Story Building – Security

“Security” was one of the flash pieces written for the NaShoStoMo challenge earlier this year. Perhaps you have heard of the “little” problem of crime in Johannesburg? (Not to mention the rest of SA, but anyway…) So, between armed response patrols, electrified fences, spikes and razor wire, the thought of what means could be used for security was turned into the flash piece. Of course, the paranormal and folklore had to feature. It was supposed to be a humorous look at the lengths people would go to to secure their homes; like seeing the funny side of getting your hair caught in razor wire when you’re simply hanging the laundry (something I seem to do quite often :P). But it did not quite turn out as planned…

Security – Day 4 – April 4 – NaShoStoMo Challenge

We were one of the last complexes in the suburb to upgrade our security. The Jones’ residential complex across the street was, of course, the first ones to employ a golem to guard their property. Sometimes you could see it behind the wrought iron gate or its glowing, red eyes at night as it peered between the electric fence wires on the wall. The wall spikes below glowed like bloodied spears and I tried not to look across to their place at all and even kept my living area curtains closed the whole day as well.

Scared that the robbers would come to their properties if they were left protected only by wires, alarms and armed response panic buttons; the other neighbours soon followed suit. As golems could be formed out of clay, it was the cheapest choice in New Era Security. Only the excessively rich and politicians could afford cyborgs to patrol their grounds. But none of them lived near this part of town. As the inner city slums had mushroomed, the suburbs were soon taken over; and previous open tracks of land were walled in before sprawling houses were built and their elite clients driven with police protection into the scattered idylls still existing in the Golden Province. Inside those walls were everything a person could want – solar electricity and water, schools and enough access to the internet that no one ever had to leave to go to work or look further than the fifteen foot walls enclosing their part of the world.

So the rest of us – the middle classes and the lower classes – lived outside the sprawling mansions of the rich; supplying their power, water and food and trying our best to stay alive. The golems worked for a while. Crime in the area dropped steeply and the few “unsavoury persons” that did try to enter property without the owner’s consent were found dead in the street the next morning. Some were not found at all. But it still seemed the best option – after all, those whose golems had killed a robber or two argued, they could have seen the “WARNING: GOLEM GUARD” notice on the gate and the glowing red eyes glaring at them should have been a clue as well. So we all took to checking the street for any bodies before letting the kids out to go to school. We figured that the bodies would stop turning up in a couple of weeks anyway – word would obviously spread that our area was well-guarded. But our complex still did not have a golem.

Then, about a week after the last corpse was found, my house was burgled. Luckily during the day when no one was home; but almost nothing was left inside. They had even emptied the pantry shelf and left only a box of cake mix long past its sell-by date. We had to face up to it – we had to get a guard for our complex. I called the toll-free Guards-R-Us number, but gave up after twenty minutes of tuneless electronic music. Figuring there was nothing left to steal anyway, I booked a cheap room at a local hotel and waited for the next morning to come and the call centres to open.

I wasn’t there when a couple of teenagers tried to sneak into a friend’s house for a surprise birthday wake-up. I also wasn’t there when the parents found that the golem had taken the task of keeping unauthorised persons from the property too seriously. I was thankful that I wasn’t the first one to check the road that day and that only came home after the paramedics and police had left. The grieving parents removed the letter from the golem’s brow and watched its enormous bulk turn to dust. Probably the others will follow suit.

Some people are talking about getting a troll or two for the whole neighbourhood as they would still be cheaper than a cyborg. At least trolls have more intelligence than the man-made hunk of clay and would only attack on command if their owner’s lives weren’t in danger. I left the neighbourhood meeting early. When Jones talked of trolls attacking on command, his eyes seemed just a bit too bright as he looked at his neighbour; Smith I think his name is. I think I would rather have a cyborg – at least they have voice and face recognition. Of course, as they are only available to the few elite in the mansions, I will have to quit my job and move away. I hope someone in the mansions have need of a live-in maid or nanny.  

But there’s more!

For more NaShoStoMo stories, click here.

Or, to learn more about golems from Jewish folklore, click here.

Normality from Wednesday. I hope.

