The Empty Court

 I needed a new legend of a war between night and day for an RPG scenario I'm trying to write, and this is what sprang to mind today. I hope you like it.

The Empty Court

Oíche sat upon his throne of night, turning his invisible face to look over the young world below him. They could not see him, he knew, and their world was darkness for half the day. It had been this way for many days.

As he watched, Oíche realised that many of the animals ran in fear when the light of day faded and the darkness of night took hold. As he wondered what might be the cause, he saw Chonaic, the spotted hyena, rising from her den to hunt.

“Chonaic,” he called, “I need to ask a favour.”

“Anything for you, King of Night,” Chonaic said, her mouth in a broad smile.

“I’ve noticed many of the animals run and hide as night comes around. I wanted to know if you could look at the sun as it rises and see what changes to make it so.”

Chonaic was a wiley beast and saw in this an opportunity. She showed nothing in her eyes, but smiled all the wider and promised, “Yes, my King. I will find out what frightens the animals so.”

Chonaic spent days dreaming of easy carrion to feed on, and so she called on Sionnach and Broc to aid in her quest. They schemed and planned and after a few days, Chonaic came back to Oíche with her head hung low.

“What is it, Chonaic? You seem sad.”

Shaking her head, Chonaic began, “Oh, mighty Oíche, King of Night and Darkness, it is sad what I have to tell you. An Grían says horrible things about you. She tells the animals in Soilse that you are a dangerous King and that we, the animals of Dorcha, are savages that would slaughter them all given the chance.”

Oíche was shook. “How could she say such a thing? She has never even met me.”

“Don’t just take my word for it. Broc, Sionnach, tell him what you heard.”

Broc came forward in obeisance. “She calls you ‘Blood Drinker’ and says that we bring the blood of the slain to your altars at night to feed your hunger.”

Oíche wailed in anger.

Sionnach, snuck out from behind the others, confident in their plan. “Do not let her hear you wail. She tells the animals of Soilse that you turn into a beast that hunts without mercy, howling in the darkness.”

“ENOUGH!” cried Oíche, “I will put her lies to rest. Gather the dawn walkers and the dusk stalkers to meet on the edge of night. I will not bear this insult. We will make her regret every word!”

The three looked at each other, dreaming of easy Carrion, and ran off to call forth the armies of dawn and dusk. Meanwhile, Oíche called out the night creatures and told them where to find the day walkers as they slept. He commanded them to go into the dens and sets of the sun worshippers and cut them and hurt them. Broc taught them how to smell out a set.

The war was bloody and lasted for days. Through it all, the maddening cackle of Chonaic was heard throughout the field of war. Not even rest could be found as Broc had taught the Dorchadas to dig out the sleepers, and through it all, Sionnach ran the length and breadth of the battlefield, hunting, feasting and running again, always one step away from the teeth and claws of the Soilse.

An Grían was unprepared, but she knew something Oíche did not. The other gods had been working hard to introduce other creatures to the world. They were called “people”. They were as varied in form as the animals, with tall and short stature, long and stubby ears, broad and long and flat noses, some with horns, and others with tails. Some even borrowed the forms of animals.

The gods did not want to bring their people into a world at war and so they intervened. They stopped the bloodshed and commanded the Queen of Day and King of Night to come to the table to end it forever.

As Oíche laid out the accusations that had been made, An Grían was astounded. She claimed to have never said such things. The Gods, seeing the perpetrators attempting to hide, called forth Chonaic, Broc and Sionnach.

“Chonaic, you have lied to the King of Night and encouraged him to spill the blood of innocents, while you wallowed in carrion, your cackle heard throughout the field of war. We promise, we will put the fear of your laughter in the hearts of all the people and they will ever be wary of you, driving you out and destroying your people.”

“That is unfair. Can I not have one people to eat?”

“Very well,” said the Gods, for they understood the hunt, “we will mark one tribe of people that you will always find them, but they will not die without fighting.”

Cowed, Chonaic backed away.

