Diary of a Serial Blogger

It's that time of year

2010-12-26T00:15:00.000-08:00

When things are winding down and you start to think about what you want to do in the new year. I've been reading a lot of goal-setting essays, thinking about what I want to do in 2011 and how I aim to achieve my goals.

There's something very satisfying in looking towards the future and making concrete plans. This year I've broken things up into categories - Family, Finance, Business, Writing and Personal Development. I'm making much more detailed lists than I used to. And I think this is a result of having so much on the go that I need to write them down so I don't forget.

One of the personal development goals for this year is less time on the computer. I've enjoyed my year of social networking, but it's not helping me to reach my goals. And while I don't plan to abandon it, I also don't want to spend hours every day on it.

The rest of the goals I am working through slowly. It's going to be a lot of fun.

Life changes

2010-11-30T17:48:00.000-08:00

It's been a rough couple of weeks. Friday afternoon we got a call from Hubby's family. "Mum's not going to make it. It's time to come home."

So we ran around packing and arranging flights and all those things you do. And that kept us busy enough so we didn't think about the fact that this was the final goodbye.

But once hubby was gone, it was just me and small man in the house. And everything seemed very large and very empty and very still.

Hubby made it back in time to say goodbye, but only just.

While he was away, my life changed. When he came back, I was a different person. Living on my own hadn't been difficult; in fact, it was incredibly easy. And that made me think, and think hard.

So we had some long, heartfelt discussions when he got back. And we've made a couple of promises to each other that I'm looking forward to keeping.

We both miss my Mother-in-law. She was a sweet and lovely person with a heart big enough for everyone. But now we have to re-assess our own lives and deal with being left behind.

Moments to cherish

2010-10-08T00:19:00.000-07:00

We went to the park. Small Man wanted to go on the slide, but it was wet. So I said "no slide, all wet." And he wept like the world was ending. And who knows, for a two year old, that may be world-ending stuff.

So I put him on the slide, and he slid down, then he stands up and says "wet?" And I'm like "oh ya think?"
And then he started crying because his pants were soaked and cold.

So I took them off and he rode home in his nappy and a blankie, something you can only do when you are two.

Small man had jammy hands. He went to wipe them on his shirt, and I said "don't wipe your hands on your shirt!"

So he leans over and wipes them on mine.

The world is very black and white when you are two. We're reading a book, and there's a picture of a truck. "Look, a truck," I say, stating the obvious in my parental way.

"No TRUCK IS CAR!"

"But..."

"NO TRUCK IS CAR!"

If you say so...

No cheese, just whine

2010-08-23T14:45:00.000-07:00

The following post is me not having a good week. If you think I don't go through these periods, or you don't want to listen to self-pitying maundering, don't read on.

I am not writing. Oh, I'm editing some stories and I'm fiddling about with words, but I'm not writing. Not like I have been. Not that all-consuming explosion of creation. Just a bunch of mucking about and throwing things away.

I have become stifled by expectation. No longer content to just explore, now every time I sit down in front of the story, I feel like there are a hundred hundred blank faces ranked behind me, judging every word. And nothing I write is coming up to their exacting standards.

Hell, I had more confidence before I sold stuff. When I was just mumbling about in my own little world. Before people said they would pay me for my writing.

Now the irrational fear sets in. I wait for the e-mails. It was all a mistake. We don't think your work is any good, after all. Returning your story and contract. Best of luck with your writing.

What if I never sell another story? What if they were just flukes? A lucky roll of the dice? WHAT WILL PEOPLE THINK OF ME THEN?

Yes, you. You faceless people, standing behind me, judging my work. Go away! Let me write in peace. I don't want your sneers. I don't want your demands.

I just want to write again.

Pemberton contrasts

2010-08-12T16:37:00.000-07:00

Dramatic coastlines

Timber country

Vineyards and dairy farms

Virgin Karri forest

Wonderful weekend

2010-08-08T02:18:00.000-07:00

We went for a 2 hour bushwalk this morning, then this afternoon, we hacked through some long overdue jobs in the yard. I am sore and tired, but I feel great.

