bobcorrigan

[bobcorrigan]

A little world-building from Meribel

Violet sloshed through melting snow to the coffee place on the corner of Astor and Brooklawn. She took in the room as she waited in line, inspecting every table, every face, looking for the best table, one that would give her privacy and a view of the door. It was an old habit she missed. But opening orders from the Captain required a certain amount of care, especially if another Guard was paying attention.

The table she wanted had a middle-aged hipster reading the Racing News at it. One look up at her – six feet four of muscle in a long ivory Irish sweater – and he scuttled away. She made a point to say thank you, but he was long gone by then.

Inside the Captain's black order envelope was a blank sheet of flimsy, off-white tissue paper. Violet tore it up and sprinkled the pieces into her coffee mug, transforming it into a dark, viscous sludge. Faint whispers rose from the cup, as usual. But then that single voice became three, each one slightly out of phase, and a teardrop of pure silver appeared on the surface of the coffee.

Oh shit.

Under a sky of painted stars the tears of the Goddess will appear

Let none who live consume their light lest a brother’s sword unsheathed draw near.

She pushed the coffee cup away and leaned the back in her chair until the top of her head rested against the frosted window. The Captain had never not once sent someone else's message in his envelope. It would have taken an order, and there was only one person alive who could give the Captain of the Guards an order.

And that sure as shit wasn't the Morrigan.

Unpacking the message wasn't hard. Tears of the Goddess was a reference to the Tears of Danu. The problem was it wasn't real. The children's story of a potion that would allow one of the Eldest to travel from anywhere in creation to Danu’s throne was just that – a children's story, and a ridiculous one at that. Why would the Morrigan bother to get the King to assign the Guards to investigate one of her garbage prophecies? 

Violet sat forward and poked the now-solidified coffee with her index finger. But what if the Tears of Danu wasn't fake? What if someone had figured out how to craft it? That must be what the final line meant. A brother's sword unsheathed would be the King's dead brother Finvarra, who he'd killed to take the throne.

The King was worried Finvarra's daughter Meribel would consume the Tears of Danu.

It didn't take much for the possibilities to spiral out from there. Everyone knew Meribel had spent centuries looking for a way out of exile and a weapon powerful enough to kill the man who murdered her father. With both of thise in hand she could unify all of the exiles trapped here. She could raise an army.

Violet managed a smile. Raising an army is what a thoughtful rebel leader would do, so of course Meribel would do no such thing. It was much more likely the Princess Meribel would use the Tears to pop back Inside, murder Lugh, and then dance over his body out of spite. Once a pirate, always a pirate.

Losing power was what Lugh feared most, so being the clever court creature that she has always been, that's what the Morrigan prophecised.

It was all starting to make sense. Everyone knew the Morrigan liked to get Lugh worked up, no one more than the Captain. He agreed to assign Violet to the case because he knew Violet would work it correctly, even though they both knew the Tears of Danu was a myth and that Meribel was the same useless piece of shit she'd always been.

All it would take was going through the motions, and the case would close itself.

So how did the Captain get the King to agree to the extravagant reward? Violet never expected to get a case worthy of cancelling out her own sad debt, but here it was, and even that was par for the course with the Captain: he only offered extravagant rewards when a task merited it. If the King wanted the Captain's best, the Captain would exact appropriate payment in exchange. It was exactly the sort of cleverness Violet had come to expect from the Captain over their centuries of service together.

She left the coffee shop feeling better about life than she had in ages.

[bobcorrigan]

Thank you Futurescapes

If you're a speculative fiction writer and you've not taken a close look at the Futurescapes workshop, I encourage you to do so.

The format was intense but extremely practical. We went through 3 half-days of focused work, the first a deep-dive on opening chapters with a group of spec fiction writer peers, followed by a second half-day of intense query letter editing. Both of these sessions were moderated by Actual Literary Agents. Day three starts with a high-speed review of opening pages with the goal of making them as effective as possible, followed by a serious of panel discussions.

It's worth your time (and money).

https://futurescapes.ink/

[bobcorrigan]

Welcome to RMEMBRNG

Master and Commander in Space?

A journey of recovery and redemption?

