Robin Tompkins's Blog: Rob the Writer
October 26, 2023
The Name of the Tree
Last year, I dropped a free to read story on here for Halloween. I have decided to do the same again. This one is brand new, written from scratch and never before published. It is also the first fiction I have written that way in over a year for many and various depressing reasons. However, it's October, it's (almost) Halloween, that's a reason to be cheerful I think?
Just to say, please don't export, publish or otherwise reproduce this anywhere else without my specific permission, it is copyright material. You wouldn't do that anyway would you? Anyway, I have to say it, you know, just in case.
So here it is, enjoy...
The Name of the Tree
The spider, plump and tiger striped, crouched at the heart of the web like a curled fist. Heavy dew glittered across the strands like rhinestones in the old gold light of a clear, crisp October morning.
Amber smiled at her.
‘Good morning, Marge,’ she said, stepping off the decking and onto the damp grass around the little shrub that “Marge” called home. Amber Morgan had a habit of naming things, indeed, she rather felt it was a super power of hers. One look at a thing, anything from a toaster, through plush toys, to her little runabout and Amber could instantly christen it. It was more than that, everyone agreed that the names that she chose were just “right” somehow.
She drew in a long breath, inhaling the rich aroma of the steaming mug of coffee cupped in her cold hands. “proper” coffee, not instant, it was a morning ritual for her. This little walk into her back garden had become something of a ritual too. God bless working from home, she thought. Later, there would be emails and idiots, Zoom spats and pointless meetings about having meetings but that was later. For now, it was a chill, bright Monday, still and calm. She was wrapped in a cardigan that could easily have doubled for a quilt and she had her coffee.
Startled, a thrush burst into the air ahead of her in a flurry of wings, a little wriggling prize dangling from its beak. Stella, your name’s Stella Amber thought. The departing thrush set the crows in her neighbour’s tall, old trees to cawing loudly. There were too many for Amber to name them all but she did, collectively, call them “the Greek Chorus.”
‘Woe, woe and thrice woe, thanks for your opinion ladies and gentleman,” she said, toasting them with her mug. ‘Today’s not going to be that bad, is it?’
The walk always terminated in the same spot, near the weary little apple tree, that looked like it had lived longer than a tree ever ought to live. How long it had actually lived was debatable, it came with the house and indeed was one of the reasons she had bought it. It somehow just ‘spoke’ to her. The venerable tree still managed to flower and even produced the odd apple upon occasion.
‘How are you today, Aubrey?’ she asked the tree. “Aubrey” of course did not reply, anymore than “Marge,” “Stella,” or the “Greek Chorus” had. There was though, something different about the tree today. Amber leaned in for a closer look. She frowned. What is that? she wondered.
There seemed to be a series of dark smudges on the bark, about head height from the lawn.
Amber stared at them intently. It’s some sort of fungus I think… Oh, mate, is your time nearly up? Am I going to lose you?
She turned away and as she did so, a chill little breeze seemed to pirouette around her, tracing a line in the grass. As quickly as it came, it was gone. Where did that come from? Amber thought in surprise, as the day resumed its former golden calm.
The dancing foot that had trailed across the lawn was of course, quite invisible to her.
***
On Tuesday, Amber had taken a picture of the tree on her phone, intending to put it on Facebook for opinions. Strangely though, the blurry, markings didn’t photograph. It was, she had decided, because the light was so bright, they had “washed out.”
Wednesday dawned and the light was a little hazier. Amber stood on her back step, phone in hand, coffee steaming on the counter behind her, ready to try again.
There was an insistent rapping from the garden. A pause… then it came again, then a sharp crack, like a glass breaking in the washing up bowl.
She stepped outside, the decking was dull and damp, it had rained in the night. Stella looked up at her from the edge of the boards, the gory, gooey remains of a snail in her sharp beak, scraps of the shattered shell at her feet.
‘Stella, you’re a monster,’ she said. The bird took flight.
Amber greeted Marge, as she passed the bush, with its fast-reddening leaves. The spider was restless this morning, patrolling her web like the strangest of tiny tigers.
Amber, leaving a silvery wake behind her in the wet grass, arrived at the tree. The markings were clearer than ever, arranged in a rough oval, they were almost like a face. There was a very good reason for that but not one that Amber would have been prepared to believe, even if she was aware of it.
Pareidolia, Amber said to herself firmly, in the sort of tone you might use on a child, to stop their imagination from running away with them.
Amber looked at the tree and the tree looked back. At least, the person hiding in the tree did. He slipped out from within its trunk and moved closer to her, a fact of which she was completely unaware.
She took a picture, then another and another and another. Amber’s face screwed up with an expression of perplexity, she “popped” her lips in puzzlement, then shrugged. Not one of the pictures showed any trace of the marks whatsoever.
Alberon slipped invisibly closer to her, with a balletic grace and the jerky speed of a hunting lizard. He tilted his head to one side and peered intently into Amber’s pale green eyes. Then he circled her, almost but not quite touching her tangle of fiery red hair. His chin traced the line of Amber’s cat-like cheek bones, just a hairs breadth above her porcelain skin. Alberon’s delicate nostrils twitched as he gently breathed in her scent. His tongue flicked out to touch his lips and he smiled. It was not the kind of smile that Amber would have appreciated, if she could have seen it.
The sun came out, burning through the haze.
Amber remembered her coffee, cooling in the kitchen. I will go and look at the pics again indoors, zoom in, in low light, see if I can see them that way, she thought.
Alberon, watched her go, admiring the way she moved, smiling still. Up in the dark trees, half bare of leaves, the crows called and called, trying their hoarse, harsh, best to give a warning.
***
On Thursday, Amber wore a jacket. The weather man said the temperatures were just the same but as soon as she opened the back door, she felt a chill. With a little shudder she slipped the jacket off its peg and gratefully slid her arms into it.
She did not know her discomfort was nothing to do with the weather but was, rather, because Alberon was sitting cross legged outside the door, in his long frock coat of iridescent blue butterfly scales, just waiting for her. He had a strangely adoring look on his narrow, pale but oddly handsome, even beautiful, face. He glided after her soundlessly, as she walked the length of her garden to a tale of woe from the Greek Chorus. Marge and Stella were nowhere in evidence this morning.
Alberon liked the little quilted jacket, he found it much more becoming than the shapeless cardigan, noting the way it nipped at Amber’s slim waist and accentuated the curve of her hips.
Amber wiggled her neck and shoulders uncomfortably, mistaking his gaze for a cold breeze.
Alberon slipped into the tree and looked out.
Amber opened her large eyes even wider, as she stared at the tree’s trunk.
‘Aubrey,’ she said, ‘Is that you?’
Indeed, the marks in the bark were now very clearly a face, just as if some fresco artist had sketched them there in chalk, prior to painting them.
She tentatively reached out a hand… Alberon tensed… Then she snatched it back.
This is too weird, she thought, is someone winding me up? After a moment she had a darker thought. Is someone getting into the garden at night and doing this? Mentally she swore, twice, then shuddered. She stepped back from “Aubrey” then took several more pictures. Not a sign of the “face” on any of them.
Worriedly, Amber turned quickly and after scanning all around the garden nervously, walked rapidly back to the open door. Alberon followed her, skipping, dancing, turning, twisting, long, ash blonde hair flowing in the breeze. He chuckled.
Amber’s head jerked around. To say that she heard the chuckle would be an exaggeration but she heard… something, something that wasn’t the crows…
She slammed the door shut, leaving Alberon, hands cupped against the glass, peering in for one last glimpse of her.
Amber phoned in sick.
***
Amber’s sleep was restless, full of wheeling, flurrying crows, blue/black and fluttering. A feathered storm cloud on a dark horizon. She woke slowly and clung to the bedcovers like a lifebelt, feeling as if she had been drinking heavily the night before.
I need coffee… I need coffee like a vampire needs blood, she thought.
Her phone lit up and pinged. She glanced at the screen and sighed. It was a text from her mother.
Their relationship had always been strained. She had been well cared for and not really lacked for anything but there was always a certain distance, the feeling that her mother was acting more from duty than affection. The nail in the coffin came, when a loose lipped aunt had let slip to a teenage Amber, that her mother initially rejected her at birth, being convinced that Amber ‘wasn’t hers.’ Aunt Vi had meant well, she was trying to stop Amber from blaming herself for her father leaving them. It had affected Amber deeply and coloured all of her relationships, perhaps explaining why she currently lived alone. More than one man had called Amber “intimidating,” which was odd, because asked to describe herself, Amber would have begun with the word, “fun.”
‘R U OK?’ said the glowing screen. Amber frowned. Why do you use “text speak” you silly woman, do you think it makes you seem young and trendy? She thought. Then immediately felt remorse for her uncharitable observation.
She threw one leg out of bed, then after a moment or two, the other one. She sat on the edge of the bed head drooping for several minutes.
‘Later Mum… I can’t just now…’ she muttered, snatching up her phone and swiping the message away. The phone pinged again.
‘I had a dream. Horrible dream. Text me back and break the dream.’ and a worried face emoji.
Amber looked at the message apprehensively. It was not the sort of message her mother would normally send, not like any message she had ever had from her. She stood and slipped into her dressing gown. Amber pursed her lips pensively. OK Mum but coffee first, she thought, sliding the phone into her pocket.
Rain trickled down the kitchen window in mournful, teardrop trails, the good weather had broken. She stared into the coffee as if it were a crystal ball, as if she would somehow scry all the answers in its deep brown depths but all she saw was the reflection of the kitchen spotlights.
Squeezing the mug tightly in her hands, she peered into the crepuscular blue rectangle of the window. Leaves flurried off the shivering trees like tawny snow and the crows were silent.
Then she saw the strangest thing.
Aubrey the apple tree was illuminated by a single shaft of bright sunlight, just as if it sat in a spotlight. Bizarrely, there did not seem to be any break in the Prussian blue clouds but it was unmistakeably sunlight none the less.
She put the coffee down. Then, with every sensible atom left in her troubled mind saying, no, screaming Don’t Go! Are you mad! Don’t go! She quickly shrugged into her jacket, pulled up the hood, roughly pushing her hair inside, grabbed her phone from the kitchen counter and threw open the back door.
Stopping intermittently to take photos, she hurried across the bending, whispering grass, through a whirl of dead, brown leaves, rain pattering on her hood and trickling down her face.
She stopped in front of the impossible tree.
She knew full well, that there was nothing behind the tree but a peeling, unloved fence that she should really have painted in the Summer. Now though, Spring was behind the tree. She looked beyond the tree into a wide, colourful meadow of bright, nodding wild flowers. Great puffy clouds sailed through a cerulean sky like racing yachts at sea and the air was full of bird song that came to her as if from a great distance.
Fascinated, she stepped closer, stepped willingly and of her own accord, into the pool of astonishing sunlight.
Abruptly, two glittering emerald eyes sharp as glass were looking into hers. She opened her mouth in shock but no sound came out. Slender, pale fingers closed over her forearms in a grip like an eagle snatching up a rabbit.
‘Amber, my love, my heart… welcome home,’ said a voice, a voice that an oboe might have, if the instrument could talk. She was folded into Alberon’s arms, as if they were about to waltz, indeed, he pressed his pale, cool cheek to hers as he spun them out of the rain and into the golden meadow.
Amber and Alberon vanished. The light vanished.
Amber’s phone dropped into the wet grass with a dull thud. Rain drops gathered on the glossy screen, obscuring dark images in which the apple tree could just about be seen in the murk. No golden light here… The screen timed out and went black, reflecting the lowering clouds.
