R. Harrison's Blog, page 25
April 15, 2016
Mid-Day
H. D., 1886 – 1961
The light beats upon me.
I am startled—
a split leaf crackles on the paved floor—
I am anguished—defeated.
A slight wind shakes the seed-pods—
my thoughts are spent
as the black seeds.
My thoughts tear me,
I dread their fever.
I am scattered in its whirl.
I am scattered like
the hot shrivelled seeds.
The shrivelled seeds
are spilt on the path—
the grass bends with dust,
the grape slips
under its crackled leaf:
yet far beyond the spent seed-pods,
and the blackened stalks of mint,
the poplar is bright on the hill,
the poplar spreads out,
deep-rooted among trees.
O poplar, you are great
among the hill-stones,
while I perish on the path
among the crevices of the rocks.
April 14, 2016
Pastoral
William Carlos Williams, 1883 – 1963
The little sparrows
Hop ingenuously
About the pavement
Quarreling
With sharp voices
Over those things
That interest them.
But we who are wiser
Shut ourselves in
On either hand
And no one knows
Whether we think good
Or evil.
Then again,
The old man who goes about
Gathering dog lime
Walks in the gutter
Without looking up
And his tread
Is more majestic than
That of the Episcopal minister
Approaching the pulpit
Of a Sunday.
These things
Astonish me beyond words.
April 13, 2016
The Witch #WriterWednesday
This is the start of a science fiction story I’m developing.
The Witch, a short story.
The good witch of the west arrived from the air in a bubble.
Farmer Giles was the first to see her. There was a clap of thunder, despite the clear blue sky, and when he looked up there she was. She rode down to him, dressed like a man but in shining silver, suspended under a silken bubble. She stumbled when she landed in the field next to him. He’d just finished plowing a quillet, and was turning his team for the next when it happened.
She removed the clear ball from her head, and put it on the ground next to her. The wind caught her silk and she was struggling with it, when she said to him, “I say, farmer. Can you help me with this?”
“I don’t speak French, can you speak English?”
She didn’t understand him either, so she tried again speaking one word at a time, “Can, you, help, me, please?”
He shook his head. It still didn’t make sense.
She managed to pull the silken bubble together into an awkward mess, and said, “First rule of survival is to never leave anything behind. You never know when you’ll need it.” She turned to the farmer again and tried once more, “Is there a village or town nearby?”
“Village, I know that word.” Farmer Giles said, then he pointed to the valley where a small cluster of thatched wattle and daub houses clustered around a stream. Smoke rose from the houses and filled the valley where it was trapped by a thermal inversion.
Understanding his gestures rather than his words, the witch bowed and said “Thank you.” After gathering her parachute into a rough bundle, she started to walk towards the village. It wasn’t easy for her to walk. The unwieldy parachute, awkward silver clothing and a decided limp from a twisted ankle, made her progress painful.
She hadn’t walked far, when the Lord of the manor’s youngest son rode up. He was followed by a squire. A handsome black-haired man, he was back from the university during the break between terms. Taking advantage of his time away from the drudgery of his studies and the ferocity of the professors, he was hunting with his falcon and saw the witch land.
He said, “Who are you?”
“What did you say?”
“Oh you speak the high language.”
“Your pronunciation is strange, but at least I understand you. Can you tell this idiot to help me?”
“Giles is not an idiot. He’s sound man, a leader in the village and in his tithing.”
“That may be, but I need help with my chute.”
“Fair Lady, you didn’t answer my question.”
The witch stared him in the face, something gentlewomen didn’t do as a rule, and said, “For that matter you haven’t told me yours.”
“I asked first, but I am Rupert. The youngest son of Lord Middleton. This is his demesne.”
She smiled and said, “Thank you, Rupert. I am Rebecca Sansome, a pilot and captain in the space corps.”
“The space corps? So the legends were real after all.”
April 12, 2016
Peak District #travel #photoblog
Time to start planning our summer travel again. One place we stayed a few years ago was in the Peak District, where we rented a house in Hayfield. It’s a small town at the foot of the Kinder Scout. Unfortunately I left my really good camera on the kitchen table at my brother-in-laws, so these were taken with a light-weight water proof olympus that does OK. Wonder if it’s time to book a return visit?
Dusk, walking back from a pub.
One of the local customs is “well decorating” and we happened to be at the right time.
