bodhranwriting

[bodhranwriting]

I’ve been wanting to write a horror comedy film set in an amalgamation of Scottish tourist traps I’ve worked in for about a year now and I’ve only just gotten a possible name for it.

Scotland the Brave.

[bodhranwriting]

I did some designs for my firebird for the Merman and the Firebird fantasy story.

The idea is it can’t look grand or elegant, it must be fat and silly-looking and not good at flying.

Blurb under cut

The most common name on the flyers was The Carnival at the Edge of the World. The most common name among the troupe was The Cobweb.  

But to Argo it is always and simply Here.

Seven years ago, a young half-mer snuck out of the waves and ran away with the circus. It was less than a fortnight before he discovered the circus had – in fact – run away with him. Now Argo is one of Ringmaster Verdandii’s prized exhibitions, trapped in a lonely oasis in the largest desert in the world. Within the colourful tents Argo and his fellow menagerie of creature and human freaks alike quarrel, bargain, ally, and betray in hopes of unlocking their ringmaster’s mercurial and closely guarded combination for freedom.

But then the firebird arrived.

[bodhranwriting]

A pitch I’ve been working on for a while.

[bodhranwriting]

A bunch of things I have in my notes for my current WIP about a half-mer escaping a circus with a firebird:

Travelling werewolf warrior priest

Giant sentient friendly spiders and their adopted human spiderling

Fortune-reading river pirates

A scrappy, squeaky voiced mad engineer with dreams of otherworldly travel

A research- obsessed ringmaster

A living tree that feeds on dreams

A resurrected rotting mer-human hybrid diplomat

Murderous selkie bandits

A crystal infused nameless fiddle player

A heavy called Mother Candles

Talking mountain sheep (evil)

[bodhranwriting]

Verdandii Verdandii was closer to fifty than forty, but his hair was still as coal-black and his voice still as velvet, and his tall frame still as perfectly trim as it’d been the day Argo had snuck out of the waves. The only concession he’d made to age was to accept a pair of spectacles to perch on the end of his nose and, even then, he ensured they were gold-rimmed and so perfectly clean they glittered.

Tula The tiny figure standing so proudly and triumphantly in the opening of the tent-like web was festooned in so many silk-threads and tiny gems that she could have been cut straight from the night sky itself.

Yssik The wild-haired, bulbous-goggled, be-aproned man scuttling towards him looked like a rat who’d been struck by lightning.

Ermentrude Not-at-all-buccaneer Captain Ermentrude eyed Argo contemptuously, clearly sizing him up. She was fat and blonde and dressed exactly how a pirate should be; with her bandana and jerkin and cutlass all as present and correct as a children’s illustration.

[bodhranwriting]

1510!!!

It has taken me about four days to write 547 words of this story so of course I'm going to at least double that in one day and finish chapter one.

[bodhranwriting]

The most common name on the flyers was The Carnival at the Edge of the World. The most common name among the troupe was The Cobweb.  

But to Argo it is always and simply Here.

Seven years ago, a young half-mer snuck out of the waves and ran away with the circus. It was less than a fortnight before he discovered the circus had – in fact – run away with him. Now Argo is one of Ringmaster Verdandii’s prized exhibitions, trapped in a lonely oasis in the largest desert in the world. Within the colourful tents Argo and his fellow menagerie of creature and human freaks alike quarrel, bargain, ally, and betray in hopes of unlocking their ringmaster’s mercurial and closely guarded combination for freedom.

But then the firebird arrived.

[bodhranwriting]

914!

It has taken me about four days to write 547 words of this story so of course I'm going to at least double that in one day and finish chapter one.

[bodhranwriting]

I swear that before I go to sleep tonight, I will have hit at least 1000 words here.

It has taken me about four days to write 547 words of this story so of course I'm going to at least double that in one day and finish chapter one.

[bodhranwriting]

I managed 266.

It has taken me about four days to write 547 words of this story so of course I'm going to at least double that in one day and finish chapter one.

[bodhranwriting]

It has taken me about four days to write 547 words of this story so of course I'm going to at least double that in one day and finish chapter one.

[bodhranwriting]

I want to properly copy this over in the morning.

Half-met lore.

[bodhranwriting]

If I opened the ask box, would anyone be interested in asking some questions about how the results pan out lorewise?

[bodhranwriting]

The most common name on the flyers was The Carnival at the Edge of the World. The most common name among the troupe was The Cobweb.  

But to Argo it is always and simply Here.

Seven years ago, a half-mer snuck out of the waves and ran away with the circus. It was less than a fortnight before he discovered the circus had – in fact – run away with him. Now Argo is one of Ringmaster Verdandii’s prized exhibitions, trapped within a lonely oasis in the largest desert in the world. Within the colourful tents Argo and his fellow menagerie of creatures and human freaks alike quarrel, bargain, ally, and betray in hopes of unlocking their ringmaster’s mercurial and closely guarded combination for freedom.

But then the firebird arrived.

Beautiful, vicious, and only an animal. No chance to have walked, no debts to pay.

A home to return to.

A home on the other side of a desert, littered with the bones of those who tried before.

[bodhranwriting]

NIGHT-RUN OPENING

The deluge pounded the prairie like an army of giants, its roar rivalling the rolling thunder above it. Forests of tallgrass were beaten and broken to half their heights, the soil beneath now oceans of silt and mire and sludge.

The last harpy shrieked its fury into the raging night, sensing the retreat of its sisters back to home. Electricity crackled painfully across its wings, each feather being pulled and fluffed by the storm, rain crashing into its body like arrows. What little cognitive power it possessed was screaming to follow the flock – get back to safety and shelter and warmth – before the elements tore it from the skies.

But to return empty-taloned was to forgo a reward. The harpy could feel the burst of intestines against its mouth, the gush of life-blood seeping down its throat. Chunks of carrion tossed into their enclosure were sufficient, but live prey was a rare and welcome indulgence.

Its master urged it on from the back of its mind, sharing the adrenaline and thrill and stress of the hunt. Live prey begot live prey.

Another blast of rain overturned it. Something like fear touched its gut. The storm was becoming too much. The harpy fought itself right-side up and scanned the unfurling plains below a final time.

Lightning ripped open the clouds. For a heartbeat, the floundering shape amidst the grass was illuminated as clearly as a torch in a cave.

The harpy dived. Wind and water whipped past it as it plummeted, preparing its weight to swing forward those talons and seize the target by whatever it could, snatching its quarry up to where there was no defense –

But the next flash of lightning was blinding and the harpy’s claws closed on empty air. Screeching with rage, the harpy climbed again into the storm-tossed night and wheeled around to join its flock, broadcasting the prey’s last position to its disappointed master.

Argo clawed himself free from the river of muck, open-mouthed panting with the strain. He’d felt the rush of wind above his head as he’d thrown himself down, the split-second shadow against the tempest’s light his only warning. His arms throbbed from where he’d jarred them as he’d dropped, his shoulders protesting taking his full weight just as strongly. But those were just more melodies among the symphony of agony that was his body.

A huge, sobbing breath tore out of Argo’s mouth as he forced himself to his feet, staggering forwards.