I thought I had the week perfectly planned. A whole week of vacation after a tough time at work (those following me on Twitter probably saw an increase in coffee-tweets...). I would write, I would blog, I would get Top Secret Plans A and B into working order. I would spring clean (even though it’s already summer).

As usual, things didn’t go as planned. But I did get most of the cleaning done. This was helped by me not being able to connect to the internet for more than a couple of minutes at a time. Never mind being able to post, I couldn’t even get a page open to post from. But I’ve almost got it sorted – and should be able to get the normal posts up and running from tomorrow or Wednesday. Here’s holding thumbs. And hoping this post posts. :P

An Overload of Limn

Or, Travels without Rescue Remedy

I am a nervous person by nature – give me a couple of molehills and in no time you can have the Himalayas in your back yard. I blame my genes. I also blame living in Gauteng – but that’s another story. So, of course, I will look for hobbies that will sooth my frazzled nerves and give me some respite. Hence, you will not find me rock climbing, scuba diving, or eating something which contains nuts. I just don’t need that kind of adrenalin rush.

Mostly, I turn to books once the business hours have passed and the daily traffic jams are left behind. I have quite an eclectic taste – give me a good story and I’ll most probably read it. Give me good writing and I’ll indulge for hours. The problem comes in more when picking what to read first. This problem is compounded when walking into libraries. Not only can I take out just about any book in the building, but I can do so for a very minimal payment. For. A. Whole. Year. And only then need I hand over some more cash.

There is a rush all bibliophiles share – the rush of finding the book. The book which is just the kind of thing you were searching for. The book that makes your hand move to the shelf on its own accord. The book that hides in plain sight until you pass the shelf and then it suddenly grabs hold of your poor oculars, nearly tripping you as you try to walk by without taking them off the spine. The rush of a good book sale. Ah, the book sale; the bibliophile’s kryptonite.

The rush can make you do strange things. It can make the biggest nerd with the smallest stature carry around 20kg of books on one arm for the entire time it takes to search through the whole sale. It can make you spend your whole food budget before you even fully realize what you picked up. It can even let you make excuses about why you really, really, REALLY need ten more books right now. ‘Of course books have no side-effects,’ you stutter while one eye twitches as you spot a biography of Borges. And you get to swipe your club card on sales purchases. You’re actually saving money. And you were thinking of going on a water diet anyway. And one of the books is a gift for someone else. And your new mantra for 2011 is suddenly ‘limn… limn… limn…’. Before you know it, your New Year’s resolution to stick to your budget is bust, you’re using a credit card to buy food and you forget to go to work because the book you’re reading is just so good.

This year, rather stick to a couple drops of Rescue Remedy before going in search of new reading material. At least then you can go on a bread and water diet after buying another Bottomless Bag o’ Books.

The Bibliophile

First published over at:
http://letterdash.com/lonebibliophile/an-overload-of-limn

Story building – Behind the scenes

It seems that, as the year hurtles towards the end, my mind also gets more scattered. It may be because it’s the time of year when you’re working with two diaries – and trying to remember which day you’re actually busy with. Or maybe it’s just because winter is long forgotten (here, at least) and the holidays are beckoning. Whatever it is, I’m finding myself working on a couple of short stories simultaneously, even though the themes, worlds and even genres are quite different. The one story that seems to be flowing at the moment is called “Stolen Time” for the time being.

I thought it might be interesting to take a look at the workings behind the stories I’m writing at the moment – or have already written. People often ask me (and most writers or writerly types) “Where do you get your ideas”? The thing is, I rarely know. Most of the time an idea just pops into my head from seemingly nowhere. “Here but for Grace”, another WIP, started when I saw how awful I looked in a dressing room mirror. Another idea gets planted while I’m on the treadmill and staring at the opposite wall – usually a good time for world or story building! This week I’ll focus on the main story I’m busy with at the moment.

WIP – Stolen Time – Behind the scenes

So, where did that story idea come from? “Stolen Time” is a sci-fi short story, set in the not too far future. The light bulb lit up when I heard about someone being sentenced to quite a couple of years in prison. Add some ponderings about time while washing the dishes and voila! A story which has nothing to do with the original people, crime or judge is born…

When the main character takes the blame for a crime someone else committed, he gets thrown into a hopeless world and starts to wonder whether what he did was really worth it. Throw in a bit of freaky technology, a couple of corrupt officials, questions about justice, life and death – and who deserves either of these – I’ve given myself quite a story to write.

