Tentacles, Podcasts and More (oh my)

As careful readers of my blog may have noted in between the weird stories and disturbing attempts at poetry I have occasionally made reference to my gaming hobby.   I've been involved in role playing games since I was a teenager - too many years ago to count without wincing - and most of those years have been spent taking on the role of games-master, referee, dungeon-master, keeper or whatever the term de jour happens to be.  Basically in those games of collaborative and communal story telling I always tended to be the one who laid out the framework of the stories, administered whatever rules were appropriate and played all the characters in the universe who weren't played by the players.

It's been a great hobby and I thought I knew it inside out and I suppose I'd become fairly set in my ways.   That changed recently and though I've never considered myself to have a particularly narrow outlook on gaming it's started to widen out incredibly.   I've looked into new games, new rule types, new genres and it's revitalised my gaming life as I've managed to find myself running games not only for my usual and long term gaming partners but also for their family members, for work colleagues who've expressed an interest and for people across the sea who I've never met except virtually.

There are a lot of reasons for this (displacement from some fairly trying times personally being one of them) but it's been facilitated by my discovery of new vistas of gaming mainly by my recent discovery of podcasts.   I have a long commute to and from work and I recently decided to investigate the podcast app on my phone which I'd previously ignored.   Were there, I wondered, any podcasts concerning my beloved roleplaying games.

Oh hell yes was the universe's answer.

One in particular has become my favourite.

Magic Dragon

He was sitting untouched by the noise and movement around him, day-to-day face glued to his head, perfectly convincing.  His hands moved over the keyboard, marionette appendages on strings of habit.

“Why are you doing this?” Binker asked him.

He would speak to Binker, really speak to Binker.  To others his words were read from a script behind his eyes, one written by a drudging hack, a cobbled together pastiche of remembered phrases and stock witticisms.   But to Binker he could really speak, though nobody else would ever hear the words.

“I’ve forgotten,” he told Binker honestly, “It’s just what I do.”

“You’re punishing yourself,” Binker said, “But I don’t know why.”

He shrugged, actually shrugged with his numb shoulders, and turned the movement into a stretch to cover his mistake.   Someone nearby said something to him.  He said something back which made them laugh.

“I’ve long forgotten,” he told Binker in the silence of honesty, “But here I am.”

“Don’t you remember how many worlds there are to walk in?” Binker said, his voice low, entreating, “ten thousand thousand shades of sunlight, and every scent that ever blew on winds of hope?   Walk with me there again and let us dazzle the gods and outrage the raging storm.”

“You go on ahead,” he told Binker, “I’ll follow soon.”

Binker, who had never before left his side, did.

In response to the prompt "Penitence/Remorse" from Studio30Plus

Image courtesy of Tim Chesney at freeimages.com

Through a glass darkly

Image courtesy of John Boyer

Cobham West had the look of a weasel about him, albeit a well fed and self satisfied weasel.   His naturally thin features had filled out as a result of the high life he’d been living for the last few years and it made him look slightly wrong, like a bad photoshop of himself.   He took the towel from the stage hand and mopped the back of his neck as he left the stage, the applause of the credulous still ringing out.   Always leave them wanting more he had been  told, and he always did.   Not a dry eye in the house by the time he’d finished his show.   The living consoled with messages from their departed loved ones, words of wisdom passed on from the great beyond, a few cryptic messages of uplifting import to inspire the world toward blah blah blah.   It had been a good show.

The Shepherd's Crown

I've been a fan of Sir Terry Pratchett's writing since his first Discworld book came out.   I've read every one and enjoyed the way his world and his characters grew and matured over the series.   The early books were pastiches and parodies of fantasy tropes, but good as they were he developed past that stage and his novels became far far more than collections of jokes.

Sitebuilder.Con?

Today I was tempted to switch my blog provider to Sitebuilder.Com

I wasn't actually unhappy with blogger, but I was looking around for something unconnected and saw the rave reviews that sitebuilder got.  I mean *really* rave reviews and such great features for a free site.

First Draft done - now the work begins!

Image courtesy of Kerem Yucel

I've just completed the first draft of my first ever novel and I'm feeling rather elated about it.  So far all my writing has been short form - short stories or poetry - tales that I can keep in my head all at once and shape mentally before ever putting pen to paper, at which point out they come fully formed and manageable.

This piece, working title A Step Beyond Context, is the first time I've ever completed a novel length piece, it's turning in at about 85,000 words.   I'm pretty happy with it and what I've done with it, and now comes the re-read and re-drafting.  Now that I know the exact end point I can go back and make sure everything leads tidily toward it and trim off the excess fat that no doubt clings to it here and there.  I fully expect to start disliking it and seeing all the warts and problems but right at this moment, right now, at this time and in this place, I am feeling good.

Under the Microscope - Building new worlds and histories

Something a little different today.   I’d like to recommend a game for you all.   A game that may well be the most useful tool I’ve ever come across for world building and for designing a setting for speculative fiction.

The Finishing Line is in Sight!

Image by Dark Power of FreeImages.Com

The extended silence from the rickety edifice known as Marlowe Manor has had a few causes.  One such is that I have been focussing most of my writing efforts on my novel.   It suddenly dawned on me a week or two ago that I was unexpectedly within a couple of chapters of finishing it.   

Landslide Victory

Do you remember when you were a child?  Alone and hungry and crying for a mother that was beyond hearing?

I heard you.   And I came to you and comforted you as best I could.   And I arranged for you to be found and pulled from the puzzle of rock and earth, the eager hands of the rescuers dragging you into the light and showing you off, teary-eyed and widesmiled.   I smiled too, and waited.

Election Night

The sound of the rain on election night was a constant demanding drumming on the roof of the car, like a radio station tuned to white noise whose signal cut out as I passed beneath every one of the seven bridges between work and the polling station.  It was, I knew, my democratic right and duty to cast my vote and much depended upon it.   The car park, I noted with dismay as I drove into it, was a long way from the entrance.   A long wet way under the wet white noise.    But still I had my mark to make, and make my mark I must.  I locked the car behind me with a brace of beeps.   A bundle of fly tipped garbage propped against the wall of the desanctified church that was now a community centre moved unexpectedly and spoke.

“buy your name, mister?”