Tag Archives: terry pratchett

The Witches Condition (Discworld fan fic)

28 Mar

The Witches Condition (c2) 6/3/16 by Ray Daley

(All characters and locations are copyright of Terry Pratchett. This is a work of fan fiction released under a creative commons licence intended as a parody. No copyright infringement is intended)

“She’s late, Esme!” Nanny Ogg had a habit of stating the obvious. And she knew that even with her back turned, Granny Weatherwax was rolling her eyes at her. She’d be tapping her foot next.

“I can go again Granny, if you like?” That was Magrat. Even with the recent influence of her coven members, she was still a meek soul.

“Not this year, Magrat. You know the rules. Everyone knows the rules. You enter the cave, you take the test. And you ruddy well turn up on time.”

If Magrat had really been looking at Granny Weatherwax especially hard, or more specifically at her feet, she’d have sworn the grass beneath them was boiling. But grass doesn’t boil. Unless it’s thrown into a cauldron of hot water. *

* Unless it’s grass that’s been exposed to the ire of Esmeralda Weatherwax. Then it boils. And stays boiled until it’s expected to do otherwise. Even the Lancre grass is frightened of Granny Weatherwax.

The test had been going for almost a decade now, at least according to Nanny Ogg. She secretly suspected that Esme had been taking the test herself for a much longer time by herself before finally presenting it to the other Ramtops Witches. According to Granny Weatherwax, it was her own variation on a test that Black Aliss used undertake on a monthly basis.

“One of the reasons she went to the black, I say,” Esme had once told her in the strictest confidence. Nanny hadn’t repeated that to anyone, but all the local witches knew who’d told them. *

* Because she was that kind of person.

The witches had been waiting on the youngest of the new Lancre coven. She referred to herself as Diamanda. Granny, in the moments when she tolerated her foolishness called her “that Tockley girl.” Diamanda’s parents had had the misfortune to name her Lucy. How was a girl supposed to become a great witch with a name like Lucy?

Then the short black outline finally came over the ridge.

“Oh, here she is. Only ten minutes late then, Esme.” Nanny Ogg was one of those souls who tried to find the best in any situation. Mostly to soothe the savage beast that was Granny Weatherwax right now. Not that it worked. It never did. You’d have better luck cutting down a tree by looking at it. Which Esme was known to be able to do, according to Nanny.

Granny Weatherwax just stood there tapping her foot on the bubbling grass until the young witch finally reached their group. “You are tardy, Miss Tockley!”

“Diamanda, as you well know Mistress Weatherwax. And it’s only ten minutes. I was communing with the infinite. Channelling the souls of those long past, soothing their pain, as a good witch would.” Lucy Tockley’s minor inflection of the word good was only caught by its intended target.

And Nanny Ogg who’d keep it to herself. And then maybe tell a few close family members in confidence over the dinner table because she knew that was the best way to disseminate information.*

* I told you she was that kind of person!

Granny Weatherwax’s gaze hadn’t shifted from the young witches feet, not since she had ambled up to the group moments ago. “Communing was it? Channelling, you say? So you didn’t get stuck in Beckitt’s Bog then? Because those pointy shoes say otherwise.”

No self respecting witch worth her salt would fall victim to Beckitt’s Bog. Everyone knew where it was, where it started and what fate befell those who didn’t escape its clutches. *

* It generally meant the loss of whatever footwear the person was wearing. If they were lucky. Back in Lancre, there weren’t three men with the nickname “Trouserless” for no reason.

Diamanda glanced down at her pointy shoes for a fraction of a second before making the mistake of looking up and locking eyes with the most powerful witch on the Discworld. She lasted longer than most people did. Longer than most witches too. A whole two seconds in fact, before she finally looked away, towards the coven. “Well I’m here now. So what’s this test?”

There was an audible gasp from the older members of the coven. Surely everyone knew about the test? What self respecting witch didn’t know about Granny Weatherwax’s test? *

* One that thought communing with the infinite was an actual thing that witches did. One that wore black as a fashion statement, as opposed to out of practicality like every other witch did. One that called themselves Diamanda when they had a perfectly acceptable name like Lucy.