“Broc, you have taught the Dorchadas to dig out the sets of the innocent and kill them while they sleep. The same will happen to you. The People will know your places of rest and will drive you and your descendants out.”

“Will you give me no way to defend myself?”

“What we give you is a blessing and a curse. It will make them hate you more but will make them fear you more. You will carry a blight that will make them and their livestock ill. They will avoid you for it, but not for long. As the blight spreads, they will dig up your sets and push you away from their lands.”

Sionnach hid, as always.

“Come out Sionnach. You can’t run forever. The people will eat up your hunting lands, making them small. You will be forced to live next to them, eating their filth and hiding from their noise. They will not hunt you, but they will not love you. You will live on the fringes, taking scraps only. Even your own descendants will curse your name.”

Oíche nodded. “I think these punishments are fair.”

The Gods turned to him. “You have yet to be punished.”

“You would punish me for my mistakes?”

“No, Night King, we would punish you for your rage. You let it out so quickly, killing many and creating a frightening world. Those things you feared will be real. The people will be frightened of you, but only for a while. Your dominion over the new world will be lessened. Not half a day shall you have, but only one hour in three. In that time, many people will hide from you, reminding you of your foolishness.”

Oíche had to swallow his rage. He could not let it out now, or he would prove them correct. “Let me at least be stronger some days. Let me have this pride.”

The Gods went into counsel and thought on how they could leave Oíche with some of his pride. When eventually they returned, they had a solution.

“Behold,” they said, “we have turned the world on it’s axis. It will drift from day to night as always, but for a part of the year, night will hold greater sway than day.”

Oíche looked pleased, as he felt as though he had gained more than he had lost.

“However,” the Gods continued, “your own people will not tolerate your dominion. When the light of day is weak the world will be cold, and life will run from it. Even your own subjects will hide, sleeping for days to avoid the cold and the hunger. You will gaze down on the barren world, King of the Empty Court.”

Oíche’s rage exploded. “Then I will curse your people. I will blight them with my rage and they will rise up and slaughter their own. I will curse them with the blood lust that was expected of me and they will drink deep from their own. I will make them hate the light and they will hide from it. You will all remember the day you hurt me.”

Oíche left the gods, returning to the Invisible throne.

An Grían raised her voice at last. “His temper is frightening. I don’t know how I can protect a world such as this.”

The Gods smiled. “Fear not. We expected his rage. Take this,” they said, and handed her a silver flute. “When Oíche is at his strongest, you can play this flute and begin to destroy his sway. The power of life will spring forth and your light will fill the world again and though he may try to hide his intentions, you will see him over the edge of the world. He will try to hide, no doubt, but his domain is smaller now and he will not hide for long. You will see him more often than he will hide.”

And so it continued. The light of An Grían showed the schemes of Oíche and even when The Empty Court held sway, the Song of Light would pierce the deepest cold and bring forth the spring of life.

Recognised

 So, I mentioned in my last post that I'd been entering competitions. One of those was in a magazine. It was a flash fiction comp where the first and last paragraphs were the same but the meaning had been changed by the story.

Sadly, I didn't win, BUT...

... I did get into the highly commended section. Seeing your name in print for something positive is a BUZZ, for sure. I will continue entering competitions and honing my craft. JOIN ME! 

My Notebook and my Treacherous Brain

Do you carry a notebook? Something to jot down ideas in, even if it is just a name that pops to mind, or a simple phrase that arises in your head that you can imagine one of your characters saying. It certainly is one of the things that people are advised to do; have a notebook on you at all times.
I have a notebook. I bought it for myself as a little treat. It's a pocket moleskin book, with squared pages, just in case something needs to be sketched, rather than written. In the first two weeks, it never left my pocket. I would scratch down ideas, mispronunciations of words (in case I wanted to have a character to whom English was a second language), small ideas that popped into my head. Tiny observations of the oddest things.

