therapist
Well-Known Member
- Joined
- Jan 2, 2021
- Messages
- 419
Just finished writing my book. It is an adventure fantasy story about mushrooms. The title will be 'The Mushroom Forest' or 'Enter the Godshroom' I haven't decided. Here's the first scene i've been touching up. I've included a map, (this is a very rough version of the map) but I think it gets the image across that I want the reader to have before reading.
All critiques, thoughts, impressions are very much welcomed and appreciated.
The mushroom market of Jamala was bustling with its normal afternoon crowds. Merchants stalked the lines of stalls, hunting the best deals on dried mushrooms to sell in distant cities. Locals swaggered through in large numbers, selecting their favourite varieties for dinner. And tourists interrupted the steady flow of customers to goggle at all the stacks of fresh and colourful shrooms as if they were of another world.
Amongst the hundreds of stalls, Caruso’s stall seemed to be forgotten by the passing crowds. He wasn’t sure why. There was certainly nothing wrong with his mushrooms. His display boasted a popular selection of both Zone 1 edible shrooms, and Zone 2 medicinal shrooms. He hadn’t gathered them himself, but whoever had, clearly knew what they were doing. His honeyfungus had that shiny lacquered appearance that only the sweetest shrooms attained. His firetongues were plump and bright red and spicy enough to ruin your day. His sourcaps infused the air with a sharp medicinal tang. And his silverstems dripped with sticky silver ichor—just a thimblefull would soothe the sorest of throats.
But no one seemed to care. All week, Caruso had managed an embarrassingly small number of sales. He was starting to suspect there was more to this selling game than just sitting behind his display. Whatever it was, he had till the end of the day to figure it out, otherwise he knew Bozi would fire him.
When Bozi had allotted Caruso one of his stalls, he hadn’t given any real instructions, just told him that it was simple, that anyone can sell shrooms. Everyday since, Caruso had proven him wrong. He was starting to wonder if everyone in Jamala was conspiring to see him fail. Even the trusty library had let him down. He’d hoped to find some book or scroll detailing the strategies for selling at markets, but no such books or scrolls existed. Caruso would have to figure this out himself if he wished to avoid the look of disappointment on Bozi’s face—it was a look Caruso was becoming well accustomed to.
He watched the stalls around him, trying to understand why each one worked. The stall on his left was always popular. Run by a pretty doe-eyed girl, it was no great mystery why so many men flocked to her stall. Caruso himself was tempted to buy a few of her shrooms just for an excuse to make eye contact with her. The stall on his right was run by an older woman who spat on the ground every few minutes. Despite this, she had an uncanny ability to talk any passerby into a sale.
The man opposite relied on obnoxiously yelling out every variety of mushroom in his display, pitching his voice far above the background din of the market. The noise grated on Caruso. And so too did his success. Many crowded around the man’s stall as if he were putting on a show and buying his shrooms was the price of admission. Once, during a rare lull in his performance, Caruso had courageously attempted his strategy. It resulted in a memory he was determined to keep buried.
Other stalls achieved their success by luring customers with something unique and exciting. A common tactic was to roast spiceshrooms over a charcoal brazier. The smoke would smudge the air and fill it with that savoury, peppery aroma, attracting market goers like shroommoths to a purpleveil. Another popular tactic was to hand off sugarstems or berryshrooms to children and force their parents to pay. Caruso couldn’t see himself pulling that one off.
There were stalls that focused solely on Zone 2 medicinal shrooms. The most successful of these seemed to think they were licenced doctors, and gave wildly optimistic prescriptions for shrooms that did little more than soothe a belly ache or reduce a fever. And some stalls didn’t sell any mushrooms at all, but focused instead on mushroom leather and offered a range of boots and coats made from mycelium fabric.
Every stall found something that worked for them. Everyone seemed to know what they were doing. Everyone but Caruso. He wished Bozi had told him what to do, rather than letting him struggle on his own.
A tourist, wrapped in a dirty shawl, cast a disinterested eye over Caruso’s display. Buy something! Caruso willed at him. But the old woman to his right snagged his attention. Caruso strained an ear to listen in.
‘What are you after?’ asked the old woman.
‘You got any sourcaps?’
‘I have red parasols, they are much better. How many do you want?’ The woman spat on the ground.
The customer looked dumbly at her display, no doubt ready to buy whatever was suggested. Caruso considered telling him about his own supply of sourcaps, or that red parasols were a completely different thing. But it seemed a bit rude to steal her customer. The last thing he wanted was to make things awkward. He waited until the customer finished purchasing her red parasols, then decided to strike.
‘Uh…excuse me, sir?’ Caruso called out before the man walked away. ‘I have sourcaps.’
‘I’m good. I just bought me some red parasols, apparently they’re better.’
‘They are two completely different things.’
‘Nice try, lad. I ain't no sucker.’
Caruso took a deep breath. ‘I’m being honest, sir. Taste one of your red parasols, it will be bitter—not sour. They have none of the anti-inflammatory properties that sourcaps have. They do make a great tea, though.’
The man nibbled one of his parasols, gave the woman a glare, then examined Caruso’s sourcaps. ‘Alright then. I’ll give you 2gil a pop.’
‘Um…Sorry, sir. These are 3gil each.’
‘Well, I’m buying in bulk, so I’ll need a discount.’
Caruso’s heart leapt. ‘If you buy in bulk, I can do 2gil each. How many would you like?’
‘Five.’
‘Just five?’
‘S’what I said.’
‘But five isn’t “bulk”.’
‘I don’t give a sh*t what you think,’ the man slapped 10gil down, and helped himself to five sourcaps.
