Month: June 2016

Funerary Sayings.

For what it’s worth.

The jug with the falcon (of Horus) reads:

For my strong staff, the god Osiris, my spirit adores him.

The one with the baboon reads:

For my strong staff, the gods Osiris and Hapy

Hapy is the god of the flood, associated with new life. The bottom literally is the pictograph for strong and the name Hpy (Hapy). The last pictograph is a leopard’s head, which implies strength. Oddly in terms of English grammar, it applies to the whole phrase, which is sort of like German where the verb is at the end (except it isn’t).

I probably made a few errors in these translations, but they should be close.

Amelia and I are furiously writing a new book where the Egyptian gods walk among us.

Medusa

Louise Bogan, 1897 – 1970

I had come to the house, in a cave of trees,
Facing a sheer sky.
Everything moved,—a bell hung ready to strike,
Sun and reflection wheeled by.

When the bare eyes were before me
And the hissing hair,
Held up at a window, seen through a door.
The stiff bald eyes, the serpents on the forehead
Formed in the air.

This is a dead scene forever now.
Nothing will ever stir.
The end will never brighten it more than this,
Nor the rain blur.

The water will always fall, and will not fall,
And the tipped bell make no sound.
The grass will always be growing for hay
Deep on the ground.

And I shall stand here like a shadow
Under the great balanced day,
My eyes on the yellow dust, that was lifting in the wind,
And does not drift away.

The Art of Deception 20

The Art of Deception

or Pride and Extreme Prejudice

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Welcome to Weekend Writing Warriors. This week continues a spy story set in late Georgian England, the year before Trafalgar.  Last week Roderick caught sight of that blasted servant and followed her into a modiste’s. He bumped into a member of ‘the ton’ when he attempted to follow her. This week we see more of their conversation.

 

“I was looking for a servant, a girl; she turned into this shop.”

“She did; amazing, imagine turning into a shop; that’s not something you see every day.”

“No, I mean she entered the door.”

The young woman turned to the modiste, herself, “M. Fanchion, did you see a servant girl enter, I didn’t?”

“Mais non, Mademoiselle Green.”

The woman shrugged, “Sorry can’t help you;  you will see that the gown is ready for me tomorrow?”

“Certainly Ma’am.”

Lord Roderick peered inside; if the servant had entered the shop, she had vanished into the backrooms.  He shook his head, “Lost the spoor …What has become of my manners?” He bowed, “May I introduce myself, Roderick … Roderick Smythe.”

Please see the other talented writers in Weekend Writing Warriors.

My apologies for creative punctuation.

Like poor Cecelia, “The Curious Profession of Dr Craven” is back from the dead.

I’ve released a sweet regency romance, Miss DeVere Miss_devere_1 This is a fun read.

Frankenkitty is available.
Frankenkitty What happens when teenagers get to play with Dr Frankenstien’s lab notebooks, a few odd chemicals and a great big whopping coil? Mayhem, and possibly an invitation to the Transylvanian Neuroscience Summer School.

Get Free Stuff and try out my landing page. There are three free complete short stories (including an ARC for Frankenkitty) available after you’ve gone through the hoops.

My cure for writer’s block

Nothing fancy. Beer, lots of it. That and bum on seat – fingers on keyboard.

More seriously, it’s a crisis of self-doubt and/or self-pity. The ultimate blue funk. I’ll often try to edit part of my work. If my brain’s in edit mode rather than create mode that often assuages it. I’ll write an outline rather than details. I’ll sometimes put the project away and look at another one. Sometimes the block is telling me “this is rubbish” and it takes distance to see why.

If all else fails, I go for a walk or boat or play my guitar. The later often transfers the block to those around me, so it’s a last resort.

Trying something new

Amelia and I are wondering about trying our hand at horror. Here’s a prolog. We’ll see how it goes, but 7000 words are in the can right now.

Londinium, Roman Britain 400 AD.