Then, the Greek Chorus erupted from the tall, swaying trees into the swirling rain in a screeching cloud…
text and image copyright Robin Tompkins 2023 all rights reserved
Just to say, please don't export, publish or otherwise reproduce this anywhere else without my specific permission, it is copyright material. You wouldn't do that anyway would you? Anyway, I have to say it, you know, just in case.
So here it is, enjoy...
The Name of the Tree
The spider, plump and tiger striped, crouched at the heart of the web like a curled fist. Heavy dew glittered across the strands like rhinestones in the old gold light of a clear, crisp October morning.
Amber smiled at her.
‘Good morning, Marge,’ she said, stepping off the decking and onto the damp grass around the little shrub that “Marge” called home. Amber Morgan had a habit of naming things, indeed, she rather felt it was a super power of hers. One look at a thing, anything from a toaster, through plush toys, to her little runabout and Amber could instantly christen it. It was more than that, everyone agreed that the names that she chose were just “right” somehow.
She drew in a long breath, inhaling the rich aroma of the steaming mug of coffee cupped in her cold hands. “proper” coffee, not instant, it was a morning ritual for her. This little walk into her back garden had become something of a ritual too. God bless working from home, she thought. Later, there would be emails and idiots, Zoom spats and pointless meetings about having meetings but that was later. For now, it was a chill, bright Monday, still and calm. She was wrapped in a cardigan that could easily have doubled for a quilt and she had her coffee.
Startled, a thrush burst into the air ahead of her in a flurry of wings, a little wriggling prize dangling from its beak. Stella, your name’s Stella Amber thought. The departing thrush set the crows in her neighbour’s tall, old trees to cawing loudly. There were too many for Amber to name them all but she did, collectively, call them “the Greek Chorus.”
‘Woe, woe and thrice woe, thanks for your opinion ladies and gentleman,” she said, toasting them with her mug. ‘Today’s not going to be that bad, is it?’
The walk always terminated in the same spot, near the weary little apple tree, that looked like it had lived longer than a tree ever ought to live. How long it had actually lived was debatable, it came with the house and indeed was one of the reasons she had bought it. It somehow just ‘spoke’ to her. The venerable tree still managed to flower and even produced the odd apple upon occasion.
‘How are you today, Aubrey?’ she asked the tree. “Aubrey” of course did not reply, anymore than “Marge,” “Stella,” or the “Greek Chorus” had. There was though, something different about the tree today. Amber leaned in for a closer look. She frowned. What is that? she wondered.
There seemed to be a series of dark smudges on the bark, about head height from the lawn.
Amber stared at them intently. It’s some sort of fungus I think… Oh, mate, is your time nearly up? Am I going to lose you?
She turned away and as she did so, a chill little breeze seemed to pirouette around her, tracing a line in the grass. As quickly as it came, it was gone. Where did that come from? Amber thought in surprise, as the day resumed its former golden calm.
The dancing foot that had trailed across the lawn was of course, quite invisible to her.
***
On Tuesday, Amber had taken a picture of the tree on her phone, intending to put it on Facebook for opinions. Strangely though, the blurry, markings didn’t photograph. It was, she had decided, because the light was so bright, they had “washed out.”
Wednesday dawned and the light was a little hazier. Amber stood on her back step, phone in hand, coffee steaming on the counter behind her, ready to try again.
There was an insistent rapping from the garden. A pause… then it came again, then a sharp crack, like a glass breaking in the washing up bowl.
She stepped outside, the decking was dull and damp, it had rained in the night. Stella looked up at her from the edge of the boards, the gory, gooey remains of a snail in her sharp beak, scraps of the shattered shell at her feet.
‘Stella, you’re a monster,’ she said. The bird took flight.
Amber greeted Marge, as she passed the bush, with its fast-reddening leaves. The spider was restless this morning, patrolling her web like the strangest of tiny tigers.
Amber, leaving a silvery wake behind her in the wet grass, arrived at the tree. The markings were clearer than ever, arranged in a rough oval, they were almost like a face. There was a very good reason for that but not one that Amber would have been prepared to believe, even if she was aware of it.
Pareidolia, Amber said to herself firmly, in the sort of tone you might use on a child, to stop their imagination from running away with them.
Amber looked at the tree and the tree looked back. At least, the person hiding in the tree did. He slipped out from within its trunk and moved closer to her, a fact of which she was completely unaware.
She took a picture, then another and another and another. Amber’s face screwed up with an expression of perplexity, she “popped” her lips in puzzlement, then shrugged. Not one of the pictures showed any trace of the marks whatsoever.
Alberon slipped invisibly closer to her, with a balletic grace and the jerky speed of a hunting lizard. He tilted his head to one side and peered intently into Amber’s pale green eyes. Then he circled her, almost but not quite touching her tangle of fiery red hair. His chin traced the line of Amber’s cat-like cheek bones, just a hairs breadth above her porcelain skin. Alberon’s delicate nostrils twitched as he gently breathed in her scent. His tongue flicked out to touch his lips and he smiled. It was not the kind of smile that Amber would have appreciated, if she could have seen it.
The sun came out, burning through the haze.
Amber remembered her coffee, cooling in the kitchen. I will go and look at the pics again indoors, zoom in, in low light, see if I can see them that way, she thought.
Alberon, watched her go, admiring the way she moved, smiling still. Up in the dark trees, half bare of leaves, the crows called and called, trying their hoarse, harsh, best to give a warning.
***
On Thursday, Amber wore a jacket. The weather man said the temperatures were just the same but as soon as she opened the back door, she felt a chill. With a little shudder she slipped the jacket off its peg and gratefully slid her arms into it.
She did not know her discomfort was nothing to do with the weather but was, rather, because Alberon was sitting cross legged outside the door, in his long frock coat of iridescent blue butterfly scales, just waiting for her. He had a strangely adoring look on his narrow, pale but oddly handsome, even beautiful, face. He glided after her soundlessly, as she walked the length of her garden to a tale of woe from the Greek Chorus. Marge and Stella were nowhere in evidence this morning.
Alberon liked the little quilted jacket, he found it much more becoming than the shapeless cardigan, noting the way it nipped at Amber’s slim waist and accentuated the curve of her hips.
Amber wiggled her neck and shoulders uncomfortably, mistaking his gaze for a cold breeze.
Alberon slipped into the tree and looked out.
Amber opened her large eyes even wider, as she stared at the tree’s trunk.
‘Aubrey,’ she said, ‘Is that you?’
Indeed, the marks in the bark were now very clearly a face, just as if some fresco artist had sketched them there in chalk, prior to painting them.
She tentatively reached out a hand… Alberon tensed… Then she snatched it back.
This is too weird, she thought, is someone winding me up? After a moment she had a darker thought. Is someone getting into the garden at night and doing this? Mentally she swore, twice, then shuddered. She stepped back from “Aubrey” then took several more pictures. Not a sign of the “face” on any of them.
Worriedly, Amber turned quickly and after scanning all around the garden nervously, walked rapidly back to the open door. Alberon followed her, skipping, dancing, turning, twisting, long, ash blonde hair flowing in the breeze. He chuckled.
Amber’s head jerked around. To say that she heard the chuckle would be an exaggeration but she heard… something, something that wasn’t the crows…
She slammed the door shut, leaving Alberon, hands cupped against the glass, peering in for one last glimpse of her.
Amber phoned in sick.
***
Amber’s sleep was restless, full of wheeling, flurrying crows, blue/black and fluttering. A feathered storm cloud on a dark horizon. She woke slowly and clung to the bedcovers like a lifebelt, feeling as if she had been drinking heavily the night before.
I need coffee… I need coffee like a vampire needs blood, she thought.
Her phone lit up and pinged. She glanced at the screen and sighed. It was a text from her mother.
Their relationship had always been strained. She had been well cared for and not really lacked for anything but there was always a certain distance, the feeling that her mother was acting more from duty than affection. The nail in the coffin came, when a loose lipped aunt had let slip to a teenage Amber, that her mother initially rejected her at birth, being convinced that Amber ‘wasn’t hers.’ Aunt Vi had meant well, she was trying to stop Amber from blaming herself for her father leaving them. It had affected Amber deeply and coloured all of her relationships, perhaps explaining why she currently lived alone. More than one man had called Amber “intimidating,” which was odd, because asked to describe herself, Amber would have begun with the word, “fun.”
‘R U OK?’ said the glowing screen. Amber frowned. Why do you use “text speak” you silly woman, do you think it makes you seem young and trendy? She thought. Then immediately felt remorse for her uncharitable observation.
She threw one leg out of bed, then after a moment or two, the other one. She sat on the edge of the bed head drooping for several minutes.
‘Later Mum… I can’t just now…’ she muttered, snatching up her phone and swiping the message away. The phone pinged again.
‘I had a dream. Horrible dream. Text me back and break the dream.’ and a worried face emoji.
Amber looked at the message apprehensively. It was not the sort of message her mother would normally send, not like any message she had ever had from her. She stood and slipped into her dressing gown. Amber pursed her lips pensively. OK Mum but coffee first, she thought, sliding the phone into her pocket.
Rain trickled down the kitchen window in mournful, teardrop trails, the good weather had broken. She stared into the coffee as if it were a crystal ball, as if she would somehow scry all the answers in its deep brown depths but all she saw was the reflection of the kitchen spotlights.
Squeezing the mug tightly in her hands, she peered into the crepuscular blue rectangle of the window. Leaves flurried off the shivering trees like tawny snow and the crows were silent.
Then she saw the strangest thing.
Aubrey the apple tree was illuminated by a single shaft of bright sunlight, just as if it sat in a spotlight. Bizarrely, there did not seem to be any break in the Prussian blue clouds but it was unmistakeably sunlight none the less.
She put the coffee down. Then, with every sensible atom left in her troubled mind saying, no, screaming Don’t Go! Are you mad! Don’t go! She quickly shrugged into her jacket, pulled up the hood, roughly pushing her hair inside, grabbed her phone from the kitchen counter and threw open the back door.
Stopping intermittently to take photos, she hurried across the bending, whispering grass, through a whirl of dead, brown leaves, rain pattering on her hood and trickling down her face.
She stopped in front of the impossible tree.
She knew full well, that there was nothing behind the tree but a peeling, unloved fence that she should really have painted in the Summer. Now though, Spring was behind the tree. She looked beyond the tree into a wide, colourful meadow of bright, nodding wild flowers. Great puffy clouds sailed through a cerulean sky like racing yachts at sea and the air was full of bird song that came to her as if from a great distance.
Fascinated, she stepped closer, stepped willingly and of her own accord, into the pool of astonishing sunlight.
Abruptly, two glittering emerald eyes sharp as glass were looking into hers. She opened her mouth in shock but no sound came out. Slender, pale fingers closed over her forearms in a grip like an eagle snatching up a rabbit.
‘Amber, my love, my heart… welcome home,’ said a voice, a voice that an oboe might have, if the instrument could talk. She was folded into Alberon’s arms, as if they were about to waltz, indeed, he pressed his pale, cool cheek to hers as he spun them out of the rain and into the golden meadow.
Amber and Alberon vanished. The light vanished.
Amber’s phone dropped into the wet grass with a dull thud. Rain drops gathered on the glossy screen, obscuring dark images in which the apple tree could just about be seen in the murk. No golden light here… The screen timed out and went black, reflecting the lowering clouds.
