Craig Comer's Blog, page 12

The Sunken

James Holman’s Memoirs — Unpublished

The history books — the thick sort written by real historians — will tell you England’s troubles began when Isambard Kingdom Brunel knocked Robert Stephenson from the post of Messiah of the Sect of the Great Conductor, and became overnight the most powerful engineer in England. But they do not have the full story.

The true origin began many years before that, with George III — the Vampire King — and the damage wrought by his naval defeats, and his madness. His depravity might have been held in check were it not for a mild spring afternoon in 1830, when a dragon wandered into Kensington Gardens and ate two women and a Grenadier Guard.

I happened to witness this occurrence, although witness, my critics would say, is a word I am not permitted to use, on account of my complete blindness. I had been granted a day’s leave from my duties at Windsor Castle to come into the city. In my left hand, I clutched two envelopes. One contained a thick, pleading letter to my publisher, written on my Noctograph in large, loopy letters to arouse their sympathies, humbly requesting a payment for royalties due on my book. The second contained a request for a period of extended leave to travel to Europe, addressed to the Duke and signed by my doctor. In my other hand, I held the brass ball atop my walking stick, rapping the pavement and listening for the echoes whenever I felt myself veer from my path.

I arrived at the offices of F., C., and J. Rivington, my publishers, a little after four, and was surprised to find their offices empty, the door locked, and no one about. I ran my fingers over the door, but could find no notice. Perhaps they had taken an extended luncheon? I sniffed the air, remembering the delicious pie shop on the corner beneath the barbershop. Yes, perhaps I should look for them there.

I had no sooner taken a step across the street, my mouth watering with the anticipation of pie, when coach bells jangled, whistles blew, hooves thundered, and a great commotion rumbled down the street — a carriage speeding over the cobbles, the inhabitants crying out as they were flung back in their seats. I yanked my boot back just as the carriage screamed past and several Bobbies blew their whistles at me. Boots pounded along the street as the usual gaggle of reporters, thrill-seekers, and layabouts chased after the carriage, anxious to see the cause of the commotion.

Of course, being somewhat of a thrill-seeker myself, I shoved the letters into my jacket pocket and followed. I didn’t need my stick to follow the sound of the carriage, and I fell in step amongst the crowd and allowed the jostles of the nosy to pull me along. I collected details in my mental map — a right turn here, a left there, the rough cobbles giving way to silken lawn and neat, paved paths. We’d entered Kensington Gardens, tearing through the squared hedges of close-cropped yew and prim holly, cut and shaped to mimic the bastions and fortifications of war. Hydrangea and rose perfumes drifted on the breeze, until the coo of songbirds was interrupted by piercing screams as women scuttled between the hedges, looking for a place to hide.

Then, I heard the roar.

The sound was so low it shook my insides about, so my organs felt as though they had sunk into my socks. The crowd around me, only moments ago hell-bent on moving forward in search of the commotion, scattered in fear, diving into the trees flanking the Round Pond and leaving me in the centre of the path to confront the scene before me.

Though I could only hear and not see what unfolded, the vivid accounts read aloud to me by friends from the papers allow me to picture it now as clearly as anything. A female swamp-dragon (Megalosaurus bucklandii, in the new taxonomy) appeared from nowhere beside the Round Pond, obviously in need of a drink. She bent down, fifteen feet of her, to lap at the water with her thick tongue, her leathery green skin catching the midday sun. The gentlemen who had been preparing to launch their boats on the water scattered, but their women were busy setting up the picnic tables and laying out the tea settings, and did not notice the commotion until the beast was upon them.

A woman cowered under her table, clutching a crying baby and trying to muffle its sobs beneath her skirt. But the dragon — like me — saw the world with her ears. She drove her wide snout under the table and tore at the unfortunate woman, tearing out her pretty arms and staining her dress with blood.

Crème scones and Wedgewood china flew through the air as the beast charged the picnic tables, snapping up morsels of womanly flesh. The screams brought more bystanders — lovers strolling along the Serpentine, the Royal Horticultural Society, who’d been admiring the hydrangea beds, and, finally, a nearby guard on duty with his shiny blunderbuss.

