S#17: Midnight Snackage
I took the chance to have midnight snacks with my sister and her husband while they’re here in Canberra. Unfortunately, she’s pregnant and sleepy so the fondue I prepared so carefully needed to be served at nine before she passed out.
It was, however, the best serve of fruit EVER.
Thanks to the magic of the day, and the unpredictability of pregnant-lady energy swings, we did end up staying up until midnight after all. Luckily, my sister had also prepped some cheesecake. Which we ate right on twelve.
Midnight snacks are, and always will be, awesome.
DEFINITELY play along at home on this one.
Guess what! This is your very last bookshelfporn.com pic, since a new tale (and a new realm of pictures. . . you’ll see) begins tomorrow. This is someone’s private library.
#174: Visit a waterfall
Water + gravity = awesome.
Through a convoluted series of events, some of my family ended up at Fitzroy Falls last weekend. The falls are astonishingly well maintained and well run. Some of you antipodeans may have heard that it’s currently Winter, noun, the middle of. The falls were still worth seeing – arguably, more so than ever.
It was a peculiar day because we reached the falls around midday, but due to light rain and heavy cloud (and mountains), we found ourselves in a strange fantasy world of mist and moss and dripping water. The falls area has a lot of brilliant walking tracks, but we took the direct route to the waterfall viewing platform, which is so short and flat I could have done it with no legs while carrying a recalcitrant badger.
The short track is roughly parallel to the river, and surrounded by lush forest – all of which was glimmering with moisture as it had finished raining moments before.
I admit that even while admiring the rainforest I was beginning to wonder what I’d committed to – the river didn’t look that impressive. Very soon we could all hear the rushing water – but it didn’t sound especially impressive either, muffled as it was by trees and mist. I was horrified when we rounded a corner and saw the railing of the viewing platform – and a wall of white. Too much mist! But no-one else seemed to be screaming and cursing, so I walked up to the edge and – pow! Nothing but air below me for 81 metres (yep, I looked it up) of sheer cliff. We stood and gaped for a while, and then we gaped some more. The mist cleared a little to show the other side of the gorge – and these mountains (I swear they weren’t there before).
You can’t see the bottom of the falls here, but I assure you it was a long way down.
Clearly, geology was left unsupervised at some point in the past, and it decided to mess about.
Speaking of messing about, here’s my impression of Great Cthulhu (small children should look away now):
When Good Libraries Go Bad (complete tale)
1
A tentacle circled my neck, squeezing the life out of me with agonizing skill. “Steve!” came Terry’s voice. “Steve! Wake up!”
*
I opened my eyes to Terry, leaning over me. He looked scruffy without his mind-mage robes on. “Your cthulhu nightmares suck.”
“Sorry.”
*
We got up for breakfast. As the mind-mage, Terry got cereal. Phil the muscle-mage got steak. As air-mage, I got zip. And MY robe is puce.
2
“Oi, Steve, stop being nervous,” said Terry.
I said, “Shut up or I’ll CO2 you.”
Phil cracked a smile, exercising at least twenty muscles.
*
We hiked across the desert toward the Forbidden Library. Terry cleared his throat when we were still twenty miles away: “I sense something.”
*
Phil tensed, ready to attack. Terry shook his head: “It’s dead – but still radiating.”
“So. . . ?” I prompted.
Terry said: “It’s a cthulhu.”
3
Five miles away, and I tasted dead cthulhu on the air. Phil was sure he could make the corpse slither away, though, so that was reassuring.
*
At last we reached the three storey iron- and bone-bound doors of the outer library. I sensed breathable air inside. “After you, Phil.”
*
Phil focused, and the great doors cracked open, spraying chunks of blood-stained iron bigger than my house. “And now we wait,” said Terry.
4
We barely slept. I had nightmares, but Terry had his own to distract him. At dawn, we heard the rustling of pages. We waited back to back.
*
A pack of graphic novels emerged and sniffed at my feet. They smelled what I wanted them to smell – a friend. And so they imprinted on me.
*
When I judged my literature army to be big enough, we walked inside. A single giant tentacle lay across the threshold. I removed the stench.
5
More books joined me every hour – everything from gardening to war. I was dizzy with the smell of leather bindings and dust.
*
Phil wanted to move the tentacle, but Terry insisted we climb it. Some mountaineering books made steps for us, and it only took a few hours.
*
“There’s a problem,” Terry whispered.
I said, “What?”
“The cthulhu – it’s either a mother or a daughter. And I can’t tell which is alive.”
6
We ducked into a cobweb-strewn chamber and were attacked by a squad of how-to books. They pounded my head and I wasn’t able to focus.