This is exercise with accomplishment. Much more my thing than push-ups.

I am redesigning the rockery, which had sunk into a shapeless pile. Pulling out the rocks by hand was hard work, but great. Now I have a pile of soil to stir up, add compost, then replace the rocks in a way that creates lovely pockets of soil for some hardy rockery plants.

I wasn't planning on a garden project, but this one appeared and I am happy to run with it.

I willgo to bed tonight vastly satisfied with our progress, and sleep like an old tree in the winter.

Good times.

It's Saturday

2010-08-06T15:47:00.000-07:00

And today we are going walking. Somewhere. Out in nature, with all its beauty and wonder. In the quiet and the green. I feel an itch for peace, for time spent with my family. An itch for freedom from the pressures of being on, of being a presence, instead of just being me.

I feel the need to see the wattles in bloom. To hear the singing honeyeaters calling from the scrub. To see the falcon swoop across the cobalt sky. To get away from writing and the need to produce, produce, produce.

Today I leave it all behind. Just for a few hours, but that is long enough.

Limbo

2010-08-04T14:43:00.000-07:00

I've got that post-project feeling. Accomplished, but also kind of drained. Glad to be free of the pressure of regular output.

There are tickles of interest from the brain, but nothing pressing. The ideas are bubbling up and I'm making notes, but not making any attempt to write.

However, the time will come very soon for a new List. When that urge comes, I will write the list, and plan, and organise, and then I will be off again.

In the meantime, I'm just doodling.

10 things I have learned from China Melville

2010-07-26T06:16:00.000-07:00

1. Passive voice is just fine, thank you.

2. There's nothing wrong with using adverbs.

3. Distant third person is still an effective way to tell a story.

4. So is distant first.

5. Not that it matters anyway, because you never tell the reader what's going on.

6. And even if you do, the reader will have no clue what just happened.

7. And you can use a strange narrative form to infer the story, and still keep your reader spellbound.

8. "Was" is a very useful word.

9. And don't be afraid to tell your readers how your characters feel.

And the big no.10 is that you can get away with pretty much anything if you can tell a compelling story.

Beautiful days

2010-07-22T22:01:00.000-07:00

How often do we stop to admire the sun coming through the leaves?

These are the dog days of winter. Fine, clear weather, crisp, fresh air. Everything growing and green from the rain.

I took the Small Man for a walk yesterday, which turned into a 2 hour ramble down to the library and the park and back through the suburbs. I could have walked all day. I promptly forgot about work and my health and Hubby's stress and just enjoyed looking at the gardens, listening to the birdsong, joining in the Small Man's appreciation of any trucks, buses, bikes or aeroplanes that happened by or over us.

I made a late dinner for hubby and I after Small Man went to bed, a decadent pile of toast, grilled salmon portions, fresh greens and a soft boiled egg on top. We sat in front of the TV together for the first time in ages and tried to outdo each other with Jeopardy questions.

It was just, plain, nice.

I need to remember these moments more often, remember to reconnect to family and life, and not get overwhelmed with the low points of life.

Life is beautiful, and I am grateful for it.

Colouring pages for children

2010-07-20T17:15:00.000-07:00

I recently discovered Elizabeth Dulemba, children's book illustrator and author. As well as great posts on publishing and writing, Elizabeth posts a new colouring page every Tuesday that you can print off for free.

Her style is lovely and whimsical, and the Small Boy has been having a ball colouring in her creations. There's a widget on the sidebar showing the latest page, or hop over to her blog to find more content.

First Chapter Rewrite Challenge

2009-07-09T06:32:00.000-07:00

I had a ball with this challenge, and it was just the sort of fun little exercise that I needed as a break from the novel.

