tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37641597773489166282024-03-05T22:55:20.156-08:00Heroines of FantasyHeroines of Fantasyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07169664399606524540noreply@blogger.comBlogger307125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3764159777348916628.post-36745558614556219562016-01-10T09:07:00.001-08:002016-01-10T09:07:24.665-08:00Thank you for visiting Heroines of Fantasy! As of January, 2016, we will no longer have regular Monday posts or Wednesday reviews. Our archives will remain on line for your enjoyment.<br />
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Many of our contributors and reviewers continue to be active elsewhere in the internet; feel free to visit our contributor and reviewer pages if you'd like to contact them. <br />
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Many kind regards,<br />
<i>The Heroines of Fantasy Team</i>Heroines of Fantasyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07169664399606524540noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3764159777348916628.post-87510169298655338652015-12-14T06:00:00.000-08:002015-12-14T06:00:07.487-08:00Every New Beginning...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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2015 has been a year of good-byes, for me and for many of my friends and colleagues.<br />
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Some of these good-byes have come out of important decisions of our own; others have been thrust upon us, making us unwilling partners in the changing patterns of our lives. </div>
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Whatever circumstances, good-byes serve a purpose. They make us stronger, bring us closer to our true friends, and more often than not, open up opportunities that would not have appeared were it not for that first, brave act of letting go.</div>
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This month, after much reflection and conversation, <i>Heroines of Fantasy </i>is getting ready to say good-bye, as well. Starting January 2016, we will no longer be offering our regular Monday posts or Wednesday book reviews. Terri-Lynne DeFino and I, who have coordinated this operation for about two years now, each decided independently that we can't dedicate the same time anymore to the blog. The rest of our crew, unfortunately, is similarly bogged down by other commitments. There isn't anyone else at the moment who can take up the reins. </div>
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I'm not sure whether this marks a true end to <i>Heroines of Fantasy</i>, or whether it will be a sabbatical of sorts that will allow us to rest, regroup, and perhaps come back together again six or twelve months down the line. In any case, I wanted to let all our readers know how deeply we appreciate your support and participation. All of us, in our own way, are sad to see this project end.</div>
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Back when Kim Vandervort, Terri-Lynne, and I started <i>Heroines of Fantasy </i>in 2011, there were very few public venues where we could engage in the kind of conversations we've had here, challenging the status quo and celebrating stories that give central roles to women from all walks of life. I've learned so much, and found so much inspiration, from our readers, reviewers, contributors, and guest authors. I will miss this venue very much.</div>
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What will we do now, you ask? </div>
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Well, for my part, I'm looking forward to the release of several works in 2016. We are preparing new editions of <i>Eolyn </i>and <i>High Maga, </i>the latter to be marketed under a new title, <i>The Sword of Shadows. </i>This is a major undertaking. Not only am I re-editing both books, but what used to be packaged as separate companion novels will now be put forward as a single cohesive series, called <i>The Silver Web </i>trilogy. In addition to these two novels, I plan to put out a paranormal novella, <i>The Hunting Grounds, </i>in autumn. This time next year, I hope to be counting the days to the release of third novel of <i>The Silver Web, </i>entitled <i>Daughter of Aithne. </i></div>
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I very much want to keep in touch with all of you, and I hope you will visit and follow me at my website, <a href="http://krgastreich.com/">krgastreich.com</a> or on <a href="https://www.facebook.com/Eolyn-110814625640244/" target="_blank">Facebook</a> or <a href="https://twitter.com/EolynChronicles" target="_blank">Twitter</a>. Any plans to reboot <i>Heroines of Fantasy </i>will be announced there. </div>
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I've invited the rest of the crew to share their plans in the comments below. I know many of them have exciting news and dreams for 2016, so I hope they'll stop by and tell you more. </div>
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I'd also like to hear your news and dreams. What are you saying good-bye to this year? What do you look forward to in 2016?</div>
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Because I always like to go out dancing, I'll leave you with this New Year's Eve song by Ana Torroja. It's in Spanish, so my apologies for those who can't understand the lyrics. But it's basically about the topic of the day: Saying good-bye and starting anew. I find it very serendipitous that in this video, the song is interpreted by three women. I can't help but imagine them as Kim, Terri, and me, the ones who started it all, way back when. I suspect that's Eric T. Reynolds back there on the bass, and Mark Nelson is almost certainly playing one of the guitars. </div>
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My best wishes to everyone for a beautiful holiday season and a prosperous New Year.</div>
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-<i>Posted by <a href="http://krgastreich.com/" target="_blank">Karin Rita Gastreich</a></i></div>
Heroines of Fantasyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07169664399606524540noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3764159777348916628.post-48528811616810390692015-12-07T00:00:00.000-08:002015-12-07T00:00:10.213-08:00Endings and Beginnings<div class="MsoNormal">
December always makes me particularly mindful of time and
its passage; how it speeds and slows according to age, tasks, days, stress
level, and a variety of other variables. I am ever more conscious of how
quickly time flies as I grow older, especially now that my daughters are nearly
grown and flown the nest. But I feel the passage of time most in December, when
the frantic bustle of the holiday season can’t quite mask the recognition that
another year is grinding toward its inevitable conclusion, firmly closing the
door on yet another year of hopes and disappointments, successes, failures,
joys and sorrows. For better or for worse, this chapter in the book of life has
come to an end. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Before the last page of the year is written, at 11:59 p.m.
on December 31<sup>st</sup>, we have one last month to tie the loose ends, to
sort the done and the undone, to reflect and regroup. Winter lends itself
nicely to this process; even here in sunny Southern California, there is a drop
in temperature, a crispness to the air, a dullness to the sunshine that drives
us indoors to more contemplative occupations. This is my favorite time of year
to write, when I cocoon inside my favorite hoodie and sweats, sit in front of
the computer, and escape inside my imagination. As I do, I am mindful that
these are the last words I will type in the old year. They become a tribute, a
last minute love poem to the best and the worst; what was and wasn’t.<o:p></o:p></div>
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January will come soon enough, sparkling with promise. I,
like many writers, will resolve to write more, send out more stories, publish,
market, repeat. I will approach each writing task with renewed energy, ready to
discard old habits and embrace the new, inspired by the blank pages of this fresh
chapter. The empty page is always terrifying: what should I say? Do I have
anything to say? How do I make these new words the best they can possibly be? I
know what I want to write, and the story has a way of telling itself; soon I
will lose control, become swept away into wherever the plot takes me. I will
have good writing days, and bad; some days, I won’t write anything at all. I
will cry, I will rage, I will celebrate. This is writing. This is life. And so
I will carry on until next December, when another chapter ends.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Endings and seem to carry the most significance; we measure
our lives in what we start and what we finish. Yes, these are important
milestones that drive us to accomplish goals and to reflect upon them. Yet when
at last we finish our book, what really matters most are not our first and last
chapters, but all of the story in between.<o:p></o:p></div>
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~ Kim Vandervort</div>
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Heroines of Fantasyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07169664399606524540noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3764159777348916628.post-83211434482742111202015-12-02T02:30:00.000-08:002015-12-02T02:30:03.744-08:00Winter Reading: Under the Skin by Michel Faber<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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This isn’t one of my regular new book reviews. It’s nearly the end of the year, the northern nights are long and dark, and I’ve been revisiting some of my favourite books. Many of these I first read a long time back. One book, however, that I only met for the first time late last year now sits firmly amid my favourites. It’s Michel Faber’s <em>Under the Skin*</em>.<br />
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I nearly didn’t read it. It was published way back in 2000, but I avoided it for years because the first of Faber’s books I’d encountered was <em>The Crimson Petal and the White</em> (2002) and that I <em>hated</em> (I’ve not changed my mind about it, either). But for whatever reason I did eventually pick up <em>Under the Skin</em>,<em> </em>and within a few pages I was transfixed.<br />
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Isserley, slight, scarred, in constant pain and with perfect, eye-drawing breasts, drives up and down the northern stretches of the <a href="http://a9road.info/" target="_blank">A9</a> picking up hitch-hikers. Only men. Only men travelling alone. After she’s picked them up, whilst their eyes linger – or try not to linger – on those breasts, she talks to them, finds out where they’re from and who will miss them, decides if they measure up to her standards and fit her needs. And then, well, yes, those warnings you’ve been given about the dangers of hitch-hiking and accepting lifts from strangers are all warranted. But not, in this case, for the obvious reasons.<br />
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Summarised baldly the plot would sound fairly banal, an equal mix of sci-fi horror and urban myth. Plot, of course, is not usually the most important aspect of a book, certainly not of a book one reads and rereads. This book gets everything right, characters, setting, echoes and resonances. I don’t want to make it sound over-burdened with cultural baggage – it’s first and foremost a taut and gripping story – but it could be read through the lens of gender politics, or societal divisions between haves and have-nots, as a satire on western fears around immigration or battery farming. <br />
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It is also quite beautifully written. Every sentence, every word, counts. There’s no exposition, no clumsy transfer of information from page to reader. It’s Isserley’s world and she inhabits it utterly. Everything comes from that. Everything has context. It’s a story I can believe in completely, even fourth time around. Faber positions the reader more or less under her skin to feel her hatred of the Elite who used her and betrayed her, of the surgeons who mutilated her, of herself for her complicity in that mutilation. And Isserley herself is seen, through the eyes of the men she drops off by the roadside or takes back with her to Ablach Farm. The world-building is fantastic. It’s a double world building, in fact, conjuring the Scottish landscapes, roads and weather as finely and precisely as anything I’ve read. All the details are right, from the cheery banality of the overhead warning signs to the smell of whelks on the shore. And because all those details are right I can, of course, trust all the other details too, the ones not rooted in any reality outside the book. <br />
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In life, of course, no one can ever know what lies under someone else’s skin. In a book the reader sees all. As the story unfolds in perfect pace, I learn who Isserley is, what happens at the farm, why she finds the seascapes of the Moray Firth so alien and lovely. I learn of her escape from a miserable life on the Estates back home and the dreadful price she paid for it. I see too that the men she picks up all have their pasts and stories. Some are lonely, some are hopeful, some are well-meaning, some lecherous and dangerous. Isserley must question each, listening, guessing, hoping desperately all the while that she doesn’t make a mistake, but over and again I’m aware of the gulf between reality and perception, and how easily and neatly tragedy slips in to fill that gulf. <em>Only connect,</em> but Isserley has no wish to connect. She has a job to do, only she can do it, and she prides herself on doing it well.<br />
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For her past has left its scars upon her psyche as well as her body: she’s a tight, prickly soul, wary of kindness, estranged from the workers at the farm as much as from the hitchers on the road. At the same time, she’s filled with wonder at the strangeness and the beauty of her new home. Most wonderfully of all, I can see, as the story unfolds through Isserley’s experiences and encounters, how the landscapes through which she drives day after day seep under her skin, changing her slowly from one thing to another until, finally, she makes a connection. Metaphysics, perhaps, but still the perfect end to the story.<br />
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Harriet Goodchild<br />
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<em>* Under the Skin</em> was made into a film starring Scarlett Johansson. It’s often said that the best film adaptations are those which don’t attempt a literal rendering. This one certainly doesn’t, being a very free interpretation of the novel. As it was, having read the novel first, I tried to map it onto the film and found myself perhaps more baffled than a completely naïve viewer. In retrospect, that’s the wrong way to view it as, although it retains something of the central conceit, the film works it in another mood and direction entirely. It's a rather beautiful, surreal couple of hours but not much like the source material. The book is, I think, also very beautiful but it’s not at all surreal and not really that strange. It’s concrete and grounded in character and place in a way the film is not.<br />
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Buy links<br />
<a href="http://www.amazon.co.uk/Under-The-Skin-Michel-Faber/dp/1782112111" target="_blank">Amazon UK</a><br />
<a href="http://www.amazon.com/Under-Skin-Novel-Michel-Faber/dp/0156011603" target="_blank">Amazon US</a><br />
<br />Heroines of Fantasyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07169664399606524540noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3764159777348916628.post-35352464659107681492015-11-09T06:00:00.000-08:002015-11-09T06:00:04.736-08:00I'm a BelieverThis is going to be one short post, because my weekend slipped by, and then suddenlty I remembered: I'm up on HoF for Monday!<br />
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Fortunately, I have a topic handy that ties in with writing fast: National Novel Writing Month.<br />
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I'm doing Nanowrimo for the first time ever this year.<br />
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I confess, I've always been a skeptic about this event. Being a quality over quantity person, I've never been much into punching out words just to punch out words. Moving too fast toward a number goal seemed to me a sure recipe for having to spend double time on revisions later.<br />
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And who knows? Maybe I'm right. Maybe it takes just as much time to mull and agonize over wording while you go along, as it would to just throw whatever comes to mind into the manuscript and then go back later and...well, mull and agonize again.<br />
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Still. This year felt like the right year for me to give it a try. I happen to be working on a short novel that seemed amenable to the 50k challenge. Even more tempting, I knew if I took the challenge and succeeded, I could very well have this manuscript done by December.<br />
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Now, a week into the dare, I have just over 11,000 words written. Not quite on target to meet the 50k challenge, but well within range to accomplish my own personal goal. Needless to say, this gives me a great sense of satisfaction.<br />
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But there's more to this, really, than numbers. Nanowrimo has given me something very much unexpected, and also very welcome. For the first time in a long time, all that matters right now is my story. In a way, I'm reliving the early days of crafting my first novel, when every spare minute was devoted to discovery and creating. I remember this feeling, and have thought of it often in recent years with nostalgia.<br />
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Once published, it seems, it's hard for an author to enjoy that pure focus that inspires the first novel. There's just so much else getting in the way. Editing, marketing, blogging, tweeting, Facebooking, book signing... the list goes on and on; a veritable truckload of writing related things demand our attention, leaving us with very little time to, well, write.<br />
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No matter how far I get on my word count this month, I'm grateful to Nanowrimo for allowing me to sink back into that spark that is the creative moment; to wallow in it, even, for a full month while everything else (even <i>Heroines of Fantasy!</i>) goes on hold.<br />
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So yes, Nanowrimo, this skeptic has become a believer. I may be back again next year, and the next, in only to keep in touch with the writer I most like to be.<br />
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How about you? Are you doing Nanowrimo? And how do you keep the creative focus alive when all those other writerly responsibilities get in the way?Heroines of Fantasyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07169664399606524540noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3764159777348916628.post-35224205190205704582015-11-04T05:29:00.000-08:002015-11-04T05:32:22.388-08:00Wednesday Review: Last Night at the Blue Alice<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Title: Last Night at the Blue Alice<br />
Author: Mehitobel Wilson<br />
Genre: Fantasy/Paranormal/Urban<br />
Publisher: Bedlam Press<br />
Publication date: September 2015<br />
Point of sale: <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Last-Night-at-Blue-Alice/dp/1939065844/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1446605856&sr=8-1&keywords=last+night+at+the+blue+alice" target="_blank">Amazon</a><br />
Price: Kindle $2.99 or Paperback $9.95<br />
