The Blue Candle Society

Well, now I appear to be getting spam in German.  Like most English comment spam, it ends politely, with a hearty “Vielen Dank nochmal für alle Details” But surely most American bloggers are not like me, with two semesters of German under their belt from the early 90’s, and thus not possessed of a vague sort of idea what all the commentary means.  I’d hate to think of all that verbiage going to waste on bloggers who frittered away their time learning French.  I’d like to think this spam came about because of my post on Ritter, Tod, Teufel, und Hund, but the comment actually came in before I posted that.  So I think we can rule out a band of cunning Teutonic spammers, searching for the use of German in posts.

Posted in Uncategorized

Jefferson blinked, trying to focus on Gantry as he lumbered around the kitchen. The big man paused for a moment to take in the writing on the wall. “That you, Quinn?” he asked, gesturing. His breath was still short, but not as short as Jefferson’s, who felt like he could barely suck in any wind between the damage to his throat and ribs. Gantry turned back to look at Jefferson. “Nah, that wasn’t you, was it? You wouldn’t write in the Old Tongue. It’d scare you too much.”

“Wouldn’t use gravy if I did,” Jefferson rasped, easing himself halfway to a seated position, leaning against a cabinet. “Try to keep things classy.” Between the two of them, their wheezing was filling the room.

Gantry grinned. “Listen to you, still a smart guy even after I damn near killed you. What’s it going to take to get you in a serious frame of mind, Quinn?” Continue reading ‘Serial Saturday: The Figurine, Part 14’

Posted in Serials

Cyril plots his revenge

Cyril crouched in his nest at the back of the mailbox, plotting his next move.  Four times now, he had been swept from his new home by a stick, and four times he had returned.  The last few times, his tormentor had tried to trap him in a cardboard box, but he had escaped each time, either by leaping to one side of the box and scurrying off into the underbrush, or simply spring free of the box with his tiny, powerful legs.

Thus far, his revenge for these insults had been limited to chewing on the roots of new trees that he’d found planted near the mailbox.  The vicious hound that patrolled the area between the

The vicious rodent hound on patrol

mailbox and the garage had kept him from sabotaging the pickup truck as he’d intended.  But now he thought he’d devised a way to work his way around the cunning beast.  His friend Bob the groundhog had offered to guide him around the long route of the driveway, in return for some chewed-up pieces of mortgage payments.  The only question now was whether he should chew through the brake lines first, or go to work on air conditioning first to lengthen his vengeance.

Suddenly, the door to the mailbox opened.  Cyril readied himself to leap to safety, but a hand, clad in tough cow-hide, grasped him and hurled him into a container.  For a moment, he panicked, then as everything went dark, he realized that the smell of cat litter did not presage the appearance of his old enemy.

There were a series of strange noises, and Cyril suddenly realized that he was moving.  For a time, the bumping and shaking continued, then it ceased, and Cyril crouched, waiting to make a bid for freedom.  He sprang free at the first glimpse of sunlight,then stopped, looking around.  The landscape was unfamiliar; there were no cows to be seen for one thing.  As the truck pulled away, he sat up on his hind legs and looked around for a new mailbox.

Posted in General writing things

Okay, so we’ve got some theories about what everyone is up to here

So I got myself a print of Albrecht Dürer’s Ritter, Tod und Teufel, because I thought it was kind of neat.  It came with a handy little sticker explaining what all the various things in the engraving represented, the knight, death, the devil, the armor, and so on.  That led me to do a bit more research, and I see that there are several possible interpretations.  For instance, I see that the print is meant to represent sanguinity, one of the four temprements (I have to admit the knight looks pretty sanguine, all things considered).  Some people say the knight represents Christian faith and humanism, and others that he represents a greedy robber baron.  In this latter interpretation, I’m guessing his armor is not meant to represent his Christian faith like it does in others.

But what I haven’t been able to find any information on, is what is up with that dog?  I mean look at him.  That is one laid-back dog (if anything he is more sanguine that the ol’ Ritter,

But what is up with this dog?

there).  I’ve never seen a dog look so chill and have such a heavy-lidded expression, even ones that aren’t strolling along next to death and the Devil.  Actually, upon closer examination, we see that the horses are just ambling along while the dog is in a full-suspension gallop.  Maybe he’s just passing through.  Like, on the outside he’s calm, but inside he’s thinking “Whoa, man, this is a bad scene.  Better just get on by and not make eye contact with any of these weirdos.”  But this is a writing blog, after all.  We really musn’t get sidetracked worrying about technical details of the dog, gaits and expressions and so on.  Metaphor and simile are our stock and trade as writers.  What is the dog doing allegorically, that’s the question.  Anyone who has any ideas, feel free to let me know.

Next time: and what is going on with that lizard?  Why is the dog ignoring it, for one thing?

Posted in General writing things, Metaphor!

The house was like an oven inside, and Jefferson felt sweat springing on to his forehead immediately. The creak of the floorboards echoed in the short entry hall, loud with no other noise to cover it. The sitting room was even hotter than the entry, sun streaming in through the curtainless windows.

Jefferson pulled out his handkerchief and ran it across his forehead as he looked around. There wasn’t much to see, just a few worn and threadbare pieces of furniture and an old radio. A newspaper lay in an untidy pile on one chair, and Jefferson picked it up to check the front page. It was dated three days ago.

He dropped the paper back on the chair and made his way down another hallway. He took one step into a small kitchen and stopped dead. Continue reading ‘Serial Saturday: The Figurine, Part 13’

Posted in Serials

Not my beta readers, of course; the fine folks who read my first drafts are a lightning-quick band of editors with encyclopedic knowledge of grammar and vast, sprawling vocabularies, dual-wielding pens.

