The Bob Corrigan

OMG not another duck confit recipe, please no

Sun, 29 Mar 2026 12:37:58 -0400

Hello.

Behold, I bring you tidings of great joy: not regular joy, or even good joy.

Great Joy.

Let’s say for the sake of this Great Joy that you’ve got a duck. More specifically, a formerly alive duck, and even more specifically, a freshly un-alived duck with its insides conveniently separated from its outsides and its various feathers removed. I won’t ask where you got it from. Such things must remain between you and your … friends.

I will refer to this duck as Donald. For no reason whatsoever.

Now, you may ask yourself, what could I possibly do with a duck named Donald? He is, in his current state, not much of a conversationalist as he is no longer in possession of his thinking parts, to say nothing of a functioning gastrointestinal system or his once-grand plumage.

I will tell you what to you can do with a duck named Donald. Nay, what you should do.

ACT ONE: THE NASTY PART

When no one is watching, bring Donald the ex-Duck into your kitchen, or wherever it is that you keep your sharp cutting instruments and your stove and your refrigerator. Make sure the coast is clear. This is going to get messy.
Use a pair of kitchen shears to remove Donald’s spine, clip clip. Set the spine aside for disposal. Donald will be much easier to work with now that he is spineless.
Check to make sure the nice people who prepared Donald did in fact remove all his inside bits. If you discover any inside bits, dispose of them. They are of no use to you, and your friends will not covet them. Really.
Use those same kitchen shears to cut Donald in half, moving from where Donald’s butt used to be up to where his head used to be, using the breastbone as your guide. Behold, you have two duck halves now. Set one to the side. Clean up a little if you’re squeamish, and screw your courage to the sticking place, because the shit’s gonna get funky now.
Take up your sharpest knife and gently, oh so gently, cut the leg+thigh of the duck away from the half-body, being careful to preserve as much of the duck skin as possible. Ideally you’re looking for the skin to “drape” over the thigh.
Feel good about yourself, unless of course you screwed up by cutting the leg away from the thigh, or by carving away too much skin, or slicing off a finger, in which case you should feel bad, but just for a moment, because lo and behold, an opportunity for redemption doth appear!
Perform the same knife magic on the other leg+thigh, and set both leg+thighs aside on a clean plate.
You will have noticed that you still have two duck “breasts” that have not been separated from their respective carcass parts. Do so now, working again to preserve as much of the skin on top of the breast as you can. Set these aside on a separate plate, and ask Igor your assistant to wrap them in plastic film, place them together in a single sealable plastic bag, and stash it away in your icebox. Their role in today’s festivities is later, but they’re still Good Food, like soup, so don’t throw them out.
You may mutter “out damn spots” as you clean and dry your hands, if that makes you feel better, you monster. Look what you’ve done to Donald.
Prepare a salt rub made up of 2 Tablespoons of kosher salt with 2 Teaspoons of coarsely ground pepper and 1 Teaspoon of dry thyme in a small bowl.
With one leg+thigh in your left hand, take a nice big pinch of the salt rub and rub it into the duck so that is is covered, front back and sides, with the salt rub. Command Igor to wrap this salt-festooned duck leg+thigh in plastic film, but then forbid him to go off and have a smoke, for you have YET ANOTHER leg+thigh to rub with salt! Igor will complain, briefly, as is his wont.
Place the two wrapped salt-rubbed leg+thighs into a single sealable plastic bag, and stash it away in your icebox for at least 24 hours. Remember where it is.
Clean up the mess you’ve created. Use sanitizing wipes and whatever serious cleaning products you’ve got around from the last time you dismantled an animal to make sure there’s no evidence of your work. Trust me.

FIRST INTERMISSION

With the meats safely stashed away, you must now procure the following:

A. A round enamelware or other thick pot about 8" across.
B. 18 ounces of duck fat. I don’t care if you buy it in a jar or a can, just so long as you have 18 ounces and it’s not rancid (smell it to check). If you don’t have duck fat, stop here, and feel bad.
C. 3 garlic cloves, 2 sprigs of fresh thyme, 2 bay leaves
D. A timer of some sort used to measure the passing of time.
E. A link to Spotify so you can play “Pump Up the Jam”, the opening track on Belgian act Technotronic’s first album, Pump Up the Jam: The Album (1989). For more information, I refer you to the following document.

END OF FIRST INTERMISSION

ACT TWO: THE BORING PART

At least 24 hours later (but no more than 48 hours later), pour your 18 ounces of duck fat into your round enamelware pot and set it on medium heat on top of your stove/hob/camp fire. It will melt very quickly, as duck fat does. Place the garlic, thyme springs and bay leaves into the duck fat, and salute their sacrifice.
Set your oven to 200F.
One at a time, remove the two leg+thighs from their plastic shrouds^H^H^H^H^H^H^H wrappings and rub off any remaining salt or pepper or thyme. You will note that red red kroovy has gathered in the bottom of the sealable plastic bag. Do not allow any of this to escape, and be sure to dispose of it in the most efficient way possible, perhaps by driving an hour from your home and dropping it casually into a random location, such as the garbage bin outside the Dunkin’ at 2203 Planck Road in Fredericksburg, VA.
Lay the leg+thighs skin-side down in the molten duck fat, and raise the intensity of the heat source underneath it until it be bubbling away gently. No hard boil, no sullen shimmering. BUBBLING AWAY GENTLY.
Cover the pot with its lid and place it in the oven.
Set “Pump Up The Jam” to play on repeat as you set the timer for three hours.
Remove the pot from the oven, being careful to not burn your hand, and then carefully remove the two leg+thighs from the bubbling oil and set them aside on a plate. For extra credit, pour the fat from the pot into a jar and put it in the icebox, For Later.
Turn off “Pump Up The Jam”.

SECOND INTERMISSION

Congratulations, you’ve now made a French dish called Confit de Cuisses de Canard. Aren’t you fancy.

END OF SECOND INTERMISSION

ACT THREE: THE TASTY PART

While I could leave further guidance on how to prepare it for service as an exercise for the reader, I will instead tell you how I, your humble servant, serve this particular delicacy during the holiday season, as my loving partner commands me to do.

Boil up some nice yukon gold potatoes until they’re almost cooked, then quarter them. Place them in the bottom of a foil-lined oven-safe tray.
Set your oven to 350F
Set a wire rack over the oven safe tray and lay your two cuisses de canard fat side facing up on top of the rack directly over the quartered potatoes. Fat from the duck will (languidly, luxuriously, sensuously) drip down over the potatoes and assist in their final preparation for service.
Trim a big fat handful of haricot verts (fancy French green beans, hon hon hon), and steam them until crisp. This will take about ten minutes, by which time the duck will have crisped up nicely and the potatoes will also have browned in the (wipes brow) duck fat drippings.
Crack open a lovely little Côtes du Rhône - nothing fancy, because for all its luxuriousness this isn’t fancy food, it’s what that rotten Gascon D'Artagnan used to eat in between thrashings from his miserable father.
Serve it to your loving partner, and revel in the knowledge that you’ve escaped the notice of the authorities once again, you clever person you.

FIN

OMG the clomping foot of nerdism is real

Tue, 24 Mar 2026 14:40:46 -0400

I wrote THE MERIBEL DARLINGS knowing that my top agent would snap it up the second they read my query. When that didn’t happen, I contacted a professional for a developmental edit. Surely, there were a few select changes I could make that would make the book more appealing.

