Temporal Begrudgery

Greetings and Salutations,

We have all said it, I know I have said it, and would be very surprised if you, dear reader, would not have said it yourself many times over: Time flies! Oh why is the weekend so short? And the vacation time over before you’ve properly mentally registered it has even begun? Why does my work-day seem to drag on so very long, and the few hours of down-time slip through my fingers like grains of sand. The tighter you try and hold on to your precious free time, the faster it falls to the floor. Of how we begrudge the temporary nature of freedom we enjoy at the beginning and end of each day.

When time flies as it does, how on earth do we make time for our passions and projects? How does a writer find time to write? Especially if he or she has a family, a job, and heaven forbid a pet or two? The well-meant but worthless retort we might then hear is “make time!” So prithee, make thine way to the minute-manufactory, and churn it until you have time aplenty? If only such a thing would exist. Unfortunately, we cannot simply make time. What we can do, however, is spend our time differently.

Think about your own daily routine. I am positive you will be able to find at least two moments where you spend some idle time idling. I guess that is where the name for it comes from. For some people, but I must be honest, I am most assuredly not one of them, it works very well to put the alarm clock an hour earlier in the morning. So you have more time in the morning, when you’ve just awoken and the rest of the world is still fast asleep, to uninterruptedly pursue your passions. Be it writing, drawing, painting or whatever. I would argue against drumming or playing the bagpipes using this approach, but if you are curious to find out if it is possible, be my guest. Another possible timeslot is the evening. After dinner, and when your children, if applicable, are in their beds, you might feel the urge to let out a big sigh, and drop down on the sofa holding a remote in one hand, and a nice cold one in another. I am not going to argue this is not a wonderful and very important way of spending your time. However, what I am going to say is that if you have a passion you say you do not have time for to exercise, you might want to take one to two hours of that sofa time, and spend it on your projects, before letting out above described sigh. Take it from me, you will feel much more satisfied sitting down after you have spent some time developing yourself and your skills.

If you manage to find an hour in the morning, in the afternoon right after work, instead of napping, or even at night, before your Netflix time begins, and you do this every other day, you would be surprised how much you can achieve in a month, let alone a year. Don’t forget that starting is the most difficult part, and once you’ve got a routine going, it will soon turn into a habit, and you will be all the more happier for it, leading a much more fulfilled life. A life in which you have found the time to work on your passion, and every evening come a step closer to writing your novel, or selling your artwork, or whatever new tune you composed during your early morning back pipe-stint.

As a challenge to wrap this blog up, I would like you to try this approach for yourself. What skill is it that you passionately would like to develop? Find the time, and do it! You will not regret a single minute of it! Happy time hunting and cheers!

The Art of Cartography

The first map I made with any serious effort, back in 2018.

Greetings and Salutations,

Fantasy mapmaking has become increasingly popular in the course of the past decades. From the first Fantasy books to the most recent publications, in almost every single fantasy boom worth their salt, at least one map can be found. Sometimes maps even make an appearance in non-fantasy books where locations hold an extra significance to the story.

Apart from fantasy novels, the steady rise of popularity of dungeons and dragons and other roleplaying games have propelled the want and need for maps even more. Wherever new and fantastical worlds are laid out before adventurers, ready to be explored, maps will make furor.

What is it that makes a good fantasy map? Moreover, how can you yourself make one? Two important things to look at are the form and the function. In other words, which visual style would you like to use, and, what sort of information should the viewer be able to get out of the map? In that sense a fantasy map is the same as any other map: it needs to serve its purpose.

Once you have determined the style you would like to use, and the information you want to portray, then you can start making your fantasy map. There are many ways to go about it, just like there are many different types of fantasy maps. For this example, I will cover the basic fantasy world-map. If you are not particularly artistic, you could always use software to make your map, or have Ai generate a map for you. Alternatively, you could commission a cartographer to make a map for you. Let us presume you want to give it a go yourself. Take your pencil and an empty sheet of paper and start as such:

1.       Draw an interesting line for your first coastline (if your world has water) and continue this line until you have a finished continent. Think of the real world and look at maps you like for inspiration (do not copy anything directly, always make it your own) Add bays, river outlets, fjords, peninsula’s. Make sure to use a squiggly line here, and a straight-ish line there, to get some nice diversity going that looks natural. Of course if there is a specific shape you have in mind for your story, use that.