*
Phil pushed me aside and tore apart the books with his mind. Terry was taken over by empathic rage and he punched me in the gut. I folded.
*
Ten books rushed Phil at once and I reached out with my mind and made him smell of oil just in time. They calmed down, and Terry did too.
7
“It’s Nix,” Terry told us at last.
I said, “The monster mage! No wonder WE were sent. We need to find his spell book – and destroy it.”
*
Phil coughed: “How will we do it?”
“1. Look, and 2. Live,” said Terry.
I said, “You know what a cthulhu’s weakness is? They’re too big.”
*
“How is size a disadvantage?” Phil asked.
I said, “Because hopefully they won’t notice us.”
“Right,” he whispered.
8
Terry shook me awake. “They took Phil!” I stood at once, but all my books were asleep and there were no others to be seen. Terry whimpered.
*
“Is that your fear or his?” I said.
Terry said, “His. Which means he’s still alive.”
“Good.” I sent a shelf of James Bonds to find Phil.
*
I asked, “Do you think it was Nix or the live cthulhu that took Phil?”
“Nix. I can feel him laughing. And he knows I can hear him.”
9
The Bond books returned with an illustrated series on the Moulin Rouge. I altered the air so they fled in disgrace.
*
I said, “We need a library book.”
“Err. . .” said Terry.
I said, “A book ABOUT libraries. One about this library could tell us everything.”
*
“Good! Can you make the other books find it?”
“The thing is,” I said, “books find by smell. And that book smells exactly like this library.”
10
I said, “Okay. Library smell minus stone smell should work.” As I altered the air, my horde of books shivered. Then they moved as one.
*
Terry and I followed my books in a spiral toward the library’s heart. I was beginning to relax when Terry screamed. He was on fire!
*
I threw firefighting books at the sudden inferno and they smothered the flames. Terry brushed ash from his clothes: “BBQ manuals. Huh.”
11
Keeping away from any unfamiliar books, we crept onward, following the library book’s trail. The air was heavy with rotting cthulhu.
*
Terry wept in his sleep, and I woke him, hoping to make it stop.
“It’s Phil,” he said, “and believe me, I’d rather channel Phil than C.S.”
*
“Who’s C.S.?” I asked.
Terry said, “The other cthulhu. The live one. It’s the baby, and it’s so hungry. It longs for fresh meat.”
12
Terry stopped dead. I did too. My books clamoured at the door before us. The one stained with human blood and torn pages. “Huh,” said Terry.
*
“I guess we’d better open it,” said Terry.
I said, “Yep.”
“Phil could have done it.”
“Yep.”
“What are we going to do?”
“Good question.”
13.
First I made the books hide. Then Terry. Then I lay down alongside the crack beneath the door, and I used my magic to smell like food.
*
A tentacle smashed through the iron door, sending bloody fragments flying. Then another tentacle, questing blindly along the floor. To me.
*
I rolled, frantically trying to smell of dust and stone. Terry reached down his hand and hauled me up, and we hid as C.S. squelched through.
14
C.S. finally floundered away and Terry and I climbed shakily through the smashed door into the library’s heart.
*
We gaped at soaring shelves and a stained glass roof. I saw the library book suspended over a pit, shimmering behind magical defenses.
15
We prepared all night, and Terry went first. He copied Nix’s mind in his, and the first barrier vanished. I smelled of Nix for the second.
*
Together we physically moved a third invisible boundary, and together stretched our hands out toward the prize. We touched it, and screamed.
*
We were hurtled through darkness, and the book was ripped from our burning hands. The burning filled my arms and chest, and I passed out.
16
I woke up in a cage. Terry lay beside me, still unconscious. Phil sat cross-legged. He said, “Let me guess. You’ve come to rescue me?”
*
Terry woke up. “Oh,” he said.
Phil said, “Yep. It’s a magic box. No magic in or out. And the bars are as strong as they look.”
*
“So. . .” I said, “how’ve you been?”
17
Nix appeared as if by – well, by magic – with a tentacle draped over his shoulder. “Good morning, ladies. I see you found my guest room.”
*
Terry leapt to his feet. “Remove these bars and see how smug you are without your mind!”
Nix fondled his spell book and smiled.
*
“I’ll return tomorrow,” he said, “and CS will eat one of you. Choose wisely, girls.”
18
One good thing: to feed us to CS, Nix had to open the box. Phil stood as our volunteer, and I prepared my mind to take Nix’s breath.
*
The door opened and CS’s tentacle snaked inside and caught Phil around the waist, pinning his arms. I stole Nix’s breath and he passed out.
