I have been getting numerous emails as to the identity of Inkley Tolew the Third Esquire.
While this is a short post, this will hopefully clear the mirk surrounding the odd contribution from this strange fellow.
Inkley is the Exploratory Commanding Editor at Large for the Wormwood Valley Newspaper, sometimes known as the Wormwood Valley Daily, the Wormwood Daily, the Wormwood Occasional Chronicle, and even the Wormwood Wire Service. Most in Wormwood Valley, however, simply refer to it as, 'the Paper.'
Inkley is a distinguished member of the Wormwood Valley Historical Society, the Wormwood Order of the Silver Dragon, and an Explorer of the Third Degree in the Wormwood Explorers Club, although the mere existence of such a club is, of course, just here-say.
Soem have questioned wether Inkley is human at all, and that, as far as I know, remains to be determined by the Wormwood Valley Council on Genealogical Lineage.
He can occasionally be seen tending the gaming bar or the shelves of the Wormwood Valley Hardware and Esoteric Supply store, managed by Sir Finneus McShrinks. He answers all emails at inkleytolewIIIEsq@gmail.com.
I have yet to capture a photo of Inkley while visiting Wormwood, as he is not a fan of traditional film cameras, nor is he much in favor of digital media. I am working on acquiring a photo by way of a turn-of-the-century Hasselblad which he did not, during my last visit, seem completely opposed to.
I hope this has at least answered a few of the questions I have thus far received. I apologize if my answers seem somewhat vague. I do wish to respect Inkley's wishes, and the wishes of the Wormwood Valley Council for privacy both of their citizens and their location. I have taken the liberty to address specific emails with answers only listed here chronologically.
Mellisa M: No, he prefers Earl Grey, but thats a great suggestion. I will share that with him when we meet next.
John S: Yes, plenty of times. Although I have yet to find a proper publishing house for this nonsense here in the real world. Thank you for the consideration and concern. Sorry about the parakeet.
AndygdaneE: Wow. Not sure how to respond.
Alfred Cummings: I wish I knew.
C. Aurora: Of course! I'm sure he would love that. Thank you for the sweet words of encouragement.
Daggerbreath: Doubtful. He hates bad drivers.
Ricky G: 13. Or perhaps 4, depending on who you ask in Wormwood.
Taylor: I don't think it's so much that he hates them, as he just can't stand their mediocrity and boring nature. Especially when mixed with such an air of pompous superiority.
S. N: He believes you simply do not have skin thick enough for the journey.
Bingo: He would gladly share a round with you, preferably burnt black and crusted with age. good luck with the Barbies. Stay away from pom-poms.
Tuesday, April 26, 2011
Marriage Biting in Borneo
In this most recent edition of my Explorer's Journal segment, I shall share a brief anthropological insight gathered from a journey many years past to the distant shores of Borneo.
While visiting the Washnoozle-Mozimbee Blood Clan of Southern Borneo to gain a better understanding of their ability to control the rapid degeneration of tissues brought on by consuming large amounts of transfigured worm carcasses, I found myself being ushered into the not so envious position of 'best-man' at a Washnoozle-Mozimbee Blood wedding.
Now, as everyone should know, the Washnoozle-Mozimbee Blood Clan gains its name from the great War of Turnips, dating to c.1184 and the untimely deaths of nearly everyone from both the Washnoozle and Mozimbee clans. For those not remembering 4th grade exploratory history, I shall briefly recount this tragic tale.
The chief of the Washnoozle clan, Gurglixx the Flatulent, was quite the connoisseur of Borneo wild turnips. In his clans mountainous region grew the very best borneo turnips ever known. Shipped to nearly every region of the world, and sought after by traders from across Asia for their curious pickled taste and rosy-red exterior, Borneo wild turnips, and Washnoozle-grown turnips especially, were known as the best to be had. This of course, brought great fame and wealth to all the people of the Washnoozle clan. Soon they were adorned in only the finest leaves, feathers and rotting pig skins that their currency of shell and bug excrement could buy.