Am I being robbed? Caruso considered calling out for the nearest Forester guard. The Foresters were trustworthy. They ruled over Jamala and the mushroom forest, and controlled the trade of mushrooms. But Caruso didn't want to bother them with such a small discrepancy. He recorded the sale in the ledger and tried to forget about it.
All critiques, thoughts, impressions are very much welcomed and appreciated.
The mushroom market of Jamala was bustling with its normal afternoon crowds. Merchants stalked the lines of stalls, hunting the best deals on dried mushrooms to sell in distant cities. Locals swaggered through in large numbers, selecting their favourite varieties for dinner. And tourists interrupted the steady flow of customers to goggle at all the stacks of fresh and colourful shrooms as if they were of another world.
Amongst the hundreds of stalls, Caruso’s stall seemed to be forgotten by the passing crowds. He wasn’t sure why. There was certainly nothing wrong with his mushrooms. His display boasted a popular selection of both Zone 1 edible shrooms, and Zone 2 medicinal shrooms. He hadn’t gathered them himself, but whoever had, clearly knew what they were doing. His honeyfungus had that shiny lacquered appearance that only the sweetest shrooms attained. His firetongues were plump and bright red and spicy enough to ruin your day. His sourcaps infused the air with a sharp medicinal tang. And his silverstems dripped with sticky silver ichor—just a thimblefull would soothe the sorest of throats.
But no one seemed to care. All week, Caruso had managed an embarrassingly small number of sales. He was starting to suspect there was more to this selling game than just sitting behind his display. Whatever it was, he had till the end of the day to figure it out, otherwise he knew Bozi would fire him.
When Bozi had allotted Caruso one of his stalls, he hadn’t given any real instructions, just told him that it was simple, that anyone can sell shrooms. Everyday since, Caruso had proven him wrong. He was starting to wonder if everyone in Jamala was conspiring to see him fail. Even the trusty library had let him down. He’d hoped to find some book or scroll detailing the strategies for selling at markets, but no such books or scrolls existed. Caruso would have to figure this out himself if he wished to avoid the look of disappointment on Bozi’s face—it was a look Caruso was becoming well accustomed to.
He watched the stalls around him, trying to understand why each one worked. The stall on his left was always popular. Run by a pretty doe-eyed girl, it was no great mystery why so many men flocked to her stall. Caruso himself was tempted to buy a few of her shrooms just for an excuse to make eye contact with her. The stall on his right was run by an older woman who spat on the ground every few minutes. Despite this, she had an uncanny ability to talk any passerby into a sale.
The man opposite relied on obnoxiously yelling out every variety of mushroom in his display, pitching his voice far above the background din of the market. The noise grated on Caruso. And so too did his success. Many crowded around the man’s stall as if he were putting on a show and buying his shrooms was the price of admission. Once, during a rare lull in his performance, Caruso had courageously attempted his strategy. It resulted in a memory he was determined to keep buried.
Other stalls achieved their success by luring customers with something unique and exciting. A common tactic was to roast spiceshrooms over a charcoal brazier. The smoke would smudge the air and fill it with that savoury, peppery aroma, attracting market goers like shroommoths to a purpleveil. Another popular tactic was to hand off sugarstems or berryshrooms to children and force their parents to pay. Caruso couldn’t see himself pulling that one off.
There were stalls that focused solely on Zone 2 medicinal shrooms. The most successful of these seemed to think they were licenced doctors, and gave wildly optimistic prescriptions for shrooms that did little more than soothe a belly ache or reduce a fever. And some stalls didn’t sell any mushrooms at all, but focused instead on mushroom leather and offered a range of boots and coats made from mycelium fabric.
Every stall found something that worked for them. Everyone seemed to know what they were doing. Everyone but Caruso. He wished Bozi had told him what to do, rather than letting him struggle on his own.
A tourist, wrapped in a dirty shawl, cast a disinterested eye over Caruso’s display. Buy something! Caruso willed at him. But the old woman to his right snagged his attention. Caruso strained an ear to listen in.
‘What are you after?’ asked the old woman.
‘You got any sourcaps?’
‘I have red parasols, they are much better. How many do you want?’ The woman spat on the ground.
The customer looked dumbly at her display, no doubt ready to buy whatever was suggested. Caruso considered telling him about his own supply of sourcaps, or that red parasols were a completely different thing. But it seemed a bit rude to steal her customer. The last thing he wanted was to make things awkward. He waited until the customer finished purchasing her red parasols, then decided to strike.
‘Uh…excuse me, sir?’ Caruso called out before the man walked away. ‘I have sourcaps.’
‘I’m good. I just bought me some red parasols, apparently they’re better.’
‘They are two completely different things.’
‘Nice try, lad. I ain't no sucker.’
Caruso took a deep breath. ‘I’m being honest, sir. Taste one of your red parasols, it will be bitter—not sour. They have none of the anti-inflammatory properties that sourcaps have. They do make a great tea, though.’
The man nibbled one of his parasols, gave the woman a glare, then examined Caruso’s sourcaps. ‘Alright then. I’ll give you 2gil a pop.’
‘Um…Sorry, sir. These are 3gil each.’
‘Well, I’m buying in bulk, so I’ll need a discount.’
Caruso’s heart leapt. ‘If you buy in bulk, I can do 2gil each. How many would you like?’
‘Five.’
‘Just five?’
‘S’what I said.’
‘But five isn’t “bulk”.’
‘I don’t give a sh*t what you think,’ the man slapped 10gil down, and helped himself to five sourcaps.
Am I being robbed? Caruso considered calling out for the nearest Forester guard. The Foresters were trustworthy. They ruled over Jamala and the mushroom forest, and controlled the trade of mushrooms. But Caruso didn't want to bother them with such a small discrepancy. He recorded the sale in the ledger and tried to forget about it.