*
CS thrashed, knocking over the cage and hurling books everywhere. I leapt onto CS and tried to climb up to Phil. CS fled, throwing me off.
19
Terry woke me, white-faced: “Phil’s gone. I felt his mind stop.”
I said, “We need to get out of here before we’re cthulhu food too.”
*
I send squads of my book minions ahead to check we were safe. Many of them were missing or covered in slime from CS’s explosive rage.
20
We passed another shattered door and Terry sensed CS was close. I saw the Library Book lying open and ripped on the floor.
*
“It’s a trap,” said Terry.
I said, “I have to try anyway. You get out – tell the other mages all you know. Tomorrow I’ll touch the book.”
*
I hoped Terry got out safely. In the next room, I heard slithering, and Nix’s gravelly voice. I curled up for my last night of freedom.
21
I touched the library book, smelling as friendly as I could. Nothing happened. One page curled around my hand. I picked it up.
*
The door opened as I stared, enthralled by the sorcery I held.
“Like it?” said Nix. “I wrote it. CS – dinnertime!” A tentacle snapped out—
*
–and a bookshelf crashed to the floor, crushing it. CS howled in rage. My new book fell open on a page with just one word: RUN. I ran.
22
I ran and hid and ran all night. My body ached but I was encouraged by thousands of rustling pages. The library wanted me to live.
*
A book on waterfalls dripped fresh (though slightly inky) water into my mouth, and a cookbook fed me something suspiciously like calamari.
*
A bookshelf hollowed itself out and filled itself in after me with books on history, war, revenge, and how to write a fairy tale ending.
23
I awoke refreshed, cushioned by home furnishing books. Judging by a distant explosion, Nix was far away. I began reading the Library Book.
*
The Library Book opened with a picture Nix had clearly painted of himself – except for the moustache of cthulhu slime scrawled across it.
*
I wished Terry was with me.
“But I am,” he said in my ear.
I jumped: “Is it really you? How did you find–”
He said, “Mind mage, remember?”
24
I read the book three times – it added more amusing Nix pictures each time. The last page remained the same: The librarian wins.
*
“Is the librarian the original author – Nix – or the current owner?” Terry asked.
I didn’t know either, and the book wasn’t telling.
*
“I think we should fight,” I said.
Terry pointed to a stack of tunnelling books and said, “Indeed. I read more than just minds, you know.”
25
We followed the books through long-broken air vents and the backs of three-storey bookshelves until we looked up and saw Nix’s book.
*
“We’re in the pit below it,” said Terry.
The Library Book folded into origami gauntlets. Then Terry boosted me up.
*
I grabbed Nix’s spell book, and was thrown into blackness. My hands and chest burned. But I didn’t let go – even when I fainted.
26
I awoke to the sound of burning, and cracked open my eyes to see Nix’s spell book on fire, unable to exist inside the anti-magic cage.
*
Nix rode into the chamber on a cresting wave of evil books – paranormal romance, if I’m not mistaken. He screamed in pain and rage.
*
I put my hands through the bars and held onto the lock as Nix tried feebly to open it. He writhed and died as the last page burned to ash.
27
I slept easily, certain Terry would rescue me. As I checked for any remaining unburnt spell pages, a tentacle coiled through the bars.
*
I screamed for help as more tentacles encircled my legs and squeezed. CS pressed its horrible wet maw against the bars and pulled me closer.
*
Suddenly CS turned aside and sucked Nix’s corpse up from the floor instead.
“Terry?” I croaked.
He said, “Good cthulhu. Eat it all up.”
28
We rode out of the library on CS’s broad head. From the library’s heart to the outside took only a few hours this time.
*
“You know,” Terry said reflectively, “it’s not such a bad place.”
“Except for the giant rotting cthulhu.”
“Well, yes. Except for that.”
29
CS sped us home. Her tentacles brought out the highlights in my puce robe. Other mind mages took over so Terry could rest at last.
*
Terry and I washed and ate before we were summoned by the council to take up our new posts as the library’s keepers.
*
“Bit of cleaning up to do,” said Terry, patting CS absently on the tentacle.
I grinned, “Yep.”
I never did see those James Bond books again.
THE END
New tale begins August 1.
Three-Ingredient Thursday: The Funny Scotsman
The Funny Scotsman woke me up three times last night (and he was rather lumpy toward the end too, if I’m perfectly honest).
