Tag Archives: scraps

Writing: Wizards & Work, Part 4

These are still entertaining me! They often need a moment to click; a phrase or comment, or a mannerism linked in to a fantasy setting. I’m really enjoying it when they do come to me. As usual, no offence intended to anyone who is inspiration, and definitely nothing implied; it’s often just the initial inspiration that I’ve borrowed, and then gone off in a completely different direction!

You can also read Part 1, Part 2 and Part 3.

 

He has a way of looking at you; a sharp-eyed, sideways glance that takes in everything before he gives a friendly smile. In that red-hot moment, you’re never entirely sure what the judgement will be. Are you interesting enough for a longer look? Considered useful enough for a smile? Judged unimportant and politely dismissed?

Or is the smile that of a predator, approving of his prey?

 

The curse was subtle and vicious: it cursed the bearer to tiny bad luck, to those small twists of fate that wear down the hardest mountain with grey disappointment. It dulled his days to tedium, spiralled his thoughts into circles and worked every project into knots and snarls. The problem was that no one could figure out what he had done to earn such a costly revenge. He had no drama in his backstory, no offenses placed against his name; and that seemed the final jab of the curse – to not even deserve another’s carefully-crafted hate.

 

He preferred ‘adaptable’ over ‘slippery’; his pride in his ability to get things done was almost as strong as his stubbornness in staying his course. But it was rare that he was taken aback; he even went so far as to blink.

“I don’t think anyone’s ever offered…help…before.”

The small elf blinked in turn. “It’s called being nice.”

“Yes. Well. That’s not something I’m very good at.” But the tall, imposing necromancer managed something approaching a smile, creasing his face into new lines. Nice… it would need some practise, but this new plan might just work.

 

He was a true Knight in Shining Armour; one that blinded the vision when he appeared, glowing and explosive, inspiring and righteous. Around him, faces would shine and bodies would bow. And when he approached, for a moment everything would be perfect; ideas would flow, projects would work, twists would unsnarl. For a moment, the world was good.

And then he would be summoned away, sweeping off to the next perfect moment, and we would be left in the grey, shattered ruins of our normality.

 

He is friendly, smiling, affable, cheery; always up for a conversation, or a chat and always open to suggestions or ideas. But sometimes, mid-conversation, you’ll see his eyelids flicker for a few seconds – almost as if a thought has been stopped, or a plan redirected.

“I heard he was one of the supreme evil overlords,” kitchen gossip tells me. “Rehabilitated, of course. That’s the therapy kicking in whenever he gets ideas.”

“But we were only talking about cute bunnies…”

“Well, you can make anything evil.”

Writing: Wizards & Work – Part 3

More silly fantasy character studies from my work; they are definitely taking liberties with the people, and most definitely not intended to be a comment on anyone’s character!

(The first one may be the exception… totally not looking at you, Remy.)

You can also read Part 1, Part 2 and Part 4.

 

She was so sweet, so helpful and so friendly that it was clear she had to be thoroughly evil; everyone knew that she had plans for world domination, but no one could quite determine how exactly she was going to achieve it.

Everyone ensured that her every whim was obeyed anyway, just in case.

 

The thing about zombies is that they’re only brainless and shambling if the spell goes wrong.

He was so useful that his employers had not even let death stop his work. The spell was expensive – indeed, he was still paying off his debt for the reanimation – but he did not need to eat, or sleep, or stop. The occasional shamble did not prevent his friendly face being one frequently seen around the office, and the knowledge in his brain was not hindered by his lack of pulse.

It was rumoured that one of the company projects was earmarked for reanimating key members of staff if they happened to pass away inconveniently; but after a slight misunderstanding with a betting pool, the rumour was officially denied, and the project name put down to simple coincidence.

 

A man thrown out of time, irritated and frustrated with our world – longing for a time of direct politics and simpler morals, where words were not picked apart in endless streams and courage was easier to grasp. And yet he had found his faith and his love in this time, and fought for them every day; argued with those who would drag his soul down, defended his love to every comer, and came back every dawn with a stout heart and explosive temper to wage war against his fellow believers.

 

No one could exactly put their finger on when the potions machine had become sentient, but it was universally agreed by all the staff that the device had a personality of its own. Stubborn, wilful and devious, it seemed to take perverse pleasure in denying the vital fluid to those most in need, and deliberately thwarted every attempt to fix any problem. Even threats of violence rarely placated it long enough to get more than a dribble of liquid.

For those few in the company that could order its replacement, however, it worked perfectly.

 

He has not been hired as a spell-smith; merely an administrator, he says when asked. He has always refused to discuss his provenance, age, or any other such mundane matters; his conversation centres around his employment and the wonders of modern cinema. However, hints such as 636 BC being “a little while ago” and a brief reference to having known several famous historical figures personally suggests age; the accidental wreaths of blue smoke and angry mutterings of dead languages when something goes wrong do little to dispel the impression of some deep, arcane skill.

