Allison Tebo's Blog, page 12
April 26, 2018
Life At Hedgerose – Chapter 1
Chapter One
Leaks, Fireworks and Dragon Eggs
Titus blinked hazily and rolled over in his bed, warm, content and comfortably tired. He heard the faint, fat tapping of a bee fuzzily thumping into his window and he sat up and brushed back the curtain with the tips of his fingers, looking out through panes slightly frosty from the coolness of early spring beyond his window.
From this window, he couldn’t see the rest of the village of Hedgerose, but it was a fine view nonetheless; better in fact.
To the North, and to his right, there was an expanse of farmland—rich earth tilled and richly dark and ready to snatch at the seeds into its heart.
To his left, and to the South, there was the rough tangle of shrubs that marked the beginning of Petalmist Forest, like a party of humble serfs gathering around to pay tribute to their stately lords, for the tall, softly blowing trees of Petalmist were already beginning to show their blossomy raiment of budding limbs.
Titus and his guardian lived in the cottage at the end of a long row of cottages at the very edge of the village—a suitable place for someone like Folrolf—and past their small and tidy orchard, their newly tilled garden and past the ramshackle fence smothered in honeysuckle that kept out woodchucks that Folrolf hadn’t turned into cabbages, was a considerable distance of grass and wild flowers and onions, and past all that, was the river. It wasn’t exactly a proper river, but it was far more than a creek and it made a very respectable rumble when one was close by and it widened as it passed through PetalMist into fine pools for fishing and it was full of outcroppings of sun-warmed rock made for sitting and thinking, and it was always ice-cold and smelt of a faraway source so foreign to their village, the only thing like it was Folrolf.
A sudden thud pushed through Titus’s sleepy mind, and turned a vague thought of Folrolf into a reality for undoubtedly, that thumping was Folrolf—and he would be wanting his breakfast.
Titus rolled out of bed and several pillows plumped to the ground after him before he untangled himself from his nightshirt and began searching rapidly through his bedclothes to locate his trousers, all the while cocking one ear to listen to the customary bellow that started his mornings with the regularity and bombasity of a cock crowing his defiance. But the bellow didn’t come, although Titus’s fuddled brain now recognized the ever-increasing thumpings as a hammer.
Snapping his suspenders over his shoulders, Titus hurried into the kitchen with increasing uneasiness but instead of finding Folrolf pacing like a cantankerous bear just aroused from hibernation or setting the table in a riotous bombardment of cutlery and ejaculations, he saw . . . nothing. The kitchen was as clean and spotless as he had left it last night.
A clink from outside the kitchen window caused Titus to look towards the window in bepuzzlement. Something small and oblong fell past the window and he realized he could hear muttered coming from above.
Oh no, tell me he isn’t, Titus thought with a gradual surge of fear.
He rushed down the front hall and flung open the front door as two more nails, followed by a shingle, cascaded to the ground at his feet.
Oh no—he IS!
Titus dashed outside and craned his neck back to stare at the roof in trepidation. The blaze of morning sunlight caused him to squint into its rays but he could still see what he feared to see quite clearly.
“Folrolf!” he shrieked. “What are you doing?”
Folrolf was crouched placidly on the roof, like a large, grey spider turned handyman. His stiff beard and hair looked even more disheveled than ever—he must have run from his room without even his pathetic semblance of daily grooming. His customary moth-eaten robes were tucked into his belt, and he had a generous amount of nails between his teeth and framing his mouth in a macabre grin.
He was staring with frank fascination at the hammer in his hand as if he had never seen anything like it before. He turned it over in his hands, entranced, spellbound. He didn’t take away his gaze away from the hammer but he spat out the nails and said to Titus.
“Remarkable tool, the hammer, if you stop to think about it,” he said reverentially. “You know, Titus—we have so many amazing tools at our disposal that we take for granted. It’s shameful. We should never lose our wonder for the things that make our daily tasks easier, remember that boy. Why it makes repairing this roof as ease as falling off a log.”
“Please don’t mention falling,” Titus groaned.
Folrolf didn’t appear to hear him. “Here, hold this.”
He picked up his toolbox and flung it carelessly at Titus, who caught it awkwardly, hugging it to him and wincing at the ensuing cacophony of chisels and pliers rattled within and deafened his newly-wakened years.
“Folrolf!” he cried. “Folrolf please come down from there! It’s not safe.”
Folrolf looked at him with vague surprise. “Unsafe? Nonsense!”
“What’s that silly old goat doing now?” Honey Winstalk—an elderly neighbor who did not do a very good job at living up to the sweetness of her name—let herself through her garden gate and walked over to stand by Titus.
Titus glanced at her then back at Folrolf. “Folrolf, please. Its—you shouldn’t be up there.”
Folrolf frowned at him. “Why not?” He looked once more meditatively at the hammer then slammed it against the roof. The shingles groaned in protest. The front door was still open, and a distant bang informed Titus that at least one shingle had collapsed into the parlor.
An image of Folrolf hurtling through the roof, breaking every bone in his body and causing the house to fold up on itself flashed through Titus’s mind in vivid color. He closed his eyes. “Folrolf—please your—your—“
Folrolf glared at him. “I’m what? You’re stammering, Titus—you know I can’t abide stammering. What are you trying to say?”
“Your—your—“
“Spit it out.” Folrolf said with an irritable huff of air.
“Oh for goodness sake, I’ll say it,” Honey murmured disgustedly before pitching her voice to a strident bellow: “You’re too old to be up on a roof, you idiot!”
“Whaaaat!” Folrolf roared, leaping to his feet and slipping on a shingle and nearly falling over. He stomped up and down in rage shaking the roof, hair flying straight out, face livid and scarlet, every muscle strained in a burst of violent temper.
“But then, it’s no concern of mine,” Honey snapped, though she was backing up towards the edge of the yard as she continued to express her opinions. “Anyone who’s stupid enough to get on a roof at your age deserves to break his back.”
“What!” he screamed. “What, what, what?” He seemed incapable of saying anything else. Titus thought the man’s heart was going to fail.
Still roaring Folrolf launched himself of the roof. Titus screamed and ran around the corner of the house, heart in his throat. Folrolf flung himself out of the rose bushes shaking out his robes furiously as he charged past Titus and around the house.
Titus plucked blankly at a broken branch. So much for the reviving roses. His stared with a sigh at the crushed petals.
Honey was already running towards her house with Folrolf storming after her.
“Come back here you puckered old prune!” Folrolf bellowed.
“How dare you! I’ll remind you I’m on the sunny side of forty!”
“You could have fooled me!”
“I’ll tell my brother on you!”
“Go and tell!”
“You stop chasing me, you old badger—you hear?”
“I’m going to give you so much exercise you won’t be able to run your mouth, Honey Windstalk!”
“You monster, how dare you!”
“Save your breath and run, you nasty little baggage!”
Titus stood alone in front of house. A slight noise caused him to turn his head to see Diggle McCunn, a farmer and the neighbor across the lane standing beside him. Diggle was infamously hard of hearing—though he tried to deny it—and doubtless hadn’t heard Folrolf’s shouted threats, though he could see just fine.
Diggle looked after Folrolf’s and Honey’s retreating figures with an astounded expression as he puffed on his pipe, as if unsure of anything else to do with his hands.
“Well!” he remarked at last. “Spring makes love come to everyone, I suppose. But er . . . isn’t your guardian a little old to be chasing ladies?”
Titus turned and stared at him stupidly for a full minute until Diggle shrugged and walked on.
It was just another way to start the day when one lived with a faerie.
Titus went inside and started brewing Folrolf’s morning coffee.
~
Titus’s parents had died when he was ten years old, claimed in a village plague that had spared him as casually as it had taken his parents.
Bewildered and alone, Titus’s future had been sorted out by the towns people who uncovered the Bromley’s will and made the life-altering discovery that Titus had a godfather, a Welkin named Folrolf.
Titus had felt rather grim about the news when it had been put to him. Surely, he was the only boy in the whole world that had a Welkin as a godfather, and the novelty didn’t please him—it merely made him feel more different from every other boy he knew. He didn’t have any parents, he wasn’t apprenticed yet, and he had a Welkin for a grandfather. One more difference didn’t make things easier, it was as if one more rope had been tugged free of his moorings and he were drifting out onto an unfamiliar sea, full of reefs he wasn’t sure he could navigate, and ports he could only hope were populated by friendly people.
But nothing could be done but to pack up his few things and climb aboard a cart bound for Hedgerose. Titus had been dropped off with Folrolf’s weekly cheese and milk. And both their lives had been turned upside down.
Folrolf was every bit as different as Titus had imagined he would be. He was an immensely tall man, with a voice like a trumpet and eyes like bits of clear, blue glass. His face was creased as smooth and fine as rubbed parchment and was it once ageless and ancient. He was so tall and thin, his beard and robes so loose and flowing, and his feet so big, he reminded Titus of a weeping willow with an extensive root system.
Folrolf had been imposing and rather alarming, but at the time, his rather abrupt manner had rather suited Titus, he did not want to be coddled just then.
Folrolf had stared down at the small lad with beetling brows and a barked inquiry and when he had deposited all his parcels, human and otherwise, in the kitchen—he had read the letter Titus had brought him—the one his parents had left with their will and addressed to Master Folrolf.
Titus had stood stiffly in the cluttered kitchen, staring at his guardian and wondering how this man would receive him once he sorted out that Titus was his responsibility. Would he be able to stay? Or would he be one of those orphans who were tossed about from one home to the next? Or to get rid of him, might he be sent to some master that would board their apprentice, but be cruel.
Folrolf had been quite for a moment after reading it and then he had looked at Titus, gotten up and gave him a big mug of milk and a piece of cheese.
“This is your home now, Titus Benjamin,” he had said a bit gruffly, but perhaps, it had only been that he was trying to disguise the brightness that Titus had seen clearly in his eyes. “I’ll do my best by you and you’ll be all right, because I’m not going anywhere for at least three hundred years. Now drink your milk.”
And after that, they had actually gotten along fine.
~
Faeries had been popping into stories since time began. Parts of the stories were true, some of them were not, and one point that was always wrong. One thing that was always missing from the poems and ballads troubadours and storytellers related was that Faerie was a human-term. Those long-lived, magical beings they knew as faeries were called Welkins by their own kind, and their names weren’t the only thing that got changed in the stories. They were certainly terrible and fearsome, but they weren’t quite the ethereal, majestic, and kindhearted bards often made them out to be. They were rarely much to look at—though it would be advised not to call a Welkin ugly to their face—quite unkempt, possessed a sizable temper and had a propensity for using their magic in not very helpful ways, for being turned into a cabbage is never helpful.
Welkins lived for a thousand years, and to be generous, living that long can make anyone irritable. Welkins births and marriages were few and far between and some had married other species and the blood and fire and magic and agelessness had been lost. Even a full-blooded Welkin rarely used their magic. A true Welkin was very rare, and were far too difficult and intense by nature to live together and thus they were often found scattered about the world in surprising and inconvenient places, bringing havoc and wisdom to the people around them.
Welkins were a foot taller than humans—although Folrolf was only six and a half feet, a sore point with him—and three times as strong as the most powerful human male. Folrolf himself was as thin and brittle looking as an old tree—and his immense feet looked like a fitting root system—and his face was lined with deep lines and his hair decidedly grey—there was no denying his incredible strength or fitness. No human man could get away with such irregular sleeping hours, eating like a centaur, indulging in pipes and spirits or pursuing every feasible form of hurting himself in existence. Not to mention explosive bouts of temper that would cause apoplexy in anyone else—but Folrolf showed no sign of slowly down at the ripe age of seven hundred and fifty three. He rather gave the impression that he had barely started. A few tried to claim that he was getting senile when Folrolf kept forgetting things, but Titus knew better. Folrolf was simply distracted, although he had no intention of admitting it.
~
While Folrolf’s coffee stood warm and ready on the stove, Titus finished breakfast and he was swallowing the last bit of honey and toast and washing it down with tea when the front door slammed open on its hinges and crashed against the wall. Titus choked and spurted tea everywhere as Folrolf rushed into the room, eyes gleaming, robes disheveled as always and hair and beard flying about behind him in a torrent of violent movement.
“Titus!” he roared. “Get me some fireworks.”
Titus had dropped his teacup with a clatter and he put out his hand to stop the brown tide spreading across the table. “Er—what?”
“Fireworks,” Folrolf repeated, hurrying past him and rummaging about in his desk. “About twenty crates will do.”
“Twenty crates?” Titus gaped.
“Go to Hedge, he makes them. Bright reliable boy. He’s sure to have them in stock.” Folrolf said absently running a hand through his hair and frowning at a piece of paper.
“. . . Hedge?”
Folrolf turned round, shifting without warning from abrupt abstraction to roaring impatience.
“Jack-By-The-Hedge Carbunkle!” he bellowed. “Now for goodness sakes, Titus don’t ask so many questions!”
“Yes sir.” Titus replied earnestly, running for the door and deciding he’d clean up the spilt tea later.
Fireworks? he wondered as he hurried towards the edge of town. What could Folrolf possibly want with fireworks? Titus was never quite sure what idea Folrolf would pull out of the blue but fireworks were a first.
His puzzled thoughts turned to Hedge, whom he had not much opportunity to think of until now. The villagers had always gossiped that after Folrolf, Jack-By-The-Hedge Carbunkle was the craziest occupant of Hedgerose. Hedge never seemed to be about, though and in the two years Titus had lived in Hedgerose, he had never met or seen him. It seemed the Hedge and his cousin were often flung neck-and-crop about the country and shunted from one relative to another. Titus had heard brief mentions of a terrifying madman that blew things up for fun, which might explain for the frequency of Hedge’s moving, if he were in the habit of blowing up the establishment in which he was living.
Titus knew the villagers had a tendency to exaggerate—after all, Folrolf wasn’t that bad—and so he wasn’t sure how true the rumors were regarding Hedge, but all the same, he was a bit apprehensive, as well as growingly curious, as he approached a little shed on the edge of town. After inquiring of several neighbors, he had been directed here. This was not where Hedge lived, but where he made his fireworks, and thus, the best place to get some.
It was a ramshackle affair with sagging frame, and shabby looking shutters that appeared to have been nailed on as an after thought. One shutter was missing and the others hung limply from one or two nails, swinging leisurely in the breeze. Perhaps some previous explosion had sent the shutters flying off the house—a great deal of wreckage and bits of refuse on the ground surrounding that cottage, supported that theory—for there was a great quantity of evil black smoke billowing out the windows, like smoke from a dying dragon. Titus halted and stared, and he realized that amidst the smoke, there were also flames.
Titus gasped aloud and instantly seized upon the thought that Hedge must still be inside.
He charged towards the house, wrapping his scarf around his nose and preparing to plunge in while hoping that getting burned didn’t hurt as badly as everyone said when the front door crashed open and a boy ran towards him, waving his arms wildly.
“No, no! Get back!” the boy yelled excitedly. “It’s going to—!”
There was a gigantic explosion from the hut, and Titus and the boy dove for cover behind a broken down stone wall. There was a whining screams of rockets as the smoke redoubled itself, and lights flashed wildly from within the shack.
The boy sat up slowly and peaked over the wall with a calm expression.
Titus glanced at him, then back at the house, then at the hobbit again. Then he sat down next to the hobbit and the two watched the light show in silence. The hobbit showed no surprise or alarm as a rocket skipped across the grass and exploded against a tree. He only smiled whimsically as the glass from one of the windows shattered, and cupped his head in his hands thoughtfully as roof began to cave in.
Trying to still the convicted agitation that he should be doing something, Titus watched the fireworks with growing interest, as the fireworks spiraled and twisted in delicate veins and flowers of sparkling light. There was a symphony of repetitive pops and a green dragon faded away against the sky.
