Nerine Dorman's Blog, page 61
July 14, 2014
The Sea
There is no denying the sea’s allure—and perhaps I can be accused of taking the ocean’s appeal for granted, as I grew up in a seaside village and even now reside within walking distance of the coast.
When I was little, my mom used to tell me to watch out for the white horses in the bay. Being the imaginative child I was, I strained to see the sea horses of my dreams, with nacreous hides and foamy manes. All I saw, however, was the turbulent Atlantic with its dressing of whitecaps, and I grew quite irate.
“There aren’t any white horses!” I’d yell at her (and we’d had this argument on more than one occasion).
In hindsight I realise she must have found my stubborn denial and literal interpretation rather amusing.
I’ve always wanted there to be more to reality than what we see on its surface. What lies beneath the ocean is largely a mystery to us unless we own diving gear or can access some sort of submersible. A whole other environment exists there that is hostile to our very being, as land-walking, air-breathing mammals. Seventy percent of the planet’s surface is hostile to us, in fact.
Yet many creation myths speak of our birth in the primordial ocean and I suspect, on a deeper level, we still hear that siren call luring us back. The sea connects all things, is shaped by that which is known and transmits that which is unknown.
Often I’d go for early morning walks with my parents or grandparents, during that wonderful magic hour before the sun was properly up and the rest of the world was awake. Only at these times, with the tide out, would we discover a few of the sea’s secrets: slick, gleaming mermaid’s purses; a delicate paper nautilus, still whole; sea urchins like green buttons; and sea glass polished to smooth teardrops.
The trek fishermen would be bringing in their catch, mostly mullet and a few mackerel and the odd skate, but sometimes stranger fish, like gurnard or cat sharks.
Even now, my daily train journey follows the False Bay coastline for part of the way, and I’m privy to the ocean’s many moods. There are days when I stick my face out the window so I can breathe deeply of that salt-sweet air.
The sea finds me in my dreams; sometimes she is a benign mistress. Other times she is a destructive force. Those who love her are captivated. She flows through our veins and we can never escape her.
I'm proud to announce the line-up for The Sea an anthology of short speculative fiction:
Lola and the Sea Lion by Alex Hughes; Songs of the Sea by Camille Griep; Dead Shark Dawn by Don Webb; Sirens by J.C. Piech; The Setting Sea by Patrick O’Neill; Up She Rises by S.A. Partridge; The Something in the Sea by Amy Lee Burgess; Dredge by Wayne Goodchild; Kajsa’s Curse by Steve Jones; Deeper Creatures by Andrea Jones; A Cruel, Intemperate Sea by Barry King; Canyon by Martin Rose; The Wire Bird by Simon Dewar; My Name is Legion by Diane Awerbuck; Pins and Needles by Benjamin Knox; A Drought of Tears by Rob Porteous; Salt by Toby Bennett; and Choiceless Beach by Anna Reith.
Purchase your copies at Amazon, Kobo, Smashwords and Nook. Print will follow shortly.
When I was little, my mom used to tell me to watch out for the white horses in the bay. Being the imaginative child I was, I strained to see the sea horses of my dreams, with nacreous hides and foamy manes. All I saw, however, was the turbulent Atlantic with its dressing of whitecaps, and I grew quite irate.“There aren’t any white horses!” I’d yell at her (and we’d had this argument on more than one occasion).
In hindsight I realise she must have found my stubborn denial and literal interpretation rather amusing.
I’ve always wanted there to be more to reality than what we see on its surface. What lies beneath the ocean is largely a mystery to us unless we own diving gear or can access some sort of submersible. A whole other environment exists there that is hostile to our very being, as land-walking, air-breathing mammals. Seventy percent of the planet’s surface is hostile to us, in fact.
Yet many creation myths speak of our birth in the primordial ocean and I suspect, on a deeper level, we still hear that siren call luring us back. The sea connects all things, is shaped by that which is known and transmits that which is unknown.
Often I’d go for early morning walks with my parents or grandparents, during that wonderful magic hour before the sun was properly up and the rest of the world was awake. Only at these times, with the tide out, would we discover a few of the sea’s secrets: slick, gleaming mermaid’s purses; a delicate paper nautilus, still whole; sea urchins like green buttons; and sea glass polished to smooth teardrops.
The trek fishermen would be bringing in their catch, mostly mullet and a few mackerel and the odd skate, but sometimes stranger fish, like gurnard or cat sharks.
Even now, my daily train journey follows the False Bay coastline for part of the way, and I’m privy to the ocean’s many moods. There are days when I stick my face out the window so I can breathe deeply of that salt-sweet air.
The sea finds me in my dreams; sometimes she is a benign mistress. Other times she is a destructive force. Those who love her are captivated. She flows through our veins and we can never escape her.