Suddenly, it all dried up. I had gone for more than a month with nothing to add to the notebook. I put it down to my perception. My force of attention was obviously being directed elsewhere. I had other concerns (family issues and university tasks). I had not used the ideas I had already recorded. My brain wasn't on form, but it would probably come back.
After two months, I stopped carrying the notebook with me. I didn't see the point.
And the ideas started coming back!
This has perplexed me my entire life. How can I be so full of ideas when I have no way to record them, yet when I have a notebook, smartphone, sketchbook to hand, my brain falls silent?
A concept struck me that I think answers the question: My notebook had become a reminder of a responsibility. The more I attempt to write, the more I feel the duty of output. This made the notebook no longer a tool to aid in my collection of ideas, but a task master, demanding ideas to feed it. This has never been a good place for my brain to be.
How do I escape this panic? I have to listen to my own advice. The muse is not inspirational of itself. Inspiration comes from being the muse. I write something in the notebook every day, even if I end up scribbling it out the following day. That way, inspiration will come, if only intermittently. When I have one good idea, it sets me up for the next good idea. If I can connect enough good ideas together, then I have a story.

An Incredibly Short Story

A long, long time ago, I posted about incredibly short stories. I was about to enter a competition that required a 10 word story in the vein of Hemingway's "Baby Shoes" story. I tried, and I didn't win. This is my story. Please comment below. Let me know what you think.

I love that you're into me, but I'm a bot.

In Praise of Katniss Everdeen

It was without doubt that The Hunger Games trilogy is full of many of the tropes that pervade YA fiction. Present and correct is the tyrany of the elders. Those in power have redesigned society for their own protection. Having been subject to a revolution, which they resisted at great cost (District 13). Once the revolution was suppressed, the ruling classes put in place a punishment to remind the Districts who was in charge, taking two children from each of 12 Districts, one male, one female, and putting them in an arena in a fight to the death.
President Snow is an unforgiving, totemic villain. He was, presumably, a child when the revolution happened, if he was even alive when it happened. Although his title is President, was he elected? He certainly seems to behave like a dictator.

Ursula K. Le Guin Is Dead

It was inevitable, I know. She was old and had been ill, but it was now, and that was unexpected. I suppose it normally is.

Ursula Le Guin died last evening, or afternoon, or morning, depending on where you are in the world, and for the first time in a long time I’m crying for a stranger.

Collecting Inspiration

I've started carrying around a little notebook in which to gather thoughts, ideas and little snippets of overheard conversation. I'd like to say this is inspiring me and, in a way, it is. I have already filled three pages, plus an extra half-page of misquotes and mispronunciations I'm collecting for a character in the novel I'm currently working on.
The advantage of using a little book like this is that I feel (and I know this is idealistic) more connected to the ideas if I'm writing them down with a pen. I recall these ideas more easily than ones I stick into OneNote.
Now, I'm not saying OneNote (and Evernote, although I personally feel more at home in the Microsoft offering) isn't a useful tool: If I feel inspired while I have my phone in my hand I can start a new note with the idea as the title; later I can come back and stack additions and related inspiration to that note. With a physical notebook, I have to flip pages to connect inspirations and am finding myself transferring those to OneNote anyway.

NOOOOOOOOooooo......

But the notebook also gives me a little reassurance. The notebook's batteries won't run out. It's memory won't get corrupted. The physical act of writing an idea out ensures that I actually do it, rather than having the nebulous idea of "I must put that in OneNote", and then not doing it.
This gives me a moment to reflect on whether writing long hand would connect me to what I'm writing also. If I were to write out my work longhand, would a connection to that work make it easier or harder to build the story? Would I be less inclined to change a story I had invested so much in? Would I be more inclined to think about what I'm writing and write a better story to begin with?
I think, for my next competition entry, I may write a long hand short story and see how it works out in the first draft.