The shots rang in my ears for several moments, and I leaned on my stick, suddenly blinded to the world around me. The ground trembled as feet thundered past, and I turned to move after them, but a voice broke through my panic.

“You sir, don’t move!”

I froze. Now I heard the hiss of air escaping the dragon’s nostril, and the click of its claws as it stalked across the garden path toward me. The air grew hot, carrying with it the smell of butchery — blood and flesh mingled with the beast’s fetid breath. At any moment it would be upon me. The panic rose in my throat, and I fought the urge to run.

Steff Green lives in an off-grid house on a slice of rural paradise near Auckland, New Zealand, with her cantankerous drummer husband, their two cats, and their medieval sword collection. The first CD she ever brought was Metallica’s ‘Ride the Lightning’, and she’s been a card-carrying member of the black-t-shirt brigade ever since.

Steff writes about metal music, her books, living off-grid, and her adventures with home-brewing on her blog www.steffmetal.com. She writes humorous fantasy under the name Steff Metal, and dark, dystopian fantasy under S. C. Green. Her latest novel, The Sunken, explores an alternative Georgian London where dinosaurs still survive.

Stay up to date with Steff’s books by signing up to her newsletter at http://steffmetal.com/subscribe, or like her Facebook page at http://facebook.com/steffmetal.

Lost in Space: What Happened Here?

Savage predator or friendly rescuer? A welcome sight for an explorer lost in space?

Writing prompt, inspiration, or just something to enjoy. Your choice! If you come up with anything you want to share, post it in the comments.

Big Space Tentacle Monster – by Ben Thornton

Cargo Bay: What Happened Here?

On a distant Space Port, or somewhere here on Earth? What’s about to happen?

Writing prompt, inspiration, or just something to enjoy. Your choice! If you come up with anything you want to share, post it in the comments.

Ahimsa Kerp Interview

I’ve posted an interview I did with Ahimsa Kerp, one of my co-authors from The Roads to Baldairn Motte, over on Realm Tramper. In addition to fiction writing, Ahimsa has written for numerous travel zines and has traveled to more countries in the past 24 months than many people get to in a lifetime.

You can read the interview here.

Ahimsa Kerp – Language Mercenary & Realm Tramper

Ahimsa Kerp is a self-proclaimed peripatetic language mercenary who has written travel articles for BootnAll and Traveldudes, short fiction for numerous publications, and the award-winning horror screenplay, The Cannibal (co-written with Garrett Calcaterra.)

 

 

 

Give us a roundup of all the places you’ve been in the past 24 months.

That’s a tough question actually.  Two years ago I was finishing my contract in South Korea.  In October I flew (with a few days in Japan) to New Zealand, which is where my then-girlfriend lived.  We spent those summer months biking and hiking and swimming and tramping.  Then I flew to Malaysia, explored the peninsular part and Borneo, went to Myanmar, then on to Nepal, down to India, over to the US for 2 months, back to Thailand, met up with my sister and some friends from Korea, visited Laos and Vietnam before settling into Northern Thailand for 3 months.  From there I headed back to Nepal to hike to Everest Base camp, then spent a month and half in Indonesia, then went to the Roskilde festival in Denmark and ended up spending 2 months in Scandinavia.  Now I’m back in Portland, completely broke and looking for jobs in Korea.  I’m ready to renew the cycle one more time.

As a peripatetic language mercenary, how do you think your world tramping has shaped your writing?

Seeing and experiencing different cultures–really experiencing them, rather than just taking a photo of “exotic” looking locals–is an invaluable tool for spec-fic writers.  So many genre books change fauna and flora and climates and planets but keep our mores and ethics unchanged.  Not only does that make no sense, it’s also really boring.  Exploring the way people think and understand their world is, to me, way more fascinating than people with 21st century ethics that just happen to fight dragons.

How is the emersion different, staying abroad as long as you have, versus shorter sprints of vacation-style travel?