Still the hobbit said nothing but merely stretched his legs out in front of him to a more comfortable position.
Titus glanced at him then back at the house.
“This, uh . . .” Titus nodded towards the disintegrated roof, “happen often?”
The hobbit was silent a moment, then he glanced at Titus.
“Oh yes.” He said with a matter–a–fact innocence, and his slight, mysterious smile utterly unnerved Titus.
Silence fell again for a long moment then a window box full of dead flowers fell to the ground with a crash.
Hedge gave a slight sigh and rose slowly and with aplomb to stand with his hands in his pockets, tongue in the side of his cheek, staring meditatively into the distance. He moved with mind numbing slowness towards the damage and surveyed it with a brief, detached glance. Titus followed him and the two of them stood in front of the blackened door now lying flat on the ground.
Titus waved his hand at some of the stray smoke wafting about the hut and glanced at Hedge, who was still studying the place in silence.
“Do you need any help with . . . cleaning up?”
Again, the silence stretched on and grew so awkward—for Titus—that he was rather wishing he hadn’t spoken when the boy finally answered. “Oh, that’s all right.” He paused, picked up a piece of wood, rubbed some soot off of it. It said, Do Not Mix, and then it became too blackened to read the rest of it. Titus wondered what it the rest of it had said, and rather gathered that Hedge had not followed its instructions very conscientiously.
Hedge dropped the sign with disinterest and put his hands back in his pockets again. “My cousin will help me,” he remarked at last. He poked at what was left of a work bench with his foot then raised a shoulder in a half-shrug that encompassed the demolished hut, the smoke, the blackened grass, and the dead willow tree that Titus had not noticed till now. “This happens all the time.”
They stood there quietly—Hedge thoughtfully, and the Titus in blank astonishment.
Suddenly Hedge looked around as if seeing Titus for the first time and gazed at him with the expression of a toddler discovering his own shadow. “Can I help you?”
Titus stared at him—Hedge’s long silence appeared to be catching—then regained his voice and answered: “I was…my friend wanted me to get some fireworks.”
“Oh,” Hedge said blankly. “Well, you might have to come back some other time.” He glanced around. “I’ll be . . . a little busy.” Then he wandered off through the blackened remains of his shed, looking like a lost and thoroughly dirty little ghost.
Titus stood in front of the house for a long time, simply staring, and then he turned homewards, speculating ominously as he went what Folrolf would say when he returned without the wanted items.
He reached the house much sooner then he would have wished and stood on the porch a moment in a tangle of indecision. At last, he walked inside and stood in the doorway of the study. Folrolf was still crouched over his desk scribbling away with a mangled quill and chunnering to himself and he did not turn around. Titus waited for a few moments, but Folrolf remained utterly unaware of his presence. Titus went to the kitchen, cleaned up the mess he had made earlier—very loudly, in the hopes that Folrolf would come to him instead of the other way around—but still, his guardian did not appear. He returned to the study doorway and coughed raucously. Folrolf only scowled at his parchment and hunched deeper over his writing desk. Sighing and giving up, Titus crept up and touched Folrolf’s shoulder.
Folrolf whipped around as if he had been waiting Titus for ages. “Ah, Titus,” he said brusquely. “Where have you been? Never mind. Let’s have tea shall we?” He stood up and shooed Titus into the kitchen. Titus wonderingly set out a plate of iced gingerbread while he watched Folrolf setting the kettle on before he sank down into one of the kitchen chairs and fell into a brow-furrowed reverie. The kettle began to shrill, and Titus poured them both a cup. The sound of liquid splashing into the cup caused Folrolf to give a little shake, like a bird awakening, and he looked down appreciatively and took a long sip of tea.
Titus sat down across from him. “Um . . . Folrolf?”
Folrolf blinked several times, his gaze seemed to be drawn back into his head as if by a string and suddenly he was aware of Titus and looking right at him. “Yes?”
“I—” Titus paused.
“What?” Folrolf prompted. Wherever he had been, he apparently wanted to go back there as quickly as possible and there was the burgeoning rumble of irritability in his voice.
“I—didn’t get the fireworks.”
There was a short silence while Folrolf stared at him as if his head had just sprouted parsnips.
“You didn’t get what?” Folrolf repeated slowly.
“The fireworks.” Titus replied.
Folrolf stared at him blankly, looking him up and down and Titus began to squirm.
“The fireworks?” Folrolf said slowly and shook his head. “Titus Benjamin Bromley, sometimes I wonder about you.”
Titus stared at him, dumbfounded.
“Now, don’t look at me like that as if I’ve said something wrong. I never—I repeat—never mentioned the word ‘fireworks’ today. The whole town may think I’m some sort of eccentric scatterbrained fool but I’m not as bad as all that. I assure you that if I had said anything like about fireworks, I would have remembered. No Titus, you are clearly getting me mistaken with something else.”
“But Folrolf!” Titus protested, feeling strangely desperate.
“Now Titus, how many times have I told you not to contradict your elders? I did not ever ask you to get fireworks. I wouldn’t trust that madman Hedge with a match, much less a crate of fireworks. Now stop staring and do something useful. Go water the roses.”
“But—”
“Titus Benjamin, I’m beginning to lose my patience.”
“Yes, sir.”
Titus left the room, head reeling, as he heard Folrolf mutter to himself: “Sometimes I wonder about that boy.”
~
The irascible Folrolf might unleash his wrath on villagers, and even occasionally his ward, but he was unfailingly kindhearted to those in need.
That cool spring afternoon, there was a knocking on the door, and when Titus answered it, he found himself face to face with a trio of gypsies. Their leader, a grey-haired man with one eye and a soft voice asked if they might set up camp on the other side of Folrolf’s orchard.
Before Titus could answer, Folrolf came stumping towards the door. Clearly, his studying was not going well, because he normally wasn’t prowling about the house with such a keen interest in everything Titus was doing or wanting to know who he was talking to.
Folrolf spoke to the gypsies quiet amicably and gave them permission readily. While they were speaking Titus glanced towards the only woman in the party. A dark, hunched woman with a great mane of hair shot through with grey that she kept pushing aside like someone peering from a curtain. But there was a curtain beyond the curtain, for even with that tangle pushed aside, her face was closed, her painted eyes hooded as she stared at Titus with a solemn, unblinking gaze. He looked away, uncomfortable. He couldn’t help feeling that she had been examining him and Folrolf with an unusual amount of thoroughness, far more than was necessary for the question at hand. She almost looked as if she were testing or weighing them in her mind. Titus was rather glad when the gypsies left and Folrolf shut the door after them.
As evening fell that night, the sound of gypsy music began sliding over the fence, through the orchard and trickling into their kitchen. Odd and eerie music that were to dance to, but they sounded like ancient enchantments, not goodhearted jigs. It was sad and beautiful and bewitching and alarming all at once. It appealed to Folrolf though, for instead of complaining about the nice as he sometimes did, Titus found him kicking up his heels in the library in a rather mournful caper. Obviously the enchanting quality roused Folrolf’s Welkin blood, and just as obviously he had abandoned his research entirely.
Titus made himself a cup of milky tea and decided to go to bed early, with several cushions around his ears.
The next morning, Titus attended to his chores in the garden. Many of the gypsies had scattered from their camp to collect wild herbs from the flourishing creek bank before pulling up camp that evening. A few gypsies tended their camp and wagons and among them was the old gypsy woman. Titus could feel her eyes upon him and he found it necessary to hid in the house for longer periods of time until a peek out the window assured him she was busy doing something else.
That evening the gypsies left, playing a traveling-song with a slow thrumming of a drum that echoed the drub of Titus’s own heart as he watched them leave in relief from the kitchen window.
He finished preparing the evening snack for him and Folrolf and was heading towards the parlor when there was yet another knock on the door.
The last day and a half had left him feeling creepish, and Titus wasn’t altogether pleased with the idea of opening the door to the dark, but he was too embarrassed to call Folrolf.
Cautiously, holding his plate of hard crumpets handy, just in case—he swung the door wide, then his heart gave a little jerk as he found himself alone on the threshold. His eyes dropped downwards and he took a step backwards, causing hot tea to splash on his hand as he stared at the square crate sitting at his feet.
It was a small crate, lined with a ragged quilt and hay and nestled down into it, was an egg, but not like any egg that Titus had ever seen. It was the size of a small melon and its porcelain-like sheen was an indeterminate color between white and green—it was impossible to tell in the moon-shimmering light. Iridescent colors lined the egg like the eggs on a hand, threads of gold, pink, purple, silver and blue.
Carefully, Titus touched it. And then he snatched his hand back, for the shell was not only hot to the touch, but it had suddenly become illuminated, with a dim but fierce red glow—like the determined sparking of an ember and Titus’s heart had jumped at the strangeness of it.
“Titus, what are you doing let all the night air in the house, you silly little gingersnap?” Folrolf said, the sound of his great boots rattling the floorboards as he stalked up behind Titus, then stopped talking with a rapidity that was almost comical.
He bent, bringing his nose close to the egg, and he looked a little like a swamp bird lowering its beak towards water.
Folrolf peered at the egg, and then his eyebrows nearly exploded from his face as he straightened and looked around with his hands on his hips.
“Now, who’s gone and left a ruddy great dragon egg on our door step?”
~
Titus poked up the fire and the flames sputtered and climbed further up the chimney, casting more light and deeper shadows across the parlor.
Folrolf had set the egg crate on a table and pulled an oil lamp closer as he bent to examine the thing that had been left in their care. Titus hung back, watching uneasily.
“There might still be some way to find the gypsies and return,” Titus suggested.
Folrolf let out an impatient grunt. “They’ll be long gone by now. And this was hardly a practical joke, they don’t want it. No, if they left it here, they have no intention of taking it back.”
“We could take it out into a field and wait for the mother to reclaim it!” Titus suggested, grasping at straws.
Folrolf gave him an astounded look, his eyebrows bristling with disapproval. “Titus, I am surprised at you. Leave a helpless egg in the middle of nowhere in the hopes that a mother which might not exist comes to retrieve it?”
Titus felt slightly sulky. “We could have someone watch the egg until we know its safe,” he mumbled.
Folrolf gave a colossal snort of derision at that proposal.
“Perhaps they found they egg near by and have merely left it in our care until its mother comes looking for it!” Titus suggested hopefully, then felt rather foolish for being hopeful about it. An angry mother dragon seeking her lost egg by and dismantling their house one shingle at a time in the process was hardly an event to look forward to.
“Perhaps,” Folrolf said distractedly, and he placed a hand on the egg. It lit up again—it was as if the egg were trying to purr, but could only do so by illumination. Folrolf chuckled on a rather odd tone, a note that Titus rarely heard, the Welkin almost sounded as if he were cooing.
“Why don’t we take it to Rockmere Castle? I’m sure there’s someone there who is qualified to care for a dragon egg.”
Folrolf looked like a creature preparing to unleash its claws, his frame quivered with offense. “More qualified than I?”
Titus opened his mouth.
“No, no, Titus. Our duty is clear. You and I must look after this orphaned egg ourselves.”
He knew it.
Titus stared at the egg. He could just imagine how this situation could develop. Folrolf might do the research and write down the instructions on how to care for the egg, but Titus would be the one caring for the egg, as sure as certain. That wouldn’t be so bad, but what about when it finally hatched? He realized most people wouldn’t categorize a dragon as an animal, but he did—and he and animals didn’t have anything to do with one another if they could help it.
In spite of what Folrolf said, what if another dragon did appear, looking for the egg? And then what happened once the dragon could start talking and walking and running about the house? It could burn the whole place down or bite their hand off, and it wouldn’t matter whether it was an accident or on purpose.
And suppose the hatchling was never claimed? Titus imagined a baby dragon eating them out of house and home, racing around the house and talking non-stop. It might even eat house guests or decide to burn the village one day.
Folrolf had picked up the egg and tickled it a little. The egg glowed. “That really is quite fascinating.”
Titus could feel his face moving to arrange itself into a scowl and he tried to hold it back when Folrolf looked up suddenly.
“I know!” Folrolf burbled happily. “We’ll have a lesson tomorrow and use the egg as an objective lesson! It’s high time you learned more about dragons and this is the perfect opportunity.”
“I have a feeling I’ll learn more then enough shortly,” Titus muttered, as he watched the egg twitching and glowing in its nest.
This is copyrighted by Allison Tebo 2018© . Please do not use or copy without permission.
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Leaks, Fireworks and Dragon Eggs
Titus blinked hazily and rolled over in his bed, warm, content and comfortably tired. He heard the faint, fat tapping of a bee fuzzily thumping into his window and he sat up and brushed back the curtain with the tips of his fingers, looking out through panes slightly frosty from the coolness of early spring beyond his window.
From this window, he couldn’t see the rest of the village of Hedgerose, but it was a fine view nonetheless; better in fact.
To the North, and to his right, there was an expanse of farmland—rich earth tilled and richly dark and ready to snatch at the seeds into its heart.
To his left, and to the South, there was the rough tangle of shrubs that marked the beginning of Petalmist Forest, like a party of humble serfs gathering around to pay tribute to their stately lords, for the tall, softly blowing trees of Petalmist were already beginning to show their blossomy raiment of budding limbs.
Titus and his guardian lived in the cottage at the end of a long row of cottages at the very edge of the village—a suitable place for someone like Folrolf—and past their small and tidy orchard, their newly tilled garden and past the ramshackle fence smothered in honeysuckle that kept out woodchucks that Folrolf hadn’t turned into cabbages, was a considerable distance of grass and wild flowers and onions, and past all that, was the river. It wasn’t exactly a proper river, but it was far more than a creek and it made a very respectable rumble when one was close by and it widened as it passed through PetalMist into fine pools for fishing and it was full of outcroppings of sun-warmed rock made for sitting and thinking, and it was always ice-cold and smelt of a faraway source so foreign to their village, the only thing like it was Folrolf.
A sudden thud pushed through Titus’s sleepy mind, and turned a vague thought of Folrolf into a reality for undoubtedly, that thumping was Folrolf—and he would be wanting his breakfast.
Titus rolled out of bed and several pillows plumped to the ground after him before he untangled himself from his nightshirt and began searching rapidly through his bedclothes to locate his trousers, all the while cocking one ear to listen to the customary bellow that started his mornings with the regularity and bombasity of a cock crowing his defiance. But the bellow didn’t come, although Titus’s fuddled brain now recognized the ever-increasing thumpings as a hammer.
Snapping his suspenders over his shoulders, Titus hurried into the kitchen with increasing uneasiness but instead of finding Folrolf pacing like a cantankerous bear just aroused from hibernation or setting the table in a riotous bombardment of cutlery and ejaculations, he saw . . . nothing. The kitchen was as clean and spotless as he had left it last night.
A clink from outside the kitchen window caused Titus to look towards the window in bepuzzlement. Something small and oblong fell past the window and he realized he could hear muttered coming from above.
Oh no, tell me he isn’t, Titus thought with a gradual surge of fear.
He rushed down the front hall and flung open the front door as two more nails, followed by a shingle, cascaded to the ground at his feet.
Oh no—he IS!
Titus dashed outside and craned his neck back to stare at the roof in trepidation. The blaze of morning sunlight caused him to squint into its rays but he could still see what he feared to see quite clearly.
“Folrolf!” he shrieked. “What are you doing?”
Folrolf was crouched placidly on the roof, like a large, grey spider turned handyman. His stiff beard and hair looked even more disheveled than ever—he must have run from his room without even his pathetic semblance of daily grooming. His customary moth-eaten robes were tucked into his belt, and he had a generous amount of nails between his teeth and framing his mouth in a macabre grin.
He was staring with frank fascination at the hammer in his hand as if he had never seen anything like it before. He turned it over in his hands, entranced, spellbound. He didn’t take away his gaze away from the hammer but he spat out the nails and said to Titus.