I'm proud to announce the line-up for The Sea an anthology of short speculative fiction:
Lola and the Sea Lion by Alex Hughes; Songs of the Sea by Camille Griep; Dead Shark Dawn by Don Webb; Sirens by J.C. Piech; The Setting Sea by Patrick O’Neill; Up She Rises by S.A. Partridge; The Something in the Sea by Amy Lee Burgess; Dredge by Wayne Goodchild; Kajsa’s Curse by Steve Jones; Deeper Creatures by Andrea Jones; A Cruel, Intemperate Sea by Barry King; Canyon by Martin Rose; The Wire Bird by Simon Dewar; My Name is Legion by Diane Awerbuck; Pins and Needles by Benjamin Knox; A Drought of Tears by Rob Porteous; Salt by Toby Bennett; and Choiceless Beach by Anna Reith.
Purchase your copies at Amazon, Kobo, Smashwords and Nook. Print will follow shortly.
July 10, 2014
Luna's Children edited by D Alan Lewis
While I’ve been writing quite a bit about magicians and vampires, I haven’t given wolves much time, but this was remedied last year when I saw a call for submissions for Luna’s Children – anthologies featuring werewolves. Now, while I’ve edited a fair amount of fiction involving wolf shifters or werewolves, (See Amy Lee Burgess’s The Wolf Within series and DC Petterson’s Lupa Bella), I’ve been itching to write them myself.
A few of my earlier (and mercifully unpublished) stories involved wolf shifters. One was a female monster hunter who had a raven companion. Oh dear dog it was… Okay, it was fun to write, but looking back now I understand why the thing never sold. The other was set in my Books of Khepera universe and told the story of the tall blond bouncer outside The Event Horizon. Yes, he’s a werewolf, and his name is Viking. (Okay that sounds fecking awful summing it up like that).
And that was the sum and total of my werewolves, until I got round to writing for this anthology. I wanted to do something different. Yes, I know we have wolves in Africa (there’s the recently described Egyptian wolf, in addition to the Ethiopian wolf) but I wanted to write about our “painted wolves” AKA the wild dog. Like their lupine brethren, the African wild dog also runs in packs, but in appearance, they are vastly different. They have large, rounded ears and magnificent mottled markings that give them their name.
In conducting my research, I struck upon the fact that the young females of the pack are driven out to find packs of their own – which provided me with the story seed, and where we join our two sisters and litter mates, who’re headed north until they cross paths with an enigmatic wanderer. What follows is my own imagining of what shifter culture would be like in Africa, and I’ll offer you a small taste here.
A small taste...
Do go out and support this worthy project. I think the cover art is simply fabulous. Purchase it at Amazon: Full Moon Mayhem and Stranger Worlds .
A few of my earlier (and mercifully unpublished) stories involved wolf shifters. One was a female monster hunter who had a raven companion. Oh dear dog it was… Okay, it was fun to write, but looking back now I understand why the thing never sold. The other was set in my Books of Khepera universe and told the story of the tall blond bouncer outside The Event Horizon. Yes, he’s a werewolf, and his name is Viking. (Okay that sounds fecking awful summing it up like that).
And that was the sum and total of my werewolves, until I got round to writing for this anthology. I wanted to do something different. Yes, I know we have wolves in Africa (there’s the recently described Egyptian wolf, in addition to the Ethiopian wolf) but I wanted to write about our “painted wolves” AKA the wild dog. Like their lupine brethren, the African wild dog also runs in packs, but in appearance, they are vastly different. They have large, rounded ears and magnificent mottled markings that give them their name.
In conducting my research, I struck upon the fact that the young females of the pack are driven out to find packs of their own – which provided me with the story seed, and where we join our two sisters and litter mates, who’re headed north until they cross paths with an enigmatic wanderer. What follows is my own imagining of what shifter culture would be like in Africa, and I’ll offer you a small taste here.
A small taste...
“Humans have it so easy,” Mariette said. “I sometimes wish we’d been born dull.”
I whimpered. “Don’t say that.” But my words had no force to them. I’d had the same unworthy thought. I couldn’t imagine life without the thrill of the hunt, going days after prey and running with the pack, thinking, feeling, the world alive around us in crisp detail. “But it would’ve been easier if we’d been boys.” Boys never had to leave the pack once they came of age.
Both of us had been living in denial that this day would come.
“Haai! Look!” Mariette pointed as we passed a figure by the side of the road.
Some dude hitching. She slowed the car and gravel spattered against the undercarriage as we pulled to the side of the road.
“We shouldn’t be picking up hitchhikers,” I said even as she shoved the car into reverse.
“It’s like more than thirty-five fucking degrees Celsius outside, sis, the guy’s boiling. Besides, he looks like no one’s stopped to give him a lift in ages. After all, it’s not like we’ve got anything to fear.”
She had a point, and I shoved my misgivings deep where their muttering wouldn’t bother me. Mariette was older than me by five minutes. I deferred to her on most things. Yet we didn’t need to complicate our lives with someone else’s problems right now. But where the hell had the guy sprung from? Like he’d just materialised out of the heat haze on the tarmac and stepped into our reality.
Do go out and support this worthy project. I think the cover art is simply fabulous. Purchase it at Amazon: Full Moon Mayhem and Stranger Worlds .