For the uninitiated, the challenge was to take chapter one of The Fellowship of the Ring by Tolkien, and rewrite it in a different style. And ooh, look! Pretty winners badge for me.

So without further ado, here is my entry.
------
A Long-expected Party.

"A very nice, well-spoken gentlehobbit is Mr Bilbo, as I've always said."

Sickening. I turned in my seat, just enough to see the speaker out of the corner of my eye. Ham Gamgee, Gaffer to his friends, of which I wasn't one. Actually I had very few friends; being a Shirrif meant that I met a lot of people, but more often than not I was arresting them, or asking impertinent questions. On top of that I was a widow, and one with 'funny ideas'. No, I wasn't popular, but that didn't bother me. What bothered me at the moment was the hobbit sitting at the table across the room, smoking and laughing with his friends.

The smoke curling from the Gaffer's pipe was of a richness and texture envied by his table companions. They smoked Old Toby, which every hobbit in Bywater grew down the back of his garden. But not the Gaffer; his leaf came all the way from Southfarthing, specially ordered by his boss, Mr Bilbo Baggins, for a favoured employee. Ham Gamgee was Mr Baggins' "gardener"; a hobbit very knowledgeable about vegetables, but far too handy with a spade.

I turned away and took another sip from my glass. Baggins. I'd come all the way from Tookland to sit in The Ivy Bush at Bywater and listen for that name, and there it was. I shifted on the hard seat and tuned my ear to the conversation.
"Ah, and a good family man. Rescued that young Frodo from those queer folk he was living with down in Buckland after his Ma and Da were drownded."

The men at the table with Ham nodded in agreement and I tried not to snort into my ale. Oh, he was a family man all right.

"Messing about in boats they were an' all, and Mr Drogo and his wife just fresh from old Gobadoc's table." The speaker, a man I didn't know, shook his head sorrowfully.

"And a mighty fine table he keeps," said Gaffer.

"Was his weight that sunk the boat, I heard," said a bent and greying hobbit whose velveteen coat had seen better days.

"And I heard she pushed him in, and he pulled her in after!"

The group roared with laughter and slapped the table. Ah, now that voice I knew. Sandyman, the Hobbitown miller. Not wanted for anything, but a suspicious character all the same. I stole a glance at Gaffer's face; and his expression chilled me. If I had been the miller, I would be taking a solid bit of oak to bed with me that night.

But the look was gone from the Gaffer's face before any of his companions noticed it. "Now then, there ain't no call to be talking like that, Sandyman. Boats is tricky at the best of times."

Yes, especially when the bung has been 'accidentally' loosened.

"Those Sackville-Bagginses did get a shock! And Mr Bilbo coming back from foreign lands when he was thought to be dead and taking on Mr Frodo and setting up quite the proper home for him up at Bag End. And ain't he well-preserved! Year in, year out, he's as young and spry as they day he came back. Reckon those Sackville-Bagginses won't see the inside of Bag End now."

Not for want of trying. But Lobelia and Lotho were too slow and too stupid to compete with the likes of Bilbo.

"I hear that there's mountains of treasure up there in the hill." The man who spoke looked to be an out-of-towner, his green breeches marking him as a Westfarthing man. "Gold and silver and all sorts from far away, tucked away in tunnels."

"Then you hear more than me, stranger," said the Gaffer. "Mr Bilbo ain't stingy, but I don't hear about no tunnels. An I've worked up there since I were a lad, apprenticed to old Holman, my Da's cousin, near sixty years ago. I was there on the day of the sale, keeping folk from tramping all over the gardens, and what do you know if Mr Bilbo didn't come riding up that hill as easy as you please, with some big bags and a couple of chests for good measure. I don't doubt that they was full of treasure he picked up in foreign parts, but it'd be a mighty small tunnel needed to hold it."