Granny Weatherwax grunted. “See that cave? Walk inside it. Count to five slowly. Then turn around and come back out. It doesn’t matter how you do it. And you don’t have to explain your method either. Just walk out. You’ve got ten minutes.”

#

The story that Esme had told Nanny Ogg ran as follows. When she had first become a student with Nanny Gripes, she had been told the story of how Black Aliss had dug a pit and lined it with extremely sharp spikes. She had then suspend herself over the pit by way of a rope that she’d set on fire. The idea being to use magic and magic alone to avoid an extremely messy ending.

The young Esme Weatherwax had been extremely impressed with the story (but frankly hadn’t believed a single word of it*) and instantly decided one day she’d have her own version of that test, only a lot less fatal for the unsuccessful.

* On account of how witches love to use stories as a method of power.

On that very day, she’d found a patch of rock in a nearby hillside that was only a little higher than she was tall and proceeded to take a pickaxe to it. It had taken her ten long years to construct a cave big enough to step inside and be able to turn around inside. The spell she had cast across the entrance, however?

She had taken less than a day to come up with that.

The first time anyone had taken the test, it was Esme herself. Nanny Gripes had told her “you have to be careful, young Esme. There is such a thing as the witches condition. Too much power, you see? Makes you go to the black.”

Young Esme Weatherwax had scoffed at her mentor back then. But now she knew that the witches condition was a very real thing. As real as the grass boiling beneath her feet right now.

#

Diamanda walked up to the entrance and peered inside. It barely merited being called a cave, it was little more than a nook in the hillside. “It’s just a stupid cave.”

Nanny Ogg tried not to gasp. She succeeded where more of the older members of the coven failed miserably. The gasp Magrat gave could have knocked a small bird out of the air. *

* In fact it almost did. But Magrat took that slightly swooned creature home and nursed it back to health and then some. Because she was that kind of person, even if they did think she was just a wet hen.

“Go inside then, girl.” There wasn’t a trace of challenge in Granny’s voice but you could have cut dwarf bread with that tone.

Diamanda just snorted and stepped into the tiny space beyond the mouth of the cave.

“Count to five.”

Diamanda didn’t need to turn around to know the old witch was trying to needle her. So she counted the slowest five count in the whole of recorded history. It almost took as long as it had taken for her to pull herself out of the bog earlier. She had hoped the old woman wouldn’t spot her boots, but no, it was Granny Weatherwax.

Of course she’d spotted them.

“Any time today, Miss Tockley!” The old witch was trying to get inside her head now.

Diamanda hummed, trying to drown her voice out. Unsuccessfully.

“And now turn and leave, by whatever method you can.”

Diamanda finally turned around to face the mouth of the cave, expecting to find it as clear as when she’d entered. But it wasn’t, not any more. There appeared to be some sort of fine meshed netting covering the entire exit.

No. Not entirely.

Diamanda took a second look and saw the small hand-sized hole at exactly waist height. She knew it was hand sized because she put her hand through it. And pushed. It certainly wasn’t any kind of net then. Or any man made thread. It had no give at all. It was like pushing against the very rocks themselves, hard and unforgiving.

“Leave when you please, Miss Tockley. But remember, there is a time limit.” Granny sounded rather pleased with herself. Happy to be showing Diamanda up in front of her friends. Now she had to find a way out!

“Nine minutes left now, sweetie.” That was Nanny Ogg, trying to be helpful.

“Thank you Missus Ogg.” Diamanda knew she was angry now. She’d never not called her Nanny before now.

Nanny Ogg decided to let that slide. She’d address it another time.*

* When there were less witnesses around. She might have been a good witch, but she certainly wasn’t stupid, regardless of her batty demeanour.

“Is this a fair test, Mistress Weatherwax?” Diamanda asked.

“Exactly the same test everyone else has already taken, girl. So fair in that respect. But who ever said being a witch involved fairness?”