July 9, 2014
On Dawn's Bright Talons
Every once in a while there’s a novel that I put out that’s what I term a “heart” novel, and Dawn’s Bright Talons is one of them. And let me tell you this one has been a journey of years – so much so that I no longer have a clear idea of what sparked the novel off.
I must add, that this is the first secondary-world epic fantasy that has seen the light of day (we won’t discuss the ones that didn’t quite make the cut, okay?). If I dig deep enough, I will admit to borrowing a little from an older, mothballed work entitled The Black Goat (it’s the name of a ship, my dearly beloveds, and the novel was about vampire pirates and ironclads and there’s a verrrrrry good reason why it never saw publication).
My characters came to me quite clearly. Isabeau is young, and still enamoured with the idea that she’s immortal (don’t we all feel like that when we’re sixteen?). She’s a dancer at an upmarket club in the city of Ysul, and she’s determined not to become a courtesan like her late mother. But she’s not doing a particularly good job raising her younger brother, as he’s running around with the wrong sort in town. Not only that, but she has no idea that she’s the heir of an ancient lineage of hereditary dhampir – a quirk of genetics thanks to her parents (who probably should never have enjoyed their dalliance). The only problem is that she may not live long enough to come into her full powers, because her natural prey – vampires – will do everything in their power to stop her from becoming a threat to their existence.
Oh, and the city of Ysul is riddled with vampires. They lurk in the shadows like malignant spiders tugging at their webs and ensnaring the unsuspecting into doing their bidding. They’ve done a lot of convincing to ensure their so-called mythological status, so anything that will upset their cosmic apple cart, so to speak, needs to be dealt with. Only none of them expected Isabeau to drop into their game. The mere fact that she even exists, is a rather unpleasant surprise for them. In the wrong hands she could be a powerful weapon. Left unchecked, she could spell the end to their machinations.
You'll also get to know Michel. He’s a young vampire who had his fill of all the political intrigue, and he’s done the unthinkable – he walked out, and refuses to have anything to do with his kind. Unfortunately for him, this has placed him in a vulnerable position, because all fledglings require a patron. When his erstwhile patron goes missing, an elder reels in those shadowy threads, and Michel is drawn back to dealing with his kind when he'd rather be running his theatre.
Of course there is no such thing as instalove for my unhappy couple. By all rights Isabeau might find Michel a tasty, energising snack, and Michel has to tread carefully, because his loyalties are about to be severely tested.
Here's a small taste...
Liked this? Feel free to feed your readers at Amazon.com, Amazon.co.uk, Kobo, Nook and Smashwords. But, of course, if you're venturesome, three lucky readers who sign up for my newsletter will each receive an ecopy of Dawn’s Bright Talons .
.jpg)
I must add, that this is the first secondary-world epic fantasy that has seen the light of day (we won’t discuss the ones that didn’t quite make the cut, okay?). If I dig deep enough, I will admit to borrowing a little from an older, mothballed work entitled The Black Goat (it’s the name of a ship, my dearly beloveds, and the novel was about vampire pirates and ironclads and there’s a verrrrrry good reason why it never saw publication).My characters came to me quite clearly. Isabeau is young, and still enamoured with the idea that she’s immortal (don’t we all feel like that when we’re sixteen?). She’s a dancer at an upmarket club in the city of Ysul, and she’s determined not to become a courtesan like her late mother. But she’s not doing a particularly good job raising her younger brother, as he’s running around with the wrong sort in town. Not only that, but she has no idea that she’s the heir of an ancient lineage of hereditary dhampir – a quirk of genetics thanks to her parents (who probably should never have enjoyed their dalliance). The only problem is that she may not live long enough to come into her full powers, because her natural prey – vampires – will do everything in their power to stop her from becoming a threat to their existence.
Oh, and the city of Ysul is riddled with vampires. They lurk in the shadows like malignant spiders tugging at their webs and ensnaring the unsuspecting into doing their bidding. They’ve done a lot of convincing to ensure their so-called mythological status, so anything that will upset their cosmic apple cart, so to speak, needs to be dealt with. Only none of them expected Isabeau to drop into their game. The mere fact that she even exists, is a rather unpleasant surprise for them. In the wrong hands she could be a powerful weapon. Left unchecked, she could spell the end to their machinations.
You'll also get to know Michel. He’s a young vampire who had his fill of all the political intrigue, and he’s done the unthinkable – he walked out, and refuses to have anything to do with his kind. Unfortunately for him, this has placed him in a vulnerable position, because all fledglings require a patron. When his erstwhile patron goes missing, an elder reels in those shadowy threads, and Michel is drawn back to dealing with his kind when he'd rather be running his theatre.
Of course there is no such thing as instalove for my unhappy couple. By all rights Isabeau might find Michel a tasty, energising snack, and Michel has to tread carefully, because his loyalties are about to be severely tested.
Here's a small taste...
“It’s best you attend at your earliest convenience, milord,” the young man said. He bowed at the waist, in the manner of the Delrochian families, his arms crossed over his chest. To the eye, he was unremarkable: drab hair neither blond nor brown, and a sallow complexion that spoke of mixed heritage. Ezekiel chose all his minions with care, but to what end with this one?
