Beth Fuller's Blog, page 2
May 7, 2021
The Library of Glass and Light
N.B. This short story was written for the Reedsy prompt: Set your story in a library, after hours.… view prompt
Each footstep wailed out an eerie reverberating song through the empty room, like someone running their finger around the rim of a wineglass. The large and airy halls were darkened now, save for the distant glimmer of moonlight seeping through the clouded walls, and the quiet throb of orb-light fracturing against every reflective surface, as the glowing spheres blushed at them from every side. Each haltering step chimed a different note until their quiet, winding path made a melody of sorts, each of Ako’s footsteps harmonising with Master Mattin’s. The old librarian led him in this strange, dignified procession through the sturdy glass shelves and their footsteps sang a loud and sonorous song, as slow as a funeral dirge and just as solemn.
Ako had never been in the Escu de dos y ra before. The Library of Glass and Light, as it was called in the common tongue, was technically off limits for apprentices like him. He lived in the much smaller, plain brick building that sat squat and ugly at the bottom of those gleaming glass tower walls with the rest of the library apprentices. They had been told, time and time again, that they must not venture into the sacred space until they were invited. He hugged himself tightly now, vibrating with excitement at the thought that he had been deemed worthy at last. None of the other apprentices were invited. The thought was smug. It almost made up for the bruises the bigger boys gave him.
He stared around at the glistening shelves towering around him, reflecting back his own wide eyes endlessly, and tried to imagine what it would be like at noon instead of midnight. He could almost hear the noise of the masters’ footsteps, ringing around the glimmering corridors in a new symphony every day, never the same twice, a discordant cacophony of that piercing, humming swell, as each of them added their own unwitting melody to the music. By daylight, too, he was sure that the heat in here would be stifling. It was hard enough to bear at night. The thick glass walls were cloudy and translucent, which made everything beyond them seem misty and unreal. Inside, it was muggy even by moonlight, it must be almost deathly by the heat of the sun. Distantly, Ako wondered how the frail, withered master before him managed it. But then, Master Mattin had given his life to Davish’de’s Greatest Service. He was surely used to it all by now.
It is an honour and a privilege to serve the giving, Ako remembered, almost sanctimoniously. We must not take the sacrifices of the citizens in vain. We must honour the gifts they give us. It is the Greatest Service. How petty to complain about the heat in the light of that.
He ran an idle finger along the towering glass shelves as he trailed after Master Mattin. Upon each of the heavy glass shelves towering above him, were the Gifts, one given by each of the citizens of Davish’de after their deaths, each according to their greatest strengths and it was the responsibility and the honour of each of the Masters to protect them and use them well. A weighty privilege, indeed.
Some of the glowing orbs waiting patiently there upon the glass shelves shone brighter than others. Talented Masters could tell them apart without touching them, Ako had heard it said. That from the depth or hue of the glow, an expert master could tell whether it had been a blacksmith’s strength that had been archived after his passing, or a pick-pocket’s dexterity, an alchemist’s curiosity, or even just the longevity of the ancient’s life.
Ako leant forwards, his hand stretching out towards one of the orbs now. It seemed to thrum and glow even brighter as his fingers approached it, as if it thought he was about to steal it. The light tangled on the ridges of his bony fingers, almost beckoning him, and he closed his hands into tight little fists to avoid temptation. The glow of the orb glittered back at him almost malevolently from a thousand cloudily shimmering surfaces and, for a moment, Ako wondered if he had somehow got trapped within a mirror, if he was swimming through the silver as someone else’s reflection.
The thought frightened him and he skipped forwards slightly, trying to catch up with Master Mattin, playing a jaunty little harmony on top of Mattin’s steady footsteps.
“Peace, Ako,” Master Mattin croaked reprovingly. “This is a place of respect.”
“Sorry, Master Mattin.”
“Very few apprentices ever get to walk these halls at all,” Master Mattin croaked at him, the flaring candle-stick in his hand setting deep shadows in the hollows and crags of his face. “You are now part of a long and honoured tradition. A secret tradition,” he added sternly.
“I won’t breathe a word of it to anyone, sir,” Ako whispered, feeling his eyes widening. Master Mattin smiled slightly.
