes from someone likely considered less of an author and more of a philosopher, although certainly he wrote, and that is John Locke (1632-1704). Locke wrote on topics including the consent of the governed, the labor theory of property, and the concept of separating church and state. His works influenced others, including some of the founders of the U.S., namely Alexander Hamilton, James Madison, and Thomas Jefferson. Perhaps my favorite John Locke quote is: |
War is an ugly thing, but not the ugliest of things: the decayed and degraded state of moral and patriotic feeling which thinks that nothing is worth a war, is much worse ... A man who has nothing which he is willing to fight for, nothing which he cares more about than he does about his personal safety, is a miserable creature who has no chance of being free, unless made and kept so by the exertions of better men than himself . . .
Of course, no one “likes” war. In my estimation, however, it is not something to be avoided at all costs. If brought to me, and I have a choice between fighting (and retaining my freedom or that of my brothers and sisters) or passively accepting servitude, bondage, oppression, I hope I will be strong enough to choose the former. In the meantime, my gratitude for our men and women in uniform knows no bounds.
I’ve one more quote here (sometimes attributed to John Locke, other times to other sources), before I move on because it is another I’ve repeated many, many times over the years. It is: “Your liberty to swing your fist ends just where my nose begins.” Or as I like to say it: “Your rights stop where my nose starts.” The idea here is that “rights” are something a person possesses innately, by reason of existence, through no doing of that person’s own, and having required nothing from anyone else. Thus, “rights” include, for example, the right to speak your mind, to practice your religion of choice, and to defend yourself. When you exercise those things, you take nothing from anyone else. It costs your neighbor nothing to allow you to speak; it costs your community nothing for you to worship in your chosen way; it costs your fellow citizens nothing to allow you to defend your life. By contrast, something is not a right and cannot be a “right,” if it requires anything from anyone else. To demand that another provide something to you would be, essentially, for you to make a slave of your neighbor. And so, “your right stops where my nose starts” means that you do not have the “right” to demand anything from me, including my labor or the fruits of it, for your benefit, nor may I demand the like from you. That doesn't mean that we should not help one another. Rather, it means that we cannot force others using the power of the state (which really means, at the threat of the loss of liberty or life), to give from the fruits of our labor to others ... So in the end it seems that this simple quote evokes deep meaning ...
I’ve one more quote here (sometimes attributed to John Locke, other times to other sources), before I move on because it is another I’ve repeated many, many times over the years. It is: “Your liberty to swing your fist ends just where my nose begins.” Or as I like to say it: “Your rights stop where my nose starts.” The idea here is that “rights” are something a person possesses innately, by reason of existence, through no doing of that person’s own, and having required nothing from anyone else. Thus, “rights” include, for example, the right to speak your mind, to practice your religion of choice, and to defend yourself. When you exercise those things, you take nothing from anyone else. It costs your neighbor nothing to allow you to speak; it costs your community nothing for you to worship in your chosen way; it costs your fellow citizens nothing to allow you to defend your life. By contrast, something is not a right and cannot be a “right,” if it requires anything from anyone else. To demand that another provide something to you would be, essentially, for you to make a slave of your neighbor. And so, “your right stops where my nose starts” means that you do not have the “right” to demand anything from me, including my labor or the fruits of it, for your benefit, nor may I demand the like from you. That doesn't mean that we should not help one another. Rather, it means that we cannot force others using the power of the state (which really means, at the threat of the loss of liberty or life), to give from the fruits of our labor to others ... So in the end it seems that this simple quote evokes deep meaning ...
Finally, I will take a quote from another personage not generally considered an author. Still, he did write things, including many speeches and letters that have been collected into books. I speak of Abraham Lincoln, the 16th President of the U.S. His words remain profoundly impactful to this day. Thus, I note:
Those who deny freedom to others, deserve it not for themselves; and under a just God, cannot long retain it.
Add to that, this:
The philosophy of the school room in one generation will be the philosophy of government in the next.
Those words are every bit as true today as they were in Lincoln’s time. And if that doesn’t get you thinking, I really and truly do not know what could.
What great quotes would you like to share?
From time to time we Quills pose a question designed to get people thinking. Then each of us responds to the query, revealing a bit of ourselves along the way. For this post, here is our question:
If you were going to be stranded on a desert island for an undetermined period of time, what three books would you want to have with you?
If you were going to be stranded on a desert island for an undetermined period of time, what three books would you want to have with you?
I am curious to see what P.S. Broaddus, author of A Hero's Curse, has for us. Take it away, Parker!
I have a wonderful life. I'm surrounded, tackled, and set upon by four wonderful kiddos, loved by a beautiful wife, and I have several vocations I truly enjoy. I write, I teach, and I work in real estate. I get to be a part of restoring old buildings in a small yet interesting and thriving community.
All that said, getting stranded on a distant island sometimes sounds like a holiday. I wonder how long I would procrastinate starting a signal fire ...
All that said, getting stranded on a distant island sometimes sounds like a holiday. I wonder how long I would procrastinate starting a signal fire ...
Next is Robin Lythgoe, author of As the Crow Flies. Robin always has great things in store for us. Let's see what three books she chose ...
I’m cold. A desert island sounds good right now with its sandy beaches, rolling waves, peace and quiet… I put in a request for palm trees and other vegetation, too. Birds. No snakes. A hammock. One terrific thunderstorm. And chocolate, of course. Would it be cheating if I brought my e-reader and a solar charger? It only takes up the space of one book, right?
Choosing a mere three books is serious business. I think I’ll go with something old, something new, and…
Choosing a mere three books is serious business. I think I’ll go with something old, something new, and…
Finally, it's my turn!
Here goes ...
Here goes ...