Well both have their places, for sure, but their two very different things.  It’s almost the difference between reading a book and writing a book.  One gives you a cursory understanding of the basics, but the other can (should?) change the way you think and see the world and understand yourself and your place in it.

Settings often evolve from tiny nuggets of actual culture or history. When you’re traveling, do you seek out such nuggets, or allow them to surprise you along the way?

I don’t seek them out as an end to themselves, but usually the stuff I’m interested in leads me to them–historic buildings, museums, architecturally quirky places (like the “Crazy House in Dalat, Vietnam) are of course great, but there are just as many stories in market place or on the 23 hour train ride to the next city.

What are 3 random cultural or historical tidbits you’ve stumbled upon that surprised you?

The history of Rajastan was fascinating.  One example among many: I met the Bishnoi, people for whom trees are sacred, opium is legal (and served as tea from the elder to visitors), and orphan animals are nursed by human mothers.

Norwegians traditionally close their shops and stores and markets on Sunday so that everyone can go to their cabin in the woods.  (This is changing now, as the modern life demands more convenience and the heterogeneity of the culture is lessening as more people move in, but that’s an amazing cultural assumption built into daily life.)

I learned this story in a museum in Kathmandu.

Ganesh, the famous elephant headed god, used to just be human.  His mom Parvati left him to guard his house one day, and then his father Shiva came home.  When Ganesh refused entry to Shiva, it made his father so mad that he chopped off his head.  Parvati came home and was pissed off to see her son beheaded, so she made Shiva get him a new head.  An elephant happened to amble by and with some quick sword work, Shiva created the (now famous) elephant headed god.

(My second favorite thing about Ganesh: he is a huge, elephantine lummox of a god, but his steed is just a little rat.  How it carries him around is a mystery, but if you look at Hindu statues you can usually see his rat hanging out by his feet.)

With your love of musical mashups, do your foresee any cultural or historical mashups forthcoming in your writing?

Well, depending on how you define mashups, everything written probably uses elements from multiple sources.  The story I’m working on now is sort of set in an analogue of 3rd century Pakistan, but there are elements from today, from medieval Denmark, from ancient England and of course lots of Taoist thought as well.  I also just wrote an update of the “The Musicians of Bremen” where the animals are DJ’s (it’s germany, remember) and while they are routing the robbers they run afoul of a Lovecraftian menace.

You can find more about Ahimsa’s travels here: http://arewethereyeti.wordpress.com/

And more about his fiction writing here: http://obscureclearly.wordpress.com/

Moeraki Boulders: What Happened Here?

Large round stones thrust into a sandy beach. How did they get there? From lapping waves whittling away over thousands of years? Or from a giant sea creature’s hand thousands of years ago?

Writing prompt, inspiration, or just something to enjoy. Your choice! If you come up with anything you want to share, post it in the comments.

Where the Moths Dance

“Why the serious look?” Violet asked, breaking into my thoughts.

I glanced at her, debating whether or not I should tell her about the goings-on up at the graveyard. I knew that she believed in spirits and the afterlife, and it occurred to me that with the knowledge she had from her Wiccan beliefs, she might just be able to help. But I still didn’t feel ready to share my secret, at least not until I knew a little more about what I was dealing with myself. I decided to keep it vague, to keep Elliott’s name out of it.

“This might sound weird,” I said, while Violet looked at me curiously. “But I’ve had this creepy feeling lately around the graveyard.” I lowered my voice; I didn’t want anyone else listening in on our conversation. “It’s like there’s some sort of malevolent energy lingering around.”

Falling silent, Violet scanned my face with her piercing, blue eyes, until I began to wonder if she thought I was crazy. Then she leaned forward and said, “Do you just get the feeling in the cemetery, or is it in your house as well?”

“It’s in the house as well.” I was relieved that she seemed to be taking me seriously.