The time slid by as Diamanda tried everything she could think of. She kicked the net. She cast any number of spells on the net. The only trouble there being she didn’t really know any proper spells. *

* At least not any that really worked the way she wanted them to. She could turn leaves into bananas though. Not that she’d found any use for that yet.

Eventually she heard the one thing she had tried to avoid most of all.

“Your time is up Miss Tockley. Shall I dispel and release you?”

Diamanda muttered something, not wanting to admit defeat in front of her friends.

Granny Weatherwax heard the young witch perfectly and released the charm across the mouth of the cave. It was clear once more.

Diamanda couldn’t get out fast enough. “Stupid cave. It’s just a stupid cave! No-one can beat that. Did anyone here beat that?”

All eyes in the coven turned to its most senior and powerful member. No-one needed to tell Lucy Tockley that Granny Weatherwax had already beaten the test.

“It’s your test, of course you’d beat it! Go on then, prove that it’s possible! Show me!”

Esmeralda Weatherwax was surprised, something that didn’t happen to her very often these days. The girl may not have had any actual power, but she had fire and spirit, and those counted for a lot in the witching world.

The rest of the coven had already seen Granny take and pass the test, she had been the first inside the cave once everyone (except Diamanda) had arrived not only on time but a good five minutes early. *

* Because witches liked to be unpredictable. Never late, always on time or early. Just keep them guessing, that’s what Granny Weatherwax always said.

Granny Weatherwax walked straight into the cave and counted out loud for everyone to hear, standing with her back to the entrance. Then she turned.

There wasn’t a flicker , or a flash, or even a blur.

It was just Granny Weatherwax standing outside the cave, with the net still intact. The old lady had simply appeared to step through reality from one point to another.

“Possible, see?” That was Nanny Ogg, now standing right next to Diamanda. “Okay ladies, same time next year then?”

And with that, the witches flittered away. Some on foot, some by way of broom. Until only Nanny Ogg and Diamanda were left by the cave.

With Granny Weatherwax halfway home, the spell on the cave finally dropped.

Diamanda kicked a nearby rock to vent her frustration. “Of course she beat it. She …”

Nanny Ogg put her hand over Diamanda’s mouth, knowing full well the next word she was going to say was cheated. “Best to keep those kinds of things unsaid, love. You’ll make a fine witch one day. Just remember, it comes with conditions.”

Then Nanny Ogg flew off, leaving Diamanda alone by the cave with her thoughts.  The loudest of which echoed in Granny Weatherwax’s mind as she flew home. ‘She’ll slip up one day. I just hope I’m there to see it.’

THE END.*

* Because not all endings are happy.

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Three Minutes With Terry Pratchett (flash fiction)

25 Dec

Three Minutes With Terry Pratchett
18/6/15
By Ray Daley

They’ve got him in a small room. A few people have already put their selfies online. #MeetADeadWriter is also trending globally.

There’s a chair for the punters to sit in, a table to keep them at arms length and another chair for the great man himself.

Sir Terry Pratchett. R.I.P.

It’s only been twelve years since his death but this lot are currently cashing in on what they refer to as “recent advances in reproductive technology“, or at least that’s what they claim. Behind me in line I can hear the various minders explaining to yet another punter that he’s not a clone. Despite the very large sign stating that he isn’t.

Some wag has already written “I aten’t dead!” on it too.

They run this gig for four hours every day, and it always sells out. You’ll still hear many disgusted voices (some even coming from this very queue!) saying things like “It’s not right!” and “they should let him rest in peace!”

Bugger that say I. If it gives me another chance to meet my favourite author without having to buy my own copy of “How To Raise The Dead“, then I’m in.

And in I am. Even if it does cost a small fortune. And that’s just to get a spot in the queue for a day. It doesn’t necessarily mean you’ll make it inside to see the man himself.

We don’t know exactly how they’ve reproduced him. No-one is allowed to touch him. A few have tried and are now banned for life with their pictures hung by the main door to ensure they don’t get in again.

Ah, hang on.

Here’s their announcer. “Okay folks. I’ll be letting the first person for today through in a minute. You all know the rules. No touching, no autographs, no telling him he’s dead. And no banana daiquiris!”