Before I fully answer this question, I admit that I’m going to cheat juuuuuussssst a little bit. You see, I think that others might expect that I should respond to this question by listing first, the book of authority for my faith. That is, I think others might think that the first item on my list should be the Christian Bible. I acknowledge that the Bible is full of stories that are entertaining, enlightening, encouraging and faith-building. The words of the Bible, through stories, songs, and poems, can lift someone out from dark times while teaching untold numbers of life lessons. Its words seem new every time you read them. So it seems natural that it would be my first choice. So natural in fact, that I’m not going to list it with my three choices. Rather, I’ll expect to find a copy of it in the hotel room top drawer of wherever I end up staying on the desert island in question. What?! No one said the island to which I’ll be stranded had always been deserted, only that it’s deserted when I’m left there. So I’ve chosen to have faith that the island will have been inhabited at one time prior to my arrival, and that someone will have left behind, a copy of the Good Book for me to find there. (That was tricky of me, don’t you think?) And so, now that I’ve handled that, my three choices follow.
My first choice is a copy of Les Miserables, by Victor Hugo, which after twenty years in the making, was first published in 1862. I choose this work primarily because of the unmatched beauty of Hugo’s prose, and because this is a beautiful story of personal sacrifice.
The 1000 pages or so of Les Miserables are filled with personalities and descriptions that pull in the past, thread in the present, and foreshadow the future. Altogether it reads like poetry, as follows:
The 1000 pages or so of Les Miserables are filled with personalities and descriptions that pull in the past, thread in the present, and foreshadow the future. Altogether it reads like poetry, as follows:
Towards the end of this fourth year Jean Valjean’s turn to escape arrived. His comrades assisted him, as is the custom in that sad place. He escaped. He wandered for two days in the fields at liberty, if being at liberty is to be hunted, to turn the head every instant, to quake at the slightest noise, to be afraid of everything—of a smoking roof, of a passing man, of a barking dog, of a galloping horse, of a striking clock, of the day because one can see, of the night because one cannot see, of the highway, of the path, of a bush, of sleep. On the evening of the second day, he was captured.
Les Miserables tells of the cost to self, to others, and to society, that comes with judgment and a desire for retribution lasting far beyond the damage a wrongdoer has caused, and well beyond the period allotted for incarcerating someone as payment for his crime. It is a story of the power of forgiveness and of the power of love in the form of long suffering personal sacrifice. This is not the noun, love, to which I refer. That is, I refer not to the love that is a feeling. I refer, rather, to the verb, love. I refer to the love that does—that acts. I refer to acting for the benefit of others, even when that act comes at a great cost to oneself.
If you have not read Les Miserables, I cannot recommend it highly enough. If you are not generally a reader of classics and find the challenge a bit daunting, give yourself permission to skip the parts that don’t speak to you or that are hard to follow. For example, skip over the complicated historical and political issues if you like. Concentrate on the people, and on Hugo’s spellbinding descriptions of their past and present lives. If you rise to the challenge, I am confident you will not regret it.
If you have not read Les Miserables, I cannot recommend it highly enough. If you are not generally a reader of classics and find the challenge a bit daunting, give yourself permission to skip the parts that don’t speak to you or that are hard to follow. For example, skip over the complicated historical and political issues if you like. Concentrate on the people, and on Hugo’s spellbinding descriptions of their past and present lives. If you rise to the challenge, I am confident you will not regret it.
My second choice would probably be a Charles Dickens novel. The reason I include him on this list is because, while I’m on that desert island, I will probably need a good laugh from time to time, and for me, Dickens is hysterically funny.
While it’s hard to pick just one great Dickens work, perhaps there is nowhere he is more amusing than in the opening pages of Great Expectations, first published in 1861. I know. I know. It is intended to be a serious work—and it is, and the opening sets the stage for all the seriousness to come. Still, there is also great humor to be found there.
Once, years ago, when my two youngest were about eight and ten or so, I started reading Great Expectations out loud to them. (I love to read out loud and I do so with a great deal of, shall we say . . . flair, or perhaps, drama would be the correct word here.) Through the first chapter or so, as I read (and this was not my first reading of this work!), I laughed so hard that tears rolled down my face and my stomach hurt. Yes, I know that the story opens with poor Pip staring at his parents’ tombstones. But consider the way Dickens sets forth those facts from Pip’s point of view. Not only do we see with the eyes of a naïve child (who has nevertheless already suffered greatly), but the images we see are, in a word, hilarious. Sad—and hilarious. For example, consider Pip’s contemplation of his father’s tombstone:
While it’s hard to pick just one great Dickens work, perhaps there is nowhere he is more amusing than in the opening pages of Great Expectations, first published in 1861. I know. I know. It is intended to be a serious work—and it is, and the opening sets the stage for all the seriousness to come. Still, there is also great humor to be found there.
Once, years ago, when my two youngest were about eight and ten or so, I started reading Great Expectations out loud to them. (I love to read out loud and I do so with a great deal of, shall we say . . . flair, or perhaps, drama would be the correct word here.) Through the first chapter or so, as I read (and this was not my first reading of this work!), I laughed so hard that tears rolled down my face and my stomach hurt. Yes, I know that the story opens with poor Pip staring at his parents’ tombstones. But consider the way Dickens sets forth those facts from Pip’s point of view. Not only do we see with the eyes of a naïve child (who has nevertheless already suffered greatly), but the images we see are, in a word, hilarious. Sad—and hilarious. For example, consider Pip’s contemplation of his father’s tombstone:
… the shape of the letters on my father’s, gave me an odd idea that he was a square, stout, dark man, with curly black hair.
Funny stuff. Right?
Then of his brothers, Pip thinks:
To five little stone lozenges, each about a foot and a half long, which were arranged in a neat row beside their grave, and were sacred to the memory of five little brothers of mine - who gave up trying to get a living, exceedingly early in that universal struggle …
Imagine one the age of young Pip already concerned about making a living … Yes, this passage is sad because in that day, making a living was such a struggle. Even little ones felt it. But there is also something humorously intriguing about the way Pip ponders those things.
