R. Harrison's Blog, page 37
December 26, 2015
What the Thrush Said
John Keats, 1795 – 1821
O Thou whose face hath felt the Winter’s wind,
Whose eye has seen the snow-clouds hung in mist,
And the black elm tops ’mong the freezing stars,
To thee the spring will be a harvest-time.
O thou, whose only book has been the light
Of supreme darkness which thou feddest on
Night after night when Phœbus was away,
To thee the Spring shall be a triple morn.
O fret not after knowledge—I have none,
And yet my song comes native with the warmth.
O fret not after knowledge—I have none,
And yet the Evening listens. He who saddens
At the thought of idleness cannot be idle,
And he’s awake who thinks himself asleep.
(i know the featured image isn’t a thrush, but a wren looks better)
Here’s a wood-thrush from my feeder.
December 25, 2015
FrankenKitty 11 #wewriwar #amwriting
(Some assembly required)
Welcome to Weekend Writing Warriors. This is a sample from my work in progress, “Frankenkitty”, and I hope you enjoy it. It started out as a young-adult superhero book, and well, you’ll see. The week before last week, in the chapter, “The Gerbil from Hell,” the girls found a test subject. The trouble continues this week. This snippet picks up right after last weeks where Amber and Mary’s coil blew out the town electrical grid.
As the lights came back on, Jennifer put the gerbil in a jar and Amber poured enough of the glowing pink solution over it to cover the corpse; Mary nudged them and muttered, “MOS.”
“What are you doing?” Dr. Maria Venik or Mrs. Gross was not a woman to stand for much nonsense.
Amber had a story ready, “This is a special fixative. It will help dye the gerbil’s body so we can see what’s inside without cutting it up.”
“Is that why it’s glowing, Fluorescein?”
“Yes, Mother.”
“What were you doing with the coil?”
“That was my bad,” Jennifer said, “I wanted to see what it did. More than I expected.”
“I hope you’re not hurt,” Mrs. Gross was suddenly worried that her householder’s insurance might not cover burns from electron accelerators and Tesla coils or worse.
This is a work in progress. In other news, I’ve become a booktrope author, but more on that latter. It has meant a change in pen-name. The week before last week’s is here.
and you can read the whole last chapter if you’d rather. I’ve added a sub-title “(some assembly required).”
I’m also looking for reviewers for my nearly ready book “The Curious Profession of Dr. Craven” It’s moved out of layout to final assembly. There was a bit of a hiccough in production, but that’s sorted out.
Get Free Stuff and try out my landing page. There are two free complete short stories available after you’ve gone through the hoops.
December 24, 2015
A Visit from St. Nicholas
Attributed to Clement Clarke Moore
‘Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house
Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse;
The stockings were hung by the chimney with care,
In hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be there;
The children were nestled all snug in their beds,
While visions of sugar-plums danced in their heads;
And mamma in her ‘kerchief, and I in my cap,
Had just settled our brains for a long winter’s nap,
When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from the bed to see what was the matter.
Away to the window I flew like a flash,
Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash.
The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow
Gave the lustre of mid-day to objects below,
When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,
But a miniature sleigh, and eight tiny reindeer,
With a little old driver, so lively and quick,
I knew in a moment it must be St. Nick.
More rapid than eagles his coursers they came,
And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name;
“Now, Dasher! now, Dancer! now, Prancer and Vixen!
On, Comet! on, Cupid! on, Donder and Blitzen!
To the top of the porch! to the top of the wall!
Now dash away! dash away! dash away all!”
As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly,
When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky;
So up to the house-top the coursers they flew,
With the sleigh full of Toys, and St. Nicholas too.
And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the roof
The prancing and pawing of each little hoof.
As I drew in my head, and was turning around,
Down the chimney St. Nicholas came with a bound.
He was dressed all in fur, from his head to his foot,
And his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot;
A bundle of Toys he had flung on his back,
And he looked like a peddler just opening his pack.
His eyes — how they twinkled! his dimples how merry!
His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry!