2.       Add islands along the coast at locations where they would naturally form. Think of plate tectonics and how your continent would have gotten its shape, to extrapolate where the islands would form. Then place lakes using the same logic.

3.       Add mountain ranges, again thinking of the plate tectonics of your continent. Usually the mountains appear at the center of the continent, or at one or multiple of the coasts. They can appear where plates collide into one another. Naturally, we are working on a fantasy map here, so feel free to break the rules if it makes the world more interesting, and you have an explanation for it in your lore.

4.       Think of canyons as well, and cliffs, add these in where they would make sense.

5.       Now trace your rivers to the mountains from the coast. Never let rivers run from the middle of a desert out to sea, or worse, run from one sea to the next straight through the lands. Water always runs down to the lowest point, and always chooses the easiest route. So keep this in mind. Fantasy only works, if the world, though fantastical, makes sense according to its own laws.

6.       Include hills near the base of the mountains, and spread out from there. In addition, ranges of hills can appear where mountains are yet to form, or have eroded away over millennia.

7.       Add vegetation, where it would appear. Thick ancient forests or more spread out greenery.

8.       Add terrain features such as deserts, swamps, grasslands, tundra, ice-plains and whatever terrain your world has.

9.       Include important locations from your story. (Here we come to the purpose) Names the readers can instantly recognize from the story, and place where in the world, and in which landscape the story is happening.

10.   Rinse and repeat for all the continents that you want to include in your map, and then proceed with ink to fill everything in properly.

There you have it. A very brief basic introduction to the art of cartography.

To end this blog, let me challenge you to create your own world-map, following the above-described steps. Happy map-making! :)

The Writing Process

Greetings and Salutations,

There are many different ways to write a story, just like there are many different types of stories.
It is by no means the case that one way of writing is better than another way of writing. What is true though, is that a specific way of writing may work well for one person, but may not work at all for another. So, what I’ll be talking about in this blog is not the writing process in general, but my approach to it. If you can take something away from this, even if it is knowing that my method is not for you, then it’s already reached its intended purpose.

My writing process does not begin with writing at all. It begins in my head, possibly months before I put pen to paper (or more commonly but less poetically, fingers to keyboard). The process begins with the slow forming of a concept. It depends on the story what this concept will look like. It can be a character whose life I’d like to explore, or a location or specific setting. It can be a word or a phrase that prickles my creativity. This idea, this location or character then slowly grows in my mind, as I think about ways to make this come to life.

The next phase is to sit down with a blank piece of paper, and a pen, and write down anything that comes to mind for the story I intend to write. For some reason, a keyboard and computer do not work for me at this stage, I have to hand-scribble this down, legible or no, it is only to get the thoughts that have been roaming around in my head, out of my grey goo, and onto paper. To capture my rough imaginings into words, phrases, poems, concepts, and possibly even a first line, or a last.

From this brainstorming session, I usually jump right into writing. I’ll want to keep that creativity flowing, and want to test out some of my more important ideas for the story. This can be an opening paragraph, introducing the protagonist and his status quo world. More often than not though, it is a part of the middle, where important concepts are divulged, and or information is dumped. Needless to say (but I so anyway), without prior world-building or plotting, much of what I write at this stage will be scrapped later on. It is important to get a feel for the story. What sort of tone would it need to be. How does the character come across? See this as a test lap or dipping your toe in the ocean of possibilities, to feel the water.

Now it is time for two things at once, plotting and world building. Of course, it is not really at the same time, but these things very much go hand in hand. There can be no story without a world, but you do not necessarily know what sort of world it is, without knowing what the story is going to be about.
This means I write a concept of the world, create a map, with rough sketches of the location I have in mind, and then start plotting. I could make a whole separate blog (if not more than one) about how to plot, but I’ll save that for another time. While plotting, I will find out if my character is going to new places, and will need to world-build new cultures, religions, prophecies, superstitions and whatever is needed for the story. I keep jumping back and forth between my world-building notes and the plot until an outline is complete.

