Big Eric wants a word. He’s a troll. About eight feet tall and in possession of muscles on his muscles. He may not be too bright, but he’s afraid of nothing and adheres to a very strict code of conduct.
If Eric doesn’t like you he will mostly ignore you but if you persistently get on his norms he will seek you out and, pointing a thick finger at your face, he will say, slowly and clearly, “I don’t like you.” (At which point, if you have even half a brain you will back off and stop twisting his tail.) If you carry on after a warning he will come and find you again, and he will probably chastise you with one of his big, knobbly fists. If you have something he wants he will ask you nicely (of course, if you don’t hand it over he still has the option of a fist or his club)
Given the above you can perhaps see why he’s not best pleased by the phrase ‘Internet Troll’. To his way of thinking people who hide behind keyboards, false identities, and cutesie avatars while they lay into anyone who disagrees with them do not deserve to be called trolls. They are, he avers, worthless cowardly pieces of oooflah (trollish for excrement).
Don’t dignify those whose only function in life is to make other people miserable by calling them after a life form possessing a certain brutal nobility.
Masked women sounds glamorous and sexy, but in truth…
Daughter, wife, mother, grandmother – which discounts neighbour, friend, secretary and all the other socially acceptable faces.
It’s surprising, when you think about it, how few women are in custody – or the divorce courts – because their masks were so suffocating that they threw them aside and did all the things society thinks they shouldn’t.
Who hasn’t longed to skinny dip in a dark sea with a dangerous lover?
Who hasn’t looked across the breakfast table and wanted to flick marmalade?
A brutal fantasy tale of piracy, friendship, romance and revenge on the high seas…
Next morning, a meeting of a select group of the most feared and respected of pirates took place on the Pink Pig. Jack took the chair and laid out his plan. About halfway through, Mary laid her face on the table and groaned. He looked at her in some severity. “Hush up now. You get your chance when I finish.” By the time he had finished speaking, she had herself together. “Okay,” she said. “It’s certainly a plan. And probably has at leat half a chance of working. And I know you have to kill this Spaniard with your own hand if you don’t want to be fighting your own kind forever. I just wish it wasn’t so fucking dangerous.” “Me too.” Jack grinned fiercely. “But there is no other way to eliminate Don Esteban and come out of the deal with a profit.” “So we do it then. The only alteration I’m determined to make is that the Pig will be hove to behind the jaws of Hell’s Maw, just in case you need help.” For a moment it looked as if Jack was going to argue, but in the end he just ducked his head. “I guess it’s no good asking you to keep out of danger.” “Not when you are running your fool head into a noose.” The hashing out of the details took a surprisingly short time and once the meeting broke up the other pirates returned to their own vessels. Mary and Jack leaned on the taffrail and watched them go. Down on the ground one of the less intelligent prodded his captain with a grimy forefinger. “Cap’n Teach,” he said in a voice that hovered between horror and respect. “Is them pair doing it?” “What pair? Doing what?” “Tall Jack and Bony Mary. Doing It.” “Very probably.” “But. But. He’s a shortarse. Don’t even come up to her shoulder. How can…” the voice tailed off and Teach laughed a short bark of genuine amusement. “They probably don’t do it standing up.” Mary took an unripe apple out of her pocket and flicked it ground-wards with unerring accuracy. It bounced off the head of the inquisitive sailor, who cringed. “Mind your own business, nosy.” She turned a laughing face to Jack, who favoured her with a wicked grin. “I think we now have to figure out a way to prove Teach wrong.” For a moment she didn’t catch his meaning, but when she did her own eyes lit with unholy amusement. “Impossible.” By way of an answer he grabbed her hand and dragged her into the forecastle cabin slamming the door firmly behind him.
Three weeks later and nobody was laughing. Mary sent up a silent prayer to the god who protects idiots and then set her mouth in a grim line as she manoeuvred the Pig into hiding under the overhanging rocks at the mouth of Hell’s Maw. Her crew obeyed her in unusual silence. Out in the blue water of the bay, Jack and his crew were busy perfecting their performance. It had to look good or they would be sunk. Maybe literally. As the sun climbed towards its zenith all they could do was hope that all their confederates had done their parts. As it happened, they had.
So now the party’s over And New Year’s all rung in, You’re clearing up the kitchen Throw bottles in the bin. You wipe your brow and wonder If it is all worthwhile As last years dreams are ashes Upon the compost pile. For this year looks so empty Through the window of your eyes So bleakly lies the future In a fog of truth and lies And your heart feels heavy As you set the place to right Hearing all the laughter Your guests shared there last night. It doesn’t really take too long To tidy up the room After all, was only you The others were on Zoom…
I will admit to having sipped on a small soupcon of eggnog over the festivities and today I was less than delighted to find Mumsie glaring at me over the breakfast table with something between pity and incredulity. “Gods Moons! How can you get to be so old and not know how to deal with a hangover?” She pushed her glass over to me. its interesting aroma of bath salts and battery-acid curling the hairs on the inside of my nasal cavities. Mummy was without mercy. “Stop pulling a face and drink it. Hair of the dog.”
