Great Being Five was going to be in trouble. Big trouble. She had contravened the Non-Interference Protocol on one of the four inhabited planets she managed. She’d made the odd little tweak here and there over the planet’s long lifetime, all of which had gone unnoticed. But this time it was going to be obvious. As she saw it though, she’d had no alternative.
She’d never had any difficulty with her other three planets. Admittedly two of them were at such an early stage of development that there was really nothing to do but wait for something to happen. The third was a lovely, tranquil world, covered in lush vegetation and populated only by colourful birds which lived off fruits and seeds. She’d wrapped a subtle cloaking device around it in the hope of keeping it concealed from any advanced astral beings who, if they came upon it, would inevitably decide that it would make a nice second home. That would never do. So far none of the other Great Beings had noticed and her pretty planet had remained undiscovered.
Earth was an entirely different matter. Her little humans had really let the planet go. They had developed into such clever beings; so inventive! so creative! But so many of their inventions had had such a devastating impact on her lovely blue planet. Busily burning fossil fuels, chopping down trees, ruining the very soil they stood on. And then there was the killing. Each other mainly, but all those appealing animals they’d destroyed? Great Being Five was really mad about that.
The big issue was the planet itself. It really couldn’t cope for much longer. Great Being Five focused her third eye and scanned Planet Earth one more time. Swathes of empty forest all across the Amazon; huge scars left by the profligate plundering of mineral deposits which had developed over millennia; and the smog. Filthy air everywhere, a toxic sickly yellow; oceans clogged with seas of bobbing plastic; lakes and rivers coloured improbably by pollutants and algae blooms; fewer and fewer birds and animals. And all those people. People everywhere!
Great Being Five consulted the stats section of her data banks. For the past 40 years, the humans had been using more than double their annual quota of resources. There were other alarming figures too. The report finished with a verdict: ‘Unsustainable; self-destruction inevitable by Earth date, 2020.’
What had happened to the little humans? Why had they become so careless and greedy? They’d ruined everything. She couldn’t let them destroy her favourite planet. No! She wouldn’t let it happen.
Great Being Five scrolled through the little icons on her console and selected one. She took a deep breath and hit the delete key.
There is one indispensable step to writing, and that is that you must sit down and write.
This is technically untrue, and was not such a hard and fast rule in the ancient days: Homer, said to be blind, would have been functionally illiterate; he worked the great epics in his head and presented them to live audiences. What we have now are versions likely written down by scribes taking dictation.
With apologies to the creators of Star Trek and Doctor Who
The doors to the holodeck swooshed closed. Ensign Marcus Bain felt a warm breeze ruffle his crew cut and the midday sun on his skin. Dressed in appropriate time-period leisurewear he plunged into the fairground crowd.
Garish colours, distorted sounds and the smell of fried food assaulted his senses. He checked the handful of notes and coins which had been issued to him with his slippery pale blue nylon outfit. There had been some orientation information on the pre-entry briefing screen, but he’d barely skimmed it in his impatience to visit late-twentieth century Earth.
He stared about at the crudely-made mechanical rides from which music blared and people screamed. The young ensign selected a ride at random and proffered a handful of coins. The operator raised his eyebrows and laughed, saying something Marcus didn’t catch, before showing him to one of the little rubber-rimmed cars which people were driving around the smooth oval-shaped rink.
Marcus had only just wedged himself into the seat of his little green car when someone bumped him hard from behind. He swivelled around, but the car had already reversed away. Then another slammed into him from the side. “You drive like a Klingon on Rackta,” he yelled at the driver who gave him a thumbs-up sign before driving off to bash a little blue car. Marcus clutched the steering wheel and depressed the single pedal on the floor. The car moved forward, describing a graceful arc.
He cruised around the rink, skilfully avoiding attempts by other cars to bump him. It was a bit like steering a star-ship through a meteor shower; not that he’d actually done that other than on a simulator. Marcus was oblivious to the hostile looks from the other drivers as he evaded their challenges and failed to make any contact himself. Then three cars came at him at once, one behind and two on either side, driving him edge of the rink. There was nowhere for his little green car to go. Marcus swung his car around to face them and stopped. He could feel the pressure from their cars push against his, which was tight up against the rim of the rink. The electric charges from the poles mounted on the back of the cars crackled brightly on the conductive mesh above their heads. The three guys scowled at Marcus. All were dressed in tight cut off t-shirts which revealed hostile-looking tattoos on their arms. He saw the man on his right crack his knuckles.