“I know you won’t,” he averred with so much conviction that Ako found himself swelling with pride.
It was not often that people trusted Ako. He had no family left before the Masters of the Library had found him. He had been living on the streets, fighting rats off for food, before the masters had taken him into the acolyte house, bathed and shaved him, and given him the scratchy brown robes of the apprentice boys to wear. He hated those robes. They were warm and they were clean, which is more than his last clothes had been, but they always itched him uncomfortably, making his tanned skin rashy and red. He hated the prickle of stubble against his head, too. His black hair had often been matted when he lived on the hot and dusty alleys of the sandstone city of Davish’de, but he felt naked with it all gone.
At least none of the other apprentices teased him about that, he supposed. They all had to wear itchy brown robes and shave their heads, too. It was about the only thing they didn’t tease him about, he thought morosely. Many of them were the second or third sons of minor nobles, looking to find a career as a master themselves, and they didn’t like having to share their classrooms and dormitories with someone like him.
Only Vernos was kind to him. Vernos, almost sixteen already, would sometimes stop the others from beating him up, if the mood took him.
“I don’t know why you’re wasting your time tormenting him,” Vernos would say airily. “He’ll run away soon anway, even without you chasing him off. All the scholarship children run away in the end. I know it’s supposed to be charitable to take them, but they’re just not suited to life here.” And all the other apprentices would laugh loudly, but they would stop hitting or spitting at Ako all the same, and Ako was grateful for it. He tried to thank Vernos once, catching him in the corridor after the midnight light ceremony, but the older boy had shaken him off.
“Don’t talk to me.” He had said it coldly but not unkindly. “You will draw attention to both of us, and then you will only bring yourself more beatings. If you want to survive this place, keep your head down and do not draw anyone’s eye. Not until you are bigger and stronger, anyway,” he had said, running his cold black gaze over Ako’s skinny body, then he had swept away without another word.
Ako didn’t mind. He knew that Vernos was looking out for him really.
All the same, Ako had no intention of running away. He didn’t know why the Masters had chosen him, of all the street brats, to take in for their annual scholarship child, but nor did he know how those other children could have bared to have left. There is food here, and shelter and the hope for a job, come the end. That is worth any amount of teasing.
Ako thought that when his life ended, perhaps the Grey Takers would preserve his stubbornness. It was by far his most abundant quality, after all. It will make a good Gift, I hope. He wanted to give a good gift to the Library. It was the privilege of every Davish’de citizen to continue the circle—to give in their passing what they had enjoyed in their life.
“This way, Ako,” Master Mattin said, gesturing to a thick wooden door at the back of the hall. Ako frowned, it looked out of place here.
“Why is it not glass?” he whispered, his voice carrying through the still, watchful night.
“There are some things that must not be seen, even here,” Master Mattin told him, gesturing him forwards. “You will learn the secret of the Escu de dos y ra tonight, little one. You will see things that none of your other peers have seen.”
Ako shivered with delight and hugged himself close at the thought, as he obediently slipped through the door. It closed behind them both with a heavy thunk.
“Down the stairs, Ako,” Master Mattin said, gesturing to the stone stairs spiralling tightly into the darkness before them. They were narrow and slippery and Ako had to press one hand to either wall as he slipped down them, terrified lest he might slip. It smelt strangely, a musty, decaying smell Ako could not quite place, and he felt the hairs on his arms prickling uneasily.
“It is dark down here,” he whispered and it was almost a question.
“Yes,” Master Mattin agreed, his voice breathing out right behind his ear, making Ako flinch. “You must be brave now, Ako. You wish to serve the Library, do you not? It is the Greatest Service.”
“Yes, Master,” Ako agreed miserably.
At the bottom of the stairs was a large cellar, surrounded by tall candlesticks each glowing with flames of a different colour. From each of the candlesticks ran a gutter into the centre of the room, each line meeting in the middle, like an exploding star. Besides each candlestick was a Master. He recognised Master Ardro, who taught them chanting, and Master Hurvin, who taught them languages. He raised a hand towards them in a tentative greeting, and they smiled back encouragingly.
That helped a little. They never usually smiled at him in class. He was not a very good student, usually, but they clearly thought he had potential if they wanted him to join their ranks tonight.