Description:<i> Mollie Chandler is on the verge of joining a shadowy Order whose magical operatives, the Glymjacks, manipulate events of the past. As the only candidate for the role of Psychopomp, she must pass one final test before the job is hers. The crumbling Blue Alice has been gathering ghosts for over a hundred years. Once a grand mansion, it was converted to a rooming house in the 1920s. Tenants throughout the century since have suffered violent poltergeist attacks by a vengeful spirit, complained of a spectral woman in black who looms and leers at their every move, reported hearing music when there should be none playing, and appealed to exorcists when tormented by a judgmental demon. Mollie must use magic, ingenuity, and intuition to travel back in time to the source of each haunting, avert their circumstances, and change history. If she succeeds, she will have to give up everything she’s ever known to become a Glymjack. If she fails, Mollie will not survive - if she’s lucky. The alternatives to death are far worse. Mollie has but one night to change the histories of the dead and plot the course for her own future. She is running out of time, and into the haunted heart of the Blue Alice.</i><br />
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Good morning! Cybelle here with another Wednesday review. This week I read an intriguing novella by Mehitobel Wilson. The Blue Alice is considered the most haunted house in the region, and it has been selected as the location of Mollie's final exam. In order to become a true psychopomp, she must travel back in time to intervene in the final moments of people's lives and prevent them from becoming the tortured spirits that haunt the place. When she returns to the present, she must give the details of the experience to her Second. During the course of the night, Mollie makes four trips to the past to correct the ghost problems in the old house. The first one goes smoothly, but the three following encounters present far greater challenges. Although Mollie succeeds in clearing the place of ghosts, she fears her methods will destroy her chances of joining the Glymjacks.<br />
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This novella is an engaging read and often quite funny. Each of Mollie's interventions would make great standalone stories, but they are beautifully linked through the framework of a final exam. It's an interesting twist on traditional haunted house stories. Although Wilson is best known for horror, this is more of a paranormal fantasy. Her research into various cultural beliefs surrounding death and haunting is clear throughout the novella and adds to its charm. The characters are well developed and memorable. The tale of the sad Goth girl, Gillian Frye, is both humorous and tragic. She sees Mollie as a ghost and is eager to communicate with her. Her death is the hardest for Mollie to process and forces her to reconsider the usefulness of her empathy in dealing with the dead. Her encounter with another young woman, Ruby, makes her question whether all hauntings are bad.<br />
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If you're in the mood for a quick, lighthearted read with horror elements, this is a good choice. You'll find references to classic horror films and classical antiquity, along with a great cast of well-drawn characters. Definitely a treat for anyone who already misses Halloween!<br />
<br />Heroines of Fantasyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07169664399606524540noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3764159777348916628.post-62203986014274265252015-11-02T00:00:00.000-08:002015-11-02T00:00:06.092-08:00Apologies to ThanksgivingDear Thanksgiving,<div>
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Effective November 1st, all stores have officially transitioned from Halloween to Christmas. I would like to thoroughly apologize on behalf of American culture for, once again, forgetting all about you. I know this may sound insincere, but truly: it's not you, it's us.</div>
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Part of the problem is placement. Despite your great significance and firm roots in American history, unfortunately, you are nestled between Halloween and Christmas, which have both transitioned from somewhat modest holidays grounded in old religious and cultural traditions to grand displays of secular commercialism (just be glad you aren't Chanukah, or Ramadan-- they get even less cultural love than you). Let's face it, Thanksgiving: they are big, sparkly and fun, celebrated with lots of parties and freebies. You are old money; they are Gatsby. It isn't your fault that they suck up all of the attention, but there isn't really anything you can do about it, either. Sorry.</div>
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Another reason why we tend to slight you is cost. Halloween is a lot of effort, and has become quite expensive. We can't just buy some candy, flip on the light, hand it out to some cute kids in plastic tie-on costumes purchased at the drugstore, turn everything off when the candy's gone, and go to bed. No, the costumes are now either extravagant hand-made Cosplay or pricey Party City fare that clearly costs at least $40 a yard of fabric (or lack thereof). We have to decorate now, too: giant spiders (I'm looking at you, neighbors, and I really resent your 5-foot tarantula), sticky webs, orange sparkle lights, gravestones, mummies, skeletons, etc. At least $100 in candy must be purchased to avoid getting "tricked" by "children" varying in age from 0-60, and we haven't even discussed the cost of booze and snacks for parties. By the time November 1st rolls around, we're so broke that it's time to save for Christmas, and we all know what a financial burden that is. </div>
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Another real problem here is time. To put it bluntly: we're exhausted from Halloween, and we now have less than two months until Christmas. I'm stressed just thinking about it. The retailers enjoy reminding of this fact hourly, with their cheerful "15 shopping days until Christmas!" countdowns and snappy jingles. You used to be a lovely little break in the chaos, but now, thanks to the miracle of commercialism, we can forego acknowledging you entirely in favor of that new little pseudo-holiday upstart "Black Friday" who has seriously encroached on your space.</div>
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Look, I really enjoy you. Having a few days off to give thanks for our blessings and remember the historical coming together that saved our colonists' asses so many years ago is really kind of amazing, especially when life seems to move at ever more frantic a pace. Taking time to reflect upon what is truly important to us, to our families, to each other, and to just sit together and be grateful for what we have, in every way that is important to us, is not something we can honor by putting giant sparkling pilgrims in our yard or dressing like hookers, but that doesn't make it any less valuable. We may not exchange physical gifts, but sitting down with those we love and giving them our time and attention-- two of the most elusive commodities in our fast-paced society-- are probably the best gifts we can share with one another. And need I mention that you come with turkey and pie? What are people thinking?!</div>
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Thanksgiving, I, for one, promise to do better this year. As much as I love these other holidays, this year I vow to push Christmas off just a little longer so that when you come around, we can really enjoy hanging out. As much as I like that Black Friday guy, I'm not letting him have my Thanksgiving Thursday. I and my family are going to hang out in our pajamas and watch the Macy's Thanksgiving Day parade, enjoy a hearty meal, and above all, remember that the world needs a little more gratitude and a little less marketing. </div>
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Maybe if we all slow down and spend a little more time being grateful for what we have and less time worrying about what we don't, we can all achieve some true peace. </div>
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All the love,</div>
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Kim Vandervort</div>
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<br /></div>
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Heroines of Fantasyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07169664399606524540noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3764159777348916628.post-22320999502510581202015-10-28T06:00:00.000-07:002015-10-28T06:00:01.462-07:00Who Needs Horror - We've Got History!<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<i><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Hi, there! Louise here - now it's my turn to offer some fare for the 2016 Fright Fest season. And I thought that this year, I'd go back to basics. Forget demons and zombies and werewolves and all that supernatural stuff - if it's something truly scary or horrible that you're looking for, then you don't have to seek it out in the Otherworld, or in fantastic realms. Just open your front door and look around you. Yes, I'm talking about the human race. You can't get much more horrible than us - we've been doing things that are mean, and nasty and downright horrific for thousands of years - just open a history book, and you'll see exactly what I mean.</span></i></div>
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<i><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Today I'm going to share an insight into the evil that men do. It's a fragment from my second novel, 'The Gryphon at Bay:' the immediate follow-up to my historical novel 'Fire and Sword,' it's currently lodged with Hadley Rille Books.</span></i></div>
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<i><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">The scene I've chosen to share with you imaginatively recreates an actual event which took place between October and November in 1489, so the timing is just perfect. History doesn't fill in many details: all we know is that the Lord Kilmaurs was slain by Hugh, 2nd Lord Montgomerie. Was it murder? Was it a judicial killing? And what of the aftermath? Can we assume that the real Hugh Montgomerie felt perfectly justified in his actions? Perhaps. Did he think about it afterwards, and regret what he had done? Who knows?</span></i></div>
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<i><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Such things are, of course, beyond the scope of historical sources. But they are the meat and drink of historical fiction writers, of course.</span></i></div>
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<i><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">So may I present to you an episode of true horror, from a time and a place which weathered more than its fair share of feud and war and casual brutality. Perhaps that night, the Cunninghames might have been forgiven in thinking they were in the presence of the Devil incarnate: when we join the action, the Lord Kilmaurs lies dead, and for his brother Will Cunninghame of Craigends and his son Cuthbert, Master of Kilmaurs, the future is far from secure.</span></i></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">They followed the road for several miles, then
Craigends changed course, heading off across the fields. By the time they
slowed their pace, the horses were blowing and lathered in sweat.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Craigends cocked his head. He could’ve sworn he’d
heard the bray of a horn. “Alright.” He halted near a small stand of trees.
“Let’s leave the horses. They’ll find their own way home.”</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">“What?” Cuthbert demanded, disbelieving. </span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">“Montgomerie’s after us.”</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">“Surely we can outrun him?”</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">“He has the instincts of a sleuth-hound. And the
persistence.” Craigends was already dismounting. “Don’t give him the
satisfaction of hunting you down. This way, we’ll leave him a false trail.” He
cast the boy an anxious glance. “Can you walk?”</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Cuthbert winced as he lowered himself to the ground.
“I’ll have to.”</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">“Good lad. Now get on with you!” He lunged and hissed
at the horses, waving his arms to drive them away.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">“I don’t even know where we are,” Cuthbert whispered.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">“Ah, but I do. If God wills it, we’ll get home in one
piece, and in reasonable health, too. We owe it to your mother.”</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">“We could seek shelter until he calls off the
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">“He’ll search every byre and cottage. If he found us,
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their beasts.”</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">*<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Mist hung like a shroud over the land. A reassuring
sight, Craigends thought, for it meant that even Montgomerie might call off the
chase sooner rather than later.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Sounds travelled far in the still evening air, so they
heard the hue and cry in plenty of time. The thunder of hooves, the
blood-chilling calls of their pursuers.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">“We’ll find cover over there.” Grasping Cuthbert’s
arm, Craigends tugged him over to a dense thicket of whin and brambles that
overlooked the river. They ducked deep into its depths, oblivious to the thorns
that snagged their clothes and tore their flesh.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Cuthbert was trembling. Craigends held him close, an
attempt at reassurance. “Not a word, for God’s Sake...” Staring into the gloom,
he saw two Cunninghame retainers approach, unhorsed and stumbling with
weariness. They skirted the river, wading through reeds and sliding over rocks.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Cuthbert stirred. “We must help them.”</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">“Hold still!” Craigends growled.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">The enemy soon appeared: a dozen Montgomerie
men-at-arms, fanning out across the valley.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Craigends swallowed. Sweat settled chill across his
shoulders and back.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">The beleaguered Cunninghames were spotted. One of
Montgomerie’s retainers shouted out to his companions, and spurred his horse in
pursuit. Splashing through the river, he headed up the sloping ground at a
lumbering trot. He drew his sword and swept past, bringing one man down. The
other fled, back towards the jeering pack of men that waited below.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Craigends glanced aside, unwilling to witness the
slaughter. As he did so, he glimpsed something from the corner of his eye, a
flash of white.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">A horse approached, walking shin-deep through the
river. A grey spectral beast, bloodstained and terrible. </span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">And on its back, Montgomerie himself.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Lord Hugh halted, just twenty feet away. He was
bloodied and unkempt, his unsheathed sword resting against his shoulder. He
lifted his head, a wild beast scenting the air for quarry, nostrils flared, a
feral light in his eyes. His steel gaze fixed on the thicket and he stared into
its depths.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Craigends screwed his eyes shut, briefly, praying for
a miracle. Alongside, Cuthbert bowed his head and stifled a moan.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">A twig snapped, a figure moved nearby. It was the
Cunninghame retainer they’d dismissed as dead: he scrambled to his feet,
staggered a few steps.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Montgomerie’s head jerked round. He sat quite still,
watching keenly as the wounded man tried to flee. Then he stirred. Lifting his
sword, he closed in at a canter. With one lazy sweep, he hacked the man down as
he passed. He didn’t look back, riding onwards through the river with spray
flying from his horse’s hooves. He called to his men, and soon they were gone.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">The silence returned.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
Heroines of Fantasyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07169664399606524540noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3764159777348916628.post-62267968110477696022015-10-26T02:30:00.000-07:002015-10-26T02:30:00.909-07:00Usher's WellShe waits by the window. Behind her, the kitchen clock beats out the time. Seconds slip away into minutes; minutes pile up into hours. Strangers’ voices fill the room: the pips, the news, <em>The Archers</em>, drama, more news. She listens. Easier to listen than to think. Even today. Especially today.<br />
<br />
Sometime after three she makes coffee. Drinks it, standing by the window, watching the last leaves tumble from the apple tree and a blackbird searching the leaf mould at its foot. The day lingers, sour and sad, a dull, grey afternoon as so many in that year. With the unabashed self-interest of his kind, Jeoffry saunters in in search of chicken. She points him to his bowl where the giblets are waiting. He eats, then twists himself around her ankles, leaps mewing to the windowsill demanding to be stroked. She obliges, and his purr fills the kitchen. His fur is soft beneath her curving fingers. So warm. So vital. So alive.<br />
<br />
The light is thicker now. She checks her watch: half an hour until the sunset. She fills it with another coffee. The radio drones on and on, its empty words a counterpoint to Jeoffry’s purr.<br />
<br />
She looks around. All is in order. The house is clean, the food prepared, the beds made up, fresh towels in the bathroom, fresh flowers on the table. Chrysanthemums: red and gold and yellow, each a splash of colour against the November day. All is ready. The house is waiting to be filled.<br />
<br />
Jeoffry, sated, satisfied, slips away. She checks the clock again. Ten minutes left; nine. She reaches for her cup but her hands are shaking too much to hold it.<br />
<br />
No colour in the world beyond the window. No pomp or glory in this sunset. Merely the thickening light, the silent fall of rain upon the garden. So had her tears fallen, she thinks in a moment of fancy, salt rain falling down to water the cold clay.<br />
<br />
The car stops at the gate at the appointed time. Exactly to the minute, she marks, passing the hall clock as she hastens to the door. She throws it wide to the dreich evening and stands, heart racing, on her threshold. <br />
<br />
The driver gets out and walks around the car. It is the man she’d met in the kirkyard, dressed now, as then, in black. He opens the rear door and three boys – her three boys – pile out onto the pavement. The driver touches the eldest on the arm and stoops to whisper in his ear. Will glances at his brothers, nods, answers. She is too far away to catch his words. And then there is no need to think at all. Three boys come charging up the path to throw themselves into her waiting arms and all at once the world is as it should be.<br />
<br />
Despite the rain. Despite the falling rain.<br />
<br />
The house is full of noise and light. Coats and boots lie discarded by the door but even so they have left clods of damp earth on the carpet, and a litter of yellow birch leaves. As she picks up coats, more leaves drift from their pockets. She shivers, shaking her thoughts away. They have come home, and that is all that matters. They charge about upstairs from room to room, dragging out old toys, scuffling upon the landing, setting the telly to full blast. She smiles and locks the door, draws the curtains fast against the night.<br />
