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