“Remarkable tool, the hammer, if you stop to think about it,” he said reverentially. “You know, Titus—we have so many amazing tools at our disposal that we take for granted. It’s shameful. We should never lose our wonder for the things that make our daily tasks easier, remember that boy. Why it makes repairing this roof as ease as falling off a log.”
“Please don’t mention falling,” Titus groaned.
Folrolf didn’t appear to hear him. “Here, hold this.”
He picked up his toolbox and flung it carelessly at Titus, who caught it awkwardly, hugging it to him and wincing at the ensuing cacophony of chisels and pliers rattled within and deafened his newly-wakened years.
“Folrolf!” he cried. “Folrolf please come down from there! It’s not safe.”
Folrolf looked at him with vague surprise. “Unsafe? Nonsense!”
“What’s that silly old goat doing now?” Honey Winstalk—an elderly neighbor who did not do a very good job at living up to the sweetness of her name—let herself through her garden gate and walked over to stand by Titus.
Titus glanced at her then back at Folrolf. “Folrolf, please. Its—you shouldn’t be up there.”
Folrolf frowned at him. “Why not?” He looked once more meditatively at the hammer then slammed it against the roof. The shingles groaned in protest. The front door was still open, and a distant bang informed Titus that at least one shingle had collapsed into the parlor.
An image of Folrolf hurtling through the roof, breaking every bone in his body and causing the house to fold up on itself flashed through Titus’s mind in vivid color. He closed his eyes. “Folrolf—please your—your—“
Folrolf glared at him. “I’m what? You’re stammering, Titus—you know I can’t abide stammering. What are you trying to say?”
“Your—your—“
“Spit it out.” Folrolf said with an irritable huff of air.
“Oh for goodness sake, I’ll say it,” Honey murmured disgustedly before pitching her voice to a strident bellow: “You’re too old to be up on a roof, you idiot!”
“Whaaaat!” Folrolf roared, leaping to his feet and slipping on a shingle and nearly falling over. He stomped up and down in rage shaking the roof, hair flying straight out, face livid and scarlet, every muscle strained in a burst of violent temper.
“But then, it’s no concern of mine,” Honey snapped, though she was backing up towards the edge of the yard as she continued to express her opinions. “Anyone who’s stupid enough to get on a roof at your age deserves to break his back.”
“What!” he screamed. “What, what, what?” He seemed incapable of saying anything else. Titus thought the man’s heart was going to fail.
Still roaring Folrolf launched himself of the roof. Titus screamed and ran around the corner of the house, heart in his throat. Folrolf flung himself out of the rose bushes shaking out his robes furiously as he charged past Titus and around the house.
Titus plucked blankly at a broken branch. So much for the reviving roses. His stared with a sigh at the crushed petals.
Honey was already running towards her house with Folrolf storming after her.
“Come back here you puckered old prune!” Folrolf bellowed.
“How dare you! I’ll remind you I’m on the sunny side of forty!”
“You could have fooled me!”
“I’ll tell my brother on you!”
“Go and tell!”
“You stop chasing me, you old badger—you hear?”
“I’m going to give you so much exercise you won’t be able to run your mouth, Honey Windstalk!”
“You monster, how dare you!”
“Save your breath and run, you nasty little baggage!”
Titus stood alone in front of house. A slight noise caused him to turn his head to see Diggle McCunn, a farmer and the neighbor across the lane standing beside him. Diggle was infamously hard of hearing—though he tried to deny it—and doubtless hadn’t heard Folrolf’s shouted threats, though he could see just fine.
Diggle looked after Folrolf’s and Honey’s retreating figures with an astounded expression as he puffed on his pipe, as if unsure of anything else to do with his hands.
“Well!” he remarked at last. “Spring makes love come to everyone, I suppose. But er . . . isn’t your guardian a little old to be chasing ladies?”
Titus turned and stared at him stupidly for a full minute until Diggle shrugged and walked on.
It was just another way to start the day when one lived with a faerie.
Titus went inside and started brewing Folrolf’s morning coffee.
~
Titus’s parents had died when he was ten years old, claimed in a village plague that had spared him as casually as it had taken his parents.
Bewildered and alone, Titus’s future had been sorted out by the towns people who uncovered the Bromley’s will and made the life-altering discovery that Titus had a godfather, a Welkin named Folrolf.
Titus had felt rather grim about the news when it had been put to him. Surely, he was the only boy in the whole world that had a Welkin as a godfather, and the novelty didn’t please him—it merely made him feel more different from every other boy he knew. He didn’t have any parents, he wasn’t apprenticed yet, and he had a Welkin for a grandfather. One more difference didn’t make things easier, it was as if one more rope had been tugged free of his moorings and he were drifting out onto an unfamiliar sea, full of reefs he wasn’t sure he could navigate, and ports he could only hope were populated by friendly people.
But nothing could be done but to pack up his few things and climb aboard a cart bound for Hedgerose. Titus had been dropped off with Folrolf’s weekly cheese and milk. And both their lives had been turned upside down.
Folrolf was every bit as different as Titus had imagined he would be. He was an immensely tall man, with a voice like a trumpet and eyes like bits of clear, blue glass. His face was creased as smooth and fine as rubbed parchment and was it once ageless and ancient. He was so tall and thin, his beard and robes so loose and flowing, and his feet so big, he reminded Titus of a weeping willow with an extensive root system.
Folrolf had been imposing and rather alarming, but at the time, his rather abrupt manner had rather suited Titus, he did not want to be coddled just then.
Folrolf had stared down at the small lad with beetling brows and a barked inquiry and when he had deposited all his parcels, human and otherwise, in the kitchen—he had read the letter Titus had brought him—the one his parents had left with their will and addressed to Master Folrolf.
Titus had stood stiffly in the cluttered kitchen, staring at his guardian and wondering how this man would receive him once he sorted out that Titus was his responsibility. Would he be able to stay? Or would he be one of those orphans who were tossed about from one home to the next? Or to get rid of him, might he be sent to some master that would board their apprentice, but be cruel.
Folrolf had been quite for a moment after reading it and then he had looked at Titus, gotten up and gave him a big mug of milk and a piece of cheese.
“This is your home now, Titus Benjamin,” he had said a bit gruffly, but perhaps, it had only been that he was trying to disguise the brightness that Titus had seen clearly in his eyes. “I’ll do my best by you and you’ll be all right, because I’m not going anywhere for at least three hundred years. Now drink your milk.”
And after that, they had actually gotten along fine.
~
Faeries had been popping into stories since time began. Parts of the stories were true, some of them were not, and one point that was always wrong. One thing that was always missing from the poems and ballads troubadours and storytellers related was that Faerie was a human-term. Those long-lived, magical beings they knew as faeries were called Welkins by their own kind, and their names weren’t the only thing that got changed in the stories. They were certainly terrible and fearsome, but they weren’t quite the ethereal, majestic, and kindhearted bards often made them out to be. They were rarely much to look at—though it would be advised not to call a Welkin ugly to their face—quite unkempt, possessed a sizable temper and had a propensity for using their magic in not very helpful ways, for being turned into a cabbage is never helpful.
Welkins lived for a thousand years, and to be generous, living that long can make anyone irritable. Welkins births and marriages were few and far between and some had married other species and the blood and fire and magic and agelessness had been lost. Even a full-blooded Welkin rarely used their magic. A true Welkin was very rare, and were far too difficult and intense by nature to live together and thus they were often found scattered about the world in surprising and inconvenient places, bringing havoc and wisdom to the people around them.
Welkins were a foot taller than humans—although Folrolf was only six and a half feet, a sore point with him—and three times as strong as the most powerful human male. Folrolf himself was as thin and brittle looking as an old tree—and his immense feet looked like a fitting root system—and his face was lined with deep lines and his hair decidedly grey—there was no denying his incredible strength or fitness. No human man could get away with such irregular sleeping hours, eating like a centaur, indulging in pipes and spirits or pursuing every feasible form of hurting himself in existence. Not to mention explosive bouts of temper that would cause apoplexy in anyone else—but Folrolf showed no sign of slowly down at the ripe age of seven hundred and fifty three. He rather gave the impression that he had barely started. A few tried to claim that he was getting senile when Folrolf kept forgetting things, but Titus knew better. Folrolf was simply distracted, although he had no intention of admitting it.
~
While Folrolf’s coffee stood warm and ready on the stove, Titus finished breakfast and he was swallowing the last bit of honey and toast and washing it down with tea when the front door slammed open on its hinges and crashed against the wall. Titus choked and spurted tea everywhere as Folrolf rushed into the room, eyes gleaming, robes disheveled as always and hair and beard flying about behind him in a torrent of violent movement.
“Titus!” he roared. “Get me some fireworks.”
Titus had dropped his teacup with a clatter and he put out his hand to stop the brown tide spreading across the table. “Er—what?”
“Fireworks,” Folrolf repeated, hurrying past him and rummaging about in his desk. “About twenty crates will do.”
“Twenty crates?” Titus gaped.
“Go to Hedge, he makes them. Bright reliable boy. He’s sure to have them in stock.” Folrolf said absently running a hand through his hair and frowning at a piece of paper.
“. . . Hedge?”
Folrolf turned round, shifting without warning from abrupt abstraction to roaring impatience.
“Jack-By-The-Hedge Carbunkle!” he bellowed. “Now for goodness sakes, Titus don’t ask so many questions!”
“Yes sir.” Titus replied earnestly, running for the door and deciding he’d clean up the spilt tea later.
Fireworks? he wondered as he hurried towards the edge of town. What could Folrolf possibly want with fireworks? Titus was never quite sure what idea Folrolf would pull out of the blue but fireworks were a first.
His puzzled thoughts turned to Hedge, whom he had not much opportunity to think of until now. The villagers had always gossiped that after Folrolf, Jack-By-The-Hedge Carbunkle was the craziest occupant of Hedgerose. Hedge never seemed to be about, though and in the two years Titus had lived in Hedgerose, he had never met or seen him. It seemed the Hedge and his cousin were often flung neck-and-crop about the country and shunted from one relative to another. Titus had heard brief mentions of a terrifying madman that blew things up for fun, which might explain for the frequency of Hedge’s moving, if he were in the habit of blowing up the establishment in which he was living.
Titus knew the villagers had a tendency to exaggerate—after all, Folrolf wasn’t that bad—and so he wasn’t sure how true the rumors were regarding Hedge, but all the same, he was a bit apprehensive, as well as growingly curious, as he approached a little shed on the edge of town. After inquiring of several neighbors, he had been directed here. This was not where Hedge lived, but where he made his fireworks, and thus, the best place to get some.
It was a ramshackle affair with sagging frame, and shabby looking shutters that appeared to have been nailed on as an after thought. One shutter was missing and the others hung limply from one or two nails, swinging leisurely in the breeze. Perhaps some previous explosion had sent the shutters flying off the house—a great deal of wreckage and bits of refuse on the ground surrounding that cottage, supported that theory—for there was a great quantity of evil black smoke billowing out the windows, like smoke from a dying dragon. Titus halted and stared, and he realized that amidst the smoke, there were also flames.
Titus gasped aloud and instantly seized upon the thought that Hedge must still be inside.
He charged towards the house, wrapping his scarf around his nose and preparing to plunge in while hoping that getting burned didn’t hurt as badly as everyone said when the front door crashed open and a boy ran towards him, waving his arms wildly.
“No, no! Get back!” the boy yelled excitedly. “It’s going to—!”
There was a gigantic explosion from the hut, and Titus and the boy dove for cover behind a broken down stone wall. There was a whining screams of rockets as the smoke redoubled itself, and lights flashed wildly from within the shack.
The boy sat up slowly and peaked over the wall with a calm expression.
Titus glanced at him, then back at the house, then at the hobbit again. Then he sat down next to the hobbit and the two watched the light show in silence. The hobbit showed no surprise or alarm as a rocket skipped across the grass and exploded against a tree. He only smiled whimsically as the glass from one of the windows shattered, and cupped his head in his hands thoughtfully as roof began to cave in.
Trying to still the convicted agitation that he should be doing something, Titus watched the fireworks with growing interest, as the fireworks spiraled and twisted in delicate veins and flowers of sparkling light. There was a symphony of repetitive pops and a green dragon faded away against the sky.
Still the hobbit said nothing but merely stretched his legs out in front of him to a more comfortable position.
Titus glanced at him then back at the house.
“This, uh . . .” Titus nodded towards the disintegrated roof, “happen often?”
The hobbit was silent a moment, then he glanced at Titus.
“Oh yes.” He said with a matter–a–fact innocence, and his slight, mysterious smile utterly unnerved Titus.
Silence fell again for a long moment then a window box full of dead flowers fell to the ground with a crash.
Hedge gave a slight sigh and rose slowly and with aplomb to stand with his hands in his pockets, tongue in the side of his cheek, staring meditatively into the distance. He moved with mind numbing slowness towards the damage and surveyed it with a brief, detached glance. Titus followed him and the two of them stood in front of the blackened door now lying flat on the ground.
Titus waved his hand at some of the stray smoke wafting about the hut and glanced at Hedge, who was still studying the place in silence.
“Do you need any help with . . . cleaning up?”
Again, the silence stretched on and grew so awkward—for Titus—that he was rather wishing he hadn’t spoken when the boy finally answered. “Oh, that’s all right.” He paused, picked up a piece of wood, rubbed some soot off of it. It said, Do Not Mix, and then it became too blackened to read the rest of it. Titus wondered what it the rest of it had said, and rather gathered that Hedge had not followed its instructions very conscientiously.
Hedge dropped the sign with disinterest and put his hands back in his pockets again. “My cousin will help me,” he remarked at last. He poked at what was left of a work bench with his foot then raised a shoulder in a half-shrug that encompassed the demolished hut, the smoke, the blackened grass, and the dead willow tree that Titus had not noticed till now. “This happens all the time.”
They stood there quietly—Hedge thoughtfully, and the Titus in blank astonishment.
Suddenly Hedge looked around as if seeing Titus for the first time and gazed at him with the expression of a toddler discovering his own shadow. “Can I help you?”
Titus stared at him—Hedge’s long silence appeared to be catching—then regained his voice and answered: “I was…my friend wanted me to get some fireworks.”
“Oh,” Hedge said blankly. “Well, you might have to come back some other time.” He glanced around. “I’ll be . . . a little busy.” Then he wandered off through the blackened remains of his shed, looking like a lost and thoroughly dirty little ghost.
Titus stood in front of the house for a long time, simply staring, and then he turned homewards, speculating ominously as he went what Folrolf would say when he returned without the wanted items.
He reached the house much sooner then he would have wished and stood on the porch a moment in a tangle of indecision. At last, he walked inside and stood in the doorway of the study. Folrolf was still crouched over his desk scribbling away with a mangled quill and chunnering to himself and he did not turn around. Titus waited for a few moments, but Folrolf remained utterly unaware of his presence. Titus went to the kitchen, cleaned up the mess he had made earlier—very loudly, in the hopes that Folrolf would come to him instead of the other way around—but still, his guardian did not appear. He returned to the study doorway and coughed raucously. Folrolf only scowled at his parchment and hunched deeper over his writing desk. Sighing and giving up, Titus crept up and touched Folrolf’s shoulder.
Folrolf whipped around as if he had been waiting Titus for ages. “Ah, Titus,” he said brusquely. “Where have you been? Never mind. Let’s have tea shall we?” He stood up and shooed Titus into the kitchen. Titus wonderingly set out a plate of iced gingerbread while he watched Folrolf setting the kettle on before he sank down into one of the kitchen chairs and fell into a brow-furrowed reverie. The kettle began to shrill, and Titus poured them both a cup. The sound of liquid splashing into the cup caused Folrolf to give a little shake, like a bird awakening, and he looked down appreciatively and took a long sip of tea.