The Cat of St. Ives (Part IV)

Our growing moan a lofty growl,
that would become a clashing howl
enforcing them to soon renounce,
as they came forth and we did pounce,
their hold on Truro ere the end
of night when we their flesh did rend
with fang and claw and shaken head
and many bodies fell down dead,
of ours and theirs, but we were true
and in the scores the rats we slew
until the dawn above the sea
showed to us the rats aflee.
But as we sat to count the cost
we realised the town was lost.
I tried to tend my sund'red flanks
and too extend the many thanks
obliged onto the feline hoard
who stood beside me on the board
of Truro's dock throughout the night
when finally we'd brought the fight.
Too late the rat was put to flight.
Despite my effort all the blood
still left me just like murine flood
without the bounds of Truro's lanes.
I felt the growing battle pains
and settled down to rest a mite,
then realised the fading light
as all my strength it passed away
as fateful night turned fatal day.

The Cat of St. Ives (Part III)

The Cat of St. Ives (Part III)

Goodly men laid in the ground

in numbers that would all astound.

Others fled, to better fare

away from Truro's streets now where

the cursed French their chance did take,

to raid in Kernow in the wake

of death, they came for all to take

using then the total break.

We, the toast of land a time,

were hated now, for no more crime

than being not so numerous

as to put down the murine curse.

Most the feline hoard had fled,

in face of that unwholesome dread,

but I could not give up so well

and, though it may be me in hell

I sought the docks one final time,

to see what conquest could be mine

before the noxious, blackened beast

could curse the world, cause all to cease.

My heart it battled in my chest,

my feet rebelling my behest,

and every creak and scrap and din,

caused my valour to within

me wither like a child of fear

aquailing at the coming near

of all the visitations dark

that fill our nightmares to the mark.

And all around me then there stirred

a gentle patter barely heard,

of softened feet alighting down

from lofty heights and through the town

my brethren, sistren came along

and putting up one valiant song

defiant in the face of fright

and on into the dark'ning night

determined to put all to flight

who dared demean our feline might.

The Cat of St. Ives (Part II)

The Cat of St. Ives (Part II)

I never was a cat of home,

and born the streets I was to roam

from Tom unknown, and mother cold

I learned from young my course to hold.

It wasn't always pain and pine,

though verily in winter time,

and oft I would a sated sleep

take neath the night and dream to keep

of when my life would always be

of comfort, warmth and joyous glee.

But moon on moon the hardships came,

and when the rats from sunny Spain

the black death carried we became

the heroes of the town again.

Dark of coat and black of eye,

quick of mind a lythely by

the guard and dockhand they would slip

on into town to nibble, nip,

and chew through cast off food and grime;

the humans' waste their baleful crime,

attracting such a numerous crowd

who carried with them darkened clowd.

The simple flea, a stowaway

that lived among us every day,

hosted by the humble rat,

the loyal dog, and sovreign cat,

brought to the land a baleful gloom,

a loathsome curse, a ghastly doom.

And as the first afflicted foundered

blame was cast and fear resounded.

I myself to Truro bounded.

The Cat of St. Ives (Part 1)

I'm publishing the beginning extract of a poem I started a long time ago, while I was living in Luton. The first line came to me while I was half-listening to the radio. They were talking about "puzzles" that a really only tricks, and the famous "As I was going to St. Ives..." problem came up.

Suddenly, the first line of my poem popped into my head, and I had to write it. Here it is, presented unedited. Maybe this will be my encouragement to finally finish it.

The Cat of St. Ives (Part I)

As I was running from to St. Ives,
I met a cat with seven lives 
Who bid of me the time of day 
and offered company a way. 
I thought it kind and did agree 
For her to walk a while with me 
And as we passed the time away 
She told me of her life's affray 
In dark of night and silent day 
From mankind's trials to cast away. 
We made our way past Hellesveor 
and on the day toward Zennor 
where, in The Tinners, toward the eve 
I called my friend for a reprieve 
and though the landlord doubted me 
my coin was good enough for he 
to let my familiar and I
to spend the night the fire by.
Twas then I saw the furred mark
more visible in gloom and dark
that told me my companion
had lost a life, if only one,
and thrust I to request the lay 
if not too much, of fateful day.

Please, enjoy. I welcome criticism, but I mean criticism. If you don't have anything to say that would help make this better, probably best not to say anything.