The End of the Third Year

 

The closest thing to posing by the campus sign with a printed dissertation.

Well, here I am at the end of the line. I got my results yesterday, and I've learned that I'm graduating with first class honours. Hell yes.

I have to admit that this year has been rough with the pandemic. My second year ended prematurely when I made a spur-of-the-moment decision to go home so I wouldn't be spending a lockdown on my own. I thought I'd be home for a couple of weeks. Instead, I ended up being stuck at home for six months, with only two trips to Leicester to clear out my flat and return the keys. That resulted in a pretty lonely and miserable summer, because even if I could go out, very few of my friends still lived in the local area. Plus I didn't have the same level of independence at home that I'd have in my student accommodation. Those six months at home were the ultimate reason I decided to move back to my accommodation even though everything was going to be remote; so I could be my own man. I was actually reluctant to go home at Christmas in case there was another lockdown and I ended up going through all that again.

My third year timetable was kind of bare. I had a virtual workshop every Monday for Professional Writing Skills, and a workshop every other Wednesday for Specialism and Negotiated Study which was in-person for one workshop then subsequently moved online. Everything else was my Portfolio, which was Creative Writing's equivalent of a dissertation, which spanned two modules. It often seemed like I was the only person who had their camera turned on. Mostly to ensure that A) I was wearing a shirt, and B) the bar on my desk was out of shot. The virtual workshops were fun, but I was a little disappointed that the Specialism one was only two hours (in the past, workshops that were every other week clocked in at three hours). That did make Tuesdays feel weird, since that was my busiest day in my first and second years.

That covers the academic stuff, but the social side hasn't been so great, which is something that has really done a number on my mental health. With the pandemic, most of the societies went into decline with the need to be virtual. Some societies, such as Laser Tag and Medieval Re-Enactment, couldn't move online and just stopped entirely. Others, like Creative Writing and Nintendo, moved online and eventually just fizzled out when people stopped coming to the sessions. The only society which kept regular sessions was the Game Society, thanks to the move to virtual table-tops like Roll20. While I'm looking to return to running in-person games for the Game Society, I'm tempted to keep running more publicly advertised games via Roll20.

I just wish I'd been more social with people on my course. In my first year, my social life had mostly been via societies. I'd tried organising virtual socials for people on the course at various points throughout the year. Unfortunately, these failed to yield any takers, and I ultimately gave up after a final attempt in May to celebrate handing everything in. I guess I'm just too old, and pushed too far. Pretty much all my social events this year have been with alumni, or with other social circles not met through university, and one Jackbox party with a mix of people from different societies to celebrate my birthday.

With that in mind, I can't help but feel cheated. This third year often felt like languishing in a soulless 9 to 5, which was something I went to university to get away from. And now I feel that I'm being forced to live in that life while missing out on the fun I could have had. All the pub trips, parties, and socials which make student life fun have essentially been taken away from me by this pandemic, and I kind of want it back. But that's a drunken lament I've probably talked about before.

So, what is my plan? Well, I've managed to find a new place to move into once my tenancy finishes at my student accommodation. I'm also looking at freelance writing work, having landed my first ghostwriting job. But that isn't enough to live on, so I'll need to find something on top of that. I'm thinking of copywriting, but I'd go for anything that lets me be creative.

Only time will tell.

Work Share - A Holy Quest?

It's been a while since I did a work share on here. A lot of my second year work ended up being re-worked for my third year assignments, and my third year assignments are larger projects I want to keep working on. With this in mind, I've decided to share one of my second year assignments.

A Holy Quest? was written for the first assignment in my Writing Place module, with said place being Leicester Castle. Looking to do something historical, I wrote about one of the Norman lords of Leicester, who had fallen out of favour with King William II and decided to join the First Crusade as a means to put some distance between them. While the conclusion was apparently foregone - Ivo abandoned the Crusade during the Siege of Antioch - I opted to speculate about how he would have convinced knights to join him on.

Leicester Castle, December 1095

The wind whistled through the gaps under the chapel doors. Ivo de Grentesmesnil knelt in front of the altar in prayer.
“Am I forsaken, Lord?” he said as he looked up at the cross, “Are you seeking to punish me for acting against the king’s will? Am I to lose my lands? Or my life?”
The Norman Sheriff of Leicester was the sole occupant of the chapel, so nobody replied. He stood up and strode towards the door.
 
Saxon peasants unloaded bundles of timber and sacks of wool from carts and wagons, stepping over the chickens and pigs which wandered the bailey. Ivo donned his cloak as he left the chapel, feeling the sleet spray him. His two household guards stood by the chapel doors, hunched and shivering. Ivo gestured for them to follow. Their posture straightened and they picked up the shields they had been leaning on. The peasants made no eye contact as he passed. Idle chatter fell silent as he strode towards the flying bridge leading up the motte to the keep. Only the sounds of the wandering livestock and the metal hammering of the blacksmiths remained.
One of the troops shoved a peasant carrying firewood to the keep.
“Bloody Normans,” the peasant said under his breath as the bundle spilled onto the bridge and into moat which connected to the Soar.
Ivo grabbed the man by the neck and shoved him against the bridge parapet.
“Hold your tongue, or I’ll have it removed.” He said as he threw the man to the ground.
As the peasant collected the scattered firewood, Ivo continued to make his way up the flying bridge towards the keep. He turned to his guards.
“Aldwyn is scheduled to return today,” he said, “If he arrives, send him up to my chambers.”