Titus sat down across from him. “Um . . . Folrolf?”
Folrolf blinked several times, his gaze seemed to be drawn back into his head as if by a string and suddenly he was aware of Titus and looking right at him. “Yes?”
“I—” Titus paused.
“What?” Folrolf prompted. Wherever he had been, he apparently wanted to go back there as quickly as possible and there was the burgeoning rumble of irritability in his voice.
“I—didn’t get the fireworks.”
There was a short silence while Folrolf stared at him as if his head had just sprouted parsnips.
“You didn’t get what?” Folrolf repeated slowly.
“The fireworks.” Titus replied.
Folrolf stared at him blankly, looking him up and down and Titus began to squirm.
“The fireworks?” Folrolf said slowly and shook his head. “Titus Benjamin Bromley, sometimes I wonder about you.”
Titus stared at him, dumbfounded.
“Now, don’t look at me like that as if I’ve said something wrong. I never—I repeat—never mentioned the word ‘fireworks’ today. The whole town may think I’m some sort of eccentric scatterbrained fool but I’m not as bad as all that. I assure you that if I had said anything like about fireworks, I would have remembered. No Titus, you are clearly getting me mistaken with something else.”
“But Folrolf!” Titus protested, feeling strangely desperate.
“Now Titus, how many times have I told you not to contradict your elders? I did not ever ask you to get fireworks. I wouldn’t trust that madman Hedge with a match, much less a crate of fireworks. Now stop staring and do something useful. Go water the roses.”
“But—”
“Titus Benjamin, I’m beginning to lose my patience.”
“Yes, sir.”
Titus left the room, head reeling, as he heard Folrolf mutter to himself: “Sometimes I wonder about that boy.”
~
The irascible Folrolf might unleash his wrath on villagers, and even occasionally his ward, but he was unfailingly kindhearted to those in need.
That cool spring afternoon, there was a knocking on the door, and when Titus answered it, he found himself face to face with a trio of gypsies. Their leader, a grey-haired man with one eye and a soft voice asked if they might set up camp on the other side of Folrolf’s orchard.
Before Titus could answer, Folrolf came stumping towards the door. Clearly, his studying was not going well, because he normally wasn’t prowling about the house with such a keen interest in everything Titus was doing or wanting to know who he was talking to.
Folrolf spoke to the gypsies quiet amicably and gave them permission readily. While they were speaking Titus glanced towards the only woman in the party. A dark, hunched woman with a great mane of hair shot through with grey that she kept pushing aside like someone peering from a curtain. But there was a curtain beyond the curtain, for even with that tangle pushed aside, her face was closed, her painted eyes hooded as she stared at Titus with a solemn, unblinking gaze. He looked away, uncomfortable. He couldn’t help feeling that she had been examining him and Folrolf with an unusual amount of thoroughness, far more than was necessary for the question at hand. She almost looked as if she were testing or weighing them in her mind. Titus was rather glad when the gypsies left and Folrolf shut the door after them.
As evening fell that night, the sound of gypsy music began sliding over the fence, through the orchard and trickling into their kitchen. Odd and eerie music that were to dance to, but they sounded like ancient enchantments, not goodhearted jigs. It was sad and beautiful and bewitching and alarming all at once. It appealed to Folrolf though, for instead of complaining about the nice as he sometimes did, Titus found him kicking up his heels in the library in a rather mournful caper. Obviously the enchanting quality roused Folrolf’s Welkin blood, and just as obviously he had abandoned his research entirely.
Titus made himself a cup of milky tea and decided to go to bed early, with several cushions around his ears.
The next morning, Titus attended to his chores in the garden. Many of the gypsies had scattered from their camp to collect wild herbs from the flourishing creek bank before pulling up camp that evening. A few gypsies tended their camp and wagons and among them was the old gypsy woman. Titus could feel her eyes upon him and he found it necessary to hid in the house for longer periods of time until a peek out the window assured him she was busy doing something else.
That evening the gypsies left, playing a traveling-song with a slow thrumming of a drum that echoed the drub of Titus’s own heart as he watched them leave in relief from the kitchen window.
He finished preparing the evening snack for him and Folrolf and was heading towards the parlor when there was yet another knock on the door.
The last day and a half had left him feeling creepish, and Titus wasn’t altogether pleased with the idea of opening the door to the dark, but he was too embarrassed to call Folrolf.
Cautiously, holding his plate of hard crumpets handy, just in case—he swung the door wide, then his heart gave a little jerk as he found himself alone on the threshold. His eyes dropped downwards and he took a step backwards, causing hot tea to splash on his hand as he stared at the square crate sitting at his feet.
It was a small crate, lined with a ragged quilt and hay and nestled down into it, was an egg, but not like any egg that Titus had ever seen. It was the size of a small melon and its porcelain-like sheen was an indeterminate color between white and green—it was impossible to tell in the moon-shimmering light. Iridescent colors lined the egg like the eggs on a hand, threads of gold, pink, purple, silver and blue.
Carefully, Titus touched it. And then he snatched his hand back, for the shell was not only hot to the touch, but it had suddenly become illuminated, with a dim but fierce red glow—like the determined sparking of an ember and Titus’s heart had jumped at the strangeness of it.
“Titus, what are you doing let all the night air in the house, you silly little gingersnap?” Folrolf said, the sound of his great boots rattling the floorboards as he stalked up behind Titus, then stopped talking with a rapidity that was almost comical.
He bent, bringing his nose close to the egg, and he looked a little like a swamp bird lowering its beak towards water.
Folrolf peered at the egg, and then his eyebrows nearly exploded from his face as he straightened and looked around with his hands on his hips.
“Now, who’s gone and left a ruddy great dragon egg on our door step?”
~
Titus poked up the fire and the flames sputtered and climbed further up the chimney, casting more light and deeper shadows across the parlor.
Folrolf had set the egg crate on a table and pulled an oil lamp closer as he bent to examine the thing that had been left in their care. Titus hung back, watching uneasily.
“There might still be some way to find the gypsies and return,” Titus suggested.
Folrolf let out an impatient grunt. “They’ll be long gone by now. And this was hardly a practical joke, they don’t want it. No, if they left it here, they have no intention of taking it back.”
“We could take it out into a field and wait for the mother to reclaim it!” Titus suggested, grasping at straws.
Folrolf gave him an astounded look, his eyebrows bristling with disapproval. “Titus, I am surprised at you. Leave a helpless egg in the middle of nowhere in the hopes that a mother which might not exist comes to retrieve it?”
Titus felt slightly sulky. “We could have someone watch the egg until we know its safe,” he mumbled.
Folrolf gave a colossal snort of derision at that proposal.
“Perhaps they found they egg near by and have merely left it in our care until its mother comes looking for it!” Titus suggested hopefully, then felt rather foolish for being hopeful about it. An angry mother dragon seeking her lost egg by and dismantling their house one shingle at a time in the process was hardly an event to look forward to.
“Perhaps,” Folrolf said distractedly, and he placed a hand on the egg. It lit up again—it was as if the egg were trying to purr, but could only do so by illumination. Folrolf chuckled on a rather odd tone, a note that Titus rarely heard, the Welkin almost sounded as if he were cooing.
“Why don’t we take it to Rockmere Castle? I’m sure there’s someone there who is qualified to care for a dragon egg.”
Folrolf looked like a creature preparing to unleash its claws, his frame quivered with offense. “More qualified than I?”
Titus opened his mouth.
“No, no, Titus. Our duty is clear. You and I must look after this orphaned egg ourselves.”
He knew it.
Titus stared at the egg. He could just imagine how this situation could develop. Folrolf might do the research and write down the instructions on how to care for the egg, but Titus would be the one caring for the egg, as sure as certain. That wouldn’t be so bad, but what about when it finally hatched? He realized most people wouldn’t categorize a dragon as an animal, but he did—and he and animals didn’t have anything to do with one another if they could help it.
In spite of what Folrolf said, what if another dragon did appear, looking for the egg? And then what happened once the dragon could start talking and walking and running about the house? It could burn the whole place down or bite their hand off, and it wouldn’t matter whether it was an accident or on purpose.
And suppose the hatchling was never claimed? Titus imagined a baby dragon eating them out of house and home, racing around the house and talking non-stop. It might even eat house guests or decide to burn the village one day.
Folrolf had picked up the egg and tickled it a little. The egg glowed. “That really is quite fascinating.”
Titus could feel his face moving to arrange itself into a scowl and he tried to hold it back when Folrolf looked up suddenly.
“I know!” Folrolf burbled happily. “We’ll have a lesson tomorrow and use the egg as an objective lesson! It’s high time you learned more about dragons and this is the perfect opportunity.”
“I have a feeling I’ll learn more then enough shortly,” Titus muttered, as he watched the egg twitching and glowing in its nest.
This is copyrighted by Allison Tebo 2018© . Please do not use or copy without permission.
OKAY, PEOPLE THIS IS IT.
This is the point where you start leaving your feedback. First of all, what do you think? And perhaps most importantly – is there something you would like to happen next? What are you anticipating in this story? Tell me everything?
(more detailed rules about how this serialized participatory story works can be found HERE )
I await with baited breath!
April 24, 2018
ASTOUNDING NEWS: Introducing My New Story!
There’s something you should know.
For some time now, I have been eyeing Wattpad as a possible venue for my writing. I started following a story on Wattpad, not so much for the story, but to get an idea of how it worked and the type of community that formed there.
Honestly, I didn’t much care for the community that I saw on this project.
And then I thought: “This is silly – I know a ton of brilliant readers right here on my blog and on Goodreads – THEY are the ones I want to write for and THEY are the ones I want participating in this exciting new adventure.”
WHICH LEADS ME TO MY ASTOUNDING NEWS –
I’m going to release a story serially on my blog!
*FIREWORKS, CONFETTI AND MELTDOWNS ENSUE*
Hehe yeah. I’m excited, but I’m also a BIT nervous (okay more than a bit), for two reasons.
1) What if somebody steals my story? I get a lot of spammers, and maybe somebody doesn’t like me, or maybe some random rotter would just decide to abscond with my words.
But then I think –
STOP KIDDING YOURSELF, ALLISON. It’s not THAT good.
April 19, 2018
The Get To Know Me Tag / Writers Edition
So I semi-stole this tag from Mary at Sunshine and Scribblings. She tagged anyone who was wearing socks and wanted to do this tag. I’m not wearing socks, but I DO want to do this tag, so let’s just call it legit, shall we?
Be warned – I got really, really giphy in this post.
:: The Rules ::
// link back to the person who created the tag (done deal)
// thank the person who tagged you (Thanks, Mary for letting me cheat!)
// share the tag graphic (Ignore this rule – I did and I give you permission to do the same)
// tag eleven bloggers (This rule is open to interpretation)
:: Vital Stats And Appearance ::
(pen)Name:
Allison Tebo. Are you SURPRISED?
Nicknames:
Alli. Al. Grease Monkey. Twiddle Pie. Jungle Girl. Hummer. Miss Fashion. Miss Hollywood. Little Ewok. Flaubert. Pumpkin Pudding Cup. Chum-Chum. Gif Master. Gif Queen.
I’m one of those people that just produce nicknames. But just so you know – the only ones you are allowed to use is Alli, Al, or Gif Master/Queen. Only my brother gets away with calling me Pumpkin Pudding Cup, okay? I’m serious now.
Birthday:
That’s classified information, my friends.
Hair color and length:
It’s a sort of coppery-gold brown? A smidge past my chin.
Eye color:
I have cat’s eyes. Green with a ring of gold around the iris.
Braces/piercings/tattoos:
1. Got em and don’t miss ’em. 2. NO WAY. *clutches ears and winces* 3. NOT IN THIS LIFETIME.
You get virtual cookies if you recognize this movie ^^^ and call it out!
Righty or lefty:
Righty!
Ethnicity:
And that’s good enough for me!
But I assume you want more.
Let’s see – I’ve got some Irish (doesn’t everyone?) plus German, French (hence the last name), English….
:: FIRSTS ::
First novel written:
Well now, let’s see. *strains brain to remember* I believe the first novel I completed was a monstronsity called The Four Warriors. You guessed it, it was about four warriors (four twelve year olds, to be exact), two boys and two girls. Some evil pirate king was attacking their country and they had to embark on a perilous quest to retrieve four swords. For some reason, these swords were the key to defeating the pirate king and after a hair-raising battle with an eel / snake sword guardian that was the length of the Empire State Building, they discovered the swords in an old quarry. The Four Warriors then returned to the castle location and called on their allies to defeat the nasty pirate king and rescue their families. It was very ala Redwall and it did include talking animals.
First novel completed:
Same as above, I believe.
Award for writing:
Er . . . my writing group (The Second Inklings Club) held a vote to determine which of my novels they were most anticipating . . . and I don’t even remember which one they nominated now. So . . . does that count?
First publication:
The Reluctant Godfather!
Conference:
Sadly none. I’d like to try for one next year, but that’s a long way off – things change. We shall see!
Querying/Pitch:
Eh – none. But that’s the top thing I want to do when I attend a writers conference. Will I be nervous? Mmm . . . yeah. But I work in sales and I do dozens of nerve-wracking pitches to people every single day. I’ve got some good pitching under my belt already, so I think I’d be fairly well prepared.
:: FAVORITES ::
Novel (that you wrote):
Hmmm – I like a lot of my novels – if I didn’t like them, I wouldn’t be writing them now, would I?
April 12, 2018
Best Reads of 2018 – 1st Quarter
Dark House On The Moss (reread)
by Constance Savery
five stars
From the first sentence, I was instantly swept-away. Constance Savery’s vocabulary, softly rhythmic style, gentle humor and steady pace compare to none! Twist after twists compels us as we discover more and more of the secrets of the Moss and it’s keepers that are spun like delicate and beautiful webs that perfectly connect events and weaving the characters deeply into our hearts. The characters are utterly amazing. Morville is stupendous; what a beautiful, amazing mind he has – what incredible dreams of the future, what wise foresight – and yet he is so socially awkward! I loved his grim, awkward tenacity and his never-wavering sense of duty. Morville is proud, but he is also an incredibly merciful character without being weak – something we rarely see. Periwinkle’s wise, girlish but matter-of-fact attitude make her the most adorable and straightforward narrator. Louis is a sarcastic, no-nonsense, heroic brother. The cast is even larger and more intriguing than that – and Constance Savery moves them effortlessly through the story, perfectly captures the mystique and menace of the Moss and carefully foreshadows the climax with the perfect pay-offs. This book elicited bursts of laughter, groans of horror and thoughtful contemplation – a rare thing indeed in a book. And the ending – Oh my heart, that ending – it’s all that you could desire.
The Scarecrow and his Servant
by Philip Pullman
five stars
Beautifully and humorously written; this was such a romp! The Scarecrow’s antics are absolutely priceless. The author perfectly captured the “foreignness” of his thought process and the misunderstandings that were constantly popping up like flower bulbs throughout the story line. His servant, Jack, is far from the dull and witless sidekick that could have encumbered this story. Not a bit of it. Jack is a sly, charming survivor with a good heart who thinks on his feet, but he is still a young boy barely managing to keep his and the Scarecrow’s heads above water. The genuine affection between them is so sweet, and perfectly forms the core of the story – everything else is just icing on the cake. Even the Scarecrows little “romance” will make you laugh and smile over its zany appeal. This book perfectly captures that old 1940s comedy feel of miscommunication, with both MC’s thinking that the other one is slightly off their rocker – but hiding it for politeness sake. I was afraid at first that the ending would disappoint me. So many authors have charmed me at the outset, only to betray me at the end. But the author stayed faithful to the opening premise of a fairy tale and wraps up the adventure in a perfectly satisfying ending that makes you feel as if you are curling up in the glow of a softly burning fire.