The semi-wild sheep are everywhere, in this case near the falls at Kinder Scout.
It was a dry year, what more can I say?
Beware of the Toad.
April 11, 2016
War and Hell, XVI [I am a great inventor]
Ernest Crosby
I am a great inventor, did you but know it.
I have new weapons and explosives and devices to
substitute for your obsolete tactics and tools.
Mine are the battle-ships of righteousness and integrity—
The armor-plates of a quiet conscience and self-respect—
The impregnable conning-tower of divine manhood—
The Long Toms of persuasion—
The machine guns of influence and example—
The dum-dum bullets of pity and remorse—
The impervious cordon of sympathy—
The concentration camps of brotherhood—
The submarine craft of forgiveness—
The torpedo-boat-destroyer of love—
And behind them all the dynamite of truth!
I do not patent my inventions.
Take them. They are free to all the world.
The archways of Fort Pulaski in Savannah remind me of church architecture.
An 1840 Field Howizter in action.
A Formulaic Romance, Chapter 4. #amwriting #wip #romancenovel #mondayblogs
This chapter introduces two things in the context of a country ball. The chief villain (what’s a romance without a villain?) and the plot element that motivates the characters. The plot, like all romances, is girl meets boy, then after various complications and difficulties, they figuratively ride off into the sunset together.
The chemistry, by the way, is accurate. Fulminates were first described in 1803, you can download the paper from the Royal Society, and it makes for interesting, if slightly scary reading. Imagine describing the taste of a mercury salt. Especially one that explodes. Brave men in those days. Lucky too. I wouldn’t do it.
The featured image, a cartoon from 1815, shows the consternation American work along a similar line to Rupert’s produced in the English Navy. This was serious stuff.
It continues from the previous chapter, or you can start from the beginning.
My co-author Amelia and I often put the beginnings of books on my, now our, blog. They don’t always make it to the end, but it’s helpful for our writing. This is another Regency Romance. This time without grave robbing or financial dealing and legal chicanery.
A Ball, in the Country.
George surveyed his friend when Rupert emerged from his room. “I say Ga- Rupert, that suit, it’s as queer as Dick’s hatband, positively ramshackle. I’m sure your man did his best, but I say.”
“What?”
“Have to get you to the Village. That suit, it’s at least years out of date, a sartorial solecism.”
“What’s wrong with it?”
“Can’t you tell? I suppose it was your fathers.”
“No. Mine, from … back then.”
They were joined shortly by Rachel. There was a hidden advantage at having a small wardrobe. She was dressed in record time.
“Lord Hartshorne, Rupert, you need to take care of yourself. That suit, it practically hangs off you.”
Rupert paused, then said, “I do? … I suppose you’re right, I haven’t been eating.”
“Nor dancing?”
“No, not since.” Rupert stopped. A pained expression grew on his face.
“Antonia?”
“Yes, her. I last danced with her.”
Rachel broke out in a hearty laugh, “Then your next dance can be with me. If you don’t need the practice, I do.”
Rupert flashed Rachel a quick smile. “You’re right. I’m sorry, it’s an old habit and one I intend to break. Worrying about that virago. I’m well out of it.”
“Good. Especially if we’re engaged, even informally. I could still break it off and I will if you’re still holding a candle for her.”
“No. I’m not … please believe me.”
Rachel curtsied to him, “I’d be honoured to dance with you, even more than once.”
Rupert, having thoroughly considered Rachel’s words, said, “You are right. I have buried myself too long … Please dance with me.”
George chuckled at this, “Then I’d best ask now for the second dance, Lady Hayfield. Can’t let my nephew monopolise you.”
Rachel laughed “The honour’s all mine, My Lord … My Lords.”
Lucinda, hurrying in to accompany her charge, said, “What’s this about?”
“Just arranging my first two dances, Lucy.”
“Oh, good, Ma’am.”
George said, “Miss Holloway. Would the first dance be acceptable?”
“I couldn’t. My place … with the chaperones and the mothers.”
“Lucy,” Rachel said, “Of course you could. In fact I think you should.”
“As long as it isn’t a waltz.”
George said, “I would think it will be a country dance. Gas old boy, you wouldn’t know if the Waltz has penetrated these wilds?”
Rupert ignored him.
“Rupert, then. What about it?”