His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow
And the beard of his chin was as white as the snow;
The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth,
And the smoke it encircled his head like a wreath;
He had a broad face and a little round belly,
That shook when he laughed, like a bowlful of jelly.
He was chubby and plump, a right jolly old elf,
And I laughed when I saw him, in spite of myself;
A wink of his eye and a twist of his head,
Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread;
He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,
And filled all the stockings; then turned with a jerk,
And laying his finger aside of his nose,
And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose;
He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle,
And away they all flew like the down of a thistle,
But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight,
“Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good-night.”
December 23, 2015
Dartmoor story III #amwriting
Following from the last installment:
Early that morning, while it was still dark, Elizabeth woke to the noise of something scrabbling at her window. She turned in bed to look at it, and then saw a thundering combination of flash and noise. She said to herself, “Must be a thunderstorm.” She rolled over and went back to sleep, ignoring the other claps of thunder that followed.
Indirect daylight was diffusing into her room when she woke in the morning. She leaped up, well rested, and dashed to the window to look at the view she could only see indistinctly the night before. It was, as Mary intimated the night before, lovely, striking, and indeed beautiful.
Even more striking, when she looked down at the farmyard below her, was her uncle. Walking back from the fields, he carried a large rifle and a shovel over his shoulder. He looked up and waved to her before he entered the house. She threw on her house-dress and dashed downstairs to catch him.
She found him in the kitchen, seated informally with Mary and George. She noted that his clothes were mucky, as though he’d been digging. Pouring himself a cup of tea, he offered her one. “We don’t stand much on formality here. I generally breakfast in the kitchen with my servants, but if you’d prefer to use the parlour?”
Elizabeth laughed, “No, this is fine. Better than fine, it’s cosy. What were you shooting? I think I heard you last night, unless it was a storm.”
Her uncle paused, “Rabbits. After the storm.”
“Rabbits?” Elizabeth pointed to a gun that was sitting in the corner. “With that?”
“Yes,”
“Isn’t it a bit big? It looks like my Cousin James’ service rifle. He said they used it to hunt elephants and buffalo when he was in Africa.”
“They were big rabbits.”
“They’d have to be. The cartridge is bigger than my finger. I wouldn’t think there’d be much left of a rabbit if you hit it. Even if it was a big rabbit.”
“If you must know, I used a shot-shell. Didn’t have the best of hunting, though, so it won’t be rabbit pie for dinner tonight.”
“That’s a shame. It looks like no rabbits and you slipped in the mud to boot.”
Mary asked, “Did you sleep well, Miss Elizabeth?”
“Other than that thunderstorm, like a baby. This is the first time I haven’t had my nightmares in a couple of years. Well, I did wake up to something scrabbling at my window, but that had to be mice.”
The start of the story can be found here.
Sonnet—Mutation
William Cullen Bryant, 1794 – 1878
They talk of short-lived pleasure—be it so—
Pain dies as quickly: stern, hard-featured pain
Expires, and lets her weary prisoner go.
The fiercest agonies have shortest reign;
And after dreams of horror, comes again
The welcome morning with its rays of peace.
Oblivion, softly wiping out the stain,
Makes the strong secret pangs of shame to cease:
Remorse is virtue’s root; its fair increase
Are fruits of innocence and blessedness:
Thus joy, o’erborne and bound, doth still release
His young limbs from the chains that round him press.
Weep not that the world changes—did it keep
A stable changeless state, ’twere cause indeed to weep.
December 22, 2015
At the Window
D. H. Lawrence, 1885 – 1930
The pine-trees bend to listen to the autumn wind as it mutters
Something which sets the black poplars ashake with hysterical laughter;
While slowly the house of day is closing its eastern shutters.
Further down the valley the clustered tombstones recede,
Winding about their dimness the mist’s grey cerements, after
The street lamps in the darkness have suddenly started to bleed.
The leaves fly over the window and utter a word as they pass
To the face that leans from the darkness, intent, with two dark-filled eyes
That watch for ever earnestly from behind the window glass.
December 21, 2015
Dartmoor Story II
This is the second installment of a story I’ve been working on that is set at a little farm near North Bovey. It’s set much later (1893) than my usual ones and has a strong science fiction backstory.