I stared impassively at the servant, who looked up at me with hopeful brown eyes. He was still new to this game. “Very well. Tell the lord I’ll attend at my earliest convenience.” I spoke the last two words with a sneer. Yes, it rankled that my grandsire saw fit to summon me thus, using a new lackey, no less.
He remained rooted to the spot. I smelled the sourness of his tension, the way the sweat dampened his armpits. Tiny beads of moisture collected on his upper lip and his eyes darted from side to side, as though he checked for hidden dangers. Who was I to let him think otherwise? Unlike the other vampire lords, I did not live cosseted by dozens of servants and men-at-arms. It was just me in this empty Willowbrook residence, the windows on all three floors firmly shuttered tightly against any light that might hope to intrude.
“I have a carriage, milord.” He gestured to a small cabriolet that had been drawn down the side street, half obscured by one of the large magnolias. The distinctive crescent symbol of my grandsire’s bloodline stood in clear relief: silver against black lacquer. The horse, a rangy bay, snorted, as though it was aware attention had shifted to it.
Slowly I turned back to regard the youth. His hair had been cropped close to his head not too long ago—a recently freed slave then. He must have a brand somewhere on his body. What motivated Ezekiel to have one such as this in his employ? The servant shuffled his feet, and I could only imagine how he must perceive me—a cold, dead thing like his lord, studied in my movements and almost reptilian. I might strike in a flash, and make good on the eternal threat of violence I held onto.
“Please inform your master I shall find my own way to his estate. I have matters I must attend to before it is convenient for me to address his whims.” Though I wanted to laugh at the youngster, who wasn’t much older than I’d been when I’d been turned, I didn’t. Instead I inclined my head ever so slightly, stepped back and shut the door with a quiet snick. Only then did I take heed of the fact that my hands trembled terribly.
Liked this? Feel free to feed your readers at Amazon.com, Amazon.co.uk, Kobo, Nook and Smashwords. But, of course, if you're venturesome, three lucky readers who sign up for my newsletter will each receive an ecopy of Dawn’s Bright Talons .
July 8, 2014
The Dangerous Beasts unleashed: Fire
A while ago I (unashamedly) went over to the “dark” side of writing erotic romance, and not only did I discover that this was fun, but I also discovered a bunch of stories that I wouldn’t ordinarily have dared to under normal circumstances. Granted, there are erotic elements in some of my novels, but the driving force behind my regular line of fiction isn’t necessarily romance (though the characters do fall in and out of love).
So, that’s how Therése von Willegen came into being: basically Nerine’s stories with a whole pile of additional *schmexxors* as we like to call it among my fellow authors. You’ll still find all the usual elements, but let’s just say that things will be … erm … a wee bit more frisky. Or, as one friend described my latest, “Wow, Nerine, this is quite saucy.”
For those of you who like this sort of thing, I already have two novel-length works available. One is Tainted Love that I published a while ago. It’s a bit of a reverse-Cinderella story, about the good girl who discovers her innate, natural flair for exotic dancing after she gets retrenched. Then there’s Hell’s Music , which ties into the Books of Khepera universe, although my notorious Jamie only gets a brief appearance as a secondary character. Both have their feet firmly planted in contemporary culture.
Which is why I’ve decided to start dipping my toe into writing fantasy erotica, and releasing these in bite-sized pieces, which seems to favour the current climate of mobile reading. The first of these is my tale The Salamander Lord, which is themed according to the element of fire. (Yes, there are more to follow.)
To whet your appetite, here’s a little teaser…
She hissed against his lips and dug her nails into the satin-slick skin above his hipbones. The man pulled back, his smile a wicked slash as he regarded her.
“What do you want to offer, little witch? My price is to hear you moan and sob. I want to pin you to this couch and sink myself so deep within you that you’ll be split in twain with lust. I will take my fill of you. Or...”
“Or?” she all but whimpered.
His eyes gleamed. “Or you return to your sisters. Alive. Unharmed. And I will give you this.” He sat back on his haunches and held out his right hand palm up. A tiny flame fluttered into life and shivered before winking out.
“Wait,” Enya said, confused. “You just saved me after making me promise to pay a price and now you’ll let me go with fire...”
“You choose. You can have fire. Any fool can hold a flame but can you truly say you know fire?”
* * * *
Like that? Well, feel free to purchase a copy at Smashwords, Nook or Kindle for only 99c. Alternatively, three lucky readers who sign up for my newsletter here, will each receive a free ecopy of The Salamander Lord.
So, that’s how Therése von Willegen came into being: basically Nerine’s stories with a whole pile of additional *schmexxors* as we like to call it among my fellow authors. You’ll still find all the usual elements, but let’s just say that things will be … erm … a wee bit more frisky. Or, as one friend described my latest, “Wow, Nerine, this is quite saucy.”For those of you who like this sort of thing, I already have two novel-length works available. One is Tainted Love that I published a while ago. It’s a bit of a reverse-Cinderella story, about the good girl who discovers her innate, natural flair for exotic dancing after she gets retrenched. Then there’s Hell’s Music , which ties into the Books of Khepera universe, although my notorious Jamie only gets a brief appearance as a secondary character. Both have their feet firmly planted in contemporary culture.