Then, there is Dickens' masterful way of summing up the entirety of a person or thing through a few short words. Try the following. Keep the flow going so that the first two sentences move at a normal, almost slow, pace, while from there, it gradually moves more quickly, quickly, quickly, then ends with the last clause slowly ... Ready? Read:
Then of his brothers, Pip thinks:
To five little stone lozenges, each about a foot and a half long, which were arranged in a neat row beside their grave, and were sacred to the memory of five little brothers of mine - who gave up trying to get a living, exceedingly early in that universal struggle …
Imagine one the age of young Pip already concerned about making a living … Yes, this passage is sad because in that day, making a living was such a struggle. Even little ones felt it. But there is also something humorously intriguing about the way Pip ponders those things.
Then, there is Dickens' masterful way of summing up the entirety of a person or thing through a few short words. Try the following. Keep the flow going so that the first two sentences move at a normal, almost slow, pace, while from there, it gradually moves more quickly, quickly, quickly, then ends with the last clause slowly ... Ready? Read:
A fearful man, all in coarse grey, with a great iron on his leg. A man with no hat, and with broken shoes, and with an old rag tied round his head. A man who had been soaked in water, and smothered in mud, and lamed by stones, and cut by flints, and stung by nettles, and torn by briars; who limped, and shivered, and glared and growled; and whose teeth chattered in his head as he seized me by the chin.
Not laughing yet? Then, I’m sorry to say, I really don’t think there’s anything I can do for you!
Finally, I would choose one book for the sheer pleasure of its power to help me to “get away.” Specifically, I would choose Terry Goodkind’s Wizard’s First Rule. Then, whenever I needed to escape (assuming that being stranded on a desert island wouldn’t be enough of an escape for me), I could journey through its pages once more…
How about you? What books would you take? Oh please, do share!
We Quills are back this month with what has quickly become my favorite type of post. That is, we selected a single picture for which each of us has spun his or her own flash fiction tale. This time around, I got to select the inspirational image. It is entitled, A Quiet Man, and is by PeteMohrbacher, found here, on DeviantARt. What do you think?
There are so many ways this could go that I cannot wait to see what my fellow Quills have for us. But for starters, I present to you (at exactly 1000 words, inclusive of the title!) ...
Breaking Spells
by Patricia Reding
Copyright Patricia Reding 2019
Aiden Piper journeyed from the Burara Wilds, back home, where six years earlier, Fenella’s father, Nigel Duke, had forced Finn Mock to put a spell on him. It happened the day before he and Fenella were to exchange their vows in the cobblestone-paved Dorberg village square. As a consequence, Aiden and his love would remain divided until they broke Finn’s spell. But Nigel, taking no chances, had paid crimpers to trick Aiden, drug him, and then set him aboard a ship that hauled him away.
Soon after awakening in chains, trapped into sea service to the cruel pirate, Wyn More, Aiden fell victim to jungle fever. For months he knew only the mercy of forgetfulness that unconsciousness granted him. But eventually his illness passed and his memories returned. They harassed him unceasingly. He longed for Fenella and the revenge he would have when he returned home where he knew she waited for him.
When the opportunity arose, Aiden jumped at his chance to escape. The cliff from which he dove was higher than the three tallest trees imaginable standing one atop the next. Still, he’d have taken the risk even if that distance had been doubled. Fortunately he resurfaced alive from the water below.
Aiden didn’t have a single copper buckle to his name. Nevertheless, he headed for Dorberg, rendering his services along the way in exchange for food. Occasionally, he picked a pocket, but only after confirming that his mark was truly wealthy, and even then, only when in dire straights. He’d never forget that gelid morning when he awakened, shivering, to find his boots missing. Then there was the time he went for almost a week with naught to eat but a half loaf of stale bread ...
Back in Dorberg, Aiden’s first stop was The Tipsy Dove Inn. Entering, he jingled the buckles in his pocket that he’d won at dice. He was proud to have played without cheating—well, mostly so, anyway.
Sitting in a corner, a hood obscuring his face, he watched his old friend, Payton, tending bar. He surmised that Payton had wed Bronwyn Glynn, daughter of the previous barkeep, as she was waiting tables. Sadly, the intervening years had not treated the now-buxom lass kindly.
No one recognized Aiden, but then he’d yet to cut his scraggly locks or to trim his beard. Also, he remained underweight following his recent adventures. Still, he kept his hood up. Nigel mustn’t hear of his return too soon.
The evening grew late when, unexpectedly, a waitress shuffled to his table. Glancing up, Aiden went speechless. There stood Fenella, so close he could smell her sweet breath.
“Shift change,” she said, setting down a mug of bock roughly. Some sloshed out. A towel in hand, she wiped the table clean. “I’m waitin’ your table now. Need anything ’fore the kitchen closes?”
Aiden struggled to contain his delight in seeing her, but caution won out.
“Bread ... please,” he whispered, eyes downcast.
She set off, then seconds later, delivered his order.
The sight of Fenella encouraged Aiden. He knew how to break the magician’s spell, as Finn Mock had included that information when he’d cast it. Such was required of any mage who didn’t want to risk his life operating contrary to the rules. So to reunite, Aiden and Fenella would have to face Nigel together—since he was the party responsible for the spell—and confirm their undying love for one another.
At closing, Fenella removed her threadbare apron, then tossed it over the bar. “To home!” she exclaimed as she departed.
After leaving payment, Aiden rushed to the Duke estate, grateful for his familiarity with it. At least something good had come of his having served as secretary to Nigel in years past!
He made his way to the man’s study through secret passageways he’d created for his former employer. There, he went about his task, pilfering no small fortune from a lockbox he knew of. Then he absconded—like the thief in the night that he was.
The next morning, his pockets full of coin, Aiden set out for the public baths, then to the barbershop for a grooming. Lastly, he visited the tailor, grateful to find some premade clothing available for purchase. Now he could meet his love!
Throughout the day, Aiden listened for news of Nigel or Fenella. He rejoiced when he discovered the two would dine at The Tipsy Dove Inn that evening.
Handing a street urchin a short unsigned missive along with the last of the buckles he’d stolen from Nigel’s lockbox, Aiden instructed the lad to deliver the note to father and daughter while they dined. It read, “Awaiting you in Nigel’s study. Hurry home! Grievous news.”