Then I start writing the first draft. From the beginning, all the way until it is done, trying not to backtrack and edit while I’m going. (Usually failing and going back anyway) If I get stuck, I look at the plot to see why I’m stuck. Is there something that does not work after all? I try to figure out what I am missing, and go from there. If this does not work, I will leave a gap, and pick up writing at the next plot point, and usually I will find out my answers while continuing the book.

After the first draft is done, and you I feel both triumphant and utterly miserable at the same time, I resist the urge to throw the draft away, and take a forced break from it by writing something else, or drawing or simply letting time pass.

Then a couple weeks or longer later, I will pick up the draft, and carefully read through it, making notes of everything that I like and don’t like. I am not changing anything just yet, just making notes. Then I will make a copy and call it draft two, and start applying the notes. Which means deleting whole chunks of text, fixing grammar and punctuation, and most importantly, story holes and inconsistencies.

Having done this, the draft is ready for my editor and or proofreaders.

What is your writing process like? I am curious to see how much we do the same, and how many different ways of writing there are. Happy writing!

The Importance of Language in Fantasy Fiction

Greetings and Salutations,

Fantasy stories have many features, that regardless of the type of fantasy story you are reading, you are bound to encounter. From a well-crafted map in the front of the book, to bizarre names that are either way to simple, or much too complex. Depending on the type of fantasy story, you will invariably encounter different races, or in the very least, different kingdoms and cultures. From woodland elves to mountain dwarves, roaming bands of ferocious green skins and wood-loving tree-kin. Do not take me the wrong way, there are plenty of different settings and different takes to this formula, but you can hopefully all agree that the above-mentioned features are so commonplace they might as well be called tropes. It is not strange either, that fantasy evolved from Tolkien clones to now encompass a vast number of different subgenres.  There is one thing however, that is not included as much in fantasy as these other tropes, and that is the use of fantasy or constructed languages.

A famous story tells of Tolkien who build the world of Middle-Earth not primarily for the story, but first and foremost to give a world to his constructed languages, instead of the other way around. If this was important for the father of modern fantasy, this must surely be key to the genre or not? At first glance, it does indeed seem so. There are a number of fantasy series that contain their own unique constructed languages. Think of the Inheritance series by Christopher Paolini for example. In many more fantasy novels, languages are only referred to, and not actually constructed. With the exception of a couple of terms and phrases. This is not necessarily a bad thing, this blog is not about passing judgement, it is about the importance of language.

As Ludwig Wittgenstein famously said: “The Limits of my Language mean the limits of my world.” While this is an interesting philosophical statement in and of itself, it is undeniably true for fantasy. Language holds the history of the people who use and have used the language. It evolves, changes, and references the world in which it exists, by its very existence. English would not exist as we know it, without the influence of the Romans, the Danes, the Norse, the French and even the Dutch, Germans and Indians. All in different periods and for different reasons, but the influence is there. The implication of this is that when you write about a fantasy world, in English, you invariably, use historic correlations and connection of our world, without necessarily intending to do so. This is why it is important to be aware of the power of language. It goes even further than mere cross-influence of other languages in English; there are also religious and cultural influences. So when you are writing of a fantasy world that is vastly different from our own. I in no way claim that you should write your fantasy story completely in your very own constructed language. It would be an incredible feat, but nobody would be able to enjoy your story without first studying your language. All I am advocating is to be aware of the power of language, and to think of how the people in your stories would speak.

As a challenge to take away from this blog, I would like to ask you to think of a language for a seafaring nation, that encounters many icy storms, but must traverse the treacherous seas to get the basic means to survive. Good luck and happy con-lang-ing!

The Wonders of World building

The Wonders of Worldbuilding

Greetings and Salutations,

So you enjoy reading and or writing. You have stumbled upon this blog, so I think it is a fair assumption that you do. What is it about those stories that grip you, that make them feel grounded and real? What in turn breaks submersion for you? Is it character? Or plot? It might very well be. But what out the setting?