Then, the Greek Chorus erupted from the tall, swaying trees into the swirling rain in a screeching cloud…
text and image copyright Robin Tompkins 2023 all rights reserved
July 10, 2023
Cruising Caspian’s Seas (not a spelling mistake)
The Voyage of the Dawn Treader
So, I have been following an entertaining thread in one of my Goodreads groups. Someone asked, “Just for fun, if you could visit one setting of a Sci-Fi or Fantasy book for a day, which would you choose and why?”
There were some great suggestions, like the Shire, Wall, to visit the fair every nine years, Rivendell, Arrakis, San Francisco in the Star Trek universe and a lot more, that if I’m honest, I didn’t get and had to Google.
This reminded me of the FAQs I answered when I first set up my Goodreads author page…
Q: If you could travel to any fictional book world, where would you go and what would you do there?
A: Robin Tompkins That’s a tricky question. Most of the fictional places I engage with, tend to be great to read about but probably not the best places to actually visit. It’s a bit obvious of me but I would perhaps say Narnia? Not White Witch era Narnia though. Perhaps they are running Dawn Treader cruises now? Nice, comfy, all-inclusive ones, with a good buffet and a nice bar? I’d probably do that.
Which got me thinking about what that cruise would be like exactly…
Join us on our latest island-hopping cruise,
In the Footsteps of the Dawn Treader
Cruising on either MS Cair Paravel or MS Queen Lucy, identical sister ships recently refurbished to the highest standards. Facilities include: two pools, sauna, spa, gym and fitness centre. Five restaurants, eight bars, movie theatre, planetarium and enclosed observation deck.
Itinerary:
Depart Cair Paravel docks on an early morning sailing into the Great Eastern Ocean.
The Lone Islands
Plenty of time to visit the bustling local markets and get a bite to eat at one of the many fine restaurants, or, if you prefer, the street food scene here is a lively one.
Optional Tour
Guided excursion to the Ducal Palace (former Governor’s residence) and a chance to hear about the darker side of the island’s history, with a visit to the Museum of Slavery. Entrance to both included.
Dragon Island
A small but lovely island with an interesting past. Simply relax on the beach or at one of the many cool beach bars. Local speciality is a cocktail made with fermented palm sap called a “Hot Dragon,” (two shots) or a “Warm Dragon,” (one shot).
Optional Tour
Locally guided tour to the Dragon’s Cave. Marvel at the life size animatronic dragon and see the actual dragon bones in the small museum. The museum shop is a great place to pick up souvenirs, they have dragon themed gifts to suit all budgets, from key rings and fridge magnets to gigantic and wonderfully cuddly plushies!
Deathwater Island
An unremarkable looking little island with quite the secret. Purchase one of the sweet little key ring sized teddy bears from the gift shop at the docks and follow our experienced guide up to “The Pool.” Please, Please, stay behind the line and listen to your guide at all times, it’s for your own safety. Watch, as the local custodian takes your teddies for a dip in the pool and returns them to you, now made from solid gold!
Duffer’s Island
The friendly locals will make you very welcome. There is plenty to see and do here and the restaurants are superb. However, you might want to be aware of this comment that we snipped from “Trip Advisor.”
“The Dufflepuds could not have been more welcoming. Lovely restaurant, decorated in the island style with curios everywhere and a great ambience. The food is to die for but don’t make my mistake, you have to remember the local’s mode of locomotion here people… Don’t order the soup, don’t order the soup or any, and I mean any, hot beverage… oh yes, and no red wine either, don’t go there, trust me.”
Optional Tour
Guided visit to the Magician’s Palace and two hour “introduction to simple spell casting” lesson with a registered second year apprentice magician.
The Dark Island
Unfortunately, due to new international maritime guidelines and certain well publicised incidents that you may be aware of, we no longer take parties ashore here. It is still a spectacular and mysterious site as we sail by though.
The Island of the Star
There is a wealth of information available at the visitor centre here and in the “Sleeping Lords” Museum. Star spotters though need to be cautious, as Ramandu and his lovely daughter understandably, do not like people turning up unannounced at their gates. There are however, a number of lovely items that they have been gracious enough to trap a little starlight in, available in the gift shop. These range from earrings and necklaces, through to tiny bottles of starlight and snow globes. Proceeds from the sale of these items benefit local charities.
Merpeople Fiesta
At the edge of the “Sweet Seas” we anchor up. Your ship will hold a spectacular gala party with fireworks and dancing. It’s Merpeople themed, and costumes are available in our onboard shop. For that authentic touch, why not barter with the actual Merpeople who will swim out to the ship in the afternoon? They love to trade for their hand made trinkets, sustainably made from coral and shells.
Only the Brave
If you are brave enough, the ship’s launch can take a small party out onto the Lily Sea to get a better look at the Reepicheep memorial and the Great Wave. The really intrepid can take out a two-man kayak with one of our expert guides and get even closer. Please note that the line of lion headed buoys marks the international Aslan Line and your guide cannot take you beyond that point in line with maritime law. Please be aware that places are limited on this excursion, it’s first come first served, so register early.
A Fond Farewell?
For those on the Short Package, we sadly must say farewell. You will portal back via picture/wardrobe to your original joining point. *
The party is not over yet for those clients who opted for the Full Package. Your ship will now return to Narnia Cair Paravel Docks via a limited stop reverse of the outward route. There will be more days at sea but that is all the more time to enjoy the wonderful facilities and “me time” available on your lavishly appointed cruise ship.
Here be Sea Serpents
You may have noticed on your maps an area near Deathwater Island marked “Here be Sea Serpents.” The reverse route will take in this enigmatic ocean area and if you are lucky and we usually are (management cannot guarantee sightings) you will be able to observe these magnificent creatures in their natural habitat. For your own safety, we recommend viewing from the enclosed observation deck, where our resident serpent expert will be on hand to answer all of your questions.
Cair Paravel and Sadly we Must Say Goodbye
Upon docking at our final destination, we include a tour of the castle and a farewell luncheon in the main hall. After which we say goodbye as you portal home via picture/wardrobe to your original joining point, * your mind brimming with happy memories. See you next year?
*Please note some clients may need to change at the “Wood Between the Worlds” interchange before travelling on to your original joining point. Royal Narnia Lines representatives will be on hand to safely guide you through the process.
__________________________________________________________________
What do you think? Who wants to come with me?
PS: For any Narnia super fans who have stumbled upon this, it is not meant to knock or mock the series in any way, I love the work of C S Lewis too, it’s all just in fun OK?
So, I have been following an entertaining thread in one of my Goodreads groups. Someone asked, “Just for fun, if you could visit one setting of a Sci-Fi or Fantasy book for a day, which would you choose and why?”
There were some great suggestions, like the Shire, Wall, to visit the fair every nine years, Rivendell, Arrakis, San Francisco in the Star Trek universe and a lot more, that if I’m honest, I didn’t get and had to Google.
This reminded me of the FAQs I answered when I first set up my Goodreads author page…
Q: If you could travel to any fictional book world, where would you go and what would you do there?
A: Robin Tompkins That’s a tricky question. Most of the fictional places I engage with, tend to be great to read about but probably not the best places to actually visit. It’s a bit obvious of me but I would perhaps say Narnia? Not White Witch era Narnia though. Perhaps they are running Dawn Treader cruises now? Nice, comfy, all-inclusive ones, with a good buffet and a nice bar? I’d probably do that.
Which got me thinking about what that cruise would be like exactly…
Join us on our latest island-hopping cruise,
In the Footsteps of the Dawn Treader
Cruising on either MS Cair Paravel or MS Queen Lucy, identical sister ships recently refurbished to the highest standards. Facilities include: two pools, sauna, spa, gym and fitness centre. Five restaurants, eight bars, movie theatre, planetarium and enclosed observation deck.
Itinerary:
Depart Cair Paravel docks on an early morning sailing into the Great Eastern Ocean.
The Lone Islands
Plenty of time to visit the bustling local markets and get a bite to eat at one of the many fine restaurants, or, if you prefer, the street food scene here is a lively one.
Optional Tour
Guided excursion to the Ducal Palace (former Governor’s residence) and a chance to hear about the darker side of the island’s history, with a visit to the Museum of Slavery. Entrance to both included.
Dragon Island
A small but lovely island with an interesting past. Simply relax on the beach or at one of the many cool beach bars. Local speciality is a cocktail made with fermented palm sap called a “Hot Dragon,” (two shots) or a “Warm Dragon,” (one shot).
Optional Tour
Locally guided tour to the Dragon’s Cave. Marvel at the life size animatronic dragon and see the actual dragon bones in the small museum. The museum shop is a great place to pick up souvenirs, they have dragon themed gifts to suit all budgets, from key rings and fridge magnets to gigantic and wonderfully cuddly plushies!
Deathwater Island
An unremarkable looking little island with quite the secret. Purchase one of the sweet little key ring sized teddy bears from the gift shop at the docks and follow our experienced guide up to “The Pool.” Please, Please, stay behind the line and listen to your guide at all times, it’s for your own safety. Watch, as the local custodian takes your teddies for a dip in the pool and returns them to you, now made from solid gold!
Duffer’s Island
The friendly locals will make you very welcome. There is plenty to see and do here and the restaurants are superb. However, you might want to be aware of this comment that we snipped from “Trip Advisor.”
“The Dufflepuds could not have been more welcoming. Lovely restaurant, decorated in the island style with curios everywhere and a great ambience. The food is to die for but don’t make my mistake, you have to remember the local’s mode of locomotion here people… Don’t order the soup, don’t order the soup or any, and I mean any, hot beverage… oh yes, and no red wine either, don’t go there, trust me.”
Optional Tour
Guided visit to the Magician’s Palace and two hour “introduction to simple spell casting” lesson with a registered second year apprentice magician.
The Dark Island
Unfortunately, due to new international maritime guidelines and certain well publicised incidents that you may be aware of, we no longer take parties ashore here. It is still a spectacular and mysterious site as we sail by though.
The Island of the Star
There is a wealth of information available at the visitor centre here and in the “Sleeping Lords” Museum. Star spotters though need to be cautious, as Ramandu and his lovely daughter understandably, do not like people turning up unannounced at their gates. There are however, a number of lovely items that they have been gracious enough to trap a little starlight in, available in the gift shop. These range from earrings and necklaces, through to tiny bottles of starlight and snow globes. Proceeds from the sale of these items benefit local charities.
Merpeople Fiesta
At the edge of the “Sweet Seas” we anchor up. Your ship will hold a spectacular gala party with fireworks and dancing. It’s Merpeople themed, and costumes are available in our onboard shop. For that authentic touch, why not barter with the actual Merpeople who will swim out to the ship in the afternoon? They love to trade for their hand made trinkets, sustainably made from coral and shells.
Only the Brave
If you are brave enough, the ship’s launch can take a small party out onto the Lily Sea to get a better look at the Reepicheep memorial and the Great Wave. The really intrepid can take out a two-man kayak with one of our expert guides and get even closer. Please note that the line of lion headed buoys marks the international Aslan Line and your guide cannot take you beyond that point in line with maritime law. Please be aware that places are limited on this excursion, it’s first come first served, so register early.
A Fond Farewell?
For those on the Short Package, we sadly must say farewell. You will portal back via picture/wardrobe to your original joining point. *
The party is not over yet for those clients who opted for the Full Package. Your ship will now return to Narnia Cair Paravel Docks via a limited stop reverse of the outward route. There will be more days at sea but that is all the more time to enjoy the wonderful facilities and “me time” available on your lavishly appointed cruise ship.