Why write it then?

Because, now that I’ve started the story, I need to see how it ends. I need to answer these questions myself, for myself. It’s really as simple as that. The story needs to get out, it needs to be told. By writing a story, I can take different viewpoints (some very unlike my own sometimes), measure each, see how they will work in a certain context and have a jol doing it.

Research can be fun – and disturbing

All went well until I reached about 2,500 words. The main character was established, the world was established enough for the first draft and I had reached one of the main scenes of the story – a death scene. Basically, it is the death of someone whom you might say deserve it. You weren’t supposed to feel very sorry for him when I set out to write it. But, when it came to writing the scene, I found I couldn’t make it a black and white scene. Gray entered and, with it, more conflict (which I guess is a good thing). So, I scribbled some margin notes and continued on, but then I realised I needed to know more about human decomposition timelines than I’ve learned from shows such as Medical Detectives, NCIS and the like.

After some reading I wish I did before having gone through the trouble of making dinner – I did manage to write a decent first draft of the scene. The biggest problem with this scene will be balance – the last thing I want is a gore-fest slapped in the middle of the story. There’s a certain amount of gore which I’m comfortable with writing (or even reading), but there is also the right amount of gore for a specific story. If you’re not setting out to do a “lone hitchhiker with a love of chainsaws and the colour red” story, there’s really no need to go all-out with the gore factor. I’m quite happy to leave the details to the reader’s imagination. After all, when you write about decapitated human heads being catapulted over a city wall, you don’t need to write about every blood spatter[1]. This is probably one of the scenes I’ll have to edit or rewrite the most once I’m done with the draft.

All in all, I had a good writing night – about 800 words after all the research. Tonight, I’ll tackle the next two (luckily) corpse-free scenes. And maybe even enjoy dinner tonight!

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[1] If you’re going WHAT! o.0 at this moment; this happens in Lord of the Rings: Return of the King. And no, every speck of blood isn’t described. 

Inspiration Friday: Remembering the Foreign Fields

Today is Remembrance Day or Veterans Day. Perhaps not many will wear a poppy on their breast today, perhaps many will. For me, like countless others, today is not a day to celebrate war (which is a comment I hear quite often). It is a day to mourn and remember all of the soldiers who fall in the horror of battle. But also to remember those they leave behind and those soldiers who survive with visible and invisible scars.

 Last week, I quoted one of the poems in the book ACorner of a Foreign Field: The Illustrated Poetry of the First World War.

The poem “In Flanders Fields” is well-known, and also mentions the poppies that bloomed on some of the battlefields. These red poppies have become a symbol of the blood spilt in the war.

In Flanders Fields

In Flanders fields the poppies blow

Between the crosses, row on row

That mark our place; and in the sky

The larks, still bravely singing, fly

Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago

We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,

Loved and were loved, and now we lie

In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:

To you from failing hands we throw

The torch; be yours to hold it high.

If ye break faith with us who die

We shall not sleep, though poppies grow

In Flanders fields.

-          John McCrae

Both C.S. Lewis and JRR Tolkien also fought in WWI. John Garth wrote a book Tolkien and the Great War: TheThreshold of Middle-earth which I would not only recommend to the fans of Tolkien. The personal strife and hardship of people in the war is brought home vividly.

I can also recommend TheImperial War Museum Book of The First World War: A Great Conflict Recalled inLetters, Diaries and Memoirs by Malcolm Brown.

This song also has me in tears each time I hear it.

Worldbuilding: Map of the Dragon City

I’ve almost finished a (proper) sketch of Duizisborg and its surrounds!

A Map of "The Dragon City of the South"

Unfortunately, there ended up not being enough space on this map to get all the names in, so I’ve reverted to using a numbered list.  I have yet to write them on the map, so here’s a separate list, for now:

1. The Northern Gate
2. The House of the Dragon Guardians
3. The Inner City (the richest part of the city)
4. The Eastern Gate
5. The Harbour
6. Lighthouse
7. Lighthouse
8. The Square/ Dragon Square
9. The Poor Quarter
10. The Watchtowers
11. Dragon Lake

The little triangles are the main fountains, as the city gets most of its water from an underground water network.