A few select changes quickly became a dramatic, soul-killing rewrite.

For example: I was SO PROUD of this chapter, but it didn’t survive the dev edit. Why? It’s not that it wasn’t well-writen, because it was, dammit. It’s that it was more interesting to me than my editor said it would be to my reader.

Does that mean no one will ever get a chance to read it?

No. That’s what blogs are for.

(rubs hands together and chortles)

But be warned: the clomping foot of nerdism is strong with this one.

—–

The agents sat at a long wooden table in a windowless basement room, the tangled ceiling of pipes, cables, and colored conduits less than a foot above them. Three small lamps set along the middle of the table cast narrow pools of light that left the rest of the room shrouded in shadows, with the exception of the seven little lights on the pneumatics panel along the wall. Most blinked green every few seconds; two blinked red every thirty. A chorus of creaks, pings and other industrial noise echoed from the pneumatics like crickets.

Walter sat at the head of the table, long-faced and dour in a too-formal three-piece tweed suit that made him look like an overstuffed sofa. Safely hidden in my uncomfortable but conveniently dark hiding place up among the pipes, I watched him draw a thin line through the second-to-last item on the agenda. Which was good because I really needed to pee.

He cleared his throat. “Before we move on to our last item, perhaps we might have a tour de table to share recent acquisitions? Khalid? Would you care to begin?“

The energy in the room shifted from cultivated boredom to almost child-like enthusiasm. Walter gestured to the dignified elderly man with the red tasseled fez and striped djellaba seated to his left.

“I thank you, Walter,” Khalid said with a formal bow of the head. “My good friends, Monsieur Chezelle is delighted to report his acquisition of rare Fritillaria ojaiensis bulbs from high in the California chaparral. They were harvested in accordance with the protocols described in Mattioli’s Second Herbal to ensure both vigor and potency, and I am pleased to say both were preserved during their journey to our greenhouse. We shall see if the splendor of their flowers is the reward for our care, inshallah!”

There was a round of polite applause.

Khalid raised a wrinkled finger. “Monsieur Chezelle instructed me to extend his deep thanks to the chairman for the loan of the Mattioli, whose wisdom has been a great blessing,” he added with another nod to Walter.

“It was our pleasure to be of service, Khalid,” Walter said, then gestured to the gentleman to Khalid’s left. “Otto?”

Otto was a hard-angled bearded gent in a western-style black suit. He leaned back with his thumbs tucked into his suspenders. “Well, it’s taken a good long while, but my Miss Gloria was finally able to get her hands on a copy of the Saint-Sever Beatus manuscript. With the annotated map this time.”

The applause to this was somewhat more enthusiastic.

“We got people working on the translations now. I want to say how grateful we are to Signore Faravelli for letting us use that articulated opticon of his to read the fine print. And thank you, Matteo, for making that possible.”

“My pleasure, my pleasure,” replied the gentleman seated to Otto’s left. Matteo was as crisp as ever in his blue blazer and rep tie “Speaking of my Signore Faravelli, it’s been a most incredible month! So much to talk about!”

A groan shook the room, the traditional response to Matteo’s traditional opening. Matteo liked to talk. A lot.

"Please keep it brief, sir,” said Walter. “We need to end on time.”

“Fine, fine then, just one, just a little one,“ Matteo sighed. "And so. Last night, Signore Faravelli, he sits me down and he says Matteo, my boy, you won’t believe what I found and I said, Signore Faravelli, you must tell me, but he said no no no, no one will care, but I insisted! And so, Signore Faravelli, he tells me … that he got … a supply of new original stock parts for the pneumatics! No more burning up the capsules, no more steam leaks, no more lost messages! We can start the repairs any time you like!”

Actual applause broke out around the table. Matteo waved at everyone and shook his grasped hands over each shoulder like a victorious prize fighter until he hit a pipe and wisely stopped. I made a mental note to send that old coot Faravelli a gift ham or something, because I’d been steam cooked in my own gravy up here in my hiding place more than once during these meetings and it wasn’t a fun experience.

“Heavens, that is good news, well done Matteo and please extend our great thanks to Signore Faravelli,” Walter said. Then they all quieted down, and all at once they nodded together at the empty seat that had once been occupied by Edward’s agent.

I missed him too.

“Now, with regards to the high bar that Matteo has set,” Walter continued after the moment of silence, “I fear I cannot surpass it this month. I am sorry to say that Sir Reginald has been feeling rather poorly of late, and as a result he has made no acquisitions that rise to the level of achievement expected of one of our Lady’s tenants. For this he extends his sincere apologies. Felix?”

The elderly little fellow in the black suit with oversized black eyeglasses and wild white hair looked over at Walter blankly, then smiled and patted the table lightly with the palms of his hands.

“Felix? Do you have anything you’d like to share?”

Felix cleared his throat and patted his palms a few more times before squeezing his eyes shut and forming his pale hands into white-knuckled fists. He spoke almost too quickly to be heard.

“Alexander Connory is pleased to report he has taken possession of an important collection of 19th century English dueling pistols that includes both used and unused cased sets from Durs Egg and Purdey as well as unique weapons designed for, designed for, designed for …”

His eyes flew open and his fists unclenched. After blinking a few times he patted his palms on the table again and looked back at Walter with the same blank expression as before.

“Thank you, Felix,” Walter said in the calm, slow voice he always used with the old guy. “Please tell Alexander to exercise extreme discretion, follow all applicable state and federal laws, as well as all relevant Guard rules associated with the sale of certain unique firearms.” He wiped his nose and let out a long sigh. “And now, to the dean of our community, Baldwin.”

“Mister Chairman and honored colleagues, good morning,” intoned the frail, elderly man in a white linen suit. “While my master has made an important and perhaps historic acquisition, I would ask the Chair to permit me to defer my report until after the tour de table as a new privileged agenda item.”

Walter looked around the table. “Are there any objections? No? Then that leads us to Oleg.”

Oleg was a lump of a fellow in a black vest and rolled-up shirtsleeves. He held out his right arm; his hand gripped the bottom half of a small circus doll with a white peaked cloth hat, a painted wooden face, and a dirty white cotton body with three red buttons on it.

A hush fell over the table. Felix began to reach into his coat. A few chairs creaked as they were pushed back.

I’m a little ashamed to admit I made a mental bet on how many old men the sluagh could eat before it ran out of gas. It was all academic anyway because I’d never actually seen one eat anyone before and that suited me just fine.

“Ha, it is fake!” Oleg announced in his too-loud voice, opening his hand to reveal the doll had only one leg. “But you thought this was real thing, yes? But no, it is not real, but it is good joke, yes? Last week Madame Zola got big collection of the Schoenhut circus dolls, with the tent, donkeys and chairs, and all the little pieces. It is beautiful set, one of a kind. It reminds her of the real dolls that were stolen from her. That is all from Madame Zola.”

Walter waited for him to retrieve the doll and put it away before continuing.

“And finally, Oswald, and then back to Baldwin.”

“Thank you, Walter,” said the pale, compact fellow in the dark suit. As always I wondered just how it was that a weasel could masquerade as a person. “Our Lady is pleased to report she has secured a particularly handsome collection of Brittany pearls that once belonged to Marie-Louise of Savoy, along with their extremely detailed and historically fascinating provenance documentation. It’s a marvel how anything so lovely could survive the Reign of Terror, which makes them so much more compelling a find, don’t you think? If any of you wish to see them, do please come by and I can arrange a viewing.”