Every story you have ever read and will ever read is set in its very own specific setting. This setting is key to bring all the story elements such as character development and plot together. The setting is the stage on which the characters perform their unforgettable adventures. It is the living and breathing world around the plot that if done correctly, suspends the disbelief, and transports readers into the realms of imagination.

You might think world building is only important for stories that take place in fantasy or sci-fi settings, on worlds vastly different than our own, and it is indeed true that world-building becomes increasingly important then, but it is important in any story. From historical fiction to detectives, thrillers to adventure novels, and indeed for literature as well as for popular fiction.

So what exactly is world building? It is vastly more than deciding upon the location of a story. It is thinking of every single asset that make our daily lives unique. And to then transpose those assets onto the story. It goes from creating landmasses, regions, and specific locations, to thinking of how these locations would come across on our senses. How a region would smell, how warm or cold it would be, how does the food taste? What sounds make up the background tune to this location. Then from there you think about the inhabitants and their cultures and history. Their customs and beliefs, superstitions and mythologies. Their hobbies and joys, as well as their greatest fears. What languages do they speak and how does this relate to their natural world? It is almost as if you are conducting an anthropological study as well as a geological and topographical study, and adding to that a study of history and religion.

This description of world building fits to any story, even those tales set in versions of our own world. The author still has to go through the exercise to determine exactly what socio-economic and political climate the protagonist finds him or herself in, and how this affects their interaction with the world. A well-built world, almost tells the story on its own. You take an interesting setting, and situation, and then you throw your character in and see what happens.

Now, let us end this blog with a challenge shall we? How about you build a completely unique setting for a short story. Think of any location, craft its biome and climate, its shape and size, its scents and sounds. Its wildlife, its peoples, its culture, beliefs and habits, and then have someone from somewhere else altogether find himself in the middle of that world. How would he experience it? How would the locals respond?  Good luck, and happy world building!

The Wedding and the Red Snow

In the twilight hours of this early winter morning, I sat shivering from the cold, red-eyed from sleep-deprivation, crouched next to my best friend Aleksej. “You’ve chosen a damnable cold day to get married Dimitri. I’d almost think you’ve done this on purpose, since you know how much I hate the comfortable warmth of a hot stove.” I smirked at him. “You know I’d go to great lengths just to vex you Aleksej.” Rubbing my hands I continued. “Where are they?” I looked past the hedge we were hiding behind, in the direction of the bygone childhood memory that was the long driveway to my ancestral residence. Aleksej had a troubled look in his eye when he next spoke. “You being here man, I think you’d give almost anything if you’d never have to see this place ever again, am I right?” I didn’t reply, but I felt my face contort in a way that gave away just how right he was. Ever since I had fled this place head over heels when I was just a lad, I had avoided it like the plague. The entirety of my being wished nothing else than to get up and run as far away as my legs would carry me. Even so, I now sat near the entrance of the palace Menshikov, which had been the seat of my family for hundreds of years. “Could you please go and take a look Aleksej? They’re running very late, aren’t they?” He nodded affirmatively, squeezing my shoulder. “Don’t you worry now, comrade. You know what they say about the vanity of a woman on the morning of her wedding right?” Before I could as much as contemplate my answer, Aleksej had sneaked off. Silence descended upon this white wintery morning and it was as if he hadn’t been there at all. Snow had the seemingly magical power to make the world seem a peacefully tranquil place, as if any and all troubles were completely irrelevant, and the world was exactly as it needed to be. Gazing at the familiar driveway, with its now overgrown conifers on both sides of the road, a cold shiver that had nothing to do with the temperature, played across my back. Why was it that Natalya had insisted our new lives were to start at this terrible location? I had told her everything I could remember. Horrors I hadn’t shared and never would’ve share with anyone else, save her. Thinking back at my childhood years, it was as if they were from a completely different life altogether, a dream almost. It had been a life of warm carelessness, where hunger and fear had not existed at all. That world had been abruptly ripped apart and been replaced by one that didn’t rhyme at all with my past, and even chose to ignore the fact that it had ever happened. I shook my head involuntarily as I tried to focus my mind at more pleasant matters. I pictured the beautiful face of my beloved Natalya and the almost incomprehensible thought she would soon be my wife filled my heart with a warmth that had been absent for so very long. 