Tempura-fried haddock?

Dragonfly drones?

A centuries-old Septist Alliance that ruled the stars until Earth's Union navy developed a secret weapon that brought it to its knees?

Mysterious aliens?

A "World's Best Dad" mug?

I've loved writing this book for you, and I can't wait for you to enjoy it.

PS: Readers may recognize characters and cues from my previous books :)

[bobcorrigan]

Once Upon a Time in the Fifth Century: The Secret History of Hawthorn

Hello all! While you wait for the arrival of Hawthorn, I'm going to share some backstories here to introduce the world in which it is set. Won't that be exciting – or even thrilling – but definitely not both, that would be too much, especially after all we've been through, let's take it easy.

In any event, while there are stories to be told that take place before this event, and many, many stories that take place after, this is the pivot point on which all of those stories rest.

Enjoy!

-------------------------------------------------------

One perfectly lovely spring afternoon, Padraig and his disciples set up their camp on a perfectly lovely hilltop overlooking a perfectly lovely beach. A gentle offshore breeze tousled the tall grasses surrounding their campsite with a slow, sweeping hand, accompanied by the distant cries of gulls and the complaints of terns. It was, Padraig thought, an ideal place to wait for word from Finvarra, the so-called Fairy King of Tara, on account of its unparalleled loveliness, and how difficult it would be for anyone to sneak up on them. If it weren’t for all the snakes it would have been heaven on earth.

Asking the Fairy King for permission to preach on the island of Eire was, admittedly, a controversial decision, and one he hadn’t dared share with his Bishop, who considered Padraig’s reports of the Fair Folk “dangerous sophistry” and even “pagan hooey”. But the locals spoke of Finvarra with a mixture of fear and admiration, and the assorted nobles and grandees of the island were to a man unwilling to cross him, so it seemed a sensible last option.  Besides, he could use the week or so they’d spend on the hill to revisit the education of his disciples, a responsibility he’d been obliged to ignore on account of all the running away they’d been forced to do over the winter months and into the gentle rains of spring.

Forty one days later, Padraig’s daily lesson to his disciples was little more than a brief enumeration of the relative merits of fishing, reading, and going back to sleep. That the last option was by popular acclaim determined to be the most virtuous of choices explained why they were completely surprised when a band of armed men thundered up the hill and surrounded them, accompanied by a stern-looking fellow Padraig supposed was the messenger from the so-called Fairy King of Tara himself.

When asked to describe that messenger years later, Padraig would always reply that the messenger looked like a tree. Of course the messenger wasn’t a tree, but in some ways, he looked as much like a tree as any man could: he was quite tall, as trees tended to be, and when he listened, he swayed slightly from side to side, as trees were known to do, and the long, green cloak he held close around his body was decidedly tree-like, even if it was composed of ivy leaves. Only the unadorned closed helm of polished silver spoiled the tree-ish illusion, and left Padraig wondering how the messenger could see where he was going with a bucket on his head.

The messenger’s guards were dramatically more muscular but almost as tall as the messenger, and they too were dressed all in green. But unlike their master, each wore a slit helmet decorated with the painted face of a fierce, growling wolf. Their threatening demeanor and absurd musculature reminded Padraig of the Reavers who’d kidnapped him when he was a child, with the difference being the Reavers’ uniforms were more colorful and smelled dramatically worse. 

Padraig tucked his hands into his robe, surveyed the guards, then bowed a good, deep, respectful bow to the messenger. “Well met, sir. I am Padraig, and, erm, I am honored that your –”

“Your request was presented to the Queen of Crows, who brought it to us for consideration. Before we proclaim our decision, we wish to learn why you begged to leave this place.” The messenger’s voice didn’t sound like it came from under a bucket at all. It sounded like it was coming from all around them. It was very curious.  

“Well, your worship, that’s not .. quite … exactly what I said,” Padraig stammered. “My request was not to beg you to leave, I begged your leave to make a request. Perhaps there was an error in translation?”

The messenger turned to his guards. A few of them shrugged.

