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My Own Little World

A writer has the luxury of creating their own reality to play in.

If you like mine, check the Market Place page to find how to explore it further.  

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 If I could build my own little world, what would it be like?

The temperature would average around 17 degrees C. Some days would be warmer, but I’d be lying on a beach enjoying a sea breeze so that’d be okay.

Sometimes it would be a whole lot colder, with snow on the ground and the Merry Dancers lighting up the sky. But rugged up inside a good coat and warm lined boots, that would be alright too.

There’d be beaches and mountains and forests. Small towns with just enough shops, bars and restaurants to be interesting, not overwhelming.

Lots of birds and animals. All of them living undisturbed. Allowed to do what they do – live, die, hunt, graze – without anyone saying “Oh that’s awful” or “Not on my land”.

Sparrows, songbirds, and soaring eagles. Rabbits, rhinos and rattlesnakes. All in their place, wherever their place may be.

The sea full of dolphins, whales, turtles and rays. Sharks even. Dazzling coloured fish like living rainbows, swarming around reefs unspoiled by greedy developers and governments.

And people. I’m not so solitary as to live in a world with no other people. Not just people I already know, otherwise how would I ever make new friends and learn new things?

The people living in my little world wouldn’t all be like each other, or even necessarily like each other. But they’d respect each other – their similarities and their differences. Even if they chose not to live alongside one another, peace would reign between them.

People would die because you have to have balance: light and dark, light and death. But that death would be peaceful, and happen in the time and manner of a person’s own choosing.

In my own little world magic works. It just is. I don’t need to have scientists and mathematicians and philosophers account for every detail, every action and reaction.

Stuff happens. I accept it. I believe in the fundamental rightness of it. It doesn’t need my understanding to keep happening – it just needs me to not interfere.

It’s a nice little world.

I think we had one a bit like it, once.

The MAGIC SATCHEL

I don’t have kids, but I recall fondly stories I read and was told as a child.

Grimm’s Fairy Tales and Aesop’s fables resonated for me.  So here I am, attempting to conjure up a little of that magic myself.  If you’re a parent, please let me know – is this something you’d read to your kids?  

For fiction for an older market, check out the Market Place page for a link to buy “The Wizard of Waramanga” from amazon.com

Gavin and Glenys lived in a nice little house in a nice little small town.

It really was quite a small house, and it was a bit old, but it was well looked after and had everything they needed. It felt very safe and comfortable. They both really rather loved their little old house, though neither of them really said so much.

They both had good jobs in the nearby city, and they both worked hard.

One evening after a long day at work they looked at each other and said, “We need a holiday!”

So they booked a flight to Marrakesh, because it sounded far away and exciting and a bit magical.

And so it was – very exciting and just a bit magical.

They visited beautiful gardens right on the edge of the desert. They saw grand old buildings with walls and floors decorated with gorgeous tiles in every colour you can imagine. And they went to the great big marketplace called the souk.

Gavin and Glenys were very excited by the souk. There was so much to see, and to buy! There were clothes, and shoes, and jewellery, and lamps, and carpets and furniture and mirrors and… and… well, lots of things!

The men who owned the market stalls would ask a high price for their goods, and Glenys would laugh and say, “Oh, you funny man!” before offering a much lower price.

And the men who ran the stalls would laugh and suggest a better price, and they would suggest prices to each other until either they agreed or Gavin and Glenys would shrug, smile and walk away.

Continue reading The MAGIC SATCHEL

The influence of others

I wonder: how much to read while I’m writing?

DSCF2751 I posted this comment on the excellent page of WitheringThyme (recommended reading, BTW).  As I wrote it occurred to me to ask this question of my own readership…

I find I’m torn when I’m in the process of writing (and that’s most of the time).  I love to read other writers’ work, especially though not exclusively fantasy.  I’ve gotten past the whole “Oh, I’ll never be as good as this” self-doubt thing, realising that we’re all different with different things to offer.  But I do worry that I’ll find myself channelling or copying their style or content, consciously or otherwise.  I’m curious to hear others thoughts?  Thanks!

(And remember – you’re invited to visit my Market Place page to see what I have ‘out there’ at present!)

My purpose

I would like to share this with you all…

MY PURPOSE AS A WRITER IS TO GIVE EXPRESSION TO ALL OF THE STORIES IN MY HEAD. AS I WRITE THEM, MORE APPEAR.

I WILL ENTERTAIN READERS AND MAKE THEM THINK ABOUT THEIR POTENTIAL, THEIR RELATIONSHIPS AND ATTITUDES.

I WILL RESEARCH BY TRAVELLING, READING AND LISTENING.

I WILL INSPIRE OTHERS TO EMBRACE, EXPLORE AND EXPRESS THEIR OWN IMAGINATIONS.

If you’re a regular follower, I trust this gives you some insight into me.  If you’re new here, please look around, read what appeals to you.  I’d value your feedback – it helps me know how on track I am.  Thanks – Renoir

Breaking Bone

A Dubious Magic story.  This takes place immediately after the events of The Wizard of Waramanga… Check out the Marketplace page to order the book!

They’d made it into Barandilla not long after sunset.