*

The smell of wood smoke filled Ivo’s solar back in the keep. The wind whistled through the cracks, but the hearth provided enough warmth. A second goblet and a glass jug of wine sat on a table by the door.
Ivo sat in his chair and sipped from his own goblet as he stared into the flames. A knocking roused him from his thoughts.
“Speak.” He stood up and faced the door.
“Aldwyn has arrived, my lord sheriff.” A voice outside said.
“Enter.”
Ivo’s herald, a small man with a lively and intelligent face, entered the solar and knelt to him. As the door closed, Ivo gestured for him to rise and then embraced him.
“Welcome back, old friend,” he said, “You must be tired and in need of wine. Please, make yourself comfortable.”
Aldwyn nodded. He stood by the fire and rubbed his hands, and then draped his damp cloak over one of the chairs. The heat from the fire accentuated his smell of sweat and horse dander.
“What news do you bring from London?” Ivo reclined in his own chair.
“Alas, I bring ill tidings,” Aldwyn said, “The king is displeased with you for your continued private wars. He demands that you bring it to an end.”
“I suspect he bears the same hateful grudge against me as he did with my father,” Ivo said, staring into the contents of his goblet.
“You must consider yourself fortunate that you still hold your lands and titles,” Aldwyn filled his goblet and took a swig.
“My father held lands in Normandy,” Ivo said, “So he sided with Robert. He had to make a choice. It just surprises me that Robert didn’t receive everything. Then again, I cannot fault this, as I wouldn’t have either if that was law. Aldwyn, you’ve been a friend to me for a long time, and I trust you more than any noble in the Royal Court. What would you have me do to escape this lifetime of disgrace?”
“Perhaps you should leave for a time,” Aldwyn said, “Such an opportunity has arisen on the continent.”
“Pray, do tell.” Ivo leaned closer.
“I spoke with a man who had come from a great council in Clermont. He spoke of how his Holiness is calling a Crusade to reclaim Jerusalem, and how any who take up arms to serve such a cause will be offered absolution from their sins.”
“Do you believe that? Taking lives yet escaping from eternal damnation?”
“I do not,” Aldwyn said, “I understand that the Pope is in exile, displaced by a heretic with Imperial backing. I believe he saw an opportunity to unite Christendom against a common foe. Many of the English lords whose lands we have claimed are in the service of the Greeks now. I suspect we’ll be fighting alongside them. With your Dane ancestors and Italian cousins.”
“Never mind that. It’s not something I understand. But will King William be involved?”
“Not that I know of. But Duke Robert is said to be mustering forces for this holy quest.”
Ivo grinned.
 “Then I shall ride under his banners once more. From what you are telling me, if I choose to embark on this Crusade, I will put some distance between myself and the king while also guaranteeing my entry to Heaven?”
“That is what it appears to be, my lord.”
“Then it is settled,” Ivo grabbed the longsword hanging above the mantelpiece, “I cannot incur the king’s wrath if I’m not in his lands, and surely a quest of this kind would help me regain my standing and his favour. Rest tonight. Then tomorrow I want you to set out and summon as many of the local knights as you can. Has Robert departed for this Crusade?”
“Not yet. The departure is set for the Feast of the Assumption on the Ides of August.”
“That makes sense,” Ivo said, “It’s close to harvest, so we won’t go hungry on the journey.”

*

Ivo pulled his cloak tighter as he left the keep. The week had gotten colder. Sleet gave way to snow, which had begun to settle as he made his way down the motte. Few people passed by as he walked through the bailey, save for the patrolling guards. As he arrived at the hall, he heard the sounds of laughter and chatter within. He paused to sample the smells of roasting chicken from the nearby kitchen before pushing open the double doors to the hall.
Knights and their retainers filled the long tables. Their conversations ceased as they saw Ivo enter the hall. He felt their gaze as he strode to his table.
“My friends,” he said, “Thank you for attending my summons. I have called you all to perform your annual service.”
“Is this another one of your feuds, my Lord Sheriff?” A black-haired knight with a scar across his face stood up, “The rebellion ended seven years ago. William is king, not Robert. Continue this path and it could be considered treason!”
Affirmative murmurs snaked through the great hall. A fair-haired knight at the opposite end of the table stood up.
“I agree with Sir Jean,” he said, “As much as our calling is war, these feuds are serving little purpose. If you are mustering us, who are you rallying behind? William or Robert?”
“I am rallying under the banner of Robert,” Ivo said. Benches scraped as half of the knights stood up and walked towards the doors.
“I refuse to face damnation for your petty squabbles!” Sir Jean pointed at Ivo, “You are a curse on our honours and reputations!”
“This is for a higher purpose.” Ivo said. The knights halted. At the same moment, servants entered the hall with laden trays and jugs, “Perhaps you may sample my hospitality before you take your leave, and I can tell you of a great quest.”
More scraping followed as the knights sat back down.
“Many of you are out of favour because you sided with me when my family sided against the king. But Duke Robert is seeking to retake Jerusalem.”
A spluttering echoed as another knight choked on his wine.
“Jerusalem?” Jean folded his harms, “You wish for us to go against the king, and leave our homes in Leicester to travel to the Holy Land? It’s foolish to abandon such a lucrative shire.”
“That may be,” Ivo held out his goblet to an approaching servant, “But a Crusade has been called by the Pope, and he is offering an indulgence to anybody willing to join it.”
The room fell silent. All the guests turned to face Ivo. He saw those at the foot of the tables gaping.
“It is time to put aside our differences and fight for the will of God. Salvation lies ahead, and we can return with fortunes to the good graces of our king! Who is with me?”
A colossal cheer arose through the great hall. Ivo raised his goblet.
“To victory in Jerusalem!” he said. The knights repeated it.
“I will have no part in this fool’s errand,” Sir Jean stood up and strode to the door, “I will face damnation on my own terms. Preferably in Leicester rather than Constantinople.”
A blast of cold air filled the hall as he shoved through the double doors.
“And I will be feasting in Heaven while he enjoys the fires of Hell.” Ivo said, to the laughter of the other knights.
 
As the knights feasted, Ivo sat down.
“I think this will work,” he said to Aldwyn, “We can support Duke Robert and regain the favour the king at the same time. And we can go to Heaven doing what we were born to do.”
“If I may, I’ve never known anybody to offer an indulgence for warfare,” Aldwyn stroked his chin.
“Aldwyn, I’m entrusting you with stewardship of this castle until my sons are of age. Your fine administrative mind has served my family well.”
The herald curtsied.
“I thank you for your generosity, my lord sheriff,” He said, “May your household and castle endure for all time.”

Can You Cite It? Crimson Skies

Despite this pandemic, I've mostly been trying to keep busy with university. Since I haven't done much blogging, I decided to talk about some stuff I've been reading recently. One of my third year modules is on genre fiction, and I decided to do a dieselpunk story based on an urban myth I stumbled across while researching something else. Hey, if you can cite it, then it's technically work, right?

Anyway, for some craft reading, I've been looking at a classic example of the dieselpunk genre; Crimson Skies. Initially conceived as a board game by Jordan Weissman and Dave McCoy, Crimson Skies takes place in an alternative history in which the United States fragmented in the 1920s over a combination of Prohibition (which failed to be ratified into the Constitution), a flu epidemic, and the Wall Street Crash. By 1937, the USA (and, by extension, Canada) has become 23 separate nations. With most roads and railways now crossing hostile borders, zeppelins, planes, and autogyros have become the primary modes of transportation. This has given rise to air piracy, prompting the establishment of new government air militias to battle these pirate gangs (and each other).

In 2000, the setting was adapted into an arcade-style flying game which follows the adventures The Fortune Hunters, a pirate gang led by self-proclaimed gentleman thief Nathan Zachary, as they pull off daring heists across the new American nations. They tangle with numerous air militias, pirate gangs, private security firms, and even a few non-American nations with interests in some regions. I haven't played the game (apparently it's hard to run on newer operating systems), but I've watched some Let's Play videos on YouTube. The Fortune Hunters have an endearing sense of camaraderie, along with a strict code which puts them a cut above the other pirates they encounter. All-in-all, the game has a campy Indiana Jones feel to it, reminiscent of the pulp magazines of the time.