Marcus was up and out of the little green car before they had a chance to move. He hesitated for a few seconds, then seeing them hoist themselves out onto the busy rink and advance towards him, he set off at a run. The nylon fabric of his clothing slid unpleasantly over his skin as he looked around for somewhere to lose his pursuers.
Marcus noticed a door flapping open at the rear of one of the flimsy buildings. He dived through the door slamming it behind him. It was very dark. Marcus felt his way along a narrow corridor. His stomach knotted as he heard his pursuers enter behind him. Marcus groped his way along the passage until he found another door; he opened it cautiously and slipped through.
It was suddenly very bright; the walls around him were lined with mirrors which distorted and multiplied his reflection. He rounded a corner, hurrying past the grotesque versions of his reflected self into a mirror-lined corridor which twisted and zigzagged before opening into a large, triangular-shaped room. He heard a shout: ‘split up, get him.’ Heavy footsteps pounded on the wooden floor; the mirrors shook. Before Marcus could decide which way to run, three figures appeared each from a different doorway. Marcus was trapped.
‘Exit!’ shouted Marcus, remembering the escape command.
‘We’re not going anywhere,’ one of them grunted. The three men closed in on the now desperate Marcus, who knew he was not immune to blows from holographic foe.
‘Exit!’ Marcus yelled again. Why didn’t the program end?
Vworp! Vworp! The three men stopped and turned to see a large shape materializing in the middle of the room. Marcus sighed with relief. But what appeared wasn’t what he’d expected. Rather than an archway, it was a big blue box, taller than a man and a little wider than the double doors in the side which faced him. Perhaps this was a new version of the Arch? He wished he’d read the briefing more thoroughly. One of the doors opened and a figure in a long brown coat and an even longer stripy scarf appeared. He raised his broad-brimmed hat revealing a shock of unruly, curly hair.
‘Good afternoon, gentlemen,’ he said. He looked at Marcus, ‘You’d better come with me ensign.’
Marcus hesitated; his three would-be assailants stood open-mouthed.
‘Come along Ensign Bain, hurry up now,’ the man said, beckoning to him. ‘This way.’
Marcus hurried toward the blue box. ‘Who are you?’ he asked his rescuer as he drew level with him at the doorway.
‘I’m the Doctor,’ he replied, offering Marcus a toothy grin as he ushered him inside.
‘Doctor who?’ asked Marcus.
‘Have a jelly baby,’ said the Doctor, offering him a crumpled paper bag.
Marcus stared around him.
‘Welcome to the Tardis! Bigger on the inside, yes, I know,’ said the Doctor, beaming wide-eyed at Marcus. ‘Now let’s get you back where you belong,’ he said as he pushed buttons and pulled on levers at the central console.
Before Marcus could take stock of his surroundings, the Tardis materialized in the engine room of the USS Enterprise. ‘Home,’ said the Doctor, helping a dazed Marcus out.
‘Aye, another one, is it Doctor?’ said Scotty, the Chief Engineer.
The Doctor nodded. ‘Your virtual reality toy keeps causing a tiny rift in the space-time continuum. You need to fix it. I’ve better things to do than scoop up young ensigns on their day off.’
‘Aye, Doctor,’ said Scotty, ‘we’ll get onto it right away.’
and secondly, just last week by theThe Floating Thoughts – thank you Roy, Amrita, and Dee Kay!
Be sure to check these wonderful people out in the unlikely event you haven’t found them already…
You will notice that Q5 and Q7 appear less prominently. This is because they don’t always appear for the award. But well, so what, everything is optional, apart from death and taxes – to misquote Benjamin Franklin (apparently). So, 1 and 2 completed…
How ‘lunasonline’ started
I originally set the blog up in about 2010 to ‘store’ some of my stories. I was way too scared to publish. A couple of years passed during which I finished and self-published my first novel, The Silver Locket – under a pseudonym – still lacking confidence, you see.
But then, at the start of this year, having sold several handfuls of the paperback version of my novel through the art gallery where I’d been working, I decided to launch myself and my blog (all right, Luna’s blog) into the world.
In the meantime, I’d started writing my second novel and, to spur me on, I decided to post a chapter on my blog each week. Discipline! I also set my self a target to publish a short piece of writing every Friday – mostly fiction – just something for fun.
Now, eight months later, I never would have realised the wonderful community of bloggers out there. The interaction and support is wonderful! Thank you all!
My two pieces of advice (for what it’s worth)
Be genuine, be supportive – by this I mean that we should ‘like’ what we truly like… and read whatever it is first; interact positively, as much as we can; and be kind, be positive!