Here be Sea Serpents
You may have noticed on your maps an area near Deathwater Island marked “Here be Sea Serpents.” The reverse route will take in this enigmatic ocean area and if you are lucky and we usually are (management cannot guarantee sightings) you will be able to observe these magnificent creatures in their natural habitat. For your own safety, we recommend viewing from the enclosed observation deck, where our resident serpent expert will be on hand to answer all of your questions.
Cair Paravel and Sadly we Must Say Goodbye
Upon docking at our final destination, we include a tour of the castle and a farewell luncheon in the main hall. After which we say goodbye as you portal home via picture/wardrobe to your original joining point, * your mind brimming with happy memories. See you next year?
*Please note some clients may need to change at the “Wood Between the Worlds” interchange before travelling on to your original joining point. Royal Narnia Lines representatives will be on hand to safely guide you through the process.
__________________________________________________________________
What do you think? Who wants to come with me?
PS: For any Narnia super fans who have stumbled upon this, it is not meant to knock or mock the series in any way, I love the work of C S Lewis too, it’s all just in fun OK?
April 18, 2023
SPANW – The Society for the Protection of Abused and Neglected Words
Where do you stand on the issue of abused and neglected words? Do you stand up to be counted? If so, you are in the wrong place, that’s the Society for Abused and Neglected Numbers. SPANW needs you, all of you, words need you and they need you now!
Not just those, superstar neglected words like “Scurryfunge,” (the last-minute scramble to get everything tidy before guests arrive). Not that perennial favourite abused word “Iconic,” (like an Icon, something flawless and worthy of veneration). “Iconic” is so overworked and exhausted, it has had to check into rehab. No, we all know about those words, they are the “Giant Pandas,” of the world of words. Here at SPANW we are asking you to spare a thought for those other hard-pressed words, the ones that don’t get all the attention.
Case Studies…
Number One: “Decimate’s,” story.
Poor “Decimate,” Decimate began life in ancient Rome and had a very specific and terrifying meaning. If a Roman legion should fall short of its expected standards, it might be punished by the drawing of lots and the execution of every tenth man as an example to the others.
Now, however, Journalists will invite you to look at a scene of devastation and inform you that a flood, or a landslide has “decimated” some town or village. What a very remarkable and selective landslide, what precision there is in nature, to kill every tenth person.
Decimate, if the word could speak for itself, might reasonably point out, that despite the clue being in the name, DECimate, this ancient and mighty word, has just become a synonym for annihilate, devastate, or obliterate.
Number Two: “Swingeing” and “Draconian,” their stories.
Already neglected words outside of the UK, “Swingeing” has now fallen upon hard times, as has “Draconian.” From the sixties, through to the mid-eighties, every British journalist, TV or print, couldn’t resist the allure of the word “swingeing”. Swingeing, together with his close friend “Draconian,” was on everyone’s lips.
“The Government,” they would inform us, “Has imposed draconian measures to ensure that their swingeing cuts are pushed through.” We were all lacerated by swingeing cuts and crushed under the weight of draconian measures back then and we loved it.
Even though we had austerity and covid lockdowns more recently, not much swingeing went on and precious little was draconian. Both words were perfect for the situation but sadly remained in obscurity.
Number Three: “Literally’s,” story.
Literally… Exactly as described, without exaggeration or distortion… That’s what this fine upstanding word used to mean. It was to be trusted, a word to be taken at its word, you might say. Now, after years of abuse, it has instead become a panderer to hyperbole and an enabler to overstatement.
“If I’m not home by eight, my dad will literally kill me.” If that’s the case, if you indeed have a homicidal father, should you be going home at all?
“I was literally blown away.” Odd, because I did not see a tornado warning on the local news?
“I am literally on top of the world right now.” Really? You are speaking to us live from the North Pole?
So, next time you are “literally decimated by the news!” Consider, if instead you might want to apply a swingeing cut to your word abuse. Otherwise, we shall campaign for draconian measures to curb your excesses.
Don’t take words for granted, or abuse and neglect will see the end of them and we shall all be forced to attempt to communicate in emojis, despite pictograms being abandoned in favour of actual words, thousands of years ago.
So, please join the campaign and help us in our vital work.
Here at SPANW, we take in as many words as we can. We tuck them up in blankets, on a bed of clean straw, before a roaring fire and feed them warm milk with an eyedropper for as long as it takes to nurse them back to health. Weary and marginalised, exhausted through overwork, corrupted and debased, or neglected and forgotten, we care for them all. Once they are back on their feet, we temporarily house them in old, worn, second hand dictionaries until they are strong enough to be released back into the wild.
We want to put a SPANW in the works. We demand equal rights for all words and we will lobby governments worldwide until we get it. Will you stand with us?
***
SPANW is a not-for-profit charitable organisation, which does not exist and is a figment of my imagination. Please do not send donations, eye droppers, or worn dictionaries to SPANW (or me). Thank you.
***
For those who have taken me “literally,” please don’t fill the comments box with admonishments regarding how words have always changed their usage over time and always will and how a word that has changed in that way is normalised and validated through common usage. Thank you in advance, I am aware of that and I was just having fun.
Not just those, superstar neglected words like “Scurryfunge,” (the last-minute scramble to get everything tidy before guests arrive). Not that perennial favourite abused word “Iconic,” (like an Icon, something flawless and worthy of veneration). “Iconic” is so overworked and exhausted, it has had to check into rehab. No, we all know about those words, they are the “Giant Pandas,” of the world of words. Here at SPANW we are asking you to spare a thought for those other hard-pressed words, the ones that don’t get all the attention.
Case Studies…
Number One: “Decimate’s,” story.
Poor “Decimate,” Decimate began life in ancient Rome and had a very specific and terrifying meaning. If a Roman legion should fall short of its expected standards, it might be punished by the drawing of lots and the execution of every tenth man as an example to the others.
Now, however, Journalists will invite you to look at a scene of devastation and inform you that a flood, or a landslide has “decimated” some town or village. What a very remarkable and selective landslide, what precision there is in nature, to kill every tenth person.
Decimate, if the word could speak for itself, might reasonably point out, that despite the clue being in the name, DECimate, this ancient and mighty word, has just become a synonym for annihilate, devastate, or obliterate.
Number Two: “Swingeing” and “Draconian,” their stories.
Already neglected words outside of the UK, “Swingeing” has now fallen upon hard times, as has “Draconian.” From the sixties, through to the mid-eighties, every British journalist, TV or print, couldn’t resist the allure of the word “swingeing”. Swingeing, together with his close friend “Draconian,” was on everyone’s lips.
“The Government,” they would inform us, “Has imposed draconian measures to ensure that their swingeing cuts are pushed through.” We were all lacerated by swingeing cuts and crushed under the weight of draconian measures back then and we loved it.
Even though we had austerity and covid lockdowns more recently, not much swingeing went on and precious little was draconian. Both words were perfect for the situation but sadly remained in obscurity.
Number Three: “Literally’s,” story.
Literally… Exactly as described, without exaggeration or distortion… That’s what this fine upstanding word used to mean. It was to be trusted, a word to be taken at its word, you might say. Now, after years of abuse, it has instead become a panderer to hyperbole and an enabler to overstatement.
“If I’m not home by eight, my dad will literally kill me.” If that’s the case, if you indeed have a homicidal father, should you be going home at all?
“I was literally blown away.” Odd, because I did not see a tornado warning on the local news?
“I am literally on top of the world right now.” Really? You are speaking to us live from the North Pole?
So, next time you are “literally decimated by the news!” Consider, if instead you might want to apply a swingeing cut to your word abuse. Otherwise, we shall campaign for draconian measures to curb your excesses.
Don’t take words for granted, or abuse and neglect will see the end of them and we shall all be forced to attempt to communicate in emojis, despite pictograms being abandoned in favour of actual words, thousands of years ago.
So, please join the campaign and help us in our vital work.
Here at SPANW, we take in as many words as we can. We tuck them up in blankets, on a bed of clean straw, before a roaring fire and feed them warm milk with an eyedropper for as long as it takes to nurse them back to health. Weary and marginalised, exhausted through overwork, corrupted and debased, or neglected and forgotten, we care for them all. Once they are back on their feet, we temporarily house them in old, worn, second hand dictionaries until they are strong enough to be released back into the wild.
We want to put a SPANW in the works. We demand equal rights for all words and we will lobby governments worldwide until we get it. Will you stand with us?
***
SPANW is a not-for-profit charitable organisation, which does not exist and is a figment of my imagination. Please do not send donations, eye droppers, or worn dictionaries to SPANW (or me). Thank you.
***
For those who have taken me “literally,” please don’t fill the comments box with admonishments regarding how words have always changed their usage over time and always will and how a word that has changed in that way is normalised and validated through common usage. Thank you in advance, I am aware of that and I was just having fun.
February 16, 2023
Doctor Who Showrunner says, “modern woke writers are rubbish and they eat tofu and pretend to like it!” shock! horror!
Well, that, or something like it, was apparently said by Russell T Davies recently, at least according to certain sections of the media anyway.
Incoming Doctor Who showrunner Russell T Davies, or RTD as he is generally known for short, is back to helm Doctor Who for the second time. He was the guy who resurrected the series back in 2005 after a long spell in the televisual wilderness.
It seems, however, that he is of the opinion that all new, young writers are boring, woke incompetents, who can’t write for tofu (no, that’s not a spelling mistake).
Or is he? Is that what he actually, said? Even if it was, was that what he really meant?
So, what did he say? The following is the quote in question, which comes from an interview with RTD and fellow writer Mark Gatiss in the Sunday Times…
“I do a lot of mentoring, and there are voices wanting to be heard — of any gender or ethnicity — who consider themselves invisible. They hate the media that ignores them, and they’re trapped into wanting a job in that medium purely to increase representation. I read their scripts and they’re rubbish. They don’t actually love television, so they don’t know how to write for it.”
Gatiss added…
“I’m so glad you said that. Sometimes I think I’m like Pollyanna because I’ve met so many people over the years who hate making television. It seems to make them so miserable. Go and work on the bins or something. It’s hard work — it gives you ulcers — so you have to love it.”
OK, so you could interpret that as, “RTD says all young writers are woke, angry and incompetent.” You could…
Or, he could be saying, these people got into writing for television for all the wrong reasons. To be clear, that’s not me saying that the causes that they are fighting for are wrong, I’m sure they are not, I’m sure they are all angry with good reason. No, I mean that getting into writing for television because you have an axe to grind and you think it will make a good whetstone, is a bad idea.
I am going to broaden this out in fact, I am going to say, that getting into any kind of writing, for television or otherwise, should be done for only one reason. Because you love it, because you want and need to do it.
Don’t go into it for fame, or money, or even because you have a noble cause to shout about. Do it for its own sake.
Here’s the thing. There are literally millions of talented people in the world who can write. Many, many, of them will be better than you, thousands and thousands will be just as good as you and yes some won’t be as good. Any, or all of these people may also have another edge. They may have had exciting, eventful lives, or have top qualifications in some allied field that gives them a reputation to build on. They may just be better connected and all of them, potentially, might just be luckier than you.
Your chances of success are really, low. Sorry, just telling you like it is. That’s not a reason not to try and just like the lottery, you have to be in it to win it. I am not trying to put anyone off, it’s an adventure, go for it. However, let me just refer you back to the gist of that quote from Mark Gatiss. You have, to love it. If you don’t love it, don’t do it.
There is another point here and it can be inferred from the same quote. I don’t know about writing for TV I have never tried it… looking at my sales figures, you might well argue that I don’t know much about writing at all. (yes, that was a short, bitter laugh you just heard). That aside, let me make another statement…
If no one is listening, all words have equal value.