1. Warm the milk.
2. Add melted chocolate to taste (and taste the rest). Save a bit to grate on top.
3. Mix in butterscotch schnapps to taste.
It’s insanely delicious, but quite hazardous. Do not drink it if you are pregnant (because there’s booze in it), going to drive anywhere (the combination of schnapps and hot milk is intensely soporific), or an insomniac (because there’s chocolate and thus caffeine in it).
Also, keep a sharp eye out for cthulhu. Today is the last day of the tale, and the last cthulhu picture. I’ll post the full story tomorrow. The new story starts on 1 August.
This picture turns out to be from alanbaxteronline.com. Alan Baxter is an excellent horror author (not YA, as previously advertised), and a genuinely excellent human being (or possibly a cthulhu in an even more excellent disguise). If you like cthulhu, you’ll like Alan Baxter (personally, I find his books gross and scary).
Special
This is part of an interview of a pibolar sufferer on Yes and Yes:
How old were you when you realized that you experienced life and emotions different than other people? When I was diagnosed and looking back at my life. For instance, when I was in kindergarten, my teacher had two favorite students, and would always tell them how sweet and smart they were. I remember consciously thinking, “Those kids think they’re so smart, but the things they know aren’t important things. The things I know are important, and I’ll show them when I grow up.” I was delusional. Sadly, I continued to feel this way until I was diagnosed. I really thought I was destined for amazing things, even after being a teenage mom, having 3 kids with 3 different dads, not continuing my education, working at Wal-Mart, and making all kinds of bad choices (I have some horrible tattoos).
This is a section of an application I (Felicity) wrote not so long ago:
My earliest memory as a writer is sitting in a Year Two classroom hearing the teacher praise two of the icky boys for writing their first punctuated stories. I scowled and said to myself, “I KNOW I’m better at writing than they are.”
——————
I don’t think I’m bipolar, but there’s a certain amount of evidence suggesting I’m inclined toward delusions (there’s one school of thought that says creative types need delusions or they’ll never get anywhere – which obviously has truth in it). I recently decided to reevaluate my life into something that doesn’t cause crushing disappointment quite as often. According to Ian Irvine, a writer needs to write for 10,000 hours before they’re good at writing. According to my own records, I’m halfway, and need to continue writing at my current rate for another five years before I get to 10K.
So I wrote a five-year plan, painting a picture for myself that might make the next few years bearable. The basic summary is:
Save money, have a kid, buy a house, have another kid, get published.
In that order.
So if I focus more on the non-writing aspects of my life (which I have considerably more control over – and which are easier in terms of making progress) then maybe I won’t need delusions as much. Maybe.
I won’t stop sending books to publishers, but I might slow down, and take longer on making improvements.
#5: Visit a lighthouse
I stole this idea from http://jandyslifeinwords.blogspot.com. Thanks!
As you know, my parents shouted all their descendents a trip to the coast last weekend, and I knew I had to seize my chance!
Lighthouses are intrinisically awesome. There’s the ocean right there, historic seafaring tales, shipwrecks, and of course I love the idea of a doughty solitary keeper slowly going mad as he spends years alone, saving the lives of people he never sees.
What’s not to love?
The Warden’s Head Lighthouse near Lake Burrell is nice and easy to get to (so no solitary keeper, sadly for my epic imagination – in fact it is quite clearly run by electricity, since there are power lines right next to it). You can literally drive right up to it (or crash into it, if you’re that way inclined).
There were other people there who said whales were passing, but I didn’t see any myself (my nephew said he did, but he sees a LOT of things I don’t). I didn’t see any cthulhu, either (not this time). Like pretty much anywhere next to water, it was a beautiful location. Ocean = win.
I hope the romantic ideal of the lighthouse sticks in my mind and eventually produces a tale. Pretty sure it will, and if I remember I’ll post it here.
And here’s another bite of awesome pie from bookshelfporn.com
Day at the Beach
This is my interpretation of Steff Metal’s suggestion #66 (Open an etsy shop). Every so often I’ll post an extra blog entry with a short story – and tag them all with the “Short stories” category so you can find them easily.
This one is (clearly) inspired by my nephew at the beach last weekend. Apologies if you’re on the monthly short story list, because this is the story for August. (If you want to get on the list, email fellissimo[at]hotmail[dot]com.)
Day at the Beach
“It’s a dragon!” Timmy squealed. “A dragon under the water!”
“Yes dear,” said Timmy’s Mum.
“It’s got big teeth!” said Timmy. “Look!”
“Yes dear,” said Timmy’s Mum.
“He’s coming closer!” said Timmy.
“That’s nice,” said Timmy’s Mum.
“He’s gonna EAT me!” said Timmy.
“I bet you taste nice,” said Timmy’s Mum.
