Short Story

Book Review: “Following the Boar” by Matthew Howard

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Rating: 2 Stars

Headline: Too much in too few words: this short story is wounded by its lack of descriptive text

Review:

Matthew Howard’s story Following the Boar: An Ancient Historical Fiction Short Read (hereafter Following the Boar) is a short read and to the point. It tells the story of Borvo, a Scottish warrior, who must prepare for battle against a strange and fearsome enemy who has been massacring the local population and invading lands. As the clan travels toward the battlefield, Borvo and his father rally additional comrades to join the fight, including warriors who swear allegiance to his uncle, Breenus. Together the combined forces travel on in a climatic battle with the enemy of steal.

The main problem I have with this short story is in the quantity of content. In Following the Boar, the author, Howard, has attempted to pack in far too many events into too a short space of time, at the detriment of the descriptive text. Reading through this story I get no sense of place and I struggle to follow the movements of the characters. It is impossible for me to visualise the appearance (and number) of warriors coming from the different fractions; so much focus is made on the three central characters I kept forgetting they were there until suddenly they appear on the battlefield. The protagonist Borvo has no development; even in short stories the reader needs strands of insight to help flesh out the image of the main characters, their personality, drivers and beliefs. Sadly there is none of that here.

One example – the story starts with Borvo waking up on the floor. Why is the protagonist sleeping on the floor? His father is the chieftain of the clan, he even asks his son about his “first taste of poverty”, so what was the cause to place Borvo in humble surroundings?

Without the essential sprinklings of insight and description, it is hard to comprehend why characters make the choices they do and the reader is left feeling disengaged with what limited action takes place. When the ending occurs, somewhat abruptly, it leaves for only feelings of dissatisfaction, as opposed to clamouring for more.

Howard should take this short story as a pause for reflection. The existing story arch would make a good basis for a historic novel or, with elements removed, could be refined into a succinct short story. Improvement needed, but within the muddy battlefield there are glimmers of potential.

AEB Reviews

Links

Reedsy Discovery Review: AEB Reviews – Follow the Boar: An Ancient Historical Fiction Short Read

Purchase Link: Following the Boar: An Ancient Historical Fiction Short Read (Amazon)

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Publishing credit: Swindon Writing III

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I’m very excited to announce that my short story, “Bee Happy”, has been selected for inclusion in Swindon Writing III.

A locally championed publication, Swindon Writing III showcases and celebrates the broad range of creative talent which exists from within Swindon and further afield. I’m told the standard was incredibly high this year, with an unprecedented number of submissions, which is all the more reason to celebrate this achievement.

This comes following the news that another of my works, “How the Dressmaker of Bournemouth Feeds her Family”, will be published by Dithering Chaps in their first anthology, Lines in the Sand.

As you can imagine, this update has put a further spring in my step and made my heart sing. I can wait to see my words in print and share with you a snippet of my creative mind.

Swindon Words III is published today, 30th April 2024. Details of where you can purchase the anthology will be shared as soon as I know more!

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The Warm Up

My Housemate's a Mermaid (Alice E. Bennett) adult, alcohol, British, careers, comedy, Economy, Europe, Event, Humor, Humour, Prompt, Swindon, Uncategorized, University, Young Professional , , , , , ,

SELRES_22f08f43-6593-41cb-9f21-b91401619e46SELRES_cc68d849-c635-4b2d-af09-f72ffd6f56a7SELRES_c53bcbb3-a0ce-41a4-bf69-902ae4ae27b4Her forecHer forehead encrustedSELRES_c53bcbb3-a0ce-41a4-bf69-902ae4ae27b4SELRES_cc68d849-c635-4b2d-af09-f72ffd6f56a7SELRES_22f08f43-6593-41cb-9f21-b91401619e46 with a thin layer of salt, Ellie looked down to the vinyl floor and breathed, one, two, three.

Behind the plywood doors sat a meagre crowd, the best the promoters and her friend-turned-agent could rope together off the street. Free comedy and a place to shelter from the rain, that was what they were preaching outside. But as a late comer and his dog squeezed past Ellie started to wonder what had been emitted access to the pub’s basement.

‘Word of advice,’ grumbled a deep voice whose suddenness and proximity to the newbie’s ear made her jump. ‘Don’t go there with the dog. Thought I could pull that off at a Newport gig, turns out it was a Guide Dog. Didn’t sit to well with the crowd if you know what I mean.’

The scruffy man took a long drag of his vape as if to add depth and mystery to his tale but all Ellie could think about was the smell. Cigarette smoke infused with fake strawberries, neither of which made her swoon with admiration. She glimpsed the white box sticking out of his faded evening jacket, the same jacket she’d seen in the window of Primark five years ago. One of the buttons was missing, probably from a failed exploit about three years ago to get the cheap fabric over the large belly. Instead it fell to the checked shirt to contain the bloated stomach, a task which it evidently was struggling to do effectively. Ellie looked up at the man’s bearded face, topped with a flat cap, to meet his small eyes. He winked at her whilst finishing the dregs of the clouded pint glass.

With a tinge of illness at the thought, Ellie turned back to face the chipped door. Over her shoulder the large thumps of beefy feet and crackled growls to the landlord reassured her that the headline act wouldn’t bother her again until the interval at least. Like the yellowing teeth and bony fingers of those who normally attended these gigs, Ellie tried to not think how the ghastly male in the tight fitting shirt could be the pitched as the main event.

‘Is that what I should be aspiring to?’ She thought, ‘is that what is to become of me if I’m a success, or if I am a failure? What if I can’t move past the title of “warm up”?’

Just then, a young teenager with a lengthy mop of hair broke the dimness of the setting with one word.

‘Alright?’

‘Oh, hi.’ Ellie replied, shuffling to one side.

The landlord’s son pushed the double doors open with his back, phone in one hand, the other in his jeans pocket. Disinterest and sleep deprivation hung heavy over his eyes. As he walked into the room a few shouts came from the locals, people who no doubt would rather listen to him talk for an hour than watch the warm up act for ten minutes. A few words were mumbled limply (through the door slit Ellie could see him tapping on his phone) and then she was introduced.

‘…so clap your hands for tonight’s warm up.’

One, two, three. And away she went.

 

 

(Written in response to the WordPress Prompt of the day ‘Encrusted‘)