 I had met her on a busy market day. It had been during my afternoon lunchbreak that I had been sent out of the judicial court I was employed at, to buy fresh bread for the other civil servants. It had been incredibly busy and I remember having been afraid to come in late, petrified about the repercussions that would mean for someone of my heritage. After I had finally managed to buy the bread, I had rushed off across the market square, without really paying much attention to my surroundings. Needless to say, I abruptly and quite harshly bumped into someone. We fell to the ground, tumbling on top of each other and ended up looking into one another’s eyes. From that exact moment I knew I didn’t ever want to let go of those eyes again. I stammered my incoherent apology as she laughingly did the same. Not knowing who she was, or where I would be able to find her, I saw nothing else than those big brown eyes and that warm sincere smile. I had taken every opportunity I could find to scour the market square, but had been unsuccessful to a point that I’d feared I’d never see her ever again. When I’d almost given up hope, I found her standing right outside of the apartment I shared with Aleksej. I had run outside and without speaking a word we’d kissed. She told me she had searched for me as I had for her, though admittedly she had been more successful. From that moment onwards we saw each other as many times as we could, and it wasn’t long before I learnt she and I shared the same secret background. At first she had introduced herself as the servant girl Anna, though in truth she had been the princess Natalya Narishkina all along. It didn’t take us long to decide we wanted to get married. We concocted a plan to smuggle an Orthodox Batjoeska from the country estate of her father all the way to Leningrad. Her father would disguise himself as an old beggar, with the Batja as his companion. Natalya had her mind set on wearing her mother’s wedding dress, which her father would bring from his estate as well. It had been incredibly exciting and very romantic to plan a secret marriage, until Natalya proposed we should marry exactly like tradition dictated, in my ancestral palace. I had protested furiously, as the palace had been abandoned and sat vacant for at least twenty years, and it was incredibly dangerous, as the law was strictly enforced that my family was not allowed to set foot anywhere near it or face immediate execution. But any and all arguments I could come up with fell on deaf ears. I learnt all too quickly that once she had made up her mind, there was no changing it. All this lead up to this exact point in time, with me sitting it the damnable cold, my heart almost bursting from my chest, my stomach all jumbled up and my entire body shaking as much from the cold as from every emotion that lingered between the sheer agony of being in love, to the gut wrenching terror of imminent death. 

 My heart jumped as I heard a slight rustling behind me. Aleksej had returned with a big smile on his face. “They are coming! I have seen them arriving in the distance from just around the corner.” I felt butterflies in my stomach at his words. “They are being careful aren’t they? So nobody can see them?” My friend came and sat beside me. He handed me a flask. “Here, drink this, it’ll keep you warm and make you calm. And what do you think? Of course they are careful, even though I wouldn’t know which other idiots would be up and about at this ungodly hour.” He blew his breath in his hands, rubbing them together, as he added: “And in this blasted cold.” I smiled at him and took a big sip that scorched my oesophagus. I coughed and handed the flask back to Aleksej. He shook his head. “Keep it comrade, you’re going to need it!”

 An apparent infinitude later, three more cloaked figures appeared behind the hedge next to the driveway leading to the palace Menshikov. As soon as they were in reach, one of them rushed towards me and embraced me tightly. Immediately the world was exactly the way it was supposed to be. She softly spoke from under her hood. “Come on Dimitri let’s go inside right away!” I nodded, and Aleksej went ahead to scout the way while the priest accompanied my future wife and me a short distance after him. Natalya’s father formed the rear guard, and used a frayed piece of cloth to clear the imprints we had left behind on the pristine snow. The driveway seemed to go on indefinitely. As we slowly made our way, every sound made us jump behind the conifers. This made our progression very slow but eventually we made our way to the secluded inner courtyard. In spite of its deserted and neglected state, the palace of Menshikov to me looked just as beautiful as I remembered. It was truly marvellous. Nevertheless it was a place of death and despair. A place I’d rather forget but knew I’d never be able to. Natalya kissed me. She looked at me. “Finally the time has come! I can hardly wait anymore for you to be my husband!” I hugged her tightly as Aleksej motioned the all clear from the main entrance of the Palace. “We don’t have to wait anymore my love!” She smiled at me as we made our way inside.