Her uncle walked to the trap and offered a hand to help her down, “You should call me Sylvester. Uncle Sylvester if you must. We’ll see, but I’m sure the fresh air and clean water of Dartmoor will help.”
He led her into the parlour and said, “You must be hungry, tea?”
“Yes, please. I mean, if it wouldn’t be a bother, Uncle.”
“It’s no bother for me,” he turned and shouted, “Mary! Tea please, in the parlour. My niece Elizabeth is finally here.” Then he explained to Elizabeth, “There’s no bell so I just shout for the servants. You’ve met George, my man-of-work. Mary is his wife and my housekeeper.”
While they waited for Mary, Uncle Sylvester played with a lamp, adjusting the wick and finally lighting it. A dim orange glow filled the room. “I’m afraid we’re not on the gas here. So kerosene lamps it is.”
Elizabeth said that would be fine.
“It’s either those or candles, but I have laid on water. At least when the pump works.”
Mary arrived with the tea tray. In addition to the teapot, she had put some scones on a plate. She curtsied and said, “Miss James, I hope you’ll find this to your liking.”
Uncle Sylvester said, “Mary, if you would see to Elizabeth’s needs. There is an experiment I must attend to. I shan’t be long and I should like to listen to those lungs of yours before you sleep.”
After her uncle left, Elizabeth asked Mary, “His laboratory? When my father said that, it usually meant he was dashing around the corner for a nip of brandy.”
“No Miss. If Dr Standfast says he’s in his laboratory, he’s working. He doesn’t drink like that.”
“A teetotaller?”
“Not quite Miss Elizabeth, he’s just temperate. I can’t imagine him sneaking off for a nip.”
“What’s so special about his laboratory?”
“Can’t say Miss Elizabeth. It’s private, maybe you should ask him.”
“I will. Thank you for the scones, I didn’t realize how hungry I was. It’s been a long trip.”
“From London and all, Miss. I shouldn’t wonder. I’d love to go to London, some day.”
Mary’s speculation about London ended when George dragged Elizabeth’s trunk inside. “Sorry Miss, I had to put the pony in his stall first. Mary, love, which room is hers?”
“Upstairs, left in back.” Mary turned to Elizabeth, “It has a lovely view, Miss and is away from the noise of the road.”
“What noise? It is so quiet here.”
George struggled with the trunk, mostly because the staircase was narrow and twisty, and he couldn’t stand straight to lift it properly. Mary led Elizabeth in his wake to the room her uncle had chosen for her. There was a small brass bedstead, a wardrobe and a table with the inevitable pitcher and basin. The chamber pot was under the bed where it should be. Elizabeth went to the window and gazed out. The stars shown above the line of hills and downs in the distance. Dim yellow lights showed where the village of North Bovey lay to the North. Rather more light, to the East, showed the town of Moreton Hampstead.
Elizabeth said, “It’s perfect.”
“Yes, Miss.” Mary paused, “George, Miss Elizabeth should get her rest.”
“Oh, right.” George bowed slightly and tipped his forehead in a salute. “Sleep well, and if you want to tour the farm, let me know in the morning and I’ll get the Tilbury ready.”
“I shall, but you know it depends on what Uncle says.”
Mary bustled her husband out of the room, and then helped Elizabeth to open her trunk. They found her nightdress. Then she helped Elizabeth out of her dress and the corset she wore beneath it.
“Miss,” she asked, “Your arms, all those bruises, what did you do to them?”
“I don’t know. I think I knocked them on my bedstead when I had a nightmare. I have bad nightmares.”
“Then I hope you sleep well here and have no nightmares.”
“So do I.”
Uncle Sylvester knocked on the door. “When you are ready, I’d like to listen to that chest, and you can tell me about these nightmares.”
A few minutes later, once Elizabeth wore her nightdress, they let him in. He too, noticed the bruises on Elizabeth’s arms, and frowned at the story Mary repeated to him.
“Interesting,” he said, “How often did you have those nightmares?”
“Every two weeks, it was like a clock.”