“Horatius,” Marcus said, “It’s in there.”
Horatius nodded, “Yes. Those druids, that mistletoe drink. It’s powerful stuff. Remind me never to accept anything eat or drink from them.”
Behind them slaves pounded the damp sandy mortar mix of the coffin into a solid box. A coffer to contain the thing, the unspeakable thing. Only the druid’s magic had contained it and that barely.
Horatius continued, “If it wakes, it’s trapped.”
Marcus laughed, nervous, “I pray Lord Mithras sees it that way.” Then he offered his hand to Horatius, in a gesture of trust, one devotee of Mithras to another.
Horatius politely shook hands; then he crossed himself. “Lord Isus willing.”
After giving him a sharp look, “You’re one of them, Christians, aren’t you?” Marcus pushed the slaves away, “It’s done.” He took a stylus and scraped words into the top of the coffer. In Latin, Pictish, and Greek, he warned everyone to leave the unspeakable thing inside; let it rot for all time in its concrete tomb. “That will do. The language of the empire will never die.”
“Are you sure Marcus?”
“Absolutely.”
“Should we leave a man to watch?”
The slaves looked nervously at each other. The phrase ‘a man to watch’ meant one of them, buried alongside the concrete block to keep it company through the ages.
“No. It ate enough men.” Marcus paused; then shouted at the slaves, “Bury it. Bury it deep.”
Horatius said, “Wait.” Then he scribed a cross and a fish into the side of the block.
Marcus followed with the bull, reborn, the sign of Mithras.
A slave said, “Sire, may I?”
“What?”
“Add the eye of Woden.”
Marcus, followed by Horatius, agreed. “We need all the God’s on our side.”
That slave, and then the others, scribed the holy seals of their faiths. They added symbols ranging from the falcon and eye of Horus to the horned man of Cernunnos to the block.
Horatius said, “It looks like a bloody temple.” Then he turned to the head slave. “Get this damned thing buried … before night falls.”
 

The Art of Deception 19 #wewriwar #amwriting

The Art of Deception

or Pride and Extreme Prejudice

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Welcome to Weekend Writing Warriors. This week continues a spy story set in late Georgian England, the year before Trafalgar.  Last week, Alice trapped Roderick and turned him into the militia. Eventually, and only after showing them his warrant, Roderick managed to free himself. The next morning, he’s waiting for her. His friend, Edward, finally gets him to agree to knock it off. They’re just about to enter a public house when Roderick spies Alice again.

 

Roderick followed the servant girl while she walked along the street; she turned to talk with a street vendor, and he dodged into a doorway; then she continued on her way, apparently unaware of his presence.

He followed, carefully avoiding her direct view; the streets, crowded with people, helped him keep hidden.

Minutes later, she turned into a stylish Modiste’s establishment, Madame Fanchion’s; he struggled through the crowded street to reach the entrance; when he tried to follow her inside he ran into a young woman on her way out, “I’m sorry; I nearly knocked you over.”

The young woman was obviously not a maid, as she was dressed in the latest style, white muslins peeking from her Spencer, a string of pearls around her neck, and wearing nothing that could vaguely resemble an apron and the dark plain dress of a maid. While she carried her dark pelisse over one arm, she held herself with the bearing implicit in a member of the ton, a member of the nobility.

She curtseyed, “I’m sorry; should have been watching out myself.”

“Are you hurt?”

“No,” she smiled, “Not at all.” Lord Roderick could not help but notice she had a beautiful smile, “Can I help you?”

Please see the other talented writers in Weekend Writing Warriors.

One of the things that Alice practiced incessantly at Mrs Hudson’s school was the quick change. Not necessarily a complete change of clothes, but making enough of a difference to fool most people most of the time. She’s put it to good use.

The featured image is a fashion plate from 1814, which is a little later than this story. It shows a Spencer jacket worn over muslins, which is what Alice is wearing. Her dark ‘pelisse’ could could be something else.

Like poor Cecelia, “The Curious Profession of Dr Craven” is back from the dead.

I’ve released a sweet regency romance, Miss DeVere Miss_devere_1 This is a fun read.

Frankenkitty is available.
Frankenkitty What happens when teenagers get to play with Dr Frankenstien’s lab notebooks, a few odd chemicals and a great big whopping coil? Mayhem, and possibly an invitation to the Transylvanian Neuroscience Summer School.

Get Free Stuff and try out my landing page. There are three free complete short stories (including an ARC for Frankenkitty) available after you’ve gone through the hoops.