He gestured to Walter, who crossed one more item off his agenda. I was starting to cramp up a bit, so I stretched my legs as much as I could without breaking a pipe or dropping some broken insulation on the table below.

“Thank you all for a very productive month. And now, Baldwin, you requested a moment.”

Unfortunately Baldwin’s moments had a way of turning into hours, so I settled in and prepared myself for boredom.

“Thank you, Mister Chairman. My master asks that the following information be kept in the strictest confidence, and so requests that article sixteen of the lessee agreement be invoked by the Chair.”

“Is there any objection?” Walter called, scanning the table. “Without objection, article sixteen is invoked and the minutes are suspended for the remainder of this agenda item. Please continue.”

Baldwin nodded and folded his hands before him on the table. “I thank the Chair. My master has instructed me to report he has acquired five square yards of Ossetian Greycloth and a functioning Greycloth loom believed to have once been owned by Laurentian the Second.”

A murmur rolled around the table. I saw Matteo and Khalid lean back and make eye contact, and even Felix seemed to perk up. He’d certainly gotten my attention.

Walter raised his hand. “I am sure I do not have to remind you that Greycloth is on the Guard’s list of proscribed materials and technologies, Baldwin.”

“If I may correct my honored colleague the Chairman, Greycloth is noted in the second appendix, not the list itself,” Baldwin replied. He took off his round wire-framed glasses and gestured with them. “The second appendix calls out materials subject to situational oversight, and that is what my master seeks by bringing this to the attention of our Lady’s agents. It is important for me to emphasize that my master’s interest in Greycloth is entirely academic, and he seeks to study the fabric as well as the construction and operation of the loom to see what can be learned from them. He has assured me that he has been in discussions with his colleague Signore Faravelli, who he has asked to collaborate in this matter to ensure full transparency.”

Matteo glanced at Khalid again, then shrugged. “It is as he says,” he admitted then nodded to Walter. “Signore Faravelli will assist his good friend Seamus to find out how this thing works.”

“If I may,” Oswald interrupted, referring to a page in the binder in front of him, “the second appendix only refers to Greycloth itself, and says nothing of Greycloth looms. It would seem premature to rule on the one without guidance from a higher authority on the other. It will also be valuable to obtain additional guidance regarding any impact this may have on community relations with the firbolg, referred to by the common folk as Bagmen.”

Felix crossed himself quickly.

“I thank my honorable colleague for that information,” Baldwin said with a smile. “I respectfully ask the Chair for a ruling.”

Walter took a few notes then knocked on the table with his knuckles. “Very well. Gentlemen, the question is whether to instruct our colleague that his master’s … I’m sorry, his tenant’s possession of Greycloth and an alleged Greycloth loom constitute a violation of the rule against possession of items on the proscribed materials and technologies list. All those in favor please raise your right hand.”

Khalid, Oleg and Oswald all raised their hands.

“All not in favor?”

Otto, Baldwin, and eventually Matteo raised their hands.

“Felix? How do you vote?”

Felix looked at Walter and tapped his palms on the table a few times, then his eyes screwed shut and he banged his fists.

“Abstain abstain abstain abstain!” he said quickly, then his eyes shot open again and he sat back, breathing hard.

“The votes are three to three with one abstention. Our committee rules state that in the event of a tie, the Chair may either vote or defer the question. In light of the fact that the items are already in the possession of a tenant, and that we have identified an oversight mechanism, the chair votes nay, and the nays have it.”

I watched Walter make a few more notes and hoped they included a reminder to not get me involved, but knowing my luck I knew I’d probably get asked to do something I’d regret later. Anything involving the Bagmen was bad news. But every one of the tenants were suckers for any aspect of the craft they could learn more about, even if it meant poking their noses into places best left alone.

“The Chair further rules that Seamus’ possession of Greycloth and a Greycloth loom do not per se constitute a violation in the current instance,” Walter announced, “and further rules that the collaborators must produce a report at their earliest convenience describing the results of their investigations. To ensure full transparency,” he added, sounding very satisfied with himself. "Now, unless there are any other agenda items, let’s proceed to our last item of business: the status of the premises at number four, previously occupied by our former Lord, the honorable Edward Coffin of blessed memory. You will all have no doubt noted that today is the fifth anniversary of his disappearance.”

The seven other men around the table nodded soberly.

Otto coughed. "I hardly think it can be occupied without some very expensive restorations after that flood. I saw the report. Damn shame, that. All those cases and mechanisms. A damn shame.”

"One would suspect it would be fairly carpeted with all manner of insidious molds and vermin and rusted perils and whatnot by now,” added Baldwin.

“Bah,” grumbled Oleg. “Take it down like you took down number eight and be done with it.”

“The Clockworks is the ancestral property of the Coffins, but without an heir … ” said Khalid, shaking his head sadly.

“It would be good to see that report again,” Matteo chirped.

Walter tapped his binder. “You all have a copy, tab eleven.”

A rustling sound filled the room as the men flipped through the mimeographed pages, then there was silence as they all read, punctuated only by more creaks from the pipes. I started thinking about breakfast knowing the end of the meeting was only seconds away. They’d gone through this dance every year on the anniversary of Edward’s disappearance and it always ended the same way.

Baldwin raised his hand.

“If it would please the Chair, in light of the exceedingly poor condition of the premises, and in light of the attendant risks associated with both their renovation and occupation, to say nothing of the unwanted scrutiny this will draw from the municipal inspectors,” he added, looking at Walter over the top of his glasses, “I move they be allowed to remain empty for another year, until such a time as a full and comprehensive assessment of –”

“The chair … objects.”

A startled murmur rushed around the table. Even I knew it was big news for Lilian to get involved. Something was up.

Walter pulled a letter from his jacket’s breast pocket and held it up. “I was informed earlier this morning that our Lady wishes the property to be occupied as soon as is practicable. Which is to say, as soon as a new tenant is named.” Then he sat back as everyone began to talk at once.

“…if I may be so bold as to recommend…”

“…has distinguished himself at the Duchess, where for the last fourteen…”

“…I know just the right man for the…”

“…I’m sorry, can you repeat …”

“…it would be my honor to present…”

“…who would want to work in a dump like…”

“Gentlemen, GENTLEMEN,” Oswald shouted. “I’m sure Walter will provide us with appropriate guidance.”

“Thank you, Oswald.” Walter put his reading glasses on and opened the letter. The crinkle of paper was unnaturally loud in the sudden silence. I held my breath.

“Our Lady, Lillian Coffin, directs you to present your tenant nominations to this body tomorrow morning at ten o’clock. She trusts all candidates will possess skills consistent with the traditions of the Row, and that they will be prepared to honor all conventions and covenants described in the common lessee agreement. At eleven o'clock, this body will select a new tenant for number four.”

Walter folded the letter and returned it to his pocket. “Our Lady goes on to instruct me to thank you all for your service, and to thank you for your many kindnesses following the loss of her husband. For my part, I trust you all understand the importance of unanimity. It goes without saying that we do not wish a repeat of the unfortunate event at number eight, so whoever receives the majority of nominations will carry the day. Should there be a tie, our Lady will reserve the right to select a tenant from among the nominated individuals.”