 As we arrived in the great hall, my breath faltered as I saw the eerily familiar portraits of my ancestors, cut to pieces, and ripped from their once magnificent gilt framing. Only some of them still hung on the walls. When I was a child I had imagined complete stories about the stern and solemn, proud faces on those portraits. How these faces had suffered. It was a fate far worse than the wildest fantasy my young mind had been able to come up with. Snow had been blown in through the shattered windows, and now lay in heaps on the marble flooring beneath them. The battered curtains danced on the frigid morning breeze, and a scented mixture of memory and decay hung heavy in the air. The time had come for the first ritual of the traditional marriage. Aleksej and the Batja were exchanging jokes while Natalya went and stood behind her father in the middle of the hall. From the doorway I walked towards them in as jovial a tread as I could muster, stopping at a  respectful distance from her father. It appeared to me as rather odd to enact this ancient ritual from the days of the nobility, in torn robes and in the shattered husk of a once great palace. Nevertheless, it was the wish of my beloved, and I would give it my best. I cleared my throat and proclaimed: “Art thou, Lord Aleksander Nariskin, father of the fair and most chaste Natalya Nariskina?” Her father stared ahead of him most austerely and it took a fair while until he turned his eyes on me and with a deep baritone voice, way deeper than his normal speaking voice, replied: “Whether I am he, or not, sir, is wholly and solely dependent on whom so inquires, and to which purpose. Art thou perchance a swindling scoundrel whom desires nothing but to dishonour and heaven forbid, deflower my daughter?” Theatrically, I riposted his words: “No sir, indeed I am not! Dimitri Fyodor Menshikov is my name. As for my purpose sir, I am here to share with thine daughter nothing save the perpetual wealth that is my affection.” Prodding his belly exaggeratedly forwards, he roared: “Dimitri eh? The name of a panhandling beggar! What wealth, God help me, could one of such name possibly possess?” At that I flicked a silver rouble at him, neighing my head. “Poor my lord, I am not. But alas, no wealth on earth can equal the treasure that is thine daughter.” The bartering theatrics for the price of Natalya went on for several more moments, as per tradition, until Aleksander couldn’t take it anymore and laughingly embraced me. He bestowed on me the hand of his daughter, only accepting my promise to take care of her indefinitely as his price. 

 We left the great hall and proceeded into the ballroom. This once was the most glorious room of the entire palace, and even though every single window had been shattered,  it still was breath-taking. The curtains appeared to be in an exceptionally good condition though, and even all the grand chandeliers still hung from the ornate ceiling. The paintings sadly enough had all been stolen, only leaving pale memories behind where they had once proudly hung. Aleksej had found a still relatively intact table, which he dragged to the centre of the room. The Batjoeska removed his battered cloak, revealing he was in fact dressed in the rich traditional Phelonion that exhumed the pomp and circumstance of the Russian orthodox church. He spread out his mantle on the table. From a small bag he had carried in hidden beneath his robes, he produced a gold chalice and a piece of bread. He beckoned Natalya and me to join him on opposing sides of one another. Natalya removed her robe as well and I found myself absolutely stunned by her beauty. She was and always had been a woman of whom it was hard to look away from, but to see her in the snow-white wedding dress was simply phenomenal. “Do you think I’m a bit pretty?” She asked, her cheeks blushing red. “Pretty?” I asked. “By God, the very stars would be ashamed if only they could see you!” Granted, it was a bit much, but I couldn’t find words that were more true to what I felt about her. She giggled and her father had the widest smile on his face I had ever seen. Aleksej put his hand on my shoulder and squeezed it. This had to be the best day of my life, I couldn’t imagine anything that could break my spirits with these people around me. The Batjoeska spread his arms wide and began uttering the traditional words that would make us man and wife, as a soft but all too familiar humming sounded in the distance. All of us instantly fell silent, listening to the sound slowly growing louder, until I realised exactly what it was. “Diesel engines!” Natalya screamed, but slapped a hand in front of her mouth instantaneously. She looked from me to her father, large-eyed, as I took her hand, dragging her to the large open doors that would lead into the palace gardens. Her father, the Batja and Aleksej did the same. In the garden however, the unmistakable sound of soldiers boots and excited voices resounded threateningly in the snow. “This is a death trap!” Aleksej almost spat the words. “I bloody knew they must’ve been still watching us!” I looked at Natalya. “We can hide on the attic, that is what saved me all those years ago!” She absently nodded and stood frozen. Aleksej sped towards the great hall where the main stairs were situated, and I tried to get Natalya to move with us.