The most profound statement ever written and a ‘dad joke,’ are identical if no one hears them. There has, to be an audience. Extending that, if you are trying to make a point or right a wrong, it must be the right audience. Not your friends and peer groups who already know what you are saying. No, you need the people who are unaware of you and your story. Otherwise, you are still talking to yourself.
Those writers that RTD mentioned need to love writing and the medium in which they are working. They need to understand it, its power and its limitations. If they want to reach the audience they need to reach and not just shout angrily into the echo chamber, they have to learn their craft. They have to love it.
I think RTD has stated elsewhere, in reference to TV budgets, that any television, even something quite modest, costs millions to bring to the screen in the modern world, where Netflix, Disney and Amazon have raised the bar so high. If someone is going to trust you with millions, you had better know what you are doing.
You are not writing for your friends; you are writing for strangers. You have to write characters they will care about and root for, or they won’t come on the journey with you. You have to entertain as well as preach. Never underestimate the power of humour too. Because a story is grim, doesn’t mean you have to tell it in a relentlessly grim way. If you do, there is a good chance you will lose half your audience. Some people love grimdark misery porn but most need a little balance.
Some may find it unpalatable but here is the truth…
You can tell a bad story well and launch a franchise. You can tell a good story badly and sink the ship.
Happy sailing folks…
Incoming Doctor Who showrunner Russell T Davies, or RTD as he is generally known for short, is back to helm Doctor Who for the second time. He was the guy who resurrected the series back in 2005 after a long spell in the televisual wilderness.
It seems, however, that he is of the opinion that all new, young writers are boring, woke incompetents, who can’t write for tofu (no, that’s not a spelling mistake).
Or is he? Is that what he actually, said? Even if it was, was that what he really meant?
So, what did he say? The following is the quote in question, which comes from an interview with RTD and fellow writer Mark Gatiss in the Sunday Times…
“I do a lot of mentoring, and there are voices wanting to be heard — of any gender or ethnicity — who consider themselves invisible. They hate the media that ignores them, and they’re trapped into wanting a job in that medium purely to increase representation. I read their scripts and they’re rubbish. They don’t actually love television, so they don’t know how to write for it.”
Gatiss added…
“I’m so glad you said that. Sometimes I think I’m like Pollyanna because I’ve met so many people over the years who hate making television. It seems to make them so miserable. Go and work on the bins or something. It’s hard work — it gives you ulcers — so you have to love it.”
OK, so you could interpret that as, “RTD says all young writers are woke, angry and incompetent.” You could…
Or, he could be saying, these people got into writing for television for all the wrong reasons. To be clear, that’s not me saying that the causes that they are fighting for are wrong, I’m sure they are not, I’m sure they are all angry with good reason. No, I mean that getting into writing for television because you have an axe to grind and you think it will make a good whetstone, is a bad idea.
I am going to broaden this out in fact, I am going to say, that getting into any kind of writing, for television or otherwise, should be done for only one reason. Because you love it, because you want and need to do it.
Don’t go into it for fame, or money, or even because you have a noble cause to shout about. Do it for its own sake.
Here’s the thing. There are literally millions of talented people in the world who can write. Many, many, of them will be better than you, thousands and thousands will be just as good as you and yes some won’t be as good. Any, or all of these people may also have another edge. They may have had exciting, eventful lives, or have top qualifications in some allied field that gives them a reputation to build on. They may just be better connected and all of them, potentially, might just be luckier than you.
Your chances of success are really, low. Sorry, just telling you like it is. That’s not a reason not to try and just like the lottery, you have to be in it to win it. I am not trying to put anyone off, it’s an adventure, go for it. However, let me just refer you back to the gist of that quote from Mark Gatiss. You have, to love it. If you don’t love it, don’t do it.
There is another point here and it can be inferred from the same quote. I don’t know about writing for TV I have never tried it… looking at my sales figures, you might well argue that I don’t know much about writing at all. (yes, that was a short, bitter laugh you just heard). That aside, let me make another statement…
If no one is listening, all words have equal value.
The most profound statement ever written and a ‘dad joke,’ are identical if no one hears them. There has, to be an audience. Extending that, if you are trying to make a point or right a wrong, it must be the right audience. Not your friends and peer groups who already know what you are saying. No, you need the people who are unaware of you and your story. Otherwise, you are still talking to yourself.
Those writers that RTD mentioned need to love writing and the medium in which they are working. They need to understand it, its power and its limitations. If they want to reach the audience they need to reach and not just shout angrily into the echo chamber, they have to learn their craft. They have to love it.
I think RTD has stated elsewhere, in reference to TV budgets, that any television, even something quite modest, costs millions to bring to the screen in the modern world, where Netflix, Disney and Amazon have raised the bar so high. If someone is going to trust you with millions, you had better know what you are doing.
You are not writing for your friends; you are writing for strangers. You have to write characters they will care about and root for, or they won’t come on the journey with you. You have to entertain as well as preach. Never underestimate the power of humour too. Because a story is grim, doesn’t mean you have to tell it in a relentlessly grim way. If you do, there is a good chance you will lose half your audience. Some people love grimdark misery porn but most need a little balance.
Some may find it unpalatable but here is the truth…
You can tell a bad story well and launch a franchise. You can tell a good story badly and sink the ship.
Happy sailing folks…
December 22, 2022
Merry Christmas!
So, I probably won't be that active on Goodreads over the Festive Season. With that in mind. Merry Christmas!
November 23, 2022
Truth is Stranger Than Fiction… Is it though? Is it Really?
So, people do say that, “truth is stranger than fiction.” Then, people say a lot of things, most of the time without even thinking about what they are actually, saying. Time honoured phrases, that trip off the tongue in certain situations, platitudes and cliches. Conversation on auto pilot.
“So, I turned round and said…”
“Then he turned round and said…”
Stop it both of you, all that turning round is making me dizzy.
“Well, you know what they say?” No, no I don’t and I don’t think you do either.
“The best laid plans…” You’re quoting a poet and you probably don’t know it.
Anyway, you get the idea. That one though, “Truth is Stranger Than Fiction.” That one always makes me go, “nope,” really it isn’t, not most of the time. Give me fiction any day. Then, I would say that wouldn’t I, you know, because I write fiction.
Most of the time, the truth is dull, the truth is a spoil sport.
UFOs? Misidentified stuff, clouds, balloons, party lanterns, birds, satellites, commercial aircraft, military aircraft… maybe the odd sneaky secret aircraft.
Ghosts? Psychology and circumstance, insects and animals, the wind, the light and pareidolia.
Cryptids? Misidentified ordinary everyday animals, psychology and circumstance, wishful thinking.
The truth even spoils things that are absolutely one hundred percent real.
Dinosaurs for instance. For a long time, we thought they were these gigantic, scaly dragon-like creatures, like nothing alive today. Turns out, that apart from those properly enormous guys with the long necks, most of them were nothing like as big as you think and covered in feathers. The famous Velociraptor wasn’t a scary seven-foot dragon, it was a big, very bitey, turkey. Most of the famous dinosaurs are related to chickens… T Rex, enormous chicken, with big sharp teeth. The age of the dinosaurs? The age of the quite big poultry more like...
Jurassic Park, the epic creatures of Ray Harryhausen… They were so much better.
Who amongst you has fallen for those hyped-up astronomical events? You know the stuff, it gets all over the internet, the TV, print media. “Astonishing sight in our skies tonight, won’t be seen again for a century.” To observe this, “astonishing sight” it is necessary to go out into your garden at two in the morning in the middle of winter with a telescope. The problem is that they are never that astonishing.
OK, to be fair, from an intellectual standpoint I can appreciate that when I am freezing my a** of looking for comet whatever, I am seeing an object that is millions of years old, millions of miles away and not coming back for a hundred years and yes that is astonishing. But… what I am actually seeing in the night sky, is a vague fuzzy blur that I probably wouldn’t even have noticed if I hadn’t known it was there. It is so far away that the telescope I am clutching in my ice-cold hands makes little or no difference to its appearance, turning it into an ever so slightly larger fuzzy blur.
I’ve seen Comets in movies, on TV and in my imagination. They were huge, burning balls of rock streaking across the sky, trailing a fiery tail behind them. Mr Truth says, if they really looked like that and not a small fuzzy blur, then we would all be doomed. Boring!
Then there are all those historical figures who weren’t who we thought they were, or didn’t actually do the thing they were famous for, or go to the place they were famous for discovering. The list goes on.
Oh, so many disappointments…
Truth is stranger than fiction? No, sorry, the truth is a spoilsport. Truth is not stranger than fiction. The truth is almost always much more boring and mundane.
So, buy more books I say, spend more time divorced from reality, reality stinks, retreat from it, get as far away from it as possible. Just do it, you know it makes sense.
***
Disclaimer: This is a light hearted opinion piece, voicing a wildly exaggerated opinion for comedic purposes and not actually a recommendation for a balanced lifestyle. I am not responsible for the mental or physical health of anyone who decides to follow my ludicrous advice.
Afterthought: should internet influencers also post disclaimers like that?
“So, I turned round and said…”
“Then he turned round and said…”
Stop it both of you, all that turning round is making me dizzy.
“Well, you know what they say?” No, no I don’t and I don’t think you do either.
“The best laid plans…” You’re quoting a poet and you probably don’t know it.
Anyway, you get the idea. That one though, “Truth is Stranger Than Fiction.” That one always makes me go, “nope,” really it isn’t, not most of the time. Give me fiction any day. Then, I would say that wouldn’t I, you know, because I write fiction.
Most of the time, the truth is dull, the truth is a spoil sport.
UFOs? Misidentified stuff, clouds, balloons, party lanterns, birds, satellites, commercial aircraft, military aircraft… maybe the odd sneaky secret aircraft.
Ghosts? Psychology and circumstance, insects and animals, the wind, the light and pareidolia.
Cryptids? Misidentified ordinary everyday animals, psychology and circumstance, wishful thinking.
The truth even spoils things that are absolutely one hundred percent real.
Dinosaurs for instance. For a long time, we thought they were these gigantic, scaly dragon-like creatures, like nothing alive today. Turns out, that apart from those properly enormous guys with the long necks, most of them were nothing like as big as you think and covered in feathers. The famous Velociraptor wasn’t a scary seven-foot dragon, it was a big, very bitey, turkey. Most of the famous dinosaurs are related to chickens… T Rex, enormous chicken, with big sharp teeth. The age of the dinosaurs? The age of the quite big poultry more like...
Jurassic Park, the epic creatures of Ray Harryhausen… They were so much better.
Who amongst you has fallen for those hyped-up astronomical events? You know the stuff, it gets all over the internet, the TV, print media. “Astonishing sight in our skies tonight, won’t be seen again for a century.” To observe this, “astonishing sight” it is necessary to go out into your garden at two in the morning in the middle of winter with a telescope. The problem is that they are never that astonishing.
OK, to be fair, from an intellectual standpoint I can appreciate that when I am freezing my a** of looking for comet whatever, I am seeing an object that is millions of years old, millions of miles away and not coming back for a hundred years and yes that is astonishing. But… what I am actually seeing in the night sky, is a vague fuzzy blur that I probably wouldn’t even have noticed if I hadn’t known it was there. It is so far away that the telescope I am clutching in my ice-cold hands makes little or no difference to its appearance, turning it into an ever so slightly larger fuzzy blur.
I’ve seen Comets in movies, on TV and in my imagination. They were huge, burning balls of rock streaking across the sky, trailing a fiery tail behind them. Mr Truth says, if they really looked like that and not a small fuzzy blur, then we would all be doomed. Boring!
