We have Matthew J. Metzger stopping by today with his new release Walking on Water from NineStar Press
Writing and Language
There’s nothing more fun about writing than playing with language.
My only language is English. I can murder a sentence or two in Spanish, tell you I can’t speak French in French, and gleefully mispronounce several German words. But the only language I can truly speak is English.
And oh, English is a beautiful language.
Because it’s not. It’s jarring and ugly and stitched together. It has more exceptions than adherents to the rules. It’s almost completely different written down than spoken aloud, and stresses mean everything but it refuses to adopt accents. English is a language that can be enormously played with, because it can be understood even when it’s been twisted around and turned inside out. It’s overflowing with idioms and turns of phrase that make no sense, but—make perfect sense, too.
And nobody plays with it enough anymore.
I grew up reading Asterix comics as a little kid. All names except those of the two main heroes change from language to language. Idefix in French means fixed idea—the character is a small dog. But the English name gives it a double meaning. Dogmatix. Not only is the original idea behind the name retained with dogma to echo the original French, but an added layer—a dog named dog—is added.
Here, the genius was in the comics’ ability to transcend borders and language barriers by wordplay. By expert translation and the freedom to play with language—any language—they have reached out across the world, with each language carrying its own unique jokes. And English is the perfect language to do this with. Editors will cringe, but we understand what it means when a character rock concerts their dialogue. Agents shudder, but we can feel the catch of laughter in our throats and noses when someone snickers. Publishers groan, but any word with ‘ed’ on the end has probably been used to mean drunk. (Trolleyed, smashed, bladdered, destroyed, arseholed…)
To me, not enough writers really write. They don’t stretch out in their linguistic environment. They don’t twist and mould new words. They don’t crumple faces, prickle hairs, creak souls. And when nobody does it, the beauty is lost. Twisting language isn’t just for poetry, it’s for prose as well—it’s for everything. The question shouldn’t be ‘is this right’ but ‘is this understood.’
Now I have always played with language. I love it. But the for the first time, I got to play with two languages. Walking on Water is written in English—but its human characters speak German.
German and English together are stunning to play with. When one can be bent around the other, it creates amazing opportunities to communicate even when only one can be understood. They’re wildly different, but widely the same. They diverge on each side of a chasm, but play in the middle like old friends.
The hero of Walking on Water has never seen flowers before. And so his lover tells him. One flower is eine Blume. Two flowers are zwei Blumen. And what does our hero do?
“One bloom, two bloomings. That seemed easy enough.”
You know what he means.
Title: Walking on Water
Author: Matthew J. Metzger
Publisher: NineStar Press
Release Date: November 13, 2017
Heat Level: 3 – Some Sex
Genre: Fantasy, fantasy, mermaids, trans, magic, fairy tales, bisexual
When a cloud falls to earth, Calla sets out to find what lies beyond the sky. Father says there’s nothing, but Calla knows better. Something killed that cloud; someone brought it down.
Raised on legends of fabled skymen, Calla never expected them to be real, much less save one from drowning-and lose her heart to him. Who are the men who walk on water? And how can such strange creatures be so beautiful?
Infatuated and intrigued, Calla rises out of her world in pursuit of a skyman who doesn’t even speak her language. Above the waves lies more than princes and politics. Above the sky awaits the discovery of who Calla was always meant to be. But what if it also means never going home again?
Walking on Water
Matthew J. Metzger © 2017
All Rights Reserved
When the sand settled, only silence remained.
The explosion had gone on for what felt like forever-a great boom that shuddered through the water, a shadow that had borne down on the nest like the end of the world had come, and then nothing but panicked escape from the crushing water, the darkness, and the suffocating whirlwind of sand and stones. In the terror, it had seemed like it would never end.
But it did end, eventually. When it did, Calla lay hidden in the gardens, deafened and dazed. She was shivering, though it wasn’t cold. An attack. They had been attacked. By what? Orcas and rival clans could hardly end the world. And what would wish to attack them so?
She took a breath. And another. Her attempts to calm herself felt pathetic and weak, like the desperate attempts of a mewling child. Where was Father? Her sisters? Where even the crabs that chattered and scuttled amongst the bushes? She was alone in the silent gardens, and Calla had never been alone before.
Slowly, she reached out. Slipped through the towering trunks, to the very edge of the gardens, to where the noise had come from. Drew aside a fern and-
Ducked down, clapping a hand over her mouth to prevent the gasp.
A giant beast lay in the courtyard.
Still. Oh, great seas, be still. She held her breath and closed her eyes. It had to be an orca, a beast so huge, and it would see her if she moved.
Yet even in her fear, Calla knew that wasn’t quite right.
Orcas didn’t come this far south-did they? Father had said they would be undisturbed here. Father had said.
She peeked again. Daring. The beast didn’t move.