“Speaking of unfortunate events,” Oswald interjected, “am I to understand that there was an attack at the Duchess last night?”

Walter shrugged. “One of the many lesser tenants there was assaulted and beaten rather badly, but I am happy to report that he is out of intensive care, and with luck he should recover.”

Baldwin raised a hand. “Was it a robbery, Walter?”

The creak of seven men leaning forward in their chairs was a chorus of curiosity.

“That is hard to say.” He sat back in his chair and steepled his fingers. “I can say … that my contacts in the police department told me he had a substantial amount of money on his person when he was admitted, or at least, a substantial amount for one of the lesser tenants,” he added, which elicited a brief chorus of polite laughter as Walter closed his binder.

“That is all for today. Nominations by ten o'clock tomorrow morning, here, to be followed by a vote by eleven, so please do not be tardy. And of course, I will see you all again next month for our regular session. This meeting stands adjourned,” he declared with a rap of his knuckles on the table.

With a groan of floorboards the seven men rose and nodded to Walter in his chair, then one after another they filed out through the room’s sole door at the far end, each one hunched over bent over to avoid the low ceiling overhead. Otto guided Felix by the arm after the little guy started to wander back into the room. Oswald was the last to leave and paused in the open doorway.

“You should know, Walter, that I have taken the liberty to engage a contractor to open number four and prepare it for occupancy.”

“That could be a dangerous business.”

“No, just a dirty one, I think. I will be in touch. Do stop by to see the pearls. They’ve still got some blood on them. Nasty business, that Reign of Terror. Oh, and our Lady will be visiting with Sir Reginald later this morning to discuss his growing deficiencies,” Oswald added, and touched the brim of his hat before shutting the door behind him.

Worldbuilding - What is the Index?

Thu, 19 Mar 2026 10:00:32 -0400

(note: the existence of the Index is one of the key plot drivers in FoBHL, but I’ve never actually written down its history and why it’s important, so here we go.)

To understand the importance of the Index requires some understanding of the history of the Library, the Hundred, and the choices Eileen O'Bieran made to preserve all three.

In the aftermath of the War of the Brothers, the New King (Lugh) and a particularly well-connected human evangelist worked together to establish the Ban of Patrick, a far-reaching bit of magic that divided the world in two: the land of the Eldest [the fairies] and the land of the Youngest [man], realms that came to be known as the Inside and the Outside. The Ban prohibited inhabitants of these realms from traveling between them. To be sent Outside was to be exiled, never to return.

The establishment of the Ban was met with enthusiasm from some and extreme disapproval from others - one of the most vocal objections came from master of the great Library of Tara, Eileen O'Bieran and the many Friends of that Library, all of them men and women with deep knowledge of the Craft (aka magic).

When the Ban was complete, King Lugh presented Eileen with a choice: oversee the execution of the Hundred, as the Friends of the Library were known, or go into exile with them as their Warden with the responsibility to imprison them until the last one was dead. As the Old King’s (Finvarra’s) finest had already gone into exile Outside after their master’s death at Lugh’s hand, Eileen lacked the support to resist Lugh, and so she chose exile. To ensure her compliance, Lugh ordered three Guards to accompany her.

But Eileen O'Bieran was as clever as she was sensible - she knew her decision to go into exile would be seen as a noble sacrifice by those of her people who were still secretly loyal to the Old King, and she used that to her benefit in ways both seen and unseen. And so on the day of her departure, not only did she and the Hundred depart, but they took the Library with them - every book and every brick - leaving a vast empty round hole where it once stood.

Outside, they hid the Library underground to ensure it would remain well-hidden, choosing a wild place across the ocean from Tara known as Brook Lawn. Over the centuries this place would come to be known as Boerum Hill in the city of Brooklyn.

–––––––––––––

Eileen O'Bieran wasn’t prepared to be a Warden, but with three Guards watching over her, she didn’t have much of a choice but to put the magicians into cells, lock their doors, and wait for an idea for how to save them to arise.

In the end, it was the very shape of the Library itself that saved them, even though it took a very, very long time. For the Library was a tall stone circular tower, and the floor on which the Hundred were imprisoned contained one hundred cells arranged in a great circle, which meant that each prisoner had exactly one prisoner on either side of them. And while the walls that separated them were strong enough to prevent magic from passing through them - it being a tower built to contain a magical Library, after all - the walls were not proof against a prisoner tapping out messages in coded languages of their creation to their neighbors on either side.

You would think that creating such languages would take a long time, and you’d be right, but over that long time the bonds that connected the prisoners grew closer and closer, even as they themselves grew stranger and stranger.

Over the centuries the three Guards changed as well, and Eileen too:

One Guard fell in love

One Guard fell out of love

One Guard changed their mind

And Eileen O'Bieran, the great Librarian, grew homesick and started to die.

–––––––––––––

My Mom’s “Irish Soda Bread” recipe

Thu, 19 Mar 2026 09:59:50 -0400

It’s not *actually* soda bread, strictly speaking. But it’s the bread she made for the High Holy Day, and my four brothers and I would fall on it like crazed cockroaches.

You don’t know how great it is to have a mom until you don’t. Which is why I make this now. And if you’re feeling generous, you can make it too.

My Mom’s Irish Soda Bread Recipe (adapted by me)

Set your oven to 350F

A. Combine these two ingredients in a 2-cup measuring cup:

just a little over 2 cups of full fat milk
2 Tbs white vinegar

B. Combine these six ingredients in a bowl and make sure they’re well-mixed:

4 cups all-purpose flour
1 cup raisins or currants or whatever mix of dried fruits you fancy
½ cup of sugar
2 tsp baking powder
1 tsp baking soda
½ tsp salt

C. Cut up 2 Tbs of unsalted butter into little cubes and set aside to soften.

D. Melt 2 Tbs of unsalted butter - if you do it in the microwave be very, very careful. Set aside 1 Tb of sugar too. You’ll need these on hand before you put the “soda bread” into the oven.

E. Grease up a 10" cast iron skillet or round dutch oven with 1 TB butter. Make sure all surfaces are buttered up. It matters.

And now it’s time to put it all together.

F. Combine the cubes of softened butter with the dry mixture. Use your fingers to smoosh the butter into the flour.

G. Make a little well in the middle of the butter-infused dry ingredients.

H. Pour the milk+vinegar mixture into the center of that little well slowly, using the tips of your fingers to incorporate it. Do Not Over-Work The Dough - you want it to just barely come together. It will be very sticky and get all over your hands. Don’t worry, that’s fine.

I. Drop the very wet dough ball into the center of the 10" iron skillet. Don’t worry about shaping it, but try to make sure it’s roughly level.

J. Brush the top of the wet dough ball with the 2 Tbs of melted butter and then sprinkle with 1 tbs sugar

K. Bake in preheated 350 oven for 10 minutes…

L. … then reduce heat to 325 and bake for an additional 50 minutes (one hour total).

M. It should be a bit more than “lightly browned” but not “too brown”. You can test for doneness with a toothpick - stick it into the thickest part and draw it out. If it’s dry, you’re done. If there’s wet dough stuck to it, let it cook some more.

N. Remove from oven and let it cool in the skillet for 20 minutes, then turn it out onto a wire to cool completely.

OPTIONS:

My mom liked to put a few caraway seeds into this receipt, both in the mixture and sprinkled on top. It’s your call.

I like to combine currants and dried wild blueberries. YMMV.