Padraig cleared his throat and prepared his best preaching voice. “What I beg, sorry, what I seek, not for myself, but, erm, on behalf of the most holy Church, is your leave, sorry, your permission to carry my teaching to all the people of this fair, blessed island without fear of reprisal, so that I may bring the Word of –”

The messenger shook his head quickly. “Say no more. Our needs align, and that alignment makes it possible for us to come to an accord.”

Ooo, this was good news. “Well, now. Wonderful! That’s … wonderful, thank you!” Padraig waved at his disciples to come forward, his heart thrumming with growing excitement.

Then the messenger raised his right hand, palm out. “We would have you inform your masters that we seek to establish a lasting peace with those who fought under our late brother’s banner. To accomplish this, we have crafted a treaty which we will now relate to you, and which you will accept.”

And this was bad news. His heart went from beating faster to hammering so hard he felt his pulse in his throat, and his tonsure actually began to itch. All he’d wanted was permission to preach without fear of being locked up or worse. He didn’t expect .. and war? What war? What happened in the forty days they were stuck on this hill? 

A cold wind swept through the grass, and just like that the perfectly lovely hilltop wasn’t quite so lovely anymore. His disciples dropped to the ground and started blubbering in fear. 

“These are the terms of the treaty,” continued the messenger, his voice once again coming from both close by and very far away. “Your people will keep the four treasures you have taken from us safe from harm and unused by any hand. You will pledge to honor and defend the borders between our lands, and none of your people shall harry those of ours who remain here in exile.”

Padraig found himself nodding, something he did automatically when he got nervous. Exile? Who was being exiled? And what four treasures? 

“In return, we also pledge to honor and defend the borders between our lands,” the messenger continued, his voice echoing in Padraig’s bones. “We pledge that none of our people shall harry those of yours who remain with us, and we pledge that those who dwell among you in exile will not allow their craft to be learned by your people. Our guards will enforce this accord, and their word shall be law among our people. Your guards will enforce this accord as well, and their word shall be law among your people.”

The soldiers behind the messenger begin to mutter among themselves at the mention of guards. 

The messenger cleared his throat. “And to ensure that all who are exiled in these Outer Lands understand the terms of this accord, we will now name a Herald to carry word of it to them, that every ear may hear, every heart may understand, and every soul may appreciate our generosity.”

One of the soldiers pulled forward a manacled prisoner and pushed her to the ground in front of the messenger.  She was the merest scrap of a child, red-haired, blue-eyed and impossibly lovely like so many of the people of the island, but she was dressed in an absurd fitted white linen shirt and a battered black triangular hat, with bloused purple trousers tucked into tall black boots. The iron shackles that bound her wrists and ankles rattled as she struggled to her feet, and she glared at the messenger with a hatred so intense and pure that Padraig gasped and crossed himself. 

He couldn’t explain it, but in that moment he was more afraid of her than he was of the tall messenger, or his soldiers, or even his Bishop, which was saying a lot

The messenger spread his arms wide, and a sudden hard breeze ruffled the ivy leaves of his cloak. “You have lived among us for many years, Padraig MacMilchu, and so you have been chosen to spread the news of this accord far and wide among your people. You will now both attend as you are bound to the geis of the Ban.”

The girl held up her hands and shook them, her eyes wide and suddenly frightened. “Hold it, now, uncle, let’s be reasonable here–”

The messenger took off his helmet just as the sun burst through the low clouds overhead, painting the mossy greens and stone grays of the hilltop in wild color and giving Padraig an instant headache. Or did the light come from the messenger’s face? He couldn’t tell for sure.

The messenger extended his arms and stepped forward. All at once the breeze grew into a cold wind that plucked at the ivy on the messenger’s fluttering cloak and tore each leaf away, one after the other, so that they flew around the three of them, faster and faster still. Padraig could see nothing of the world beyond the few feet of grass he stood on through the spinning wall of ivy.

His voice was the howl of the storm. 

Moira Bel Ní Finvarra, your memory of this day shall never fade, and you will bear witness to it among the Eldest of Danu until your light goes dark. And we bind you, Moira Bel Ní Finvarra, by right of conquest, from the practice of your power under pain of death, and only the hand of one who gave you life may unbind you.