The Daybreakers
by Louis L’Amour
five stars
This book hooked me on Louis L’Amour and made me anxious to try more! Louis La’mour’s sparse but colorful style perfectly suited the fast-paced passage of time portrayed in The Daybreakers and he captured the grim, hard, inevitability of this setting and this plot with a steely hand that did not make it in any way depressing. And as for the protagonist – WELL. Within a few pages, Tyrel Sackett had joined my hallowed halls of favorite characters of all time. Humorous, humble, quirky, dangerous, ignorant but anxious to learn, shy, mean, kind and hard – Tyrel is a one-in-a-million character. What a relief to read a book where REAL MEN are portrayed. I am sick to death of the Byronic, namby-pamby, *sensitive* males. Tyrel is a man that BUILDS his future and wastes no time in doing it. Tye is the fastest, meanest gunslinger around that can back up his tough reputation without the blink of an eye. In his spare time, he rounds up cattle, builds a house, saves and protects his new Mexican friends, becomes a sheriff, cleans up a town, outfoxes and outmaneuvers of a myriad of enemies. This guy is EPIC – and he is based off of real men that tamed our country.
Banner In The Sky
James Ramsey Ullman
four stars
A lovely, old-fashioned flow of writing and the very best sort of a coming-of-age story. Rudi’s arc and the relationships in this book are carefully crafted. There is a great deal more description than dialogue (not a trial to me) and the author’s ability to paint an immersive picture are on fine display. Banner in the Sky radiates with an instinctive accuracy, and it is clear the the author’s own adventurous life and mountaineering background serve him well, as he plunges us into a dizzying and frozen world. W can feel the rock scrapping our palms, feel our toes grasping for footholds. The thin rope cutting into our waist is the only thing that makes the difference between balance – and an endless plunge. We feel the ice-wind slicing through us, feel the blue sky that is bluest of all in a mountain shining on us, feel the savage storm screaming in our ears . . . feel the victory of the summit beating in our hearts.
Peak
Roland Smith
five stars
Once in a while, there is a piece of YA fiction with a style that is borderline genius – and that would undoubtedly be Peak. An incredibly strong style and voice utterly captivated me – more specifically I was utterly captivated by it’s narrator – Peak, a fourteen year old climber. From the very first sentence, I was instantly transported into this boy’s smart mind, hurting heart, and incredible integrity and strength. Peak was the first person this year to join my Hall of Favorite Characters and he is an utterly amazing edition. He is impossible to describe – you will have to read it for yourself. Thematically strong – compelling motifs of forgiveness, sacrifice and maturing are woven amongst a book that portrays the endeavor of surmounting Everest so realistically, it will make make your heart pound and your muscles ache to read it. The descriptions in this book are gloriously detailed and startlingly pictorial, summing up a frigid and deathly environment that awes and cows the reader.
His Own Good Sword
Amanda McCrina
four stars
Fans of Rosemary Sutcliff will be eager to scoop up this book. While there is only one Rosemary Sutcliff and there will never be another, this authoress does a fine job imitating Rosemary Sutcliff’s inestimable style. Full of the flavor and meticulously crafted poetic descriptions that are Sutcliff’s identifying trademark, this book will also satisfy those with the Roman Britain bug as McCrina constructs a world steeped in historical context, but with a fresh and careful fantasy spin that makes this genre truly intriguing. While it didn’t have quite the shining hopefulness of Sutcliff – this was still wonderfully written, an engaging story and characters and a fine tribute to all fans of Roman Britain and it’s history.
The Silver Sword (re-read)
Ian Seraillier
five stars
This one will always have special memories for me because I remember my Mom reading aloud to me. But aside from my fond memories, it is simply a wonderful story and just as good the second time around. This book is a great introduction to younger readers about the hardships and loss of WW2 without introducing all the fine details on all the horrors and violence. A story of the every-day heroism of people trying to piece their lives back together in the middle of devastation, this author perfectly captured one of the strengths of humanity, the ability to keep on going, to retain love, humor and strength in the midst of defeat. Better in many ways, then the perfectly happy ending, I loved that the author still left the reader with some hard things to digest and dealt honestly with his characters. The children had found their hearts desire in being with their family again, but what they went through left scars. The scars would be there forever, but they were also a testament to their strength, their will to live, and God’s grace.
The Silver Branch (re-read)
Rosemary Sutcliff
five stars
As a book lover, obviously, we love many books. But there are certain books that go beyond that, that radiate within you, touch you to the core and become a part of you. The Silver Branch is one of those books for me. There is no possible way to distill The Silver Branch into a mere five lines – it’s an impossibility. I cannot describe the glorious wonder of this book, the beauty of it’s characters and it’s themes, the shining quality of writing, the immersive descriptions, the compelling plot, and the myriads of emotions and feelings that this book instills in me. I can’t even try. Suffice it to say, it still is one of my favorite reads of all time, and it always shall be. There will never be another The Silver Branch – every time I read it, it rings and echoes inside of me as sweetly and persistently as Cullen’s silver bells, weaving a story-spell around me that never grows old. If I could ask you to read any book on this list – it would be this one. You will read much more than a book, you will read a story, in it’s true sense of the word. A story that, I hope, will radiate with you as much as it did in me.
And that wraps up the post? What about you, my fellow readers? What are some of your favorite reads of 2018, so far? I’d love to hear about them in the comments!
April 5, 2018
Reflections on Rooglewood
Image courtesy of Google Images
THE VERY LAST ROOGLEWOOD CONTEST is officially over!!!
And I survived that excitement!! I was literally hyperventilating. shaking and laughing and shrieking from excitement and happiness the night of the 31st as I eagerly watched that amazing group of writers celebrate. Those writers are such a talented, kind and constructive group – it was a joy to celebrate with them and interact with them – and AHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!! TWO OF MY FRIENDS WERE FINALISTS AND I AM SO, SO PROUD OF THEM! I literally started screaming when I saw their names! I am beside myself with excitement for Tracey and Beth – and for all the finalists and winners!!
I didn’t get to compete due to not feeling well and severe writers block, and other bits of life’s left-fielders.
I was very disappointed that I was unable to participate in the Rooglewood contest. While I had no aspirations of winning, I would have loved to have participated. But I didn’t! And it does not impede my infinite enjoyment of watching everyone enjoy those big beautiful victories.
Even though I didn’t participate in the contest, I learned something from Rooglewood . . .
I have to admit – something a bit strange happened recently.
This is not easy to say. Not one bit.
A few weeks before the winners were announced . . . I began to feel . . . just a tiny bit jealous.
WHERE THE HECK DID THAT COME FROM?
For months, I have been dancing with impatience as I waited eagerly to see how the many friends I had in the contest had fared. I held hands with numerous contestants and expressed my glee in their accomplishment, my hope for their future, and my pride in their journey. I was fine. I was content. But then something nasty, something I didn’t want, snaked through my mind and started to steal my contentment.
When did this little blaggard called jealousy start to raise his head? When does any of this ugliness start to bother us?
Easy answer.
When we start comparing.
Now, I promise – I wasn’t kidding myself. Back when I thought that participating in the contest might be a possibility, I was 95 % sure I didn’t have a chance at winning.
But there will be that little cloud at the back of my mind for a while. What if I had entered? What if somehow I had won? And even if I didn’t, what about honorable mentions? What would the judges have thought of my story? What if? What if?
That voice needs to be snagged by the neck and packed back into its box as often as it is necessary – because those are questions I’m never going to get answered and they are simply a distraction from the here and now.
Life is full of doubts and question marks. This isn’t an episode of Star Trek where we get to leap in and out of parallel universes experiencing “what ifs” indefinitely. This is life—a puzzle that is being put together by a Person higher than us as we stumble through a pattern we can’t see yet. Our lives will be full of the paths not taken, “what ifs” and unanswered questions.
Tip to you and me: GET OVER IT.
Now I know all this, but nevertheless, that smidge of jealousy was threatening to creep into my mind – and I whipped around and stared at it and demanded to know where it had come from.
Comparison.
Writing seems so hard now. Lack of focus, sudden changes, writer’s block, not feeling well, slowness, rejections, balance. All those things are ever present to a writer, but they’ve been harder in the last few months.
It just seems hard. And looking at that list of five Rooglewood winners – it looks so very easy.
From where I’m standing, winning Rooglewood looks like the express ticket to success. In a year or less, five people will be bestselling authors – while I am struggling to get a small magazine to accept a short story.
And there’s the fallacy in my thinking – comparison!
Let’s just nip some of those absurd mental weeds in the bud.
# 1. I don’t KNOW that Rooglewood winners have instant success.
Two of my favorite authoresses from the previous collections have not been really active in the blogging world since winning. At least that I have seen.
One of them is working, one is still in school. They both have lives. Just because they won Rooglewood doesn’t mean they instantly got released from their daily obligations and reached that Writer’s Nirvana of being able to work as a full time writer. They don’t have someone bringing them cold drinks while they type without effort.
While Rooglewood winners do have the blessing and benefit of a platform now – they still have the same kind of bumps and turns in life as I do. They have other priorities and responsibilities and a day job. Just like I do.
Rooglewood winners are still working through life just like I am. They still have to actually write – i.e: work.
They won a contest, they didn’t win a magic wand.
# 2. We can’t compare the victories. A victory is a victory. For one person it might mean winning Rooglewood. For me, it meant getting one of my pieces of flash fiction published in Splickety.
It is so easy to start comparing. Yes, Rooglewood is way bigger than Splickety but I still can’t discount my victory, because it’s MY victory, and it’s my path. Just like Rooglewood was their victory – their path.
And therein was the lesson. Those winners of Rooglewood . . . it was their path – not mine.
Over the past few years, there have been twenty winners of Rooglewood contest – that was THEIR story, not mine. And maybe it wasn’t yours. It doesn’t matter.
For the hundreds of people that didn’t win Rooglewood? Some of us may need to wait.
OH, THAT NASTY FOUR LETTER WORD – WAIT.
I know! I don’t like it either – but it’s often the very best thing that can be given to a human being.
Rooglewood has graciously and generously provided feedback for all their entries this year, and I imagine that many of you have already looked at the feedback. I imagine some entries simply didn’t suit the anthology, while others needed more work on their story. Others simply need more time to study the craft of writing itself.
One of you may need to wait ten years before you finally get that open door (I studied writing for 15 years before I knew it was time to publish). Some of you may get your break before 2018 is over. We don’t know.
I know we all want that break sooner rather than later. But God often calls His people to wait, and it always, always pays to wait for His timing.
God doesn’t love us any less when we are waiting, and He doesn’t love someone else more by letting them “get ahead of us.”
Every life is a unique tapestry. We must let the Weaver do the work, and trust Him that the picture will be perfect. Let’s rejoice in the learning and the opportunity, and remember that maybe this isn’t your time.
It wasn’t mine.
But that’s better for me. I have a tendency to fall into the habits of a hare, when it’s better for every aspect of my life to cultivate the life of a tortoise. I want that discipline and consistency – but sometimes I can fall into the discomfiture and discontentment of that deadly trap – comparison.
One thing I think we CAN compare ourselves in is this:
We are all committed and embroiled in this exciting quest called Becoming An Author. We’re all searching for that beautiful city called Good Writing.
There are many, many winding paths; boggy trails, dark thickets and yes, for some, gilded roads (though remember, even Dorothy’s Yellow Brick Road was not problem free!).
That’s what I’m focusing on. Not the individual routs – but the destination we share, and the joy of the journey.
I think it’s so ironic that a contest featuring Snow White awakened a stirring of jealousy! How dreadfully apropos.
And that is the lesson in Snow White. Comparison leads to jealousy. Something that is supposed to be innocently beautiful is compared to another type of beauty – and trouble follows.
I don’t want to be an Evil Queen gazing into a mirror and comparing myself to someone else.
The Evil Queen’s existence is wrapped up in making sure she is maintaining her superiority. But she only thinks she is superior (and consequently inferior when Snow White grows up) because she is comparing.
I wonder how many hours the Evil Queen spent looking into that mirror? Neglecting work, joy and family (Snow White), the Evil Queen is too busy comparing. Ultimately, she lost everything, even her life, because of her constant comparison.
I would rather be Snow White, utterly unconscious of comparison – too busy with the people around her and the life she is living to compare. It is her innocence and obliviousness to comparison that launches Snow on her adventure.
Snow has plenty of her own trials – but she also finds work, family and love. She refuses to drink the daily toxic brew of comparison and ultimately – the Stepmother’s brew has no effect on her, because Snow has spent more time embracing life and those around her than embracing the smallness of a human heart that looks at nothing but Self.
And those are my Reflections on Rooglewood – even though I didn’t get to participate, it taught me something and I am more excited than ever to walk down the road before me.
This wasn’t the path for me. But like the faithful dwarves of Snow White, I am content to dig daily for the gems I know are waiting to be found, and I am committed to whistling while I work.
March 31, 2018
March In A Nutshell
– Premise –
Greetings, my lovely citizens!
I wasn’t feeling well for most of the month and then I got a cold . . . Consequently, I didn’t get nearly as much done this month as I would have liked.
But we shall at least endeavor to gather the few scraps of news. Onto the nutshell!
– The Mousetrap –
The Cumberland County Playhouse is a really fun venue that we try to attend now and then, and typically their productions are very good, but I have to admit, I was disappointed with The Mouse Trap.
There was nothing really intriguing about it. Essentially, it was a lot of people wandered around on stage talking about nothing and hinting at rather unpleasant pasts. It was rather dull, definitely downbeat / morbid, and peppered with some inappropriate moments that make me say . . . I wouldn’t recommend it.
– Reading –
I’ve reached 46 books on this year’s challenge of 150 books. So while I am closing on being a third of the way done – I ALSO ONLY READ / FINISHED 8 BOOKS IN MARCH?????
SOMEHOW THIS MUCH CHANGE.
On a nice note, the first reading quarter of the year is over and I will have a post with my favorite reads of 2018 up shortly!
– Writing –
I hardly got any writing done at all this month. Partly due to the fact I wasn’t feeling well, partly because of lack of focus, and partly because I was distracted by editing / rewrites and partly because I just didn’t.
However, I did a decent bit of rewriting as well as planning, and I’ve got some upcoming projects and ideas that I’m really excited about. *hoping they will happen*
AND – there is one piece of exciting writing news –
I GOT PUBLISHED AGAIN!!!! *screams* I AM SO HAPPY. I have been trying to get another piece of flash fiction published since last October/November of last year and it finally happened!!!
I was literally doing the dance moves below when I opened my inbox and saw the email.
Ironically, it came just at the point where I was going to give up on this particular magazine – Splickety. I had approximately eight pieces of flash fiction turned down by Splickety and I was starting to think I’d just let it go.
I was actually about to temporarily set aside my pursuit of getting published in magazines for a while (I was definitely going to set aside Splickety for a while) but now I’m being lured in again and rethinking all my previous plans.
So yeah, lots of reevaluating and new plans. As usual!
– Re-Writes –
Thank you to my very talented alpha reader (my twin) who is patient enough to keep providing me with great feedback! I am still immersed in rewriting The Goose Girl. I’m focusing on not to get frustrated, but there are moments when I feel like I’ll be rewriting this thing for forever and I just want to be DONE.
The inward dialogue looks something like this:
Voice 1: I don’t like rewrites. I want to be finished. Will this ever be over?
Voice 2: YOU JUST STARTED, YOU SILLY LITTLE BOYSENBERRY.
Voice 1: I can’t do this! I don’t know what I’m doing. This is terrible!
Voice 2: Just wait till you have to rewrite one of you 200,000 word length novels a gazillion times!
Voice 1: DAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!
And then somewhere at this point I step in and tell them both to be quiet and attempt to simply forge ahead. It must be done!!!