Then there are all those historical figures who weren’t who we thought they were, or didn’t actually do the thing they were famous for, or go to the place they were famous for discovering. The list goes on.
Oh, so many disappointments…
Truth is stranger than fiction? No, sorry, the truth is a spoilsport. Truth is not stranger than fiction. The truth is almost always much more boring and mundane.
So, buy more books I say, spend more time divorced from reality, reality stinks, retreat from it, get as far away from it as possible. Just do it, you know it makes sense.
***
Disclaimer: This is a light hearted opinion piece, voicing a wildly exaggerated opinion for comedic purposes and not actually a recommendation for a balanced lifestyle. I am not responsible for the mental or physical health of anyone who decides to follow my ludicrous advice.
Afterthought: should internet influencers also post disclaimers like that?
October 26, 2022
Happy Halloween, a little light reading for you...
OK, so once again not really a blog as such. I thought I would just post a little story for Halloween. This has never been published anywhere before. Don't get too excited, it is something and nothing, just a bit of fun and mischief as befits the season. Hope you enjoy it. Oh, and please don't reproduce it anywhere else without my permission, it is copyrighted material but you knew that anyway didn't you. Finally, just a quick trigger warning, there are censored curse words ('bleeped out') for those who do not like such things. Enjoy. :-)
Ouija
The room was wrapped in intense darkness, except for the little tea-light, flickering and spitting in its amber glass holder. It filled the air with the smell of paraffin wax and a cloying, cheap, musky perfume.
Steve, Chris and Becky were breathing heavily. Becky ran her tongue across her dry lips, then gave a little involuntary squeak of alarm. With a hollow, rasping, the glass scraped across the table toward the letters arranged around it.
‘B,’ they chorused, in a hushed whisper. It moved again.
‘E,’
‘W’
The sad thing was, that none of them could see what was really pushing the glass.
‘A’
None of them could see the wizened little hand, with its taut and blotchy skin.
‘R’
No, they could not see the black, spindled talon, that rested beside their fingers.
‘E,’ they said, with a sharp intake of breath, as they realised what they had just spelled out.
***
Eric strutted through the night as if he owned it but then he did. He was a big cat, his heavy-set tabby shoulders rolled, his wide paws silently paced, it was a tiger’s walk.
He was happy in his dark kingdom, until he felt it, the vibration that didn’t belong. The ‘wall between’ was ripping, just a little tear but like tightly stretched skin, it could soon rupture into something far worse.
'They’re doing it again,' he thought, 'the ugly dork-lings are spoiling my f*****g evening'. Part of him contemplated leaving them to it but he knew Becky would be there. True, she wasn’t at Steve’s as often as his best mate Chris but then, she was only his girlfriend. 'Why you hang with those two I do not know', Eric thought with a disgruntled little thrash of the tail.
'It will be f*****g Ouija again, you’re using the scrabble tiles for Ouija, aren’t you? How thick are humans. Would you stand in the middle of a forest called “Thieves Wood,” yelling, “I’m over here?” No! But you’re all quite happy to ask, “Is there anybody there?”'
Rising up suddenly into the moon silvered night, he slapped a moth out of the air with one fast flick of a paw; it did little to relieve his frustration.
Resignedly, he headed for home.
***
The tension in the room was unbearable, the glass was moving quickly and they could no more break the circle than break an arm.
‘O’
‘F’
The candle flame flared, sending macabre black shadows racing around the room, like sooty little demons.
‘T’
‘H’
‘E’
***
The cat flap lifted. Eric slipped quietly in. He padded softly along the shadowed, empty hallway, toward the line of quivering candlelight from the half open lounge door.
'Becky, I thought you were smart but you still let Steve involve you in supernatural s**t. Chris, I can understand, he’s a nodding dog on the parcel shelf of Steve’s life….' He stopped his train of thought, edging his head around the door.
Crouching on the table top, shrouded in black tatters and shadows was a stunted grotesque. In appearance, it was somewhere between an old woman and a stillborn child. Its wet, piggy little eyes focused on the glass; it did not see him.
'It’s a Hag-let', he thought. 'The human eye is f*****g rubbish; you really can’t see it can you? Anyway, you wouldn’t know what you were looking at if you could see it. It’s a Hag-let! Every time you have a half-formed idea and abandon it, or let a good intention fall by the wayside, a Hag-let is born. Incomplete and bitter, angry and resentful at being forgotten. They hover in the darkness, waiting their chance for revenge.
They only live for f*****g mischief and you let one in! If it’s not dealt with, it will hook onto one of you, like a parasite, draining all your luck, stifling achievement. If you let one in, more of the little f*****s always follow'.
Eric stopped, the Hag-let’s squashed, wet nostrils twitched, slowly, it turned its pale, moon like face to peer myopically over its shoulder. 'It knows I’m here, oh well; I never did do subtlety…'
Eric bushed his tail, flattened his ears, the fur along his back rising like a cockscomb, a low, keening, both eerie and threatening, emerged from deep inside of him.
‘Eric?’ Steve said, apprehensively, ‘Is that you mate?’
'I hate Hag-lets, Eric thought, 'they’re so f*****g… chewy'.
The cat howled and threw himself across the darkened room. Steve, Chris and Becky leapt to their feet, swearing in a frightened way, their chairs toppling and clattering. Eric landed on the table, the glass flew across the room, shattering into a myriad glittering slivers. The letter tiles scattered with a sound like hail on a tin roof.
He was up on his hind legs, front paws flying. The Hag-let tried to grab at his thick, tabby forelegs but he was too fast. He slipped in under its wiry arms and wrapped his forelegs around its head, biting into the spongy flesh of its throat, like a lion bringing down an antelope. His luminous green eyes locked with the little twitching jet beads of the Hag-lets. He bit down harder; tasted its bitter blood, breathed in the sour smell of its flesh.
The guttering candle went out, plunging the room into complete darkness.
The blackness was impenetrable, filled with scuffling sounds and the ragged, frightened breathing of the humans, then all went quiet.
Two little points of St Elmo’s fire, were glowing in the dark, Eric’s eyes.
Becky turned the light on. Eric was sitting calmly in the middle of the table, legs tucked underneath him, as if nothing had happened.
‘Eric, have you gone off your head?’ Steve asked, as if he expected the cat to answer.
‘You Leave him alone, he was just scared seeing us all sitting in the dark, he’s all right now, aren’t you Ezzy?’ Becky said gently, stroking his head. Eric purred, pushing his broad, striped head into her chest.
‘We’ll never know the end of the message now,’ Chris said peevishly. ‘Beware of the…, what?’
Just three scrabble tiles remained on the table top.
‘C’
‘A’
‘T’
***
There really was an Eric, he was the coolest cat in Birmingham. Whether he actually spent his days neutralising supernatural, threats is not known for certain
© Robin Tompkins 2022 all rights reserved
Ouija
The room was wrapped in intense darkness, except for the little tea-light, flickering and spitting in its amber glass holder. It filled the air with the smell of paraffin wax and a cloying, cheap, musky perfume.
Steve, Chris and Becky were breathing heavily. Becky ran her tongue across her dry lips, then gave a little involuntary squeak of alarm. With a hollow, rasping, the glass scraped across the table toward the letters arranged around it.
‘B,’ they chorused, in a hushed whisper. It moved again.
‘E,’
‘W’
The sad thing was, that none of them could see what was really pushing the glass.
‘A’
None of them could see the wizened little hand, with its taut and blotchy skin.
‘R’
No, they could not see the black, spindled talon, that rested beside their fingers.
‘E,’ they said, with a sharp intake of breath, as they realised what they had just spelled out.
***
Eric strutted through the night as if he owned it but then he did. He was a big cat, his heavy-set tabby shoulders rolled, his wide paws silently paced, it was a tiger’s walk.
He was happy in his dark kingdom, until he felt it, the vibration that didn’t belong. The ‘wall between’ was ripping, just a little tear but like tightly stretched skin, it could soon rupture into something far worse.
'They’re doing it again,' he thought, 'the ugly dork-lings are spoiling my f*****g evening'. Part of him contemplated leaving them to it but he knew Becky would be there. True, she wasn’t at Steve’s as often as his best mate Chris but then, she was only his girlfriend. 'Why you hang with those two I do not know', Eric thought with a disgruntled little thrash of the tail.
'It will be f*****g Ouija again, you’re using the scrabble tiles for Ouija, aren’t you? How thick are humans. Would you stand in the middle of a forest called “Thieves Wood,” yelling, “I’m over here?” No! But you’re all quite happy to ask, “Is there anybody there?”'
Rising up suddenly into the moon silvered night, he slapped a moth out of the air with one fast flick of a paw; it did little to relieve his frustration.
Resignedly, he headed for home.
***
The tension in the room was unbearable, the glass was moving quickly and they could no more break the circle than break an arm.
‘O’
‘F’
The candle flame flared, sending macabre black shadows racing around the room, like sooty little demons.
‘T’
‘H’
‘E’
***
The cat flap lifted. Eric slipped quietly in. He padded softly along the shadowed, empty hallway, toward the line of quivering candlelight from the half open lounge door.
'Becky, I thought you were smart but you still let Steve involve you in supernatural s**t. Chris, I can understand, he’s a nodding dog on the parcel shelf of Steve’s life….' He stopped his train of thought, edging his head around the door.
Crouching on the table top, shrouded in black tatters and shadows was a stunted grotesque. In appearance, it was somewhere between an old woman and a stillborn child. Its wet, piggy little eyes focused on the glass; it did not see him.
'It’s a Hag-let', he thought. 'The human eye is f*****g rubbish; you really can’t see it can you? Anyway, you wouldn’t know what you were looking at if you could see it. It’s a Hag-let! Every time you have a half-formed idea and abandon it, or let a good intention fall by the wayside, a Hag-let is born. Incomplete and bitter, angry and resentful at being forgotten. They hover in the darkness, waiting their chance for revenge.
They only live for f*****g mischief and you let one in! If it’s not dealt with, it will hook onto one of you, like a parasite, draining all your luck, stifling achievement. If you let one in, more of the little f*****s always follow'.
Eric stopped, the Hag-let’s squashed, wet nostrils twitched, slowly, it turned its pale, moon like face to peer myopically over its shoulder. 'It knows I’m here, oh well; I never did do subtlety…'
Eric bushed his tail, flattened his ears, the fur along his back rising like a cockscomb, a low, keening, both eerie and threatening, emerged from deep inside of him.
‘Eric?’ Steve said, apprehensively, ‘Is that you mate?’
'I hate Hag-lets, Eric thought, 'they’re so f*****g… chewy'.
The cat howled and threw himself across the darkened room. Steve, Chris and Becky leapt to their feet, swearing in a frightened way, their chairs toppling and clattering. Eric landed on the table, the glass flew across the room, shattering into a myriad glittering slivers. The letter tiles scattered with a sound like hail on a tin roof.
He was up on his hind legs, front paws flying. The Hag-let tried to grab at his thick, tabby forelegs but he was too fast. He slipped in under its wiry arms and wrapped his forelegs around its head, biting into the spongy flesh of its throat, like a lion bringing down an antelope. His luminous green eyes locked with the little twitching jet beads of the Hag-lets. He bit down harder; tasted its bitter blood, breathed in the sour smell of its flesh.
The guttering candle went out, plunging the room into complete darkness.
The blackness was impenetrable, filled with scuffling sounds and the ragged, frightened breathing of the humans, then all went quiet.
Two little points of St Elmo’s fire, were glowing in the dark, Eric’s eyes.