Nor was it an orca. It was impossible, too huge even for that. Oh, she’d not seen an orca since she’d been a merling, but they’d never been that big. It had squashed the courtyard flat under its great belly, its tail and head-though she couldn’t tell one from the other-spilling out over the rocks and nests that had been homes, once. It would have crushed their occupants, surely. What beast killed by crushing?
Hesitantly, she drifted out of the garden. Her tail brushed the ferns, and she wrapped her fins around them, childishly seeking comfort.
The beast didn’t move.
In fact, it didn’t breathe. Its enormous ribcage, dark and broken, was punctured by a great hole, a huge gaping blackness longer than Calla’s entire body, and wider by far.
It had been slain.
Bloodless. It was quite dead. How could it be dead, how could its heart have been torn out so, without spilling blood into the water? Where was the column of red that marked its descent? Where was-
It was no beast.
Calla fled the safety of the gardens in a flurry of excitement. No, that great oval shape was familiar. How many had scudded gently across the sky in her lifetime? How many times had she watched their passage from her window? Beautiful, dark, silent wonders. Oh, a cloud!
She rushed closer to look. How could a cloud have fallen to earth? Father had said they were simply things that happened in the sky, and no concern of theirs. But this one had fallen, lay here and near and so very touchable-and now Calla wanted to touch the sky.
She held her breath-and touched it.
Rough. Sharp. Its body was dark against her pale hand. And hard, so very hard. She had imagined clouds to be soft and fluid, to walk on water as they did, but it wasn’t. Huge and heavy, it was a miracle that it walked at all.
And a home: tiny molluscs clung to it. As she walked her webbed fingers up the roughness and came over the crest of its enormous belly, she mourned its death. This must have killed it. Such a deep, round belly-clouds were obviously like rocks and stone, but this one had been cut in half. Exposed to the sea was a sheer, flat expanse of paleness, with great cracks in the surface. A column stuck out from the middle, and two smaller ones at head and tail. It had been impaled by something, the poor thing.
The hiss reached her from far away, but Calla ignored it. The poor cloud was dead. It had been slain, and whatever had dragged it from the sky must have been immense, to wield spears like those jutting from its body. And it wasn’t here.
Clouds were harmless. Dead clouds, even more so.
“Calla, what are you doing?”
“Meri, come and see!” she called back to her sister and ducked to swim along its flattened insides. Great ropes of seaweed, twisted into impossible coils, trailed from its bones. Vast stains, dark and pink, smeared its ragged edges. When Calla peered up into the sky, at the stream of bubbles still softly rising from its innards, she could see the gentle descent of debris. It had been torn apart.
Orcas? But an orca pack would have followed it down. Sharks? Calla had never seen a shark, but Father had, long ago when he was a merling, and he’d said they were great and terrible hunters. Were sharks big enough to do it?
That was not Meri’s voice. Deep and commanding, it vibrated through the water like a blow. Calla found herself swimming up the side to answer automatically, and came clear of the cloud’s gut barely in time to prevent the second shout.
Father did not like to call a second time.
She went. At once. The immense joy at her discovery was diminished in a moment by his stern face and sterner voice, and Calla loathed it. She felt like a merling under Father’s frown and struggled to keep her face blank instead of echoing his displeased expression.
“You should stay away from such things. The guards will deal with it.”
He gave her a look. She ducked her chin and drifted across to join her sisters at the window. The window. Pah. What good was the window, was seeing, when she had touched it?
“What is it?” Balta whispered, twirling her hair around her fingers.
“A cloud,” Calla said in her most impressive voice and then pushed between Meri and Balta to peer out. The guard were swarming over the cloud’s belly, poking more holes in the poor thing’s body. “Something killed it.”
Meri snorted. “Talk sense, Calla.”
“You sound like a seal, grunting nonsense.”
“I do not!”
They subsided under Father’s booming reprimand-although Calla snuck in a quick pinch before stopping-and returned to watching.
“Clouds don’t fall out of the sky,” Meri whispered. “It must be a shark. There’s nothing so big as a shark. Father said so.”
“Father also said sharks don’t come this far north,” Balta chirped uncertainly, still twirling her hair.
“That’s a cloud,” Calla said and peered upwards to the sky, her eyes following the great trail of bubbles, “and I bet something even bigger killed it.”
One lucky winner will receive an ebook of their choice from NineStar Press
Matthew J. Metzger is an ace, trans author posing as a functional human being in the wilds of Yorkshire, England. Although mainly a writer of contemporary, working-class romance, he also strays into fantasy when the mood strikes. Whatever the genre, the focus is inevitably on queer characters and their relationships, be they familial, platonic, sexual, or romantic.
When not crunching numbers at his day job, or writing books by night, Matthew can be found tweeting from the gym, being used as a pillow by his cat, or trying to keep his website in some semblance of order.
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