“This is he?” wheezed the oldest Master. Ako had never seen him before. He was standing almost in the dead centre of the room, by that collision of guttering. Master Mattin bowed and hurriedly gestured to Ako to do the same.
“Yes. The scholarship child. Ako, move forwards and greet Master Uras formally as we taught you,” Master Mattin urged. Trembling, Ako crept forwards and knelt before the ancient master, down on one knee, his head bent, his three fingers pressed flat to his forehead. He glanced up at Uras, who nodded at him, but as he tried to rise, Uras pressed a surprisingly strong hand on his shoulder and forced him to stay down upon one knee.
It was very uncomfortable, for Ako had ended up kneeling right at the intersection of the guttering and the ridges were digging into his legs now. He didn’t think he ought to complain though. He knew he wouldn’t get another chance like this again. Not a friendless nobody like him.
“Tell me of the Library of Glass and Light,” Master Uras croaked. Ako looked uncertainly at Master Mattin who made a rolling get-on-with-it gesture with his hands.
“It is the greatest protection of our city and our lands,” he whispered, wondering why he had to tell this old man something he clearly already knew. “It is built on the sacrifice of its people after their deaths, to give power to the living.”
“Good, boy, you clearly listen well to your tutors.” He beckoned a hand and six masters stepped forwards, each carefully carrying the orbs. “These were sacrifices of wisdom, ruthlessness, strength, foresight, secrecy and longevity. Six sacrifices worthy of a master. And tonight, they will be awarded.”
Ako’s head shot upwards, his eyes wide.
“For me!”
Uras laughed. “Unfortunately not, child. You are too young to be a master anyway. Let the recipient step forwards.”
There were a couple of footsteps and Vernos stepped forwards, his head uncovered by the hood of his robes.
Of course it would be Vernos. He was wise and clever already. The perfect choice to be a master.
Ako tried not to let the disappointment embitter him. His time would come.
Vernos kneeled opposite him, also on the star of guttering. He did not return the tentative smile Ako offered him. Uras placed one hand on Vernos’ head and the other on Ako’s.
“What do we do here, brother Vernos?” he wheezed.
“We accept the sacrifices of the dead for the living.”
“Yes,” said Uras as the masters brought the orbs forth and pushed them, one at a time through Vernos’ chest. Vernos gasped and shuddered with each one going in, his eyes growing black, his breath jagged and fractured like glass shards, and Ako was suddenly glad that he was not being turned into a master tonight. It was frightening enough just witnessing such a thing. “But there must be balance, must there not? And in order to transfer the gift of the dead to the living, we must also give a gift of life to the dead,” he said.
Ako opened his mouth to ask him what he meant, but before he could get the words out there was a thump, and a thud right through the back of his chest,and then a wash of pain. He slumped forwards on to the cold stone ground and he was vaguely aware of something wet and warm gushing out of him, flowing down those channels towards the candle-sticks they led to. The ground was cold as it clung to his skin, but the pain was hot and throbbing. As the liquid reached the base of the candlesticks, the coloured flames atop them roared suddenly brighter, filling the room with rainbow light and then there was nothing left but darkness in the library of glass and light.
April 30, 2021
Writing Updates 30.04.2021
Hello one and all!
It has been a busy week here, but a fairly productive one!
My short story, The Harvestman, came out with Bandit Fiction. https://banditfiction.com/2021/04/27/the-harvestman-by-e-m-duffield-fuller/
I finished the first draft of Prowler (Darkwatch’s sequel and the second in the trilogy) and now it is entering it’s ‘resting’ period, before I go back to edit it.
I am starting the edits of the first draft of The Factory and the Forge, my second romance novel. It is quite different tonally from Prowler (and features far less demons!) so it is proving a nice ‘brain break’ for me.
It is a little daunting for me though, because there were quite a lot of suggested edits to implement from my excellent beta reader and husband (Pete) so it feels like there will be quite a lot of work to do on it.
However, I have had some more lovely reviews on Goodreads and Amazon for my first historical romance novel, The Heir of Drymote, so that was very encouraging. My average review score on Amazon is currently (as of the time of writing) 4.6 and my average review on Goodreads as of the time of writing is 4.8, so you can’t complain about that! Still working my way around the concept of book promotion, trying to find out what works and what doesn’t…but I’m very encourage by the response so far anyway.