He nodded, and then said, “I think you’ll find the fresh air and good food of Dartmoor will banish those. Let me hear your chest.”
He pulled a stethoscope from his pocket, explaining, “I had to get this from the laboratory. It’s probably best if you’d sit on the edge of the bed.”
Elizabeth sat and he sat behind her. Mary, still there for proprieties sake, watched as he slid the chestpiece along Elizabeth’s back, asked her to breathe deeply and listened. Then he thumped her back while he carefully listened.
“Interesting, interesting, interesting.” He paused, “I don’t think I need to listen to the front of your chest.” Then he stood up and walked to the window. He stared out at the stars for a few moments of intense thought, and then, finally, turned around and said, “How long have you had this consumption?”
“I don’t know, but I’ve been weak for the last year, and coughing for almost as long.”
“When did the nightmare’s start?”
“About the same time. After he examined me, Mr Harvey told me it was because I couldn’t breathe well. When I struggled for breath, I’d have the dreams.”
Her uncle nodded, “It could be. When did the bruises start?”
“At least a year ago, about the same time. What is it?”
Uncle Sylvester frowned, “I’m not sure.” Then he smiled at her, “But whatever it is, your parents did the right thing to send you here. Get some sleep and we’ll see how you feel in the morning.” He paused again and said, “Mary, before you go, make sure the windows are fastened tight, locked. Elizabeth shouldn’t breathe the chill night air. By the way, Elizabeth, how long has it been since your last nightmare?”
“Two weeks.”
Her uncle frowned again, but said nothing more and shut the door as he left.
December 20, 2015
In Flanders Fields
John McCrae, 1872 – 1918
In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place, and in the sky,
The larks, still bravely singing, fly,
Scarce heard amid the guns below.
We are the dead; short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.
Take up our quarrel with the foe!
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high!
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.
December 19, 2015
Sonnet—Silence
Edgar Allan Poe
There are some qualities—some incorporate things,
That have a double life, which thus is made
A type of that twin entity which springs
From matter and light, evinced in solid and shade.
There is a two-fold Silence—sea and shore—
Body and soul. One dwells in lonely places,
Newly with grass o’ergrown; some solemn graces,
Some human memories and tearful lore,
Render him terrorless: his name’s “No More.”
He is the corporate Silence: dread him not!
No power hath he of evil in himself;
But should some urgent fate (untimely lot!)
Bring thee to meet his shadow (nameless elf,
That haunteth the lone regions where hath trod
No foot of man,) commend thyself to God!
FrankenKitty 10 #wewriwar #amwriting
(Some assembly required)
Welcome to Weekend Writing Warriors. This is a sample from my work in progress, “Frankenkitty”, and I hope you enjoy it. It started out as a young-adult superhero book, and well, you’ll see. The week before last week, in the chapter, “The Gerbil from Hell,” the girls found a test subject. The trouble starts this week. This snippet picks up right after last weeks where Amber reminded Mary about their experiments with a coil.
“How could I forget? We nearly blew out the town’s power grid; you don’t think.”
“Why not,” Amber said, “it would be fun, and we could totes do it this time; they’d never know it was us.”
Jennifer’s father arrived at Amber’s house to pick up his daughter. He arrived just in time to see the house lights dim and brown out. The streetlights flickered then went out. Then with a loud bang, the whole street went black and sparks flew from the transformer attached to the power line in the street.
“Funny that,” he said to himself, “Same thing happened last year.”
He tried to ring the doorbell, then after realizing it didn’t work without power, knocked on the door.
Amber’s parents calmly answered the door; they were wearing LED headlamps and were surprisingly unphased by the events of the night.
This is a work in progress. In other news, I’ve become a booktrope author, but more on that latter. It has meant a change in pen-name. The week before last week’s is here and you can read the whole last chapter if you’d rather. I’ve added a sub-title “(some assembly required).”
I’m also looking for reviewers for my nearly ready book “The Curious Profession of Dr. Craven” It’s moved out of layout to final assembly. There was a bit of a hiccough in production, but that’s sorted out.
Get Free Stuff and try out my landing page.