While this is certainly good out of the oven, it’s better when you toast a nice thick slice and serve it under a copious amount of your best salted butter.

#irish #sodabread #recipe

A little world-building from Meribel

Tue, 03 Oct 2023 16:52:35 -0400

Violet sloshed through melting snow to the coffee place on the corner of Astor and Brooklawn. She took in the room as she waited in line, inspecting every table, every face, looking for the best table, one that would give her privacy and a view of the door. It was an old habit she missed. But opening orders from the Captain required a certain amount of care, especially if another Guard was paying attention.

The table she wanted had a middle-aged hipster reading the Racing News at it. One look up at her – six feet four of muscle in a long ivory Irish sweater – and he scuttled away. She made a point to say thank you, but he was long gone by then.

Inside the Captain’s black order envelope was a blank sheet of flimsy, off-white tissue paper. Violet tore it up and sprinkled the pieces into her coffee mug, transforming it into a dark, viscous sludge. Faint whispers rose from the cup, as usual. But then that single voice became three, each one slightly out of phase, and a teardrop of pure silver appeared on the surface of the coffee.

Oh shit.

Under a sky of painted stars the tears of the Goddess will appear

Let none who live consume their light lest a brother’s sword unsheathed draw near.

She pushed the coffee cup away and leaned the back in her chair until the top of her head rested against the frosted window. The Captain had never not once sent someone else’s message in his envelope. It would have taken an order, and there was only one person alive who could give the Captain of the Guards an order.

And that sure as shit wasn’t the Morrigan.

Unpacking the message wasn’t hard. Tears of the Goddess was a reference to the Tears of Danu. The problem was it wasn’t real. The children’s story of a potion that would allow one of the Eldest to travel from anywhere in creation to Danu’s throne was just that – a children’s story, and a ridiculous one at that. Why would the Morrigan bother to get the King to assign the Guards to investigate one of her garbage prophecies?

Violet sat forward and poked the now-solidified coffee with her index finger. But what if the Tears of Danu wasn’t fake? What if someone had figured out how to craft it? That must be what the final line meant. A brother’s sword unsheathed would be the King’s dead brother Finvarra, who he’d killed to take the throne.

The King was worried Finvarra’s daughter Meribel would consume the Tears of Danu.

It didn’t take much for the possibilities to spiral out from there. Everyone knew Meribel had spent centuries looking for a way out of exile and a weapon powerful enough to kill the man who murdered her father. With both of thise in hand she could unify all of the exiles trapped here. She could raise an army.

Violet managed a smile. Raising an army is what a thoughtful rebel leader would do, so of course Meribel would do no such thing. It was much more likely the Princess Meribel would use the Tears to pop back Inside, murder Lugh, and then dance over his body out of spite. Once a pirate, always a pirate.

Losing power was what Lugh feared most, so being the clever court creature that she has always been, that’s what the Morrigan prophecised.

It was all starting to make sense. Everyone knew the Morrigan liked to get Lugh worked up, no one more than the Captain. He agreed to assign Violet to the case because he knew Violet would work it correctly, even though they both knew the Tears of Danu was a myth and that Meribel was the same useless piece of shit she’d always been.

All it would take was going through the motions, and the case would close itself.

So how did the Captain get the King to agree to the extravagant reward? Violet never expected to get a case worthy of cancelling out her own sad debt, but here it was, and even that was par for the course with the Captain: he only offered extravagant rewards when a task merited it. If the King wanted the Captain’s best, the Captain would exact appropriate payment in exchange. It was exactly the sort of cleverness Violet had come to expect from the Captain over their centuries of service together.

She left the coffee shop feeling better about life than she had in ages.

Thank you Futurescapes

Sat, 11 Mar 2023 11:07:30 -0500

If you’re a speculative fiction writer and you’ve not taken a close look at the Futurescapes workshop, I encourage you to do so.

The format was intense but extremely practical. We went through 3 half-days of focused work, the first a deep-dive on opening chapters with a group of spec fiction writer peers, followed by a second half-day of intense query letter editing. Both of these sessions were moderated by Actual Literary Agents. Day three starts with a high-speed review of opening pages with the goal of making them as effective as possible, followed by a serious of panel discussions.

It’s worth your time (and money).

https://futurescapes.ink/

Welcome to RMEMBRNG

Fri, 10 Mar 2023 10:10:25 -0500

Master and Commander in Space?

A journey of recovery and redemption?

Tempura-fried haddock?

Dragonfly drones?

A centuries-old Septist Alliance that ruled the stars until Earth’s Union navy developed a secret weapon that brought it to its knees?

Mysterious aliens?

A “World’s Best Dad” mug?

I’ve loved writing this book for you, and I can’t wait for you to enjoy it.

PS: Readers may recognize characters and cues from my previous books :)

Once Upon a Time in the Fifth Century: The Secret History of Hawthorn

Fri, 09 Sep 2022 09:47:12 -0400

Hello all! While you wait for the arrival of Hawthorn, I’m going to share some backstories here to introduce the world in which it is set. Won’t that be exciting – or even thrilling – but definitely not both, that would be too much, especially after all we’ve been through, let’s take it easy.

In any event, while there are stories to be told that take place before this event, and many, many stories that take place after, this is the pivot point on which all of those stories rest.

Enjoy!

——————————————————-

One perfectly lovely spring afternoon, Padraig and his disciples set up their camp on a perfectly lovely hilltop overlooking a perfectly lovely beach. A gentle offshore breeze tousled the tall grasses surrounding their campsite with a slow, sweeping hand, accompanied by the distant cries of gulls and the complaints of terns. It was, Padraig thought, an ideal place to wait for word from Finvarra, the so-called Fairy King of Tara, on account of its unparalleled loveliness, and how difficult it would be for anyone to sneak up on them. If it weren’t for all the snakes it would have been heaven on earth.

Asking the Fairy King for permission to preach on the island of Eire was, admittedly, a controversial decision, and one he hadn’t dared share with his Bishop, who considered Padraig’s reports of the Fair Folk “dangerous sophistry” and even “pagan hooey”. But the locals spoke of Finvarra with a mixture of fear and admiration, and the assorted nobles and grandees of the island were to a man unwilling to cross him, so it seemed a sensible last option. Besides, he could use the week or so they’d spend on the hill to revisit the education of his disciples, a responsibility he’d been obliged to ignore on account of all the running away they’d been forced to do over the winter months and into the gentle rains of spring.

Forty one days later, Padraig’s daily lesson to his disciples was little more than a brief enumeration of the relative merits of fishing, reading, and going back to sleep. That the last option was by popular acclaim determined to be the most virtuous of choices explained why they were completely surprised when a band of armed men thundered up the hill and surrounded them, accompanied by a stern-looking fellow Padraig supposed was the messenger from the so-called Fairy King of Tara himself.

When asked to describe that messenger years later, Padraig would always reply that the messenger looked like a tree. Of course the messenger wasn’t a tree, but in some ways, he looked as much like a tree as any man could: he was quite tall, as trees tended to be, and when he listened, he swayed slightly from side to side, as trees were known to do, and the long, green cloak he held close around his body was decidedly tree-like, even if it was composed of ivy leaves. Only the unadorned closed helm of polished silver spoiled the tree-ish illusion, and left Padraig wondering how the messenger could see where he was going with a bucket on his head.