At evenfall, sporting striped trousers, a wool cape, and the finest boots available in Dorberg, Aiden returned to Nigel’s study. He poured himself a glass of his former employer’s finest claret. It’s color, bordering on purple, glistened in the firelight. Gazing into its depths, Aiden anticipated the moment he’d reunite with Fenella.
He added a log to the fire. Its crackling flames flickered. Satisfied, he emptied his glass in one swallow and then refilled it again before settling into Nigel’s favorite chair, a tentative smile on his face.
Loud voices soon sounded out from down the hall, interrupting his thoughts. Initially unintelligible, they quickly grew nearer and clearer.
As Aiden stood in anticipation, Fenella’s voice rose out above the shouting, clicking of heels, and clanging of weapons.
“Duncan!” she cried. “Father got a message! Was it from you? Oh, what is happening? Hurry, my beloved husband! Hurry! Hurry to Father’s study!”
Aiden’s grip on his wineglass loosened as he grasped the facts. Fenella loved another. No longer could he face Nigel together with her for the two to swear their undying devotion to one another. No longer could they break Finn Mock’s spell.
With that, Aiden’s glass slipped to the floor where, like his dreams, it shattered.
Aiden Piper journeyed from the Burara Wilds, back home, where six years earlier, Fenella’s father, Nigel Duke, had forced Finn Mock to put a spell on him. It happened the day before he and Fenella were to exchange their vows in the cobblestone-paved Dorberg village square. As a consequence, Aiden and his love would remain divided until they broke Finn’s spell. But Nigel, taking no chances, had paid crimpers to trick Aiden, drug him, and then set him aboard a ship that hauled him away.
Soon after awakening in chains, trapped into sea service to the cruel pirate, Wyn More, Aiden fell victim to jungle fever. For months he knew only the mercy of forgetfulness that unconsciousness granted him. But eventually his illness passed and his memories returned. They harassed him unceasingly. He longed for Fenella and the revenge he would have when he returned home where he knew she waited for him.
When the opportunity arose, Aiden jumped at his chance to escape. The cliff from which he dove was higher than the three tallest trees imaginable standing one atop the next. Still, he’d have taken the risk even if that distance had been doubled. Fortunately he resurfaced alive from the water below.
Aiden didn’t have a single copper buckle to his name. Nevertheless, he headed for Dorberg, rendering his services along the way in exchange for food. Occasionally, he picked a pocket, but only after confirming that his mark was truly wealthy, and even then, only when in dire straights. He’d never forget that gelid morning when he awakened, shivering, to find his boots missing. Then there was the time he went for almost a week with naught to eat but a half loaf of stale bread ...
Back in Dorberg, Aiden’s first stop was The Tipsy Dove Inn. Entering, he jingled the buckles in his pocket that he’d won at dice. He was proud to have played without cheating—well, mostly so, anyway.
Sitting in a corner, a hood obscuring his face, he watched his old friend, Payton, tending bar. He surmised that Payton had wed Bronwyn Glynn, daughter of the previous barkeep, as she was waiting tables. Sadly, the intervening years had not treated the now-buxom lass kindly.
No one recognized Aiden, but then he’d yet to cut his scraggly locks or to trim his beard. Also, he remained underweight following his recent adventures. Still, he kept his hood up. Nigel mustn’t hear of his return too soon.
The evening grew late when, unexpectedly, a waitress shuffled to his table. Glancing up, Aiden went speechless. There stood Fenella, so close he could smell her sweet breath.
“Shift change,” she said, setting down a mug of bock roughly. Some sloshed out. A towel in hand, she wiped the table clean. “I’m waitin’ your table now. Need anything ’fore the kitchen closes?”
Aiden struggled to contain his delight in seeing her, but caution won out.
“Bread ... please,” he whispered, eyes downcast.
She set off, then seconds later, delivered his order.
The sight of Fenella encouraged Aiden. He knew how to break the magician’s spell, as Finn Mock had included that information when he’d cast it. Such was required of any mage who didn’t want to risk his life operating contrary to the rules. So to reunite, Aiden and Fenella would have to face Nigel together—since he was the party responsible for the spell—and confirm their undying love for one another.
At closing, Fenella removed her threadbare apron, then tossed it over the bar. “To home!” she exclaimed as she departed.
After leaving payment, Aiden rushed to the Duke estate, grateful for his familiarity with it. At least something good had come of his having served as secretary to Nigel in years past!
He made his way to the man’s study through secret passageways he’d created for his former employer. There, he went about his task, pilfering no small fortune from a lockbox he knew of. Then he absconded—like the thief in the night that he was.
The next morning, his pockets full of coin, Aiden set out for the public baths, then to the barbershop for a grooming. Lastly, he visited the tailor, grateful to find some premade clothing available for purchase. Now he could meet his love!
Throughout the day, Aiden listened for news of Nigel or Fenella. He rejoiced when he discovered the two would dine at The Tipsy Dove Inn that evening.
Handing a street urchin a short unsigned missive along with the last of the buckles he’d stolen from Nigel’s lockbox, Aiden instructed the lad to deliver the note to father and daughter while they dined. It read, “Awaiting you in Nigel’s study. Hurry home! Grievous news.”
At evenfall, sporting striped trousers, a wool cape, and the finest boots available in Dorberg, Aiden returned to Nigel’s study. He poured himself a glass of his former employer’s finest claret. It’s color, bordering on purple, glistened in the firelight. Gazing into its depths, Aiden anticipated the moment he’d reunite with Fenella.
He added a log to the fire. Its crackling flames flickered. Satisfied, he emptied his glass in one swallow and then refilled it again before settling into Nigel’s favorite chair, a tentative smile on his face.
Loud voices soon sounded out from down the hall, interrupting his thoughts. Initially unintelligible, they quickly grew nearer and clearer.
As Aiden stood in anticipation, Fenella’s voice rose out above the shouting, clicking of heels, and clanging of weapons.
“Duncan!” she cried. “Father got a message! Was it from you? Oh, what is happening? Hurry, my beloved husband! Hurry! Hurry to Father’s study!”