Gaffer took a swig from his mug. "My lad Sam can tell you that; why he's up there near every day now, working for Mr Bilbo, getting' himself eddycated at Mr Bilbo's expense, and I don't see no harm in it. It's a mighty kind thing for Mr Bilbo to do, though he does fill his head with stories. Elves and dragons! My lad, I said, stick to vegetables and a trusty shovel, and you can't go wrong."

I'd heard enough. I threw a coin down on the table and walked out, shivering at the bite in the night air. Dear, kind, generous Mr Bilbo. It was enough to turn anyone's stomach. I trudged up the hill, pulling my coat a little closer, reaching in to check that the Shirrif's badge was still hidden in my pocket.

I was staying with a cousin of my father-in-law, a nice old hobbit who laid a good table and was more interested in my potential romantic interests than my habit of wandering about and asking questions. She was good cover, because I wasn't supposed to be here. In fact I'd been warned pretty bluntly by my boss to stay away from Bilbo Baggins. But if I wanted to visit my relations in Bywater, well, what could he say?

It had been a disappointing visit so far. I hadn't heard anything I didn't already know. Still, it gave me shivers to hear the name Old Holman, a.k.a. Long Hom. That was a name I'd only read about before, in the Shirrif's archives at Buckland. Brawling, drunkenness, public nuisance. Always misdemeanours, never anything big. And always Mr Bilbo in the background with bail and a good word. Why?

I shook my head. It was a question never to be answered. The shirrifs at Bywater had pulled him in one night for beating up a shopkeeper who'd accused him of cutting his pipeweed supply with ragwort. Released on bail, paid by Mr Bilbo. And the next day, Long Hom frightens the life out of the passengers on the Buckleberry Ferry as he floats by with his head all stove in. Brigands, they said, from foreign parts, maybe as far as Bree. Case closed. No one bothered to look for brigands a little closer to home.

Petunia was laying supper when I came in, and I sat down and tucked in with relief. A girl's got to eat. I had enough of the "skinny Esme" comments from my Da-in law. Rory was a great lover of ale and victuals. A lump rose in my throat. Thoughts of Old Rory always brought back memories of Saradoc. I pushed the thoughts away.

After supper we sat by the fire, Petunia's knitting needles clacking away almost as fast as her tongue. "Do go on," I said, whenever she took a breath, my mind elsewhere. Bilbo Baggins' birthday party. The whole shire held its breath in anticipation.

"And they do say the fireworks will be the finest seen in the Shire since, oh, since the days of the Old Took himself!"

Fireworks? My heart leapt. "Do go on," I said, really meaning it this time. I smiled into the flames as Petunia rattled on. Fireworks meant the wizard was coming.

It was time I moved on to Hobbiton.

***

The Green Dragon was pretty luxurious, as inns go, with real goose feather pillows and cleaner tables than most, and windows that you could actually see through. I was looking through a fine wide window now, watching the road as cart after cart trundled past on its way to Bag End. No local merchant marks on these carts; outlandish script of all sorts and people, strange people, some hooded and cloaked, others displaying their strangeness to all who cared to see. I squinted as the next cart came into view, looking for one particular distinctive mark.

"Another round?"

I looked up into the smiling face of the young barmaid. "Thanks." She grabbed my mug, smiled even wider if that was possible, and sauntered off, her rounded hips drawing every eye in the room. I bet no-one ever called her skinny Rosie. Rose Cotton, daughter of Tom Cotton, respected farmer; granddaughter of Long Hom, local thug. Funny how a bit of money and support could make all the difference to a family's respectability.

Hours passed and I stretched every mug to its limit, not wanting to be half-pickled should the need for action arise. The common room filled up as the afternoon waned, first with the old gaffers, and then the younger folk as they finished work for the day and came in to relax, muddy feet tucked under the table as they smoked pipe after pipe. Rosie swept across the floor, smiling at all and sundry, bearing mugs of the rich, frothy ale that made The Green Dragon famous.

