Awhile ago I mentioned the new novel I was working on and gave a brief insight into the process I go about preparing for its writing. Progress on it continues as I juggle it amongst some other projects at the same time. But I thought the character sketches I wrote were somewhat interesting and they really don’t stand any chance of seeing the light of day unless I put them up here.

One of the characters I’m currently struggling with is a nine year old girl. Writing children is always a tricky proposition. It doesn’t take a degree in psychology to understand that children see the world different than adults. Quite often they make connections and associations well beyond what we would expect. While this gives them that stereotypical air of  “innocence” it also creates a bit of a challenge for an adult who wishes to capture that wonderful essence.

What I attempted in this passage was to try and imitate a childhood nursery rhyme. I spent time working on sound play and the cadence of the actual passage in order to replicate the youthful spirit. I don’t think it worked but part of the process of writing is trying new things even if they turn out to be a disaster in the end. So here’s some of my dirty laundry, so to speak, as an example of me stepping out of my comfort zone and pushing my abilities as a writer.

Inspiration can come from the most peculiar places. My idea for the Jader colonies came from a mythological Chinese settlement supposedly founded in America long before English colonial hegemony. A veritable Eastern Atlantis, if you will.

Clucked and cuckold were the markets of New Fusang. Women in pretty coats spoke with men in dirty shirts. Clink, clink, clink went their fingers. Clink, clink, clink went the wen. Dangled the strings of coins, their square holes holding tightly to the lines as they were stretched and counted. Glasses raised and eyes presse. Clink, clink, clink went the fingers that counted the disks. Squawked went the chickens. Wan went the dogs. And the cages rattled.

Chatter and chat. Sing and spat. Round and round they prat. From stall to stall stepped the pretty ladies. And clinked went their strings. Whirled and wove like a little leaf on a stream. Fingers pointed and hands were filled. Mouths chomped and chewed round words and wan. Sticked fish and lizards, scorpions and pigeons. Barbed and bite, boxed and bundle. Fingers flick and all is bought.

The smell of roasted corn, fried jellyfish, cooked cat and brewed tea scent the air. They mixed with sweat, perfumes, cows and poop. Everywhere you looked something was passed, eaten, purchased, tossed, fed or tried. No place was like the markets of New Fusang.

She sat upon the roped boxes kicking small, tight shoes. They were simple cloth with colourful floral patterns of strange pink and white flowers and long petals. They were her favourite for the black embroidery around the anklet slip studded with colourful beads. At the tips were the worn remnants of long lost tassells. She liked kicking her feet and making the little stubs bounce up and down in the air. The frayed ends flapped like a bird’s tiny wing.

Across from her twanged the stringed wood. She watched slender fingers splay across the rows of wires. Picked and plucked. Notes echoed and twanged. Picked and plucked. Talon fingers like small claws of a little bird. They danced and jumped. And the board warbled. While the talons danced, the other fingers jumped about their ends. Ten and more strings stretched over the polished wood. Along the side ran pretty little symbols that she couldn’t read.

She tried to get her tassells to jump to the beat.

Suddenly, the tassells began to flap of their own accord, jumping and pulling without her kicking her feet. As she turned, regarding them curiously, she felt her jacket pull as a great wind nearly toppled her from her perch. She turned a small head with its little cap skywards. Overhead came the thump, thump, thump of great propellers as an enormous bladed vessel gently drifted past the stalls.

The gust of wind sent merchants scurry, reaching for tarps and cloths to tie and bound. Cotton and silk caught in the draft, fluttering and lifting like banners in a parade. She clapped her hands at the colourful twirling and twisting of the clothes as women and men jumped and danced after them.

And still those fingers plucked and danced. Twisted and bent were the scarves to the notes. Hopped and jumped went the women and men like guests at a pretty little party. Their voices cried and the strings sang and chirped, warbled and waned.

No place was like the markets of New Fusang.

The great air ship passed overhead, groaning with its journey. As it passed the wind followed. She jumped from the roped boxes, chasing after the plucky notes and twisting scarves down the crowded streets. Sails caught in the passing gust pulling their little carts on large, creaky single wheels as owners shouted and gave chase. A fancy little parade followed after the big boat as they all ran down the lane. She laughed and clapped and jumped and stomped all while scarves played and flapped about.

It was a parade of bright red and orange with small bursts of green and blue. Lapis lazuri and jade, vermilion and saffron. All were on display as they marched and skipped after the great wheeling boat. Doors burst open as others came to investigate the sounds. From a pile of colourful cushions arose cut sleeved robes, the two men joining in with others as they wove and wound down the lane.

Skipping, jumping, hopping, twirling.

Plucked were the guzhengs. Twanged were the sanxian. Whistled the xun. Banged the bolang gu.

A happy little parade chased the whirling, beating, churning air ship.

But it made not for the docks. Groaning and twisting, the metal turned as the wind caught at ladies’ dresses and men’s robes. Voices gave rise to the music as the procession made its way. Chattered and chittered and shouted and sang. She laughed as she skipped after them and their feet pounded the dirt.

Great dragon heads bit down on the large propellers. The undercarriage had magnificent carved lions with great flowing manes watching over their windows. So close flew the great ship that she could swear she could almost see the faces of the passengers looking out the silk drapes at the canvases of the markets.

A long row of bells gonged as they rushed past. Their great tubes were studded, intricate woven castings decorating around them like a beautiful ribbon wound too tightly. The supports were iron cast men, their bare arms balancing the heavy bars upon their heads and outstretched arms. The iron had begun to wash orange and green as if their skin and skirts were shedding the tarnished flakes to reveal their colours hidden beneath.

