Airport is male. He has legs below the terminals, the tubular type with plastic-knob shoes, but you can’t imagine his arms. The windows of the arrival hall are his eyes, the automatic doors into the departure hall his mouth. He wears an apron made of planes. The control tower and hangar are not part of his body, so whenever he goes anywhere, they are left waiting on the tarmac.
Airport awoke as Intercom crackled: ‘Control Tower Ralph To Airport, Do You Copy Over!’ A plane, again? Airport did not feel like answering. He had been dreaming of an executive lounge where they served drinks with special straws named after famous actors. He wanted to go on a Holiday and see the actors in the films they played on the long-haul flights. Ah, to live a life of leisure like the lucky elite, instead of being a regional Airport with concrete hair. That would be grand. My post this month is a fairly complex one, taking in the story of Hermitage Castle in the Liddesdale valley, the evil magician ‘Bad’ de Soulis who lived there in the 14th century, his compact with a devil in a red cap to render him invulnerable to weapons, and his final gruesome destruction by the local people, by being boiled in oil at a neolithic stone circle called ‘Nine-Stane Rigg’. What a story!
This latest post is about the relationship between the 'Redcap' of Scots Borders folklore and the Red Man (Far Darrig, Fear Dearg), a solitary fairy of Irish folklore. Was the Redcap merely a translation of the original Irish character into a new setting across the Irish Sea? The short answer: probably not, unless you are only looking at very general Indo-European fairy prototypes.
![]() One of my current projects is a children's word hoard, entitled The Lion of Sleep. It tells the story of how the magical lion Alvery Zee may help you to get to sleep, through the recitation of all the wonderful things he will require to travel to Contragonia and find his true love. There's an extract below the read more button... I've so far had one failed attempt to publish my Port Adelaide urban folklore book, the Panther of Divett Street, and I am tempted to self-publish it, or possibly reformat the book and try again with a regular publisher. Still scratching my head about that one.
In the meantime, a few mates have had a go at a cover, using AI. My prompt was "An old fashioned policeman holding a baton chasing a panther with a chicken in its mouth." Results are hilariously bad. Thanks to Richard, Chris and Eva for playing along. A Life in the Book of Monsters is available now through Amazon.
While remaining dedicated nonsense, it also hints at the story of Arthur Hindside, a failing romantic poet of the mid-19th century, who goes insane after a trip to France to rescue a lost manuscript, then becomes a supernatural journalist, tries to contact the Holy Spirit during a seance, and then finally escapes London to teach at Scottish Grammar School, only to go missing for seven years after sleeping on a hilltop on St John's Eve. Sheesh...I never did hear back from the New Yorker (!), or any other place I wrote to, but I happen to think this is a fine piece of nonsense / satire, so I am including it in full this time. Click to read the whole thing...
NOW AVAILABLE for purchase on Amazon...
It was January and the summer had been mild. As was my habit at the time, I awoke early, and began to imagine myself gainfully employed upon a new literary adventure—my first compilation of public domain material. I’d seen many other self-published collections of older stories, and often wondered if I could make a go of it. That year, I decided it was time to find out. The research was easy and pleasant; in only a few hours I had cribbed a couple of likely stories from the internet—Project Gutenberg, Wikisource, and other places. I could see that it wouldn’t take too long before I had a volume fit for publication. I discussed the proposition with my wife after dinner that evening. “I thought I’d start with ghost stories,” I said as I served the Eton Mess. “You know, the usual suspects, British and American stuff, Edgar Allen Poe, M. R. James, all that spooky old lot. Could be a bit of money in it…” “Damnit, McKenzie”, said my wife, a sensible woman of some fifty-three summers. “You’re meddling with forces you cannot possibly comprehend. You know what these Victorian-era ghost stories are like. Once you start down that path, there’ll be no turning back. You’ll be ruined, man. Best to steer clear of the whole goddamned mess. Have another port, and forget the whole idea.” “Nonsense,” I said. “There’s nothing to fear in the supernatural. Ghosts? Pshaw. That’s all just harum scarum. I’ll be perfectly all right.” I drained the port, and another, and looked out the window at the old manor house up on Tapley’s Hill. I decided to take a walk up there, that very evening. What sort of peculiar curiosity had overtaken me that night? ![]() From the time Naiden was very little, he liked games. There were some games in the Forest of Many Things, and some in the House, and evensome in the Imaginary World. Games in the House had actual rules. Sometimes, the rules were that you got put outside, because you didn't understand why. Another game had some things that people held in front of their faces, and then when they put them down on the table, you could attack them, and then you got put outside again. The best game of all was a big flat thing that you could lie on, and the rules were tiny little pieces of prey made of red and green plastic, and when they went across the board they moved almost as fast as you did! No wonder the people liked playing this game so much. The people in the House liked it when Naiden helped them played this game. It was his favourite.
In the Imaginary World, Naiden knew what all these games were called, and could say their names. He was very good at the game called Poker. The other players could not see what was on his cards, because he held them with the pictures facing towards his body, He often won the Poker game for this reason. In the Forest of Many Things, the games didn't have rules, and there was no such thing as winning. It could be a problem, not knowing when to stop. It was usually Naiden who said it was time to finish the game, and go home. Because he was the particular kind of cat to think of things like that. Next time we'll hear about one of the games that Naiden and his friends played played in the Forest, and how it ended. |
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