I took a sip of my own ale as I turned back to the window, and nearly choked. There, just passing out of sight, was an oddly-constructed wagon, well laden by the dip in the axles and on the side, the foreign scrip that signified Gandalf the wizard. I said something unladylike and threw some coin on the table, struggling into my coat as I stumbled to the door.

Outside I picked up the pace and ran, past the snug little houses where the gammers leaned over the fence and gossipped, doors open to release the intoxicating scent of dinner cooking. My mouth watered as I ran but I ignored it. Two young mothers with babes at foot looked startled as I bolted around the corner, and I knew this would be the talk of the town tomorrow. Esmerelda Brandybuck, daughter-in-law of old Rory, running through the town like the wild woods were after her and all. But I was past caring.

The cart was well out of sight now. I picked up speed and turned another corner, and ran full tilt into a solid body. Down we both went onto the dirt, me with a curse and him with a wail.

Letters rained down around us. The bloody postman. I saw him draw breath to express his rage, but I had not time to give him satisfaction.

"Sorry!" I cried, scrambling to my feet, letters cascading off me. I dug in my toes and sprinted off. Behind me, the postman's outrage coloured the air.

My breath gave out before I reached the hill, and I was obliged to stagger the last hundred yards, one hand pressed to my side. As I drew level with the Gaffer's front gate, I hesitated. Gandalf's cart stood before the door. I glanced around, not seeing any prying eyes. Silently I ducked through the gate and round the back.

Creeping through the gardens wasn't easy as the rows of vegetables pressed in on one another with military precision. More than one lettuce wouldn't make it to the table after I had passed. But I made it to Bilbo's garden, and snuck up to the house.

"How bright your garden looks!"

I ducked behind a rhododendron. Gandalf's head appeared for a moment in an open window, then retreated. I wriggled a little closer under the low hanging leaves.

"I'm very fond of it, you know. But it's time to take a little journey, I think." Bilbo's voice floated out to me.

Oh-ho. So Mr Bilbo was feeling the pressure.

"You mean to go on with your plan, then?"

Eagerly I wriggled forward. I wanted to hear this plan; it might finally be the information I needed to get the shirrifs on my side. I pushed out from under the bush, ready to dash across the trim lawn.

"Hey!"

Sam Gamgee strode towards me through the amaranthus beds, shovel in hand. Of all the luck. I turned and fled, across the garden, down the path between the willows, through the ramble with its shaggy azaleas and looming hollyhocks, to the gate that led up to the hill. I could hear Sam's heavy tread behind me. I dived through the gate into the orchard, stumbling over the fallen crab apples and dashed for the break in the hedge.

I didn't stop running until I reached the houses down by the little stream. A glance confirmed that Sam hadn't followed me out of the garden. I stopped to lean on a garden wall and catch my breath. My legs trembled from all the running and sweat soaked through my shirt and onto my jacket. I pushed off the wall with a sigh. No wonder I couldn't put on weight. Gloomily I made my way back to Petunia's house, tearing open my jacket to cool off.

Two letters cascaded out of my jacket and into an inconvenient rut.

I snatched them up and held them out, dripping. Fine quality paper, elegant handwriting in dark green ink, which was bleeding into the damp paper. In the top corner was written the words "party invitation". Blast. I tucked them into my pocket and headed for the post office.

Outside, a crowd of hobbits pressed tightly around a young postman who was struggling to hold on to his bag in the melee. I slipped up to the post-box and shoved the soggy letters through the flap, hoping I wouldn't be noticed in the crush.

A triumphant cry rose as I sauntered off; the crowd had managed to wrest the postman's bag from him, and were grabbing invitations, not caring who they were addressed to. Everyone in the Shire was desperate to go to Bilbo's party. Someone nudged me as they ran by with a handful of invitations. I sighed. Respectability was never a consideration when you were as rich and as popular as Mr Bilbo Baggins, no matter how strange your ways or what company you kept.