Violet nodded. “It makes sense that with your house being beside a graveyard, it might have dark energies hanging around. But there are loads of things you can do to protect the inside of your home. You can hang garlands of calendula around doors and windows to keep out evil. Or thread juniper, rowan, or holly berries and string them around the house. They all have strong protective properties. You can burn incense, too. Frankincense and sandalwood will rid a home of unwanted spirits.” She paused as she studied me from beneath her black fringe, as though to gauge my reaction. I obviously looked suitably captivated because she continued then, her enthusiasm evident.

“You can brew a tea from basil or angelica, and sprinkle it in the corners and around the edges of the rooms to keep out evil spirits. And if it were me, I would hang sprigs of fresh herbs all around the house.” She continued to stare at me intently. “You should scatter a few under your bed, just to make sure. You can get the herbs and incense from Sapphires & Stardust—that shop beside the old church that was turned into a vegetarian restaurant. Gretchen, the lady that works there, is really nice.”

“Thanks, I might go there after school.” I smiled at her, feeling a little happier now that I knew there were steps I could take to protect our home. Until recently, I might have considered everything Violet had just told me to be a load of hocus pocus.

Until recently, I had never believed in demons, either. If one existed, then I had to believe in the other.

Win a free paperback copy of Where the Moths Dance! Follow this link!

Kristah Price has always loved books and dreamed of being a writer since she was a teenager. After much dreaming, and writing in her spare time, she eventually took a year off work to write a novel. Although that novel remains hidden away in a box on the top shelf of a wardrobe, she went on to have several novellas published in magazines in Scotland, and her first full-length novel, Scrappy Cupcake Angels, was published in 2012. Where the Moths Dance is her first novel for young adults. When she is not reading or writing, she enjoys scrapbooking, quilting, mixed-media art, and organic gardening.  She lives with her partner, Nick, and their puppy, Finn, in the Art Deco city of Napier, New Zealand.

www.wherethemothsdance.wordpress.com

www.kristahprice.com

The Greying

Suddenly, Teah’s head began to whirl. She sat back down. The firefly-lamp hummed and buzzed as she closed her eyes to concentrate, trying hard to still her thoughts.

And that’s when it began …In her mind she saw all of Landland stretching away before her. She felt the fear spreading across the land, all the way from Bigriver, up through the coastal villages and on to the tip of land that was Mount Beacon. Landland Village lay deserted beneath its towering headland. Confusion abounded in the Scented Forest …frightened animals and Scented People hid themselves away. High up in the Chain of Mountains, the forges of the Giants lay simmering and steaming under the heavy mist of the greying. In her mind, Teah rose higher and higher. She could soon take in all of Bigriverland, which now lay deserted and dark far below. She saw many frightened animals crossing the Bigriver into the Scented Forest. She swept down low over the remnants of the Big Forest. Amidst the devastation of the greying, a patch of colour shone brightly. Teah thought hard to find out why, to push through the barrier between her thinking and her knowing, but she could not break through. The mists which hovered over Dead Wood were tinted an eerie and impenetrable green.

Teah began to rise higher and higher— all the lands fell away beneath her, spreading far out and away from Landland. To the north a grey haze settled over a frozen wasteland. In the south, steaming heat spiralled up from a multitude of bog lands and swamps in the equatorial regions of the Firbog. To the east, the word, ‘Settleland’, sounded loud inside her head, but the vision was lost in a grey fog which refused to reveal what lay beneath … Finally, all became lost and her colour began to fade.

Teah toppled onto her back. She fought to open her eyes as Dalff and Mermie stood bending over her.

For a long time, Teah lay motionless and colourless, paler than her companions.

Even the fireflies, encased in their glassy ball, lay silent. They had ceased to illuminate.

To Dalff and Mermie it was almost as if the fireflies had sensed the hopelessness of the greying.

To Teah, the reality of the thinking was still sinking in. After all, she had not fully believed that she could do it, and after this one attempt she was not sure if she could, or should, try again.

Suddenly, a loud squawk, made Teah leap to her feet. Standing shoulder to shoulder with Mermie and Dalff, she stared up into the black canopy of the forest.