The messenger’s guards were dramatically more muscular but almost as tall as the messenger, and they too were dressed all in green. But unlike their master, each wore a slit helmet decorated with the painted face of a fierce, growling wolf. Their threatening demeanor and absurd musculature reminded Padraig of the Reavers who’d kidnapped him when he was a child, with the difference being the Reavers’ uniforms were more colorful and smelled dramatically worse.

Padraig tucked his hands into his robe, surveyed the guards, then bowed a good, deep, respectful bow to the messenger. “Well met, sir. I am Padraig, and, erm, I am honored that your –”

“Your request was presented to the Queen of Crows, who brought it to us for consideration. Before we proclaim our decision, we wish to learn why you begged to leave this place.” The messenger’s voice didn’t sound like it came from under a bucket at all. It sounded like it was coming from all around them. It was very curious.

“Well, your worship, that’s not .. quite … exactly what I said,” Padraig stammered. “My request was not to beg you to leave, I begged your leave to make a request. Perhaps there was an error in translation?”

The messenger turned to his guards. A few of them shrugged.

Padraig cleared his throat and prepared his best preaching voice. “What I beg, sorry, what I seek, not for myself, but, erm, on behalf of the most holy Church, is your leave, sorry, your permission to carry my teaching to all the people of this fair, blessed island without fear of reprisal, so that I may bring the Word of –”

The messenger shook his head quickly. “Say no more. Our needs align, and that alignment makes it possible for us to come to an accord.”

Ooo, this was good news. “Well, now. Wonderful! That’s … wonderful, thank you!” Padraig waved at his disciples to come forward, his heart thrumming with growing excitement.

Then the messenger raised his right hand, palm out. “We would have you inform your masters that we seek to establish a lasting peace with those who fought under our late brother’s banner. To accomplish this, we have crafted a treaty which we will now relate to you, and which you will accept.”

And this was bad news. His heart went from beating faster to hammering so hard he felt his pulse in his throat, and his tonsure actually began to itch. All he’d wanted was permission to preach without fear of being locked up or worse. He didn’t expect .. and war? What war? What happened in the forty days they were stuck on this hill?

A cold wind swept through the grass, and just like that the perfectly lovely hilltop wasn’t quite so lovely anymore. His disciples dropped to the ground and started blubbering in fear.

“These are the terms of the treaty,” continued the messenger, his voice once again coming from both close by and very far away. “Your people will keep the four treasures you have taken from us safe from harm and unused by any hand. You will pledge to honor and defend the borders between our lands, and none of your people shall harry those of ours who remain here in exile.”

Padraig found himself nodding, something he did automatically when he got nervous. Exile? Who was being exiled? And what four treasures?

“In return, we also pledge to honor and defend the borders between our lands,” the messenger continued, his voice echoing in Padraig’s bones. “We pledge that none of our people shall harry those of yours who remain with us, and we pledge that those who dwell among you in exile will not allow their craft to be learned by your people. Our guards will enforce this accord, and their word shall be law among our people. Your guards will enforce this accord as well, and their word shall be law among your people.”

The soldiers behind the messenger begin to mutter among themselves at the mention of guards.

The messenger cleared his throat. “And to ensure that all who are exiled in these Outer Lands understand the terms of this accord, we will now name a Herald to carry word of it to them, that every ear may hear, every heart may understand, and every soul may appreciate our generosity.”

One of the soldiers pulled forward a manacled prisoner and pushed her to the ground in front of the messenger. She was the merest scrap of a child, red-haired, blue-eyed and impossibly lovely like so many of the people of the island, but she was dressed in an absurd fitted white linen shirt and a battered black triangular hat, with bloused purple trousers tucked into tall black boots. The iron shackles that bound her wrists and ankles rattled as she struggled to her feet, and she glared at the messenger with a hatred so intense and pure that Padraig gasped and crossed himself.

He couldn’t explain it, but in that moment he was more afraid of her than he was of the tall messenger, or his soldiers, or even his Bishop, which was saying a lot

The messenger spread his arms wide, and a sudden hard breeze ruffled the ivy leaves of his cloak. “You have lived among us for many years, Padraig MacMilchu, and so you have been chosen to spread the news of this accord far and wide among your people. You will now both attend as you are bound to the geis of the Ban.”

The girl held up her hands and shook them, her eyes wide and suddenly frightened. “Hold it, now, uncle, let’s be reasonable here–”

The messenger took off his helmet just as the sun burst through the low clouds overhead, painting the mossy greens and stone grays of the hilltop in wild color and giving Padraig an instant headache. Or did the light come from the messenger’s face? He couldn’t tell for sure.

The messenger extended his arms and stepped forward. All at once the breeze grew into a cold wind that plucked at the ivy on the messenger’s fluttering cloak and tore each leaf away, one after the other, so that they flew around the three of them, faster and faster still. Padraig could see nothing of the world beyond the few feet of grass he stood on through the spinning wall of ivy.

His voice was the howl of the storm.

Moira Bel Ní Finvarra, your memory of this day shall never fade, and you will bear witness to it among the Eldest of Danu until your light goes dark. And we bind you, Moira Bel Ní Finvarra, by right of conquest, from the practice of your power under pain of death, and only the hand of one who gave you life may unbind you.

The girl cried out as she sank to her knees then slumped forward with her hands on the ground. Perhaps it was a trick of the light, but the air seemed to ripple and twist around her, taking on the colors of the lovely hilltop before flowing into her mouth and eyes. Padraig watched in horror as she began to thrash around violently on the ground, her entire body glowing as her howls of despair rang out over the rustling hiss of the leaves and the percussive beat of the wind.

Her chains crumbled into ash and blew away.

Padraig pulled his cloak off his shoulders and went to her where she lay shaking on the ground. The cloak was made of heavy wool and still smelled a little like the reaver he’d taken it from years ago, but it was the best he had to offer.

Or was it?

“And you, Padraig MacMilchu, your memory of –” the messenger began, but stopped when Padraig raised his own hand and began a slow crossing gesture.

The veil between seeming and being dissolved like ink in water.

The wall of swirling ivy leaves froze in place, each individual leaf suspended in the air as if it had been pinned there by some unseen hand. The howling wind faded into a light breeze, and Padraig saw the perfectly lovely hilltop again through the gaps in the ivy leaves. He saw his two disciples lying huddled together a few feet away with their hands over their heads. He saw twelve sleeping wolves curled up around them, asleep. And there, behind the messenger, off at the very edge of the hilltop, was that … a great warrior dressed all in red, surrounded by prowling wolfhounds? He couldn’t be sure.

“You’re no simple priest,” said the messenger as he folded his arms across his skinny chest. His dirty red hair and scraggly beard were decorated with bows of wrinkled leather from which hung a variety of tiny bones. He looked very tired, and thoroughly bored.

“And you’re no simple messenger.”

“No. No I’m not.” He paused to look around at the leaves pinned in the air around them. “I propose we speak informally. Is that acceptable?”

Padraig looked back to the girl shivering under his cloak and felt his tonsure itch again, but this time it wasn’t in fear. “Yes. Yes it is. And let me start by saying I’ve lived long enough to know a stunt when I see one. You pulled that little trick there to frighten me into accepting your terms. Why? Why rush me?”