A hobbit in front of me looked startled and ducked out of my way. I smoothed the frown off my face and tried to look a little more pleasant. So Mr Baggins had a plan, did he? Well, I knew when it was going to go down, even if I didn’t know what it was. The night of the party.

Whatever trick Mr Baggins pulled, I would be there, watching.

***

The next day, a sign appeared on the gate at Bag End; "No admittance except on party business". I knew who that was aimed at. I looked over the wall into the garden, but there seemed to be 'gardeners' everywhere I looked Frustrated, I resumed my place at the window of The Green Dragon.

Now the orders came thick and fast, and the local merchants were kept hopping. Cart after cart trundled up the hill, and crowds of curious onlookers made there way up and down the road all day. Mr Baggins' neighbours were generally thought to be the luckiest people in the world.

But with all the bustle going on, there was a significant lack of Mr Baggins himself. Since the day the wizard had arrived, Bilbo had not been seen outside his door by anyone I spoke to. Frodo I saw plenty of; dashing around town doing odd jobs for the party, stopping to pass the time of day with his neighbours, but smiling secretively whenever he was asked about the party. I gave up shadowing him after a while, and went back to watching the road and planning how to find out what Mr Baggins and the wizard were up to.

One morning as I stepped out of Petunia's front door on my way to my daily haunt, I glanced up to the hill and saw the tops of some poles sticking up above the trees. Curiosity got the better of me and I headed up the hill. A large crowd surrounded the big field with the huge tree at one end. Hobbit workmen huffed and pulled and shouted as they erected huge pavilions and dug pits for great open-air kitchens. I slipped into the crowd and made my way nearer to the front. Hobbits everywhere, but I also noticed some heavy dwarves standing quietly in the shadows. I shivered, and slipped away again.

An invitation arrived at Petunia's, addressed to me, forwarded from the post office at home. I tossed it into the fire unopened.

***

The day of the party dawned bright and clear and the merry crowds ambled up the road, eager for a day of entertainment that would be the talk of the Shire for years to come. Gay dresses, fine coats and clean trousers, children with hair brushed and tied with ribbons, all passed me on their way to Bilbo's party.

I stood in the shadow of someone's eaves and watched the crowds go by. Bilbo stood at the gate of the field, smiling at all comers, shaking them by the hand and passing out presents as was the custom. By the cries of delight, I guessed that the gifts being passed out were not the usual hobbit presents, but fancy gadgets and gewgaws from foreign parts. As the flow of people slowed to a trickle, I slipped away. With everyone busy at the party, this was my chance to get into the house and see what was really going on.

I made my way through the Gaffer's garden again, feeling a spurt of satisfaction at the crunch of young radishes crushed under my feet. I slipped over the wall and into Bilbo's garden.

Dimly I heard the noise and cheer of the party drift over the hedge, but in the garden there was only the steady drone of the bees on the sweet william. I crept around the side of the house. An open window caught my eye, wide and inviting with a nice, solid planter box underneath to give me a lift up.

I hoisted myself up on the planter box and leaned in the window. Below me sat a little writing desk with a couple of envelopes on it. The rest of the room was an untidy mess of shelves, chests and cabinets all overflowing with books and maps and papers and ornaments. Mr Baggins' study. Couldn't have done better if I’d planned it.

"Now what does she think she's doing, I wonder?"

I swung around, overbalanced and fell off the planter, and came up against a solid mass. From the grass I looked up, and up, at the bulk of two dwarves, their faces almost hidden behind bushy facial hair.

"I don't know," said one, "but I reckon Mr Baggins' would like to have a word."

***

I sat on a chair in the scullery, while my captors stood one at each door. From here, I could hear the party in full swing. The house groaned and rumbled in its bed of earth and I shuddered.