I haven’t got any more short stories out for consideration at the moment, so ideally I’d like to work on one of those to keep up my online presence and momentum…but with the weekly Reedsy stories, the Prowler draft, the Factory and Forge edits, my PhD writing/meetings and, you know, raising my family, I’m finding time a bit limited at the moment. Hopefully inspiration will come calling again soon…
Anyway, I’ve got some writing to get on with, so that’s all for now! 
April 28, 2021
The Harvestman
My latest short story, The Harvestman, is now available with Bandit Fiction.
https://banditfiction.com/2021/04/27/the-harvestman-by-e-m-duffield-fuller/
It is a short horror novel, based on the Harvestman arachnids, that I was reading about on the internet one day. Regular readers of this blog will also spot an edited version of the short ballad I was playing with in an earlier post.
I originally sent it to Neon Books literary magazine, who suggested it would be better as a long story. Although Bandit Fiction took it as it was, I am also playing with the idea of expanding this world into a novella (after my numerous other projects have been finished!)
I’ll keep you posted!
April 21, 2021
A new 5 star review for The Heir of Drymote
There was a new 5* ARC review out on goodreads that I was especially pleased by. It was by Farshana (rainnbooks) and you can find a copy of it below:
Many thanks to Book Sirens and the author for a chance to read and review this book. All opinions are expressed voluntarily.
Dear Beth Fuller, I hope you are writing again and that there are more books like The Heir of Drymote just about to be released, believe me, when I say this, your work was simply enthralling. I know I’m probably not a very strict reviewer, any story that keeps me entertained is gonna be definitely 3 stars from my end, which means I liked it but recently I have had some 5 star reads most of which I have thoroughly enjoyed which more or less translates to the fact that I lost myself in the story for the duration of it. The Heir of Drymote is surely 5 stars category.
The Heir of Drymote has so many of the topics that I devour in a book, a lovely historical romance, gothic setting, mystery around a will, a touch of humor, and some fascinating characters. The opening chapter itself had me laughing out loud coz anyone with a lick of sense could recognize the identity of the stranger standing in front of Charlotte. It was not just the romance that was sparkling in brilliance but the suspense of unidentified shadows that lurk around the halls of Drymote added a mild spooky atmosphere. Charlotte is very practical in her nature and I loved her forthright manner in dealing with things. The way she helps Edward come to terms with his troubled past and the all-encompassing love that Edward displays for Charlotte without care or concern for anyone’s opinion was delightful.
If you are a fan of mysteries with romance set in the Victorian era, go ahead and read this captivating story, you won’t be disappointed!
March 30, 2021
The Great Night Wolf
My short story, The Great Night Wolf, was accepted for publication in the inaugural issues of Hearth and Coffin Literary Magazine! I was really pleased with how this one turned out. You can find it here:
March 25, 2021
Crossroads Cantina Podcast
It follows the adventures of Calli, a young thief in a con-man’s gang in the harbour city of Highmast. If you enjoy it, you can find more of her and the Rat’s Nest gang’s exploits on Reedsy.
https://blog.reedsy.com/creative-writing-prompts/author/lizzy-duffield-fuller/
March 12, 2021
A Dream of Stone
N.B. You can find this story on Reedsy in response to the prompt Start your story with a character struggling to remember the date, because every day is like the last one.…
My nose itches. It has itched for about a decade now I would guess, though I’m not entirely sure. There is no date here. The itching comes in fits and spurts. Sometimes it is barely more than a slight tickle, sometimes it is an agony of prickling and the only thought screaming through my mind is scratchscratchscratch in one long litany, the syllables blurring into one another until it no longer makes a cohesive word but is just a song of constant consonants streaming through my mind and I think I am going insane.
Of course, I can’t scratch it. I can’t even twitch a solitary finger in the direction of my nose, let alone give it a good raking with a fingernail. Sometimes I imagine I am scratching it. I never close my eyes, of course, because I can’t, but I try to block out the world of that musty little cave and just picture myself moving.
