Recently Read

I have been struggling of late to find books worthy reading. It has been even more challenging to find one worth writing about - so this is going to be a short post. 

However I was pleasantly surprised by Written in Red by Anne Bishop. I had noticed the covers of this author previously when browsing the library bookshelves. Until now I had been scared off by the blond-haired curvy female dominating the front. Further, I took the enlarged size of the author's name - bigger than the title - as solid indicator the story is likely to be trash. So this was the first of her novels I actually cracked open.

Inside I discovered a world parallel to our own where humans have not dominated the land. Though they have spread to different corners of the world and have developed our modern conveniences, they do not have supremacy over nature. Instead, humans have been restricted to living in only a few cities and towns scattered across the continents and isolated by large, untamed tracts of deadly wilderness. The resources on which humans depend for manufacture and economic growth are controlled by the Others – essentially the fay.

Now, I don’t always like the employment of fairies in stories – they are silly. However, I did appreciate the way Bishop tried to portray these fay as Not Human. She seemed keen to emphasize the fact they are different, wild creatures lacking our narrow opinions and judgements. It was the Others that dominated the world, that won the battle between man and nature that came to control our destinies. I was particularly fond of the Other’s view of humans – intelligent meat. That view point, held pretty consistent throughout the book, was refreshing.It gave the story telling a clean, bright voice that feels different and exciting when compared with the other narratives saturating the market.

Although, I foresee this hardline attitude changing if she were to continue developing the world – which would be a sad loss to the tone of the story. I will not be surprised, after all it is the most common element of paranormal/fantasy to have humans tame the wild creatures of their environment - or enslave, depending on whether we are going for sappy and romantic or asskicking story styles. 

I also liked the pseudo-modern, urban fantasy seeting that both was and was not our world. For once, wild spaces and trees were not a distant memory but the truth of the world. Although cities exist, they are contained, hemmed in and overseen by the fae. This was a refreshingly different point of view, neatly separating it from the numerous paranormal-cop-chick-trashy-romance novels breeding on the library book shelves. 

Not only do I give this book a pass, but I would be interested in reading another story set in this world. 

Dota 2 - Diary

I woke with a start. The world was dark and sulfurous. Pools of lava warmed the ground and filled my belly with fire. The air smelled like the great volcanoes in the heart of my mountains, but this was not the vast ledge where I roosted with my family. It was not the ancient forest of pine and fir I hunted for food and for sport. This was an unfamiliar world filled with strange creatures.

A spike of black rock curved in a semi-circle around me forming a nest of sorts. Tucked to one side was a funny looking man standing behind a wood stall and offering all sorts of strange objects. He took what little coin I had for potions of green and blue, a funny looking donkey and a stack of twigs. The man, round and chubby and looking more like a tasty treat, assured me that I would find use for these cryptic objects. Before I could press him for more information four strangers appeared at my side.

Looking left and right I counted four others appearing suddenly in this rock-nest. A man in metal, a man smelling of ozone and summonings, a man riding a piece of bird-meat, and a thing wreathed in purple haze. I knew nothing of these beings, though the chubby merchant smiled and sold them more objects from his stall. They were creatures unlike anything that I had seen in my mountains.

From the Great Sky a disembodied voice sited a countdown to the commencement of our hunt. Was this the ancient god of my race?

Dispersing from the rock-nest, I was sent to accompany the glowing purple demon. I hovered close to the wide paths as we trailed armed greenmen. The stagnant air affected my ability to gain the great heights I would reach in my home range. We moved cautiously through a sickly forest. The trees had turned to grey twigs; twisted stumps that hemmed in the path. We passed obsidian black towers as we rounded a corner to suddenly face two heavily armed opponents.

The bearded man hung back shooting at me from a metal tube. His unfamiliar teeth had range. But his lady moved in closer. She appealed to my right half with her silver flakes and touch of frost.

They crossed a mighty river to enter our woods choked with forgotten decay. At their feet, more greenmen rushed into the deadwood; raising spears into the air and sending small fires flying into our own greenmen. Their mall fires were pitiful in comparison to the flames burning in my own belly.