Read more about the city here, or read “The Price of Freedom” (part 1 to 5) here.

Monday Fiction - A Drink of Water

Or, Something from those dusty scrolls at the back...
I'll be honest. I wrote a new ending for Price of Freedom this weekend. Why? Because I suddenly realised that this new ending was what I was looking for all along for the end. But that also means quite a bit of rewriting. So, for this week, I bring you an older piece of Airthai-fiction for your Monday Fiction fix. Enjoy!


A Drink of Water

Aran struggled along the dusty path and realised he was utterly lost. The sun sat wrong in the sky, the Red Mountains looked wrong, the road showed no sign of soldiers passing. He stopped and looked around him. Somewhere he had taken a wrong turn. He felt at his breast for the letter stowed there – a message he was to take to the Awíkla. He was to send news that a passage to the Lost Ones had been discovered and more soldiers were needed. A sudden gust of wind whipped the red dust around him and Aran shielded his face with the light coloured cloth which he wore around his neck. The valley which he had reached by taking the wrong turn was as desolate parched as the rest of the western part of the Sundered Lands.

He tried swallowing, but his mouth and throat was too parched. He felt at his pocket for the letter. He had to get more soldiers to the pass. He had to keep on running. But where to? The glare from the sun made his surrounds wavy and indistinct and he could not distinguish whether the small outcropping he saw was boulders or nomadic tents. He could see no-one and only the droning of cicadas sounded in his ears. Or maybe it was just his thickening blood that sounded a warning to him to get to water. He shook the dust from his clothes and looked around again. Would he have better luck continuing along this road, or to turn back?

In the end he plodded on, hoping some shade and water lay before him – and that he would reach it before succumbing to the heat. By the time he reached the next crossroad his head was pounding and the pain reverberated through his whole body. He wanted to cry, but even tears would not come. He squinted against the sun and saw a statue that gladdened his heart. It was a black stone dragon. The carved stone stood stark against the red and yellow stone of the surroundings.

The messenger stumbled to the dark pillar of stone. Surely in this wilderness the pillar would also show where a well is? He wiped at his face and neck as he looked around at the ground around the pillar until he spotted the low stone covering of the well. With his last strength he moved the stone lid and peered down. The low well was empty.

With a cry of despair Aran fell to his knees and started sobbing. Why did he have to die like this? Why would his god let this happen? He was, after all, on his way to the Awíkla! He was serving as best he could. The pain in his head and body intensified and he could not summon strength to stumbled more than a few steps at a time. Was there no one that could help him? He fell again and caught himself on bloody palms. Then he saw another figure approaching.

He forced himself upright and waited, not sure if the figure was even real. The figure was not wearing the light armour of the soldiers or the robes of the Awíkla. And surely a S’wíkla wouldn’t travel all alone in this wilderness? Then he saw the light blue band around the man’s waist. The man was of the Aíhla! Aran drew his knife from his belt and waited for the man to attack. He was a S’wíkla, after all, and would not die without a fight.

The Aíhlaê drew closer and, when he was nearly ten metres away, spoke. “I am Leshem,” he called and revealed his face from beneath its light colouring. “You are lost?” he asked before Aran could answer. “I have not seen any other Awíkla here,” he called and stepped closer. “You look near death, friend, let us help you.”

Friend? Us? Aran glanced around – and saw two other figures approaching in the distance. The rush of blood blocked out all sound as the man who called himself Leshem walked still closer. When the Aíhlaê reached for his belt, Aran attacked with all the strength he had left, and struck straight for the Aíhlaê’s heart. His blade struck true and he fell on top of the dying man before forcing himself to his feet to face the other Aíhla who were approaching. Aran pressed his left hand to the ground as he got up and felt mud between his fingers. He glanced down, saw the Aíhlaê’s water skin spill its contents into the red dust, and realised that the man had not reached for weapon. But it was too late.