There was a sequel, Crimson Skies: High Road to Revenge, which was released on the original Xbox in 2003. I haven't played that one either, and have heard it takes a darker tone.

In addition to the board game, two video games, and a collectible miniatures game, there's also a series of books, known as "Spicy Air Tales". Many of these seem to be out of print and hard to find, but I found some digital versions available for free on a fan site, which have made some fun reads:

• Diamond Deception by Brannon Boren centres around Justine "Battle-axe" Perot, the leader of an all-female pirate gang known as The Medusas. After a battle with the Fortune Hunters in Hawaii (as depicted in the game's early missions), Justine attempts to steal a valuable diamond necklace from a Manhattan socialite in the Empire State (a nation encompassing New York, New Jersey, and Pennsylvania). After a narrow escape, the socialite is later found murdered, and the stolen necklace is determined to be fake, catapulting the Medusas into a deadly intrigue.
• Paladin Blake and the Secret City by Eric Nylund follows Paladin Blake, the head of Blake Aviation Security which protects commercial transports from pirates. Basically combining two archetypal pulp heroes (the ace pilot and the hardboiled detective), Blake is forced to contact his brother (who's a notorious air pirate) after their sister apparently disappeared.
• The Manchurian Gambit by Mike Lee features The Red Skull Legion, a pirate gang from the Industrial States of America (whose capital is Chicago) led by Jonathan "Genghis" Khan. After a botched heist in The People's Collective (a Christian socialist nation in the Midwest), Khan meets an old acquaintance who hires him for an apparent rescue mission which becomes increasingly complicated.
• Stripped of Honor by Geoff Skellams focuses on Major Loyle "Showstopper" Crawford, a New York playboy who commands the elite Madison Venturer squadron of Empire State's Broadway Bombers militia. During a botched mission at a pirate base, Crawford begins to suspect that there's a traitor in his squadron, and is soon framed for piracy and disgraced. Escaping from prison, he goes on a quest to find the traitor and clear his name.

There are two other stories I have yet to read, which follow Charlotte "Charlie" Steele, an ace in the service of California's Hollywood Knights air militia.

The stories often combine aerial dogfights with film noir mystery and intrigue. While each chapter seems to remind you of who everyone is, I imagine that this was a deliberate move; it was common for a lot pulp fiction of the time period to be serialised in magazines, so I think these stories are trying to recreate that.

I think it's a shame that this franchise never really went anywhere since 2003 (although I have heard that Microsoft renewed the trademark for the video games in 2013). I suppose one issue is that one of the nations in this alternate world is akin to a new Confederacy, so I can understand why some people are uncomfortable with that.

Anyway, that's about it. I wanted to talk about a series which hasn't got a lot of attention, and has still been an influence on my work.

Happy writing.

A Study of Adaptation: 12 Angry Men (contains spoilers)

This blog's been dormant too. Third year's keeping me busy, but I'm not feeling very motivated right now. At the time of writing, I haven't had any work back, so I don't know whether or not I've made the jump from second to third year.

Anyway, while procrastinating, I found on YouTube a stage production of one of my favourite films: 12 Angry Men. Initially a teleplay written in 1954 by Reginald Rose, this story about a jury deliberating over a murder trial was adapted into film in 1957 by Sidney Lumet. The production I saw was from 2012.

The story is largely untouched. The defendant is a teenage boy from a New York City slum who is on trial for allegedly stabbing his father to death and facing the electric chair for first degree murder. Most of the jurors are eager to bring back a guilty verdict then and there, except for Juror #8, who votes 'Not Guilty' because he believes there needs to be a discussion to rule out reasonable doubt.

Of course, because this an adaptation to another medium (stage to screen), some changes have to be made to accommodate this. Some changes pay off. Others...not so much.

One notable example of this occurs near the end of the story: When all of the evidence has been called into question, all the jurors are now in favour of acquittal except for Juror #3, who has been the most passionate advocate for a guilty verdict. He rants about "twisted facts" as it becomes increasingly clear that he's mainly motivated by bitterness over the strained relationship with his own son (building on an earlier scene where he discussed it). In the film, he tears up a photo of him and his son before breaking into tears and changing his vote. Of course, that requires some cinematography you wouldn't have on stage. Instead, he has his rant, and then cries by the window. Juror #8 simply says "He's not your boy. He's someone else." Juror #4 - who had been one of the more rational advocates for a guilty verdict - adds "Let him live." It's still powerful, and it still works.

One change I didn't agree with occurred just before that: Juror #4 explains that he's still voting 'Guilty' because an eyewitness stands as solid evidence, until they bring her eyesight into question. In the film, Juror #9 - the first juror to support Juror #8 - notices Juror #4 rubbing his nose and points out that the witness had the same impressions on her nose as Juror #4, from his glasses. This indicates that the witness also wore glasses, but didn't wear them to court out of vanity. Fair enough, that would require close-ups. In the play, #4 puts on his glasses as he struggles to view the clock, which Juror #8 points out. It's then stated that the witness was wearing glasses in court. I just can't help but feel that would have been called into question during the trial, and feels lazy. I was also disappointed that it's Juror #8 rather than Juror #9 who points this out, which was one of his best moments in the film. It all felt a little rushed.

One thing I did like was that they tried to expand on some elements not covered in the film. For example, they discuss why the defendant had bought the knife which was seen as the murder weapon. They also discuss other people who may have had a motive for murdering the victim.

I also like some the humour they injected into it. In what leads what leads up to a pivotal moment, Juror #2 brings up why the defendant would stab downwards into somebody taller than him. Juror #3 offers a demonstration and asks for a volunteer, which prompts Juror #2 to immediately sit down.

As for the characterisation, I felt like Juror #8 felt a little whiny in this version. Henry Fonda was always calm and collected in the film. The stage version sounded a little timid. I mean, fair enough, it does convey the daunting side of standing alone against the opinion of others. But if they were going for that, they could have made him sound more confident as the story went on. He sounds too much like Juror #2, who is characterised as being timid and easily dominated.

Before I go, there is one last thing I'm ambivalent about, and that's the decision to keep the story in the 1950s rather than updating the setting, which also means all the characters are played by white men. Although I haven't seen it yet, I'd compare this with 1997 remake of the film, which has some of the jurors being played by black actors (albeit still all male). Even Juror #5 - who was raised in a slum similar to the defendant's - is played by a white actor. I suppose they wanted to focus on the class differences rather than race. But I do realise that modernising the story also reduces the stakes unless they change the setting; the defendant is facing a death sentence, but the state of New York formally abolished the death sentence in 2007. There's also an Iron Curtain element with Juror #11, an immigrant from an unspecified European country (In the film, he's played by the Czechoslovakian Georges Voskovec, while in the play he has a German accent). The character exhibits pride in the American legal system and takes his duty very seriously, suggesting he was originally from a Soviet nation in Eastern Europe. That said, I do quite like how the stage version calls people out a lot more.