He’s done that last bit every day since they opened four months ago. Not once has it gotten a laugh yet. I expect he’ll keep trying until it does. I only know this because I’ve been in this queue every single day since it opened.

As the first person goes inside, I already start doing the maths in my head. I’m unlikely to make it inside today. Unless something drastic happens.

Mind you, something drastic normally happens every day, but it’s almost always going on behind me. So I generally never make it any closer to the door. Or inside.

“It’s not right to treat him like this!” Some woman in front of me is already kicking up a tremendous fuss. Silly mare. As expected, the minders appear and take her picture then escort her to the staging point a couple of streets away. And she was going to be next as well! If she’d only kept her mouth shut another minute or so.

Fifty-eight seconds, it turns out to be. One of the minders finally sets up a digital timer outside so everyone in line can now see how long it’ll be before the next lucky punter gets their three entire minutes with this recreation of Terry. Obviously it’s not the real thing. And the minders say it’s not a clone either.

My odds improve again when six people start fighting several places ahead of me. I do the maths once more and it says I’ll probably make it inside before they close today.

Then there’s all kinds of fluster as we discover some guy inside has just tried to touch him. What an idiot! He’s carried out by the scruff of his neck. That leaves four more people in front of me.

I’m actually getting in today! Yay!

I get to watch the timer count down four more times, then I’m finally allowed inside.

“Hello!” He sounds exactly as I remember him. And then I find myself suddenly dumbstruck. What do you say to a dead author?

“Hello!” he says again. Exactly the same tone and inflection as before.

Some sort of AI? Or a recording?‘ I think to myself. “Hello Terry. You probably don’t remember me.” Of course he won’t, he’s never met me. But the real Terry did. Three times in one day, in fact.

“Well it’s been a long time,” he says.

And then I see it. I see precisely how they’re doing this. My eyes spot the sheet of transparent material they are projecting him onto. It’s some kind of Peppers Ghost set up.

Which explains why they don’t want people touching him. Almost certainly some sort of AI then, or a system with a database of appropriate responses. I’d wager that most people are asking him the same few questions.

As I find myself wondering if he’s Turing approved, I’m painfully aware that I haven’t got much longer left in here.

I say “Terry,” and it makes eye contact with me and smiles, “purple monkey dishwasher.” Well that’s one way to check for an AI. It might well be a human queuing up prerecorded answers. Either way, it’ll do well to answer that with any semblance of sense.

Terry smiles again. “I’m not sure I quite got that. I’m not writing a new book. Sorry!”

Not half as sorry as I am.

I look at him. “Terry, are you dead?”  Then my time is up.

Outside, one of the minders tries to take my picture for the banned list. At least until I explain the finer points of semantics to her.

“I asked if he was dead. You said we couldn’t tell him. So you can’t ban me. Not unless you fancy being sued out of business?” They don’t and I’m allowed to leave without an escort. Nor does my picture get taken. I post my review of the experience during the bus ride home. No-one online seems surprised to hear how the trick is done.

Also, a new rule is added to the list, thanks to me.

And despite the fact they know exactly how the illusion works, people will still continue to queue to spend three minutes with Terry Pratchett.

Because they can. And they want to. Because we miss him, now and forever.

And as long as we’ve got him in any way, he aten’t dead.

THE END.

I done a story!

4 Dec

Stranger Views published one of my recent flash pieces. Inspired by Terry Pratchett & Robert Rankin, it’s a surrealist piece in the style of a long lost Victorian magazine article.

Click, read, snigger loudly if you want.

http://www.strangerviews.com/short-stories/pigeon-punching-north-africa/

Inspired by Terry Pratchett.

23 Nov

Just knocked out a whole story, inspired by his Pterranceness.

2294 words, a fun little olde worlde piece of swords and knights and naughty liars.

Always fun when you’re laughing as you’re writing it. Most enjoyable.
Thanks for the inspiration Terry!

Currently Untitled Discworld fanfic story (don’t say you weren’t warned!)