“You’re the one who wanted to preach here without restrictions,” the messenger shot back with a roll of his eyes. “I’m offering you a way to get that. Once I close the border between our lands and yours, you can preach to these bumpkins of yours all you want and none of my people will care. You win, we win. As I was saying–”

“Hardly. This accord of yours requires me to hire, what did you call them, guards? To enforce a treaty that I definitely did not ask for? Do you know how expensive it is to hire and keep retainers, especially skilled ones like guards? Or do your fairy retainers work for chestnuts?”

The messenger bit his lip. “There’s no need to be rude, sir.”

“This is all very suspicious. Very suspicious indeed.” Padraig folded his arms and pressed a finger to his lips. His mind turned and turned again until it landed on the answer. “Oh. I get it. You have a problem you need to solve quickly, and you need me to help you solve it. I suggest you start treating this negotiation more seriously.”

“Or what?”

Padraig shrugged his very best ecclesiastical shrug. “Or my two disciples and I will get in our little boat and leave. My Bishop will be angry, and I’ll probably end up running from Vikings on my next assignment, but that’s what I get for being an evangelist. But then you will have no one to hold up my side of this … this Ban of yours, and whatever conflict you had with your brother’s people will continue. Overall I feel like I’m giving away quite a lot in exchange for you getting some peace and quiet. Convince me I’m wrong.”

The messenger scratched his chin and glowered at Padraig. After a dozen heartbeats of dirty looks, he reached into his sleeve, drew out a small scroll and held it out. Padraig, who had been instructed by a local man to never accept gifts from the Fair Folk, plucked three stalks of clover from a mound at his feet, and at an unspoken cue they made their exchange simultaneously.

“I’ve written it all down,” the messenger said. “It’s a standard contract.”

Padraig turned the paper around and held it up. “Are all your contracts drafted by some large bird stepping in ink and walking all over the page?”

“Sorry. That’s something else.” The messenger reached into his other sleeve and pulled out another very similar scroll. Again, they exchanged documents simultaneously. Padraig read while the messenger raised the clover Padraig had given him, gave it a sniff, and ate it.

“This is all rather precise,” Padraig muttered.

“I know, I wrote it,” the messenger said with a thin smile. He plucked a few wild violets from nearby and twirled them lazily under his nose.

Padraig read a few more paragraphs before rolling the scroll back up and tucking it into his own sleeve. “I like where you’re going with this, so I’m prepared to accept this as a draft. For say … a month. You’ll need to give me a way to reach you since I can’t stay on this hill forever.”

“It’s a very nice hill,” the messenger remarked, looking around. “You could do much worse.”

“Have you seen how many snakes there are up here? No thank you.”

The young man cleared his throat. “Fair enough. My captain of the Guards will come visit you here tomorrow morning, and you can settle your … evangelizing issues with him. Satisfied?”

Padraig decided he didn’t like this fellow very much at all, but the opportunity he’d offered in his treaty was too good to walk away from. “Yes. I am satisfied.”

“Grand. That’s just grand. So as I was saying earlier, it would be lovely if you would bear witness to this agreement among your people, blah blah blah. I’ll spare you the geis as it probably wouldn’t work on you anyway.”

“Probably not. But speaking of that, what did you mean by only the hand of one who gave you life may unbind you when you did whatever you did to the girl? Did you just give her an escape clause?”

“The Queen of Rain’s last prophecy before she was broken was very specific, so yes. Unfortunately.” The messenger looked down at the girl shaking under Padraig’s cloak with a distant, even contemplative expression. “Don’t worry about her too much. She’ll find her way. It’s strange … if her father had even a shred of her spirit he’d have found his way too. But my poor brother Finvarra was as constant as the sun and moon until the end, just like the Queen of Rain. It’s a shame, really. A terrible shame. But … needs must, right?”

“Ah, yes. Just so,” Padraig stammered. If this man was Finvarra’s brother, and if Finvarra was dead, then this fellow was …

The messenger jammed his silver helmet back on his head, and all at once the ivy leaves suspended in the air flew back to his cloak.

“Got it in one. I am Lugh, the new High King of the Tuatha,” echoed a terrible voice of power and cruelty. “And because you’ve been so reasonable, I’ll get rid of the snakes as a freebie.”

Later on, as Padraig and his disciples sat around the fire, drinking the last of their mead under a night sky painted with stars, he thought back to those swirling leaves, and the terrible voice of Lugh, and he began to question whether any of it had happened at all. The memories had grown more insubstantial with each passing hour, until the whole curious encounter took on the qualities of a dream.

“Good job getting rid of those damn snakes,” Tassac said as he raised his mug.

“That girl stole our boat,” said Olcán. “And your cloak.”

Padraig waved him off and sat a little closer to the fire. He wasn’t quite sure how much detail about his meeting with Lugh he dared put down in his report to his Bishop, or whether he should mention the conversation he’d had with the warrior in red afterward, or the sack with the sticks and the bowl the warrior had given him. He’d pray on it and see how he felt in the morning.

But he was definitely sure he was not going to mention the last words in the agreement, of how they’d fallen off the page and blown away on the wind the second he read them, leaving behind nothing but the faintest scent of roses:

This is the Ban, and the Ban shall endure.

Let any who would set it aside understand this:

That which is broken cannot be remade,

Only renewed.

The Woolly Animals were a bit more bloodthirsty in the first draft.

Tue, 24 Aug 2021 12:35:03 -0400

You must hurry! If he enters the grove alone the old masters will be furious! The Woolly Mouse looked up at me with one paw on the fez to keep it from falling off. You must take action!

True and truly! We demand action, Third Apprentice Matthias Thorn! Immediate and preferably violent action! The Woolly Bird extended its wings and shook them ominously. The Delivery Guy’s noble appearance notwithstanding, you will dispatch him immediately, chop him up with your bone saw then dump him in the lye pit. Except this time I think you should give his blood to the tomatoes first. Oh, and then grind his dry white bones as feed for the onions and parsnips.

And carrots, don’t forget the carrots, said the Woolly Mouse after a quick sip of tea. If the noble Woolly Rabbit was still among us he’d insist that you feed the carrots, for without regular feeding they lack both savor and substance.

Every Fourth Apprentice learns this on their first day

Tue, 24 Aug 2021 11:56:37 -0400

Eight trees in the Druid’s grove
Oak ensures the center holds
Apple loves
Yew prevails
Ash remains
Hazel sails
Alder sees
Elder keeps
Hawthorn watches while we sleep

Monsieur Chezelle, A Tenant of the Row

Wed, 04 Mar 2020 11:16:24 -0500

Monsieur Alain Chazelle is a gardener who takes a long view of things, as he is hundreds of years old. He is elegant, monk-like, focused, somewhat hard-of-hearing and a little silly. His shop is named La Niche. Not everything he grows can survive outside of his store, and some that can must never be allowed to.

His corner shop is four stories tall, but three of those are his greenhouse, a chaotic puzzle of glass in every color of the rainbow and a few non-rainbow colors as well. Residents of town have learned to not look at them too carefully. A number of the those little panes of glass should never be touched, and the same goes for some of the pots inside his greenhouse, the dirt in those pots, and the plants in that dirt. Even the air is suspicious at times. That explains a lot about M. Chazelle.

From the center of the ground floor you can look up four stories through a central gallery and see the balconies running around the edges of each level. It’s beautiful, and very humid, and entirely disorienting.

He employs Nepalese assistants, and no one works his counter, so don’t expect someone to greet you when you enter. If you’re there to make a purchase, someone will find you. If you’re there to cause trouble, he is happy to let you find it on your own.