The girl cried out as she sank to her knees then slumped forward with her hands on the ground. Perhaps it was a trick of the light, but the air seemed to ripple and twist around her, taking on the colors of the lovely hilltop before flowing into her mouth and eyes. Padraig watched in horror as she began to thrash around violently on the ground, her entire body glowing as her howls of despair rang out over the rustling hiss of the leaves and the percussive beat of the wind. 

Her chains crumbled into ash and blew away.

Padraig pulled his cloak off his shoulders and went to her where she lay shaking on the ground.  The cloak was made of heavy wool and still smelled a little like the reaver he’d taken it from years ago, but it was the best he had to offer. 

Or was it?

“And you, Padraig MacMilchu, your memory of –” the messenger began, but stopped when Padraig raised his own hand and began a slow crossing gesture. 

The veil between seeming and being dissolved like ink in water.

The wall of swirling ivy leaves froze in place, each individual leaf suspended in the air as if it had been pinned there by some unseen hand. The howling wind faded into a light breeze, and Padraig saw the perfectly lovely hilltop again through the gaps in the ivy leaves. He saw his two disciples lying huddled together a few feet away with their hands over their heads. He saw twelve sleeping wolves curled up around them, asleep. And there, behind the messenger, off at the very edge of the hilltop, was that … a great warrior dressed all in red, surrounded by prowling wolfhounds? He couldn’t be sure.

“You’re no simple priest,” said the messenger as he folded his arms across his skinny chest. His dirty red hair and scraggly beard were decorated with bows of wrinkled leather from which hung a variety of tiny bones. He looked very tired, and thoroughly bored.

“And you’re no simple messenger.”

“No. No I’m not.” He paused to look around at the leaves pinned in the air around them. “I propose we speak informally. Is that acceptable?”

Padraig looked back to the girl shivering under his cloak and felt his tonsure itch again, but this time it wasn’t in fear.  “Yes. Yes it is. And let me start by saying I’ve lived long enough to know a stunt when I see one. You pulled that little trick there to frighten me into accepting your terms. Why? Why rush me?”

“You’re the one who wanted to preach here without restrictions,” the messenger shot back with a roll of his eyes. “I’m offering you a way to get that. Once I close the border between our lands and yours, you can preach to these bumpkins of yours all you want and none of my people will care. You win, we win. As I was saying–”

“Hardly. This accord of yours requires me to hire, what did you call them, guards? To enforce a treaty that I definitely did not ask for? Do you know how expensive it is to hire and keep retainers, especially skilled ones like guards? Or do your fairy retainers work for chestnuts?”

The messenger bit his lip. “There’s no need to be rude, sir.”

“This is all very suspicious. Very suspicious indeed.” Padraig folded his arms and pressed a finger to his lips. His mind turned and turned again until it landed on the answer. “Oh. I get it. You have a problem you need to solve quickly, and you need me to help you solve it. I suggest you start treating this negotiation more seriously.”

“Or what?”

Padraig shrugged his very best ecclesiastical shrug. “Or my two disciples and I will get in our little boat and leave. My Bishop will be angry, and I’ll probably end up running from Vikings on my next assignment, but that’s what I get for being an evangelist. But then you will have no one to hold up my side of this … this Ban of yours, and whatever conflict you had with your brother’s people will continue. Overall I feel like I’m giving away quite a lot in exchange for you getting some peace and quiet. Convince me I’m wrong.”

The messenger scratched his chin and glowered at Padraig. After a dozen heartbeats of dirty looks, he reached into his sleeve, drew out a small scroll and held it out. Padraig, who had been instructed by a local man to never accept gifts from the Fair Folk, plucked three stalks of clover from a mound at his feet, and at an unspoken cue they made their exchange simultaneously.

“I’ve written it all down,” the messenger said. “It’s a standard contract.”

Padraig turned the paper around and held it up. “Are all your contracts drafted by some large bird stepping in ink and walking all over the page?”

“Sorry. That’s something else.” The messenger reached into his other sleeve and pulled out another very similar scroll. Again, they exchanged documents simultaneously. Padraig read while the messenger raised the clover Padraig had given him, gave it a sniff, and ate it.

“This is all rather precise,” Padraig muttered.