29 Sep

Ankh Morpork. A river* runs through it.

*Well, they call it a river but only because it flows slightly faster than a glacier. It’s more mud than water, the only place where the annual University boat race is held in boats with holes in the bottom and the crews run across in the surface in boots you’d only ever want to wear once.

Unseen University Archchancellor Mustrum Ridcully would rather not explain why his student nickname was “Ridcully The Brown”. Suffice to say it’s one of the reasons he prefers beer over water but no matter how many he drinks he won’t ever forget the day they capsized three times during training.

The horror.

It’s a city that never sleeps.

Why would you sleep when there’s money to be earned, made, stolen, forged or recycled into beer?*

*Quite often not only all in one night but all on the same street within feet of each other.

Forget why! How could you sleep? With all the noise constantly going on? With the barkers selling their wares, Assassins inhuming, Dwarves being chucked both out of and into bars*.

*Depending on the bar, who owned it, who normally drank there and how much of a tab they still owed there.

Watchmen ringing bells at all hours telling you “All’s well!”.

All’s well! Well? The only similarity between Ankh Morpork and wellness is both seem like a deep hole in the ground with a liquid-like substance that might possibly be water* at the bottom.

*Whatever it actually is, you wouldn’t want to wash in it. Or drink it. Or use it in any shape, form or description. Even twice recycled beer is going to taste better. And get your clothes clean. Or slightly cleaner than they already were. Or at least get the sick out of them. Or perhaps at least get the smell of sick out of them.

They say if you can make it there then stay there and keep on making it and try selling it to those stupid enough to buy it because no other bugger is going to take you.*

*In other cities when they ask where you came from, the answer Ankh Morpork ususally gets the response “Too good for The Big Wahoonie? Lawks! Wot a toff! ‘Ere, ‘eave ‘alf a brick at ‘im! We don’t like your sort ‘ere. Move on**.”

**Bugger off. They might not say it, but that’s what they mean.***

***Actually, some of them WILL say it.

Because Ankh Morpork welcomed everyone.

Humans, Dwarves, Trolls, Vampires, Werewolves, Zombies and even Nobby Nobbs – not just in the name of ethnic diversity either (because no-one in Ankh Morpork knew how to spell it without moving their lips and no-one else who actually mattered really cared what it meant any way) but more by the accidental fact he was born there.

If he was born. Which many people deny vehemently. Those that know what it means, that is. Most people assume he was an accident, and not the happy kind either. The very nasty (and loudly voiced) rumour runs along the lines that his mother attracted the attention of an overly affectionate bear.

Nobby Nobbs has never denied this. He hasn’t confirmed it either. Even he isn’t sure who his mother was. Let alone his father.

In Ankh Morpork you can really get into deep trouble.

The kind of trouble that gets you dead.

The kind of trouble that gets you undead.

Or the worst kind of trouble. The kind of trouble that brings you to the attention of The Patrician.

Given the choice you’d much rather be in the kind of trouble that attracts the attention of The City Watch. At least with Sir Samuel Vimes you’d get a fair chance and a lot of sarcasm. If you were injured they’d treat your wounds, maybe. Or let Igor see them. And maybe laugh at them. Or take iconographs of them if he thinks they are particularly interesting.

He’s that kind of Igor.*

*They all are. Ignore any Igor who says he isn’t. Igorinas may be different.**

**It’s highly unlikely they are but it’s possible. This is the Disc, anything’s possible.***

***See footnote [1] below.

It all depended on how you got them. There is even the chance of a lawyer as long as you don’t call Mr Slant, Vimes hates him.

Don’t let yourself think that the City Watch had the market cornered on matters relating to criminal investigation. Far from it. Well, not quite far. There was one other avenue open to those in desperate need and you’d have to be pretty desperate to procure the services of Lewton, Investigator for hire and occasional loan.

When those under the scrutiny of the law say “There’s no justice”, Sir Samuel Vimes is quick to point out “There’s just us.”

Lewton eventually points out “Hey, there’s me as well!“.

Fortunately The Patrician has no need to point out there’s also him too.

