earlier, but with the blues striking on the return from France, I forgot my manners. Bad
Secondly, as part of calliopes_board writer's workshop optional excercise,
I copied the opening pages from Pratchett's Guards Guards. It's one of my favourite
books because of this opening. This is for you witch_wolf, the
Discworld book you should have started with - I'm not surprised you found getting
into The Colour of Magic slow going. Read this and tell me it doesn't put you in mind
of our favourite blond vamp's return to Sunnydale in Lover's Walk.
This is where the dragons went.
They lie . . .
Not dead, not asleep. Not waiting, because waiting implies expectation.
Possibly the word we’re looking for here is . . .
. . . dormant.
And although the space they occupy isn’t like normal space, nevertheless they are
packed tightly. Not a cubic inch there but is filled by a claw, a talon, a scale, the tip of
a tail, so the effect is like one of those trick drawings and your eyeballs eventually
realise that the space between each dragon is, in fact, another dragon.
They could put you in mind of a can of sardines, if you thought that sardines were
huge and scaly and proud and arrogant.
And presumably, somewhere, there’s the key.
In another space entirely, it was early morning in Ankh-Morpork, oldest and greatest of
grubbiest of cities. A thin drizzle dripped from the grey sky and puncutated the river mist
that coiled among the streets. Rats of various species went about their nocturnal occasions.
Under night’s damp cloak, assassins assassinated, thieves thieved, hussies hustled. And so
And drunken Captain Vimes of the Night Watch staggered slowly down the street,
folded gently into the gutter outside the Watch House and lay there, while above him,
strange letters made of light sizzled in the damp and changed colour . . .
The city wasa, wasa, wasa, wossname. Thing. Woman. Thass what it was. Woman.
Roaring, ancient, centuries old. Strung you along, let you fall in thingy, love, with her,
then kicked you innna, inna, thingy. Thingy, in your mouth. Tongue. Tonsils. Teeth.
That’s what it, she, did. She wasa . . . thing, you know, lady dog. Puppy. Hen.
Bitch. And then you hated her and, and just when you thought you’d got her, it, out
of your, your, whatever, then she opened her great booming rotten heart to you, caught you
off bal, bal, thing. Ance. Yeah. Thassit. Never knew where you stood. Lay. Only thing
you were sure of, you couldn’t let her go. Because, because she was yours, all you had, even
in her gutters.
ETA Rumours of Sky 1's possible interest in acquiring Season 6 of AtS has raised my hopes again. A case of Not waving but drowning, anyone?
Does anyone understand this trusted friends thing?