“I know, I wrote it,” the messenger said with a thin smile. He plucked a few wild violets from nearby and twirled them lazily under his nose.

Padraig read a few more paragraphs before rolling the scroll back up and tucking it into his own sleeve. “I like where you’re going with this, so I’m prepared to accept this as a draft. For say … a month. You’ll need to give me a way to reach you since I can’t stay on this hill forever.”

“It’s a very nice hill,” the messenger remarked, looking around. “You could do much worse.”

“Have you seen how many snakes there are up here? No thank you.”

The young man cleared his throat. “Fair enough. My captain of the Guards will come visit you here tomorrow morning, and you can settle your … evangelizing issues with him. Satisfied?”

Padraig decided he didn’t like this fellow very much at all, but the opportunity he’d offered in his treaty was too good to walk away from. “Yes. I am satisfied.”

“Grand. That’s just grand. So as I was saying earlier, it would be lovely if you would bear witness to this agreement among your people, blah blah blah. I’ll spare you the geis as it probably wouldn’t work on you anyway.”

“Probably not. But speaking of that, what did you mean by only the hand of one who gave you life may unbind you when you did whatever you did to the girl? Did you just give her an escape clause?”

“The Queen of Rain’s last prophecy before she was broken was very specific, so yes. Unfortunately.” The messenger looked down at the girl shaking under Padraig’s cloak with a distant, even contemplative expression. “Don’t worry about her too much. She’ll find her way. It’s strange … if her father had even a shred of her spirit he’d have found his way too. But my poor brother Finvarra was as constant as the sun and moon until the end, just like the Queen of Rain. It’s a shame, really. A terrible shame. But … needs must, right?”

“Ah, yes. Just so,” Padraig stammered. If this man was Finvarra’s brother, and if Finvarra was dead, then this fellow was ... 

The messenger jammed his silver helmet back on his head, and all at once the ivy leaves suspended in the air flew back to his cloak.

“Got it in one. I am Lugh, the new High King of the Tuatha,” echoed a terrible voice of power and cruelty. “And because you’ve been so reasonable, I’ll get rid of the snakes as a freebie.”

Later on, as Padraig and his disciples sat around the fire, drinking the last of their mead under a night sky painted with stars, he thought back to those swirling leaves, and the terrible voice of Lugh, and he began to question whether any of it had happened at all. The memories had grown more insubstantial with each passing hour, until the whole curious encounter took on the qualities of a dream.

“Good job getting rid of those damn snakes,” Tassac said as he raised his mug.

“That girl stole our boat,” said Olcán. “And your cloak.”

Padraig waved him off and sat a little closer to the fire. He wasn’t quite sure how much detail about his meeting with Lugh he dared put down in his report to his Bishop, or whether he should mention the conversation he’d had with the warrior in red afterward, or the sack with the sticks and the bowl the warrior had given him. He’d pray on it and see how he felt in the morning.

But he was definitely sure he was not going to mention the last words in the agreement, of how they’d fallen off the page and blown away on the wind the second he read them, leaving behind nothing but the faintest scent of roses:

This is the Ban, and the Ban shall endure. 

Let any who would set it aside understand this:

That which is broken cannot be remade, 

Only renewed.

[bobcorrigan]

The Woolly Animals were a bit more bloodthirsty in the first draft.

You must hurry! If he enters the grove alone the old masters will be furious! The Woolly Mouse looked up at me with one paw on the fez to keep it from falling off. You must take action! True and truly! We demand action, Third Apprentice Matthias Thorn! Immediate and preferably violent action! The Woolly Bird extended its wings and shook them ominously. The Delivery Guy’s noble appearance notwithstanding, you will dispatch him immediately, chop him up with your bone saw then dump him in the lye pit. Except this time I think you should give his blood to the tomatoes first. Oh, and then grind his dry white bones as feed for the onions and parsnips. And carrots, don’t forget the carrots, said the Woolly Mouse after a quick sip of tea. If the noble Woolly Rabbit was still among us he’d insist that you feed the carrots, for without regular feeding they lack both savor and substance.