“No I wouldn’t, but I’d think not.” Then he smiled at Rachel and gave her a quick bow, “Though if it has, Lady Hayforth, I must claim your hand for it now.”
****
Rachel watched the country roll by as she rode in Lord Hartshorne’s carriage. The miserable country road she and Lucy struggled down. It seemed so long ago, although not even two weeks had elapsed, passed by in comfort. Her broken carriage sat where she’d left it. The carriage wright had removed the wheels and rear axle. Until those were repaired, the broken mainbrace and other things couldn’t be finished. What was taking so long? Then she realized that it didn’t matter. She had a carriage, and Rupert would take her to London.
She turned to Rupert and said, “This carriage, it’s so much more comfortable than mine ever was. Even before it broke. Almost luxurious.”
“It is?”
“Padded seats, and dry.”
“Lady Hayforth,” he nodded, “if that’s your idea of luxury, you’ll be soon satisfied.”
Lucy nudged her mistress and whispered, “I told you he was a good one.”
George asked, “What was that Miss Holloway?”
“Just congratulating my mistress on her engagement.”
****
The orchestra, a pair of violinists, a bass and clarinet, struck up the first dance. Fortuitously it was a familiar country dance in slow time because both Rupert and Rachel were out of practice. It also gave them time to converse, though most of the time Rupert smiled at his partner. Rachel thought It’s as if he can’t believe his good luck. When they finished, he said as he bowed, “Thank you. You must think I’m a poor conversationalist, but I was counting the figures. Wouldn’t do to disgrace you with an awkward partner.”
Rachel talked more during the next dance with George. He started, “I must admit you have made a difference in the poor lad. Good thing I suggested it.”
“You didn’t, you know. Just that I try to befriend him. Anyway he had guessed.”
“Observant little tyke, my nephew. Still.” The figures moved them apart. He continued when they came together again, “Still I am surprised that he proposed.”
“Or that I accepted?”
“That too.”
“To be honest, I refused at first. Hardly knowing him, but Miss Holloway pointed out the certain evils or my choice.”
“That you might not get another offer? He’s an odd one, Ma’am. Full of surprises. I didn’t know.” The figures intervened again, “I didn’t know about his work for the army. Old Gas making bangs.”
Eventually the chords drew to a close and it was time for supper. Disaster struck. A strange man interrupted Rachel and Rupert as they walked together to the table where the refreshments were served. He was dressed in plain and simple clothes, but was clearly important. Or, perhaps, it was clear that he thought he was important.
“Miss Heppleworth.” He bowed to her.
“Do I know you?”
“Surely you’ve not forgotten me so soon.”
Rachel studied him, “Mr Harding, out of fleet prison already; who paid your debts?”
“It’s Mr Oliver, Mr William Oliver. May I be introduced to your partner?”
Rupert’s face stiffened. “I believe we’ve met as well. How to you know my fiancée?”
Mr Harding or Oliver or indeed one of several other names chosen for convenience and anonymity bowed to him and said, “I knew her father, quite well. She was promised to me.”
“I wasn’t. Never.”
“Clearly your father didn’t tell you. It was made shortly before his unfortunate demise.”
“All I know is you helped him spend his money. Left us to rusticate on a mortgaged estate that could barely support itself.”
“I shan’t ask much for a settlement, breech of promise is such an ugly idea. Very destructive of one’s reputation, even if it is ultimately voided.”
Rupert glanced at Rachel. She was pale, barely fighting off a faint. He turned to the man and uttered “You puppy!” from his clenched mouth. Then turning to Rachel he said, “Rachel, let me help you to a seat.”
As they walked to the far side of the room, neither of them noticed the grim smile of satisfaction that coursed over Mr Oliver’s face. After he’d helped her to a seat, Rachel looked up and said, “Did you say you knew him, how?”
“That cad, that puppy, he carried the letters between Antonia and Lord Biddle.”
“Oh Lud! What a mull I’ve made.” Rachel put her face in her hands. “I wish that … that … that fellow were at Jericho.”
“What do you mean ‘I’ve made’? I fail to see that you’ve done anything.”
Rachel bit her lip and looked up at Rupert, tears forming in her eyes. “I didn’t know about him … him and that awful woman.”
“How could you know?”
“I suppose you’re right, I couldn’t have. Please believe me that I have no interest in seeing Mr Harding or Oliver or whatever he calls himself now ever again. His effrontery.”