Which is why I’ve decided to start dipping my toe into writing fantasy erotica, and releasing these in bite-sized pieces, which seems to favour the current climate of mobile reading. The first of these is my tale The Salamander Lord, which is themed according to the element of fire. (Yes, there are more to follow.)
Everything the witch Enya holds dear is threatened by the advance of the Golden Empire. In order to find the power to better her magical skills and help save her sisterhood, she’s sent on an impossible mission to capture an elemental. Not just any elemental, but a creature born of fire—a salamander lord. Only Enya doesn’t expect her passions to be ignited in the ruins of Castle Mondragon. Nor is she prepared for the immense power her fascination with fire unleashes.
To whet your appetite, here’s a little teaser…
She hissed against his lips and dug her nails into the satin-slick skin above his hipbones. The man pulled back, his smile a wicked slash as he regarded her.
“What do you want to offer, little witch? My price is to hear you moan and sob. I want to pin you to this couch and sink myself so deep within you that you’ll be split in twain with lust. I will take my fill of you. Or...”
“Or?” she all but whimpered.
His eyes gleamed. “Or you return to your sisters. Alive. Unharmed. And I will give you this.” He sat back on his haunches and held out his right hand palm up. A tiny flame fluttered into life and shivered before winking out.
“Wait,” Enya said, confused. “You just saved me after making me promise to pay a price and now you’ll let me go with fire...”
“You choose. You can have fire. Any fool can hold a flame but can you truly say you know fire?”
* * * *
Like that? Well, feel free to purchase a copy at Smashwords, Nook or Kindle for only 99c. Alternatively, three lucky readers who sign up for my newsletter here, will each receive a free ecopy of The Salamander Lord.
July 7, 2014
Assassin's Apprentice (The Farseer Trilogy #1) by Robin Hobb #review
Title:
Assassin's Apprentice (The Farseer Trilogy #1)
Author: Robin Hobb
Robin Hobb's The Farseer Trilogy numbers among the epic fantasy reads that I always intended to read again. Having read Assassin's Apprentice again, it's clear why her books are considered classics that you will find at almost every good bookstore.
What starts with the almost standard trope of the boy hero with royal parentage, is quickly subverted. Boy or Fitz as he is later known begins life as the unwanted, unexpected son of king-in-waiting Chivalry, and grows up in the stables then is later apprenticed to the assassin Chade.
He was born with the Wit, the ability to touch the minds of other living things, but if anyone were to discover this ability, he would certainly be put to death.
The Six Duchies face an external threat from the Viking-like Red Ship Raiders, who devastate coastal settlements and leave survivors "forged" (magically violated and devoid of all empathy). Yet from the inside, there is strife. King Shrewd's son from his second marriage, Regal, has pretensions to the throne, and bears Fitz little love.
Hobb has populated this saga with a rich cast of fascinating, diverse characters. Though the story is slow paced it is richly textured and it is all too easy to lose on self in the world she has created. I suspect this novel would have been released under the YA banner had it been written now, but Fitz comes to readers with a surprisingly mature voice.
He really has a difficult time and his personality is such that readers can see that he has so much to offer others if only he had the opportunity to share his love. Due to circumstances he is a lonely child, however, and makes do with the scraps he is offered. He experiences much loss and cruelty yet he remains steadfast to his king. This is the redeeming aspect of a character some might find cause to despise because of his vocation.
Hobb has it all in her writing: solid world building, ancient mystery, unforgettable characters, high adventure and enough courtly intrigue to give old GRRM a run for his money. I am looking forward to reading the rest in this series again. At least this time half the books won't be missing courtesy of our sorry library system.
Author: Robin Hobb
Robin Hobb's The Farseer Trilogy numbers among the epic fantasy reads that I always intended to read again. Having read Assassin's Apprentice again, it's clear why her books are considered classics that you will find at almost every good bookstore.What starts with the almost standard trope of the boy hero with royal parentage, is quickly subverted. Boy or Fitz as he is later known begins life as the unwanted, unexpected son of king-in-waiting Chivalry, and grows up in the stables then is later apprenticed to the assassin Chade.
He was born with the Wit, the ability to touch the minds of other living things, but if anyone were to discover this ability, he would certainly be put to death.
The Six Duchies face an external threat from the Viking-like Red Ship Raiders, who devastate coastal settlements and leave survivors "forged" (magically violated and devoid of all empathy). Yet from the inside, there is strife. King Shrewd's son from his second marriage, Regal, has pretensions to the throne, and bears Fitz little love.
Hobb has populated this saga with a rich cast of fascinating, diverse characters. Though the story is slow paced it is richly textured and it is all too easy to lose on self in the world she has created. I suspect this novel would have been released under the YA banner had it been written now, but Fitz comes to readers with a surprisingly mature voice.