Greenmen attacked greenmen. Their deaths revealed fetid flesh that I would be loath to dine upon. Instead I turned my gaze to the river. The raging waters divided the land itself into the living and the dead. Beyond the ribbon of blue was a healthy forest of green. I knew it was fresh with delicious prey. Only two individuals stood in my way of that prize. Two individuals I would freeze and burn to reach that golden paradise.

Suddenly I am surrounded. Hulking strangers burst into the space around. Swords are hefted overhead and swung in a great arc. A boulder tumbled out of the cloudless sky. An arrow skimmed my outstretched wing.

I had no escape. Figures blurred in my vision. I became confused. , boulders came tumbling from the sky and arrows skim my outstretched wings. I panicked belching fire and breathing ice on those that came close. It didn’t work. Pain erupted in my chest. I fall from the sky hitting the ground hard. I could not lift my heads, every inch of my leather hide burns with pain. It was the end. The end of my own hunt, oblivion took over.

There was sweet blackness, the great release. Then the sulfurous stench of the Earth’s heart fills me once more. I blink awake in a ring of black stone. A nest with a merchant manning a wooden stall. 

The Black Dragon of Death

Back in the day, my brother was busy creating a fantasy world of dungeons, dragons, and interactive computer worlds. It held the working title of KOS, which didn't stand for anything as far as I know. It was a world inhabited by heroes typical of many adventuring games. Besides being the first, and likely only, reader of this now ancient project I was involved only in the production of poems. Ideally, epic pieces that would capture the reader and enhance the flavour of the world. I didn't get far with this project, however, digging through my remaining scraps I have dredged up this piece. It was to reflect one of the legends in a world dominated by heroic deeds - a celebration of one of the original six - at least that was the intention.

The most revered
The one they feared
The Black Dragon of Death

He rose up high
Into the deep blue sky
The Black Dragon of Death

Two eyes burned red
Filling all with dread
The Black Dragon of Death

Snout and body long
Emanating an eerie song
The Black Dragon of Death

Black scales of steel
Cold and hard to feel
The Black Dragon of Death

With fiery breath
Sharp claws of death
The Black Dragon of Death

To hunt and kill
And eat his fill
The Black Dragon came

At his sight
People fled in fright
When the Black Dragon came

All challengers tried
And all did die
When the Black Dragon came

He swung down low
His sharp teeth to show
The Black Dragon came

But from the east
From a land of peace
The Lone Rider came

On a stead of white
Riding hard that night
The Lone Rider came

Long back hair braided back
Her face set for attack
The Lone Rider came

She was a girl still young
When the battle begun
The Lone Rider came

And at the youth
He looked bemused
When the Lone Rider came

So he changed his goal
To the brand new foe
When the Lone Rider came

His eyes glinted bright
As he charged with might
When the Lone Rider came

He held back naught
As the two foes fought
When the Lone Rider came

The Rider in turn
Would quickly learn
From the Black Dragon of Death

For he had great power
As she fought that hour
The Black Dragon of Death

Her horse was lost
As from it she was tossed
By the Black Dragon of Death

The talons cut sharp
And her flesh they'd part
By the Black Dragon of Death

In the hour late
She nearly lost to fate
By the Black Dragon of Death

For her it looked ill
As more blood did spill
By the Black Dragon of Death

But a stab true and fierce
His armoured hide pierced
As the hands of DeHett

With a blood curdling cry
The Dragon would die
At the hands of DeHett

A comment on documentaries

Recently I have been had the pleasure of watching A History of Britain. What I like about this 15 part series are the narratives of each episode which set out to tell a story and the language with which it is presented. Perhaps it is because it is a BBC production the narrator was allowed to use more advanced language then is often found in North American documentaries. I certainly find the episodes filled with information and witty commentary. I also appreciate it the way the series moves from the very earliest times of the Roman invasions to modern, post-world war II. My largest criticism is the shortness of time spent on the very earlier periods. Though I understand the reasons, the time constraints, I would like more information for these early years. I would love more details about the way people had lived their lives during the various periods of time. However, no series can include everything in a manageable amount of time.