In my mind, it starts with the tiniest twitch of my forefinger. Just a breath of movement, so small that even I am not sure it is real. But then it happens again, a bend of the knuckle, a crack along the grey granite skin. In this fantasy, my whole finger bends as if it is beckoning me, splinters of rock zigzagging like lightning at the bends, flaking away, revealing soft, clean skin underneath. The other fingers soon join in, encouraged, perhaps, by their friend’s success, and soon my hand has become a fist. Then an arm is free, a shoulder, my chest, the grey streaking away like an avalanche through my dreams, racing itself up my straining neck, my half-turned face, my open, screaming mouth—perpetually frozen in that last, shameful no. I imagine that I close my mouth for the first time in the gods alone know how many years and my tongue moves, wet and free and human. I spit out phantom mouthfuls of gravel chunks and I scratch my damn nose. Then I wrench my feet out of their frozen position and crawl away, out of the cave, to freedom at last. In my mind’s eye, all the other statues watch me go. They must be jealous. Perhaps they are screaming at me to help them in the frozen recesses of their own calcified bodies, but I can’t. I cannot even help myself, really.
I don’t think I would have come, if I had known the truth. I don’t like to think of myself as a coward, of course, but the stories get it all wrong. She can turn you to stone with a glimpse of her eyes, they say, but they never once tell you that you will still be alive within your sarcophagus-skin. I had assumed, as I suppose we all did, that you would die. I don’t mind dying, everyone dies. But this? To be alive, forever, impossibly trapped inside your own body? I can’t even blink. I have tried, strained with everything within me to shut my eyelids just once, but nothing in me moves. I am consciousness embodied in a rock and it is haunting me.
I am not even sure that she knows we live still, actually. She talks to us sometimes, and sometimes even talks back to herself with the funny little voices she assigns to us. Pats the heads of her favourites fondly, or strokes their cheeks, her hair hissing around her head. She calls me Erocles, though that is not my name, and has made up a story about my life, pretending I was coming to claim her monstrous head so that I could win the hand of the king’s fair daughter. She does not know about my wife and children back home, who will never now see their father return. The youngest, Marcos, was only three when I left. He must surely be a man now, grown into adulthood without a father to show him how. I wonder vaguely if Ariadna has married again. If some other man brings home the bread and salt for the dinner table.
I think she is lonely, actually, our captor, surrounded by all her creations. She does not often leave the cave, but she will venture out of the darkness now and again. There is no way to tell how long she is gone for. She could be gone for hours, days, weeks. Time is meaningless here. I am always afraid that this time she will not return. I hate her, but she is the only living thing in here. It is the sound of her breath that fills the emptiness, her voices and her stories which stretch through the darkness, her movement, like the dancing of stars, swaying between her endless masterpieces. Without her, I know I am mad.
When she returns, I am always filled with relief and self-loathing. I wonder if the other fallen warriors feel things as intensely as I do, frozen in their last tableau. The only thing left for us to do is think and feel. I wonder if even that will fade eventually.
But for now, I like it when she returns. She talks to us then, tells us what she has seen. Small things, but they linger.
It was cold, today, she might say and I will picture it, feel the winds chilling against my skin, tangling in my hair as they once did. Perhaps a slight drift of snow will tickle against me. Perhaps it is winter, and the trees have all mercilessly abandoned their leaves, or perhaps it is late summer, and the cold has taken everybody by surprise, sending them scrambling for the shawls and furs they didn’t think they needed yet.
There was a beautiful sunset, tonight, she may mutter and I picture the streaks of blood and gold tangling with the last clouds in the endless horizon.
These are the best times. The times that I remember that there is still a world out there, even if I am not still a part of it.
Sometimes I dream that a hero comes. I don’t know if these dreams are nightmares or wishes. Perhaps, my foolish, hopeful heart whispers, the curse will die when she does. Perhaps we will be released from this prison at last. Perhaps we will even be allowed to die. Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps.
Condensation drips from the cave’s ceiling, landing on my face. It trickles down my cheek as if I am crying and I wonder if eventually it will wash me away completely—and if my nose will finally stop itching if it does.