Rupert shook his head sadly, “I know.”
“He really did lead my father to perdition with the dice box, faro table, and … I don’t know what all they did. My father caught an ague from some.” She stopped, unwilling to voice ‘barque of frailty.’ “That man played him for a jobberknowl until he was skint.”
“Don’t let that dandiprat cut up your peace.” Rupert paused, “Unless there is something you’re not telling me.”
“No. Well maybe. He did have some of my father’s vowels. They should have been settled with the estate. There could be something like those. Who knows what my father may have signed before he died. It was a desperate time, and he wasn’t truly in his right mind.”
The musicians chose this auspicious moment to start tuning their instruments for the next dance. Rupert bent down and took Rachel’s hand. “This dance is ours.”
“But?”
“We’ll talk later, I’ve had my dealings with that puppy, too. Not just with that woman.” Rupert led her to the middle of the floor where they started the line for the next dance. It felt to Rachel as if everyone in the room were staring at them. Sir John certainly was. Rupert bowed to him and said, “I should like to lead this dance, with my newly affianced wife.”
“Oh,” He laughed, “I guess you meant what you said.” Then he tapped on a glass and shouted to get attention. “Dear guests, before we begin, a toast – to our neighbour Lord Hartshorne and his intended. Newly engaged. May their marriage be long, and happy.”
Rachel thought, If it isn’t happy, it will certainly be long, then she shook her head and studied Rupert. It will be happy. I will make certain of that.
Mr Oliver started to object, when he felt a firm hand on his shoulder. It was George. “You, sir, are coming with me. This is the last time you will bother Lady Hayforth. Do I make myself clear?”
The dance started with both Rachel and Rupert lost in each other, both too overcome with emotions to say much.
Part way through the dance, George re-entered the room, dusting his hands. He strode to his host, Sir John and said, “That’s done. What ever possessed you to invite such a rotter?”
“He’s the man of the moment. Helped break those revolutionaries in Pentridge, at great personal risk.”
“Knowing him, I doubt it.”
“I must remind you I’m the host, and General Byng will be most displeased when he hears of how you’ve treated his best agent. A real British hero.”
George indicated his lack of concern when he said, “If you say so. I don’t know the general well, but I’m good friends with his cousin Poodle. I think I can weather the storm.”
****
Once the ball was finally over, in the carriage home, Rachel asked, “What happened to that man?”
“Mr Oliver?” George said, “I suggested that he make an early night of it.” He smiled, “rather forcefully I might add.”
“And Rupert, my love, you said you’d known him.”
Rupert hesitated, then said, “Yes … he offered me money … to see, make a copy of what I was doing for the army. I think it was when I refused that he introduced An- that woman to Lord Biddle.”
“What were you doing, Gas … Rupert that would be worth money?”
“I guess what I did is not really secret, the secret details aren’t interesting anyway. You’ve shot with one of those scent-bottle locks George.” Rupert stretched back in his seat, ready to be expansive.
“Dashed good gun. Yes. Faster and more reliable than my Manton.”
“The Army thought so too. Started working on them in the Tower Armoury. They came within aces’ aim of levelling the place with all the fulminate they made. Guy Fawkes would have been delighted. His Majesty less so.”
Rachel and George leaned forward to hear every word. George said, “I see. So…”
“So I worked on more stable fulminating mixtures. Oxymuriate of potash, various … fillers to make it more stable. I was, ah, more than moderately successful. Had the war dragged on, it would have made a big difference. General Shrapnel’s shells with my fuses, mayhaps on rockets. Torpedoes that exploded on contact. Can’t say too much more. It would have been ‘interesting’ to say the least.”
Rachel gasped, “So he was a French agent?”
“Maybe. More likely working for the highest bidder – French, American, those damned Prussians or even the Tsar.”
“Good Lord Nephew. I never knew. Just thought you were playing around.”
Rupert laughed, “I’m not saying it wasn’t fun, but I’m glad to work on safer things.”
Lucy, who had been quiet because she was tired and had consumed more than her share of the punch, said, “I bet Lady Hayforth is too.”
April 9, 2016
Wild Iris #springflowers
This week the wild iris are in bloom in Alabama. They’re much smaller than the garden variety, but intense and dashed beautiful. They tend to like shady locations. Ours are intermingled with an Oxalis species that has a delicate purple flower, unlike the more common yellow variety.