He really has a difficult time and his personality is such that readers can see that he has so much to offer others if only he had the opportunity to share his love. Due to circumstances he is a lonely child, however, and makes do with the scraps he is offered. He experiences much loss and cruelty yet he remains steadfast to his king. This is the redeeming aspect of a character some might find cause to despise because of his vocation.
Hobb has it all in her writing: solid world building, ancient mystery, unforgettable characters, high adventure and enough courtly intrigue to give old GRRM a run for his money. I am looking forward to reading the rest in this series again. At least this time half the books won't be missing courtesy of our sorry library system.
June 18, 2014
Siren Song - a Para Kindred #flash
This is instalment that's part of the Immanion Press blog hop, a short piece that's a prequel to my story, The River Flows, which appears in the Para Kindred anthology. See the Immanion Press Facebook page for more details. Also, I'll post my secret question below, so if you visit the Facebook page, you'll see details about a prize to be won (valid for June 2014).SIREN SONG
I followed Zenith south. It seemed the best thing to do after we barely survived the bomb blast in Rotterdam that took so many of our friends.
“Europe’s gone for shit,” he told me. “We must make like rats.”
Zenith was nothing like a rat. Tall and whiplash thin, he had skin like burnt sugar and large, expressive eyes – brown, like a doe’s – but there was nothing soft about his nature.
The voyage was beyond awful, and we scuttled about the ship’s hold, eluding capture. Zenith turned it into something of a game. All I wanted was to feel sold ground beneath my feet again, and to put distance between ourselves and the humans, whose stink contaminated the vessel.
Perhaps it was the combination of seasickness and what bad food we stole, but my dreams were troubled. A siren voice tugged at the edges of my awareness, and gave me no rest, so that I tossed and muttered when I was sleeping. Calling me south.
When I told Zenith about this, and that I feared that our quest was ill starred, and that perhaps we should disembark before we made port at the Cape of Storms, he only laughed at me.
“I should call you Ulysses and tie you to the mast,” he said.
“Who’s Ulysses?” I asked, puzzled.
“Never you mind,” he told me.
The cargo ship docked in the early hours of the morning, and all I could make out of the city was the dark bulk of a flat-topped mountain with a scattering of lights like lost stars at its feet.
We slipped between the dockworkers unloading crates and had one bad moment when four off-duty workers tailed us as we departed from the quay.
“Hey, pretty boys with the long hair. Are you girlies?”
“Moffies!” another brayed.
Zenith kept his arm around me as we hurried from these rough men.
“I don’t see how this place is better,” I muttered.
“Hush now.” He kissed my cheek. “You’ll see. There are no others here who call themselves Wraeththu. Things will be better.”
Zenith found us lodgings in the garret above a tavern that did double duty as a whorehouse. At night, when he was working in a nearby bar, I lay awake listening to the shrieks of laughter, murmurs of lovemaking, and, occasionally, stifled sobs.
I meant to find work, but the teeming streets frightened me. Besides, the few times I did explore on my own made Zenith anxious. He filled my head with awful tales of outside.
I confined myself to our room, and lost myself in silent contemplation. My only visitors were the pigeons with their beady yellow eyes and metallic-sheened plumage. I never tired of watching them strut and preen, and I flew with them when they stretched their wings and glided between the sullen buildings.
“Be patient,” Zenith told me. “I am saving money so we can rent rooms in a better part of town.”
“How much do you have now?” I asked, suspicious of how long it was taking him to find enough for a deposit.
“All I ask is that you trust me.”
Aruna was my sanctuary, when I allowed myself the abandon of our inner landscapes of starburst passions, and vortexes of power that dragged me into constellations of euphoria. I spread my wings wide and soared to the sun, Zenith my shadow, twined with my soul and consuming me with his hungry flames.
Afterward we’d cling to each other, and my entire existence contracted to the contours of his lips and the small scar on his left brow.
“What are you humming?” he asked me.
I hadn’t even known I had a song until I stopped.
“It makes me sad,” Zenith said.
“Why?”
He wouldn’t say. Instead he brought his mouth down on mine and his breath tasted of sunshine and autumn leaves.
Five weeks in that miserable garret and every time I asked Zenith how much longer, he told me to be patient. All the while the song at the boundary of my dreams grew more insistent. One night I woke with my legs hanging over the edge of the sill. The cobbles gleamed wetly beneath the light of the moon, suspended above. Vertigo almost tilted me over and I pulled back inside, my heart racing.
The melody shivered at the limits of my perception, more felt than heard, and when I pulled down the sash window, a stranger’s face was briefly superimposed over my own – gibbous like the moon.
Zenith slept, lost in whatever dreams had snared him in their silken skeins. A sly smile quirked his lips, and I watched him a while, washed out by the light of a single candle. An impulse led me to his bag, where he kept his money. I had to see it for myself.