All-in-all, it was a mixed bag. But it was still nice to see an alternative version of one of my favourite stories.

End of the Second Year

I've pretty much come to the end of my second year of university, and I have to say that this has been more of a mixed bag, despite a promising start. I've wanted to try and socialise with classmates a little more. I did this a fair bit in the first term, but after Christmas this aspect of my social life fizzled out.

One thing that I have struggled with has been my timetable. I had 9:00 am workshops this year, and the single honours modules in the same week. In my first year, I didn't have anything before 11:00, meaning I was able to get a consistent sleep cycle. Tuesday was always my busiest day, with a two hour workshop on Writing Identity in the morning, an hour break, and then a three hour workshop for Reading for Craft or Shaping Ideas, switching between them each week. This year, my single honours modules were Storycraft and Personal Projects, on the same week but different days. So, I'd switch between a week where I have hardly anything and a week where I have everything.

I joined a lot more societies this year, including Creative Writing, Nintendo, and Medieval Reenactment (which did mean I left the fencing club due to scheduling clashes). I'm still treasurer for the Game Society, and that's still going strong. I'm also the chairperson for Laser Tag, but membership has been down, and I fear we won't have enough people to fill the committee roles needed to keep the society going. Medieval Reenactment is fun, albeit expensive. Although making your own kit can be a pain. Especially when your sewing machines aren't behaving.

I'm getting more players at the Game Society, all of whom I've managed to introduce to my favourite Savage Worlds roleplaying system. In the first term I ran Deadlands Noir, an urban fantasy which combines horror, dieselpunk, and film noir. In the second term I ran Lankhmar: City of Thieves, s sword-and-sorcery based on the writing of Fritz Leiber. I was also invited to run games at a local board gaming cafe, Bean Gaming. I thought it would be a great opportunity to introduce more players to Savage Worlds. Unfortunately, I wasn't able to get players and discontinued the sessions.

The second term was the toughest, especially the Word, Image, and Sound module. We had a different tutor after Christmas, who didn't explain things as well as the one we had in the first term.

And then the UCU Strike happened. All but one of my workshops were cancelled (and the one that wasn't was a 9:00 am). And when that was winding down, the university closed in response to the Covid-19 pandemic. The university eventually granted a blanket two-week extension to all assignments due after 30th March. They later implemented a "No-detriments" policy for those same assignments; as long as they pass, they won't be marked lower than anything already marked for that module. I don't if I've read that correctly. The last assignment I had back was the only assignment for that particular module, so wouldn't be subject to the policy. I'll find out soon enough.

But the university will still be tighter than a duck's arse when it comes to refunding tuition fees. I learned from a tutor on the picket lines that the union agreed to a move in which the university would donate pay withheld from those on strike to the Student Hardship Fund (which I may have leaked on Facebook before the university announced it). The move just screamed "half measure", and tied the money up in so much red tape that few people could actually get it.

At least when the strikes were on, the societies were still running. The university seemed to dither over closure in the week before lockdown, while the societies wrapped up. That was one of the most stressful weeks I've had. The strike was still going on, so I wasn't able to get responses from many lecturers about deadlines and extensions, all while my social life just up and vanished. I made a spur of the moment decision to go home at the end of the week, so I wasn't spending the lockdown on my own. Fortunately, my accommodation provider made allowances for this. I haven't been charged rent for the third term, even though I'd left most of my stuff behind and hadn't handed back the keys. And I was able to collect things last week.

Going home prematurely has been the most difficult thing. Summer gets lonely, and there isn't much to do back home even if there isn't a pandemic. Fortunately, I'm still taking part in roleplaying games as both a GM and a player, thanks to virtual tabletops like Fantasy Grounds and Roll20. I'm trying to arrange a virtual get-together with my classmates this week, but I don't know if it'll work out.

Only time will tell.

Could Clerks be considered an adaptation of Waiting for Godot?

I'm almost at the end of the first term at my second year of university, which includes an elective module on 20th and 21st Century Literature. One of the pieces looked at in this module was Samuel Beckett's Waiting for Godot. As I was discussing it in the workshop, I found myself thinking about the 1994 Kevin Smith film, Clerks, and began drawing parallels between the two works.

For those who don't know, Waiting for Godot follows the philosophical Vladimir and weary Estragon as they wait for another person named Godot. The play consists of two acts in which they try and pass the time as they wait, while they meet three other characters: a silent, baggage-burdened slave named Lucky; his imperious master, Pozzo; and a boy who claims to be relaying a message from Godot.

I...wasn't keen. It's difficult for a play like that to keep people interested for two acts. Anyway, I began thinking about Clerks, because that's what I'd prefer to see. It was then that I realised that Clerks could be considered an adaptation of (or at least influenced by) Waiting for Godot.

Clerks follows a day in the life of Dante Hicks, a put-upon convenience store clerk working on his day off (which he'll remind you of constantly). Also present is his best friend Randall Graves, an irresponsible slacker who works at the neighbouring video rental but spends most of his time hanging around the convenience store with Dante. The film has the pair discussing various topics to pass the time while dealing with a variety of customers.

Now we've got the set-up, we can compare them. Dante is similar to Estragon, while Randall is Vladimir. There plenty of minor characters, but Pozzo and Lucky could be represented by Jay and Silent Bob, a pair of drug dealers who loiter outside the video store. Jay is obnoxious and wisecracking, while Silent Bob lives up to his name and doesn't say anything.

Dante's unseen boss would represent Godot, who never appears. The film opens with Dante being called by his boss to cover a sick employee's morning shift. Dante agrees, but later discovers that his boss has gone away on a trip, meaning he has to tend the store until closing time. A parallel can be drawn with Godot; near the end of the first act, a boy tells Estragon and Vladimir that Godot will meet them tomorrow, and he never shows up.

Clerks also expands on Waiting for Godot by incorporating more substance into the story. One overarching element is Dante's love triangle with his ex-girlfriend Caitlin Bree and his current girlfriend Veronica Loughran. While love triangles don't always make the best stories, it shows how an adaptation can also serve as an expansion.

I think I'll wrap things up there, because I'm rambling again, but I'll be more than happy to discuss things further. I probably would have done this as an essay in last year's Adaptation module if I'd looked at it back then.

Zorro (A Belated Centenary)

So, while I was busy with my annual visit to the Swanwick Writers' Summer School, I realised that I forgot it was a certain literary figure's 100th birthday last Friday. I consider myself a pulp writer, and one of my favourite books in that field is Johnston McCulley's The Curse of Capistrano. First serialised in All-Story Weekly on 9th August 1919, this story marked the debut of Zorro. This masked Californian swordsman combines two of my favourite sub-genres of historical fiction; the Western and the Swashbuckler. It's also an interesting study of adaptation.