Friday Inspiration: Those Foreign Fields

Sometimes it’s the simplest titles…

Socks

Shining pins that dart and click

In the fireside’s sheltered peace

Check the thoughts that cluster thick –

20 plain and then decrease

He was brave – well, so was I –

Keen and merry, but his lip

Quivered when he said good-bye –

Purl the seam-stitch, purl and slip.

Never used to living rough,

Lots of things he’d got to learn;

Wonder if he’s warm enough –

Knit 2, catch 2, knit 1, turn.

Hark! The paper-boys again!

Whish that shout could be suppressed;

Keeps one always on the strain –

Knit off 9, and slip the rest.

Wonder if he’s fighting now,

What he’s done and where he’s been;

He’ll come out on top, somehow –

Slip 1, knit 2, purl 14.

-          Jesse Pope

With Veteran’s Day coming up next week, I thought I’d delve into some of my books on various wars and conflicts. The above poem is taken from a beautiful collection I discovered at a book store once. Called, A Corner of a Foreign Field: The Illustrated Poetry of the First World War, the poems were selected by Fiona Waters and illustrated with photos from the Daily Mail, it is a heart-wrenching tribute to all caught up in the war – from the soldiers in the trenches to the wives, sweethearts and children left behind.

Some books I can highly recommend:

All Quiet on the Western Front by Erich Maria Remarque.

Following the Drum: The Lives of Army Wives and Daughters Past and Present by Annabel Venning, Headline Book Publishing, 2005.

A Corner of a ForeignField: The Illustrated Poetry of the First World War by Fiona Waters, Transatlantic Press, 2007.

Worldbuilding Wednesday - The Dragon City of the South

Or, Some Ramblings on a City with Dragons

Called Diuzisborg by its inhabitants and Dragonburg by most, the southern port city of the Dragon Guardians are one of the most important in Reiaghy. Two roads lead to the city – the Northern Road and the Water Road; from the east. Along this road many goods are transported to and from the main land. Because of the swampy ground between this and the other port cities further east, many goods are also transported by sea. Trade between the New Isles, the Western Isles and the Southern Lands are also done mostly by sea in order to cut out the laborious land travel and the stark desert of the Death Plain.

Another reason for ships to stop at Diuzisborg is to enlist the help of Dragon Guardians and Dragons on their way northwest to the New and the Western Isles. After the Sundering, Sea Dragons were awakened from the deeps of the ocean and hunt the ocean between the Southern Coast of the Continent and the Sundered Lands. To be able to make a voyage in the Southern Ocean, therefore, ships and their crew needed protection from these Sea Monsters. At this time, ships were still too flimsy to withstand an attack, and the weapons not sophisticated enough for proper defence. Captains therefore enlisted the help of a dragon and its Guardian – two if the dragon’s Guardian was female – to accompany it to the isles and back and fend off any monsters.

Although the dragons were usually enough to frighten off the monsters, some still attacked vessels and even sunk some ships. The dragon would then call to its brethren (if still close enough to the land) to help it save as many of the people as possible – first by slaying the sea dragon and then taking the men to safety. Because of the extra cost of procuring a dragon and its Guardian – as well as the extra space taken up by a Guardian, some owners were loath to pay the extra cost – or even stop at the port to call. Many of these unaccompanied ships were lost – some without any survivors, seeming just to vanish into the vastness of the ocean. Others decided to make their boats and ships seem as dragon-like as possible in hopes to scare off any Sea Dragons. This method was especially employed after the dragons and their Guardians left the city and the Dragon Cliffs to seek a more peaceful isle further west.

Dragons were also sometimes used in transporting goods over the Dragon Cliffs and Dhôr Mountains to the dry lands, which got most of their wealth from the salt mines (some of the best salt purporting to have healing qualities, but even the lowest grade mined still better than most other types in the Western, Southern and Middle Lands).

However, dragons would not be used as constant beasts of burden – and their Guardians would also not use them so. The work the dragons did do; was seen as a way of helping their Guardians and other people of the Continent after the Sundering. For they knew that, if the Guardians should not exist, that they, too, would perish or lose the talent of language bestowed on them. 

Image from: http://graphicsfairy.blogspot.com/