– Editing –
As I mention on a previous post, I am determined to submit The Reluctant Godfather to a professional proof reader / copy editor to have it polished up to perfection for the second edition.
And I finally did. After procrastinating and getting really nervous, I finally bit the bullet and contacted six different editors for sample edits. I should have started earlier in the month that way I could have been proceeding with the edits by now but, hey, at least I did it!
Four proof readers got back to me, and after carefully considering their sample edits, I have almost selected a proof reader and I am about to send my book off to be polished.
While I am sinking a bit of money into this, I am committed to making The Tales of Ambia a tip-top, professional product. Indie publishing is not an excuse for a sloppy product – we should strive to be just as professional as traditionally published authors!
– Beta Reading –
My Goose Girl retelling is in the hands of my beta readers as we speak.
– Bits & Pieces –
More snippets of cleaning and purging. It feels so good to get rid of stuff, guys. It’s freeing to go through piles of stuff (and piles books I didn’t really want) and just let it go.
Let’s see . . . .
At one point in March, cake was involved.
Milky Way Cake. Yes, I said Milk Way, as in the candy bar.
I also added that fancy, scrolled, divider thingy to this most recent blog post. Surprise!! #awkwardgrin Tell me what you think! Keep it or nix it?
And that’s all for March – accept that I finally made a gif for my signature quote / sign off for my nutshell posts.
So what about you, my dear readers? What was your March like and what happened? I’d love to hear all the juicy details!
Greetings, my lovely citizens!
I wasn’t feeling well for most of the month and then I got a cold . . . Consequently, I didn’t get nearly as much done this month as I would have liked.
But we shall at least endeavor to gather the few scraps of news. Onto the nutshell!
– The Mousetrap –
The Cumberland County Playhouse is a really fun venue that we try to attend now and then, and typically their productions are very good, but I have to admit, I was disappointed with The Mouse Trap.
There was nothing really intriguing about it. Essentially, it was a lot of people wandered around on stage talking about nothing and hinting at rather unpleasant pasts. It was rather dull, definitely downbeat / morbid, and peppered with some inappropriate moments that make me say . . . I wouldn’t recommend it.
– Reading –
I’ve reached 46 books on this year’s challenge of 150 books. So while I am closing on being a third of the way done – I ALSO ONLY READ / FINISHED 8 BOOKS IN MARCH?????
SOMEHOW THIS MUCH CHANGE.
On a nice note, the first reading quarter of the year is over and I will have a post with my favorite reads of 2018 up shortly!
– Writing –
I hardly got any writing done at all this month. Partly due to the fact I wasn’t feeling well, partly because of lack of focus, and partly because I was distracted by editing / rewrites and partly because I just didn’t.
However, I did a decent bit of rewriting as well as planning, and I’ve got some upcoming projects and ideas that I’m really excited about. *hoping they will happen*
AND – there is one piece of exciting writing news –
I GOT PUBLISHED AGAIN!!!! *screams* I AM SO HAPPY. I have been trying to get another piece of flash fiction published since last October/November of last year and it finally happened!!!
I was literally doing the dance moves below when I opened my inbox and saw the email.
Ironically, it came just at the point where I was going to give up on this particular magazine – Splickety. I had approximately eight pieces of flash fiction turned down by Splickety and I was starting to think I’d just let it go.
I was actually about to temporarily set aside my pursuit of getting published in magazines for a while (I was definitely going to set aside Splickety for a while) but now I’m being lured in again and rethinking all my previous plans.
So yeah, lots of reevaluating and new plans. As usual!
– Re-Writes –
Thank you to my very talented alpha reader (my twin) who is patient enough to keep providing me with great feedback! I am still immersed in rewriting The Goose Girl. I’m focusing on not to get frustrated, but there are moments when I feel like I’ll be rewriting this thing for forever and I just want to be DONE.
The inward dialogue looks something like this:
Voice 1: I don’t like rewrites. I want to be finished. Will this ever be over?
Voice 2: YOU JUST STARTED, YOU SILLY LITTLE BOYSENBERRY.
Voice 1: I can’t do this! I don’t know what I’m doing. This is terrible!
Voice 2: Just wait till you have to rewrite one of you 200,000 word length novels a gazillion times!
Voice 1: DAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!
And then somewhere at this point I step in and tell them both to be quiet and attempt to simply forge ahead. It must be done!!!
– Editing –
As I mention on a previous post, I am determined to submit The Reluctant Godfather to a professional proof reader / copy editor to have it polished up to perfection for the second edition.
And I finally did. After procrastinating and getting really nervous, I finally bit the bullet and contacted six different editors for sample edits. I should have started earlier in the month that way I could have been proceeding with the edits by now but, hey, at least I did it!
Four proof readers got back to me, and after carefully considering their sample edits, I have almost selected a proof reader and I am about to send my book off to be polished.
While I am sinking a bit of money into this, I am committed to making The Tales of Ambia a tip-top, professional product. Indie publishing is not an excuse for a sloppy product – we should strive to be just as professional as traditionally published authors!
– Beta Reading –My Goose Girl retelling is in the hands of my beta readers as we speak.
– Bits & Pieces –
More snippets of cleaning and purging. It feels so good to get rid of stuff, guys. It’s freeing to go through piles of stuff (and piles books I didn’t really want) and just let it go.
Let’s see . . . .
At one point in March, cake was involved.
Milky Way Cake. Yes, I said Milk Way, as in the candy bar.
I also added that fancy, scrolled, divider thingy to this most recent blog post. Surprise!! #awkwardgrin Tell me what you think! Keep it or nix it?
And that’s all for March – accept that I finally made a gif for my signature quote / sign off for my nutshell posts.
So what about you, my dear readers? What was your March like and what happened? I’d love to hear all the juicy details!
March 17, 2018
The Spamalot Edition
I don’t know about you, but I get a TON of spam email on my blog. Fortunately, my blog is built to withstand the invading hordes, but I’m forever beating off legions of these wretched little spammers, because I tell you, they fight in groups.
While deleting spam after spam – I decided to have a little fun and “reply” to the spammers.
Note: All the original spelling, punctuation and formatting (or lack thereof) of spam comments have been kept.
So let’s take a peek, shall we – into the weird and woolly world of spam.
SPAM COMMENTS IN ITALICS AND BOLD. MY RESPONSES FOLLOW.
– Standard auto insurance… –
Now wouldn’t that be just lovely! If I had a car…
– Video chat room hamsterfreecams –
Are you saying that I get to chat with a hamster? Or that hamsters like to video chat? Or that the camera you’re offering me is free of hamsters? Or are you offering me a free hamster with the purchase of a camera?
-Fast cash advance… –
WHERE DO I SIGN UP?
– Жизнь современной женщины соткана из тысячи мелочей. Муж, дети, дом, работа – все это уже давно мы научились нести на наших хрупких плечах с высоко поднятой головой. А так хочется иногда расслабиться и быть просто женщиной, нежной и беззащитной. Но жизнь диктует свои правила. И в первую очередь современная женщина должна быть Хозяйкой. Настоящей Хозяйкой во всем. Подробнее читайте на сайте –
This troubles me greatly, because I can tell you are trying very hard to tell me something here, and judging from its length, it might be important, but I’m afraid I just can’t quite understand you.
Perhaps if you repeated yourself.
Ah, I see that you did . . . several times.
-Cheap insurance cheap car insurance –
HO-HO – even better. But again . . . I don’t have a car.
– Guaranteed loan how to get a loan with no bank account –
Not that I would just automatically cast aspersions on the character of spammers, but I must admit that this does sound faintly suspicious.
– Classic car insurance –
Ooo – I do love classic cars. Could you possibly help me obtain one, along with that loan?
– We suppose that barely a professional correspondent can cunning speculative content that’s nothing stubby of perfect –
In moments like this, I just really appreciate the effort a spammer has put into researching me and making sure their ads are applicable – I mean, this comment is really knowledgeable. They knew I was barely professional, I can be cunning, I sometimes write speculative content, I am rather on the stubby (short) side, and nothing’s perfect!
– Best auto insurance companies –
AGAIN WITH THE CARS.
– Need money now –
Are you saying you want money from me?
Hey, I don’t even know you! Do I look like a bank? And you haven’t even told me what you need money for. And besides, DOESN’T EVERYONE NEED MONEY NOW?
– Casino games online casino online slots –
Hmmm – but do you pay in fruit chews? Because that’s the only thing I’ll gamble with…
– I have checked your site and I have found some duplicate content –
Wow, really? What a coincidence, because I have checked my spam and found a lot of duplicate content too… Especially about auto insurance.
– 500 fast cash money fast same day payday loans payday advance lenders –
Okay, I’m in – what do I have to bury?
-Write a thesis statement write a thesis statement –
GET AWAY FROM ME. That’s sounds too much like homework.
– Cheap car insurance companies –
We imagine that just a able paragrapher can craft speculative size that’s nothing succinct of fulfilled.
You know – I imagine that too???? I want to live in a world where all able paragraphers can craft their speculative to a size that’s nothing succinct of fulfilled.
– High school research paper –
Okay, stop rubbing it in. I know I look young and people are constantly mistaking me for a teenager but I haven’t been a teenager in OVER half a decade so just knock it off!
– I’m no longer certain the place you’re getting your information, however good topic. I must spend some time learning more or figuring out more. Thank you for great info I was on the lookout for this information for my mission –
Yes, by all means, please do spend more time learning more or figuring out more. I would highly recommend it to you.
As far as where I get my information, that’s classified.
But um . . . before you go, tell me more about this mission. I must admit I am intrigued . . .
– Best auto insurance companies –
– Hello colleagues, it’s impressive post concerning tutoring and fully defined. Keep it up all the time –
Why, hello colleague! It’s always a pleasure to meet a fellow colleague.
I think there might have been a slight technical glitch here – I’m sure it wasn’t YOUR fault, haha – because I found your comment at the end of my post “My Funny Valentine – 4 Romantic Comedies for Valentine’s Day.”
While I can see why you would find that post impressive, I’m not quite sure what you were referencing by the word “tutoring.”
Aww, you’re so sweet.
– Can you do my homework –
You know, with that kind of attitude, you are not going to get anywhere in life. You do your own homework!
– You must just look in support of some specialised examples online. There is a enormous numbers of extraordinary useful info on the web macbeth essay on power nowadays really. I can also persuade you to judge not at home. It is a diminish thing indeed –
I think they are trying to say that if I judge Macbeth from home, I shall somehow be diminished.
Do you possibly mean I will be zapped by a long-range shrinking device if I read Macbeth at home and judge the aforementioned play?
I’m already 5′ 3″ – I don’t have any inches to spare! Look, I won’t read Macbeth – will that save me?
You know what? I’m reporting you! You’re a menace! Stop picking on midgets with your diminishing device!
– Ревность является отрицательным и разрушительным чувством для любовных отношений. Конечно, в малых дозах она даже полезна, но здесь речь идет о том, что человек психически нездоров. Читайте об этом подробнее на сайте –
Ah – there you are again! I was wondering about you.
– You can merely look representing several specialised examples online. There is a oceans of different expedient info on the net collection 3 these days really. I can also persuade you to try one\’s hand at wide of the mark. It is a cold-hearted attitude indeed-
Okay, just stop – you are really crossing the line with this. While I agree that there are oceans of info on the net that make things expedient – don’t you think telling ME that I’m wide of the mark is a little rich considering the source, you peanut? OH – so I have a cold-hearted attitude, do I? Well, you are an exceptionally rude little spammer. I think YOU are the one with the problem and you can just go spam somebody else!
– anti start barking training collar example –
– We must merely look for some specialised guides online. There is a oceans of unalike productive info on the network abstracts as well as professional summaries today really. I can also recommend you to undertaking wide of the mark. It isa chilliness predilection indeed –
– full coverage car insurance insurance auto automobile insurance companies –
– a fantastic read. Your way of explaining all in this article is in fact good, every one can simply
know it, Thanks a lot –
After scrambling to find the “article” in which I explain *all* I was slightly puzzled to find myself scrolling through my One Year Anniversary Post.
What is it, exactly that everyone can simply know?
Though honestly, I appreciate this person’s enthusiasm. If they thought that post was good, they are easy to please!
– I have checked your site and I have found some duplicate content –
– Best auto insurance companies –
– I have checked your site and I have found some duplicate content –
I’m done.
March 1, 2018
February In A Nutshell
Yeah, that’s a completely random picture of a pear blossom on the header because I didn’t really have a feature image for this post because nothing really happened in February.
But, it’s still relevant, because our pear tree DID bloom – poor thing. We had some unusually warm days and it tricked the blossoms into coming out. It’s getting cool again so they might not make it.
ANYWAY – onto the small recap. *coughs and looks away from embarrassingly small nutshell*
– Writing –
I finished another piece of flash fiction.
Annnnnd –
I finally finished the first draft of The Goose Girl!
I am so excited to have finished and to chronicled another chapter in Ambia. While I built up a lot of momentum finishing The Goose Girl’s first draft, I have been experiencing a curious first draft hangover and am struggling to peel myself off the wall after charging towards the window marked: “Finishing Line.” It’s been a bit difficult getting into writing the last week, but I’m forcing myself to forge ahead!
– Rewrites –
Because I am relatively new to actually publishing my stories – rewrites are a strange and sharp-toothed creature to me. Since I never actually had to publish anything, for years I was used to largely producing first drafts and that was that. Polishing was never really an issue. Suddenly, I have to do rewrites! #WHATWHY
The path ahead of me has developed two forks in the trail. I either learn to like rewrites, or I learn to outline more thoroughly. I have a feeling I’ll be straddling the trails for a bit. Which is slightly awkward, but hey, as long as I get ‘er done and learn something in the process.
– Writing News –
Guess what? I am prepping The Reluctant Godfather to be sent to a professional proof reader.
As I start investing more and more time in The Tales of Ambia and realizing just how big a series I am building, I am realizing just how committed I am to making it quality. While I know the bulk of the typos or things of that nature were caught by my beta-readers, I just (perhaps obsessively) want to keep the bar as high as I can. I am willing to sink a little money into it to make the end product as professional as possible.
One last bit of news – I am revising The Reluctant Godfather just a smidge becauseeeee . . .
Did you know the Tales of Ambia actually has some steampunk elements? Don’t worry, the story won’t change, I’m just inserting a few teensy, tiny world-building descriptions – some Easter Eggs for the new edition. Steam power is new to Ambia and will very gradually take more precedence in the country as the series progresses. But since it does figure a little more heavily in some later books (especially The Princess and the Pea) it is necessary to introduce it earlier – especially since most of you are probably rather shocked. Sorrrrry!! Thank you for sticking with me, my dear readers!
– Rejection –
I finally heard back from some editors and I FINALLY all caught up with my rejections! It’s nice to have everything rejected at once and not (currently) have any more hanging over my head.
Seriously, the waiting around for a response is bad, so at least I’m not waiting anymore. I am prepping my next piece for submission as we speak. It’s a good experience that I would recommend for ALL writers.
– The Olympics –
Yep, they happened.
While I used to enjoy the Olympics, I can’t say I enjoyed it much this year. Between the political posturing, messed up athletes and commentators, unfair judging, increased commercials and the fact that Bob Costas is no longer hosting (the man who is DEFINED the Olympics for me) . . . I was pretty –
The Olympics has always caused a curious phenomena of taking over your life. I didn’t even watch as much of the Olympics this year, but it still seemed to take over my days somehow. The one event I wanted to see would take place in the day time, causing me to arrange my schedule and be subsequently to late and too tired at night to finish necessary tasks. Or, the commentators would promise an event would be shown in a three hour time slot and I would hang around for those three hours only to see three minutes of footage, or to have them push off the event to the next day.
So – yep. Glad that’s over with!