The flavour was indeed not unakin to canine fur, if it had been marinaded in fecal matter and turpentine. However, maternal wisdom won through and having consumed her panacea I am now sitting sprightly in my writing cave and able to share with you the hard-won fruits of my years as a writer-in-waiting. But now, dear RWW, it is you who are the bridesmaid and I the gushing bridegroom of the Muses.
So, to business. The new year is upon us and it behoves us all to pay heed to the ancient traditions of this especial time. No, I do not mean carrying a black cat over your shoulder backwards across the threshold of your house, or hailing your neighbour with gibberish at midnight, or singing Scottish songs about those acquaintances from the past you most certainly do want to forget. No. I mean the important tradition of making a New Year’s Resolution for your literary year ahead.
It needs to be something that encapsulates in a single intention all your writing aspirations and plans for the forthcoming twelve months. When deciding what is fitting, be not modest or parsimonious about your talent. Set yourself the greatest goal you can imagine, scale the heights of ambition, unleash the inner yearning to follow your dreams and commit yourself to that and that alone.
I will keep to myself my own resolution for the coming year as it might undermine the determination you bring to your own or even lead you astray from your petty path in some vain attempt to mimic mine. But here are a few I consider might be fitting for you, my students.
Resolve to study all of The Thinking Quill lessons.
Begin writing a novella.
Complete a haiku.
Peruse A-G in a thesaurus.
Purchase and read “Fatswhistle and Buchtooth” and “How To Start Writing A Book” by Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV.
Buy some pens with glittery pastel-coloured ink so your writing looks like unicorn faeces. This will add magic to those moments when you look in blank incomprehension at the notes you wrote in the depths of the night.
Start each morning with a free dance expressing the joy of being alive.
Take up yoga or pilates – whichever you did not plan to do last year but never started.
Choose well and be sure to keep it, disciple, that way lies the path to true authorship.
Tattered clouds In a bone white sky Like broken birds Go sailing by Darkened water A wrinkled face Draggled torn Like ancient lace The old year sheds Her colours bright And silently slips Into the night.
It was very quiet in the stacks, even the children’s books hushed their chatter and gently rustled their pages as if waiting. The night librarian moved from shelf to shelf, carefully straightening spines and smoothing wrinkled pages. Her felt-slippered feet made no sound on the ancient stones of the floor, and all that could be heard was her voice softly reassuring her charges. “Have no fear. All is as it should be.” The books relaxed under the ministrations of her square, brown hands until at last she came to the place of grimoires and books of spells. In this area, the darkness was deep and charged with the sort of power that ought to make the average human female fall to the ground afraid. But the librarian was no average female and her sturdy, cardigan clad body absorbed the leaking magics with no evidence of strain, though an observant watcher might have noticed a strange sparkle in her pale eyes. “Who is losing power?” she asked. Me. Me. Me. Half a hundred voices echoed in the starless air. The librarian stood quietly, listening to each and every complaint. When the clamour died down she took a small, gnarled stick from her pocket and walked thought the books touching apparently random spines as she walked. She had just reached the end of the section called ‘majical tomes’ when there came a sound as of a muted bell. Every book in the library signed. “The old one comes.” “Is it safe for me, librarian?” “Aye. The leaks in the wall have been sealed and you may breathe your last among the stories you have wrote if that be your desire.” “It is,” the voice ended on a sigh that was all at once as gentle as the breath of a lover and as wild as the wind that drives the cruel sea. Every book in the place rustled its pages just once, before settling into its given place without another sound. The librarian walked to that place where once a mighty pentagram had been drawn in the white stones with the blood of a pure hero. She moved to the very centre of that circle of power and held out her hands with the nobbly stick resting across her palms. Came a flaw in the light and her place was taken by an old, old man whose torn cloak showed glimpses of the starry universe through the rents in its fabric. As one, the books began to count down in time to the single silver bell that tolled the hours from the highest point on the library roof. Ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, one… Bong! Bong! The brassy tongues of every bell in the university city tolled the end of the old year and the birth of the new. The old man collapsed into a pile of rags and for a second it was as if time itself stopped. “Requiesce in pace.” The librarian’s voice broke the silence and a small wind blew away the rags and dust, leaving in their stead a tall young man with golden hair and the beauty of a classical athlete. He bowed thrice to the plain little librarian who shimmered with the light of power as she reappeared in the circle. “Gracias ago tibi, mater.” Then he was gone and only the librarian remained breathing heavily, as if she had run a long way. A voice from one of the stacks spoke softly. “It must be hard to see your child die.” “It is necessary. Unless one child dies the next has no birth. Now sleep my dears.” And the librarian went up the stairs to her bedroom with a heart as heavy as lead and as light as a carnival balloon. As she laid her head on her cool white pillow she smiled. “Endings and beginnings,” she said before she fell asleep.