[bobcorrigan]

Every Fourth Apprentice learns this on their first day

Eight trees in the Druid's grove Oak ensures the center holds Apple loves Yew prevails Ash remains Hazel sails Alder sees Elder keeps Hawthorn watches while we sleep

[bobcorrigan]

Monsieur Chezelle, A Tenant of the Row

Monsieur Alain Chazelle is a gardener who takes a long view of things, as he is hundreds of years old.  He is elegant, monk-like, focused, somewhat hard-of-hearing and a little silly.  His shop is named La Niche.  Not everything he grows can survive outside of his store, and some that can must never be allowed to.

His corner shop is four stories tall, but three of those are his greenhouse, a chaotic puzzle of glass in every color of the rainbow and a few non-rainbow colors as well. Residents of town have learned to not look at them too carefully. A number of the those little panes of glass should never be touched, and the same goes for some of the pots inside his greenhouse, the dirt in those pots, and the plants in that dirt.  Even the air is suspicious at times.  That explains a lot about M. Chazelle.  

From the center of the ground floor you can look up four stories through a central gallery and see the balconies running around the edges of each level. It’s beautiful, and very humid, and entirely disorienting.

He employs Nepalese assistants, and no one works his counter, so don’t expect someone to greet you when you enter. If you’re there to make a purchase, someone will find you. If you’re there to cause trouble, he is happy to let you find it on your own.  

His scouts and suppliers enter through the back into a brightly lit, scrupulously clean room, where M. Chazelle inspects their products from behind a glass partition, holding specimens with rubber gloves that project through the wall. He spends a lot of his time dealing with various infestations, and would rather not.

The front of his shop has no such protections.

His business model is the subject of ongoing debate by those on the Row, as he does not seem to have customers and gives his plants away.

Monsieur Chezelle is a tenant of Lilian Coffin, the Lady of the Row. 

You can read more about the Row and Lilian Coffin’s other tenants in Bob’s book The Meribell Darlings.

[bobcorrigan]

Meet the Snack of the Apocalypse.

“OK everyone, settle down and take your seats, we’re about ready to start.”

“Why are there guards outside?”

“What’s going on behind those curtains?”

“And why did you take our cellphones?”

“In time, in time.  Tim, are the subjects ready?”

(intercom) “Yessir, they’re ready.”

“What’s this all about?”

“Just watch.”

(Room darkens, curtains part, revealing four people seated around a table in an adjoining toom, playing cards.)

“You brought us here to watch some people play cards?”

“Looks like Euchre, actually.”

“No, I brought you all here to watch this.  Tim, send in the control.”

(intercom) “Control inbound.”

(Door opens in adjoining room and a woman dressed in a hotel uniform brings in a bowl of potato chips which she places in the middle of the table.)

“Those aren’t even our chips.”

“Cape Cod?”

“Probably.”

(The subjects continue to play cards; over the next five minutes roughly half of the bowl of chips is consumed by three of the players; the fourth does not eat.  The cards are reshuffled and redealt, and play continues.)

“OK, so if that was the control, then what are you…”

“My friends, I want you to pay very close attention to what happens next.  Tim, send in the sample.”

(intercom) “Sample inbound.”

(The door opens again and the same woman brings in a bowl filled with light-brown conical snacks.)

“Hold it, those look like…”

“Watch.”

(One of the players takes one of the snacks, then another, then a handful.  Another player reaches for the bowl and takes one and eats it, and reaches quickly for another only to have his hand collide with the hand of the first man, who pulls the bowl close to him.  Some words are exchanged, but the first man seems to pay no attention and continues to jam handfuls of the snacks into his mouth as the second man dives across the table and body-tackles the first man to the ground.  The snacks go flying as the two men wrestle. The two remaining men look at each other, and each tries one of the snacks.  The third man begins to sweep the spilled snacks still on the table together and eat them, while the fourth man simply weeps.)

“Tim, I think we’ve seen enough.”

(intercom) “Sending in the wives.”

(Four women enter the room carrying shopping bags.  They stop, stare and begin to yell, but to no effect; the two men on the ground continue to fight, the third continues to snap up every remaining whole snack and even some of the broken ones, and the fourth man continues to weep,  huge shoulder-heaving sobs.)