<br />
Jeoffry streaks down the stairs, eight pounds of furious tabby blown up into a tiger. She takes a step towards him, holding out her hand to soothe and stroke. He hisses, ears flat against his head, a wild thing at bay. She steps back and he hurls himself into the night, leaving the flap swinging behind him.<br />
<br />
‘Boys,’ she calls upstairs, ‘boys – what did you do to Jeoffry?’<br />
<br />
‘Nothing, Mum,’ comes back the chorus. ‘Nothing.’<br />
<br />
She pauses a minute in the hall, wondering whether to pursue it. <em>No need,</em> she thinks, <em>he’s a grown cat now, used to a quiet life.</em> He has forgotten them, that’s all.<br />
<br />
‘Supper in an hour,’ she calls.<br />
<br />
No answer. Unless you can count the distant sound of Adam’s drums an answer.<br />
<br />
Back in the kitchen she sets the final touches to the meal. The chicken waits, crisped skin brown and glistening. Mashed potatoes yellow with butter, heavy with cream; carrots glazed with sugar; peas dressed with chopped mint; chocolate fudge near an inch deep on the cake. Food to tempt their appetites. <br />
<br />
The youngest drifts in, clutching a toy dog.<br />
<br />
‘I can’t find Teddy,’ he says.<br />
<br />
Cold fingers clutch at her heart. ‘Oh, Tom.’<br />
<br />
She puts down the spatula and wipes chocolate from her fingers. Gathering him into her arms, settling him upon her lap, she breathes in the smell of him. Woodland. Leaf mould. <br />
<br />
He presses his face into her shoulder, small hands clinging tight. So familiar this feel, small boy curling himself into her heart. He’s wearing the top she’d laid out for him: his favourite, red, blazoned with dinosaurs; its colour had burned in a world turned all to grey and halflight.<br />
<br />
‘Better?’<br />
<br />
‘Kiss,’ he demands, turning up his face. <br />
<br />
She obliges, laughing. She wraps her arms around him, does not realise how tightly she is holding him until she feels him struggle.<br />
<br />
She lets him go. ‘Tell your brothers supper’s ready.’<br />
<br />
He skips out, dragging the dog by its ear behind him.<br />
<br />
Beyond the window, the night is full of rain. Within the warm kitchen, she carves and spoons and dollops, fills plates with chicken, mounds of potatoes, carrots, peas, pouring glasses full of fizzy drink – the kind often begged for, seldom granted – a treat to mark the day. They talk and squabble round the table, her three boys, her flesh, her blood, her children. Before she takes her place she puts down a plate for Jeoffry. <br />
<br />
She eats and talks, polices bickering, settles an argument between Tom and Adam over who would win: <em>T. rex</em> or ten – no, <em>twenty!</em> – ’raptors?<br />
<br />
The food is good, she is hungry. It’s been a long time since last she took such pleasure in her cooking. The chicken was a gift from next door; well-set urbanites retiring to play the rural good life, their little flock the bane of weekend lie-ins. There have been many such gifts, these last months, from friends, from neighbours, from people who will hold her hand but not, quite, look her in the eye. Looking around the table at her sons’ faces, the months before this night are as a dream, a bad dream, from which she has now woken. <br />
<br />
She stands to help herself to more. Jeoffry’s food remains untouched. No sign of him, despite the rain.<br />
<br />
A clatter behind her. The eldest, carefully, is clearing plates, scraping unwanted food into the bin. He smiles, reassuring, suddenly so much older than his years. ‘It was lovely, Mum. Really. It’s just, we cannot eat.’<br />
<br />
She smiles brightly, pouring flattened drinks away. ‘It’s the excitement, I expect. I could never eat after a journey.’<br />
<br />
Will lays his hand on her arm. ‘Mum, you know. He explained it.’<br />
<br />
Her mind flicks to the driver; their meeting in the kirkyard. She’d thought him first a minister in his black garb, holding his black book, and hurried past, avoiding his gaze. Even so, he’d come to stand beside her beneath the birken trees, besides the stone, and she’d seen his book no Bible but <em>The Tragedie of HAMLET, Prince of Denmarke</em>. He’d tapped its spine and told her, ‘There are ways, you know. He’d not tell you,’ a wave of his white hand to the minister’s house, ‘but I can.’ <br />
<br />
So she had listened.<br />
<br />
She thinks, now, of the milk in the ’fridge, the bacon, the eggs, the unopened boxes of cereal, the pancakes she has planned for breakfast. She thinks of the man beneath the trees, of all he told her. Of her promise and her crooked fingers. The door is locked. The windows fastened. <br />
<br />
‘He is not here,’ she says. It comes out more sharply than she means. ‘Only we are here.’<br />
<br />
Will nods, biting his lip, turning away without an answer. She cuts the cake and gives each boy a slice. Tom looks from brother to brother, and shakes his head.<br />
<br />
‘Just a little bit?’ she asks. ‘A mouthful?’<br />
<br />
He shakes his head again, lips wobbling, a tear just spilling from his eye.<br />
<br />
‘Never mind,’ she says with a bright, forced smile. ‘It will keep until you're hungry. Run away and play.’<br />
<br />
The evening draws on into night. The eldest plays on the PS with his brother whilst the youngest has his bath. The house is filled with the crackle of gunfire, the crash and blast of heavy shells, with boys’ voices cheering on destruction. Tom sings and splashes, soaking the bathroom floor just as he’s always done. She looks out of his bedroom window, watching the rain run down the glass. Unlike Jeoffry to be without on such a night. He is a one for creature comforts. <em>Ah well,</em> she thinks, <em>it’s his look out. </em>He has a catflap, and knows well how to use it.<br />
<br />
Tom comes in, sweet and small in blue pyjamas. His pale, bright hair, towel-dried, stands up fluffy around his face. He picks his way through the litter of toys strewn across his floor – <em>How do boys wreak such havoc in so short a time? </em>– and pulls book after book from the shelf until he finds the one he wants.<br />
<br />
‘Read it!’ he demands, and so she does, snuggling up with him under the duvet. He smells of soap now; his neck has the milky smell she remembers from his babyhood. After a while there is a ceasefire beyond the door. His brothers wander in and settle themselves, Will resting against the pillow beside Tom, Adam lounging at the bedfoot.<br />
<br />
‘Not too old for stories, then?’<br />
<br />
They pull disgusted faces at such sentiment, but neither moves away.<br />
<br />
The world dwindles down to this small room, bounded by the circle of lamplight; the only sounds beyond her voice the tick-ticking of the dinosaur clock upon the wall and the rain against the window.<br />
<br />
‘I want Teddy.’ Tom’s voice is scarce more than a whisper, conjuring a flash of earth clodding down upon worn fur. Her heart turns over in her breast.<br />
<br />
Will puts an arm around Tom’s shoulders. ‘Just tonight, okay. You’ll have Teddy again tomorrow.’<br />
<br />
‘Promise?’<br />
<br />
‘Promise,’ Will answers. <br />
<br />
<em>The door is locked,</em> she thinks to calm her racing heart,<em> the door is locked and bolted. They are mine again, forever and for always.</em><br />
<em></em><br />
‘Go on, Mum,’ Will says. ‘You’re coming to the good bit.’ <br />
<br />
She reads on, late into the night. Tom relaxes into sleep beside her, his slight body becoming a deadweight on her arm. The others yawn and stretch themselves. She wonders if she should turn them out, make them wash, send them to sleep in their own rooms. But it is late and she as tired as they. And besides, now they are here, she cannot bear to have them leave her.<br />
<br />
Will’s head lolls against her shoulder and she too drifts into sleep, the patter-pat of rain running through her dreams.<br />
<br />
At cockcrow, she wakes all of a start to darkness and finds the space in the bed empty beside her. She snaps on the light and three boys look around with wide, dark eyes. Will is crouching down by Tom, the red top ready in his hands to pull over his brother’s tousled head. <br />
<br />
‘What are you doing?’ she asks.<br />
<br />
Adam points to the clock. Half-past seven. ‘He’ll be here soon, Mum.’ <br />
<br />
<em>Less than fifteen minutes,</em> she thinks; the time of sunrise written ’cross her mind, for all there is no sign of dawn beyond the window, only the rattle of rain against the glass. <br />
<br />
She shakes her head. ‘I’ll make breakfast. What shall we do today?’<br />
<br />
‘Mum,’ Will says, quietly, ‘you know we can’t stay. A night. You agreed.’<br />
<br />
‘The door is locked,’ she says. ‘He can’t come in.’<br />
<br />
‘No, but if we’re missed –’ Adam begins. A glance from Will reduces him to silence. Wide-eyed, fearful, Tom looks between his brothers and then to her. She wants to run to him, to catch him up into her arms and hold him tight and never, ever let him go.<br />
<br />
‘Please,’ Will says, ‘don’t make it harder than it is.’<br />
<br />
‘Will,’ she holds out her hands to her sons, ‘Adam, Tom, this is your home.’<br />
<br />
Will shakes his head and continues, carefully, gently, to get Tom dressed. Next door, the cock crows again, heralding the day. The clock ticks on, conscienceless, relentless, measuring out the minutes.<br />
<br />
Downstairs, the door is locked; the key is heavy in her hand, memories of other mornings heavy in her memory: the rush to leave before the bus, the scrabble for forgotten books, for rugby boots and pencil cases, the nag and niggles over unfinished prep and untucked shirts. Today, they wait quietly for the door to be opened, washed, brushed, ready. So had they been last time she saw them, still-faced and silent, so clean and combed they had scarce seemed her sons. Only Adam’s tapping foot betrays impatience.<br />
<br />
‘Adam,’ she has to ask, seeing him glance to the clock, ‘it wasn’t just me? This is what you wanted?’<br />
<br />
For a moment, only for a moment, she sees in the depths of his eyes something that should be in no child’s face, something more than she has ever dreamt of. She could have stood against the world, she thinks, kept the door locked fast, broken all her promises to the black-clad man, but for that. Will holds out his hand and she gives him what he needs.<br />
<br />
Will turns the key and draws back the bolt. He kisses her good bye, then Adam takes his place, cold arms about her neck, cold lips against her cheek. She crouches down and buttons Tom’s coat, pulling up his hood against the rain. He is again clutching the toy dog.<br />
<br />
Holding Tom’s face between her hands, she kisses him, then stands back to let them pass her by. Hand in hand, her sons step out into the rain and the halflight before dawn. The car is waiting at the gate, the black-clad driver by its open door.<br />
<br />
As the car pulls away, as she crouches, weeping, just inside the door, Jeoffry stalks in, tail held high, heading for his bowl.<br />
<br />
<br />
The Wife of Usher's Well <em>(Child Ballad no. 79) is a ghost story. It's not a scary story - well, not in the obvious way - but a very, very sad one. You've just read my version: here's </em><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QszXJ2ukPl8" target="_blank"><em>Karine Polwart</em></a><em> singing another.</em><br />
<br />
Harriet GoodchildHeroines of Fantasyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07169664399606524540noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3764159777348916628.post-58687177684068072872015-10-23T05:00:00.000-07:002015-10-23T05:00:08.585-07:00A Talk in the DarkHi folks! Mark here with a small offering to the fright-fest celebration. To be honest, I wasn't sure if I would come up with something. I think this is on the different or odd end of our common equation, but in retrospect I think it touches on some of the themes running throughout my Pevana novels. I will final judgment to you, the readers. I call it 'A Talk in the Dark.' It reminds me of a very old story of mine, written back when I was 18-19 and trying to figure out how to survive at a big university. I might have to go back and dig through the notebook boxes and revisit it. There might be some seeds there. I hope this small bit suffices for now.<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">A Talk in the Dark<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I awoke again to darkness. At
least, I think I awoke. Light, definition, shape and texture have begun to fade
for me. All I know is I move my eyes because I can feel my lids and lashes.
Like all the other times, I reach out to my right and touch the wooden bowl and
jug of water. Someone puts them there when I sleep, I guess. I’ve tried staying
awake to at least hear the sound of someone else’s breathing or a footstep—anything.
But so far, nothing. I reach back in my memory to try to assemble the sequence
of events that brought me here, but even that has become difficult.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was a soldier. Just a ranker
with a spear and shield. Nobody important. I’m not sure why I’ve warranted such
special attention.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Or is it special neglect? </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>There are times in the dark when I talk to myself. I natter away with my
memories to dispel a little of the nothing with noise. I can tell my eyes are
open, can feel the dryness when I’ve bugged them out for too long, striving
against the Nothing for a hint of Something. I have to actually tell myself to
blink.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But all I have are tactile
sensations and the monotony of my own voice, and even that pales over time. I
can tell I’m dirty. My hair has grown long. I do not know for sure how long I
have been here, whether I am young or old. I can stand and move with relative
ease but only cautiously. In this absence of landmark, I inch about more
careful than a truly blind man, toes and fingers hyper-sensitive to any change,
any alteration in the air currents caused by my breathing that might
suggest…something.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"> Change. I keep reaching for it; I can’t say looking because I have all
but forgotten what shape is other than my own limbs and body. I know I hug
myself constantly, as though I were some catatonic holding on to insanity.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Or sanity. In this place I
do not think there is much difference.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have memories of light, faces that I still
recall as family, and others I vaguely remember as friends. But more and more I
find the images harder to conjure. Mostly now all that comes easily to me are
the sounds of fighting, cruel faces in strange garb thrusting spears and
blades, leering faces, bearded, sweaty, disfigured by tattooed designs and
ritual slashes. I remember the smells of burning wood and flesh, the choking,
retching horror of defeat and displacement. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And then a spear butt
smashing into my forehead, followed by darkness.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This same darkness,
unchanged, ever since. And the silence, which I break with my hesitant
breathing and snatches of odd conversation with my terrors, rubbing at the
slowly healing scar, which is the only tangible tie I have to
what went before.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I walk out of habit but
afraid of what I might bump into, and I talk in a whisper, which still seems
loud to me, out of fear that someone or something might be listening. Oddly
enough, I never come up against a wall, or a pit, nothing.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But as for that, I cannot
make out why. I have all but forgotten who I am. Or was.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And that is what terrifies me
the most and keeps me huddling and whispering and dry-eyed in the darkness: who
am I that I should suffer so, and who are they that would do this to one so
insignificant? Such thoughtless power serves to intensify the dark and make my
gibbering all the more hapless.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In a dark such as this, it is
difficult to maintain pride and dignity.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“I’ve had enough!” </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The sound of my own voice,
croaking and broken, scares me back to silence and I crouch down, waiting for a
blow.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But nothing. Nothing ever
responds. At least, nothing that doesn’t come from inside me.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I wonder if this is what
death feels like, then I catch myself. What if this is what death IS?</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Then who keeps feeding me?” my
faltered self asks. “I’m not dead. That much I can claim. I smell my own
excrement and sweat. The dead don’t eat and drink.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Ah, but who is to say?” responded
my better self. “You’ve cracked too much to reason it out, admit it.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“I will admit no such thing!”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“It doesn’t matter what you
will or will not admit. You’ve no choice in the matter, anymore.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“But why?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Because your side lost.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Don’t you mean ‘our’ side?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Don’t try that old game.
You will just make it worse.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“But how can you live
without knowing?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“How can you know without
living? Answer me that, why don’t you? Perhaps if we could draw some
conclusions, ha, ‘draw’, that’s good, as if we’d be able to see them.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Stop it with your stupid
irony.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Why don’t you stop it with
the crouching and the whining? You make us smell like a savage.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“But I am, ‘we’ aren’t
savages! Oh, blast you! I remember a city of white stones on a hill above the
sea. Flags and towers and song drifting on the breeze.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Fine and pleasant
illusions.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“But you knew them, too!”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Yes. I knew them. We knew
them. Everyone knew them. Can you see them here? Smell them? Hear them?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“No,” my faltered-self
quavered. “All there is here is nothing.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Yes, like I said, all
pleasant illusions.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“I cannot accept that.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“I know, but we both know
we are out of options. Defiance means nothing in the Nothing.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“I hate it when you make
sense.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“I don’t do it to anger
you. It is who I, ‘we’ are, what they have made us—those painted, bearded
victors. We never had a chance once they broke the wall.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Wall?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Don’t tell me you’ve
forgotten that part, too! Are we so fractured, then?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“No, I remember now. We’ve
had this talk before, haven’t we.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Many times, one time,
doesn’t really matter now. Time is not for me, ‘us’.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“You think you know
something, don’t you. Tell me. You know something. You remember more than I do.