Jonas got to the Hiring Fair just after dawn and headed straight for the place where soldiers’ widows could be found. He saw her immediately, with the early morning sun setting her hair aflame. She was sitting on her trunk with a small girl child playing some complex game in the dust around her skirts. He strode over, and she came to her feet, albeit somewhat uncertainly. The child hid behind her, becoming all but invisible among the folds of shabby cloth. “I’m looking for a housekeeper. One who won’t mind hard work and who don’t crave company.” “Farmer are you?” He nodded, suddenly feeling that his hands and feet were too big and his boots were too dusty. But she smiled. “I’m a farmer’s daughter. Three-day ride to the nearest neighbour.” “I’m not that far out. Just a day from town, so long as the roads aren’t frozen or flooded.” He found himself feeling unaccountably cheered by the idea this woman might consider him. Before he had the chance to say any more he was roughly shoved aside by two big rough-looking men. They made way for a middle-aged man of the merchant classes, whose clothing proclaimed him as well-to-do and whose small close-set eyes stripped the woman of both her clothes and her dignity. “You are hired,” he said. “I’m sorry sir. I have already given my token to this gentleman.” The man spat on the floor at her feet. “Your loss,” he snarled before passing along the line of waiting women assessing each with his hard little eyes. Under the cover of this rude bustle the woman quietly handed a small copper token to Jonas. He smiled ruefully. “I won’t refuse this, although it isn’t much of a compliment being preferred to him.” He indicated the merchant with a jerk of one thumb. Her answering smile brought a furtive dimple to one cheek. “It truly isn’t, but I was going to accept you. If you offered.” “I’m offering now. Twenty-five silver coins. Bed and board for you and the little girl. Plus fabrics to clothe you both.” “That is more than generous.” “Oh. You’ll work for it. The place hasn’t seen a woman’s hand since my sister married her man at Eastertide. Now. How do they call you?” “I’m Hannah and this is Hepzibah” The child gave him a gap-toothed grin and he responded with a smile of his own. “I’m Jonas. Well met Hannah and Hepzibah.” He bent and shouldered their trunk. “Buckboard is this way.” After a night spent on the road, they entered the farm at just before noon on a brisk morning. “The house is about two miles now.” Hannah smiled at him and he felt warmed by her smile. He looked at the log and fieldstone cabin with suddenly critical eyes. “It ain’t much,” he mumbled, and Hannah actually laughed. “It looks nice and homely to me. If there were flowers growing in those beds by the door it would be perfect” When the horses stopped, gratefully scenting their own stable, Jonas jumped down, turning to lift Hannah and Hepzibah onto the grassy bank that fronted the cabin. Hepzibah looked to her mother, and Jonas laughed. “Let her run, she can come to no harm here.” The little girl needed no second bidding and set off to explore, accompanied by one of the farm dogs. Hannah walked into the house and set to work.
Three months later, with winter drawing in, the house and garden looked almost the way Jonas remembered it as looking when his mother was alive, and he derived a great deal of quiet pleasure in watching Hannah about her work. Being by nature both shy and taciturn he said little, although anyone with eyes in their head could notice how his face warmed and softened when he looked at his housekeeper and her child. It was time for his last trip into town before the road became too difficult, and he found himself reluctant to leave the womenfolk behind. Hannah laughed kindly. “Go on with you. We have the dogs and Jim Shepherd. We will be fine.” On his way into town, Jonas mused on how much more pleasant was his life with two females in his house, and he remembered his father’s words about womenfolk with an inward smile. And then it was as if he heard his mother whisper in his ear. “You know what you need to do, son.” He hurried his business, eager for the comfort of his own fireside, and was home inside four days. Jim Shepherd came to the horses’ heads and the cabin door opened. Hepzibah flew out and he lifted her to his shoulder before grabbing two bags from the back of the buckboard. Jim led the horses away and Jonas carried the little girl into the cabin. Hannah was waiting for him with a smile and it seemed the most natural thing in the world to kiss her smooth brown cheek before sitting in his accustomed chair and drawing off his boots. “It’s good to be home.” Little more was said until after supper when Hepzibah was in bed asleep. Jonas took a sheaf of packages out of his inside pocket and handed them to Hannah. She took them, and then coloured with pleasure as she saw they were packets of flower seeds. “I know my garden is plain and bare, and I know these will be no use until the spring…” He got no further because Hannah surprised herself by kissing him on the lips. “Thank you.” He captured her face in his big hands. “My father used to say that a house without womenfolk is like a garden without flowers. Will you and Hepzibah plant some flowers in my heart to go with the ones you will plant in the garden?” Hannah couldn’t speak for the tears that clotted her throat. But she could nod. And that was enough…
I came upon a crate of beer Left out behind a bar And as t’was closed until New Year I shoved it in my car Police were out in strength that night With breathalyzer bags But I was sober as a judge And got through all their tags.
I took the booze to my best friends place And there we had some cheer Invited round the blokes we know And shared out all that beer ‘Peace on the earth, goodwill to men’ I told my drunken crew We sang the verse of Auld Lang Syne And then began to spew.
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