You couldn’t call Barandilla a town.  It didn’t even appear on a lot of maps.  On a lonely stretch of the highway running through the Central Australian desert, it had a pub, two petrol pumps – one of which had an ‘Out Of Order’ sign that had hung on it so long it had almost faded to illegibility – and a stray dog.

‘Bob’s Hotel’ served as a rest stop for passing trucks and the occasional drover, and a social hub for folks from the surrounding cattle stations.

It had been a long day.  Well, that was probably an understatement.  The four of them had been shot at and almost consumed by a gigantic demon from some dark Other Dimension before narrowly escaping the cataclysmic cave-in of an underground military complex.  No wonder Wilko, Darren and Scarlet had just wanted to have a quick meal then go crash in their respective rooms.

John B. Stewart was still too wound up to sleep, though.  Since hitting his head on a Canberra poker machine he’d found he had a strange wizardly power.  His wishes came true, although not necessarily in ways he anticipated.  It had been his unpredictable magic that had gotten them into danger, and admittedly out of it.  Bidding his friends goodnight he went to get as good a Scotch as he could find.

As well as the dining room, there were two bars in Bob’s Hotel.  John B. very deliberately chose to walk into the less well-lit option.

There was only one other customer.  Sitting near the end of the bar was a dusty Aboriginal wearing the checked shirt and jeans that were almost the local uniform.  He looked up at John B. then quickly looked back down at his beer, considerable surprise on his face.

Continue reading Breaking Bone

Lucius Longpockets

 

There’s something about the ‘morality tales’ (or fables) we were told as kids which resonated with me then, and has stayed with me over the subsequent years.  So I’ve crafted a couple of my own.

Here’s one –   I don’t have kids of my own to ‘test’ such stories on, so I’d welcome your feedback.

 

LUCIUS LONGPOCKETS

 

Lucius Lawrence was his name, but people called him Lucius Longpockets because he seemed to have so much trouble reaching for his wallet.

 

The same people called his poor little wife Nodding Nora, because whatever Lucius said, however outrageous or silly or rude, she would just nod. Smile her sweet little smile and nod.

 

Lucius did not believe in paying for anything he could get for free.

 

“Why should I buy a bottle of water from you?” he snapped at the man in the store. “You have a tap – I’ll get my water from that! Cos that’s free!”

 

“Why should I pay to buy a car, or the terrible expense of running one? Why should I pay to ride a bus or a train, full of people I wouldn’t like anyway?” he said. “I’ll ride my pushbike – cos that’s free!”

 

Lucius still had the bicycle his parents had given him many years earlier. He did his own maintenance work on it. He patched the tyres for as long as he could before he’d finally have to buy a new tyre because there wasn’t enough left of the old tyre to patch.

 

He greased the chain and all the joints with the grease from Nora’s kitchen – the grease that was so thick and black and horrible that even he wouldn’t eat food cooked in it. Nora would nod and smile sweetly at him, knowing that this week she would get to buy some new cooking oil.

 

Lucius only had three sets of clothes. He had his ‘everyday’ clothes, which he would wear every day from Monday to Saturday. He had his stripey pyjamas, that he would wear to bed every night. And he had his Sunday clothes, which he would wear once per week while Nora washed the other clothes.

 

She would wash his stripey pyjamas first, so that they would be dry in time for Lucius to wear them on Sunday night. Then she would wash his ‘everyday’ clothes so that they could dry during the day and overnight, ready for him to wear them first thing on Monday.

 

Nora had a few more changes of clothes than Lucius, but she made sure that they looked like each other so he wouldn’t notice and complain about her spending money.

 

They still lived in the little house that Lucius’ parents had owned. There wasn’t a lot of room, but there was only the two of them. The house was old, though, and some of it was rather worn-out.

 

Lucius didn’t like having to pay tradesmen to fix things. He was quite clever, and still quite fit so he did most things around the house himself. He fixed the plumbing when it was needed, and planed the doors when the damp weather warped them and they wouldn’t quite shut properly. He wouldn’t buy new windows – he would put putty around the panes if they started to rattle in the wind, and put tape over any cracks in the glass.

 

He would ride his bicycle to the local rubbish tip, and fill up his carry basket with things other people had thrown away that he could use to fix the house. Once he did four trips in a day to bring back a small stack of roof tiles. They were old and a bit damaged and might not quite fit his roof, but they were in slightly better condition than some of the very old ones that were already on the little house.

 

“And best of all, they’re free,” he explained to Nora as he set up his ladder to repair the roof.

 

Nora smiled sweetly at him and nodded.

 

One very cold winter their fridge broke down. Nora worried that their food would spoil. She called a serviceman and explained what had happened. When she had told him all the details, including how very old the fridge was, the man made sad little “Tsk tsk tsk” noises down the phone.

 

“I don’t think it can be repaired,” he said sadly. “It’s very hard to find parts for a machine that old, and they’re usually expensive. I’m afraid it would be cheaper for you to buy a new fridge.”

 

Later, after dinner, Nora told Lucius what the serviceman had said. He wasn’t pleased, but he had an idea.