My Book’s Movie Dream Cast #lifebookswriting

The Curious Profession of Dr Craven is a rollicking good read with some sizzling hot gypsy … wait, that’s “Edmund – a butler’s tale.” It’s a historical romance, albeit a rollicking good read too, just with no gypsies. The hero is a man who is trying to live down his guilt. He believes he accidentally killed his wife by infecting her with “childbirth fever” when she gave birth to their children. The heroine is a young woman whom he rescues when he is preparing to anatomize a female to further his studies of disease and the mechanics of the human body. Initially, she is almost a blank slate, having forgotten much of her previous life. With good reason, her father is more than a bit of a scoundrel – a real rotter, her hand has been auctioned off to the highest bidder to save the family mansion, and she’s simply bored, when she isn’t frustrated. When she finally recovers, she and Dr Craven are mutually attracted to each other. Scratch that, they’re desperately in love, a love her father intends to squelch. Unscrambling this mess takes the combined efforts of Dr Craven, his older brother the Earl of Craven, a dissolute French Duke and even the visit of a mysterious French Baron to the sacred floor of Almack’s.

Here’s my ideal cast.
Dr Craven -> a young Colin Firth (the older one would be great as his older brother, the Earl of Craven) otherwise David Tennant or Matt Smith
William 1st Earl of Craven current Colin Firth or Steven Fry.
Henrietta/Cecelia -> a young Honeysuckle Weeks
Mary (Dr Craven’s maid) -> Jane Lynch
William and Phillip Overly –grave robbers and scallywags-> Simon Pegg and Nick Frost.
Lord Patterson -> Donald Sutherland
George Patterson (Cecelia’s brother)-> Martin Freeman
Ellen Patterson ->Kristen Wiig
Mr Sharpless -> Hugh Laurie
Mrs Oakham -> Sigourney Weaver

Sort of appropriate, these days and this time.

1 Corinthians 13:4–7
Love is patient and is kind. Love doesn’t envy. Love doesn’t brag, is not proud, doesn’t behave itself inappropriately, doesn’t seek its own way, is not provoked, takes no account of evil; doesn’t rejoice in unrighteousness, but rejoices with the truth; bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, and endures all things

A Man Said to the Universe

Stephen Crane, 1871 – 1900

A man said to the universe:
“Sir, I exist!”
“However,” replied the universe,
“The fact has not created in me
A sense of obligation.”

The Art of Deception 18 #wewriwar #amwriting

The Art of Deception

or Pride and Extreme Prejudice

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Welcome to Weekend Writing Warriors. This week continues a spy story set in late Georgian England, the year before Trafalgar. Last week, they exchanged words, and Roderick gave her a French recognition signal, which she accidentally – or perhaps on purpose, answered. This week she returns the favour. They’ve exchanged words and she’s walking off – to do whatever housemaids do.

 

He waited a few seconds and followed her; as he watched from a distance, she put a small piece of paper under a stone near a street corner, and then marked the wall with chalk; it didn’t take her long, and had he not been watching her carefully he’d have missed the whole thing.

“Come on you laggard,” Roderick called to his friend, “We’ve got her; she’s a real professional … one of the smoothest dead-drops I’ve ever seen.” He dashed up, took the paper from under the stone, and started to read it.

“See, Edward, it is a count of the ships; profes-”

He didn’t get to finish his statement; a member of the militia, delegated to watch the docks, tapped him on the shoulder and said, “Sir, if you’d please; you’re coming with us.” Another soldier stood behind him, ready to back him up should force be required.

“What for?”

“We think you’re a spy … information has been laid to that effect.”

“What do you mean?” Roderick rapidly looked around, and then saw the chit, still carrying her basket, standing a few yards away; she smiled at him, mockingly curtsied, and then turned to continue her daily chores.

Please see the other talented writers in Weekend Writing Warriors.

Would you have noticed the chalk mark?

I’ve released a sweet regency romance, Miss DeVere Miss_devere_1 This is a fun read.

Frankenkitty is available.
Frankenkitty What happens when teenagers get to play with Dr Frankenstien’s lab notebooks, a few odd chemicals and a great big whopping coil? Mayhem, and possibly an invitation to the Transylvanian Neuroscience Summer School.

[1] Good day Miss, isn’t it? The little birds are flying in a cloudy sky. She replied, “But it’s clear. Where are you going Sir?”

Get Free Stuff and try out my landing page. There are three free complete short stories (including an ARC for Frankenkitty) available after you’ve gone through the hoops.