I waited for hours. The sound of revelry increased and then I heard the crackle bang of the fireworks going off. There was a distant roar and then a cheer loud enough to rattle the crockery. Then the noise dropped a little as the band started up. I sighed and rubbed my belly. I had hoped to be out of here by now and back at Petunia's, raiding the cupboard for food. I was just contemplating asking my captors for some food when I heard voices outside. The dwarf at the outer door stepped outside. I eyed the one guarding the inner door. I wouldn’t have a chance of taking him by force; he was a good two heads taller than me.

"Found her climbing in the window of your study, Bilbo."

"Now that won't do at all." The door opened and Bilbo stepped in, followed by the dwarf.

Up close, he looked like a man of no more than four score years, not the 111 years the Shire celebrated today. Time didn't seem to touch him at all. He smiled when he saw me, and opened his arms wide, as if I was a valued member of the family, instead of a distant and annoying second cousin by marriage.

"Esmerelda!" Bilbo beamed, but that didn't mean anything. He never went anywhere without a smile on his face. Never a scowl or ill-temper in the public eye. It wasn't natural.

"Bilbo," I said coldly.

"I was expecting to see you outside in the festivities. But perhaps you thought you'd have a try for my famous treasure tunnels instead!"

Oh, he was sneaky. A word like that in the ear of my boss and I would be out of the Shirrifs for good.

"I'm not interested in your treasure, Bilbo, real or imagined." I glared at him. "I'm interested in your flagrant disregard for the morals and values of the young hobbits in your care!"

"What!" Bilbo had the temerity to look shocked. "I care for Frodo like he was my own son. Which he is, legally."

"Taking him away from his kin, filling his head with stories of god knows what." No time for pleasantries. "What are you up to, Bilbo? What plans have you got for Frodo and his friends?"

Bilbo's smile faded a little. "What plans I have for Frodo are my business and his, Esmerelda, not yours. But believe me when I say that I have only their best interests at heart."

"Elves and dwarves and that wizard," I spat the words at him. "I know he brings more than fireworks into the Shire."

Bilbo rubbed thoughtfully at his chin. "Gandalf brings many things into the Shire." For a moment his eyes unfocussed, and it seemed as if he had forgotten I was there. Then he shook himself. The smile came back, wider than ever. "But this won't do. You are a guest at my party and should be enjoying the celebrations! Let's not quarrel today, Esmerelda." He stepped forward and threw a hand around my shoulders. "Come! There's someone outside who would be delighted to see you."

Fear rose in me as Bilbo propelled me out the door and down the path to the party. I expected any moment we would turn off the path and come face to face with the wizard. But we continued on, me resisting feebly, getting a helping nudge now and then from the closely following dwarves.

Bilbo led me across the lawn, past the revellers to the pavilion, crowded with hobbits of all shapes and sizes.

"Esme! There you are!" I dug up a sickly smile for my father-in-law. Dear old Rory, completely ignorant of the danger I was in, the danger that we were all in from this man with his arm around my shoulders. Rory patted my hand and made a space for me on the bench. I sat down beside him - what else could I do? Bilbo gave me a wink and then he was off, weaving through the throng, talking to everyone, and smiling that smile. I glanced around; of the dwarves there was no sign.

"I'll be back in a sec, Da." I said, pushing to my feet.

"Oh, you're not going?" Rory's face fell. "The speeches are about to start! And you haven't tried these delicious cakes!"

"I'm not hungry," I said, but my stomach made a liar out of me.

Rory laughed and pushed a plate of confection in my direction. "Get into that, my girl, and we might get some meat on your bones yet!"

I gave in and sat down again. I owed Rory a lot; he had been kind to Meriadoc and I after Saradoc died. And really, when it came to close family, the three of us were all we had.

"Is Merry with Pippin?" I asked between mouthfuls.

"Oh yes. Out trading wild tales with their cousins." I glanced around, but to my relief, Frodo was inside the tent, sitting in one of the chairs at the head table.

Suddenly Bilbo rose and headed for the stage. There were cries for silence, and cheers, and cacophony, but eventually Bilbo managed to get everyone quiet enough to give a little speech.