Enjoy yourself, just get it out there – even if it’s a rant – we’ll understand! Have fun with your work, and try to be the best that you can on that day.
My Answers to The Floating Thoughts’ Questions:
1.If you could live a life of immortality, would you? On balance, no. Although I would manage to read all those books out there.
2.If you had 1 billion dollars (or whatever your currency is) what would you do? Invest a couple of million, buy houses all over the world and give the rest away to people who really need the money. And I might take a hit out on a couple of people (politicians and despots, beware).
3.If you had infinite resources to fund someone to make a piece of media for you (movie, anime, TV series, video game etc.) what would that project be? A fantastic wildlife series involving loads of awesome places which I would co-host with Sir David Attenborough.
4.If you could have one skill you don’t currently have, what would it be? The ability to fly.
5.How do you get over it when you feel sad? What do you do? Write my way out. Or have a long, hot bath; but since we have a severe drought here in Cape Town and bathing is out, it has to be the writing. Wine helps too.
6.What kind of person annoys you the most? One who promises to deliver then fails to do so.
7.What have you always wanted to be able to do but aren’t able to do? See Q4.
8.What’s the best piece of advice you’ve ever been given? Don’t worry what other people think.
9.What is your favourite film character? and why? Elizabeth Bennett from Jane Austin’s ‘Pride & Prejudice’ (any version). She’s my all-time favourite heroine. It’s her wit. She didn’t worry about what other people thought either.
10.If you could talk to anyone again, living or dead from your life, who would it be? Why?Sorry, I’ve moved on.
My Nominees
This is just a handful of the lovely bloggers I’ve come across out there; my list doesn’t include people who I nominated for the Liebster Award, but you could check them out too.
Dear Nominees, what you do with the award is entirely up to you! You should get the ‘pingback’.
and finally (but not least)… https://daradgamer.wordpress.com – one of my co-nominees (by The Floating Thoughts) who I’d selected earlier!
Your Questions
There aren’t any – but feel free to tell the world a bit about yourself and your work if you’d like. The floor is yours. Blog! Blag! Brag! Did you see what I did there?
Even for a Catholic Church there are a lot of statues. Not just the usual suspects: Our Lord on the Cross, Our Lady Weeping (touch of woodworm on those toes), and good old Saint Francis with a mouldy-looking bird on each hand and a rabbit missing half an ear at his feet. All have been subjected to some dodgy touch-up jobs. Nail varnish on Saint Anne? You shake your head.
There are newer statues too; peopling the perimeter like extras from a low-budget film. They stare out from the shadows, waiting for the action.
You drop a coin in the shabby wooden box, select a candle, light the wick and place it among its fellows. You pause, looking like you’re offering a prayer; for form’s sake.
You glance at your watch. Surely he should be here by now?
Perching on a pew near the back of the nave, you survey the altar. The altar cloth is rumpled and askew; the silverware huddled together at one end, as if something (someone?) had been resting there and was suddenly removed.
A shaft of sunlight falls on the golden lectern, illuminating the outstretched wings of the malformed eagle which support a heavy leather-bound bible on its wings. You notice a chain and padlock securing the stand to a ring-bolt in the floor. You can’t be too careful these days. Something catches your eye; movement reflected in the eagle’s wings. You glance over your shoulder. The statues appear closer; one of them, a young man, has a hand raised as if in greeting. Was it like that before?
The clouds move over the sun and the lectern fades in the gloom. A door scrapes open and a pool of yellow light spills onto the flagstones alongside the altar. There is a shadow too: an elongated arm with an extended finger touches the edge of the altar cloth. Then ghost-sounds of shuffling feet, whispers of words and the rasp of heavy breaths echo across the nave. You suddenly notice that the statues are lined up along the central aisle. They watch you; empty-eyed. How did they get there? You close your eyes, shake your head and open them again. Are you dreaming? You don’t think so.
A door slams somewhere and a black-garbed priest appears carrying violin case. The man for whom you’d been waiting: the one who says he has a story for you. He sets the case down on the altar and opens it, taking out a strange-looking rifle. He glances at the statues and stares back at you. Now he smiles and flicks off the safety catch.
They say you never hear the bullet which kills you. Father Anselm’s petrifying bullets are different.
The following article is from a book calledWriters and Their Cats,which is a book about writers and their cats (!) and is written by Alison Nastasi.
The writers:
Angela Carter, Chester Himes, Gillian Flynn, Jorge Luis Borges, Judy Blume, Julio Cortázar, Mark Twain, Marlon James, Patricia Highsmith, Ursula K. Le Guin.