The Curse of Capistrano takes place in California in the early 19th century, although it never establishes exactly when it's set (presumably when it's still under Spanish rule). There are several plot threads, so I'll try and introduce them through the characters:

• A masked swordsman known only as "Señor Zorro" has been striking at those who bully and abuse others. 
• The blowhard Sergeant Gonzales is eager to apprehend this outlaw, and boasts about it to his good friend Don Diego Vega, the lazy and foppish son of the wealthy and respected Don Alejandro Vega. 
• Don Diego is being pressured by his father to find a wife, and half-heartedly courts Lolita Purlido, whose aristocratic family are out of favour with the governor and have fallen on hard times
• Captain Ramon, the local garrison commander, also courts Lolita and is confronted by Zorro when he makes improper advances

The earlier instalments use the Point-of-View of Gonzales or Lolita rather than Zorro, allowing the masked hero to surprise the viewer. In fact, the book doesn't actually reveal Zorro's identity until the end of the penultimate chapter.

Not long after publication, the story was picked up by then-recently established United Artists and adapted into The Mark of Zorro, a 1920 silent film starring Douglas Fairbanks. One of the biggest changes made in the film was to Zorro's appearance. Zorro is described in the book as having "a black mask over his face that effectually concealed his features, and through the two slits in it his eyes glittered ominously." In the film, this was replaced with a domino mask which covers the top half of his face. As this was a silent film, this would have been a necessary change. After all, a Hollywood swashbuckler can't look dashing behind a veil. Especially when a lack of dialogue makes an expressive face essential. In fact, Douglas Fairbanks looked so distinct in the new costume that he would serve as the basis for all subsequent adaptations of Zorro.

The film was so successful that The Curse of Capistrano would eventually be republished as a standalone book in 1924 under the title of The Mark of Zorro. Furthermore, it ended up creating a demand for further stories. Which is interesting, because the book and the film both end with Diego's secret identity becoming public knowledge. So, McCulley changed this through retroactive continuity ("retconning"), and went on to write four more novels and 57 short stories, starting with The Further Adventures of Zorro in 1922, and ending with The Mask of Zorro, which was published posthumously in 1959. And that's not going into the various other adaptations on TV, film, and in print.

While often overlooked, Zorro could actually be regarded as a precursor to many superheroes. Batman draws many paralells with Zorro, with Bruce Wayne acting like a shallow millionaire while leading a double life as a masked vigilante. Bob Kane has cited Zorro as an influence. Some Batman origin stories have even alluded to this by having Bruce Wayne's parents being killed as they're leaving a cinema which was showing The Mask of Zorro.

Zorro himself could also be considered an appropriation of Baroness Orczy's The Scarlet Pimpernel. Sir Percival Blakeney is another affluent and foppish nobleman who secretly leads an organisation dedicated to helping refugees escape from Revolutionary France. 

The Curse of Capistrano is public domain in the United States, and available to read on WikiSource. However, I've found that Bold Adventure Press have gathered the old stories (many of which are hard to find) and have published a six-volume set. Having enjoyed reading The Curse of Capistrano, I'm looking forward to a chance to read some of the other stories.

Work Share - The Forbidden Mountain

This might be one of my strangest pieces, written for the Shaping Ideas module. This piece was a parody of The Warlock of Firetop Mountain, featuring The Bayfalls, a dysfunctional family of Dungeons & Dragons-style adventurers. Heroic fantasy and comedy are not genres I usually write in, so this was way out of my comfort zone. Personally, I wasn't too happy with piece, and felt it could work better as a script rather than as prose.

The Road to Adventure

Arthur Bayfalls viewed the mountain enveloped in black cloud in the distance. His mail hauberk rattled as he marched along the dirt road.
“We’ll rest here.” He sat on a moss-covered rock and watched his family catch up with him. His wife, Jane, sat next to him and pulled a map from her satchel.
“We’ll be at the village of Allwood before sunset,” She said, “Then it’s another two days before we reach the mountain.”
“Looks like a cheery place,” His son Johnny walked a gold piece across his hand.
“It’s called The Forbidden Mountain, smart arse,” Arthur glared at him, “Were you expecting sunshine and rainbows?”
“Dad, tons of places have ‘Forbidden Mountains’ or ‘Forbidden Castles’ or ‘Forbidden Golf Courses’. They just do it to attract adventurers. There’s probably a gift shop at the summit. Why’d you have to drag me out of bed for this ‘heroic quest’ bullshit?”
Jane drove her staff into Johnny’s foot.
“Because I’ve been tasked by Wardale’s council to hunt down the Warlock who inhabits the dungeon beneath the mountain, and your father thought it would be a good way to spend time together as a family.” She said, “And don’t think I don’t know what you get up to when you ‘work nights’. We only allow it because your skills are of use in places such as this.”
“Alright,” Johnny winced as Jane twisted the staff, “But I won’t be of any use if I’m hopping.”
Johnny’s younger sister Alyn stepped forward.
“This is the first dungeon crawl we’ve been on in a while,” she said, “And it’s the school holidays, so it’s nice to get out and about.”
“Yeah,” Johnny said, “And since dad was caught brawling before dusk again, he was booted out of town.”
Arthur stamped on the ground.
“If you’ve finished quarrelling, we’ve got a quest to go on.” He said, “Yes, I’m only here because the council wanted me out of town for a little bit. But we can all get stuff out of it.”
He pointed at Jane.
“Darling, you’ve got a good head for riddles, and you can work your magic in these places. And taking down warlocks always sits well with your council of pointy hats.”
“The Wizard Council.” Jane said.
“Whatever,” Arthur pointed to Johnny, “What better man than Johnny Lightfingers to disable traps and open locked doors? And maybe there’ll be treasure. There usually is.”
“Which you’ll be asking for to pay your fine.” Johnny folded his arms.
“We’ll see…” Arthur pointed at Alyn, “And we’d be dead without your Thoughts and Prayers to heal our wounds. What do your gods say about people who sell their souls?”
“Nosenra says they can become a danger to the rest of us.” Alyn raised her crossed fingers, “But killing them is a last resort.”
“There is isn’t a first resort.”
“Your father’s right,” Jane said, “We all stand to gain from this quest. And it’s been a while since any of us have had a family holiday.”
Arthur drew his sword and held it aloft.
“Then let’s find this Warlock and kick his stinking magic buttocks!”
 

Allwood

The sun set as Arthur led the family into Allwood. He saw a mix of stone cottages with thatched roofs and timber buildings with wattle and daub walls. The smell of manure greeted him as local villagers walked past on their daily business. The first two-storey building in sight had a hanging sign depicting a muscular unicorn, captioned The Herculean Unicorn.
“Jane, what’s that word before the unicorn?” Arthur pointed at the sign.
“Herculean,” She said, “It means ‘strong’.”
“Why?” Johnny scratched his head, “Who came up with that?”
“They must have been someone from another dimension’s mythos.” Jane said, “I mean, we fight monsters from other mythologies, why not give the heroes a mention?”