Aiden’s grip on his wineglass loosened as he grasped the facts. Fenella loved another. No longer could he face Nigel together with her for the two to swear their undying devotion to one another. No longer could they break Finn Mock’s spell.
With that, Aiden’s glass slipped to the floor where, like his dreams, it shattered.
Now that was fun! I'm excited to see what Robin Lythgoe, author of As the Crow Flies, has for us this time around. So, here we go!
The Sword of Seysan
by Robin Lythgoe
Copyright Robin Lythgoe 2019
Let me tell you a story. I was chosen as the Royal Companion to Seysan, the younger prince of our fair country, on account of my virtual nothingness and my . . .
Find more on Robin's site here.
Of course, not to be outdone, P.S. Broaddus, author of A Hero's Curse, presents his take on our pic of choice. Here it is:
The Trickster Guardian
by P.S. Broaddus
Copyright P.S. Broaddus 2019
When Gregus first took the idea to imitate his master it had been as a joke. At least, that's what he later said.
It happened like this.
It happened like this.
We do so enjoy reading your comments, so please take a minute to let us know what you think. Don't forget to stop by to visit us again the next time we post!
Reviewed for Readers Favorite.
From time to time I read something that doesn’t seem to fit (for me, at any rate) into any traditional genre classification. Such was the case with The Junk Yard Solution: Adventures Among the Boxcars and Other Lost Causes, by Peter Kelton. The story opens with the discovery of Loretta’s body hanging from a cell phone tower in the middle of a village made up of abandoned railroad boxcars populated by a cast of characters one might classify as “misfits.” The boxcars are as uniquely finished and decorated as the personalities that inhabit them. Each of those personalities exhibits its own unusual idiosyncrasies, as does the Federal Marshal, Rick Senate, who investigates Loretta’s death. Throughout the journey to discover Loretta’s killer, the reader is taken along on a series of adventures as parts of the villagers’ past stories are presented.
For me, the most notable part of The Junk Yard Solution, by Peter Kelton, was the cast of characters. There is Loretta herself, who is described as having been “a health nut, a cleanliness freak, [and] a Yogini of the first order.” Loretta had a passion for learning. Then come the actors, Arthur, and his “friend” Oswald (who makes a fine plumber); Cicero who is also known as Don Quixote (and as CVR), who sometimes wears a monk’s robe and is the one to whom the others go with their problems; and Helena, the Chocolate Lady, whose life goal (at age 70) is to travel to India to spread her late husband’s ashes there; to name a few. My personal favorite is the widow, Ellen McDougal, who “converses mostly with her deceased husband, the historian.” I especially enjoy Miss Ellen because she “wanders among the boxcars at night, kind of like an itinerant fundamentalist of a proselytizing faith, quoting The Elements of Style.” Meanwhile, a couple of her neighbors, Jefferson Davis McClandish and Justine, don’t unsettle her in the least when they take up nudism, but they annoy her no end with their incessant use of the word “like.” (Seriously, that is a person I’d like to meet!) The various characters’ lives generally include some details as to how each has been in touch with—or has come within only a couple degrees of separation from—some famous person or event. Those in this odd and entertaining group share two things in common: their dislike of digital life, and their desire to discover who is responsible for Loretta’s murder. Together, these factors make for an interesting afternoon of reading.
From time to time I read something that doesn’t seem to fit (for me, at any rate) into any traditional genre classification. Such was the case with The Junk Yard Solution: Adventures Among the Boxcars and Other Lost Causes, by Peter Kelton. The story opens with the discovery of Loretta’s body hanging from a cell phone tower in the middle of a village made up of abandoned railroad boxcars populated by a cast of characters one might classify as “misfits.” The boxcars are as uniquely finished and decorated as the personalities that inhabit them. Each of those personalities exhibits its own unusual idiosyncrasies, as does the Federal Marshal, Rick Senate, who investigates Loretta’s death. Throughout the journey to discover Loretta’s killer, the reader is taken along on a series of adventures as parts of the villagers’ past stories are presented.
For me, the most notable part of The Junk Yard Solution, by Peter Kelton, was the cast of characters. There is Loretta herself, who is described as having been “a health nut, a cleanliness freak, [and] a Yogini of the first order.” Loretta had a passion for learning. Then come the actors, Arthur, and his “friend” Oswald (who makes a fine plumber); Cicero who is also known as Don Quixote (and as CVR), who sometimes wears a monk’s robe and is the one to whom the others go with their problems; and Helena, the Chocolate Lady, whose life goal (at age 70) is to travel to India to spread her late husband’s ashes there; to name a few. My personal favorite is the widow, Ellen McDougal, who “converses mostly with her deceased husband, the historian.” I especially enjoy Miss Ellen because she “wanders among the boxcars at night, kind of like an itinerant fundamentalist of a proselytizing faith, quoting The Elements of Style.” Meanwhile, a couple of her neighbors, Jefferson Davis McClandish and Justine, don’t unsettle her in the least when they take up nudism, but they annoy her no end with their incessant use of the word “like.” (Seriously, that is a person I’d like to meet!) The various characters’ lives generally include some details as to how each has been in touch with—or has come within only a couple degrees of separation from—some famous person or event. Those in this odd and entertaining group share two things in common: their dislike of digital life, and their desire to discover who is responsible for Loretta’s murder. Together, these factors make for an interesting afternoon of reading.
The Best and Worst Things About Being an Author
I can think of no better way to welcome in 2019 than for us to share our thoughts with you about what we each find to be the best and worst things about being an author.
Let's see what Robin Lythgoe, author of As the Crow Flies, has to say.
Let's see what Robin Lythgoe, author of As the Crow Flies, has to say.
I wonder what P.S. Broaddus, author of A Hero's Curse, thinks are the best and worst things about being an author. Shall we see?
My own musings on the best and worst aspects of being an author will be rather short this time around. Which will perhaps illustrate the blessing and curse of the vocation aptly. First, the worst. The worst aspect of being a writer? It can be put off.
Follow the link for more!