But this claim to agricultural fame did not sit so pleasantly with the Washnoozle's neighbors, the Mozimbee clan. They claimed to have planted the first Borneo Blood Turnip along the borders of their territorial domain over two-hundred years before. Led by their chief, Gulrog, Master of the Mountain Petunias, the Mozimbee clan launched a full scale assault on the lush farms of the Washnoozle Borneo Blood Turnips. Burning, removing, destroying and ravaging every plant and shrub from Scab Corner to Pusscreak, Gulrog and his band waged a war of unknown proportions on the Washnoozle clan, until not a single living warrior remained from either side. Sustained through years of turnip-fed rampage, the warriors fought savagely for nearly three days, until only Gurglixx and Gulrog remained.
As the two warrior chiefs fought to the last, they finally collapsed, exhausted and clumsy upon the mountainous pile of dead. Both at once gave into their age and absolute fatigue as they were evenly matched, blow for blow, strike for strike. Looking about them at the waste and destruction that lay about, they swore then and there to never again wage such a war for turnips, or land, or money. A treaty, agreed to upon a mountain of slain warriors, and amidst fields of blood soaked Borneo Turnips.
It was then, that the two chiefs ceremoniously did a very strange, and a very peculiar thing that forever changed the future of wild Borneo agriculture.
As Chief Gurglixx and Gulrog braced wrists and each took a bite from a freshly cultivated Borneo Turnip, they noticed a strange scent, and an even stranger taste. this turnip, this wild, rosy-red Borneo delicacy, was even more scrumptious when eaten with a generous smear of blood! Pulled from the blood soaked ground of the battlefield, the turnip was rich with the strange taste of the fallen soldiers! A macabre and yet, to the two Chiefs, brilliant discovery!
It was after this delightfully disgusting discovery, that the two chiefs concocted a plan to hide their joint discovery from the world, forever keeping the hidden cash-flow of shell and bug excrement from ever reaching beyond their mysterious shores. Chief Gulrog, knowing his tribe's ability to farm the most beautiful and pungent petunias, agreed to share the Mozimbee clan secret in exchange for the agricultural mysteries of the Washnoozle-grown turnips. to seal this pact, each Chief then bit off the ring finger of the other, savagely sealing their pact forever in blood, spewed upon the bulbous form of a Borneo wild turnip; henceforth forever known as Borneo Blood Turnips.
But being the traditionalist keepers of ancient ways that they are, the now combined tribal populace of the Washnoozle-Mozimbee Blood Clan, swore to keep this secret recipe thriving. From that day forth, every marriage ceremony ends with the ritual Washnoozle-Mozimbee Blood wedding tradition, where each newly committed lover swears their allegiance to the other through a swift and brutal act of removing by teeth alone, the finger of their spouse, ring attached. The finger is then passed to the best man and the bride's maid accordingly, where the ring is removed and the finger is sautéed as a delicacy over a helping of, Borneo Blood turnips of course.
And to hide this most valuable of delicacies, Borneo Blood Turnips are germinated within the pollen of every Petunia currently present across the globe. If the legend is to be believed, beneath the tangled twisting roots of the most pungent of Petunias, lies the growing seed of the Borneo Blood Turnip, doused in blood from ages past, and ceremoniously continued in the Borneo wilds with every new spring wedding.
For those most curious of readers, yes, I was fortunate to partake in the ritualistic sampling of the Grooms ring finger. Its taste is perhaps best described as a bit like pork, a bit like chicken, and quite a lot...like turnips.
Reporting from deep below Wormwood Square,
Inkley Tolew III Esq.
Exploring Editor in Charge
Wormwood Daily
Wednesday, March 2, 2011
Burny McTavish and the Wormwood Gnomish Curse
As we delve into the changing seasons of spring here in wormwood Valley, we ponder growth, renewal, change, and the inevitable expansion and continued development of the Village and central town of Wormwood itself. Spring is nearing, and while winter still holds it's opaque grip upon the forests of the Wormwood Valley, the residents of Wormwood begin to look for whatever gleaming ray of sunshine and rising temperature they can find, if only to lift the spirit slightly from the long dark days that by this time each year, seem to have stretched from beyond history.
In this strange time of late winter to early spring, one begins to see the coming forth of life everywhere, if one but looks around one's own feet. The scent of Snot blossoms dripping through the trees adds a nauseating stench to the sharp morning air as Elongated Scab Beetles make their nests of hair and candle wax along the disjointed and upturned cobbles of central Wormwood square, nearest of course, to the disposed of droppings of local Wormwood candlemaker, Burny McTavish, may he rest in pieces.