Everyone is more than aware he is there, many wish he wasn’t. But the kind of justice he dispenses is normally in coiled hemp form, through a trapdoor. There’s also the door he offers you the free chance to walk out of. It’s very suspicious. Everyone knows about it, no-one knows anyone who’s ever chosen it.*

*Chosen it and lived to report on the matter, that is.

Lewton doesn’t investigate very often, it’s more a hobby. Well, not really a hobby. More a good way to pay his rent and buy important things like food. And the continued attachment of his legs to the rest of his body. [1]

[1] Continued attachment to your legs is not always possible in Ankh Morpork. Especially after hearing phrases such as “Mister Chrysoprase is very upset with you.”

Lewton likes his legs. He likes them attached to his body as it allows him to walk around the city to investigate.

They say all roads lead to Ankh Morpork.*

*Those that don’t fair well and need to make a hasty escape also know all roads lead away from Ankh Morpork to a myriad of places where you aren’t going to be asked questions like “Was it you what done it?”

And all walks of life travel on those roads. Some by coach, some by horse and the rest have to walk. That’s probably why they’re referred to as walks of life. It may not take a lifetime to reach your destination but on some roads it’ll certainly feel like it.

Hiding In Plain Sight (contains swearing!)

18 Jul

Recently it was revealed that J. K. Rowling had written yet another book of yet another different style under a different name.

That’s not a bad thing and here’s why.

Sometimes as a writer, you want people to buy your work based on the fact that it looks and sounds good. And not on the name of the writer on the front cover. Sure, J. K. Rowling is a name that’s going to make people go into a book shop, pick up a copy and pay for it without even reading the blurb.

This happens to people like Stephen King and Terry Pratchett (incidently to the point where his agent just appears to be whoring as many books as humanly possible out of the poor bastard before he can no longer write any more because of the dastardly shitbag that is Alzheimers.  By the by Terry, if you are releasing this many books because YOU yourself want to then please say so because I’m calling your agent all kinds of swear words, some I’ve even invented especially for him.), fans go in and just buy the book because they see the authors name on it.

I used to be such a fan. To quote “Sunday, Bloody Sunday” – NO MORE!

The way I write means my name is the only name that will EVER (and I fucking mean it!) go on the cover of my books.

I wrote them. Me. Yours truly. Ray Daley.  (Only my mum is allowed to call me Raymond!)

Not a ghost writer. Not a computer program featuring highly complex humour & saracasm algorithms. But me.

I am a 1 person operation. I write them. I proof them (often not fully, I’m only human). I make the covers. I release them on Smashwords & Feedbooks (and infrequently on Amazon when I think they are good enough for you to pay actual real money for). I write the blurbs. I promote them (on Facebook, Twitter, Google +).

And I read the reviews. When and if I get any.  I do get some, to those people who take the time out of their busy lives to write anything (even if it’s something like “This sucked, I hate you, die now!”) then I thank you. ANY feedback is welcome.

When you buy or download one of my free books you can do so knowing I wrote it.
Because my name is on the cover.  The ideas inside came from my brain via my fingers and I typed them.
I edited and changed some of them.  (I’m not a massive fan of rewrites, generally what you read is what I came up with.)

So enjoy my work.  Because it’s all mine.

Feelings on fanfic

21 Jan

I’ll start by saying this.  I’ve written some.

A few stories set in the Terminator and Blade Runner universes.

I did it because I like the original ideas and how they’d been used and I felt familiar enough with the characters and the realities they inhabited to be able to make something that could stand alone and still seem to belong within that reality.

I’ve also got stuff either in development or in progress.  More Terminator stories (so far those have all been flash length and probably always will be), a Doctor Who idea and some Discworld fanfic too.

After reading some more DW based stuff recently I recalled I had some ideas well over two years ago and never did anything with them.  So I’ve started trying to make some sort of framework to build them onto.  So far it’s feeling very like Terry (Pratchett).

How long it’ll take to finish, I have no clue, ditto what kind of length it’ll be either.

I’m  working on them.  Which is better than writing nothing.