But for other aspiring readers out there, helping out less-fortunate writers (or TAs for that matter), this first-person grader might sharpen your skills.

Posted in Grammar Gripery

So, these ads you see these days, the ones where well-groomed person in a nice suit stands around and makes an utterly mundane pitch for good or services, while moving their hands around so that someone in post-production can make it look like they are moving some sort of holographic windows interface around.  You know the ones – have a look something like an uglier version of what they used in the movie of Minority Report, always feature someone flinging a window to one side with an insouciant gesture – those.  What I want to know is, are these the products of an ad person who thinks they are being clever?  The kind of person who, a few years back, thought mentioning “email” in a commercial was cutting edge?  Or is this a client-driven thing, where someone walks into a meeting and says “I want the ad to have those cool windows that show everyone stuff about our product, the ones you can sort of see through like the person watching the commercial is actually inside a computer!” and all the members of the creative team die a little inside?

Posted in General writing things

Jefferson lurched awake, grabbing for his guns, feeling a jolt of pain in his back. Then the reason he was lying on the floor sunk in. He stood, stretching to ease the kink in his back, and shambled into the bathroom. He took a bath, keeping his pistols within reach, then dressed and headed down to the diner.

The atmosphere in the restaurant made the hairs on the back of Jefferson’s neck stand up. There was a buzz in the room that made it clear something had happened. He found a seat in a booth, sat down and set about finding out what it had been.

“Betsy,” he said as the waitress approached with a coffee pot, “have I told you how nice it is that you’re the first person I talk to most days?”

“Yes you have, Mr. Quinn,” Betsy replied as she poured the coffee. “Have I told you that I live in a boarding house and I can’t buy lightning rods?” She stepped back with a smile and primped at her hair.

“So you can tell I ain’t just turning on the charm to make a sale, darlin’,” Jefferson said. “Still, you’ll have to give me the name of your landlady. I’ll make her a good deal just to make sure you’re kept safe from fire and lightning.”

“That’s very kind of you, Mr. Quinn. What’ll you have today?” Continue reading ‘Serial Saturday: The Figurine, Part 12’

Posted in Serials

Inspired by the mouse I found living in my mailbox this morning:

There once was a field mouse named Cyril, who tired of living in grubby burrows in fields, and longed for a cleaner, more modern environment.  So he scaled a mailbox pole, and using secret methods known only to mouse-kind made his way inside the aluminum construct.  He was still hard at work, making himself a little nest in one corner, and hanging photographs of his vacation to Six Flags Scranton, when a a squeaking from down below caught his attention.  He looked out of his new home, to the ground so far below, and saw his friend Vernon the vole, waving his little paw in greeting.

“Hello, Cyril,” Vernon shouted in his squeaky little vole voice.

“Hello, Vernon,” Cyril called back.

“So you’ve finally realized your dream of living high above the ground, eh?”

“Yes I have,” Cyril said, a bit of pride creeping into his voice.  “The view from here is remarkable.  I believe I can see a cow, which must be dozens of yards away.”

“Oh, how I wish I could live in a mailbox,” Vernon said.  “To think of all the mail you’ll be able to read!  News from far-off lands!  Thrilling tales of the lives of countless creatures!”

“I suppose,” Cyril replied.  “But I think instead I’ll just chew up some of it for more nesting material, and pee on the rest.  I do enjoy peeing on things.”

“Well, whatever you like, of course,” Vernon said.  “It is your home, after all, and a mouse’s home is his-”

Suddenly a massive stick burst into Cyril’s new home, poking at him until he fled, leaping to the road below.  In short order his meager furnishings followed him on to the ground.

And so there was nothing left for Cyril to do, except to plot revenge on his tormentor by one again crawling into the engin of his truck and wedging a piece of dry dog food into the throttle control.

THE END?

Addendum: The picture with this post is not actually of the mouse in my mailbox, but rather some other mouse in another mailbox.  I had some technical difficulties getting my own mouse picture off my cellphone, but fortunately for me this is apparently a common phenomenon.  I must credit Pierre, SD postal carrier Robert Robbinholt for this picture.

Posted in General writing things

Well, it’s that time of year again, when everyone trots out their Summer reading lists.  Who are these people that read more in the summer, is what I want to know.  Personally, I read more in the winter, because I’ve got so many other things to do in the summer.  Granted, not everyone out there has to spend as much time mowing various things as I do, but it seems weird to have so much extra time in the summer.  I guess the theory is that people are on vacation, and thus have time to read on the beach, though I suspect a more accurate explanation may have something to do with TV rerun schedules, because one vacation hardly seems worth rearranging whole reading lists over.

Perhaps I should just vacation more in the summer (and I will plow through some serious bookage when I need to travel on a plane, it’s just that I normally do that for work).  But I still don’t understand the notion of reading different kinds of things in the summer, which is the other part of the Summer read mythos.  To hear people talk about the “fun” books they recommend for the summer you’d think they spent the whole winter reading things that bored them stiff, their ennui matching the grim weather outside their chilly garrets.  That’s a nice contrast to the other sort of Summer reading list, I suppose, the scholastic kind meant to sharpen brain gone soft and spongy with time off from studies.  Honestly, if one must change reading habits with the season, I’d think the kiddoes would be better off plowing through a book a day and the adults improving themselves by reading stuff they don’t really want to.

Anyway, I’m off to reread Rider at the Gate, then The Terror – it’s friggin hot here and I could use some good descriptions of bone-chilling cold.

Posted in General writing things