March 5, 2021
The Heir of Drymote
https://www.devinedestinies.com/978-1-4874-3229-4-the-heir-of-drymote/
The Heir of Drymote goes live from midnight! If you feel in the mood for a Victorian historical romance full of mystery and suspense, please check out the link above.
Thank you!
February 26, 2021
The Seasons of Salt
This is the prologue to the ongoing fantasy series, The Seasons of Salt. If you wish to read the whole thing, please find it for free at: https://www.dreame.com/novel/nWTAL%2FnObKS5DHkmq7QIgA%3D%3D.html
Prologue:
All good stories are like rivers, Da said, because all good stories are like life, and life itself is a river; turning now this way and now that, sometimes fast and rocky, sometimes slow and smooth. It has many little rivulets and inlets and channels and you choose which bend to turn down, never knowing what might happen down the other. It only takes one thing to change the river; if the rain fell a little harder or too many branches fell, or the droughts came sudden and sharp. Every time you journey its different and the same. A story is like that, if it’s done well.
Once there were four little girls.
Not this one again, Sylas said. It’s a girls’ story and besides, she already knows it by heart.
And she did.
Once there were four little girls and their names were Autumn, Winter, Spring and Summer. And they loved and were loved, they were happy and sad in season and lived through such adventures that it would shake you to the core to hear of them – and though their lives ran crossways many times, they were fated never to meet.
And you can not fight fate, can you, Da?
And his eyes twinkled with the same old answer every time. No lass. But you can negotiate with it, if you’re canny.
There was an embroidery up on the wall, she remembered. Women gleaning and sowing and gathering, in rich garments of scarlet, ochre, navy, emerald, violet and white. The intricate folds of the gowns caught the candle light sometimes, and seemed as if they were made of starfire, shimmering as if they might be dancing. Cerissa stared at them between her fingers, holding her podgy, often sticky, digits up high in front of her face, pretending they were tree trunks she was staring through. She would peek through them, hiding in that forest from the spirits and the nymphs that dwelt there, frozen in their work upon the wall before her. And when Sylas argued that neither spirits nor nymphs worked like peasants, she would ignore him – and pretend herself there, out in the forests still, far from him and his nagging logic.
Her Da had told her once that these were the seasons in all their splendour, ladies with the pure white hair of winter and the vibrant auburn curls of autumn, summer sunshine yellow – just like hers – and the branch brown springs, and she would always picture them there when he told the tales she loved best.
Once there were four girls.
Where does the story start? Where does the river? Does it begin where the streams merge and swell, rivulets running together, adding their strength to one mighty pulse, crashing wave and swirling current? Does it begin at the spring, spurting fresh laughter, glinting in the sunlight? Does it begin deep underground, where rushing waters roar and rage, hidden in the darkness and the night? Or the rain, feeding the soil, soaking through rocks and dirt, slipping past greedy roots and thirsty creatures? Or with the sun, draining puddles and soaking up the sea to start the whole sordid mess once more? Must it always start with anger? Must it always start with war? And must it always end where it began?
Once, there were four girls.
February 19, 2021
We’re In!
Well! What a week it has been! But we have finally moved house and have officially become homeowners at last–or mortgage owners at least. We are surrounded with packing boxes and bubble wrap and we don’t have a fridge yet, so that’s a bit of a pain. Surprisingly somehow, my writing time has been minimal this week, so it’s just an update and not a story here today I’m afraid.
I have been updating Seasons of Salt on Starywriting, if you want to check it out there though: https://www.starywriting.com/novel/nWTAL%2FnObKS5DHkmq7QIgA%3D%3D.html
I’ve also been working on a short-story series which I’m thinking of amalgamating into a full length novel, tentatively called the Highmast series (though I will need a better title if it becomes a book. I am always awful at thinking of titles). You can find that over on Reedsy, if you want to check it out.
https://blog.reedsy.com/creative-writing-prompts/author/lizzy-duffield-fuller/
I also have a couple of short story competitions coming up, so I’d like to get ahead on those, if only I had the brain-power or energy!! And I have signed off the galley of Heir of Drymote, so hopefully that is chugging up along the publication queue. Still no word of a release date, but never mind. All good things to those that wait, and I have more than enough other things to keep me busy right now!
Keep safe.