As the Editor at large for the Wormwood Chronicler, I, Inkley Tolew the Third, Esquire, have had the pleasure to experience, explore, and research some of Wormwood's darker and more sinister moments. From following the infamous Pirating upsets of three seasons past to the continued expulsion of the Scallywaggers Pirating team to the dark discovery of the Viking ship of the Cliffs of Sidd, I have been in a position to judge which of Wormwood Valley's most sordid histories are brought to the light amongst the populace of our fair valley through ink and pulp and the occassional scripted drawing and photo.
But in this most recent exploration, I wish to only briefly delve into one such event of mystery, adventure, and shadow. One which, as the seasons now turn, took place also in this strange time between Winter and spring. And so it is to Mr. McTavish and the Wormwood WaxWorks that we turn for this installment of The Occasional Chronicle's Wormwood Valley editorial and history discussion.
Mr. Burny McTavish was a criminal. A dark, foul, nasty, mean and all-together unpleasant chap who enjoyed more than anything else in this world, burning things.
Burny enjoyed lighting everything from toys to camping cots to small kitchen pots in flames of flickering carcinogen, and watching their evil and twisted light dance and twirl. As he graduated his mischievous passion from small household objects and ramshackled scraps of last eve's meal, he eventually found himself in quite a fix when he doused the local graveyard in a Halloween prank of horrific proportions. Little did he know that the ancient and cursed grave of Burny McTavish's great great great Grandmother's Uncle, thrice removed, lay buried beneath the very spot where he first set ablaze a scraggly and withered pot of Old Gut Flower.
Now, Old gut Flower is a noxious weed, oft times laid at the grave of criminals and miscreants. Of which, Burny's great great great Grandmother's Uncle (thrice removed) was one. He too, was a criminal of the fire-provoking kind, and found himself in quite a spot of bother when he set ablaze the local constable's prized yard Gnome statuary collection, lighting each little statue's cone-shaped hat in a blazing pyre of prancing light.
Now, as all well-educated citizens of Wormwood Valley know, one NEVER sets ablaze a yard gnome. Least of all, upon their great coned hats. It is quite well accepted that within those pointed little spires sits the ashes of the very gnome that statue represents. And nothing releases their spirited and paranormal fury like fire.
But even worse, is the curse which lays upon any who does such. And for Burny McTavish's great great great Grandmother's Uncle (thrice removed), his was just such a curse.
Well as any can guess, this made for quite a memorable Halloween as old Burny's long-dead relative, who died himself in a curious spontaneous combustion related incident (most widely accepted as Wormwood Forest Gnome magic of course) rose from the grave that very night and made quick work of poor Burny McTavish, ending his burning spree once and for all.
But the legend goes that soon after, a candlemaker started the Wormwood Wax Works, making candles that held curious properties, strange scents and ingredients that some swore created images of old Burny dancing upon the walls in their gentle waving flames. And this candlemaker, legend says, is the very spirit risen from the grave and exhumed from his cursed demise that night in the Wormwood Graveyard: Burny McTavish's great great great Grandmother's Uncle (thrice removed), now the proprietor of the Wormwood WaxWorks and maker of the most gentle, most warming, most fragrant, and most curiously sinister candles ever to light a Wormwood hovel.
On these cold nights of changing, when the Gods of nature are still deciding upon their seasonal path, look to your WormwoodWaxWorks candle, and in the distance, listen closely for the shadowy laugh of old Burny McTavish as he writhes and turns in the churning flames of his gnomish demise.
From deep below Wormwood Square,
Inkley tolew III, Esq.
Editor at Large
The Wormwood Occasional Chronicler
In this strange time of late winter to early spring, one begins to see the coming forth of life everywhere, if one but looks around one's own feet. The scent of Snot blossoms dripping through the trees adds a nauseating stench to the sharp morning air as Elongated Scab Beetles make their nests of hair and candle wax along the disjointed and upturned cobbles of central Wormwood square, nearest of course, to the disposed of droppings of local Wormwood candlemaker, Burny McTavish, may he rest in pieces.
As the Editor at large for the Wormwood Chronicler, I, Inkley Tolew the Third, Esquire, have had the pleasure to experience, explore, and research some of Wormwood's darker and more sinister moments. From following the infamous Pirating upsets of three seasons past to the continued expulsion of the Scallywaggers Pirating team to the dark discovery of the Viking ship of the Cliffs of Sidd, I have been in a position to judge which of Wormwood Valley's most sordid histories are brought to the light amongst the populace of our fair valley through ink and pulp and the occassional scripted drawing and photo.