Tell me!”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And then silence, as
though in my madness my better-self thought better of the answer. I blinked,
waiting, hugging my dirty, scrawny limbs. I felt small. So small.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Tell me,” my faltered-self
whispered.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“I think I am,” came the
answer, final, sepulchral. “ Or ‘we’ are, culture, all but forgotten save by
the scribes and keepers of records. We are the words of the poets fallen on all
but deaf ears, recalled as an afterthought, shelved.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“So what are we to do?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Wait.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“But this is the Nothing!”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Yes, it is the Nothing. We
might wait long…”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span> </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">10/18/15</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span> </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Mark Nelson</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The Poets of Pevana</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">King's Gambit</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The Poet King</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Pevanese Mosaic</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p></div>
Heroines of Fantasyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07169664399606524540noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3764159777348916628.post-36181165286923530902015-10-19T07:00:00.000-07:002015-10-19T07:00:06.338-07:00The Candidate by Gustavo Bondoni<div class="MsoBodyText" style="text-indent: 35.4pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="text-indent: 35.4pt;">
<span style="font-style: normal;">“I’m
sorry sir.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Nothing personal,” the driver
said as the car pulled to a stop along a deserted stretch of mountain road.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The gun in his hand kept Emery from moving.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="text-indent: 35.4pt;">
<span style="font-style: normal;">“What’s
happening, Tim?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="text-indent: 35.4pt;">
<span style="font-style: normal;">“Better
offer from someone else.” The driver shrugged. “Hush, now.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They’ll be here soon.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="text-indent: 35.4pt;">
<span style="font-style: normal;">Almost
immediately, a Hummer pulled up in the roadway behind them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Black.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Sinister.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Unmarked.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Three men descended and approached the limo.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="text-indent: 35.4pt;">
<span style="font-style: normal;">Tim
ordered Emery off.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They stood facing the
men.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="text-indent: 35.4pt;">
<span style="font-style: normal;">Emery
had expected Arabs, or Russians or Chinese.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>He was disappointed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The three men
looked like a cross section of middle-class America.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The thin black guy in the conservative suit
and pencil mustache seemed to be in charge while the two big white guys, one
blond-haired, one dark moved to either side of Emery.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="text-indent: 35.4pt;">
<span style="font-style: normal;">“Good
work, Tim,” the leader said.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“We’ll take
it from here.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="text-indent: 35.4pt;">
<span style="font-style: normal;">Tim
nodded and handed over the pistol.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As
soon as the gun was out of sight, blond guy took a step forward and punched the
driver in the face. He went down in a spray of blood and stayed there, kicking
feebly.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="text-indent: 35.4pt;">
<span style="font-style: normal;">Emery
was enraged.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Do you know who I am?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="text-indent: 35.4pt;">
<span style="font-style: normal;">The
black guy just smiled.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Of course we
do.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And we can’t let you win today.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And the only way to stop you is to kill you.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Goodbye, Mr. Emery.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="text-indent: 35.4pt;">
<span style="font-style: normal;">Emery
struggled, but the big guys stuffed him back into the limo. They put the
semiconscious driver into the front seat and locked the doors and bullet-proof
windows from the driver’s compartment.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He
was trapped.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="text-indent: 35.4pt;">
<span style="font-style: normal;">Emery
had been suspicious from the outset.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It
had all been too easy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>His party had
made it seem perfectly rational.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>His
approval rating in his home state was through the roof.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He had the ideal physical characteristics –
strong enough to be respected by men, handsome enough to be trusted by women. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They gleefully pointed out that the opposing
party had been making a huge mess of things for the past four years.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It would be a landslide.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The polls had upheld this view.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="text-indent: 35.4pt;">
<span style="font-style: normal;">So,
if everything was so peachy why wasn’t he the least bit surprised that, instead
of being on his way to vote for himself, he was trapped inside a limo awaiting
God knew what fate?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="text-indent: 35.4pt;">
<span style="font-style: normal;">The
car shuddered.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The Hummer had come up
behind it and was pushing the limo forward.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Through the window and the partition, Emery could see a sharp turn approaching
a few hundred yards ahead.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Nothing but a
long fall awaited on the other side of the guardrail.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="text-indent: 35.4pt;">
<span style="font-style: normal;">He
pulled desperately at the door handles as the car gathered speed, but it was no
use.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The doors were locked from the
driver’s cabin.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He pounded on the glass,
trying to get Tim to react.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The driver
seemed sluggish, looking back in confusion.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Emery frantically gestured for the man to look forward.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="text-indent: 35.4pt;">
<span style="font-style: normal;">The
driver turned and sat there, uncomprehending, for precious moments before he
reacted.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He gripped the steering wheel
with both hands – just as the limo hit the guardrail and went over it like it
wasn’t even there.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="text-indent: 35.4pt;">
<span style="font-style: normal;">Silence
filled the cabin as the car sailed through the air, all road noise gone.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Emery could see the ground hundreds of feet
below as the nose of the vehicle pitched forward to face it.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="text-indent: 35.4pt;">
<span style="font-style: normal;">The
driver scrambled madly – hopelessly – to steer the car back.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The realization that </span><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">this was it, he was going to die</span><span style="font-style: normal;"> took root in Emery’s soul.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He silently watched the screaming driver,
fascinated, horrified.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="text-indent: 35.4pt;">
<span style="font-style: normal;">His
own self-control deserted him with the ground less than forty feet away.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He began to scream, but cut it off when a
sudden unexpected deceleration slammed him into the glass partition se</span><b style="text-indent: 35.4pt;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;">The Candidate</span></b></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="text-indent: 35.4pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="text-indent: 35.4pt;">
“I’m
sorry sir. Nothing personal,” the driver
said as the car pulled to a stop along a deserted stretch of mountain road. The gun in his hand kept Emery from moving.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="text-indent: 35.4pt;">
“What’s
happening, Tim?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="text-indent: 35.4pt;">
“Better
offer from someone else.” The driver shrugged. “Hush, now. They’ll be here soon.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="text-indent: 35.4pt;">
Almost
immediately, a Hummer pulled up in the roadway behind them. Black.
Sinister. Unmarked. Three men descended and approached the limo.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="text-indent: 35.4pt;">
Tim
ordered Emery off. They stood facing the
men.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="text-indent: 35.4pt;">
Emery
had expected Arabs, or Russians or Chinese.
He was disappointed. The three men
looked like a cross section of middle-class America. The thin black guy in the conservative suit
and pencil mustache seemed to be in charge while the two big white guys, one
blond-haired, one dark moved to either side of Emery.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Good
work, Tim,” the leader said. “We’ll take
it from here.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="text-indent: 35.4pt;">
Tim
nodded and handed over the pistol. As
soon as the gun was out of sight, blond guy took a step forward and punched the
driver in the face. He went down in a spray of blood and stayed there, kicking
feebly.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="text-indent: 35.4pt;">
Emery
was enraged. “Do you know who I am?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="text-indent: 35.4pt;">
The
black guy just smiled. “Of course we
do. And we can’t let you win today. And the only way to stop you is to kill you. Goodbye, Mr. Emery.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="text-indent: 35.4pt;">
Emery
struggled, but the big guys stuffed him back into the limo. They put the
semiconscious driver into the front seat and locked the doors and bullet-proof
windows from the driver’s compartment. He
was trapped.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="text-indent: 35.4pt;">
Emery
had been suspicious from the outset. It
had all been too easy. His party had
made it seem perfectly rational. His
approval rating in his home state was through the roof. He had the ideal physical characteristics –
strong enough to be respected by men, handsome enough to be trusted by women. They gleefully pointed out that the opposing
party had been making a huge mess of things for the past four years. It would be a landslide. The polls had upheld this view.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="text-indent: 35.4pt;">
So,
if everything was so peachy why wasn’t he the least bit surprised that, instead
of being on his way to vote for himself, he was trapped inside a limo awaiting
God knew what fate?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="text-indent: 35.4pt;">
The
car shuddered. The Hummer had come up
behind it and was pushing the limo forward.
Through the window and the partition, Emery could see a sharp turn approaching
a few hundred yards ahead. Nothing but a
long fall awaited on the other side of the guardrail.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="text-indent: 35.4pt;">
He
pulled desperately at the door handles as the car gathered speed, but it was no
use. The doors were locked from the
driver’s cabin. He pounded on the glass,
trying to get Tim to react. The driver
seemed sluggish, looking back in confusion.
Emery frantically gestured for the man to look forward.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="text-indent: 35.4pt;">
The
driver turned and sat there, uncomprehending, for precious moments before he
reacted. He gripped the steering wheel
with both hands – just as the limo hit the guardrail and went over it like it
wasn’t even there.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="text-indent: 35.4pt;">
Silence
filled the cabin as the car sailed through the air, all road noise gone. Emery could see the ground hundreds of feet
below as the nose of the vehicle pitched forward to face it.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="text-indent: 35.4pt;">
The
driver scrambled madly – hopelessly – to steer the car back. The realization that this was it, he was going to die took root in Emery’s soul. He silently watched the screaming driver,
fascinated, horrified.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="text-indent: 35.4pt;">
His
own self-control deserted him with the ground less than forty feet away. He began to scream, but cut it off when a
sudden unexpected deceleration slammed him into the glass partition separating
the driver and passenger compartments. The
car was still again. The mounting wind
noise had subsided along with the screams, and Emery could see that they were,
impossibly, floating just a couple of yards off the grassy slope. As he watched, it descended gently to the
ground, twisting slowly in midair to position itself wheels downward.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="text-indent: 35.4pt;">
The
three guys who met them when they staggered out of the car could have shared
the other three guys’ tailor – conservative grey all around – but they
certainly didn’t look like Americans. It
wasn’t anything specific which set them apart – all three were Caucasian – but
it might have been the pallor of their skins or the deadness of their eyes.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="text-indent: 35.4pt;">
As
they approached, Emery found himself chuckling.
Those dead eyes, almost matte brown in appearance, reminded him of his
vice-president to be. And then he
stopped laughing. They really
looked like his vice president’s eyes, somehow flatter than they should have
been. He’d never really liked Kristoff,
and those eyes were probably the reason.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="text-indent: 35.4pt;">
“Ah,
Mr. Emery,” the nearest said. “I’m so
glad we got to you in time.” His voice had the same unemotional nasal quality
that had insured that his own running mate would never make any of the truly
important speeches.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="text-indent: 35.4pt;">
“What?
How did you-” Emery gave up and just
waved in the general direction of the car, the cliff and the broken guardrail.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="text-indent: 35.4pt;">
“That’s
classified, I’m afraid.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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“But
it was you? Not divine intervention?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="text-indent: 35.4pt;">
“Yes. We’re friends of your vice-president. We were keeping an eye on you. If anything happened to you, his candidacy
would have been ruined. New elections
would have been called and your party would have selected a different formula.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Then
you’re not with the guys on the hill?”<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Oh,
no. We need you to win this election Mr.
Emery. We can’t allow you to be involved
in any accidents.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Oh.” <o:p></o:p></div>
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“Well,
at least not yet,” the leader said, and flashed him a smile that showed way too
many teeth. “Please come with us. You need to cast your vote.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<!--EndFragment--><div class="MsoBodyText" style="text-indent: 35.4pt;">
<span style="font-style: normal;">parating
the driver and passenger compartments.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The
car was still again.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The mounting wind
noise had subsided along with the screams, and Emery could see that they were,
impossibly, floating just a couple of yards off the grassy slope.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As he watched, it descended gently to the
ground, twisting slowly in midair to position itself wheels downward.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="text-indent: 35.4pt;">
<span style="font-style: normal;">The
three guys who met them when they staggered out of the car could have shared
the other three guys’ tailor – conservative grey all around – but they
certainly didn’t look like Americans.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It
wasn’t anything specific which set them apart – all three were Caucasian – but
it might have been the pallor of their skins or the deadness of their eyes.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-style: normal;">As
they approached, Emery found himself chuckling.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Those dead eyes, almost matte brown in appearance, reminded him of his
vice-president to be.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And then he
stopped laughing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They </span><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">really</span><span style="font-style: normal;">
looked like his vice president’s eyes, somehow flatter than they should have
been.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He’d never really liked Kristoff,
and those eyes were probably the reason.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-style: normal;">“Ah,
Mr. Emery,” the nearest said.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“I’m so
glad we got to you in time.” His voice had the same unemotional nasal quality
that had insured that his own running mate would never make any of the truly
important speeches.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-style: normal;">“What?
How did you-”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Emery gave up and just
waved in the general direction of the car, the cliff and the broken guardrail.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-style: normal;">“That’s
classified, I’m afraid.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-style: normal;">“But
it was you?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Not divine intervention?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-style: normal;">“Yes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We’re friends of your vice-president.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We were keeping an eye on you.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If anything happened to you, his candidacy
would have been ruined.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>New elections
would have been called and your party would have selected a different formula.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-style: normal;">“Then
you’re not with the guys on the hill?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-style: normal;">“Oh,
no.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We need you to win this election Mr.
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in any accidents.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-style: normal;">“Oh.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<div class="MsoBodyText" style="text-indent: 35.4pt;">
<span style="font-style: normal;">“Well,
at least not yet,” the leader said, and flashed him a smile that showed way too
many teeth.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Please come with us.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You need to cast your vote.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
Heroines of Fantasyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07169664399606524540noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3764159777348916628.post-8211378702259378942015-10-16T02:30:00.001-07:002015-10-16T02:30:00.963-07:00Bones and silence (an image from a tale not told)<blockquote>
<em>The following is something I wrote ages back. The story I'd had in mind - something very loosely based on </em>Thomas the Rhymer<em> - never properly coalesced and so this fragment is all there is. Maybe I'll revisit it some day.</em><br />
<em></em> </blockquote>
The candle burned clear and steady; no breath or draught in this dry room to make it flick or falter. She set it down beside the door and let her eyes seek out the shadows, find the shapes, the lines, the patterns. The men had gone away into the dark: only their bones remained, and silence. Nothing more. Even so, she traced her finger across the curve of a skull, remembering the flesh that had lain over it. She shaped her lips about his name, a word, a breath, a whisper. So had she whispered in the night time to the warm bulk of him sleeping beside her, slipping her hands ’cross his smooth skin to make him turn to her and answer, <em>I am here. </em>Such sweetness. Such desire. Her whisper died to silence and she laid the skull back into its place. His name had slipped its meaning, sure as dry bones had sloughed their skin.<br />
<br />
She took three paces ’cross the room to lay her fingers over the delicate fragments of a hand and conjure a man’s touch against her skin. She had loved him for his music, he had caressed her as he did his lute, but he was not here. None of them was here. All that was left was bones and the bittersweet ache of memory, of a word, of a touch, of a night time’s pleasure. She looked around and empty eyes stared back from every niche in every wall. She had loved them all. And each had loved her in his turn, even knowing what she was.<br />
<br />
The dead were gone and left no weight upon the world, only upon her heart. The room was full of bones, her mind of memories. So many men across the years, and all of them were dead. She turned herself about, whispering a litany of names. Men’s faces swam behind her eyes, men’s voices filled her ears, and, for a long, long moment, she saw herself surrounded by soldiers and sailors, by liars and princes, by musicians and magicians and thieves. She forced her mind to stillness and found herself again alone. They were not here. What purpose then to linger in this place of bones and silence? In the world above, the living were waiting in the sunlight, waiting for her smile, for her favour and her promise. Young men, strong men, vying each with another to join her dance. And yet she paused upon the threshold, unwilling to rejoin the hum and thrum. Men died, they slipped away into the dark and left their bones behind them. So many ways for a man to die and in her time she had surely seen them all. They died in their youth, with a sword between their ribs. They died in the ripeness of midlife, racked by fever, cankered and rotten. They died, quietly in their beds with their years heavy on them. Each time, she had been left behind to live and to remember. How many times could a broken heart be mended?<br />
<br />
She did not know, and so she let the door close quietly behind her and climbed the stairs towards the sunlight. The candle she left, to burn and burn and light the dead a little time. There were yet many men within the world might love her. All would die, leaving behind their bones and her memory. That was as certain as the sunrise.<br />
<br />
A whisper and a rustle, a stirring and a shuffling, then silence as she walked through the open door into her hall, hiding her thoughts behind her smile. She passed by the formal bows of men and the graceful courtesies of women to take her seat upon the dais. Sunlight, stained by coloured glass, poured through high windows to pool upon the floor and wash the court with crimson, with yellow rich as sulphur, with emerald and amethyst, with sapphire blue as the summer sky. No shadows here, no stillness.<br />
<br />
The chamberlain inclined his head to the first petitioner, and the audience began.<br />
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Harriet GoodchildHeroines of Fantasyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07169664399606524540noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3764159777348916628.post-68623048701901160422015-10-12T06:00:00.000-07:002015-10-12T06:00:00.991-07:00The Hunting GroundsHello! Karin here with our second installment for FRIGHT FEST 2015.<br />
<br />
It's kind of tough following in the footsteps of our very own Mistress of Noir, Cybelle Greenlaw. She kicked off this event with a <a href="http://heroinesoffantasy.blogspot.com/2015/10/fright-fest-2015-death-and-reanimation.html" target="_blank">super-creepy story</a> about death and reanimation. If you haven't read it yet, <a href="http://heroinesoffantasy.blogspot.com/2015/10/fright-fest-2015-death-and-reanimation.html" target="_blank">check out last Friday's post</a>. You won't regret it. (Unless, of course, you'd like to get some sleep tonight.)<br />
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Here's my feeble attempt at meeting the bar. It's from a new work in progress, an urban fantasy called <i>The Hunting Grounds. </i>Everything's still a little rough around the edges here, but I hope that doesn't keep you from enjoying the scary stuff.<br />
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Trick or Treat!<br />
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<h3>
The Hunting Grounds</h3>
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A sallow-faced man catches my wrist and yanks me toward him. His skin hangs on tired bones. His hair is thinning and white. He looks starved and weak, but his grip hurts.</div>
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“What is this?” Pressing a dirty fingernail along my forearm, he opens a stinging scratch from elbow to wrist. The welt fills with blood. His gaze snaps back to my face.</div>
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“Let go!” Shadows seem to swallow my voice. There is no force in my lungs. I don’t know where I am or how I got here.</div>
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“You bleed!” Cradling one arm, he rocks back and forth, raking nails down his arm and whimpering.</div>