“Look!” said Timmy. “There’s a rocket!”
“Run!” screamed Timmy’s Mum. “Hide!”
The rocket landed on the beach.
“Bad dragon,” said the alien. “Stop being silly and let’s go home.”
#172: Macabre Expression of Love
Cast your minds back, if you will, to the year 2007. It was a gentler time, when global warming was only just invented and Kevin Rudd was super exciting.
It was a time when CJ and Louise fell in love. (Well, CJ did. I was WAY ahead of the times.)
To celebrate the fact that we’d been dating for a WHOLE two months, CJ and I drove down the coast in a car that has since gone to the garage in the sky*.
Along the way, while driving on the King’s Highway between Canberra and Bungendore, CJ delightedly pointed out dozens of teddy bears attached to the trees. Some were nailed on. Others were attached by the neck. Still others were wedged into narrow cracks between branches. All wore fixed expressions of delight.
My newly-awoken heart went pitter-pat. “Ah ha!” I thought quietly to myself. “I will return to this road someday, with this man in tow, and nail our love to this highway in the form of a slowly-disintegrating soft toy! In this fashion our love will endure, like a mutilated bear, and grow like rust forevermore. Our future progeny shall be carried carefully to this spot, and made to look in wonder upon the lasting glory of their parents’ strange love.”
Time passed, and we two were wed.
Last year (one year, one month and one day ago) we gathered in our hands:
our love
a good strong hammer
a bear
a marker
a length of wire
and several large nails.
Gazing rapturously at one another (while also being careful not to nail CJ’s fingers to the tree in a bloody reminder of our special day), we did this:
Today is the 18-month anniversary of our marriage (also roughly three and a half years since my original Notion of Bear). So on our way back from another coast trip, we went on a BEAR HUNT. Thanks to CJ actually having a memory, we found the bear. Our monument of love lives! (In fact, if you like microorganisms, it lives more than ever before.)
That red glow in my eyes is the glow of TRUE LOVE (and. . . um. . . so is the green colour in CJ’s eyes).
Play along at home: Nail a bear to a tree.**
Coming soon: Lighthouse! Waterfall! Alphabet! Food! Etc!
And here’s a picture of where CJ and I will go when we die (it’s from Bookshelfporn.com):
*ie, in Fyshwick
** I do not recommend using a real bear.
#172: Family Holiday
A family holiday can be a near-death experience.
As you probably gathered yesterday, I’ve just been to the coast as part of a group of NINE people, all my immediate family (and partners, and a kid). My parents are unspeakably nerdy (insert “apple falling from tree” comment here), so my mind is now a confused haze of Rummikub, dominoes, Carcassonne, Taboo, bridge, up and down the river, and laughing at the boys actually playing the full version of LOTR Risk. And I’m buzzing on a chocolate-and-lemonade high. And a little nauseous for no apparent reason. And I smell of salt and of sitting by a heater.
It was a strangely peaceful weekend. My nephew is 5 now, so although he’s full of enthusiasm for EVERYTHING, he’s also capable of sitting and having a conversation some of the time. And he doesn’t cry unless he’s actually hurt. With eight adults, looking after him was a breeze. And we all get on – pretty remarkable for any group this size.
So I have absolutely nothing to write about – just cliches of love and warmth. Drama goes best in fiction, in my opinion.
Here’s the last of the “Beautiful Libraries” from Candida Hofer’s Thames&Hudson book:
Tomorrow: Macabre expression of love (there’s a teddy bear involved. . . and a large nail)
#119: Eat Fish and Chips at the beach
You know what’s cool? The ocean. You know what else is cool? Lard. Combine the two, and the world is made of magic.
Guess where I am right now (or at least, as I prepare this post)?
I am in a beachside cottage with my parents (who are paying for the whole thing), my nephew, my brother and his wife, and my sister and her husband. Oh, and CJ 🙂 As I write I am eating post-fish and chips M&Ms and listening to the sound of waves trying and failing to lap over the threshold as I sit happily by a heater. The sound is also similar to:
Large amounts of cardboard ripping.
A house slowly falling down.
An intermittent waterfall.
Static.
Several old people muttering and shushing one another in the next room.
The fish and chips was excellent, thank you. It is the perfect holiday food.
In other news, Ben sent me his comments on H.P. Lovecraft’s original sketch of Cthulhu. He said:
This teaches us 3 things:
1. Lovecraft really couldn’t draw. Really.
2. Cthulhu resembles a Potato more than is generally recalled.
3. Damn that is cool handwriting.
The picture is from image shack
Felicity Banks 