There was no promised roll of notes. What I did find was a handful of copper and a few silvers, as well as stubs from a place called Table Bay Taverna. The ink smudged off on my fingers, but I could still make out the words: Bright Fella, Startling Arrow, Grey Mane…
Without turning on the light, I sat there while that single candle guttered, and I traced the words and spoke them under my breath as though they were invocations. I pressed the stubs to my nose and inhaled…
Men sweating crowded around a small flickering screen wreathed in cigarette smoke beer stains on the floor tiny horses running down the straight tickets clutched in oil-stained hands anticipation elation disappointment
I didn’t need to ask Zenith where the money had gone. This time, when the siren song only I could hear bloomed in my soul, I added my voice to its threnody.
Zenith did not wake, even when I shut the door behind me. Nor did he race after me. I became a shadow, headed to the north and this new continent’s arid interior, and for once, I felt no fear.
* * * *
Super secret question: What birds grace Taym's windowsill?
June 17, 2014
Formative Reading Experiences
I've been tagged by Short Story Day Africa about my formative reading experiences, so here goes...
What is your earliest memory of books and reading?
The house where I grew up was filled with books, and one of my earliest memories involves pulling books down from the shelves and being frustrated because I couldn’t read the stories. The whole idea that someone might have the wherewithal to sit down and write an *entire* book seemed magical to me. I couldn’t wait to read, and was able to do do so from a young age – I was way ahead of my peers in that regard.
By the time I was 12, I’d read through The Lord of the Rings in its entirety, and I was completely smitten. I knew then that one day I wanted to write my own stories, in my own made-up worlds.
Second only to that was my voracious reading habit, of up to a book every two days, which meant I was constantly at the library. Wherever I went, I’d lug at least one or two books around with me. I also managed to avoid getting invited to all future family weddings, because I once took a book into the reception after the ceremony. What can I say? I was bored and books were (and still are) far better company than people. And I was never invited to family functions with *that* side of the family ever again. Achievement unlocked!
As a small child, what book/s were your favourites?
I absolutely adored my Story Teller tapes and listened to them until they were stretched. My favourite story was about Gobbolino the Witch’s Cat by Ursula Moray Williams, that was one of the stories that had been adapted for the Story Teller format, but I remember crying my eyes out at the Oscar Wilde stories about The Selfish Giant and The Happy Prince. Looking back now, I realise what a treasure trove this collection was, because it instilled a love for storycraft and introduced me to a wide selection of tales from around the world.
But I loved The Hobbit by JRR Tolkien, and CS Lewis’s Narnia books also captivated me. Charlotte’s Web by EB White was another favourite, but I also obsessively read anthologies of animal stories, especially if they had to do with cats.
Where did you grow up? Do you have a particular memory of a library, bookshop or other place of books in your hometown?
I grew up in the seaside fishing village of Hout Bay in the Cape Peninsula. Back then we were an isolated community. My family used to farm there, and I suspect I was of the last of the locals to eventually leave once the valley became fully yuppiefied. Nowadays Hout Bay is nothing like it used to be, which makes me sad. My mom used to teach at Kronendal Primary School and I’d have to hang out there and wait for her to finish. Bored out of my mind at the age of six, I started volunteering at the local library – just packing away the children’s books or sitting in a corner hunched over a book paging through pictures. Consequently, I’d spend large chunks of my time at the library, a place that was often a sanctuary for me, as I was often bullied by the “cool” kids.
Even during high school, I often spent more time in the library at Wynberg Girls’ High School than I did hanging out with my peers. I’d while away hours paging through old copies of National Geographics or even the high school journals. Even now, I’m able to digest facts at a glance and often surprise myself with some of the bizarre stuff I remember. Books are time capsules too, and offer fascinating glimpses into the past or possible futures.
I miss the time I had as a kid to just get lost between the shelves. When you’re young, you really live under the illusion that your time is limitless, and when I stepped into the pages of books, I always returned with the sense that I could go out and do anything.
As an adult, in the role of parent or caregiver, what has been your experience with children?
I don’t have children, but when young ones visit my home, I always go find a pile of books for them to look at. Some kids are like me when I was that age, and we don’t hear a peep from them for the entire time that their parents are visiting. I like those kids, and I get what they’re experiencing when they get lost in those books. And they’ll definitely be invited over again. If they’re reading, it means they’re willing to discover new worlds.
And as an aside, all these questions relate to my most recent release, The Guardian's Wyrd , which is exactly about a kid who loves libraries a little too much... (But he's no Bastian Balthazar Bux)
What is your earliest memory of books and reading?The house where I grew up was filled with books, and one of my earliest memories involves pulling books down from the shelves and being frustrated because I couldn’t read the stories. The whole idea that someone might have the wherewithal to sit down and write an *entire* book seemed magical to me. I couldn’t wait to read, and was able to do do so from a young age – I was way ahead of my peers in that regard.
By the time I was 12, I’d read through The Lord of the Rings in its entirety, and I was completely smitten. I knew then that one day I wanted to write my own stories, in my own made-up worlds.
Second only to that was my voracious reading habit, of up to a book every two days, which meant I was constantly at the library. Wherever I went, I’d lug at least one or two books around with me. I also managed to avoid getting invited to all future family weddings, because I once took a book into the reception after the ceremony. What can I say? I was bored and books were (and still are) far better company than people. And I was never invited to family functions with *that* side of the family ever again. Achievement unlocked!