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“Look,” he says. “Look.”</div>
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I watched riveted, unable to turn away while he shreds his skin. Pieces of flesh spool like ribbons from his arm.</div>
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“Don’t,” I beg.</div>
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He weeps without tears. “It hurts, but it does not bleed!”</div>
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I kneel next to him, put a tentative hand on his emaciated shoulder.</div>
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He flinches and pins me with a hollow-eyed gaze. “You aren’t one of us. Are you one of them?”</div>
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Fear wells in my heart like a sulfur-hued mist. “One of who?”</div>
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A low hum pulses through the ground. The man pushes his flesh back into place. Wild eyes dart from side to side.</div>
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<br /></div>
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“What is it?” I ask. “What’s that noise?”</div>
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“Run.” He scuttles off, voice squeaking through the shadows. “Run and hide.”</div>
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I stand up, straining to see into the dark. Drums reverberate through my body. My hands tighten into fists. The nails bite my palms.</div>
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<i>I would not feel pain if this were a dream</i>.</div>
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A presence descends upon the night, one malevolent force held in a thousand unseen faces. Wolves howl. Paws scuffle against dirt. Growls, yips, and snapping jaws unite in a savage chorus. Thunder bellows through the ground.</div>
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I crouch in fear. A rush of hot wind blows into my face. Though I see nothing, I know a predator flies overhead and circles to return.</div>
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Shadows shift. People melt out of the dark, young and old, naked like me, harrowed expressions on their faces. They lift their eyes to the sky, but the heavens are cast in shadows.</div>
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<br /></div>
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I call to a woman nearby, about my age with dark eyes and platinum hair. “What’s happening?”</div>
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<br /></div>
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She starts and shakes her head. Then she puts her fingers to her lips.</div>
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<br /></div>
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A blistering gust rolls across the plain. Massive claws descend from the sky. The woman’s screams tear through the night as she is lifted off the ground. Blackness swallows her whole.</div>
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Panic overtakes me. I become one with a stampede of mindless prey, thrust forward on a wave of terror. Monsters swoop down in our midst. People disappear, bodies broken by flashing talons. Predators leap out of the shadows: lions with faces of wolves, dragons without wings, giant centipedes that snake across the plain. They scramble after us, pounce on the fallen, snap necks and poison bodies with powerful jaws.</div>
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<br /></div>
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In all this carnage I see no blood.</div>
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<br /></div>
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Ahead of me the cries grow deeper, louder, more tortured. I fight to turn back, but it is impossible to resist the herd’s momentum. Beneath us, people have been trampled into a mat of dry flesh.</div>
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<br /></div>
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Suddenly the ground gives way.</div>
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<br /></div>
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For a moment I float, suspended over a deep chasm. Ghostly bodies drift around me like falling snow.</div>
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<br /></div>
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Then my weight returns and I descend toward the abyss.</div>
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<br /></div>
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Winged creatures soar and swoop, picking us off like sparrows. Still I plummet, deeper and deeper. I hide my face in hopes they will not see me. I pray my existence will end on the jagged rocks below.</div>
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<br /></div>
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Starting out of sleep, I choke back a sob. Tears wet my cheeks. Fear hangs fresh on my tongue.</div>
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<br /></div>
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<i>It was just a dream</i>.</div>
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<br /></div>
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My breath comes in harsh gasps, but my pulse begins to slow.</div>
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<br /></div>
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<i>A dream</i>.</div>
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<br /></div>
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Outside my window, insects murmur songs of early autumn. Leaves rustle under a soft breeze. It smells like home, of vanilla candles and fresh sage.</div>
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<br /></div>
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I sit up and reach for the water on my nightstand.</div>
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<br /></div>
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My cup is not there.</div>
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<br /></div>
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It’s just as well. I need more than water to recover from that dream. I need peppermint tea. And chocolate cake.</div>
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<br /></div>
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I walk to the kitchen in the dark. I’ve always liked the shadows of my home, the sense of confidence they give me. My fingers pass over wooden masks hung along the hall, from Ethiopia and Kenya, Brazil and Costa Rica, Sumatra and Vietnam. As their familiar twisted faces greet my touch, coherent thoughts return.</div>
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<br /></div>
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<i>I’ll have to tell Jonie about the dream tomorrow</i>.</div>
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<br /></div>
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Maybe I should call her now.</div>
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<br /></div>
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Flipping on the light over the sink, I fill the teapot and put it on the stove. When I opened the fridge to retrieve my cake, a knot catches in my throat. Empty trays sit in the shiny white interior. They stare at me as if I’m a stranger. Where are my fruits and vegetables? My butter and eggs? My leftover spaghetti and homemade stew?</div>
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<br /></div>
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Dread seeps into my heart.</div>
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<br /></div>
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I close the fridge and look around. One by one I open the cabinets, but I find nothing. No plates, no pots or pans, no flour or sugar or baking powder, none of my endless collection of herbal teas. With each barren cabinet my panic grows.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div>
At last it occurs to me to look for a knife, but that drawer is empty too. I slam it shut.</div>
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<br /></div>
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<i>Wake up</i>.</div>
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<br /></div>
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My throat goes dry. My heart pounds inside my chest.</div>
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<br /></div>
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<i>Wake up!</i></div>
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<br /></div>
<div>
Sinuous movement breaks from the shadows. A snake slithers into the light. I recognize its dark gray scales adorned with thin black lines. This is the silent king of the tropical forest. <i>Cascabel muda</i>. Bushmaster.</div>
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<br /></div>
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This snake does not belong here and yet there it lays, stretched seven feet across my hardwood floor. Its muscles tense. Its giant head lifts toward me.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div>
I sidle along the edge of the kitchen.</div>
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<br /></div>
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Bushmaster follows. Something ominous shines in its smoky black eyes. Hunger. Perversion. Death.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div>
<i>Helen</i>.</div>
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<br /></div>
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I spin around but see no one. When I turn back, the bushmaster lays coiled at my feet.</div>
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<br /></div>
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<i>Was it my name I heard, or the slither of its body against the polished floor?</i></div>
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<br /></div>
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The air takes on a strange liquid quality. A man steps into the light. He is tall and well built, with dark hair and opaque eyes. I recognize him from somewhere, a dream or a myth.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div>
Before I connect image to memory, the bushmaster lances forward. Its beauty captivates me: the elegant arc of its muscled back, the precise tilt of its head, the stunning spread of its jaws. With perfect synchronicity, two ivory daggers puncture my skin. I feel the serpent’s breath against my leg, the hard ridge of jawbone behind soft gums. Its jaw contracts.</div>
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<br /></div>
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Stunned, I stumble and fall to the ground.</div>
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<br /></div>
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Fire courses through my leg. The bite turns tender and dark as venom dissolves flesh. Blisters form and bloat with blood. Tears sting my eyes.</div>
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<br /></div>
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“It’s only a dream.” I choke on the impossibility of this situation. No snake behaves like that, the deliberate approach, the unprovoked strike.</div>
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<br /></div>
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My pounding head seeks the wooden floor. Muscles twist and cramp. I cling to the aroma of polished oak as if it might hold the antidote to my pain.</div>
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<br /></div>
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The man approaches and kneels beside me. He has an odd manner of saying my name, the way he forces the H, how his tongue lingers on the N.</div>
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“Helen,” he says. “Call to me.”</div>
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<br /></div>
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The serpent snaps and hisses.</div>
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<br /></div>
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The man responds in a harsh language unknown to me. His face hovers over mine like a mist. I bat my hand to drive him away.</div>
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“Say my name,” he insists</div>
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<br /></div>
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“I don’t know you.” My tongue feels numb.</div>
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“Relax, Helen. Breathe.”</div>
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I force air into my lungs and tell my convulsing heart to steady, but the venom is fast draining me of awareness.</div>
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<br /></div>
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<i>Remember, Helen.</i></div>
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<br /></div>
<div>
I close my eyes. For one blessed moment, the world goes still. Death’s cloak wraps around my shoulders, and I find comfort in its dark finality.</div>
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<br /></div>
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His name returns in a whisper, beginning where mine ends. There is an H, the purr of an R, a hum between my lips. His face comes back into focus.</div>
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<br /></div>
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"Again," he says. Is that relief in his eyes, or triumph?</div>
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<br /></div>
<div>
The bushmaster lunges. With impossible speed, the man catches the serpent mid-strike. He severs its head with an unseen blade. Blood sprays everywhere.</div>
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<br /></div>
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<i>They are of the same kind</i>, I realize. <i>That serpent and this man.</i></div>
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<br /></div>
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The snake’s body wraps around its head. Together the severed pieces retreat and heave in silence.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div>
I wanted to drag myself away too, but my limbs do not respond.</div>
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“My name, Helen.” He takes my face in his hands. “Say it.”</div>
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<br /></div>
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But I am afraid of him now. I bite my lip and shake my head. Venom rips through my gut with the precision of a blunt blade, making me cry out in agony.</div>
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“My name, and the pain will stop.”</div>
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Tears stream down my cheeks. I force a hollow breath through my lips. The taste of bitter herbs and wild honey settles on my tongue. </div>
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<br /></div>
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“That’s it.” His hand rests on my fingers. “Now, say it again. Once more.”</div>
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Again I exhale, crafting his name with my lips. My heart winds to a stop. His face blurs and slips away. </div>
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Nothing remains but the void. </div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;"><i>Posted by <a href="http://krgastreich.com/" target="_blank">Karin Rita Gastreich</a></i></span></div>
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Heroines of Fantasyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07169664399606524540noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3764159777348916628.post-74012122284581017222015-10-09T03:00:00.000-07:002015-10-09T03:00:00.537-07:00Fright Fest 2015: Death and ReanimationGreetings, Everyone! It's Cybelle here on this dark Friday morning, and I'm delighted to contribute to the annual Fright Fest once again. This year, I offer part of chapter from my novel in progress, <i>Medea's Disciple</i>, called "Death and Reanimation." Enjoy!<br />
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<div class="MsoNormal">
The elderly Comte de Mazan carried Sabine, wrapped in a linen shroud, to David Symes’ practice. She had been missing for three days when a hunter encountered her body half buried in a ravine on the outskirts of the village. News of the discovery spread rapidly in the quiet coastal town of Aberlady, and David was not surprised by the Comte’s grim visit. He had cared for the nobleman and his family since their escape from France in 1793. Now the once proud and handsome man appeared small and impossibly ancient. His hands trembled pitifully as he clasped the remains of his daughter. David led him in and helped place Sabine on the table. Looking down at the wrapped figure, the Comte collapsed over her, sobbing. “My beautiful girl!”<br />
David put his arms around the grieving man and led him to a chair. “Monsieur, I am so very sorry for your loss. She was indeed beautiful. I remember my first visit to your home, so many years ago when she was still a child. She gave me a small bouquet of wildflowers. Such a sweet girl. I cannot imagine…Let me get you something to drink, Monsieur, a whiskey or…"<br />
“No, no. You know why I’m here. We must bring her back."<br />
David sighed. For years, he had been demonstrating the effects of galvanism on a variety of subjects, mostly small animals. From time to time, he was even able to obtain a human specimen. They were costly and difficult to procure, but the effect…He remembered his first observation of such a demonstration on a hanged criminal. Damage to the man’s spinal cord precluded the possibility of full reanimation, but David later came to believe that directing electrical currents to the vital organs could restore the dead to life. Once he obtained the body of a woman who had been dead less than an hour. She had lost a considerable amount of blood in childbirth, but he was certain temporary reanimation could be achieved. He wasted no time on the limbs but touched the rods directly to the chest. The body jerked. For a few moments he had hope, but after several attempts, he realized the woman’s heart and lungs would never function of their own accord. The process lacked some essential element. Still, audiences continued to gasp with horrified delight at the spectacle of a flailing, grimacing corpse. Every observer believed the dead could come back, and David did not disabuse them. Now a father’s grief brought him face to face with the vanity of his efforts.<br />
Gone was the sweet scent of bluebells he had come to associate with Sabine. A powerful emanation of putrefaction, damp earth and mold filled the room. Death covered her completely. “Monsieur, think about what you are asking. Even if I could, she would not be the same. It’s better to bury her. Let her rest in peace.”<br />
The Comte stood suddenly, a hint of his former vigor returning. He strode to the table, pulled the shroud from the girl’s face, and began shaking violently at the sight. “No, she would not be the same!” His voice was hoarse and charged with rage. “But how can she rest in peace?”<br />
David closed his eyes to dispel a sudden, dizzying nausea. He could not reconcile his memory of the vibrant beauty with the mutilated corpse on the table. Her left cheek bone had been crushed. A glazed eyeball oozed blindly toward her ruined nose. The remains of her lips revealed jagged, broken shards that had once been her teeth. Blood and soil caked her carefully coiffed hair. “An abomination,” David said finally. “She was so well loved. Who could have done this?”<br />
“Someone I have protected for far too long.”<br />
“What? You know the monster, Monsieur?”<br />
“A monster indeed. There are those of high birth who merit far worse than the guillotine. My own brother, for one.”<br />
“What are you saying? Has he admitted this to you?”<br />
“No. He takes me for a fool. How can he think that I would not remember the outrages, the unspeakable cruelties?”<br />
“Monsieur, I cannot believe…he never appeared—”<br />
“We are an ancient family, doctor. Our survival has always depended on the power of appearance. I do not expect you to understand.”<br />
“This is appalling. He must be held accountable for this crime! Your own daughter, the most vital person I have ever seen, has been murdered, and you say she is not his first!”<br />
“If he were brought to trial, he would be hanged. I no longer care about appearances. Our name has no value in this country. But I will not let that murderer pursue my daughter in the world beyond.”<br />
“What makes you think—”<br />
“Keep her here. You must bathe her in pure water and mellify her, as the deified Alexander was embalmed. I have sent my servants to purchase several cases of honey. They will bring it to you shortly. Once she has been purified, place her in a vessel with the honey. Ensure that every part of her is covered. The substance will preserve her body and nourish her tortured soul. When a week has passed, I will return to restore her.”<br />
“You will restore her?”<br />
“I have watched your experiments on many occasions, doctor. Never has reanimation been achieved."<br />
“No, not once.” David burned at the admission.<br />
“But at the beginning, you believed it was possible. I admired you for it, but I knew every attempt would fail. I learned the true method long ago, before the Terror, and hoped never to use it. True reanimation requires the manipulation of forces more powerful than any mortal thing.”<br />
David suspected shock and grief had conspired to strip the Comte of rational thought, but he asked anyway. “What is the method of which you speak?”<br />
“A sacred rite stolen by a chaos god and given to a violent sorceress, who recognized no limits but those of her inclination and imagination. She had no pity for any living being, and her imagination was vast as the oceans.”<br />
“Then you should not use it.”<br />
“Indeed, I should not. But I am about to prove Socrates wrong and do harm knowingly. There is little time for details. Tell no one you have my daughter’s body. Admit only the servants bringing honey; they do not know its purpose. If my brother or wife tries to gain entrance, send them away. Fabricate any excuse you like, but tell them nothing of Sabine. In a week’s time, I will bring them here with me. Then we shall all be cursed with understanding.”<br />
“Your wife, Monsieur? Does she…”<br />
“I suspect she knows a great deal."<br />
“This is absolute madness. I’ll do as you ask, but—”<br />
“Yes, and you think I am mad? You may be right. Treat my daughter with great care.”<br />
“Always.” David escorted the Comte to the door and locked it behind him. He returned to the table and gently removed the shroud. He shuddered at the viciousness of the wounds. The girl had been violated. Dried blood flaked from the mottled flesh of her thighs. Her breasts bore the deep wounds of multiple slashes. Every finger was broken. David looked more closely at her face. Opening her mouth, he saw the tongue had been cut out. <i>Like Philomela. If only you could become a bird and fly away. </i>He left the room and returned with a light bathtub made of zinc and placed her inside. Then he drew several pitchers of clean, cold water and washed the filth from her decaying flesh. Already the skin of her palms was beginning to slip from her hands. He lifted her gently from the tub and cleaned it. It would have to serve as the vessel of her mellification. He moved the tub to a cabinet and placed her folded body inside it once more, covering both with the shroud. The Comte’s servants arrived shortly thereafter with three cases of honey. Once she had been submerged, he locked the cabinet door and tried not think of her.<br />
The Comte’s brother and wife made this impossible. Time and again they returned to David’s practice, pounding on the door and demanding entrance. But never together. The first few times, he spoke to them through the door. “I’m sorry, I’m terribly ill. You must not come in. No, I don’t know where he’s taken her. Monsieur le Comte has not called upon me. Please, you must go.” Now he just covered his ears.<br />
As the days passed, he grew desperate to leave his practice but dared not. He had water and a little bread in addition to several jars of honey that had not been needed. He made himself eat it, though he now hated the taste and cloyingly sweet odor. He passed the time reading theories he no longer believed. His imagination often wandered to the chaos god and his stolen secret. In the early hours of morning, strange dreams made the story seem possible.<br />
When a week had passed, the Comte returned, as promised, in the company of his wife and brother. “Doctor, you have something of mine in your keeping. I have come to claim it.”<br />
“Yes, there, in the cabinet. Take the key.” David watched as the old Comte opened the door. With his brother’s assistance, he removed the tub, still covered by the linen shroud. “What is this, Alphonse? It cannot be—” The younger Vicomte was uncharacteristically nervous.<br />
“Remove the linen, Gilbert. Go on.” Directing a malicious glare at his brother, the Vicomte pulled the sheet from the tub in a single movement.<br />
Sabine’s mother dropped to her knees, her face visibly drained of blood.<br />
“Oh really, Alphonse. This is too much. Look at what you’ve done!”<br />
“Stop talking.” The Comte’s manner silenced Gilbert, and for once, David noticed, the Vicomte’s customary aplomb had vanished. The Comte circled the vessel three times before kneeling beside his daughter. Slowly, he withdrew a slip of paper from his vest and unfolded it. Then he reached into the viscous fluid and gently guided Sabine’s head to the surface. When her faced touched the air, he parted her lips and placed the slip of paper in her mouth. Almost instantly, the girl’s body jerked. Pieces of flesh tore from her muscles as she struggled to rise from the honeyed vessel. The Vicomte stumbled backward with a hiss and edged toward the door. The Comte jumped to his feet with the agility of a young athlete and grabbed his arm. “No, Gilbert, stay a while. Look at what you have done.” Sabine’s broken fingers tapped the edges of the tub until the withered palm planted itself on the side. Within moments, she managed to rise to her knees. Trembling, she looked toward her father and opened her tongueless mouth, as if asking permission.</div>
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Heroines of Fantasyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07169664399606524540noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3764159777348916628.post-77179782588606560392015-10-07T02:30:00.000-07:002015-10-07T02:30:00.341-07:00Wednesday Review: 'Root of Unity' by SL Huang<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<blockquote>
<em>Cas Russell has always used her superpowered mathematical skills to dodge snipers or take down enemies. Oh, yeah, and make as much money as possible on whatever unsavory gigs people will hire her for. But then one of her few friends asks a favor: help him track down a stolen math proof. One that, in the wrong hands, could crumble encryption protocols worldwide and utterly collapse global commerce.