The occasional mumbling of “when in doubt, use demons,” also do little to counter this impression.

 

She looks up as you approach, tinted goggles across her eyes and delicate gloves sheathing her skin. A parchment lies in front of her, the words twisting in your vision as you catch a glimpse of it and your mind filling with a dragon, raining fire and vengeance down upon a walled city.

You ask for a recommendation; a gentle story, one to ease your mind into sleep and your body into welcome rest. She nods, lays a glove-covered hand on the scroll in front of her to obscure the writhing text and then leans back to pick out one of the copied scrolls from the shelves behind her.

“What would happen if you gave me the original?” you ask curiously as you take the story.

The book witch pushes the goggles up onto her hair and gives you the faintest of smiles. “You’d sleep easily, but you’d likely not wake up again.”

 

[This may be ending up as a story…sort of plotting odd bits off and on!]

Writing: Wizards & Work – Part 2

So I was having fun using my workplace as character inspiration – and I did some more silly character studies! These are definitely not intended to be any comment on the character of the original person, even if you do recognise someone as the inspiration – I have absolutely taken liberties 😀

You can also read Part 1, Part 3 and Part 4.

 

The first thing visitors saw on entering the building were the corpses; gigantic monuments frozen into stillness in their last battle, a testament to the ferocity and conquest that we built our history on.

The second thing was the sign, pockmarked with shrapnel and battered by the elements, left rusting and tattered as it announced the company name.

The third thing was the smiling face of the organiser as she prepared to assist, direct or otherwise help the unwary guest.

The entrance would likely be far quieter if more visitors took it upon themselves to wonder what role that smiling face had in the history of the other two items.

 

He was a mischievous sprite, sold into indenture by a previous master and given no way to buy out his contract – but the work suited him, and so he contented himself with tiny pranks on those around. A spell pinned to the back of a cloak that would make the wearer say what they truly thought for the day; a team of imps that rearranged the papers out of order every time they were shuffled; a wandering spell on items to make them amble and hide when least expected. And then, when the prank was discovered, his tiny giggle would ring out, brightening the office for that brief moment of joy.

 

Ze did not like direct sunlight, but that was not particularly unusual for a place that attracted many of the shadow folk; no one had dared ask zir opinions on garlic, and it would have been rude to comment on zir preference for working through the hours of darkness over the day. Ze occasionally spoke of zir homeland, or zir other name, or zir mother tongue: occasionally wistfully referred to somewhere ze had left behind. We never found out why ze had left, or what event had made zir come to us; but ze was a knowledgeable and esteemed worker, and if zir smile occasionally appeared a little too pointy, well – it would have been impolite to mention.

 

He had been granted two wishes; immortality, and speed. Immortality was plain, for he did not age in those long years that he worked within the building – but the speed, that had its price. He was often to be seen zipping around the office, a cheery smile and a welter of chatter heralding his unexpected appearance; but then he would retreat to his cave, and we would find him curled amid the wrappers and packets of his fuel, slumbering until his next mad dash.

 

It was rumoured that he was a shapeshifter; and that he’d accidentally shifted to a human and now couldn’t move back: or that he had somehow split himself in two, sundering his soul into two vessels that he was now searching for ways to combine. Certainly he was frequently in the company of another shifter, an imperious cat, and certainly he disdained humanity – any conversation was brief and annoyed, and he spent most of his days buried in intricate spellwork. But I found that he would answer any direct question, although whether that was spell-driven or not I was never sure; and he did so with something of a smile, as if grateful that someone had discovered the trick.

 

The gentleman was effortlessly polite and charming; always with a bow, a smile or a compliment. His bushy hair was kept trimmed, his dress was always immaculate, and his manner light-hearted; he was often serious, but never dwelled on weighty subjects long enough for that to be noticed.

It was not until I chanced across him one day, crouched in the darkest forests far from the beaten path, that I understood what he kept at bay with his careful walls: the visage of the bear snarled at my hasty retreat, even as the human in his eyes begged for forgiveness.

A snippet: The Gardener

The start of something, or possibly just a snippet…I’m not sure yet!

It started with a doorway; and with a man, kneeling in the small garden, hands cupped around the fragile leaves of a tree just rising through the damp soil.

He glanced up, briefly, at the blocked doorway no-one could have come through, and the person standing there; and then rose to his feet, knees of his trousers damp from the grass and fingers mud-stained from the soil.

“I was expecting someone,” he said with gentle politeness, and gave a short nod.

Her eyes widened; whatever she had expected here, it was not the winter garden around, sleeping trees and evergreen bushes tangling with the too-long grass and unraked leaves. It was not the dilapidated wall and peeling door, the scarred wall and bricked-in doorway behind her. It was not this stocky man with his careful movements, reserved manner, sympathetic gaze.