As I looked around, my mind working overtime, I felt a cold shiver run down my spine as the ornate doors Aleksej was headed towards where furiously battered aside and soldiers rushed in. They were dressed in the uniform of the Cheka, the new Soviet secret service. Aleksej backed off, and with Natalya still frozen on her spot, softly sobbing, it didn’t at all take long for us to be completely surrounded. There was no mistaking who we were, as our no-longer cloaked apparel made it clear at a glance we belonged to the Belaya kost, the old aristocracy. The soldiers hissed curses and insults at us, hatred clearly visible in their eyes. I held Natalya tightly in my arms, as Aleksej, Aleksander and the priest stood just as helpless beside us. Nailed to the ostentatiously intricate marble ballroom floor. An older officer stepped forward with a bitter look on his face. “Early this morning, a rapport came in that vandals were planning to set fire to the old palace of the traitors of Menshikov. Now it would appear to be the last offspring of the ratchet Menshikovs himself.” He looked at Aleksander and continued. “And the vipers of Nariskin if I’m not mistaken, what a catch!” When I heard the voice of the officer, I immediately was a little boy again, hearing the exact same voice calling out to capture that boy. The memory almost overwhelmed me as I tasted the same strong flavour of salt in my mouth as I had all those years ago. Cold tears ran down my cheeks, reaching the corners of my mouth. In my mind I heard my father begging to spare his wife and children, my mother crying. My face had turned whiter than the snow outside as the man turned to me, displaying a wolfish grin on his hate-filled face. “So it is you, little Belaya kost. You remember me don’t you?” He looked at Natalya. “Thank you, without your help this bastard would still be a stain of our peoples union.” He took her hair in his hands and smelled it. “I’m going to enjoy you, and then my men are going to enjoy you. Until you beg me to kill you. If you’re lucky, I will… eventually.” Natalya shook herself free from my grasp and shouted. “No! You promised! You…” I stared at her open mouthed, as the realisation of the officers words settled in. Her father had a look of disbelief on his face as he fell on his knees. “Little Natalyova?” He stammered. She looked from her father to me, tears running down her face. “I, I, they found out who I was. They were going to kill me, or worse.  I… didn’t want to, didn’t think..” The officer laughed. “You only proved one thing to us, stupid pretty Belaya kost. None of you can ever be trusted, as you would betray your own family if it would suit your selfish needs.” Aleksej cried out in rage and charged at two of the Cheka. He punched one of the soldiers to the ground, but the other simply slammed the butt of his rifle against Aleksej’s head. I still stared at Natalya, millions of thoughts playing through my mind as I mumbled. “I knew this was too good to be true. I knew it. I knew it.” She shook her head. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it. In the end I really did grow to love you, but… I love me more.” The officer laughed and shouted a command at his men. The Cheka stepped forward and the last thing I saw was a rifle butt rushing at my face.

 Gazing forward without fear, I stood without blindfold in front of the firing squad, waiting for the order that would be my salvation. I did not know what had come of Natalya, but her father Aleksander, and my best friend Aleksej stood at my side. I nodded at them, and they returned the gesture, as: “Pozhar!”resounded through the brisk Russian air and echoing thunder turned the snow red.

Out, out

The following paragraph is an excerp from my short story: Out, out. Enjoy!