Becky turned the light on. Eric was sitting calmly in the middle of the table, legs tucked underneath him, as if nothing had happened.
‘Eric, have you gone off your head?’ Steve asked, as if he expected the cat to answer.
‘You Leave him alone, he was just scared seeing us all sitting in the dark, he’s all right now, aren’t you Ezzy?’ Becky said gently, stroking his head. Eric purred, pushing his broad, striped head into her chest.
‘We’ll never know the end of the message now,’ Chris said peevishly. ‘Beware of the…, what?’
Just three scrabble tiles remained on the table top.
‘C’
‘A’
‘T’
***
There really was an Eric, he was the coolest cat in Birmingham. Whether he actually spent his days neutralising supernatural, threats is not known for certain
© Robin Tompkins 2022 all rights reserved
Happy Halloween, a little light reading for you...
OK, so once again not really a blog as such. I thought I would just post a little story for Halloween. This has never been published anywhere before. Don't get too excited, it is something and nothing, just a bit of fun and mischief as befits the season. Hope you enjoy it. Oh, and please don't reproduce it anywhere else without my permission, it is copyrighted material but you knew that anyway didn't you. Enjoy. :-)
Ouija
The room was wrapped in intense darkness, except for the little tea-light, flickering and spitting in its amber glass holder. It filled the air with the smell of paraffin wax and a cloying, cheap, musky perfume.
Steve, Chris and Becky were breathing heavily. Becky ran her tongue across her dry lips, then gave a little involuntary squeak of alarm. With a hollow, rasping, the glass scraped across the table toward the letters arranged around it.
‘B,’ they chorused, in a hushed whisper. It moved again.
‘E,’
‘W’
The sad thing was, that none of them could see what was really pushing the glass.
‘A’
None of them could see the wizened little hand, with its taut and blotchy skin.
‘R’
No, they could not see the black, spindled talon, that rested beside their fingers.
‘E,’ they said, with a sharp intake of breath, as they realised what they had just spelled out.
***
Eric strutted through the night as if he owned it but then he did. He was a big cat, his heavy-set tabby shoulders rolled, his wide paws silently paced, it was a tiger’s walk.
He was happy in his dark kingdom, until he felt it, the vibration that didn’t belong. The ‘wall between’ was ripping, just a little tear but like tightly stretched skin, it could soon rupture into something far worse.
'They’re doing it again,' he thought, 'the ugly dork-lings are spoiling my f*****g evening'. Part of him contemplated leaving them to it but he knew Becky would be there. True, she wasn’t at Steve’s as often as his best mate Chris but then, she was only his girlfriend. 'Why you hang with those two I do not know', Eric thought with a disgruntled little thrash of the tail.
'It will be f*****g Ouija again, you’re using the scrabble tiles for Ouija, aren’t you? How thick are humans. Would you stand in the middle of a forest called “Thieves Wood,” yelling, “I’m over here?” No! But you’re all quite happy to ask, “Is there anybody there?”'
Rising up suddenly into the moon silvered night, he slapped a moth out of the air with one fast flick of a paw; it did little to relieve his frustration.
Resignedly, he headed for home.
***
The tension in the room was unbearable, the glass was moving quickly and they could no more break the circle than break an arm.
‘O’
‘F’
The candle flame flared, sending macabre black shadows racing around the room, like sooty little demons.
‘T’
‘H’
‘E’
***
The cat flap lifted. Eric slipped quietly in. He padded softly along the shadowed, empty hallway, toward the line of quivering candlelight from the half open lounge door.
'Becky, I thought you were smart but you still let Steve involve you in supernatural s**t. Chris, I can understand, he’s a nodding dog on the parcel shelf of Steve’s life….' He stopped his train of thought, edging his head around the door.
Crouching on the table top, shrouded in black tatters and shadows was a stunted grotesque. In appearance, it was somewhere between an old woman and a stillborn child. Its wet, piggy little eyes focused on the glass; it did not see him.
'It’s a Hag-let', he thought. 'The human eye is f*****g rubbish; you really can’t see it can you? Anyway, you wouldn’t know what you were looking at if you could see it. It’s a Hag-let! Every time you have a half-formed idea and abandon it, or let a good intention fall by the wayside, a Hag-let is born. Incomplete and bitter, angry and resentful at being forgotten. They hover in the darkness, waiting their chance for revenge.
They only live for f*****g mischief and you let one in! If it’s not dealt with, it will hook onto one of you, like a parasite, draining all your luck, stifling achievement. If you let one in, more of the little f*****s always follow'.
Eric stopped, the Hag-let’s squashed, wet nostrils twitched, slowly, it turned its pale, moon like face to peer myopically over its shoulder. 'It knows I’m here, oh well; I never did do subtlety…'
Eric bushed his tail, flattened his ears, the fur along his back rising like a cockscomb, a low, keening, both eerie and threatening, emerged from deep inside of him.
‘Eric?’ Steve said, apprehensively, ‘Is that you mate?’
'I hate Hag-lets, Eric thought, 'they’re so f*****g… chewy'.
The cat howled and threw himself across the darkened room. Steve, Chris and Becky leapt to their feet, swearing in a frightened way, their chairs toppling and clattering. Eric landed on the table, the glass flew across the room, shattering into a myriad glittering slivers. The letter tiles scattered with a sound like hail on a tin roof.
He was up on his hind legs, front paws flying. The Hag-let tried to grab at his thick, tabby forelegs but he was too fast. He slipped in under its wiry arms and wrapped his forelegs around its head, biting into the spongy flesh of its throat, like a lion bringing down an antelope. His luminous green eyes locked with the little twitching jet beads of the Hag-lets. He bit down harder; tasted its bitter blood, breathed in the sour smell of its flesh.
The guttering candle went out, plunging the room into complete darkness.
The blackness was impenetrable, filled with scuffling sounds and the ragged, frightened breathing of the humans, then all went quiet.
Two little points of St Elmo’s fire, were glowing in the dark, Eric’s eyes.
Becky turned the light on. Eric was sitting calmly in the middle of the table, legs tucked underneath him, as if nothing had happened.
‘Eric, have you gone off your head?’ Steve asked, as if he expected the cat to answer.
‘You Leave him alone, he was just scared seeing us all sitting in the dark, he’s all right now, aren’t you Ezzy?’ Becky said gently, stroking his head. Eric purred, pushing his broad, striped head into her chest.
‘We’ll never know the end of the message now,’ Chris said peevishly. ‘Beware of the…, what?’
Just three scrabble tiles remained on the table top.
‘C’
‘A’
‘T’
***
There really was an Eric, he was the coolest cat in Birmingham. Whether he actually spent his days neutralising supernatural, threats is not known for certain
© Robin Tompkins 2022 all rights reserved
Ouija
The room was wrapped in intense darkness, except for the little tea-light, flickering and spitting in its amber glass holder. It filled the air with the smell of paraffin wax and a cloying, cheap, musky perfume.
Steve, Chris and Becky were breathing heavily. Becky ran her tongue across her dry lips, then gave a little involuntary squeak of alarm. With a hollow, rasping, the glass scraped across the table toward the letters arranged around it.
‘B,’ they chorused, in a hushed whisper. It moved again.
‘E,’
‘W’
The sad thing was, that none of them could see what was really pushing the glass.
‘A’
None of them could see the wizened little hand, with its taut and blotchy skin.
‘R’
No, they could not see the black, spindled talon, that rested beside their fingers.
‘E,’ they said, with a sharp intake of breath, as they realised what they had just spelled out.
***
Eric strutted through the night as if he owned it but then he did. He was a big cat, his heavy-set tabby shoulders rolled, his wide paws silently paced, it was a tiger’s walk.
He was happy in his dark kingdom, until he felt it, the vibration that didn’t belong. The ‘wall between’ was ripping, just a little tear but like tightly stretched skin, it could soon rupture into something far worse.
'They’re doing it again,' he thought, 'the ugly dork-lings are spoiling my f*****g evening'. Part of him contemplated leaving them to it but he knew Becky would be there. True, she wasn’t at Steve’s as often as his best mate Chris but then, she was only his girlfriend. 'Why you hang with those two I do not know', Eric thought with a disgruntled little thrash of the tail.
'It will be f*****g Ouija again, you’re using the scrabble tiles for Ouija, aren’t you? How thick are humans. Would you stand in the middle of a forest called “Thieves Wood,” yelling, “I’m over here?” No! But you’re all quite happy to ask, “Is there anybody there?”'
Rising up suddenly into the moon silvered night, he slapped a moth out of the air with one fast flick of a paw; it did little to relieve his frustration.
Resignedly, he headed for home.
***
The tension in the room was unbearable, the glass was moving quickly and they could no more break the circle than break an arm.
‘O’
‘F’
The candle flame flared, sending macabre black shadows racing around the room, like sooty little demons.
‘T’
‘H’
‘E’
***
The cat flap lifted. Eric slipped quietly in. He padded softly along the shadowed, empty hallway, toward the line of quivering candlelight from the half open lounge door.
'Becky, I thought you were smart but you still let Steve involve you in supernatural s**t. Chris, I can understand, he’s a nodding dog on the parcel shelf of Steve’s life….' He stopped his train of thought, edging his head around the door.
Crouching on the table top, shrouded in black tatters and shadows was a stunted grotesque. In appearance, it was somewhere between an old woman and a stillborn child. Its wet, piggy little eyes focused on the glass; it did not see him.
'It’s a Hag-let', he thought. 'The human eye is f*****g rubbish; you really can’t see it can you? Anyway, you wouldn’t know what you were looking at if you could see it. It’s a Hag-let! Every time you have a half-formed idea and abandon it, or let a good intention fall by the wayside, a Hag-let is born. Incomplete and bitter, angry and resentful at being forgotten. They hover in the darkness, waiting their chance for revenge.
They only live for f*****g mischief and you let one in! If it’s not dealt with, it will hook onto one of you, like a parasite, draining all your luck, stifling achievement. If you let one in, more of the little f*****s always follow'.
Eric stopped, the Hag-let’s squashed, wet nostrils twitched, slowly, it turned its pale, moon like face to peer myopically over its shoulder. 'It knows I’m here, oh well; I never did do subtlety…'
Eric bushed his tail, flattened his ears, the fur along his back rising like a cockscomb, a low, keening, both eerie and threatening, emerged from deep inside of him.
‘Eric?’ Steve said, apprehensively, ‘Is that you mate?’
'I hate Hag-lets, Eric thought, 'they’re so f*****g… chewy'.
The cat howled and threw himself across the darkened room. Steve, Chris and Becky leapt to their feet, swearing in a frightened way, their chairs toppling and clattering. Eric landed on the table, the glass flew across the room, shattering into a myriad glittering slivers. The letter tiles scattered with a sound like hail on a tin roof.
He was up on his hind legs, front paws flying. The Hag-let tried to grab at his thick, tabby forelegs but he was too fast. He slipped in under its wiry arms and wrapped his forelegs around its head, biting into the spongy flesh of its throat, like a lion bringing down an antelope. His luminous green eyes locked with the little twitching jet beads of the Hag-lets. He bit down harder; tasted its bitter blood, breathed in the sour smell of its flesh.
The guttering candle went out, plunging the room into complete darkness.
The blackness was impenetrable, filled with scuffling sounds and the ragged, frightened breathing of the humans, then all went quiet.
Two little points of St Elmo’s fire, were glowing in the dark, Eric’s eyes.
Becky turned the light on. Eric was sitting calmly in the middle of the table, legs tucked underneath him, as if nothing had happened.