</em> </blockquote>
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<em>
<em>Cas is immediately ducking car bombs and men with AKs -- this is the type of math people are willing to kill for, and the U.S. government wants it as much as the bad guys do. But all that pales compared to what Cas learns from delving into the proof. Because the more she works on the case, the more she realizes something is very, very wrong . . . with her.</em></em> </blockquote>
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<em><em>For the first time, Cas questions her own bizarre mathematical abilities. How far they reach. How they tie into the pieces of herself that are broken -- or missing.
</em></em> </blockquote>
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<em><em>
How the new proof might knit her brain back together . . . while making her more powerful than she's ever imagined.</em></em> </blockquote>
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<em><em>Desperate to fix her fractured self, Cas dives into the tangled layers of higher mathematics, frantic for numerical power that might not even be possible -- and willing to do anything, betray anyone, to get it.</em></em></blockquote>
<em></em><br />
<em>Root of Unity</em> is the third volume in SL Huang’s <em>Russell’s Attic</em> series (here are my reviews of <em><a href="http://heroinesoffantasy.blogspot.co.uk/2014/04/wednesday-review-zero-sum-game-by-sl.html" target="_blank">Zero Sum Game</a></em> and <em><a href="http://heroinesoffantasy.blogspot.co.uk/2015/02/wednesday-review-half-life-by-sl-huang.html" target="_blank">Half Life</a></em>). By book three in any series you know more or less what to expect. In this series that’s relentless high octane action, fights, car chases, explosions, pressure mines, escapes from locked rooms… Oh, and Whovian references; there’s likely other nods too, but one recognises what one knows. These books are indeed very much the written version of a blockbuster movie: the ante is constantly upped as crisis mounts on crisis. The violence is extreme and Cas’s lack of remorse at the carnage she inflicts is consistent: such acts and such a protagonist may not be to all palates, but <em>Do it well!</em> is all I ask of an author, and Huang does this very well indeed; if, however, you prefer to read in a different register, I suggest you seek out her <a href="http://thebooksmugglers.com/2014/10/hunting-monsters-by-s-l-huang.html" target="_blank">fairy</a> <a href="http://thebooksmugglers.com/2015/09/fighting-demons-by-s-l-huang.html" target="_blank">tales</a> published by the <a href="http://thebooksmugglers.com/" target="_blank">Book Smugglers</a>. They are another thing entirely.<br />
<br />
<em>Half Life</em> showed Cas Russell trying to live up to her friends’ high standards by not resorting to lethal violence as a first resort. At the opening of this book she’s past that, killing again without a qualm. She’s also falling apart in the intervals between her retrieval cases: something is bubbling at the outer edges of her memory and night terrors stalk her dreams. But Arthur, still the moral centre of these stories, refuses to give up on her and enlists her help in recovering a stolen maths proof. And then, as before, the plot snakes and twists into a web of intrigue and deception. Soon there’s another mathematician in the mix, and another vanished proof, and various governmental agencies, and a maths-mad bad guy, a would-be Salieri* to the missing professor's Mozart.<br />
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And Cas herself, playing both ends against the middle, at points the antagonist in her own story. Cas uses maths as a superpower: her almost instantaneous calculations and integrations enable her to use the laws of physics to her advantage. In the first two books, the mathematics has very much been a maguffin. It is here too, of course; you don’t – fortunately for me – need to understand efficient integer factorisation algorithms or the <a href="http://news.mit.edu/2009/explainer-pnp" target="_blank">P <em>vs</em> NP</a> problem** (or even <a href="http://dictionary.reference.com/browse/russell's+attic" target="_blank">Russell's Attic</a>) to follow the plot of <em>Root of Unity</em>. But, rather more than its predecessors, this book uses mathematics, specifically mathematical genius, as the motivating energy driving the characters: Cas realises she too is a Salieri, able to understand but not create, and this drives her almost to madness.<br />
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And this is I think both this book’s strength and its weakness. The strength is that it addresses Cas’s abilities and character directly. Reviewing <em>Half Life</em> I’d wanted more of Cas’s past. I know she is not possible, what with her preternatural awareness of her own body, her lightning reflexes, her computational world view, her occasional slips into British vernacular when she is, to all appearances, American through and through, and, knowing all this, I want to know <em>why</em>. The hints are stronger here, drawing on threads that stretch all the way back to <em>Zero Sum Game</em>, and enough to begin to frame (tentative) answers to these questions. One of the things that keeps me hooked on these books, beyond the adrenaline rush, is their interest in the existential. They keep circling around the questions of what makes us more than a machine, what gives us free will, what, in short, makes us human. Nevertheless, I felt, reading and rereading, a discontinuity of tone, if not of fact, in this strand’s handling. Cas’s perception of her limitation is sudden (in fact, given the previous chapter, I tracked back in surprise, thinking I must have missed something) and a later scene where she is prompted to search out her past jarred, from the physical trigger to the discovery that told little I’d not guessed. This search felt, in short, a segment which had been made to sit rather awkwardly within this book because it was required for a long term plot arc. It’s a shame, because otherwise I welcomed the change of pace from relentless action to something more reflective, and appreciated too the delicacy with which Huang showed a shocked and frightened Cas reaching out for human contact. It’s a sign of how far both character and author have come since <em>Zero Sum Game</em>: impossible to imagine such a thing happening in that book. <br />
<br />
Elsewise, the writing and plotting were as smooth and entertaining as I’d expected; so too the characterisation. That is a definite strength of this series, the interplay between Arthur, Checker and Cas develops and deepens book by book. The importance of friendship is a running theme, a counterpoint to the violence. Cas is currently a guilt-ridden (even if she doesn’t understand why) anti-heroine with a fractured and divided self but there’s the possibility that friendship will save her. No matter what, Arthur and Checker will be there to catch her when she falls, and Cas is slowly coming to understand this, reaching out first instinctively and then – more importantly, given who she is – deliberately and consciously. <br />
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Huang’s prose is assured and confident, more so I think with each new instalment. I think too her ambition is growing through the series. If you’re new to <em>Russell’s Attic</em> I’d not start with this book: much better to begin at the beginning with <em>Zero Sum Game</em> and work your way through. But do give this series a go; if you can finish one book without immediately reaching for the next, you’re made of sterner stuff than I.<br />
<br />
* As depicted in Peter Schaffer’s play and film <em><a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0086879/" target="_blank">Amadeus</a></em>. Not the actual <a href="http://www.salieri-online.com/bio1.php" target="_blank">Salieri</a>.<br />
<br />
** Since I read <em>Root of Unity</em> I keep coming up against references to P <em>vs</em> NP. Clearly I’ve been primed…<br />
<br />
Harriet Goodchild<br />
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<strong><em>Root of Unity</em> buy links</strong><br />
<a href="http://www.amazon.co.uk/gp/product/B013ZCK4BY" target="_blank">Amazon UK</a><br />
<a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B013ZCK4BY" target="_blank">Amazon US</a><br />
<a href="https://itunes.apple.com/us/book/id1031107799" target="_blank">Apple</a><br />
<a href="http://smarturl.it/root-of-unity-kobo" target="_blank">Kobo</a><br />
<a href="http://smarturl.it/root-of-unity-bn" target="_blank">Barnes & Noble</a>Heroines of Fantasyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07169664399606524540noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3764159777348916628.post-38450102523082906202015-09-28T00:00:00.000-07:002015-09-28T00:00:11.431-07:00Balancing Facts and Fantasy - Guest post by Katharina GerlachI am very happy today to welcome Katharina Gerlach to <i>Heroines of Fantasy. </i>I met Katharina through the Magic Appreciation Tour.<br />
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Katharina is a bilingual author from Germany
with a heavy Scottish accent. She's interested in everything and will write
stories to her deathbed, as long as there are people to read them. When she's
earning a little money with her words, it makes her proud – but if she manages
to touch the heart of a reader, that's way more important to her. She's a
middle aged mother of three, a wife, and a dog-food-can-opener in her second,
non-writing related life.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Katharina is a prolific writer, and you can view the full collection of her stories by v<a href="http://www.katharinagerlach.com/english/buecher.html" target="_blank">isiting her web site. </a><br />
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<h4>
Balancing Facts and Fantasy</h4>
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<a href="http://ecx.images-amazon.com/images/I/513aQevaAoL._SX373_BO1,204,203,200_.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://ecx.images-amazon.com/images/I/513aQevaAoL._SX373_BO1,204,203,200_.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></div>
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I'm a huge fan of history. If someone had told me so when I was still in school, I would have laughed. But the more I learn about the way we humans evolved, the mistakes we made, and the potential we hold, the more fascinated I became.</div>
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However, writing two historical novels (<a href="http://www.amazon.com/dp/B0088MD2KM" target="_blank">Ann Angel's Freedom</a> and <a href="http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00AS93JA6" target="_blank">Victor's Rage</a>) based on a true family story, I learned that I can't build a career on this genre unless I oversimplify historical realities. For the first novel my friend and I researched 7 years. The second one went faster. It only took 3 years. :D</div>
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Since I also love Fantasy, I turned to writing those, and my readers think I do it well (although as with most authors, I don't dare to believe them). But my love for history wouldn't let me go. Recently, I find myself adding aspects of true history to my novels.</div>
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I wrote a YA Fantasy Adventure mostly aimed at boys that mixes medieval times in Europe with a tiny pinch of magic (<a href="http://www.amazon.com/dp/B005SCR7TC" target="_blank">Urchin King</a>). At the end of the month, I will release a Fantasy Romance set in Stone Age Africa (Juma's Rain). For both novels, I spent a fair amount of time on research.</div>
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Now, how to I balance these aspects? That's always the hardest bit. There are so many cool things I find out when I'm doing research. For the medieval story for example, I found a book about toilets throughout the ages. It was fascinating and disgusting at the same time. But did you know that people in a Stone Age village in Scotland already had water toilets? Well, I was fairly surprised by that, so I'm determined to put this kind of toilet (which looked a lot different from todays' water toilets) into one of my novels soon. When I researched the extinct Nok-culture in Northern Africa, I was surprised to find that they went directly from using stone tools and weapons to making iron tools and weapons. They did not use copper and bronze first, like all other humans. Naturally, that found its way into my newest novel.</div>
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The problem with adding real life information into fictions stories is that it's way too easy to overdo it. Readers, ans especially young readers, my target audience, want to be entertained, not educated. As an author, it is my duty to provide what they want. Therefore, I have to be extremely careful with which facts I add to my stories. From all the cool things I find out, only the tip of the iceberg makes it into my stories. It itches me to put in more, but so far I haven't given in to this urge.</div>
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Obviously, my readers like the mixture, and I remember that, as a kid, I loved to look for the facts in the mix of an author who did just that (Tonny Vos Dahmen, an author from the Netherlands that's probably quite unknown in the rest of the world). It felt like a big discovery when I was able to spot something. The funny thing is that I still remember the facts I learned that way … much better than a lot of the facts teachers tried to drill into me when I was in school.</div>
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So, how about you. Do you enjoy discovering real life facts in Fantasy? And how much is too much for you? Tell me and we can discuss this in the comments.</div>
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Heroines of Fantasyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07169664399606524540noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3764159777348916628.post-82497389767531197092015-09-24T09:18:00.000-07:002015-09-24T09:18:00.887-07:00WEDNESDAY REVIEW: FLESH GOLEM (IronScythe Sagas #1) by Kev Heritage<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOdQEn23Y1JBXfDbSsBh5jmhpy25xY4o__6CSaLt8DZWH6DX8N_n1WNbwKAY8HwmQjLtym5aFM3yxS3U-zSirMDIx2U909DyA6rBF1WHqi4c2hltz4zV7dyp1CUefyMi3G7-zO3RflbWI/s1600/HOF.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOdQEn23Y1JBXfDbSsBh5jmhpy25xY4o__6CSaLt8DZWH6DX8N_n1WNbwKAY8HwmQjLtym5aFM3yxS3U-zSirMDIx2U909DyA6rBF1WHqi4c2hltz4zV7dyp1CUefyMi3G7-zO3RflbWI/s320/HOF.jpg" width="206" /></a></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">‘And from the dark
unknown came a hooded avenger, a sable-weaved nemesis branded with living iron
whose will it was to destroy all works of delving. His name? He had many over
his lifetime, but history only remembers him as… the Cowl.’ <br />
<br />
Welcome to the IronScythe Sagas and the world of Arn, where two suns fill the
sky and metals are forbidden, dangerous things. And introducing the hooded
nemesis of delving himself—the enigmatic Cowl, the wielder of the land’s own
avenger, IronScythe. <br />
<br />
Flesh Golem is the first part of an exciting new trilogy of linked adventure
fantasy novellas, by UK Indie author, Kev Heritage.</i></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">FLESH GOLEM (IronScythe Sagas #1)</i></b><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> <br />
Saved from execution by the ambitious Dracus Krall, the Cowl is sent on
weregild to kill the evil golem that has lurked in the Krall family home for
generations. Accompanying the task is Dracus’ brother-daughter, Vareena, who is
not as she seems. She harbours a secret power that will alter the destiny of
her family forever.</i></div>
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<a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B00J0XWQQE?ref_=cm_cr-mr-title">Kev
Heritage's Flesh Golem (IronScythe Sagas #1)</a> is a fast and dark entry in
the Sword & Sorcery genre.<br />
<br />
Cowl works flawlessly as the doomed, enigmatic, and maimed monster-man cursed
to destroy all products of "delving"(metalwork) because in the world
of Arn metals are imbued with magical powers and magic is forbidden. In this
novella, Cowl's mission is to accompany Vareena, an untried swordswoman who is
the scion of a once great House to the now abandoned hereditary home. The
reason for her house's fall from grace happened generations ago when her
family's ancestral castle was taken over by a delving-demon. Now, with Cowl,
enemy of all delving at her side, Vareeena is determined to free her home of
this supernatural menace.<br />
<br />
Heritage does a great job of moving the story along without seeming hurried and
revealing new information about Cowl and the world in a timely and intriguing
manner without the dreaded info-dumps. Heritage also has a fine pen for
picturesque prose, which will make the read especially enjoyable for those who
prefer slightly more vivid and sophisticated writing, though he never comes
close to drifting into purple prose.<br />
<br />
And perhaps, in the finest accolade I can give Heritage, Flesh Golem inspired
me to immediately buy the Cowl Omnibus so I can continue reading tales in the
world of Arn.</div>
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You can find this novella on Amazon.</div>
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<a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B00J0XWQQE?ref_=cm_cr-mr-title">Kindle</a></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
Review for Heroines of Fantasy by Carlyle Clark</div>
Heroines of Fantasyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07169664399606524540noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3764159777348916628.post-85187056264159785342015-09-14T05:35:00.000-07:002015-09-14T05:35:18.238-07:00September and the trees are restless<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYq8h4ZesiXaPja4eeUd3NtiHGCXzhoPJMSQujj73y_7D2wmJbGHNIm5unT8AjdUI_dVt2V7sz4R4Lp_x5E4XUN914MyXnjl2irMN22EPLI4WUdHniTcJSzC9ODtEt8BtWvdY319QmrEc/s1600/Sunshine-fog-trees-2_-_West_Virginia_-_ForestWander.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYq8h4ZesiXaPja4eeUd3NtiHGCXzhoPJMSQujj73y_7D2wmJbGHNIm5unT8AjdUI_dVt2V7sz4R4Lp_x5E4XUN914MyXnjl2irMN22EPLI4WUdHniTcJSzC9ODtEt8BtWvdY319QmrEc/s320/Sunshine-fog-trees-2_-_West_Virginia_-_ForestWander.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
Certain pieces of song lyrics tend to stick in my head and return at predictable times of the year. Here's one of my favorites:<br />
<i><br /></i>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>September and the trees are restless</i></div>
<br />
<i></i>Six simple words that capture the mood of an entire season. Words that carry weight in my heart. They speak to me of my home in the Midwest, of an entire landscape preparing to undergo the same dramatic change that it has endured for thousands, perhaps millions, of years.<br />
<br />
These lyrics are from a song, <i>El Matador, </i>by Semisonic. They tell not only of the end of summer, but more profoundly, of the end of a season of youth for the singer.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>Matador sweeps the veil</i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>From the last young day of my life</i></div>
<br />