*

The interior of The Green Dragon smelt of wood smoke. Arthur exchanged passing glances with the patrons at the tables, but heard the bards continue their piece. He noticed swords on their belts or axes resting by their stools, and saw Alyn grip the holy symbol around her neck.
“This must be an adventuring town,” Johnny said, “Your…quest may not as grand as you think.”
Arthur ignored his son’s remark, and approached the bar. A portly figure with a black beard stood in wait. A badge on his tunic said “I am Error.”
“Error?” Arthur raised his brow.
“It’s pronounced ‘E-roar’ actually,” The innkeeper said, “Welcome to Allwood. Judging by your attire, you must be adventurers. Have you travelled far?”
“From Wardale,” Arthur held up a purse, “We’re going after the Warlock tomorrow.”
The conversations fell silent. Arthur rested his hand on his sword as he felt everyone looking in his direction.
“I suppose someone’s going to tell us to stay away from the mountain,” Johnny said.
The entire inn erupted in a fit of laughter.
“I’m sorry to burst your bubble,” Error said, “But there is no Warlock inhabiting the Forbidden Mountain. The Reeve just made up that story to try and save the village economy. But if you do wish to travel there, they do have a lovely gift shop.”
“Called it!” Johnny clapped.
Arthur gaped at the innkeeper.
“So, there’s no treasure?” He said.
“Oh, there is treasure.” The innkeeper opened his tunic. Beneath it he wore a white t-shirt.
“I found the Treasure of The Forbidden Mountain.” Jane read the shirt’s slogan.
“That one was complementary for the shopkeepers.” Error knocked on the counter. The other patrons stood up and revealed their shirts, which bore the same slogan.
Arthur hunched on the bar.
“What’s the strongest ale you’ve got?” He said, “I’ll need more than Hell in a Handcart.”
“There’s Bubonic Damnation.” Error said, prompting a collective gasp from the patrons.
“Arthur, no!” Jane grabbed his shoulder, “Sorry, he was temporarily banished from our hometown for brawling before dusk. What other ales do you serve?”
“There’s Jolly Warlock,” Error pointed to a cask behind him, “That’s a local brew.”
“We’ll have three pints of that,” Jane said.
“And a glass of milk, please.” Alyn raised her hand.

*

Arthur hunched on the table and stared at the bottom of his tankard.
“You shouldn’t feel sad, father.” Alyn patted his shoulder, “It’s nice to get out and about, and anywhere outside Wardale is an adventure. I’m sure there are other evils we need to protect people from in the name of Nosenra.”
“Polish your halo,” Johnny leaned back and sipped his pint, “The call of adventure is like a stew; you prepare it, and then you go to the tavern while you let it simmer.”
“Or you burn the place down with a drunken fry-up,” Jane glared at him.
“You’re never going to let that go, are you?” Johnny looked away from his mother. He smiled as a barmaid arrived with a platter of bread and cheese.
“More ale!” Arthur raised his tankard, “A man could die of thirst in this place.”
“Manners, father.” Alyn pointed her mace at him, “Don’t make me smite you.”
“Another ale, please.” Arthur said to the barmaid.
“Same again?” The barmaid took his tankard, “Or do you want something stronger? It’s almost nightfall.”
“Then it’s almost my bedtime,” Alyn stood up.
“Johnny, take your sister up to the rooms.” Jane said.
“Fine,” Johnny stood up, “Something tells me you’ll need Thoughts and Prayers before the morning.”

Arthur watched his son and daughter go upstairs. He noticed Error duck behind the bar and pull a long cord. A bell chimed. Arthur rubbed his hands.
“Hear that, darling?” He downed his pint in one gulp, “They’ve just rang us in.”
“Oh no…” Jane massaged her temples.
“That’s right!” Arthur picked up his stool, “Tavern brawl!”

A cheer rose from the other patrons. Stools scraped and battle cries drowned out the music. The bards on the stage began playing with a faster tempo.
Arthur smashed the stool into a warrior who advanced on him.
“Care to join the fun?” He turned to Jane.
“Ferrum Deflectere!” Jane gestured and tapped her staff against the floor. A flying tankard curved around her.
“I’ll take that as a no,” Arthur clotheslined a charging elf, “Good night dear.”
He watched her shove and weave through the crowd and run upstairs. Another fighter charged after her. His battle cry came to a higher pitched crescendo and sudden stop before he tumbled back down.
“Oi! That’s my wife!” Arthur charged through the melee and grabbed the man before he reached the bottom of the stairs. He threw him into the people he’d charged through. They cleared the way for a shirtless figure, who cracked his knuckles.
Arthur charged again. The man grabbed his arm and swung him around. Arthur yelled as he crashed into a table.
“What just happened?” Arthur spat out broken teeth
“The aggressor’s down!” He heard Error’s voice above the ringing in his ears, “He gets the bill!”

Andrew Roberts, 2018

A Study of Adaptation - Octopussy and The Living Daylights

Well, it's the final stretch. Octupussy and the Living Daylights was the final entry in Fleming's book series, published posthumously in 1966. However, like For Your Eyes Only, this is a short story collection rather than a novel. So, I'll go through them in turn again. This may take a while.

The first story, Octopussy, follows Bond as he's sent to Jamaica to bring in Major Dexter Smythe, who had murdered an Austrian mountain guide (and childhood mentor of Bond) in order to steal a cache of Nazi gold. The story is mostly told in flashback, and has Smythe as the main point-of-view character, who has been drinking heavily since his wife's suicide and is taking care of an octopus which gives the story its title.

Octopussy was the title of the thirteenth Bond film, released in 1983. However, it's not really a direct adaptation, but uses the events of the short story as a backstory. Bond is sent to investigate a smuggling ring in India, where he meets a smuggler known Octopussy. It's then revealed that Octopussy is Major Smythe's daughter, who is indebted to Bond for allowing her father to end his life on his own terms rather than go back to England and face a court martial.

Next, we have The Property of a Lady, which was originally written in 1963 after being commissioned by Sotheby's, and first published in their annual journal, The Ivory Hammer. Bond is sent to Sotheby's to attend the auction of a Faberge egg, which is being used to pay a known KGB double agent in London. Bond's mission is to identify the agents handler, who may be deliberately underbidding in order to drive up the price.

The events of The Property of a Lady were used in the film adaptation of Octopussy, and expanded upon. In the film, Bond attends the auction of the Faberge egg after a counterfeit one was found on a dead British agent who had arrived at the British embassy in East Berlin. The title is also referenced in the lot title. Instead of a KGB agent, Bond identifies the exiled Afghan prince Kamal Khan, and travels to India to investigate him further.