(intercom) “We’re going to have to go to stage two.”

“OK, Tim, I’ll check in later.  And give each of them an extra hundred.”

(intercom) “What if they ask for product?”

“No product.”

(intercom) “10-4.”

“What did you feed those people?”

“I’ve never seen anything like that.”

“This can’t go to market.”

“But it can.  And it will.  When the development team in Gstaad said they had something hot, I had no idea it was this hot.  But as you can see, it’s a strong performer.”

“It’s not possible, they looked…I mean, those looked like…”

“Like Bugles, yes.”

“Bugles did THAT?”

“Not just any Bugles.  Chocolate Peanut Butter Bugles.”

“Oh my God…”

“You didn’t.”

“We did.”

[bobcorrigan]

[Angry Birds] is successful because everyone, whether they admit it or not, understands that in order to eat pig, you must first kill pig.

Something I left as a Facebook comment and decided was too insightful to not share with you.

You’re *welcome*.

(via bobcorrigan)

[bobcorrigan]

Memories.

Sir Reginald, a Tenant of the Row

Sir Reginald runs the bookstore.  His shop looks a bit like an empty living room, with those few books he keeps on display set out on a coffee table between two couches at the center of the shop.  A massive square oriental rug covers the entire floor, a pool of red that consumes the sparse 40 watt light from the wall sconces.

He is an older man of smaller proportions, with thinning white hair and elegant clothing.  He tends to keep his hands in the pockets of his tweed jacket as he talks, his head tilted slightly to the right.  There’s a vague smell of Ivory soap about him.

His assistant, a young lady from Singapore named Sandy, offers visitors tea and shuttles books from the back room to the front at a signal from him.  It’s not her actual name, but that’s what he calls her.  It’s what he’s always called his assistants.

Sandy is currently holding a leather backed solander box in her tiny white-gloved hands.  It is the box he asked her to find last night down in the stacks.  The Sibyllenbuch something-or-other.  He said a visitor would be wanting it. He’s talking to a visitor right now, in fact, an even older man with watery blue eyes and hands like paper claws that shake slightly as he tries to balance his teacup and saucer. 

Sir Reginald is a tenant of Lady Lillian Coffin, the Lady of the Row.  And he is most definitely a magician, Sandy decides, when the visitor asks whether he  has the Sibyllenbuch something-or-other, and Sandy is there to place it gently on the coffee table between them.

[bobcorrigan]

[bobcorrigan]

Slug and Bell on the Road

Is it a hat, asks Bell.

It is a fact, says Slug, and not only superior to the oombarellae but far more fashionable, and they passed it one to the other to see which of them was the most handsome.

They continued on their way, wither and yon, up and down then mostly up, always in the most casual of manners, until they could climb no more and settled on the greening loam for a bite. No sooner did they sit than the mice tumbled out of Bell’s luggage and set up their band, tuning their miniature viols and tubas with an unhurried grace.

Hello, says Bell, is it that late already?

We were about to ask you, says the lead mouse, whose hat was a thumble of black wrapped velvet.

They debated until the sun began to set, whereupon the mouse band lost interest and retired back to Bell’s luggage, their instruments left behind on the grass.

There was a cloud of crows cawing overhead, settled in the high branches to complain and preen. They were bound elsewhere, though, and after a hop hop they flew east in the direction of the Burn.

There are more miles left than light, says Slug.

We must encourage the donkeys, says Bell.

The donkeys conferred, but failed to come to any useful conclusion, and so they all continued on their way, away from the greening loam and onto the dusted road. Firelights from the tall grass caught up with them to light their way, humming their little tunes of loss.

[bobcorrigan]

This was the most complex issue yet. I’m still recovering from it.

[bobcorrigan]

This issue was about Vancian Magic. Would you like to know more about Vancian Magic? I Bet You Do.

[bobcorrigan]

Heavens! I’m behind in putting up CEM covers.

[bobcorrigan]

Aaaaaand there’s the new one.

[bobcorrigan]

This came out a few months ago, and sadly I forgot to share the cover with you. The next issue is getting ready to go into the mail. Stand by for that cover soon.