“Isn’t it lovely out here Clara?” I put my fists in my back and stretched out my chest as I had seen masculine men do lots of times in films and series. Out here in the wilderness of Vermont’s countryside it somehow felt appropriate for a twig of a man to behave with rough testosterone bravado. Clara laughed at me. “Sure husband, shall I go and get your axe and lumberjack shirt from the car?” I smirked at her. “No sweet wife of mine, you may however tell me what you think of this Vermontian vista? Is it not simply breath-taking? Those mountain ranges, these vast forests and do you smell that?” “Smell what?” ”Nothing! Ha! Fresh air unlike anything we’ve experienced in Ye olde big apple, eh?” “Eh? Are you Canadian now as well? My God Michael if you’re going to behave like this we’re not moving here, you hear me?” I looked at her with faux seriousness and solemnly swore I was going to behave. “FYI, Canada is all the way up north from where you have found us a house.” With a smile on her face Clara simply walked a little further down the hilly road we stopped on. It might take some getting used to for my city-dwelling dear wife, but I was in love with the state of Vermont, as I had been since the first time I visited in my childhood. This was where I was going to write my book, this was where we would raise our family and grow old together. The sun was slowly nearing the horizon and a fresh cold wind blew from the north. “It will be an early winter don’t you think?” I nodded and wrapped my arms around Clara and slowly recited: “And from there those that lifted eyes could count. Five mountain ranges one behind the other. Under the sunset far into Vermont.” She simply turned around and kissed me. What better words to begin our new lives than a few from Robert Frost.

All that is gold does not glitter

Before you read below poem, bear in mind that I paraphrased J.R.R. Tolkien instead of quoting him directly, Therefore I write: “Not all that glitters is gold” while Tolkien himself put it rather more poetically: “All that is gold does not glitter”. Though I have chosen to change it slightly in order to make it fit the purpose of my little poetic bout. Allow me this poetic freedom and enjoy if you will, my scribblings below.

As J.R.R. Tolkien once told:
“Not all that glitters is gold.”
And he must have been wise,
as his name doth comprise:
of not one R but two and a J.
Yet there is more to this phrase I say:

Not all that glitters is gold.
Truth this sentence doth hold.
Though why does it matter?
Whether there is gold on your platter,
when there glitters so much more?
Feast your eyes at this splendor:

A leather-bound treasure,
doth not glitter a measure.
Though dull and white sheets,
contain great and marvelous deeds.
They can inspire and even instill:
Reason, and hope with the stroke of a quill.

To the canvas applies the same:
as layers of paint fashion their fame.
While no glitter exists in paint,
it easily makes spectators faint.
It doth endow a craving of misbehaving.
Or inspire great and glorious raving.

Invisible wrinkles of air even can:
provide more wealth there and then;
than the greatest treasure known to men.
Strings strung on wood or pipes softly blown,
bring tears to the eyes of the young and the grown.
Glitters not this tear more than the gold of a crown?

Does it therefore really matter,
if it is indeed gold that doth glitter?
When there is so much more wealth than wealth?
The sounds in the air, that stands up every single hair.
The tantalizing vision of paint on a wall or written words that do enthrall,
hold more value than all the gold, or any at all.


Have the loveliest of days in the best of all possible worlds!

I profess my love for words

Today I profess my love for words:

Without her voluminous vocabulary or rhythmic resonance, my days would be sullen and sad.
Without her sounds and movements in my mouth, I might as well stay in bed.
Without her presence filling my every thought and syllable expressed,
my humors would be immensely depressed!
O how I would love to see her undressed from those leather-bound, skin-tight covers.
What else is there to love than words, for booklovers?

Have a lovely day!

The Death of a Writer

The death of a writer

What a poor soul my dearly departed was,
Always scribbling this or that.
Into a dark alley he stumbled without pause,
To stoop and pick up his hat.

Heard a smirk or a simper, a grin even when;
A villain or two showed up there and then.
Asking for coin, all but declaring so:
What a pity he only had a transcript to show.

Clever with words yet most poor with a knife
Signed by his widow, no longer a wife.