 

“Why should I pay to get another one now? That can wait until summer when the sales are on. There’s lots of snow on the ground outside – we can store our food in that to keep it cold, cos that’s free.”

 

Nora paused for a moment. She didn’t nod, and her smile slipped a bit.

 

“Are you sure that’s a good idea, Lucius? It might be a little – inconvenient,” she said.

 

Lucius waved his hand, dismissing her concern.

 

“There’s a nice deep drift of snow under the old tree. That should make it easy for you to find stuff when you need it. I’ll put everything in those plastic bags we get for free from the supermarket and move it all now. You take yourself off to bed,” he said, feeling quite generous in offering to do the job himself.

 

Nora wasn’t too keen on having to dig food and drink out of the snow whenever she wanted something, but she nodded and said, “Very well, dear.”

 

As she went to go to her room Lucius called out from the doorway, “Don’t lie there reading too late, please. You know the electricity bill is expensive enough this time of year.”

 

Nora nodded. She only read two pages of her favourite book before she turned out the light. She didn’t mind – she knew the story well, having read it several times. One day she hoped they might buy some more books, even if it was from a second-hand shop.

 

She rolled over and went to sleep listening to the sound of Lucius’ footsteps as he went back and forth into the snow-covered garden.

 

“Whew! Only two more bags to go!” Lucius said to himself as he pushed snow over a bag of sausages.

 

He went to lean against the old tree and catch his breath, but he slipped slightly on the snow and his hand hit the trunk of the tree quite hard.

 

The old tree shook with the impact, and snow fell from the old branches. Some of it fell on Lucius, and a lot fell on the roof of the house.

 

Several of the tiles that didn’t fit very well came loose, and as they slid free a great big pile of snow also slipped – right off the roof and onto Lucius Longpockets.

 

“Gosh! That’s freez…” was all he managed to say.

 

One of the roof tiles bopped him on the head and knocked him out, but there was so much snow all over and around him he didn’t fall over. He just stood there, beside the stash of grocery bags, wet and coated in snow.

 

More flakes started to fall gently from the sky overnight, covering Lucius like a snowman. He froze to death without even knowing it.

 

Nora was very sad to lose him of course. She would think of Lucius and sigh over a chocolate biscuit and a cup of tea made with milk from her nice new fridge, as she read one of her new books.

 

But she’d smile her sweet little smile and nod sadly when friends would say, “At least now, you’re free.”

BOOMERANG

Some thoughts on coming back to Australia after nine months travelling…

 

It’s morning, and the beach is quiet.  A photographer and I are the only human life to be seen or heard.  She’s taking pictures of the old pier.  My pictures are all stored in my head.

Wind blowing the light sand, looking like fine plumes of water as they skim across the harder packed surface.  Not a single sheet, or a wave but ripples and wavelets – patterns like ragged lace.

Now and then it swirls or eddies but mostly it moves in long rapid sweeps.  Sometimes you really can see the wind.

A cormorant waddles ashore, stretching and flapping its wings to dry them.  The smaller seagulls give him a wide berth.  It’s a lazy time of day for them.  The picnickers aren’t out yet and the dawn fishermen have gone, their scraps already consumed by the early birds.

Twenty or so birds – terns and gulls alike huddled into themselves against the wind.

It’s a little chilly perhaps, but not cold.  Not cold like some of the places I’ll travel to.

Places further than even those gulls will fly.

I’ve walked on cobblestone streets and icy roads.  I’ve seen ancient cities and modern metropolises.  Stood in deserts and under trees that were a thousand years old.  Wandered into grand cathedrals and straw huts.

Now I’m sailing on an ocean on the other side of the world from the beach and the old pier.

But it’s all coming back to me.

I’m coming back to it.

50 ways to say “Thank you”

masvita      baraka laufik       kyai zoo tin baa dai      aw kohn

doh je        meitaki                hvala          dekuji

amasay ganala            motashakkeram           vinaka

kiitos          merci          tapadh leat                  danke

ehvkhahreesto    aabhar       mahalo       shalom       kurssurnurm

dalu           terimah kasi        domo arigato gozaimasu

goh mab seumnida      paldies       achiu          xiexie

bayarlalaa           shukran     takk            dziekuje     obrigado

multumesc          spasiba      hvala          ndatenda   istuti

kea leboha          gracias       asante       nandri        khop khoon

thoo jaychay       barkallaoo feek            tesekkur ederim

caym on     enkosi        aagbabire           ngiyabonga

a huge great HUG!

Grave Humour

It was a big old blue Vauxhall sedan. Real leather seats, real timber window frames. Not that I could appreciate the importance of such things back then.

 

I was small enough that perched on that real leather back seat, I could just barely see over the bottom of one of those real timber frames. If I craned my neck I could get a view of whatever we were driving past.

 

If I stood on the seat I knew I could get a better view, but I also knew that was a bad idea. I knew it wasn’t safe. Seatbelts hadn’t been invented yet, or if they had, they certainly hadn’t made it to our corner of suburban Brisbane, but I’d had it impressed on me that if I was standing up and the car stopped suddenly, I could expect to fly through the front windshield. I was told in no uncertain terms that I wouldn’t enjoy that.

Continue reading Grave Humour