Plus, it will be so nice to actually return to STORIES. For two weeks, we were *entertained* but in the most superficial way. I need my stories from movies and books again.
– Purging –
(i.e. sorting through junk and getting rid of it)
That’s a word that might strike fear into many people’s hearts and it has done that for a while for me – but not lately, and it’s been wonderful.
Everyone in our house has been seized by a “get rid of it” attitude and there has been a house-wide domino effect of cleaning, sorting and nixing.
Hey, yeah, I know it sounds lame to say I spent a chunk of February sorting through stuff – but it takes more time than you’d think.
One of my major projects has been sorting through my 600 plus book collection. We attending several library sales a year and I binge-shop at these events, snagging anything that catches my eye. Consequently, my bookshelves were full of books I hadn’t read yet and even books that I was indifferent to. After clearing off a shelf just for this purpose, my TBR is being focused solely on the books I actually own. I’ve already gotten rid of over 60 books and it’s going to feel marvelous to know that I’ve actually read everything on my bookshelves and that what I own are books I really want to have surrounding me.
– Reading –
I reached 38 books read in my goal of 150 book challenge. This is not good pardners. I feel like Ian Malcolm being chased by a T-Rex.
– New Website Design –
I’ve been coordinating with my amazing and fantastic friend Sarah Grace and she has designed a beeeautiful new author website for me! And psst, don’t worry, the newsletter thing will work itself out, I promise!
– First Ice Cream Of The Year –
Obviously, this is an important update.
I ask you, could anything be better than caffeinated ice cream?
And that is that!
How about you, my readers? How was your February and what happened? I’d love to hear all about it in the comments!
But, it’s still relevant, because our pear tree DID bloom – poor thing. We had some unusually warm days and it tricked the blossoms into coming out. It’s getting cool again so they might not make it.
ANYWAY – onto the small recap. *coughs and looks away from embarrassingly small nutshell*
– Writing –
I finished another piece of flash fiction.
Annnnnd –
I finally finished the first draft of The Goose Girl!
I am so excited to have finished and to chronicled another chapter in Ambia. While I built up a lot of momentum finishing The Goose Girl’s first draft, I have been experiencing a curious first draft hangover and am struggling to peel myself off the wall after charging towards the window marked: “Finishing Line.” It’s been a bit difficult getting into writing the last week, but I’m forcing myself to forge ahead!
– Rewrites –
Because I am relatively new to actually publishing my stories – rewrites are a strange and sharp-toothed creature to me. Since I never actually had to publish anything, for years I was used to largely producing first drafts and that was that. Polishing was never really an issue. Suddenly, I have to do rewrites! #WHATWHY
The path ahead of me has developed two forks in the trail. I either learn to like rewrites, or I learn to outline more thoroughly. I have a feeling I’ll be straddling the trails for a bit. Which is slightly awkward, but hey, as long as I get ‘er done and learn something in the process.
– Writing News –
Guess what? I am prepping The Reluctant Godfather to be sent to a professional proof reader.
As I start investing more and more time in The Tales of Ambia and realizing just how big a series I am building, I am realizing just how committed I am to making it quality. While I know the bulk of the typos or things of that nature were caught by my beta-readers, I just (perhaps obsessively) want to keep the bar as high as I can. I am willing to sink a little money into it to make the end product as professional as possible.
One last bit of news – I am revising The Reluctant Godfather just a smidge becauseeeee . . .
Did you know the Tales of Ambia actually has some steampunk elements? Don’t worry, the story won’t change, I’m just inserting a few teensy, tiny world-building descriptions – some Easter Eggs for the new edition. Steam power is new to Ambia and will very gradually take more precedence in the country as the series progresses. But since it does figure a little more heavily in some later books (especially The Princess and the Pea) it is necessary to introduce it earlier – especially since most of you are probably rather shocked. Sorrrrry!! Thank you for sticking with me, my dear readers!
– Rejection –
I finally heard back from some editors and I FINALLY all caught up with my rejections! It’s nice to have everything rejected at once and not (currently) have any more hanging over my head.
Seriously, the waiting around for a response is bad, so at least I’m not waiting anymore. I am prepping my next piece for submission as we speak. It’s a good experience that I would recommend for ALL writers.
– The Olympics –
Yep, they happened.
While I used to enjoy the Olympics, I can’t say I enjoyed it much this year. Between the political posturing, messed up athletes and commentators, unfair judging, increased commercials and the fact that Bob Costas is no longer hosting (the man who is DEFINED the Olympics for me) . . . I was pretty –
The Olympics has always caused a curious phenomena of taking over your life. I didn’t even watch as much of the Olympics this year, but it still seemed to take over my days somehow. The one event I wanted to see would take place in the day time, causing me to arrange my schedule and be subsequently to late and too tired at night to finish necessary tasks. Or, the commentators would promise an event would be shown in a three hour time slot and I would hang around for those three hours only to see three minutes of footage, or to have them push off the event to the next day.
So – yep. Glad that’s over with!
Plus, it will be so nice to actually return to STORIES. For two weeks, we were *entertained* but in the most superficial way. I need my stories from movies and books again.
– Purging –
(i.e. sorting through junk and getting rid of it)
That’s a word that might strike fear into many people’s hearts and it has done that for a while for me – but not lately, and it’s been wonderful.
Everyone in our house has been seized by a “get rid of it” attitude and there has been a house-wide domino effect of cleaning, sorting and nixing.
Hey, yeah, I know it sounds lame to say I spent a chunk of February sorting through stuff – but it takes more time than you’d think.
One of my major projects has been sorting through my 600 plus book collection. We attending several library sales a year and I binge-shop at these events, snagging anything that catches my eye. Consequently, my bookshelves were full of books I hadn’t read yet and even books that I was indifferent to. After clearing off a shelf just for this purpose, my TBR is being focused solely on the books I actually own. I’ve already gotten rid of over 60 books and it’s going to feel marvelous to know that I’ve actually read everything on my bookshelves and that what I own are books I really want to have surrounding me.
– Reading –
I reached 38 books read in my goal of 150 book challenge. This is not good pardners. I feel like Ian Malcolm being chased by a T-Rex.
– New Website Design –
I’ve been coordinating with my amazing and fantastic friend Sarah Grace and she has designed a beeeautiful new author website for me! And psst, don’t worry, the newsletter thing will work itself out, I promise!
– First Ice Cream Of The Year –
Obviously, this is an important update.
Image courtesy of Google images
I ask you, could anything be better than caffeinated ice cream?
And that is that!
How about you, my readers? How was your February and what happened? I’d love to hear all about it in the comments!
February 22, 2018
The Period Drama Tag
Hey-howdy my fine citizens!
I have seen this period drama tag floating around the blogosphere for a bit and as I read the various posts, something scary came to my attention.
Most of the answers involved things like Jane Austen, When Calls the Heart, and Anne of Green Gables!
Come on guys, we don’t want to scare away the viewers by making them think these are the ONLY period dramas out there. We don’t want them to not try period dramas!
Somebody, had to do something to combat this misapprehension….
And thus, I have done a tag!
So, here we go. *rubs hands together*
1. What was the most recent period drama you watched? Share what you thought of it.
The Patriot. I thought it was amazing, beautiful, poignant and it will move you to the core. Excellently done and with themes and foreshadowing that are MIND-BLOWING. K.M Weiland should pick it up for dissection on HOW TO DO THEMES. This movie is textbook. It was incredible. The Patriot took so many things that people try to do in storytelling and nailed it with a rawness that most people will never be able to do.
And the message is amazing – fight to the end, there is no option to opt out. The battle is here – run to it.
As a side note, one of my absolute favorite parts was the fighting pastor. I am so sick of Christians or pastors being portrayed as pacifists. Like a Levite of the Old Testament, Reverend Oliver is a warrior priest. Casting aside his wig and his robes, Oliver grabs a rifle and follows the militia out of his church. “A shepherd must see to his flock! And at times, fend off the wolves.” When his church is burned down with the parishioners (women and children) inside, Oliver is filled with righteous fury and leaves with Mel Gibson’s son to destroy the marauders that have butchered his congregation. And ah! He dies in a blaze of glory, with his boots on and his hand on his weapon. It’s magnificent.
2. Do you generally prefer period dramas in the form of a movie or a TV series/mini-series? Why?
Hmm – in theory, I like the idea of a mini series because of the detail and the ability to focus longer on the characters but I’ve watched more period drama movies so – as long as it’s well done, no preference. Though I HAVE seen a LOT of period dramas I wish like crazy had been turned into a mini series because they had sooo much material and didn’t get to delve into it as much as I would have liked. :/
3. What is your favorite musical period drama?
NEWSIES. Forever and always. No contest.
4. Read the book first or watch the movie first?
Hmm – watching the movie first can help clarify a book for me sometimes (I’m a visual) and it can be a little distracting, even to me, to watch a movie and be going: “That wasn’t like the book!” I think it’s more likely that I watch the movie first. Any time I watch a movie in a historical setting, I usually do some short research afterwards to check historical accuracy and such.
5. What is a valuable life lesson you learned from a period drama?
Last Flight Out is one of my favorite films of all time and it taught me the extraordinary beauty of ordinary heroism. The people who fight, scheme and sacrifice to evacuate as many people from Saigon as possible before Communists overrun the city are civilians. Nobody paid them, nobody forced them – they could turn a blind eye and stay safe, but instead, they turn and run into the fire. This true story inspires me as I watch these normal people take fear and death by the horns and wrestle with it till the end for the sake of those who can’t fight back.
Last Flight Out teaches that even the ordinary, can be extraordinary – and that heroism is something anyone can attain.
If you haven’t watched this movie, you need to.
6. Which period drama hero would you be likely to fall in love with in real life?
HA! Easy question! Mr. Blakeney from Master and Commander.
I would fall head-over-heels in love with this little guy at first sight. I WANT TO KNOW A REAL LIFE MR. Blakeney – I WANT HIM FOR A LITTLE BROTHER – I LOOOOVE HIM!!
Ahhh! THAT FACE. *heart eyes* Mr. Blakeney is one of the most amazing little boys, in reality, he’s a little man. He is brave, disciplined and commands more respect than most men twice his age. Not only is he an officer, he is an aristocrat and a gentlemen who lives up to those expectations down to the very core of his remarkable heart.
So – there you go – little Will Blakeney is the most likely person I would “fall in love with” in real life.
7. Do you ever like to binge-watch a period drama series?
Hmm – occasionally, yes. The one that comes instantly to mind is Disney’s Return to Treasure Island mini series.
*FREAKS OUT*
*TRIES TO MUFFLE SQUEALING BUT FAILS*
THE. BEST. MINI SERIES. EVER!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
http://allisonswell.website/wp-content/uploads/2018/02/Disneys-Return-to-Treasure-Island-intro-online-video-cutter.com_.mp4
SQUEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
8. What things go best with watching a period drama?
Viewing buddies, obviously! I like to talk about a movie as I’m watching it. If I don’t have somebody critiquing it with me, it’s hard for me to focus on it. Let’s see, what else? I don’t know, a snack? A buddy and a snack.
9. Which period drama do you think you would fit into best?
Hmm – my favorite period dramas feature a bunch of death-defying situations, so I’m basically picking my doom here. I suppose The Patriot, because the women were so involved in a heroic struggle. I would die a thousand deaths before being in a Jane Austen type setting with nothing to do but husband hunt. I’d be much better suited to holding down the fort as Aunt Charlotte did in The Patriot. And if I had a choice, I’d rather die for a cause, like Anne in The Patriot, then stay safe and grow old.
I’d definitely be one of those defiant women that burned down shipyards and fields to keep them from falling into enemy hands and then turn around to smile sweetly over a teacup as I wormed information out of officers.
I’ve sometimes wondered what I would have done during the Revolutionary War and just how much fun I could have had tormenting the British. In the line of duty, of course.
The War of Independence was such a strong time for strong American women, it’s inspiring – and I’m definitely a flaming patriot, so I’d fit in well in that respect.
That, or post Civil-War like Little Women, where, like Jo March, I could make a living as an authoress.
10. If you could have any period drama character for a best friend, who would it be? And why?
EASY PEASY. I would choose Archie Kennedy from Horatio Hornblower to be my best friend.
Why? PFFT – watch the series! Archie is the DEFINITIVE best friend! He is loyal, noble-hearted, courageous, smart, full of fun, intuitive, talented, AND BASICALLY AMAZING RIGHT ACROSS THE BOARD.
Archie is the kind of person that comes in a pair. He’s the ultimate right-hand man, the person you most want to back you up, the person you would seek out to scare up some fun, the kind of person that wouldn’t leave you by yourself too long.
I also feel that I would like to be his friend because that boy could use some encouragement! Archie struggled with a lot of doubt and comparison and I would sternly inform him in no uncertain terms that he’s a better man than Horatio (every day of the week and twice on Sunday), a good officer and a fantastic person in every way.
#sweetiepie #hero
Whether it’s a mission or a party – Archie’s the pal I’d like to have.
11. Show us a picture of a period drama costume you wish you could wear in real life.
THIS, PEOPLE, THIS. *points to image below*
Clavius (Joseph Fiennes) and Lucius (Tom Felton) at the Roman barracks consider new information from the bystander about the apostles in Columbia Pictures’ RISEN.
These costumes from Risen are AMAZING. Aren’t they fabulous?!??!!!
First choice, for sure. I. WANT. THOSE. COSTUMES.
Unfortunately, it wouldn’t look the same on a 5′ 3″ young woman. You kind of need to be a rugged guy to pull this one off. I’d end up looking more like this –
I love the elegant simplicity of Esther’s costumes in Ben Hur – the emphasis on silhouette and gorgeous color palette is wonderful.
Lady Anne’s costumes from Hidalgo are also lovely.
Look at the embroidery on the back of her jacket below? Isn’t it gorgeous? And that hat! Ooo – yes, please!
Lily James also wore some lovely costumes in Darkest Hour that I could actually wear in real life – and if I could find clothes like that, I would dress that way every day. I’m working in that direction and slowly accumulating a wardrobe of retro clothes!
Darkest Hour (2018) – Lily James
12. Are there any period dramas you like to watch during a particular season or holiday?
Hmm – Return To Treasure Island – *cue eternal squealing* – seems like the ultimate summer mini series to me. Other than that, it’s more like if certain events are occuring or if we’re in a certain place, we might watch certain period dramas. For instance, a vacation in Williamsburg would cause us to watch The Patriot.
13. Which period drama has your favorite soundtrack?
There are literally DOZENS of period drama soundtracks that I adore but I’ll content myself with answering with the first one that came to mind.
Kidnapped by David Hirschfelder. This soundtrack perfectly captures the epic grandeur of the Highlands and sweeps together the grief, beauty and herosim of this movie into a beautiful, shining strain of music that echoes in your mind long after it’s played. *literally starts fake sobbing hysterically just thinking about it*
Here’s the little opening theme. Unfortunately, it’s a slightly scratchy quality (not cool, uploader!) but you can still hear that wild, aching cry.
14. Dream cast your favorite actor and actress in a period drama of your choosing; tell which parts they would play and why.
Sorry – I don’t know!
15. Are there any period dramas you like more than one version of?
Er . . . Little Women. My favorite version, overall, has to be the 1970s version because of it’s faithfulness to the book, the most accurate portrayal of Professor Bear EVER, and my favorite portrayal of Beth – among a few other things!
But I also sort-of enjoy (at least parts) of the new version with Winona Ryder and the older version with June Allyson.
16. What are the top three period dramas that you haven’t seen on your to-watch list?
One of my buddies really wants me to watch Wives and Daughters so, for her sake, that’s high on the list.
I have seen this period drama tag floating around the blogosphere for a bit and as I read the various posts, something scary came to my attention.
Most of the answers involved things like Jane Austen, When Calls the Heart, and Anne of Green Gables!