His scouts and suppliers enter through the back into a brightly lit, scrupulously clean room, where M. Chazelle inspects their products from behind a glass partition, holding specimens with rubber gloves that project through the wall. He spends a lot of his time dealing with various infestations, and would rather not.

The front of his shop has no such protections.

His business model is the subject of ongoing debate by those on the Row, as he does not seem to have customers and gives his plants away.

Monsieur Chezelle is a tenant of Lilian Coffin, the Lady of the Row.

You can read more about the Row and Lilian Coffin’s other tenants in Bob’s book The Meribell Darlings.

Meet the Snack of the Apocalypse.

Sat, 22 Feb 2020 22:46:08 -0500

bobcorrigan:

“OK everyone, settle down and take your seats, we’re about ready to start.”

“Why are there guards outside?”

“What’s going on behind those curtains?”

“And why did you take our cellphones?”

“In time, in time. Tim, are the subjects ready?”

(intercom) “Yessir, they’re ready.”

“What’s this all about?”

“Just watch.”

(Room darkens, curtains part, revealing four people seated around a table in an adjoining toom, playing cards.)

“You brought us here to watch some people play cards?”

“Looks like Euchre, actually.”

“No, I brought you all here to watch this. Tim, send in the control.”

(intercom) “Control inbound.”

(Door opens in adjoining room and a woman dressed in a hotel uniform brings in a bowl of potato chips which she places in the middle of the table.)

“Those aren’t even our chips.”

“Cape Cod?”

“Probably.”

(The subjects continue to play cards; over the next five minutes roughly half of the bowl of chips is consumed by three of the players; the fourth does not eat. The cards are reshuffled and redealt, and play continues.)

“OK, so if that was the control, then what are you…”

“My friends, I want you to pay very close attention to what happens next. Tim, send in the sample.”

(intercom) “Sample inbound.”

(The door opens again and the same woman brings in a bowl filled with light-brown conical snacks.)

“Hold it, those look like…”

“Watch.”

(One of the players takes one of the snacks, then another, then a handful. Another player reaches for the bowl and takes one and eats it, and reaches quickly for another only to have his hand collide with the hand of the first man, who pulls the bowl close to him. Some words are exchanged, but the first man seems to pay no attention and continues to jam handfuls of the snacks into his mouth as the second man dives across the table and body-tackles the first man to the ground. The snacks go flying as the two men wrestle. The two remaining men look at each other, and each tries one of the snacks. The third man begins to sweep the spilled snacks still on the table together and eat them, while the fourth man simply weeps.)

“Tim, I think we’ve seen enough.”

(intercom) “Sending in the wives.”

(Four women enter the room carrying shopping bags. They stop, stare and begin to yell, but to no effect; the two men on the ground continue to fight, the third continues to snap up every remaining whole snack and even some of the broken ones, and the fourth man continues to weep, huge shoulder-heaving sobs.)

(intercom) “We’re going to have to go to stage two.”

“OK, Tim, I’ll check in later. And give each of them an extra hundred.”

(intercom) “What if they ask for product?”

“No product.”

(intercom) “10-4.”

“What did you feed those people?”

“I’ve never seen anything like that.”

“This can’t go to market.”

“But it can. And it will. When the development team in Gstaad said they had something hot, I had no idea it was this hot. But as you can see, it’s a strong performer.”

“It’s not possible, they looked…I mean, those looked like…”

“Like Bugles, yes.”

“Bugles did THAT?”

“Not just any Bugles. Chocolate Peanut Butter Bugles.”

“Oh my God…”

“You didn’t.”

“We did.”

"[Angry Birds] is successful because everyone, whether they admit it or not, understands that in..."

Sat, 22 Feb 2020 22:45:51 -0500

“[Angry Birds] is successful because everyone, whether they admit it or not, understands that in order to eat pig, you must first kill pig.”

- Something I left as a Facebook comment and decided was too insightful to not share with you.

You’re *welcome*.
(via bobcorrigan)

Sir Reginald, a Tenant of the Row

Sat, 22 Feb 2020 19:09:27 -0500

bobcorrigan:

Sir Reginald runs the bookstore. His shop looks a bit like an empty living room, with those few books he keeps on display set out on a coffee table between two couches at the center of the shop. A massive square oriental rug covers the entire floor, a pool of red that consumes the sparse 40 watt light from the wall sconces.

He is an older man of smaller proportions, with thinning white hair and elegant clothing. He tends to keep his hands in the pockets of his tweed jacket as he talks, his head tilted slightly to the right. There’s a vague smell of Ivory soap about him.

His assistant, a young lady from Singapore named Sandy, offers visitors tea and shuttles books from the back room to the front at a signal from him. It’s not her actual name, but that’s what he calls her. It’s what he’s always called his assistants.

Sandy is currently holding a leather backed solander box in her tiny white-gloved hands. It is the box he asked her to find last night down in the stacks. The Sibyllenbuch something-or-other. He said a visitor would be wanting it. He’s talking to a visitor right now, in fact, an even older man with watery blue eyes and hands like paper claws that shake slightly as he tries to balance his teacup and saucer.

Sir Reginald is a tenant of Lady Lillian Coffin, the Lady of the Row. And he is most definitely a magician, Sandy decides, when the visitor asks whether he has the Sibyllenbuch something-or-other, and Sandy is there to place it gently on the coffee table between them.

Memories.

Photo

Sat, 22 Feb 2020 19:00:14 -0500

Slug and Bell on the Road

Sat, 22 Feb 2020 18:55:20 -0500

Is it a hat, asks Bell.

It is a fact, says Slug, and not only superior to the oombarellae but far more fashionable, and they passed it one to the other to see which of them was the most handsome.

They continued on their way, wither and yon, up and down then mostly up, always in the most casual of manners, until they could climb no more and settled on the greening loam for a bite. No sooner did they sit than the mice tumbled out of Bell’s luggage and set up their band, tuning their miniature viols and tubas with an unhurried grace.

Hello, says Bell, is it that late already?

We were about to ask you, says the lead mouse, whose hat was a thumble of black wrapped velvet.

They debated until the sun began to set, whereupon the mouse band lost interest and retired back to Bell’s luggage, their instruments left behind on the grass.

There was a cloud of crows cawing overhead, settled in the high branches to complain and preen. They were bound elsewhere, though, and after a hop hop they flew east in the direction of the Burn.

There are more miles left than light, says Slug.

We must encourage the donkeys, says Bell.

The donkeys conferred, but failed to come to any useful conclusion, and so they all continued on their way, away from the greening loam and onto the dusted road. Firelights from the tall grass caught up with them to light their way, humming their little tunes of loss.

This was the most complex issue yet. I’m still recovering from...

Fri, 21 Feb 2020 19:07:16 -0500

This was the most complex issue yet. I’m still recovering from it.

This issue was about Vancian Magic. Would you like to know more...

Fri, 21 Feb 2020 19:06:47 -0500

This issue was about Vancian Magic. Would you like to know more about Vancian Magic? I Bet You Do.

Heavens! I’m behind in putting up CEM covers.

Fri, 21 Feb 2020 19:06:14 -0500

Heavens! I’m behind in putting up CEM covers.

Aaaaaand there’s the new one.

Sun, 11 Nov 2018 11:00:07 -0500

Aaaaaand there’s the new one.