But she hesitated, one hand on the brickwork, as if waiting to see what this world held before she pushed open the door to another.

“Would you like a cup of tea?” he added.

And she smiled. “I’d like that very much.”

~~~

The inside of the house was as shabby and run-down as the outside, and almost empty; a bed, a table and two mismatched chairs, some scattered kitchen utensils, and a desk with a closed laptop on it. The walls were faded white, and the floor clean but aged. She sat down on one of the chairs and looked at the man, in his jeans and old buttoned shirt, hair pulled back into a knot.

“Progress hasn’t been good, I’m afraid,” he said, carefully filling the kettle.

“Oh?”

“This site is slower than I’d like.” She was silent, as if waiting, and he weighed how to explain his failure. He didn’t want to turn and see what judgement was in her eyes. “It’s been hard to encourage anything.”

“Look, I – wait, I don’t know your name.” Whatever she’d been going to say, it was derailed with a smile and an easy laugh.

“I go by Fydor, here.”

“Ok. Well. I’m…apparently not what you think I am.” He carefully set down the mugs and tilted his head a little, waiting on her next words. “I don’t really understand what you mean by the site, or encourage. Do you normally have regular visitors?”

“They haven’t been for a few years, but yes. I had assumed that you were another, here to check on my progress.”

“And they’re…they come through the same door?” She suddenly relaxed. “That’s why you didn’t freak out. You’re used to it.”

“You arrived by distinctly unusual means, as they do.” His smile twitched the corner of his mouth and creased the corners of his eyes. “What were you expecting, then?”

“I didn’t really know,” she admitted, smiling again. “That’s…it was a bit of an…unusual doorway.”

She was looking at him, studying. He let the silence hang, filling both mugs and then finding a spoon to stir them.

“I followed the light,” she said eventually. “It opens to where I need to be, even if…I’m not sure why.”

“I understand that.”

“What do you mean?”

“I move a lot.” He looked down to the mugs, and then picked them both up to bring over to the table. “I…get drawn to places. That I need to help, to heal. So I’m never in one place very long. A year, two at the most.”

She was still watching him as he set one mug down in front of her. “But you said here hadn’t been making as much progress with the site. What do you do?”

And suddenly, the smile lit his face. It was like watching an unfolding leaf, a growing bud; it was a blossoming. “I make things grow.”

Dream-paths and Fairways

I walked back across the track a couple of nights ago with the same friend who made the original journey with me, Otter*; we decided to go on an adventure despite the darkness, and I’m so glad we did! It was one of those surreal, half-imagined, half-real experiences that I’m so glad I shared with someone, because then you can at least look at someone else and say; “I did experience that, didn’t I…”

It was a clouded night, low and rolling, but the city lights were reflected; they made the air half-shadowed, lit in whites and greys, light enough to see each other’s faces but dark enough to be a dusky shadow. The ceiling of clouds was broken by slashes, and I ended up walking with my face turned to the sky, watching as the stars spun behind the white and grey, rents of black that sent the field stumbling. And the road; it went on forever, the fields stretching either side of it, following the rows of pylons into the dusk – if we’d half-closed our eyes, succumbed to a dreaming drowsiness, we could have missed the cross-path and walked on forever into the dusky lands…

As an aside: Otter and I were talking about the early Greek idea of afterlife, the endless nothingness, Achilles and “Don’t try to sell me on death, Odysseus / I’d rather be a hired hand back up on earth / Slaving away for some poor dirt farmer / Than lord it over all these withered dead”; and talking about mirrors being portals to another world, a shadowed reflections of our own, and how you’d get back if you stepped through. I promptly pulled China Mieville’s Looking For Jake off the shelf when I got home!

The railway was another world again, reached through a tunnel of tangled branches and upright trunks; an orange sodium capsule of light with bright tracks, the gleam of the rails forming another barrier, another path, industrial and warm and still in the midst of the dark landscape – and as unreachable as the mirror-world in the lakes from our perch above, walking across the footbridge that looked down over the strange landscape.

And then the lakes; we sat peacefully on the steps for a while, looking out over the narrow bridge as it stretched between the reflections: the lakes on either side so still that they were just stars and cloud, no ripples, no wind, nothing moving. We watched as people walked past the portal, lit in white and moving on with their world – while ours was still, held, waiting for something. We had the hum of the road overlaying the stillness, the stars wheeling overhead through the slashes of sky, talking about nothing: and the real world beckoning for us to choose the walk across the long path and the step through the portal ahead.

And then, looking back from the portal across the stillness of the lakes:

via GIPHY

I have no idea what or how this is going to come out in my writing, but I’m going to be very interested to see how it does!

 

*They picked the nickname, and it’s now a running joke that I’m trying to get a whole woodland collection!