‘Eric, have you gone off your head?’ Steve asked, as if he expected the cat to answer.
‘You Leave him alone, he was just scared seeing us all sitting in the dark, he’s all right now, aren’t you Ezzy?’ Becky said gently, stroking his head. Eric purred, pushing his broad, striped head into her chest.
‘We’ll never know the end of the message now,’ Chris said peevishly. ‘Beware of the…, what?’
Just three scrabble tiles remained on the table top.
‘C’
‘A’
‘T’
***
There really was an Eric, he was the coolest cat in Birmingham. Whether he actually spent his days neutralising supernatural, threats is not known for certain
© Robin Tompkins 2022 all rights reserved
August 23, 2022
Sonic Screwdrivers and Other Useful Devices…
So, what has the sonic screwdriver in Dr Who got to do with writing then? Well, look, I’m a Who fan, it says so in my biog, so humour me. This little article gives me a chance to throw in my two pennies worth on a much-debated fan issue and has some points to make about writing too. So, win, win, as they say, unless you don’t like Dr Who of course. In which case…what’s wrong with you?
OK, so there may be the odd person out there who knows nothing of Dr Who and the issue of which I speak, so for your sake, gentle reader…
Dr Who, is the longest running Sci-Fi show in the world, made on and off by the BBC since 1963. It centres around the adventures of a largely benevolent, ancient alien being known as ‘The Doctor.’ The Doctor is in possession of a machine called a Tardis which allows The Doctor and one or more companions to go anywhere in all of time and space. The expressed intent is to explore and observe but generally speaking, The Doctor ends up fighting against oppression intolerance, greed etc and righting wrongs wherever they go.
The Doctor’s intentions are always good and peaceful but he/she often ends up being one of the most lethal pacifists you have ever heard of. Part of these aforementioned good intentions, dictate that he/she will not carry a gun, or other conventional weaponry on their person.
What The Doctor does carry, is a sort of a ‘Space Swiss Army Knife,’ or ‘Extra-Terrestrial Multi-Tool.’ This device is called ‘The Sonic Screwdriver,’
OK, so far so good. Now we come to the issue that divides Whovians and critics alike.
The Sonic, as the device is known for short, has an astonishing array of abilities. A bit too astonishing for many, who claim that it is a ‘get out of jail free card,’ and an excuse for lazy writing, a ‘magic wand’. Those of this opinion, would like the device permanently written out of the show. Those opposed, say that Dr Who wouldn’t be the same without the Sonic, which, barring a short period in the 80s, has been a feature since the Doctor’s second incarnation first used it, back in 1968. (The first Doctor had a sort of a ‘magic ring,’ that served a broadly similar purpose).
So, now we come to my opinion and the bit that’s to do with writing.
It actually makes no sense at all to get rid of the Sonic. In fact, it would make more sense if the Doctor carried more gadgets. For all those who were up in arms about the very brief appearance of ‘Sonic Sunglasses,’ during the Capaldi years, bear with me, I have logic and reason to back this up.
From a writing perspective, from an in-world, narrative stand point, there has to be a Sonic at the very least. Why? Well, POV as people say nowadays, you are a super intelligent alien scientist and engineer, with access to all of the technology that there is, ever has been, or ever will be. Not just all of the human tech but all the extra-terrestrial tech too. Further, you know that your lifestyle is always getting you into life threatening situations and endangering the lives of your companions. Are we seriously suggesting that such a person would carry absolutely no useful technology on them at all? What sense would that make? If I was The Doctor, every stitch of clothing I was wearing, right down to my socks, would be full of concealed, wearable tech.
In fact, not only should there be a Sonic, there should be an in-world explanation for the lack of other devices. Let me offer the suggestion, that the Doctor is concerned about exposing other species to advanced technology superior to their own and so limits the technology to the Sonic, a tool which allows them to MacGyver other devices as needed? It’s possibly not the best explanation but it’s serviceable. There is though, no, sensible reason to carry nothing at all.
As a ‘writing device,’ as opposed to a technological one, the sonic serves another good and useful purpose. Since it seems to be able monitor and detect all manner of substances, hack most computer and surveillance systems and perform medical scans amongst other things, it can save an awful lot of time. The average episode is only forty-five minutes long. Imagine if you had to spend large chunks of time seeking out a medical professional and a sick bay? Finding a hacker and getting them to a terminal, or going to a lab to analyse air samples?
OK, so yes, there is the danger of the Sonic being abused. I would just like to point out, that The Doctor freeing themself from restraints, or unlocking doors, does not constitute abuse, as has been suggested elsewhere. See, my previous argument. Obviously, The Doctor will carry a device for that purpose, even the average TV detective carries a set of lock picks, is The Doctor not as bright as Magnum PI? Again, forty-five-minute episodes in which to establish characters and give them back stories, build atmosphere and tension, explain plot points without massive info dumps and tell a good, satisfying story… that’s a lot. The Sonic as a short cut is not abuse, it’s economical writing.
Yes, yes, I hear you say but it is, used as a ‘get out of jail free card,’ or a ‘magic wand’ to zap away problems. OK, yes, it has been but that is not the fault of the Sonic, that’s the fault of the writer and the showrunner who let them get away with it. The Sonic is needed for all of the aforementioned reasons.
There are plenty of ways to temporarily side-line the sonic. It can malfunction, it can be accidentally left in the Tardis, it can be confiscated to name but three off the top of my head. Also, it is already established that there are things the Sonic can’t do. Famously, ‘it doesn’t do wood,’ and we know it cannot open a ‘’deadlock seal.’
No, the problem is not the Sonic, the problem is the writing. The kind of writer who will abuse the Sonic, is the kind of writer who will just use a different plot device as a ‘get out of jail free card.’ If the Sonic is not available, a gadget will be miraculously found in a drawer, a convenient lightning strike will take out the power, or someone will ‘just happen by at the right moment.’ Removing the Sonic doesn’t remove the problem, it just removes something useful. See, I told you this would be about writing as well as Dr Who.
Anyway, the Sonic is cool…
So, hands off the Sonic. That being said, I have to admit, that I would be fairly pleased if it was held and used like a scientific instrument and not brandished like a magic wand. Some Doctors are worse than others in this regard and it is very much a ‘Nu Who,’ thing.
Even so… Long live the Sonic Screwdriver. Just don’t say, ‘Abracadabra,’ when you wave it around.
OK, so there may be the odd person out there who knows nothing of Dr Who and the issue of which I speak, so for your sake, gentle reader…
Dr Who, is the longest running Sci-Fi show in the world, made on and off by the BBC since 1963. It centres around the adventures of a largely benevolent, ancient alien being known as ‘The Doctor.’ The Doctor is in possession of a machine called a Tardis which allows The Doctor and one or more companions to go anywhere in all of time and space. The expressed intent is to explore and observe but generally speaking, The Doctor ends up fighting against oppression intolerance, greed etc and righting wrongs wherever they go.
The Doctor’s intentions are always good and peaceful but he/she often ends up being one of the most lethal pacifists you have ever heard of. Part of these aforementioned good intentions, dictate that he/she will not carry a gun, or other conventional weaponry on their person.
What The Doctor does carry, is a sort of a ‘Space Swiss Army Knife,’ or ‘Extra-Terrestrial Multi-Tool.’ This device is called ‘The Sonic Screwdriver,’
OK, so far so good. Now we come to the issue that divides Whovians and critics alike.
The Sonic, as the device is known for short, has an astonishing array of abilities. A bit too astonishing for many, who claim that it is a ‘get out of jail free card,’ and an excuse for lazy writing, a ‘magic wand’. Those of this opinion, would like the device permanently written out of the show. Those opposed, say that Dr Who wouldn’t be the same without the Sonic, which, barring a short period in the 80s, has been a feature since the Doctor’s second incarnation first used it, back in 1968. (The first Doctor had a sort of a ‘magic ring,’ that served a broadly similar purpose).
So, now we come to my opinion and the bit that’s to do with writing.
It actually makes no sense at all to get rid of the Sonic. In fact, it would make more sense if the Doctor carried more gadgets. For all those who were up in arms about the very brief appearance of ‘Sonic Sunglasses,’ during the Capaldi years, bear with me, I have logic and reason to back this up.
From a writing perspective, from an in-world, narrative stand point, there has to be a Sonic at the very least. Why? Well, POV as people say nowadays, you are a super intelligent alien scientist and engineer, with access to all of the technology that there is, ever has been, or ever will be. Not just all of the human tech but all the extra-terrestrial tech too. Further, you know that your lifestyle is always getting you into life threatening situations and endangering the lives of your companions. Are we seriously suggesting that such a person would carry absolutely no useful technology on them at all? What sense would that make? If I was The Doctor, every stitch of clothing I was wearing, right down to my socks, would be full of concealed, wearable tech.
In fact, not only should there be a Sonic, there should be an in-world explanation for the lack of other devices. Let me offer the suggestion, that the Doctor is concerned about exposing other species to advanced technology superior to their own and so limits the technology to the Sonic, a tool which allows them to MacGyver other devices as needed? It’s possibly not the best explanation but it’s serviceable. There is though, no, sensible reason to carry nothing at all.
As a ‘writing device,’ as opposed to a technological one, the sonic serves another good and useful purpose. Since it seems to be able monitor and detect all manner of substances, hack most computer and surveillance systems and perform medical scans amongst other things, it can save an awful lot of time. The average episode is only forty-five minutes long. Imagine if you had to spend large chunks of time seeking out a medical professional and a sick bay? Finding a hacker and getting them to a terminal, or going to a lab to analyse air samples?
OK, so yes, there is the danger of the Sonic being abused. I would just like to point out, that The Doctor freeing themself from restraints, or unlocking doors, does not constitute abuse, as has been suggested elsewhere. See, my previous argument. Obviously, The Doctor will carry a device for that purpose, even the average TV detective carries a set of lock picks, is The Doctor not as bright as Magnum PI? Again, forty-five-minute episodes in which to establish characters and give them back stories, build atmosphere and tension, explain plot points without massive info dumps and tell a good, satisfying story… that’s a lot. The Sonic as a short cut is not abuse, it’s economical writing.
Yes, yes, I hear you say but it is, used as a ‘get out of jail free card,’ or a ‘magic wand’ to zap away problems. OK, yes, it has been but that is not the fault of the Sonic, that’s the fault of the writer and the showrunner who let them get away with it. The Sonic is needed for all of the aforementioned reasons.
There are plenty of ways to temporarily side-line the sonic. It can malfunction, it can be accidentally left in the Tardis, it can be confiscated to name but three off the top of my head. Also, it is already established that there are things the Sonic can’t do. Famously, ‘it doesn’t do wood,’ and we know it cannot open a ‘’deadlock seal.’
No, the problem is not the Sonic, the problem is the writing. The kind of writer who will abuse the Sonic, is the kind of writer who will just use a different plot device as a ‘get out of jail free card.’ If the Sonic is not available, a gadget will be miraculously found in a drawer, a convenient lightning strike will take out the power, or someone will ‘just happen by at the right moment.’ Removing the Sonic doesn’t remove the problem, it just removes something useful. See, I told you this would be about writing as well as Dr Who.
Anyway, the Sonic is cool…
So, hands off the Sonic. That being said, I have to admit, that I would be fairly pleased if it was held and used like a scientific instrument and not brandished like a magic wand. Some Doctors are worse than others in this regard and it is very much a ‘Nu Who,’ thing.
Even so… Long live the Sonic Screwdriver. Just don’t say, ‘Abracadabra,’ when you wave it around.