But in this most recent exploration, I wish to only briefly delve into one such event of mystery, adventure, and shadow. One which, as the seasons now turn, took place also in this strange time between Winter and spring. And so it is to Mr. McTavish and the Wormwood WaxWorks that we turn for this installment of The Occasional Chronicle's Wormwood Valley editorial and history discussion.
Mr. Burny McTavish was a criminal. A dark, foul, nasty, mean and all-together unpleasant chap who enjoyed more than anything else in this world, burning things.
Burny enjoyed lighting everything from toys to camping cots to small kitchen pots in flames of flickering carcinogen, and watching their evil and twisted light dance and twirl. As he graduated his mischievous passion from small household objects and ramshackled scraps of last eve's meal, he eventually found himself in quite a fix when he doused the local graveyard in a Halloween prank of horrific proportions. Little did he know that the ancient and cursed grave of Burny McTavish's great great great Grandmother's Uncle, thrice removed, lay buried beneath the very spot where he first set ablaze a scraggly and withered pot of Old Gut Flower.
Now, Old gut Flower is a noxious weed, oft times laid at the grave of criminals and miscreants. Of which, Burny's great great great Grandmother's Uncle (thrice removed) was one. He too, was a criminal of the fire-provoking kind, and found himself in quite a spot of bother when he set ablaze the local constable's prized yard Gnome statuary collection, lighting each little statue's cone-shaped hat in a blazing pyre of prancing light.
Now, as all well-educated citizens of Wormwood Valley know, one NEVER sets ablaze a yard gnome. Least of all, upon their great coned hats. It is quite well accepted that within those pointed little spires sits the ashes of the very gnome that statue represents. And nothing releases their spirited and paranormal fury like fire.
But even worse, is the curse which lays upon any who does such. And for Burny McTavish's great great great Grandmother's Uncle (thrice removed), his was just such a curse.
Well as any can guess, this made for quite a memorable Halloween as old Burny's long-dead relative, who died himself in a curious spontaneous combustion related incident (most widely accepted as Wormwood Forest Gnome magic of course) rose from the grave that very night and made quick work of poor Burny McTavish, ending his burning spree once and for all.
But the legend goes that soon after, a candlemaker started the Wormwood Wax Works, making candles that held curious properties, strange scents and ingredients that some swore created images of old Burny dancing upon the walls in their gentle waving flames. And this candlemaker, legend says, is the very spirit risen from the grave and exhumed from his cursed demise that night in the Wormwood Graveyard: Burny McTavish's great great great Grandmother's Uncle (thrice removed), now the proprietor of the Wormwood WaxWorks and maker of the most gentle, most warming, most fragrant, and most curiously sinister candles ever to light a Wormwood hovel.
On these cold nights of changing, when the Gods of nature are still deciding upon their seasonal path, look to your WormwoodWaxWorks candle, and in the distance, listen closely for the shadowy laugh of old Burny McTavish as he writhes and turns in the churning flames of his gnomish demise.
From deep below Wormwood Square,
Inkley tolew III, Esq.
Editor at Large
The Wormwood Occasional Chronicler
All who wander are not lost, but sometimes they are....
I know I know, I'm sorry. I have not been posting in sometime, but there is a good reason for it, I promise.
I once heard that blogs are but useless forms of personal dribble if you either a) don't have any followers, b) can't be found on the web, or c) don't post anything at least once a week. Well, I seem to be the captain fo the anti-personal promotion trifecta as of late, as life has simply just gotten in the way.
Wormwood Valley, this blog really, started as a way to explore small snippets and stories that came to mind fro the setting, Wormwood Valley, a peculiar land of strange creations that gather in one locale from all over the world to reside in and amongst fables, fairy tales and legends from multiple cultures and countries. Sort of a place where all stories and myths come to reside, along with every created and imagined "thing." From drawings to sketches to ideas half-realised, Wormwood Valley was where they came to reside. And Inkely Tolew the Third, esquire, is the Editor at Large For the Wormwood Daily, the chronicler if you will, of all things Wormwood.