In contrast to the linear production of A History of Britain, Mankind: The Story of All of Us is disappointingly jumbled. Each episode is a haphazard collection of moments that seem unrelated by theme or time. This recent documentary, of which I confess I have only watched two episodes, is difficult to follow and seems to say very little. It held such promise for me, tackling the world and not just one nation. But the presentation of its story, sloppy, disjointed and difficult to follow, does little to engage my attention. For this I am deeply disappointed.

I would love to watch a series, and I am happy to watch a lengthy series too, that covers history of mankind from our earliest records. I think it would be hugely interesting to look at pivotal periods of time and investigate not only what is happening in one corner of the world, but how contemporaries worldwide are living. So often, I pick up bits of history in isolation and certainly my history is heavily focused on Europe. Yet, China has an equally long and complex story to share with the world. It has influenced Europe over the ages. I would love to know what was happening in that distant land at the same time various acts are playing out on the European continent.

While they may not have yet produced the documentary I truly wish to watch and while the library may not have every interesting historic show in its collection, I have found a website full of promising titles that will allow me to continue my historic studies in pieces.

This is all I have got

I sometimes feel that my posts are barely footnotes on the bottom of a page in comparison the lengthy stories that keep going up. Alas, I am not that verbose. Also, I am in the middle of some scribblings so I thought I would share with you my latest words.

The following should be sung, like a lullaby:

Don’t fear your dreams my child

The amarok’s in the wild

Overhead the hunter flies

On golden wings she cries

So rest with me my child

Protected here from the wild

We are her glowing prize

Watched over with loving eyes

Wait for the sleeper my child

To drive the snakes into the wild

Know that when the fire dies

Once again the Phoenix’ll rise

*Note: the amarok is mythical/legendary beast from native american culture. Some describe it as a cross between a bear and a wolf. Others claim it is a dire-wolf of prehistoric times. I really like the sound of the word and think we need to move beyond the most typical of legendary beasts and bring into the picture some new favourites. With so little written about amaroks the possibilities for it are endless - in a story writing perspective. Also the name is cool as is anything that tries to be associated with prehistoric creatures like dire-wolves, sabre-tooth cats and my favourite - Terror Birds!

The Memory of Poetry

I was feeling a little at a loss of what to post. I have not story fragments to share at this time. I have no earth-shattering or witty comments on current events. Instead, I thought I would delve into my stored collection of poems.

It is amusing to look at work, largely forgotten by time. Most of my favourite poems date from University - my poetry phase. From those that I recorded, I have selected one that still brings a smile to my face as I recall both the poem and the washing machine that inspired its creation.


There are Spartans in My Basement

There are Spartans in my basement
I really do maintain
Though I haven't seen them
I feel them now and again

There are Spartans in my basement
I feel them march around
For the whole house starts to shake
From the attic to the ground

There are Spartans in my basement
And what a noise them make
The rhythmic thumping of their feet
Is a sound hard to mistake

There are Spartans in my basement
And they seem to time it right
Only when we do our laundry
Do they come to march and fight

There are Spartans in my basement
And funny you should note
That they seemed to disappear
When our washing machine broke

There are Spartans in my basement
A new washer to see
I have a funny feeling
They've gained a new technology

There are Spartans in my basement
I think they now must fly
For helicopters seem to land
On our house when passing by

There are Spartans in my basement
Helicopters on the roof
And when we do the laundry
I know that I've my proof

Sticks and Stones

The tournament of Hearts is on this week. For those unfamiliar with the sport of curling - this is the nationals for the women's teams.