I don't know if songwriters speak of protagonists in songs, but I'm an author of fiction, so I will. Like the protagonist of <i>El Matador, </i>I feel an important season of my life is drawing to a close. I am looking toward a moody sea with more than a touch of melancholy. I, too, wonder what the next wave might bring.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>Seaside revelations</i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>All those dreams and visions of mine</i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>Washed up like a vacation</i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>Lost as I wasted my time</i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<div style="text-align: left;">
2015 has not been an easy year. Many of my friends have suffered difficult personal losses. Their family members have passed away, some under tragic and unexpected circumstances. Or they've faced formidable challenges in their personal health. Or both. I've not been without my own losses in love, and as much as I'd like to downplay the impact of my trials in the face of what others are going through, who am I kidding in the end? The loss of love is also a kind of death.</div>
</div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>Say goodbye to the weekend</i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>And the last of the summertime sun</i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>Driving off the end of a decade</i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>So many things to be done</i></div>
<br />
My regular Monday slot on HoF approached like a cloud on the horizon this week. A mere twenty-four hours ago, I couldn't think of a single thing to write about.<br />
<br />
Then this morning I watched <a href="https://youtu.be/opVaEC_WxWs" target="_blank">Stephen Colbert's interview with Joe Biden</a> on the Late Show, where Biden spoke about the death of his son and how he was dealing with that loss. And I thought, "Maybe this is what I should talk about, too."<br />
<br />
Maybe this is what we should all be talking about: the different manifestations of death, and how we cope with each one. After all, this is the hard nut at the core of life, isn't it? And the hard nut at the core of life is what gives rise to the beating heart of great fiction.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>September and the trees are restless</i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>Windchimes blow in the dark</i></div>
<br />
Why are trees restless in September? Are they somehow aware that they are about to physically shed something that has been an essential and vibrant part of their being? Does it <i>hurt </i>to drop all those leaves that they have nurtured and fed and given color and meaning to during the long warm months of spring and summer?<br />
<br />
And what about their silence in Winter? Is that their meditation, their prayer, their way of working through loss?<br />
<br />
Trees are such intimate and yet distant companions. They are with us all the time, yet the essence of their experience remains a mystery. In responding to that mystery we find metaphor, and sometimes that metaphor makes us feel less alone.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>Looking through my dark glasses</i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>I see smiles on the faces of friends</i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
Of course, the cryptic message of autumn is that spring will come again, though it's really hard to think about that when you're staring winter in the face. That's why we have friends and family, why we look to community: so there will always be someone next to us who can see the horizon when we can't. Community sustains us while we mourn, meditate, and pray. Friends and family help us remember the warm winds that will inevitably call us back to life.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>September and the trees are restless</i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Yes, it's that time of year. And for many of us, that time of life. As you walk through your own autumn landscapes, where do you look to ease your restless heart? Friends? Family? Faith? Good books? B movies? Music? Art? Dance?<br />
<br />
While you're thinking about your answer, here's the song from Semisonic that inspired this post:<br />
<br />
<br /></div>
<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/9zqxAVfidrg" width="560"></iframe><br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: right;">
<i>Posted by <a href="http://krgastreich.com/" target="_blank">Karin Rita Gastreich</a></i></div>
Heroines of Fantasyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07169664399606524540noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3764159777348916628.post-69137512290008934102015-09-07T00:01:00.000-07:002015-09-07T00:01:00.143-07:00Happy Birthday, Heroines of Fantasy!Four years ago, Karin, Terri and I had a shared vision for a blog that would focus not just on our love of fantasy, but particularly the role of women-- both as authors and as characters-- in the genre. On September 5, 2011, Karin Rita Gastreich kicked off Heroines of Fantasy with our inaugural post, "<a href="http://heroinesoffantasy.blogspot.com/2011/09/why-fantasy.html" target="_blank">Why Fantasy</a>?" Since then, we've tried to answer that question in a variety of ways, and I think we've done a pretty damn good job.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
A lot has happened since our first post. We've had over 50 guest posts, showcasing the ideas and opinions of men and women, published and aspiring authors alike. After a year or so we added Mark Nelson to our team; then, over time, we included a handful of other wonderful regular contributors: Gustavo Bondoni, Eric Griffith, Louise Turner, and Eric T. Reynolds. Last year, with Julia Dvorin at the helm as Review Coordinator and Claire Ashgrove, Eve Brackenbury, Carlyle Clark, Chris Gerrib, Harriet Goodchild and Cybelle Greenlaw keeping up with a tremendous amount of reading, we added a wildly successful review component. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
The topics we've covered here have run the gamut, exploring everything from the role of women in fantasy, to food, to textiles, to the many nuts and bolts of just getting words on the page. We've dipped the occasional toe into the often turbulent, always passionate waters of the SFF community, and celebrated the personal and professional successes of our sister and brother authors at Hadley Rille Books. But in the end, our all-time top five posts have one thing in common: they are all about women and their role in the fantasy genre. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I am incredibly proud of this fact, because it means we have done our jobs well. The success of not just these, but many of our female-centered posts indicates that we have created something important for many people out there. We created this blog hoping to bring more attention to the roles of women in the genre, and people not only read what we had to say, but shared it with others, thought it over, commented, passed it on. Have I mentioned yet how proud this makes me?</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I would like to think that through this blog we have helped contribute to the ongoing dialogue of women and genre in some important way; yet there is still work to do. Female characters still don't get the same attention that male heroes do; female authors still don't get the kinds of contracts or book promotions that their male counterparts do. Until then, it is important to continue speaking about these topics we are so passionate about and sharing our words whenever and however we can.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
So on this fourth birthday of our blog, let's all raise a toast to Heroines of Fantasy. It's been a great run-- let's see where the future takes us!</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
~ Kim Vandervort</div>
Heroines of Fantasyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07169664399606524540noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3764159777348916628.post-45512542156832625022015-09-02T18:51:00.001-07:002015-09-02T18:59:59.740-07:00Wednesday Review: The Star Family<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://ecx.images-amazon.com/images/I/51N%2BvSJVAAL._SX331_BO1,204,203,200_.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://ecx.images-amazon.com/images/I/51N%2BvSJVAAL._SX331_BO1,204,203,200_.jpg" height="320" width="213" /></a></div>
Title: The Star Family<br />
Author: Theresa Crater<br />
Genre: Metaphysical/Mystery<br />
Publisher: Crystal Star Publishing<br />
Publication date: October 2013<br />
Point of sale: <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Star-Family-Theresa-Crater-ebook/dp/B00FX3IG96/ref=sr_1_2?ie=UTF8&qid=1441239043&sr=8-2&keywords=star+family&pebp=1441239056463&perid=1PM38XRSW5D12F42627F" target="_blank">Amazon</a> and <a href="http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/the-star-family-theresa-crater/1117155649?ean=9781492991106" target="_blank">Barnes and Noble</a><br />
Price: $4.99 Kindle, $16.19 Paperback<br />
Reviewer: Cybelle Greenlaw<br />
<br />
Description: <i>A secret spiritual group. A recurring dream. A 400-year-old ritual that must be completed before it is too late. </i><br />
<i>Jane Frey inherits a Gothic mansion filled with unexpected treasures. A prophecy claims it hides an important artifact – the key to an energy grid laid down by the Founding Fathers themselves. Whoever controls this grid controls the very centers of world power. Except Jane has no idea what they’re looking for.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i><br /></i>
Good evening, Everyone! This week I had the pleasure of reading a wonderful paranormal mystery by Theresa Crater. Jane Frey has just lost her job with a powerful corporation and realizes that, at her age, her career prospects are limited. The same morning, she receives a call informing her that her former music teacher, Miss Essig, is dying, and that she has been chosen as heir. Although she has not been in touch with her teacher for decades, Jane decides to return to her hometown and visit the dying woman. As she makes the journey home, memories of her childhood and Moravian culture come flooding back to her. Jane makes a promise to the dying woman to take care of her house without realizing the enormous responsibilities the task will require. Jane soon finds that she has much to learn about her family's past, the secrets of the mansion, and the rich culture of the Moravian church.<br />
<br />
This novel is extremely well researched and provides a fascinating introduction to the history of the Moravian communities in Europe and the U.S. Jane's quest to understand and solve the mysteries of her new situation leads her on a spiritual journey through Europe. Along the way, the reader learns of Moravian connections to famous historical figures, including the great artist and poet, William Blake. It's a captivating, well-paced story of international power brokers with occult interests, who are trying to shift the direction of the future. Along the way, Jane suffers the loss of a friend and rejoices in the renewal of an old relationship.<br />
<br />
Comparisons could be made with Dan Brown's The DaVinci Code, but I actually found this to be a much better read. The characters are realistic and engaging, and the writing style is elegant. Nothing is oversimplified for the reader (one major complaint I had with the DaVinci Code), but the plot is still easy to follow. I think this book would appeal to a wide audience. It's very hard to put down, and I'll definitely look for more novels by this author!<br />
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<i><br /></i>Heroines of Fantasyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07169664399606524540noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3764159777348916628.post-34706719025580632142015-08-31T00:01:00.000-07:002015-09-06T19:35:44.760-07:00Guest Post: L.D. Rose<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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This month, we are thrilled to welcome a second guest post, from up-and-coming author L.D. Rose. She describes herself as a neurotic physician by day, crazed writer by night, and all around wannabe superhero. She writes paranormal romance and urban fantasy, but she’s been known to delve into horror, sci-fi, and medical suspense on occasion. L.D. Rose is a member of the RWA, FF&P, NEC-RWA and CoLoNY. She currently lives in Rhode Island with her studly hubby, her hyperactive boxer, and her two devious cats. You can find her novel <i>Releasing the Demons</i> on <a href="http://amzn.com/B013GVCC7I">Amazon.com</a>.<br />
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Hello everyone! I’m Linda, writing as L.D. Rose, and first off I want to thank Kim Vandervort for having me on this awesome blog! Today I want to talk about urban fantasy and why I heart it so much. :D<br />
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Wikipedia describes urban fantasy as:<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRWF2qHvXylPPYR2VQbPq7MzI-kvppHUzLA6uxdg_hXY1VTULzBW4YdfMruJV42dy70Yb9Q-KTOHDMBu1uqyvSmMakSW1K6DDRtbdRJ_tbmooedl-nq9WdTMpa4-OeatyawHrrnPOAclI/s1600/RELEASING+THE+DEMONS2_505x825+%25282%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRWF2qHvXylPPYR2VQbPq7MzI-kvppHUzLA6uxdg_hXY1VTULzBW4YdfMruJV42dy70Yb9Q-KTOHDMBu1uqyvSmMakSW1K6DDRtbdRJ_tbmooedl-nq9WdTMpa4-OeatyawHrrnPOAclI/s320/RELEASING+THE+DEMONS2_505x825+%25282%2529.jpg" width="193" /></a>“A subgenre of fantasy defined by place; the fantastic narrative has an urban setting. Urban fantasy exists on one side of a spectrum, opposite high fantasy, which is set in an entirely fictitious world. Many urban fantasies are set in contemporary times and contain supernatural elements. However, the stories can take place in historical, modern, or futuristic periods, and the settings may include fictional elements. The prerequisite is that they must be primarily set in a city.”<br />
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I’ve been a long time fan of all things UF. Laurell K. Hamilton’s Anita Blake series was one of the first I picked up in her early days, along with Kim Harrison’s The Hollows series and Charlie Huston’s Joe Pitt series. Although my debut novel is a dark paranormal romance, it’s heavy on the UF, likely influenced for my love of all things gritty and metropolitan.<br />
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My current series takes place in the alternate present, in a pseudo-apocalyptic New York City. I adore NYC and lived just north of the Big Apple during my medical school training. The sights and sounds of 469 square miles of concrete populated by 8.5 million people inspired me in so many ways, from the gothic architecture to the people watching to the visions of “what if?” I grew up south of Boston and whenever I took a trip up to Beantown I couldn’t even describe my excitement. Tall buildings! Crowds! Red Sox games! Naturally my reading taste followed this affection and soon it infiltrated my novels.<br />
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Don’t get me wrong, other modes of fantasy such as high fantasy are stunning. Look at the entire <br />
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worlds Tolkien and Martin created! But what grabs me most in a book is something I can relate to, most of all the characters, but secondly the setting. If I can put myself in a place similar to what I’m reading, it’s hook, line and sinker. I need to see, hear, smell, taste and feel what’s around me through the characters. I want to see the streetlights reflect off the puddles, hear the constant drone of moving cars, smell the greasy scents of food trucks, taste the smog in the air and feel the overwhelming life of the city press down on me like hot plastic. And what better way than to pick up a great UF novel in order to take me to those places I love with their own dazzling twists and fascinating creatures. <br />
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What about you, dear reader? What’s your favorite city? What’s important to you in a novel’s setting? What’s your favorite type of fantasy and why?</div>
Heroines of Fantasyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07169664399606524540noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3764159777348916628.post-17291692975687263432015-08-17T12:42:00.001-07:002015-08-17T12:42:57.349-07:00Removing BlocksJust the other day, I read a quote by a famous writer, albeit a non-genre writer, who basically said that writer's block is simply a symptom of not being entirely certain where you're going.<br />
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It struck a chord, as often, the tales that stick out as being particularly difficult to write are generally those that I begin writing without a clear idea of where they will end - and it also seems that the SFF genre is a particularly fraught genre to write within if you don't know how the tale will end.<br />
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Why? Well, because it's the literature of ideas, and as such, the shiny fireflies of the mind flitter to and fro and bring really neat concepts fully formed into any receptive writerly mind. Fully formed, that is, except for that small detail of how the story is going to end... meaning you now have this awesome idea that you can't really take anywhere until you think and think and think until you're just about ready to jump out of a window (I believe Asimov mentioned this as his method).<br />
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It would be bad enough if all we had to play with was technology, and perhaps that is what made the golden age so delightful. Black and white, good and bad characters were a given, so all the writer really had to do was to figure out how to use those marvelous new death mittens to beat the bad guy. It certainly made for entertaining and popular reading, but literature has a way of evolving beyond what works, and pushing the boundaries.<br />
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So now we explore not only technology but the workings of unimagined future societies - and that opens up a completely new spectrum of social roles, gender politics and economic modeling. <br />
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As delightful as exploring these ideas is, when they came on strong in the 60s, they brought with them a new ambiguity. Authors were suddenly faced with the need to move beyond black and white and explore the grays inherent in differing points of view. Suddenly black and white were juvenile concepts, both for good and for bad, and conflict became the province of masters of psychology.<br />
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Writers adapted, of course, but writer's block suddenly became a real thing. Suddenly faced with the need to walk the fine line between favoring idealism or pragmatism - or bashing both, it became paramount to have everything worked out from the beginning or risk writing oneself into a blind corner from which it is impossible to emerge.<br />
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Hence, the number of writers sitting around who've never completed a single tale.<br />