It's likely that the filmmakers felt they didn't have enough to work with in both those short stories. A similar thing happened with For Your Eyes Only, which used events from the short stories For Your Eyes Only and Risico, along with an unused element from Live and Let Die.

In The Living Daylights, Bond is assigned to assist a defector in Berlin, providing sniper cover as he crosses a No Man's Land. He's also assigned to eliminate a KGB assassin known only as "Trigger", who will try and kill the defector. Bond then discovers that Trigger is a cellist from an all-female orchestra he'd seen travelling to rehearsal, and disobeys orders by disarming her instead of killing her.

The Living Daylights was the fifteenth film in the series, released in 1987. Again, this one tried to expand the story. The setting is moved from Berlin to Bratislava, but pretty much follows the events of the short story. While the short story implied that the cellist was an assassin, the film makes Bond suspect that she wasn't an assassin and that the defection was staged. So when the defector, General Koskov, is seemingly abducted by the KGB from the MI6 safehouse, Bond seeks out the cellist, Kara Milovy. What follows is a story reminiscent of The Third Man.

Finally, we have 007 in New York. Which is just a travel journal with a recipe for scrambled eggs. Go figure.

Well, that about wraps it up. Looking over these, I'd say that there were plenty of reasons for making changes in the film adaptations. This could be from having little material to work with, or the need to sanitise the stories.

Happy writing.

A Study of Adaptation - The Man With The Golden Gun

Well, this is the penultimate episode of this study of adaptation. The Man With The Golden Gun is the thirteenth book and final novel in Ian Fleming's series, published posthumously in 1965. It would go on to be the ninth entry in the film series, released in 1974 and starring Ian Fleming's cousin in the eponymous role. It was also the last film in the series to be produced by Harry Saltzmann.

The book takes place a year after the events of You Only Live Twice, so I'll give a quick recap; Bond lost his memory after an injury sustained during his final confrontation with Ernst Stavro Blofeld. While living as a fisherman in Japan (and feared dead by most of the world), he became fixated on references to Vladivostok and set out there to try and restore his memory.

Anyway, the book begins with Bond returning to London. However, it turns out that the KGB had brainwashed him to assassinate M, the head of the Secret Service. The attempt fails and Bond is captured and deprogrammed. To prove his worth, he is sent to the Caribbean to assassinate a KGB hitman responsible for the murders of several British and American agents. The assassin, Francisco Scaramanga, is known as "The Man With The Golden Gun" after his weapon of choice; a gold-plated six-shooter. He meets with his target in the newly-independant Jamaica and accepts a role as a personal assistant, where he learns that Scaramanga is helping to set up operations for American crime syndicates while also planning to carry out sabotage missions on behalf of the KGB.

In the film, Bond is put on a sabbatical after MI6 receives a golden bullet with his codename on it. M suspects that someone has hired Scaramanga to assassinate Bond to prevent him from locating a missing solar expert named Gibson. The famed "Golden Gun" was changed from a six-shooter to a custom-built gun made from a cigarette case, lighter, fountain pen, and cufflink. One which would always be an instant kill in the games.

One of the main reasons for the alternate story was due to the fact that the amnesia plot thread from You Only Live Twice was never used in the adaptation, along with the fact that the films had a loose continuity and didn't follow the same order as the novels. Therefore, it wouldn't make much sense to use the brainwashing element. The solar power plot thread was also added to tie the film to a then-contemporary energy crisis.

Furthermore, the film adaptation changes the setting from the Caribbean to Southeast Asia. This was essentially a cash-in on the recent success of martial arts films in the 1970s. I suppose for a film series as formulaic as James Bond, the filmmakers felt they should put the character in different genres as means to keep up with some zeitgeist. The previous film, Live and Let Die, did something similar with the Blaxpoitation genre. In a subsequent example, Moonraker tried to incorporate more sci-fi elements following the success of Star Wars two years prior.

Well, I'm almost at the end now. Just one more book to compare, which will be a lengthy post due to it being a collection.

Work Share - A Devil's Bargain

While I'm studying Creative Writing as a Single Honours, I also did an elective module in English Literature looking at adaptations. Well, most regular readers know this already, because of those posts I'm writing about the Bond novels. While the assignments in this module are more about full essays, I did have the option of doing a creative piece in one of them. Specifically an adaptation or appropriation of one of the set texts. With this in mind, I settled on a chapter from Kate Forsyth's Bitter Greens in which Charlotte de la Force arrives at the convent she was sent to, during which her writing equipment is taken away. It invoked bad memories of being in a job which I felt got in the way of my writing, so I utilised that in the appropriation.

When I said I’d have to sell my soul for a job in today’s market, I never thought it would end up being something taken literally. After six months of fruitless searching and unsuccessful interviews, I managed to get something at a firm called Rapunzel Ltd, after my dad made some arrangements with the director. I don’t even know what the company actually does. I’d much rather write stories, but my parents wanted me out of the house. I just wish they’d let me work in something that was part-time.
“There’s more work in accounts than there is in writing,” my dad would say, “And the money’s good. You’ll be of little use to people if you only want to work part time.”

It wasn’t the best start. I ended up being late on my first day because there was nowhere to park at the company’s shabby old tower in the middle of Stoke. I trembled as I saw the white steam billowing from the bonnet of my car. Joy, the director, stood at the front desk and tapped her watch. 
“Parking trouble?” She asked. I nodded, unable to get the words out. The smell of evaporated coolant lingers, and I guess she smelt it on me. There was little humour in her voice. Someone who certainly lives up to their name.

She led me down a corridor. I heard the clacking of keyboards and muffled phone conversations as we passed the numerous offices. Nobody looked up as I glanced through the windows. One person had a radio, which played "9 to 5" by Dolly Parton. She knew it best. This kind of work is all taking and no giving.

We stopped at a vacant office.
“Charlotte Forsyth – Accounts Administrator” the plaque on the door stated. My name and new role. That’s nice, I suppose.
The director beckoned inside. I stepped through the door and a light came on, revealing nothing more than a desk with a computer, and a revolving chair. It smelt of must. There didn’t seem to be any kind of heating, or even a window.
“This will be yours,” The director said.
I sat down, and felt a lump in the seat press into my back. Was this really the job my parents wanted me to have? How am I supposed to write if I’m working full-time?
“Welcome to the team at Rapunzel Limited,” The director said, “There’s a post-it on the monitor with your log-in details for that machine and for Sage.”
Fuck. I hate Sage.
“Your first order of business is to look at the bank reconciliations,” The director stood behind me as I switched the computer on. It seemed to stay on a loading screen and then delivered another message of woe:
“Windows 10 is updating.”
“Once I’m in, where do I find what I need?” I asked, “Are there physical copies of invoices and statements?”
“You’ll find everything you need on the machine. Now, I’m off to my holiday home in the French Alps for the next three weeks, but I’ll call you from there with updates.”
I felt the bile building up in my throat. Was that where the name came from? Being trapped in a tower by an absent boss? I guess Joy didn’t pay much attention to symbolism.
“Seriously?” I said.
The director said nothing, but I could read her face. Do nothing without the director’s approval. Do not speak unless spoken to. Remember that every day, you’re doing something wrong. Silence is golden. Like most jobs I’ve been in.
“Have fun.” She left the office.
“Just a moment,” I said, “Is there anything I can do while the computer’s updating?”
No answer. I reached into my handbag and pulled out my notebook. If there isn’t much to do, I might as well draft some ideas for when I get home. I also pull out my personal mug. The one which says “Irritated Writer”. Regardless of whether I’m doing accounts work or my notes, I won’t be of much use to anybody until I’ve had some coffee.