For those who have never curled, try not to judge the players too hard before you have spent two hours delivering and sweeping rocks yourself. It may look easy on TV but I can assure you - from experience - it is not. I am not referring to strength; anyone can through a rock the length of the ice. And many people can sort of sweep the rocks. However, it is difficult to through it exactly where you are supposed to and even more difficult to know how to call the ice and sweeping for the rock. Even sweeping is not as easy as it looks - you have to combine the right amount of pressure and friction along with a good sense of how fast that rock is travelling and where it will stop. Three years into the sport and I still struggle to make any of my shots.

However, even more interesting than playing the sport or watching the game on TV is learning about some of curling's rich history. Recently, I was fortunate to talk with an older gentleman who remembers a time when teams played 14 ends (not the 8-10 ends common now) and other mostly forgotten trivia.

Curling was developed in Scotland, the home of golf. Like golf, curling started with 18 ends. Imagine going back and forth across the ice sheet 18 times. Currently teams will play 10 ends in just under 3 hours. Granted the style of game has changed some in that time. There are now rules about guards - mostly the first four guards cannot be removed. This has shifted the strategy of the game and the type of shotes. Previously most shots were take-outs, not draws, meaning the game moved that much faster.

The size and weight of the stones has also changed since its inception. At one time, stones ranged from 40 - 60 lbs - there was no set size. Now, of course they are uniform in size, weight and shape. Only a small running surface on the bottom of the rock is actually in contact with the ice. Further, and most interesting to me, the act of putting a spin on the rock was against the rules. Apparently, skips were expected to guess which way a rock would start curling (spinning and arching across the ice) by reading the ice and the rocks. To add a spin was thought to be cheating as you were directing the rock. Weird.

As the sport evolved, Canada developed its own style and Europe a slightly different variation. One of the big differences being the spin on the rocks. Now the rules are consistant - at least to my understanding.

Evolving along with the rules of the sport are the rules of the social aspect - which many consider just as important. Parts of the country, my club included, follow the social norm where the winning team is responsible for buying the first round of drinks after the game. It is expected that both teams sit together for some time after they play. Perhaps it is this attitude that makes curling so welcoming to beginners at all ages. I have met some players that started after they retired from work, while others have been curlings since they were children. It is impressive that the oldest curler at our club is 96 years young!

It is a great sport and still one of my favourites to watch. Go Ontario Go!

Neverending Series

Book Review – Unspoken

By Sarah Rees Brennan

I am going to start this review by first admitting I can be very hypocritical. On one hand I like series – I like big stories that are broken into book-sized sections. I like spending time with the characters; watching as they grow and develop and gradually reach their story’s end. On the other hand, why does every book I pick up now have to be a series? I must cast my mind back some distance, a year at least, to recall a novel read that wasn’t part of some larger over-arching tale. Further it seems that these series have ever greater focus on the larger plot they fail to have self-contained stories in their book-length chapters. Perhaps it would be less frustrating if I didn’t seem to find these series at their inception – for now I am forced to wait years and years to find out what happens. 

One of my recent reads is an excellent story of a girl psychically linked with a boy who just moves to her home town. The girl is wonderfully spunky; out to uncover the secrets of her small, English town as she develops her skills as a journalist of truth. With so much that could go wrong with this premise, I was delighted with the author’s handling of the plot and characters. Teenagers can be tricky to deal with; so many emotions of first loves, school rivalries, and insecurities surrounding growing up can bog down the characters. But the wit and energy and practical, go-get-them attitude woven into the pages was perfect. 

The characters had their problems and their triumphs. Importantly they pulled off their conversations with a certain down-to-earth attitude and a great deal of humor. They were not overly awkward, terribly angsty, or unrealistically adult-like. Rather, they were well balanced and amusing. 

It was pleasure to read and my only complaint comes with the certain knowledge that this is but book one in a series – a series that has only just begun. The ending cuts, leaving our heroes on an emotional down. Their world is falling to pieces and will likely only get worse for a while. Abysmally, I must now wait an undetermined length of time for all subsequent books to be written, edited and finally published. Sigh, it is a great deal of trouble this waiting and I sometimes I feel cheated by its ever constant presence. Please authors, find it in your hearts to write books that do actually stand-alone.