There’s a tour-wide giveaway for a poster of Deadwood. You can participate by subscribing to the author’s newsletter on his website: www.dallassutherlandauthor.com

Over the last twenty-five years, Dallas Sutherland has exhibited a creative bent across a range of industries including graphic design, fine arts, and trompe l’oeil murals. He has lectured in fine arts and studied Art History, Literature, Adult Education, and Creative Writing. Works include play scripts and short stories. The Greying is his first published novella, with further books planned as part of the fantasy series. He draws inspiration from myth, legend, and fairy tales.

He lives on the Sunshine Coast in Queensland, Australia with his partner Kerri, and daughter Ruby.

www.dallassutherlandauthor.com

twitter.com/dalkerri

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The Thunderstone

Desolation, fear and despair saturated the very fabric of the barren land.  It was not a welcoming land.  On the contrary, as far as the eye could see, it was listless movement accentuated by unending dry bare black buttes from old dormant lava flows, ragged and sharp in their outlines.  Thick patches of crimson dust, driven by a hot, piercing wind sweeping across the peaks, caressing the cliffs, swept downward into the dark infertile valleys only to soar upwards again- reaching toward the higher, cooler air. These endlessly driving mini whirlwinds caused showers of stone pebbles to cut odd shaped circular ridges into the black surfaces of the spectered rocks, scraping away any chance for life’s normal rebirth.

The strong, intense winds were the children of the many distant active volcanoes that could be seen dotting the far horizon huge mountains of fire, spiraling out lava into the hot soot laden air.  The fire mountains’ red glow and ash drenched the sky blotting out all, leaving only a foreboding auburn aura.  The land knew no day or night, only the perpetual red ashen glow.  Great threatening rumbles shook the ground, warnings of unstable footings, of huge demanding landslides that changed the very face of the land moment by moment.

Yet in this forsaken, seemingly lifeless land, came a piercing screech, slicing through the thick air as cleanly as a knife going through flesh.  An immense winged shadow filtered down to the surface, skipping over the rocks swiftly, circling, returning, searching . . .  another ear splitting screech, one of hungry frustration as the shadow continued its fervent search.

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Pj Belanger has spent a good part of her life in the scenic hills of Connecticut. She was always an avid reader. “My father collected every bit of Science Fiction he could find- we would talk for hours on the subject. The Golden Age of Science Fiction is truly a love of mine.
Great writers from Heinlein to Jose Farmer to Asimov to Bloch were my idols. They were great story tellers something that influences my own work. Of course, then came Tolkien and I was hooked on fantasy too.”

After graduating from St. Francis College (UNE) in Maine, she worked in the fast pace newpaper advertising world but always had been a writer of short stories, novel length books of fiction, romance and general interest. Her work is a mixture of a three volume book series, The Houses of Storem filled with wizards, dwarfs, merrs, elfs, heroic Kings and albino Icelanders. Her Space Dectective series is just plain good sci fi fun as is her short story book.

Pj was deeply involved in writing local NASCAR Driver Profiles and has a book on The History of Stafford Speedway. “I love racing in general, but I really love the short tracks. It was a labor of love to write the racing books and I enjoyed writing a regular racing column for a local sports newspaper.”

Pj lives in Florida with husband. She enjoys time with her two grandchildren. Her life is enhanced by a trouble making miniature beagle and a mischievous cat.

Website: http://www.pjbelanger.com/

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/pj.belanger.author

Amazon: http://www.amazon.com/Pj-Belanger/e/B004KC89HA

Forecast

On the morning Joseph buried the key, he wrapped it in white silk and placed it in his winter coat. Night rain had glossed a thick sheen of ice over the earth, forest, and all the manor’s windows. Joseph melted the bathroom window seam with hot tap water and wriggled through it since creaking floorboards and mothers had signed a pact centuries ago. He had to shove his coat out the window ahead of him so he was small enough to fit. Once outside, he shivered violently in his boots and pajamas as he jammed his arms into his sleeves and blew breath down his collar to defrost his freezing heart.