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And it gets even worse when you realize that some of these people add dragons and elves to this volatile mix.<br />
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I'm sure there should be a point to the above, but for the life of me, I can't think what it might be.<br />
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Maybe I should have thought of that before setting fingers to keyboard...Heroines of Fantasyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07169664399606524540noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3764159777348916628.post-41104724438978789402015-08-12T03:00:00.000-07:002015-08-12T03:00:01.744-07:00REVIEW: Three Great Lies<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMyfz95H2vGM7FB1uuJs1_gGPU7q8GlXiryrCtC4mhwWUJsVfsxN_qS9uo01s-Ciyjqb0Mt9fdRZMPGhlC6BLOFooEuh5bBGL1Au-cYhYaJEO6t3vYz2-2qoUZO-EoE0Qe6lD_rYgrkPo/s1600/TGL-Cover.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMyfz95H2vGM7FB1uuJs1_gGPU7q8GlXiryrCtC4mhwWUJsVfsxN_qS9uo01s-Ciyjqb0Mt9fdRZMPGhlC6BLOFooEuh5bBGL1Au-cYhYaJEO6t3vYz2-2qoUZO-EoE0Qe6lD_rYgrkPo/s200/TGL-Cover.jpg" width="133" /></a><b>Title: </b>Three Great Lies<br />
<b>Author:</b> <a href="http://vanmaclellan.com/" target="_blank">Vanessa MacLellan</a><br />
<b>Genre: </b>archaeological fiction<br />
<b>Price:</b> $5.99 (ebook) $16 (trade paperback)<br />
<b>Publisher:</b> Hadley Rille Books<br />
<b>ISBN </b>978-0989263146<br />
<b>Point of Sale</b>: <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Three-Great-Lies-Vanessa-MacLellan/dp/0989263142/ref=tmm_pap_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=&sr=" target="_blank">Amazon </a><br />
<b>Reviewed by:</b> <a href="http://chris-gerrib.livejournal.com/" target="_blank">Chris Gerrib</a><br />
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In the tradition of <i>A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur’s Court</i> comes the debut novel of author Vanessa MacLellan, <i>Three Great Lies</i>. At the start of the story, American tourist Jeannette Walker, traveling in Egypt, decides to go off the beaten path to see a newly-discovered and thus unspoiled ancient tomb. Thanks to unknown powers, Jeannette is transported to a time when the tomb was fairly new, that of Old Kingdom Egypt. Fortunately, the same powers that transport Jeannette allow her to understand and speak the local language.<br />
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But that’s about the only good thing going for Jeannette. The tomb’s occupant, a mummy, wants her to find his <i>ba </i>or soul. There’s a cat-headed girl, freshly booted out of her litter, sent to “help” Jeannette, and Jeannette’s managed to come afoul of the Slave Master of Thebes. She scoots out of town and heads upriver (which in Egypt is south) and tries to get her bearings.<br />
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MacLellan spent a lot of time researching ancient Egypt, and it shows. The everyday lives and wardrobe (or lack of same) of the locals is painted in great detail. We discover that beer was very important to Egyptians, and at the time they made beer by fermenting bread in water, which means you needed a straw to drink your beer! <br />
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In Mark Twain’s book, the title character used his knowledge of science to get out of trouble. Here, Jeannette’s modern knowledge is of little help. What is of help is her persistence and willingness to adapt to local customs. Jeannette’s curiosity helps, as it allows her to solve a local mystery and get right with the Slave Master, who is what passes for law in Thebes. <br />
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I found <i>Three Great Lies</i> a fascinating book, and well worth the reading.<br />
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Heroines of Fantasyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07169664399606524540noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3764159777348916628.post-3785623062276203832015-08-10T06:00:00.000-07:002015-08-10T06:00:03.885-07:00A Nip, A Tuck, A Wee Shoogle Around....<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"> Okay, so
last month, I was joking. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It wasn’t my
last post of 2015...<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It's now August, and
here I am again – but this time, I promise, it's definitely my last appearance for the
year.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And since I’m still deeply embroiled
in the process of honing and crafting, that’s what I’m going to talk about
today.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"> What I'm going to share with you is part of the editing process, but it's not that pernickety
Bonsai art of snipping off stray shoots, or the weeding out of those horrid
little waifs and strays which plague the writer, such as repetition, dodgy
grammar or whatever.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No – what I’m
talking about is the transformation of rough early draft into something
coherent.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This is a fairly routine task
when you’re constructing a straightforward linear narrative, but as I’m finding
more and more these days, it’s an exercise which becomes more and more involved
when you’re dealing with multiple time-lines because then the arrangement of
plots and subplots is much more complex.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"> I’ve
mentioned previously that I’m currently writing a novel with two major plot lines.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Timeline <i>a</i> (lets call it ‘the plot’) unfolds
6 years (or 2500 years, depending upon your perspective) after the events in
Timeline <i>b </i>(‘the subplot’): at the same time, both subplot and plot are so
tightly interwoven that the understanding of one is vital to the understanding
of the other, so it would not be possible to surgically remove one and leave
the other unharmed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"> With both
sections written, I’m now engaged in the process of weaving both elements together.
It’s an exercise which sounds deceptively simple, but in reality it’s proving
to be extremely complex and challenging.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>And that’s partly because the options are so vast, and the possibilities
so endless.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As the writers amongst you
are no doubt well aware (limitations of grammar and vocabulary aside) <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>the English language is almost infinite in its
diversity, so there’s no real way of knowing how your words fit together until
you’re actually at the point where you’re working to create a final text. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"> This is the
stage I’m at right now.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And the correct analogy
for this phase of the work isn’t best summed-up by weaving.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Or by gardening or even Bonsai-growing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This is more like working out a puzzle or a
logic-problem, or one of those mad 3-d pictures that you have to stare at
for hours until you see the picture contained within a mass of squiggles or
wavy lines.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"> Throughout
this process, the age-old conundrum becomes ever more apparent.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There is almost infinite variation in the way
your words can be strung together on the page.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>BUT....<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>(And this is a crucial
BUT....)<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At the same time, you know in
yourself that there is only one correct way to string these words together.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s finding this correct way that ends up
doing your head in.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"> This can be
a traumatic enough process when you’re writing a narrative which unfolds in a
simple time-frame.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There may be
simultaneous plots and sub-plots, but when you’re releasing these into the
narrative, you are rather helpfully constrained by time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Throw in some wibbly-wobbly time (to quote the inimitable Doctor
Who....) and all this goes completely out of the window.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"> So if chronology
is no longer the driving force behind the structure, something else has to take
on that function.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m a pantster by
nature – yes, I work to a very rough and ready outline, but it’s usually the
process of carrying out four or five redrafts that enables me to define and
develop the various plots and sub-plots.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
Working to a strictly defined structure </span>may be quite foreign to my usual mode of operation, but these days I find myself
becoming increasingly reliant on that old ally of the plotter, the little
squiggly line which physically depicts the highs and lows of the narrative, and
maps out the points of maximum tension and drama. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>With my
hero confined and capable only of passive resistance for a portion of the main
thread, tension has to be maintained in another fashion.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And this is where the sub-plot comes into its
own, for there’s tension a-plenty in the back story. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And this subplot is crucial in terms of
character development, because it’s through this part of the narrative that we see
how the relationship between the hero and the heroine developed in the past, which
in turn is crucial to how their relationship continues in the present.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"> And so it’s
back to the weaving metaphor.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The
strings that make up both narratives are fed out at different rates then knitted
together in the final version.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And that’s
where things get really complicated.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
have to tease through both component parts of the narrative, then try and
identify any important references and establish whether they’re acting <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>as spoilers (in which case they need to be
dealt with) or as teasers which can then be used to hook the reader and get
them to keep on reading.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In essence, dealing
with these little details is just as crucial to the running order as the linear
mapping of high and low points in the tension, because if the two narratives
don’t fit together seamlessly, then the poor reader will just end up confused.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"> All this
sounds very methodical.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And very
clinical, too.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In a way, it is, and
sometimes I find myself wondering if the whole project would have been easier
if I’d started my writing career in the ‘proper’ fashion by attending a
Creative Writing course at uni.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That
way, I’d have been taught to critically analyse what I was doing and why, every
step of the journey.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But at the same
time, I can’t help thinking that if I’d ever tried pulling off this particular
novel within the disciplined environment of a university creative writing
class, my tutor would have dealt me a metaphorical slap across the chops, and
said, “Don’t be so bloody stupid, this is insane!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What on earth were you thinking?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"> What on
earth was I thinking, indeed!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When I consider the practicalities, I still get this little moment of panic, a frisson
of terror which transforms almost instantly into wild excitement.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> Despite the inherent difficulties, </span>I persist, because not only am I sure that at the heart of this novel, there is a story worth writing, but it also turns out that I’m getting along well with the characters and I enjoy spending time with
them, and as a writer, I don't think you can get any better justification than that.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"> I can
analyse my work till the cows come home and beyond.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I can try my best to think logically, and
physically slide bits here and there and up and down like one of those sliding
tile puzzles I used to play with as a child, confident in the belief that someday the picture
will appear and suddenly everything will make some kind of sense.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span></span><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">But in the
end, I suspect that despite all the protestations of order and logic and clinical
precision, I’m still doing the classic ‘panster’ thing of making it up as I go
along and playing around with the various permutations.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"></span><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"> Sooner or later, I’ll get it right, and it
won’t be any kind of analytic reasoning that tells me when this has
happened.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Instead, it’ll be plain old
gut instinct.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It will feel right when I
first press the ‘save’ button.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And it
will still feel right when I come back six weeks later for another
read-through.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"> </span>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"> And then,
just when I’m cracking open a bottle of wine and congratulating myself on how
clever I’ve been, it’ll be time to send it to the beta-readers, and after that,
I suspect all bets will be off...</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"> So wish me
luck, everyone!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And see you at the other
side – or failing that, on the <i>Heroines of Fantasy</i> Blog in 2016. By that time, I'll either be insufferable because I'm feeling horribly accomplished, or else I'll be a nervous wreck....</span></div>
Heroines of Fantasyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07169664399606524540noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3764159777348916628.post-24322846978433498392015-08-05T04:00:00.000-07:002015-08-05T04:00:03.075-07:00Wednesday Review: Yuko Zen is Somewhere Else by Simon Paul Wilson<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjb4FcB6vl09pYVm32sG9ybrgYhzyeLs7dE6ermsZWWo0lGkfofx8y6WF3yFG5s7PbYG8mKOWzKfCPLdEPIevHRpyfb1n2XaRTJjxRSucjQZG25EmUg0PCckmFT9ifTv5g81P8GB5E0LqY/s1600/Yuko+Zen+Finished+Kindle+Cover.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjb4FcB6vl09pYVm32sG9ybrgYhzyeLs7dE6ermsZWWo0lGkfofx8y6WF3yFG5s7PbYG8mKOWzKfCPLdEPIevHRpyfb1n2XaRTJjxRSucjQZG25EmUg0PCckmFT9ifTv5g81P8GB5E0LqY/s320/Yuko+Zen+Finished+Kindle+Cover.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
<blockquote>
<br />
<br />
<em>My name is Yuko Zen and I am somewhere else...</em> </blockquote>
<blockquote>
<em>After a strange encounter with a beautiful girl in a Chinese take-away, Chris Winter discovers she's left her journal behind. He only opens it to search for her contact details, but he's quickly pulled into her mysterious world – a nameless Asian city filled with tales of Buddhist dogs, hedgehogs and yogurt pots, and a magical girl named Pixie. </em></blockquote>
<blockquote>
<em>When Chris is totally hooked, Yuko's journal takes an unexpected turn. It starts to talk to him...</em><br />
<br /></blockquote>
I read <em>Yuko Zen</em> when I was somewhere else (somewhere hot, beneath the shade of olive trees and half-deafened by the cicadas). It’s short, light and breezy in tone, and broken up into nicely bite-sized chapters. I found it beautifully paced and delightfully self-conscious. Very playful in fact. The cover design is simple but, like all good covers, sums up the essence of the story in a single image. The blurb above describes its conceit: the framing device is Chris's reading of Yuko’s diary but most of the book is made up of that diary. Your opinion of it will therefore depend largely on your response to Yuko’s voice. She comes across initially as friendly, engaged, somewhat shallow. Her early diary entries are upbeat and chatty, describing her perfect life, with her perfect mother and her perfect best friend, Pixie, in an unnamed Asian city. Everything, from her music to cauliflower curry, is awesome and super-cool. Just at the point when (for me) this ideal was beginning to seem a touch wearisome, Pixie and Yuko quarrelled and things were suddenly less perfect, and more interesting. When she goes over to Pixie's flat to try to make up, Yuko meets a strange girl, Xue. After that, fate, or chance, intervene and Yuko's life takes several, very strange, turns. <br />
<br />
What was noticeable was how pleasant and positive it was, even though it borrowed several tropes directly from horror stories. Sex, sexual identity, family relationships, all the things that in so much fiction are fraught and angst-ridden, were made warm and understanding here. It’s not that <em>Yuko Zen</em> is unalloyed sweetness and light – it isn’t, though saying how and why would give too much away – but it does manage to depict kind, good people behaving well without making them boring. That, I appreciated. It's a harder trick to pull off than it might seem. There’s a sense too of ideas bubbling beneath the surface. You can read a great deal into <em>Yuko Zen</em>, and for this reason it's a book that bears rereading. Its simplicity is deceptive, its still surfaces reflect. Wilson is making no attempt to be realistic, and the dreamy, somewhat unfocused feel of his book is, I think, deliberate. Nor is the paradox at the centre of the story explained: this isn't science fiction, more something between magic realism and a ghost story. One thing that did distract me a little was variability in spellings. I wondered for a while if Chris was using one flavo(u)r of English and Yuko another but concluded it was merely inconsistent line editing. But that's a minor thing. All in all, there's some very clever writing here, perfect for holiday reading.<br />
<br />
I 'won' a copy of the e-book in a recent Facebook giveaway.<br />
<br />
Harriet Goodchild<br />
<br />
<em>Yuko Zen is Somewhere Else</em><br />
<a href="http://www.amazon.co.uk/Yuko-Somewhere-Else-Simon-Wilson-ebook/dp/B00OLYHCOS" target="_blank">Amazon UK</a><br />
<a href="http://www.amazon.com/Yuko-Somewhere-Else-Simon-Wilson-ebook/dp/B00OLYHCOS" target="_blank">Amazon US</a>Heroines of Fantasyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07169664399606524540noreply@blogger.com0