She stopped long enough to give a bright smile at the man watching over the row of bells. But his eyes followed the ship. So she quickly reached out, pushing on the largest of the bells and listening to it peel it’s bright, clear note.

Then she shouted and hurried after the fantastic ship.

The Eight Immortals Crossing the Sea from Myths and Legends of China

“What is it?”

“Where is it going?”

“Where are the soldiers?”

“Where did it come from?”

“Is that it? It’s bigger than I heard.”

“Isn’t it early?”

“Isn’t it late?”

“It looks magnificent!”

They chattered and chitted as they hurried, clutching to their hats as long braided tails bounced after shiny heads. Hurried they went through the streets of New Fusang. Doors burst open. Windows raised. Women emerged from kitchens and men from taverns. Even the pagoda’s doors were pushed open as orange robed old men emerged, raising wise hands to shield their eyes as the ship thrummed over their tiered tower. The very tiles of the roofs clapped in anticipation as the vessel veered towards the plains on the outskirts of the town.

The gates were stuck with people pushing and jockeying to get a look. As their parade got closer, they got slower. And she had to duck and weave amongst the silk dresses and leather pants. The thin shoes and the heavy boots. In and out, under and between. Around and around.

Everything could be seen in the markets of New Fusang.

Everything but a ship that could fly.

Gears creaked and croaked. The dragons seemed to roar as the propellers shook. The sky banged and smoked as the ship turned and broke. People craned and watched, questioned and gasped. All stood watching in fascination as the great ship banked on its airy waves.

Whistles cried and soldiers stomped. Guns and swords shook. But the people did not make way, grabbing arms, sleeves, jackets and coats. They pointed, they gaped and they spoke.

“Is it from the Emperor?”

“Is it from the ministers?”

“Is it from the merchants?”

“Is it from the generals?”

“How does it fly?”

“How does it turn?”

“How does it land?”

“I want to ride!”

She shouted and pointed, watching as the ship began to sink. Shook and shake, ring and clank. The dragons roared. Bore aloft on their slender backs came this great metal egg. It was a sight and a show and she had to see it for herself.

She pressed against the gate and its thin metal studs worn and marked from the old blades and arrows of the wildmen in the hills and mountains. She tried to press her fingers into the dented and torn wood, pulling herself up as much as she could to look over the hats and heads, braids and parasols. The ship brought itself around, the great fins turning beneath the chains of working gears like a great puffed metal fish.

And then something loud popped.

And the crowd gasped.

And the ground shook.

And the air hissed.

Before she knew it, something warm and strong pulled her from the perch and to the ground. A frightful sound erupted from the air. Shouts and screams churned from the crowd as people pushed and ran. Like little birds scattering before a coming cat they took back to the streets they had hurried along.

Whistles blared and voices shouted. The soldiers stamped their feet.

She looked up to the ship and only saw the frightful burning of a sun. Lines dropped as fire rose. It ran all along the green and red sides. It licked the balloon and grasped the sky. In seconds the entire ship was ablaze as it tore and broke.

And it came crashing down.

She pushed herself to her feet but was bumped and pushed. Feet kicked and clopped and she shouted in pain as they passed. But no one noticed in their haste and fear. They ran and they screamed and she shouted and she cried.

She found herself up against the wall, pulling her legs close. Her pants were torn and her legs were bruised and bleeding. One of her lovely little shoes was missing and she looked at her dirty foot. She pulled it in close, wrapping herself up in a little ball.

Then the wall shook.

It crunched and snapped as a great series of steel beams and chains smashed overhead. Fire dropped like thick raindrops about her head as the metal crushed the roof of a nearby home. The wood caught and blazed. People shouted and screamed as soldiers rushed to the spreading flames.

Smoke filled the air, choking her mouth and stinging her eyes. She crawled away from the fire and the people. She crawled along the wall. Few people ran along side now, but all of them still jumped and struck. The fire and the heat was so strong as the house and its friend caught the dancing red and orange. She watched as the sailed carts smoked up like little firecrackers during a new year festival.

The wall shook and crashed again and she crawled crying away from it as the great metal nose of the ship came crashing through. Stones and dirt sprayed over her as she hid her face behind her arms. She stumbled and scrambled, spun and slipped. She sprawled against the dirt and crawled into the alley seeking silence and cold.

The noise and the shouts were loud and overbearing. She hurt and she cried but no one came. The air grew heavy and dark as black smoke was the only hand that tried to comfort. She coughed and tried to spit the burnt taste from her mouth. Frightened and alone, she curled up waiting for it to stop and for it to end.

There she would have stayed and lay but something stirred from the wreckage around her. From the broken and burning wood, from the gasping metal fingers of a crushed cage, poke two small coals that peered at her through the smoke. Tumbling and turning flopped a small little creature, it’s large tail singed. It plodded towards her, skittering around the flames and metal. It pressed its cold nose against her bloody hand.

And as she peeled her knees away, she could see something red beneath the soot. Two white ears pricked as she cried and its red fur was not from the fires that burned around it. It pawed with its little foot then trotted a few feet away. Turning its white streaked face, it blinked its eyes before giving a sharp, airy cry.

She blinked back.

The spirit of flame took a few more ponderous paces, turned and cried again. Slowly, she followed. Step by step on hands and knees. She slowly made her way ofter its bobbing round tail, ringed and inviting, skirting fires and sliding on its belly beneath twisted metal and smouldering wood. Past darkened bodies and bleeding faces they moved. Over tumbled stones and along cracked metal bones they climbed. She followed and he scampered.

Through the ruins of New Fusang they wound until they broke from its burning shell into the soft grass and green trees. They climbed and scampered up the hills. As she fled, she turned and looked back at the city burning and choking in a dark black haze.

No place would ever be like the markets of New Fusang.