Most of it was about family and the Shire, with one very cutting joke about a gross of people that I could see had offended quite a few hobbits. That surprised me; Bilbo was usually very careful not to make enemies. I stiffened as he started to list off strange names, and strange places. What was it about? Was it the plan?

"Goodbye!" he said. There was a sudden flash and a bang, and Bilbo was gone.

Silence filled the tent for just a moment and then the shock faded and everyone was shouting and talking at once. Magic! It had to be. I looked around desperately.

"I believe that mad Baggins is off again," said Rory jovially.

Of course! I grabbed his arm. "Back in a moment!" I gasped, then fled, out of the tent, across the field where the revellers continued in their merrymaking, unaffected by the uproar in the main tent. I struggled to get through the press of bodies. The crowds pushed me off course and I ended up flung into the path of the dancers. I collided with a solid hobbit who took my hands and swung me into the dancers.

"No! Let go!" I struggled to get free.

"Oh come now, my dancing isn't that bad, is it?"

I looked up into the eyes of a hobbit I'd never seen before. Green eyes, which were laughing at me. To my horror, I blushed. "It’s not that. I have to go!"

"Well at least finish the set with me." He twirled me around and I hung on grimly. "My, you're light on your feet! Do you dance often?"

"No," I said through gritted teeth, watching our progress around the circle. When we came close to the gate, I would make a break for it.

"I'm Wilcome Hornblower," he said.

"Esmerelda Brandybuck," I replied grudgingly.

"Esmerelda, light as a feather, dances like a dream but wild as the weather," he chanted.

Astonished, I looked into his eyes.

"I'm a poet," he said modestly.

"Really." An opening appeared in the crowd. "Thanks for the dance!" I said. To his amazement and mine, I kissed him on the lips before diving into the crowd.

I ran across the road and through the gate and down the path to Bag End, my heart pounding.

I saw a grey figure in the gloom and pulled up. The wizard pushed himself off the gate that he had been leaning on. He watched the road for a moment, and faintly, I thought I heard someone singing. Then he turned to go in the house.

Swift as a snake his head swung around, and he stared into the darkness, directly at the spot where I was pressed into the hedge. Then I heard him chuckle and turn away. The door closed behind him, leaving me in darkness.

I slipped forward and looked down the hill. In the distant, the moonlight caught an edge of metal, and I heard the chink of harness. Four figures on ponies made there way east along the road out of the Shire. Bilbo and his dwarves.

Gone at last.

***

The next day, I went up to Bag End with Rory, as Frodo had said that Bilbo had left something for him. The grounds were crowded with hobbits and on the step there was a spirited melee going on over an antique umbrella holder.

When Rory stepped forward, Frodo invited him in, and handed over a case of Old Winyards. The note attached said, in return for much hospitality. Rory was delighted, and swore to drink to Bilbo's health as soon as the first bottle was cracked.

"I'm glad to hear it," said Frodo, shaking Rory's hand. He smiled, the same smile as Bilbo, that distant, pleasant expression that everyone seemed to equate with good manners.

The door opened behind him and Merry came out. "Frodo, Sancho is digging up the pantry!"

Frodo sighed. "Excuse me." He stepped through the door. Merry gave me a wave before following.

I picked up the case and followed Rory out the door into the sunlight. Pippin wasn't safe; not yet. There were still bad influences in the Shire. I glanced over my shoulder. A little way apart from the ruckus, Sam Gamgee turned a bed over with his shovel, the sharp edge cutting through the soil like butter. I turned away quickly, hitching up the crate.

There was still something going on, and I would find out what it was, before my sweet Merry got drawn in by these people and their dangerous world.

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Well, I hope you enjoyed it. If you did, feel free to leave a comment. And please visit the other participants who have finished, Cassie and Tama. (I'll add the rest of the links as people finish).