The massive weight of the key pressed on him, heavy enough to split his pocket lining. He walked with a limp, one foot pounding the ice-crusted earth as he roamed the forest, seeking a hiding place to guard his strange and precious gift. The unfairness of his promise rang through the leafless wood, and Joseph imagined mournful wind-whispers that told him he shouldn’t surrender the one thing his father had given him, no matter what he’d vowed.

Frightened by the shadows of the trees, Joseph’s feet turned back toward the shelter of the tall house with the second story room where he’d met his father for the first and only time. His father had passed away in that same room two weeks before, eighteen days after Joseph had seen him.

Again the icy unfairness choked Joseph, but it couldn’t subdue the fire of his promise. A small sound, insistent but unobtrusive, tapped like a drum on Joseph’s soul, which was already stretched tight with longing.

His eyes roved the frozen lily pond, then turned up to the frigid sky. Christmas sparkle had faded with the passage of the old year. A few clouds in the pre-dawn firmament crumpled like discarded wrapping paper, and the woodpile reeked of mold. The house’s tears tumbled down two big drainpipes, the largest of which opened onto the ground in front of Joseph’s feet.

It was this ping – tap – thump that had woken him earlier. The drainpipe’s drip had summoned him here. Where else would frozen earth be soft enough for digging than under falling water? He knelt, ignoring the mud that seeped into his flannel pants, and dug earth chunks free with his fingers. He rinsed his palms in the falling trickle and withdrew the key.

Rest in peace, he thought. He imagined the tired, hopeless eyes of his father and their bewilderment when Joseph’s mother introduced Joseph and his sister to him with, “Percy, these are our twins.”

That day, Joseph’s father had given him this key and made him promise to hide it. Joseph had agreed with as much earnestness as his heart could command. He couldn’t deny this first and only request.

Suddenly it wasn’t just the rain pipe dripping, but his eyes were dripping, and then his nose ran. Joseph lowered the key carefully into its hole, the pale silk wrapping bright against the dark earth. He placed a large stone over the key, then stamped the sodden earth closed, gritting his teeth to hold a sob captive. He glanced once more at the second story window, then looked away.

He hung his head, wiped his nose, and prayed. He prayed for security and protection, for warnings and obstacles against the key’s discovery. He pressed a handprint into the earth, then stood, scrubbed his palm on his pajamas, and prepared to scramble again through the bathroom window.

Dark lashes and a round face observed him like his own reflection from the other side of the windowpane. He’d begged his twin not to follow him, but now that the deed was done, he couldn’t shut her out anymore.

Joseph touched the window, and a curl of ice fell to the ground as Hazel opened it for him. They crept back to their room with the twin beds, and he pulled his blanket over their feet as they huddled together on his bed.

Hazel hugged her knees. Her flannel nightgown had a pattern of moons and shooting stars, and the collar was wet where she’d chewed it.

“Did you do it?” she whispered.

“I buried it.”

“Is it safe?”

“The house is guarding it. It’s as safe as I can make it.”

That afternoon, as Joseph and Hazel drove away from the house, their mother tight-lipped at the wheel, he stared at the iron bars along the outer gate. Withered bouquets still clung to the fence, left by strangers who mourned the death of the great Percy Humboldt, his father.

Joseph squished his palm against the cold glass of the car window and watched items pass: the funeral flowers, the looming gate, the forest beyond, and finally, looking over his shoulder, the outline of Humboldt Manor with the key below in its earth until, at last, everything faded into the sheathing protection of distance.

Elise Stephens received the Eugene Van Buren Prize for Fiction from the University of Washington in 2007. Forecast is her second novel. Her first novel Moonlight and Oranges was a quarter-finalist for the 2011 Amazon Breakthrough Novel Award. Her short fiction has appeared in the Unusual Stories anthology, as well as in multiple journals.

She lives in Seattle with her husband where they both enjoy swing dancing, eating tiramisu, and taking in local live theater.

http://www.elisestephens.com/

https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/3413344.Elise_Stephens

https://twitter.com/elisestephens

https://www.facebook.com/AuthorEliseStephens

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