Follow the link for more!
Finally, here are my thoughts about the best and worst . . .
In general, I prefer to end things on a positive note. Thus, I shall first set forth my “worst.” For me, that’s fairly easy. Some say it’s the editing. But no, no, no, not for me! That’s actually one of the best things for me, as it means that my thoughts are already down. From there, I can manipulate them to my heart’s content. I just need time, quiet, and to “get into the zone” for editing. No, the worst thing for me is getting the creative juices that are required for the first draft, flowing in the first place.
Some say that the best time for being creative is when you are tired because your mind is unfocused and therefore able to ramble into unexpected realms. Others say there is a best time of day for creative thinking and they identify that time as “early in the morning.” In practice, this just means your earlier “daytime hours.” So if you are typically up at 7:00 am, your best writing time would begin then, whereas, if you’re typically not up until noon, then noon to 2 pm might be your most creative time of day.
And then there are those who believe that mornings are for bakers, and that the best time for writing is late at night. I think this may be the camp for me, but I admit that the jury is still out.
In fact, I’ve found that the time of day is far less critical for me than is the prospect of being interrupted. If I know that interruptions are likely to come to me, it is almost impossible for me to get in the correct frame of mind to write. (This explains a lot in terms of my writing over the past months, as my husband was in the hospital a few times this past fall, and when not in, he was home almost continuously. Thus, interruption-less time has been pretty much nonexistent.)
In short, I find that the hardest thing about being an author is getting enough solitude to be productive.
Now for the good news!
So, what is the best thing about being a writer? For me there are two "best things." (Yes, I know that only one thing can really be "the best," but you're following, I'm sure...) Each of these two things is so good that I think it is the best until I consider the other. Thus, I must address them both.
In fact, I’ve found that the time of day is far less critical for me than is the prospect of being interrupted. If I know that interruptions are likely to come to me, it is almost impossible for me to get in the correct frame of mind to write. (This explains a lot in terms of my writing over the past months, as my husband was in the hospital a few times this past fall, and when not in, he was home almost continuously. Thus, interruption-less time has been pretty much nonexistent.)
In short, I find that the hardest thing about being an author is getting enough solitude to be productive.
Now for the good news!
So, what is the best thing about being a writer? For me there are two "best things." (Yes, I know that only one thing can really be "the best," but you're following, I'm sure...) Each of these two things is so good that I think it is the best until I consider the other. Thus, I must address them both.
First is the incredible feeling that comes with bringing a story to conclusion. That sense of accomplishment doesn't compare well with many other things in life. Maybe graduating law school, or passing the bar, or getting all of your children through their teen years in one piece, or… No, that’s about it. The feeling is amazing, and for this writer, it compares to only one other feeling that an author might enjoy, which brings me to my second thing.
My second thing is the joy I’ve experienced from meeting and developing friendships with so many amazing people who share with me, an interest in writing. Because of my writing, I now have friends in many places around the world, including across the U.S., Canada, Australia, the UK ... Gibraltar … and the list goes on. These are people whose advice I feel comfortable in asking for. I feel so close to some of my fellow writers that if I was traveling through their area, I’d want to drop in to visit. (One of my author friends traveled from the southeast U.S. coast to the mid-west by herself for a book show and awards ceremony. In advance, she contacted friends from her favorite writing group, some of whom she stayed with as she made her journey across the country.) So, heck yeah, someday I might even stay in the guest room of an author friend for a night or two! Take my fellow Quills, for example—neither of whom I’ve met in person. If I visited the area in which either of them live, I wouldn’t dream of passing through without connecting. I sincerely hope that they would do the same. So yes, that is a pretty incredible thing. Don’t you agree?
There are so many ways to communicate. Some, like sign language, don't even require sound, or use little of it. Many of the optional means for communicating have names of their own. Likely, you've come across these speech forms before. Which of them have you used? How many of them do you speak?
I'd say I speak the English language with a Midwestern dialect. I use legal jargon from time to time, as well as a "faith based" lingo when among particular friends, and sometimes, I use slang. Finally, my writing encompasses specialized terms, which might be identified as the use of an argot (although not for an underworld group or group of thieves) for specific people in my stories.
How about you? What do you speak?
I'd say I speak the English language with a Midwestern dialect. I use legal jargon from time to time, as well as a "faith based" lingo when among particular friends, and sometimes, I use slang. Finally, my writing encompasses specialized terms, which might be identified as the use of an argot (although not for an underworld group or group of thieves) for specific people in my stories.
How about you? What do you speak?
It's Not TOO Late - Even Though It’s Quite Late
As you know, we Quills typically post on the first Friday of each month. Unfortunately, as happens with everyone from time to time, things got away from us a bit this month. Still, it’s never too late to talk about, and to do, a bit of giving. Don’t you agree? So today we post our thoughts on gift-giving—and we are including a bit of a gift to you in the form of our Fantasy eBook Giveaway. More on that to follow!
Here are some thoughts about giving from Robin Lythgoe, author of As the Crow Flies.
I know what I have given you... I do not know what you have received.”
― Antonio Porchia
It has been a strange year, sometimes awful, often amazing. [And] in this time of affliction and adversity, it’s Christmas all the time…
― Antonio Porchia
It has been a strange year, sometimes awful, often amazing. [And] in this time of affliction and adversity, it’s Christmas all the time…
Follow the link for more!
Next up is P.S. Broaddus, author of A Hero's Curse.
Next up is P.S. Broaddus, author of A Hero's Curse.
Christmas is coming. It's just around the weekend corner. And I'm finished with wrapping.
I just finished reading Jonathan Stroud's Screaming Staircase, and as usual, Stroud has this incredible knack for creating unique and clever voices in his characters. His descriptions are vivid and often hysterical. (His Bartimaeus trilogy was a good example. So that's what I'm doing. Reading good books, drinking a bit of 'nog, and enjoying the Christmasy lights, music, and raucous excitement from the boys.