I go to the staff room at the end of the corridor. There’s nobody else in there, but it smells of microwaved fish. Opening one of the cupboards, I find a tin of cheap instant coffee. Decaffeinated instant coffee. My fists clench. I want to punch through the cupboard door. There is tea, though. Hopefully that can stave off the caffeine withdrawals.

When I returned to my office, my computer was still updating. Joy had reappeared, looking at my notebook.
“So, we haven’t scared you off yet?” Her view remained fixed on the notebook, “What’s this?”
I felt my heart beating.
“Story ideas,” I said, “I’m a writer.”
“Is that so?” She opened her own handbag, “Well, I’d love to see what you say.”
“Wait a minute!” I reached for the notebook, but it disappeared into her bag, “That’s my favourite notebook! I need to refer to it when I’m working!”
“You’ll have no use for it here,” The corporate hag sidestepped out of the office, “You come to work to work. I’m not paying you to write stories.”
I still had the pen. I wanted to ram it into her eye, but she seemed to glide out of the office before I could close the distance. The prison sentence would have been worth it. At least with prison I could look forward to getting out. Here, I’m stuck until I get fired or quit, then my parents will throw me out if I don’t get something else. If I speak to them about it, their only response will be telling me to become a mother.
“The responsibility will motivate you to work hard.” They’d say, “You’ll be glad to be out of the house, if nothing else.”
Now my notebook is gone, and with it any chance of writing my way out of this mental prison.

I think it is now clear; this is Hell.

Andrew Roberts, 2019

Special thanks to Kate Forsyth

Work Share - An Affair of Honour

My other entry in the Creative Portfolio was a re-work of one of my previous assignments in the module (The strict form and free verse poems). This could involve re-working the strict form poem into a free form poem or vice versa. Alternatively, it could involve making either into a prose piece. With this in mind, I wrote a flash fiction from my free verse poem, The Demon Fencer. This was based on a Halloween pub crawl I went on with the fencing club and encountering the History Society in the first pub.

Legends has a lot of empty space tonight, yet the stereo drowns out our chatter with Michael Jackson’s "Thriller". It’s early, so I don’t smell spilt drinks above the floor polish. Some of the tables are occupied by mannequins of Dracula and the Wolf Man. Not the best ambience, but they have Doom Bar on tap.

As I walk to the bar, I see people in different period costumes gathered at the corner table.
“Bugger…” I say under my breath. I forgot that the History Society meets here on a Wednesday. I pull my hat down. I try not to look around as the bartender pulls my pint.

“Nice of you to show up.” I hear someone say.
I turn. A man in a toga walked up to the bar. 
“Francis…” I look back at the corner table. They’re looking in my direction. One of them raises their middle finger.
“You didn’t want to go on our social?” Francis says.
“I didn’t have any historical clothing,” I give a nervous laugh.
“They’ll think you’re a traitor.” He says.
“You’re in the fencing club too, so…” I pull a glove from my pocket and slap him across the face. The onlookers fall silent.
“I accept.” Francis says, “The Watershed. Sunday. 10 o’clock.”

Andrew Roberts, 2019

Work Share - The Plan

My next few work shares will be from a "Creative Portfolio" I did for my Exploring Creative Writing Module (the same one with the strict form and free verse assignments). One part of this assignment involved writing a historical flash fiction. With this in mind, I decided to write about Julie d'Aubigny, a swashbuckling, openly bisexual adventurer and opera singer in 17th Century France. The Plan follows Julie shaking down a wandering minstrel who is known to pick up rumours and gossip.

If you wish to know more about this truly fascinating woman, I recommend watching this Extra History video they prepared on the subject.

The wind against the shutters adds unwanted percussion to my cittern piece. I ignore it, breathing in the smell of wood smoke while cursing the lack of audience and wine.

The door swings open. I hunch closer to the fire as I feel the cold gust fill the room. A woman of no more than eighteen years enters the Maison de la Couronne, rain dripping from a wide-brimmed hat and cloak. I see the rapier on her belt as she removes the cloak. She strides to the innkeeper, who nods in my direction and ducks.

“Merde…” I say under my breath as she approaches.

“You know who I am?” She looms over me.

I hear my own heart beating. I’ve heard many tales of Mademoiselle de Maupin, in the taverns from Paris to Marseilles. Few of them were pleasant.

“Did you not hear me?” She grabs me by the collar.

“What do you want with me?” I feel the sweat drip from my forehead, 

“I’m told you like gossip,” She says, “Have you heard of Fleur LaBelle?”

“Fair-haired and beautiful,” I nod, “I used to see her in the marketplace. I heard her parents sent her away.”

“Where?” She leans closer.

“The Order of Visitation.” I’m shaking, “Avignon. I don’t think they permit visitors.”

“That’s my problem, but I have a plan.” She tosses me a livre before heading to the door.

“Wait,” I stand up, “What’s your purpose for this? Why do you seek her?”

She pauses, and turns.

“Because I love her.”

Andrew Roberts, 2019

Work Share - The Demon Fencer

My next work share is from a second poetry assignment in the Exploring Creative Writing module. The first assignment had been on strict form poetry, and this one looked at free verse. Based on a single word prompt, "Try", I decided to look at how I enrolled in my university's fencing club. I write swashbuckler fiction, so I can consider it "research". My submission, The Demon Fencer, looked at my experiences within the club. I suppose I'm a "casual" fencer, because I didn't take part in any competitions last year, but I might give that a go next year.

Office work made me feel blue, so I’m trying something new
Studying Creative Writing, with research around fighting
No, not a drunken brawl in the pub. I’ve joined the Fencing Club
Sunday at the Watershed, which does mean getting out of bed
Put on the kit, grab an epee, time to plug and play
Parry, feint, riposte. Win with a rakish cackle like Errol Flynn
Like d’Artagnan vs Jussac, or Inigo vs the Man in Black
They do socials too. Go out for a pint. Or a few.
Try the Firebug’s A&E? Dost Mefinitely!

Andrew Roberts, 2018