Come on guys, we don’t want to scare away the viewers by making them think these are the ONLY period dramas out there. We don’t want them to not try period dramas!
Somebody, had to do something to combat this misapprehension….
And thus, I have done a tag!
So, here we go. *rubs hands together*
1. What was the most recent period drama you watched? Share what you thought of it.
The Patriot. I thought it was amazing, beautiful, poignant and it will move you to the core. Excellently done and with themes and foreshadowing that are MIND-BLOWING. K.M Weiland should pick it up for dissection on HOW TO DO THEMES. This movie is textbook. It was incredible. The Patriot took so many things that people try to do in storytelling and nailed it with a rawness that most people will never be able to do.
And the message is amazing – fight to the end, there is no option to opt out. The battle is here – run to it.
As a side note, one of my absolute favorite parts was the fighting pastor. I am so sick of Christians or pastors being portrayed as pacifists. Like a Levite of the Old Testament, Reverend Oliver is a warrior priest. Casting aside his wig and his robes, Oliver grabs a rifle and follows the militia out of his church. “A shepherd must see to his flock! And at times, fend off the wolves.” When his church is burned down with the parishioners (women and children) inside, Oliver is filled with righteous fury and leaves with Mel Gibson’s son to destroy the marauders that have butchered his congregation. And ah! He dies in a blaze of glory, with his boots on and his hand on his weapon. It’s magnificent.
2. Do you generally prefer period dramas in the form of a movie or a TV series/mini-series? Why?
Hmm – in theory, I like the idea of a mini series because of the detail and the ability to focus longer on the characters but I’ve watched more period drama movies so – as long as it’s well done, no preference. Though I HAVE seen a LOT of period dramas I wish like crazy had been turned into a mini series because they had sooo much material and didn’t get to delve into it as much as I would have liked. :/
3. What is your favorite musical period drama?
NEWSIES. Forever and always. No contest.
4. Read the book first or watch the movie first?
Hmm – watching the movie first can help clarify a book for me sometimes (I’m a visual) and it can be a little distracting, even to me, to watch a movie and be going: “That wasn’t like the book!” I think it’s more likely that I watch the movie first. Any time I watch a movie in a historical setting, I usually do some short research afterwards to check historical accuracy and such.
5. What is a valuable life lesson you learned from a period drama?
Last Flight Out is one of my favorite films of all time and it taught me the extraordinary beauty of ordinary heroism. The people who fight, scheme and sacrifice to evacuate as many people from Saigon as possible before Communists overrun the city are civilians. Nobody paid them, nobody forced them – they could turn a blind eye and stay safe, but instead, they turn and run into the fire. This true story inspires me as I watch these normal people take fear and death by the horns and wrestle with it till the end for the sake of those who can’t fight back.
Last Flight Out teaches that even the ordinary, can be extraordinary – and that heroism is something anyone can attain.
If you haven’t watched this movie, you need to.
6. Which period drama hero would you be likely to fall in love with in real life?
HA! Easy question! Mr. Blakeney from Master and Commander.
And yes, he is thirteen years old.
I would fall head-over-heels in love with this little guy at first sight. I WANT TO KNOW A REAL LIFE MR. Blakeney – I WANT HIM FOR A LITTLE BROTHER – I LOOOOVE HIM!!
“melts”
Ahhh! THAT FACE. *heart eyes* Mr. Blakeney is one of the most amazing little boys, in reality, he’s a little man. He is brave, disciplined and commands more respect than most men twice his age. Not only is he an officer, he is an aristocrat and a gentlemen who lives up to those expectations down to the very core of his remarkable heart.
So – there you go – little Will Blakeney is the most likely person I would “fall in love with” in real life.
7. Do you ever like to binge-watch a period drama series?
Hmm – occasionally, yes. The one that comes instantly to mind is Disney’s Return to Treasure Island mini series.
*FREAKS OUT*
*TRIES TO MUFFLE SQUEALING BUT FAILS*
THE. BEST. MINI SERIES. EVER!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
http://allisonswell.website/wp-content/uploads/2018/02/Disneys-Return-to-Treasure-Island-intro-online-video-cutter.com_.mp4
SQUEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
8. What things go best with watching a period drama?
Viewing buddies, obviously! I like to talk about a movie as I’m watching it. If I don’t have somebody critiquing it with me, it’s hard for me to focus on it. Let’s see, what else? I don’t know, a snack? A buddy and a snack.
9. Which period drama do you think you would fit into best?
Hmm – my favorite period dramas feature a bunch of death-defying situations, so I’m basically picking my doom here. I suppose The Patriot, because the women were so involved in a heroic struggle. I would die a thousand deaths before being in a Jane Austen type setting with nothing to do but husband hunt. I’d be much better suited to holding down the fort as Aunt Charlotte did in The Patriot. And if I had a choice, I’d rather die for a cause, like Anne in The Patriot, then stay safe and grow old.
I’d definitely be one of those defiant women that burned down shipyards and fields to keep them from falling into enemy hands and then turn around to smile sweetly over a teacup as I wormed information out of officers.
I’ve sometimes wondered what I would have done during the Revolutionary War and just how much fun I could have had tormenting the British. In the line of duty, of course.
The War of Independence was such a strong time for strong American women, it’s inspiring – and I’m definitely a flaming patriot, so I’d fit in well in that respect.
That, or post Civil-War like Little Women, where, like Jo March, I could make a living as an authoress.
10. If you could have any period drama character for a best friend, who would it be? And why?
EASY PEASY. I would choose Archie Kennedy from Horatio Hornblower to be my best friend.
Why? PFFT – watch the series! Archie is the DEFINITIVE best friend! He is loyal, noble-hearted, courageous, smart, full of fun, intuitive, talented, AND BASICALLY AMAZING RIGHT ACROSS THE BOARD.
Archie is the kind of person that comes in a pair. He’s the ultimate right-hand man, the person you most want to back you up, the person you would seek out to scare up some fun, the kind of person that wouldn’t leave you by yourself too long.
I also feel that I would like to be his friend because that boy could use some encouragement! Archie struggled with a lot of doubt and comparison and I would sternly inform him in no uncertain terms that he’s a better man than Horatio (every day of the week and twice on Sunday), a good officer and a fantastic person in every way.
#sweetiepie #hero
Whether it’s a mission or a party – Archie’s the pal I’d like to have.
11. Show us a picture of a period drama costume you wish you could wear in real life.
THIS, PEOPLE, THIS. *points to image below*
Clavius (Joseph Fiennes) and Lucius (Tom Felton) at the Roman barracks consider new information from the bystander about the apostles in Columbia Pictures’ RISEN.
These costumes from Risen are AMAZING. Aren’t they fabulous?!??!!!
First choice, for sure. I. WANT. THOSE. COSTUMES.
Unfortunately, it wouldn’t look the same on a 5′ 3″ young woman. You kind of need to be a rugged guy to pull this one off. I’d end up looking more like this –
I love the elegant simplicity of Esther’s costumes in Ben Hur – the emphasis on silhouette and gorgeous color palette is wonderful.
Lady Anne’s costumes from Hidalgo are also lovely.
Look at the embroidery on the back of her jacket below? Isn’t it gorgeous? And that hat! Ooo – yes, please!
Lily James also wore some lovely costumes in Darkest Hour that I could actually wear in real life – and if I could find clothes like that, I would dress that way every day. I’m working in that direction and slowly accumulating a wardrobe of retro clothes!
Darkest Hour (2018) – Lily James
12. Are there any period dramas you like to watch during a particular season or holiday?
Hmm – Return To Treasure Island – *cue eternal squealing* – seems like the ultimate summer mini series to me. Other than that, it’s more like if certain events are occuring or if we’re in a certain place, we might watch certain period dramas. For instance, a vacation in Williamsburg would cause us to watch The Patriot.
13. Which period drama has your favorite soundtrack?
There are literally DOZENS of period drama soundtracks that I adore but I’ll content myself with answering with the first one that came to mind.
Kidnapped by David Hirschfelder. This soundtrack perfectly captures the epic grandeur of the Highlands and sweeps together the grief, beauty and herosim of this movie into a beautiful, shining strain of music that echoes in your mind long after it’s played. *literally starts fake sobbing hysterically just thinking about it*
Here’s the little opening theme. Unfortunately, it’s a slightly scratchy quality (not cool, uploader!) but you can still hear that wild, aching cry.
14. Dream cast your favorite actor and actress in a period drama of your choosing; tell which parts they would play and why.
Sorry – I don’t know!
15. Are there any period dramas you like more than one version of?
Er . . . Little Women. My favorite version, overall, has to be the 1970s version because of it’s faithfulness to the book, the most accurate portrayal of Professor Bear EVER, and my favorite portrayal of Beth – among a few other things!
But I also sort-of enjoy (at least parts) of the new version with Winona Ryder and the older version with June Allyson.
16. What are the top three period dramas that you haven’t seen on your to-watch list?
One of my buddies really wants me to watch Wives and Daughters so, for her sake, that’s high on the list.
February 13, 2018
My Funny Valentine: 4 Romantic Comedies For Valentine’s Day
Three Smart Girls (1936)
Three sisters scheme to reunite their divorced parents before their wealthy father marries a conniving gold digger.
Think ‘The Parent Trap’ with 1930s class and wit. Plus an older group of girls that fall into the “the trap of love” themselves!
The 30s style costumes are yet another treat in this movie.
Anybody with sisters or girlfriends will appreciate the fun banter and endless scheming of the three girls. And for once, the boyfriends of the two older sisters are actually real people with personalities. That, in and of itself, is revolutionary and refreshing. The fact that they actually move a lot of the plot forward and are interesting characters outside of their girlfriends is a double win. And finally, enough with the stupid ideas of guys needing to “back off” – these guys are real men and pursue their romantic interests with inexorable determination and suavity.
As usual for many black and white romantic comedies, the intricate plotting of this comedy of errors is hilariously complicated. They just don’t write them like this anymore! The girls’ hilarious attempts to submarine their father’s girlfriend “Precious” is a special highlight, as well as the case of mistaken identity that brings the bewildered, but intrigued Ray Milland into the madcap situation.
THREE SMART GIRLS, Mischa Auer, Ray Milland, 1936Ray Millands classy improvisation for the sake of love is truly side-splitting. Who is the real Count?
Of a special note, of course, is Deanna Durbin’s glorious singing, and one of the sweetest “romances” of all; a father falling head-over-heels in love with his daughters.
Maid’s Night Out (1938)
A millionaire’s son works as a milkman for a month to win a bet with his father. While delivering milk he falls in love with a young debutante whom he mistakes for a maid.
It can be a little, zany, a little silly—but it’s still great fun! As I said, the 1930s could pull off mistaken identities and comedic mix ups like no one else! Even if we are blinking a little at the hero’s goals—by the end of the film we are cheering him on and sitting on our hands as he races to complete the wager in a sequence that is both hilarious and nerve-wracking.
The fact that the heroine assists him in this eccentric relay makes the ending even more sweet. Bickering couples can be fun—and this couple starts out that way—but if you want to hit a romance out of the ball park, your characters ought to eventually BELIEVE IN ONE ANOTHER. That’s the secret ingredient—and this film nails it.
Louisa (1950)
Grandma Louisa (Spring Byington) begins dating grocer Henry Hammond (Edmund Gwenn), much to the disgust of her son Hal (Ronald Reagan) and the rest of the family. To make matters worse, Hal’s boss, Mr. Burnside (Charles Coburn), also becomes a rival for Louisa’s affections.
Enough with the silly drama of young people’s romances! Who says mature people—or even the elderly—can’t fall in love?
This adorable movie defies cliches and convention and gives us an adorable movie that will keep us laughing—and perhaps groaning—throughout as we wonder whom Louisa will end up with.
She can’t decide . . .
This is one of the few love-triangles that really kept me guessing through the whole thing and had me rooting equally for everyone concerned. Not only that, the ending is satisfactory for everyone, I think! A rare thing indeed for a love-triangle!
So many books and movies give characters like Louisa the standard “grandma attributes” and then stop, as if she is no longer a person. What I love about this film is that Louisa is bursting with personality. I also love movies where characters are shown wholeheartedly engaging in antics, without caring what other people think. Who says grandmas can’t limbo?
I.Q. (1994)
Edward Walters, an auto mechanic, falls for the intelligent and beautiful Catherine Boyd. It is love at first sight. There is, however, a problem, she’s engaged to the idiotic James Moreland. Fortunately, Catherine’s uncle likes Ed, and with his friends they scheme to make Catherine fall for Ed. The comedy in this movie stems from the fact that Catherine’s uncle is none other than Albert Einstein, who’s portrayed as a fun loving genius, as are his three, mischievous colleagues.
I literally started squealing as I started writing this review. One of my favorite romantic comedies of all time – easily in my top three. It’s one of those rare movies where I wouldn’t change a single thing. The story, the dialogue, the acting – it’s fabulous.
This film beautifully and sensitively tackles what it means to be smart. Too many people categorize intelligence one way – when that is simply not accurate. There are many different kinds of intelligence.
It’s one of the sweetest romantic comedies I have ever seen because it feels real. Catherine and Ed aren’t perfect but together, they are extraordinary. It’s more than just physical attraction – it’s two wondering souls, two excited, curious minds coming together to share an adventure.
What could be more delightful than having Albert Einstein playing match maker? BEST. IDEA. EVER. Walter Matthau’s acting is absolutely outstanding as he tackles the brilliant, absent-minded, loving, wonder-filled scientist who is determined to see his niece find the right man. Liebknecht, Podolsky, Gödel (Albert Einstein’s three colleagues) are fall-over hilarious. Again, we get to see how you can’t be smart in everything as Einstein introduces them as: “Three of the most brilliant minds in the universe, but between them they can’t screw in a light bulb.”
If you can imagine a German Jewish, mathematician take on the three fairy’s from Sleeping Beauty – you might be close to describing this darling trio. The endless shots of their feet shuffling along as they try to break Ed and Catherine’s romance down into mathematical equations are truly priceless.
Dare I even to say that this is one of the best movies I’ve ever seen? The plot, the characters, the dialogue, EVERYTHING is perfect. Theme, especially, comes out strong in this movie and gives the film the heart that so many other storytellers lack – great foreshadowing and payoff. From the moment in the opening when we hear Albert Einstein playing Twinkle Twinkle Little Star on his violin, we are being shown a special theme. When we see Catherine making plans to see Boyd’s comet – for the most beautiful reasons – we know, something special is going to happen. When we see the scientists matchmaking plans start growing wildly out of control, we are groaning as we see the political scandal unfold. But get ready for the brilliant culmination!
Additional tidbits. The movie is scored by Jerry Goldsmith, one of my favorite composers and one of the most versatile ones I have ever listened to. His perfect blend of wonder-filled strings, doo-wap harmonizing and tinkling bells scores this movie exquisitely. And then we have Meg Ryan’s fabulously adorable wardrobe which WILL make you yearn like crazy for these fashions. Lastly, we have that wonderful 1950s feeling – diners, greasers, motorcycles, the Cold War, early space race, and BEAUTIFUL CLASSIC CARS.
I.Q. has a joyous feeling, a vibrancy in its normalcy, a theme about embracing life, embracing people and exploring new possibilities.
It’s about having fun – no matter who you are, or what you do.
And essentially that whole feeling and theme can be boiled down to one of the most memorable and lovely moments I have ever seen in film.
An auto mechanic taking Albert Einstein for a joyride on a motorcycle.
Because, as Albert teaches his niece and young friend, nothing is more important then keeping your sense of wonder.
And that wraps up this post? What are some of your favorite romantic comedies? Do you have any films that you watch every Valentine’s Day? I’d love to hear about it in the comments!
And hurry up – we’re wasting time!