I just finished reading Jonathan Stroud's Screaming Staircase, and as usual, Stroud has this incredible knack for creating unique and clever voices in his characters. His descriptions are vivid and often hysterical. (His Bartimaeus trilogy was a good example. So that's what I'm doing. Reading good books, drinking a bit of 'nog, and enjoying the Christmasy lights, music, and raucous excitement from the boys.
That's right, there's more at the link!
Now, for my thoughts ...
Now, for my thoughts ...
This is the season of giving. As I look at the many, many packages I’ve wrapped and put beneath the tree just for those in our little family (there will be six of us for Christmas Eve), I can see that it will take hours for us to go person-by-person, gift-by-gift, as is our tradition, to open them. This way everyone gets to see what everyone else got. And here’s the crazy part: there are sure to be more wrapped gifts to come when my beloved son, darling daughter-in-law, and amazing daughters show up on Christmas Eve.
So why do we give gifts, anyway? I think it's because a gift is a simple but effective way to show someone how much they mean to you, how often you think of them, how you hear them when they say there is something that they would like or could use, or even how you can see inside of them when they don’t voice those things, yet you are able to identify their wishes and desires. A gift can say, “See? I saw that need of yours.” Or perhaps it might say, “I saw this and I thought of you.” In my mind, giftgiving is an art. It is a giving of time, self, thought, and creativity. Some gifts may cost a few dollars, but it is not the cost that is important, it is the message the gift conveys.
And so today, we Quills also have a gift for you—a GIVEAWAY. You’ll notice it is just in time for the holidays. Running until January 1—New Years Day—you’ll want to be sure to enter for your chance to win. If chosen, you will get to start 2019 with a bang!
Wishing you the happiest, healthiest, most rewarding and promising holidays and the absolute best for 2019!
A Drift of Quills for October 2018 - This and That - or Throwback Friday - (or something!)
10/12/2018
October is upon us and I've found as I often do come autumn, that time is flying by faster all the time. That is so true that for our post this month, we each decided to offer something we'd previously posted here or elsewhere. We're calling it "This and That," which is precisely what you are about to get.
P.S. Broaddus, author of A Hero's Curse is reposting one of his most-loved prior offerings. Here goes!
As I dug back through my top shared posts, (that is, those collaboratively published with the our Quills writer’s group), I found, surprisingly, that the fan favorite, by a healthy margin, was The Prophet & the Assassin, a Jonah-like short story I published exactly one year ago.
Be sure to follow the link for more!
Be sure to follow the link for more!
Robin Lythgoe, author of As the Crow Flies, has something special for you. Find out more with the link!
Polishing my All Seeing Eye, I carefully scanned all the Quill posts, searching for that one treasure would light up like a beacon. That one post that everyone loved more than all the others. But wait, what’s this? There’s a tie?
That leaves me. For my part, I decided to re-post something I wrote about five years ago and posted elsewhere, entitled ...
The Bookmobile is Here!
What are your earliest memories of reading? Of finding yourself surrounded by the musty smell of books begging you to open their pages, to peruse their inner glories? I know this post will age me, but for me those memories date back to a time when I was growing up in a small rural community.
When I was quite young, we were a single-car family. My father worked elsewhere and “hobby” farmed. My mother was home with us eight—yes, count them—eight children. (Eight “girl” children, to be exact!) As you might expect, this meant that we did not often go places. Entertainment was found in our own backyard. We created stories that we sometimes acted out, encouraging the few other neighborhood children that were around, to engage with us in our make-believe escapades. One of our favorite pastimes was to play “Harriet the Spy,” a game (obviously) named from the book of the same title. With our notebooks in hand, we would try to creep up unaware on one another, taking notes of what they were doing, leaving behind little tidbits for other to find ... Finding someone’s notebook unattended offered a plethora of fascinating information about the antics of others. From whence did ideas of this ilk come? Reading—of course. And, where better to pick up those ideas than from the books we checked out from the bookmobile that made its way to our little community from time to time?
What are your earliest memories of reading? Of finding yourself surrounded by the musty smell of books begging you to open their pages, to peruse their inner glories? I know this post will age me, but for me those memories date back to a time when I was growing up in a small rural community.
When I was quite young, we were a single-car family. My father worked elsewhere and “hobby” farmed. My mother was home with us eight—yes, count them—eight children. (Eight “girl” children, to be exact!) As you might expect, this meant that we did not often go places. Entertainment was found in our own backyard. We created stories that we sometimes acted out, encouraging the few other neighborhood children that were around, to engage with us in our make-believe escapades. One of our favorite pastimes was to play “Harriet the Spy,” a game (obviously) named from the book of the same title. With our notebooks in hand, we would try to creep up unaware on one another, taking notes of what they were doing, leaving behind little tidbits for other to find ... Finding someone’s notebook unattended offered a plethora of fascinating information about the antics of others. From whence did ideas of this ilk come? Reading—of course. And, where better to pick up those ideas than from the books we checked out from the bookmobile that made its way to our little community from time to time?
I suppose the bookmobile had a schedule. It must be that it showed up every second Tuesday or Thursday (or whatever) through the summer months. Truth to tell, I don’t remember, although my mother might. I’ll have to ask her one day. I just recall hearing those magic words from time to time: “The Bookmobile is here!” The hunt would begin for all those books we’d taken out the last time, read and then perhaps misplaced in the interim, so that we could return them and select new ones: mysteries, like Nancy Drew or the Hardy Boys; fantasies, like The Little Witch or Mio My Son; adventures, like The Oregon Trail; animal stories like Old Yeller or Where the Red Fern Grows; and so on. Ahhh yes, those were the days—when the library came to us.
I have not seen a bookmobile for many long years—but I did a little research. They do still exist. It seems the first “taking of collections of books to people” was in 1893. By 1899 there were 2500 “traveling collections.” Apparently, Melvil Dewey was the genius behind the idea. (The information and statistics shared here are found here.
In very early days, some book collections traveled by horseback. By 1900 some libraries sent books by mail to those who could not even reach the traveling collections. Then came the first motorized bookmobile in 1912. In 1929 the term “bookmobile” was coined.