As writers, we’re often referred to as some of the strangest, most misunderstood members of society, and it’s a theme that has certainly carried down from generation to generation. It’s probably to do with the creative lifestyle – always obsessing over a project and never being able to properly switch off.
It’s like we have this constant creative buzz in the back of our minds that is ready to erupt at any moment, spilling countless ideas and caffeine-induced plot outlines out into the real world. I say real world because at least eighty percent of our minds are occupied by fiction that was either penned by us, or by some other richer, much more talented writer.
Duke Humfrey’s Library, the oldest reading room of the Bodleian Library, University of Oxford Photo by DAVID ILIFF. License: CC-BY-SA 3.0
She hadn’t realised the consequences of taking down that old book and reading from it aloud. Nobody had warned her.
She’d always loved books; especially old books. Battered and bruised, but still adorable. Like a comfortable old armchair. The feel of the paper, pages yellowed at the edges, curled like parchment, worn down by the gaze of its readers. The smell: a little musty; a little dusty. And words which have been read and re-read; taken in, digested.
She’d been permitted to browse this ancient library. To scale the heights of the upper shelves and plumb the depths of the bottom-most archives. To swim in an ocean of promised words.
Finally, she made her choice, a heavy tome and rather old. The pages were discoloured, their edges torn, and the leather binding scuffed and stained. But the drawings of flowers and birds it contained were still colourful. There were passages of script held within the pages, although the language and spelling were archaic and hard to follow.
She took her prize to a remote desk and opened it carefully. She pored over it; savouring it. The illustrations were remarkable; tinted drawings so precise that they could have been photographs: two young girls dressed in pinafores, chanting a hand clapping game. Over the next page, a robust woman in a heavy woollen dress shouting straight out of the page at her, brows knitted with concern, arms open in appeal. A little further on, a poem was it? To be read aloud; of course.
And as she whispered the words, the world grew very bright for a moment, and then the lights went out.
Come, gentle reader, open the book! Look, she’s waving at you; page 229.
‘Roget’ by Thomas Pettigrew 1842, print of portrait, Medical Portrait Gallery
ROGET’S THESAURUS
Not a rare type of dinosaur, this wonderful list of vocabulary on a large scale, categorized by topics has earned an enduring reputation as a handy aid to composition. Nouns, verbs and adjectives are all widely represented, although not the dreaded adverb.
Roget’s Thesaurus was born out of need. As a young and busy doctor, who was much given to lecturing, Peter Mark Roget felt the need to improve his powers of expression.
A compulsive list-maker from the age of eight, Roget devised a ‘classed catalogue of words’ for his own use in 1805. However, it was not until he was in his seventies in 1852, that the first edition, called the ‘Thesaurus of English Words and Phrases Classified and Arranged so as to Facilitate the Expression of Ideas and Assist in Literary Composition’ was printed.
Roget’s life was marked by several depressing incidents. His father and his wife both died young; while his beloved maternal uncle committed suicide in his presence. Roget struggled with depression for most of his life. It is believed that his work on the thesaurus arose partly from an effort to battle it.
My battered old friend
Roget’s Thesaurus has been reprinted and revised many times since its original publication. My copy, a school prize no less, was the ‘New Edition, Completely Modernized and Abridged by Robert A. Dutch, and was hot off the press when I received it at the end my first year of high school in 1975. Doesn’t that date me!
I do still use my Roget from time to time. Okay, I know that Microsoft Office has its own in-built Thesaurus which can be handy, but it’s not anyway near as rich in vocabulary as Roget. Nor can you hold it in your hands and browse from section to section, as one intriguing word either spotted or remembered, takes you on a magical mystery tour for another.
I have to approach him with a degree of respect though, as my poor old paperback copy is rather delicate now, with loose pages and whole sections coming adrift at the seams. I hope I’ve worn a little better over these past 40-odd years.
But I wouldn’t be without him, my reliable old friend, Roget.
Good article. I’ve also found that commenting and helping to edit other people’s writing has made me more conscious of the way I write. There are some good examples of ‘tightening’ up too.
If you want to become a better writer, become a better editor.
If you want to become a better editor, edit work that is not your own.
I recently joined a local writers’ group and was requested to comment on various extracts from group members completed and in-progress work. I quickly found a number of recommendations I could make for improvement, but what came as a bit of a surprise, was when I went back and started editing some of my own work, I found exactly the same things there. One common mistake is using names too frequently when a pronoun would suffice.
luna's on line 