There are several of this small yellow flower as well. These prefer the sun.
The Art of Deception 9 #wewriwar #amwriting
or Pride and Extreme Prejudice
Welcome to Weekend Writing Warriors. This week I continue another book, that will eventually come out via booktrope. It’s a spy story set in late Georgian England, the year before Trafalgar Last week, the day before they departed for London, Lord Grey had a present of Turkish Delights (from Gunter’s) for Sally. The reasons he gave it to her become apparent this week. Lord Grey and Alice intend to pick Sally up on the way to London when a messenger from the Willis’s arrives.
“Well,” Lady Green sniffed, “It’s for the best; be a good girl Alice … oh I shouldn’t say that, I know you will be … Let the Willis’s know I’ll be round to visit today.”
Lord Grey and Alice were boarding the box, ready to ride to the vicar’s and pick up Sally, when the vicar’s groom rode up.
“Lord Grey?” He tipped his forehead in a salute, “I have a message from my master.” He handed Lord Grey a sheet of paper, and then respectfully bowed and stepped back.
Lord Grey read it aloud, “Miss Willis is ill and cannot come with us. She is devastated … Sister dear, it seems your visit will be a visit of mercy; please send my regards.”
Lady Green may not have noticed the smile flicker across Lord Grey’s face, but Alice most certainly did.
Please see the other talented writers in Weekend Writing Warriors.
Lord Grey’s offer to Alice isn’t quite what it seems. Don’t take candy from strange men.
I’ve also released a sweet regency romance, Miss DeVere 
This is a fun read, and unlike “The curious profession of dr craven 
” seems to not carry a curse.
Frankenkitty is available.
> What happens when teenagers get to play with Dr Frankenstien’s lab notebooks, a few odd chemicals and a great big whopping coil? Mayhem, and possibly an invitation to the Transylvanian Neuroscience Summer School.
Get Free Stuff and try out my landing page. There are three free complete short stories (including an ARC for Frankenkitty) available after you’ve gone through the hoops.
April 8, 2016
Life #Fridayreads
Henrietta Cordelia Ray, 1849 – 1916
Life! Ay, what is it? E’en a moment spun
From cycles of eternity. And yet,
What wrestling ‘mid the fever and the fret
Of tangled purposes and hopes undone!
What affluence of love! What vict’ries won
In agonies of silence, ere trust met
A manifold fulfillment, and the wet,
Beseeching eyes saw splendors past the sun!
What struggle in the web of circumstance,
And yearning in the wingèd music! All,
One restless strife from fetters to be free;
Till, gathered to eternity’s expanse,
Is that brief moment at the Father’s call.
Life! Ay, at best, ’tis but a mystery!
April 7, 2016
Henry V, Act III, Scene I [Once more unto the breach, dear friends]
William Shakespeare, 1564 – 1616
Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more;
Or close the wall up with our English dead!
In peace there’s nothing so becomes a man,
As modest stillness and humility;
But when the blast of war blows in our ears,
Then imitate the action of the tiger:
Stiffen the sinews, conjure up the blood,
Disguise fair nature with hard-favoured rage:
Then lend the eye a terrible aspect;
Let it pry through the portage of the head,
Like the brass cannon; let the brow o’erwhelm it
As fearfully as doth a galled rock
O’erhang and jutty his confounded base,
Swill’d with the wild and wasteful ocean.
Now set the teeth and stretch the nostril wide;
Hold hard the breath and bend up every spirit
To his full height. On, on, you noblest English,
Whose blood is fet from fathers of war-proof!
Fathers that, like so many Alexanders,
Have in these parts from morn till even fought,
And sheathed their swords for lack of argument.
Dishonour not your mothers: now attest,
That those whom you call’d fathers did beget you.
Be copy now to men of grosser blood,
And teach them how to war. And you, good yeoman,
Whose limbs were made in England, show us here
The mettle of your pasture: let us swear
That you are worth your breeding; which I doubt not;
For there is none of you so mean and base,
That hath not noble lustre in your eyes.
I see you stand like greyhounds in the slips,
Straining upon the start. The game’s afoot:
Follow your spirit; and upon this charge,
Cry ‘God for Harry! England! and Saint George!’
The picture is of Harlech castle, in Wales, not Harfleur, but it gives the right impression. Where I stood when taking this picture was deep water when the castle was built.