Check out these statistics: in 1950, there were about 600 bookmobiles; by 1956, over 900; by 1970, over 2000. As might be expected, when fuel costs increased, the number of bookmobiles decreased. By 1990 there were only about 1100 remaining, and by 2000, there were fewer than 900—roughly the same number as in 1956.
I think of children today who do not have libraries near them and wonder how many budding geniuses, how many creators of their own stories that could be shared with the world, might be lost with the demise of the bookmobile. For my part, I will always hold dear memories of those sticky hot summer days when my sisters and I would heed the call: “The Bookmobile is Here!”
In very early days, some book collections traveled by horseback. By 1900 some libraries sent books by mail to those who could not even reach the traveling collections. Then came the first motorized bookmobile in 1912. In 1929 the term “bookmobile” was coined.
Check out these statistics: in 1950, there were about 600 bookmobiles; by 1956, over 900; by 1970, over 2000. As might be expected, when fuel costs increased, the number of bookmobiles decreased. By 1990 there were only about 1100 remaining, and by 2000, there were fewer than 900—roughly the same number as in 1956.
I think of children today who do not have libraries near them and wonder how many budding geniuses, how many creators of their own stories that could be shared with the world, might be lost with the demise of the bookmobile. For my part, I will always hold dear memories of those sticky hot summer days when my sisters and I would heed the call: “The Bookmobile is Here!”
Thanks for stopping by. Please share your comments. See you next month!
This month we Quills discuss what has been our biggest writing challenge regarding our current work (or works, as there may be more than one) in progress. (Incidentally, you might find this discussion on the difference between the phrases "work in progress" and "work in process," interesting.)
Reasons for delay! Goodness, but there are so many. So, where does one begin?
I thought we might start with comments from P.S. Broaddus, author of A Hero's Curse. That said, I can't imagine what could possibly stand in Parker's way of getting something, anything, done! It's not like he might be busy at home with his wife and three little boys, or that he spends many hours at his full time job ... Right, Parker?
Reasons for delay! Goodness, but there are so many. So, where does one begin?
I thought we might start with comments from P.S. Broaddus, author of A Hero's Curse. That said, I can't imagine what could possibly stand in Parker's way of getting something, anything, done! It's not like he might be busy at home with his wife and three little boys, or that he spends many hours at his full time job ... Right, Parker?
I am currently working on a distinctly different story than anything I've done before. This new novel is not at all related to The Unseen Chronicles, and while I certainly miss Essie Brightsday and the cast of characters we met in A Hero's Curse and Nightrage Rising, I am loving the new setting. Inter-dimensional travel, a mad scientist, two brothers, a detective, a runaway...There is so much to investigate and explore! So many new characters to interact with!
(Follow the link for more.)
(Follow the link for more.)
Next is Robin Lythgoe, author of As the Crow Flies. Now, I happen to know that Robin has got some things happening in her life these days, but I can't imagine they could stand in the way of her writing. Right, Robin?
My experiences in the novel-writing game are relatively few, but so far, every novel has posed at least one challenge. I’m not talking about the Usual Life Challenge that pops up every time you choose a cool project and Things Happen. Like the furnace goes out, or you get the flu, or you remember at the last minute that a Quills Post is due tomorrow… No, I’m talking about novel-specific snags and pitfalls. Like the Beisyth Web in As the Crow Flies, or the (top secret now) timeline issues in Flesh and Bone. This time, right-this-minute, I find myself surrounded by a virtual cloud of delicate perfume as I ...
(Follow the link for more.)
(Follow the link for more.)
Ahhh ... so now it's my turn. Well, here goes!
There are so many: (1) ways to stumble; (2) reasons to delay; and (3) opportunities to turn one’s attention elsewhere. It seems in one way or another, all of these things have happened to me as I’ve worked on Volume Four of The Oathtaker Series.
As to my “stumbling,” I spent a year on a work that I am very pleased and proud of. Unfortunately, I feel compelled to wait to publish it until someone I know personally is able to come to grips with my doing so. Because the project put me behind on other things—including my writing Volume Four—I realize that in fact, I didn’t just stumble. In fact, I fell ... as in I fell way behind.
But, finally, I’ve managed to get back up and to concentrate on my new work in progress ...
As to my reasons for delay, I’m sure I needn’t dwell on them. I’m still a practicing attorney by day, and as the economy has (finally!) improved after nearly a decade of stagnancy, things have picked up at the office. As a consequence, it is harder to find down time, and harder yet to use it productively—as opposed to using it to rejuvenate. In addition, like everyone I know, there are other things happening in my personal and family life that take time and attention, causing yet more delay ... Still, I want to, I strive to, put my family first, so this is not a complaint, merely a observation ...
As to opportunities to turn my attention elsewhere, I admit that I’ve been having an unexpectedly good time writing some quick flash fiction stories of late. I never considered myself a short-story writer, but the concept of trying to tell a big story with few words has captured my imagination.
I’ve worked on stories for joint blog posts with my fellow Quills (Her Golden Hair, The Resistance, and Signs, Signs, Everywhere There Are Signs!), as well as on another story in the course of my connecting with two young women interested in writing. (Find my story, Throwback Awakening, and the story of one of these young women at the link). When I talked with these two about flash fiction, they were very excited to give it a try. Since then, not only have I spent time writing with them, but also, I’ve taken my hand to editing their materials, pointing out issues they face, researching specifics to help them to find answers, and so forth. It has all been in an effort to try to speak into their lives and their art—and that takes time. That said, I’ve had so much fun doing it, that it has pulled my attention away from Volume Four.
Finally, in truth, I spent some time waiting for inspiration. I believe it is shaping up now, but the subject matter of Volume Four can be a bit difficult at times. Consequently, it urges me to other ventures. Still, it is a subject worth addressing, and so, I go on . . .
So, there you have them—my main obstacles to writing Volume Four. Notwithstanding them all, it is in the works.
What sorts of delays keep you from getting to your projects?
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AuthorCheck out Patricia's blog articles, interviews of other authors and book reviews here. |
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