But this blog has also become an exploratory place for the ramblings and wonderings and personal inquiry for an aspiring YA/Fantasy Fiction writer. But it is in fact this goal, this aim, that has kept me away from Wormwood Valley all together. I am now finishing the final typed edits for Shadowborn, The Alliance of the Black Triangle, and am nearly done. Wether it will be a resounding success and usher in a new era of JRR Tolkien-esque fantasy with an old saga and biblical flare or just another shelved Fantasy remains to be seen. And from what I read about the ever-changing face of the Publishing Industry, I am even more skeptical. But none-the-less, it is a work of love and fun at the very least.
The more I learn and read and study and research about the modern Publishing industry and a writers place in it however, I learn that self-promotion seems to be the order of the day. And that having the career background and technical skills to carry out such a charge is even more important now than ever before. But yet, I still find myself reluctant to "promote" this blog and other projects via Social MEdia outlets such as Twitter and Facebook, because I am as of yet, NOT published, therefore, part of me questions:
What exactly do you have to "promote?"
Good question, with a slightly humbling answer.
Very Little.
And so, I go back to the laptop and continue to revise in hopes that soon this will change, and that feeling of shameless self-promotion and public relations will soon subside when I do indeed have the accolades or at least the publishing contract to support such endeavors. In the meantime, I basque in the inspiration-giving shadows of Stacia Kane, Holly Black, Tor, Christopher Tolkien, Wizards of the Coast, Trevor Kidd (you have such an awesome last name..."Captain"....), Bloomsbury, Simon & Schuster, Amanda Devine, Random House, The Black Library, DK, and the list goes on and on.
People always thank those that follow them. But for a brief moment, I just wish to thank those that let me follow them. Thanks for the daily dosages of inspiration and often times random banter that reminds me that even you icons of the industry are in fact, real people. And often have real life distractions as well....
I once heard that blogs are but useless forms of personal dribble if you either a) don't have any followers, b) can't be found on the web, or c) don't post anything at least once a week. Well, I seem to be the captain fo the anti-personal promotion trifecta as of late, as life has simply just gotten in the way.
Wormwood Valley, this blog really, started as a way to explore small snippets and stories that came to mind fro the setting, Wormwood Valley, a peculiar land of strange creations that gather in one locale from all over the world to reside in and amongst fables, fairy tales and legends from multiple cultures and countries. Sort of a place where all stories and myths come to reside, along with every created and imagined "thing." From drawings to sketches to ideas half-realised, Wormwood Valley was where they came to reside. And Inkely Tolew the Third, esquire, is the Editor at Large For the Wormwood Daily, the chronicler if you will, of all things Wormwood.
But this blog has also become an exploratory place for the ramblings and wonderings and personal inquiry for an aspiring YA/Fantasy Fiction writer. But it is in fact this goal, this aim, that has kept me away from Wormwood Valley all together. I am now finishing the final typed edits for Shadowborn, The Alliance of the Black Triangle, and am nearly done. Wether it will be a resounding success and usher in a new era of JRR Tolkien-esque fantasy with an old saga and biblical flare or just another shelved Fantasy remains to be seen. And from what I read about the ever-changing face of the Publishing Industry, I am even more skeptical. But none-the-less, it is a work of love and fun at the very least.
The more I learn and read and study and research about the modern Publishing industry and a writers place in it however, I learn that self-promotion seems to be the order of the day. And that having the career background and technical skills to carry out such a charge is even more important now than ever before. But yet, I still find myself reluctant to "promote" this blog and other projects via Social MEdia outlets such as Twitter and Facebook, because I am as of yet, NOT published, therefore, part of me questions:
What exactly do you have to "promote?"
Good question, with a slightly humbling answer.
Very Little.
And so, I go back to the laptop and continue to revise in hopes that soon this will change, and that feeling of shameless self-promotion and public relations will soon subside when I do indeed have the accolades or at least the publishing contract to support such endeavors. In the meantime, I basque in the inspiration-giving shadows of Stacia Kane, Holly Black, Tor, Christopher Tolkien, Wizards of the Coast, Trevor Kidd (you have such an awesome last name..."Captain"....), Bloomsbury, Simon & Schuster, Amanda Devine, Random House, The Black Library, DK, and the list goes on and on.
People always thank those that follow them. But for a brief moment, I just wish to thank those that let me follow them. Thanks for the daily dosages of inspiration and often times random banter that reminds me that even you icons of the industry are in fact, real people. And often have real life distractions as well....
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