As a small child, what book/s were your favourites?
I absolutely adored my Story Teller tapes and listened to them until they were stretched. My favourite story was about Gobbolino the Witch’s Cat by Ursula Moray Williams, that was one of the stories that had been adapted for the Story Teller format, but I remember crying my eyes out at the Oscar Wilde stories about The Selfish Giant and The Happy Prince. Looking back now, I realise what a treasure trove this collection was, because it instilled a love for storycraft and introduced me to a wide selection of tales from around the world.
But I loved The Hobbit by JRR Tolkien, and CS Lewis’s Narnia books also captivated me. Charlotte’s Web by EB White was another favourite, but I also obsessively read anthologies of animal stories, especially if they had to do with cats.
Where did you grow up? Do you have a particular memory of a library, bookshop or other place of books in your hometown?
I grew up in the seaside fishing village of Hout Bay in the Cape Peninsula. Back then we were an isolated community. My family used to farm there, and I suspect I was of the last of the locals to eventually leave once the valley became fully yuppiefied. Nowadays Hout Bay is nothing like it used to be, which makes me sad. My mom used to teach at Kronendal Primary School and I’d have to hang out there and wait for her to finish. Bored out of my mind at the age of six, I started volunteering at the local library – just packing away the children’s books or sitting in a corner hunched over a book paging through pictures. Consequently, I’d spend large chunks of my time at the library, a place that was often a sanctuary for me, as I was often bullied by the “cool” kids.
Even during high school, I often spent more time in the library at Wynberg Girls’ High School than I did hanging out with my peers. I’d while away hours paging through old copies of National Geographics or even the high school journals. Even now, I’m able to digest facts at a glance and often surprise myself with some of the bizarre stuff I remember. Books are time capsules too, and offer fascinating glimpses into the past or possible futures.
I miss the time I had as a kid to just get lost between the shelves. When you’re young, you really live under the illusion that your time is limitless, and when I stepped into the pages of books, I always returned with the sense that I could go out and do anything.As an adult, in the role of parent or caregiver, what has been your experience with children?
I don’t have children, but when young ones visit my home, I always go find a pile of books for them to look at. Some kids are like me when I was that age, and we don’t hear a peep from them for the entire time that their parents are visiting. I like those kids, and I get what they’re experiencing when they get lost in those books. And they’ll definitely be invited over again. If they’re reading, it means they’re willing to discover new worlds.
And as an aside, all these questions relate to my most recent release, The Guardian's Wyrd , which is exactly about a kid who loves libraries a little too much... (But he's no Bastian Balthazar Bux)
June 15, 2014
Turquoiselle by Tanith Lee #review
Title:
Turquoiselle
Author: Tanith Lee
Publisher: Immanion Press, 2014
Sometimes I wrestle with the books I read, and Turquoiselle by Tanith Lee was one of those titles that both infuriated me and fascinated me by equal measure. Mainly because I ask myself, “Why is this book making me feel this way and what does this say about me as a reader?”
I often feel that many books nowadays give up their secrets too quickly. This is not one of those books. We enter Andy Carver’s world and from the get-go it’s not very clear who this man is nor what his motivations are. In fact, I suspect that Carver hasn’t ever truly bothered to scratch beneath the surface yet, so in that regard is not an easy character to relate to or indeed like.
The story’s pacing is slow and gradually reveals clues to Carver’s past: his troubled childhood and how he came to work for an organisation called Mantik, whose purpose I don’t even think Carver understands or cares to uncover.
Carver exists in an eternal present and has no strong interests about anything or anyone beyond himself. He is a narcissistic cipher, and perceiving the world through his eyes is almost maddening. He has no friends, and how on earth he even got it together to get married, I don’t know. Unsurprisingly, his marriage is dysfunctional, and it doesn’t seem to bother him.
I feel as if Carver merely goes through the motions of life because society and his work expect it of him. The only quirk of his personality is that he occasionally indulges in small bouts of kleptomania – always taking small, unimportant items that he then stashes in a shed in his back garden.
Of course things do begin to take a strange(r) turn in Carver’s life yet he remains passive – waiting to see what others do first before he reacts. This passivity nearly drove me nuts, but I’m glad I persisted in seeing the story through to its conclusion. People behave strangely around Carver, and I had no idea why. I needed to find out. Granted, this gets revealed later, so I don’t want to ruin it for you with any spoilers, suffice to say that there are a few reversals to do your head in.
Now to get down to the meat and bones of this story. This novel is most emphatically *not* for everyone. I was simultaneously reminded of Twin Peaks and William Burroughs – every gradual unfolding was languid and surreal, and seemed unrelated, random and dreamlike.
Lee’s writing is not so much about the narrative structure, but also about the oppressive sense of claustrophobia and mystery apparent in her setting. As always, her descriptions are lavish, detailed – to be savoured.
I think longstanding fans of Lee’s writing will be right at home. Me, I’m dithering on this one. Loved it and felt resistance at the same time, but realise it’s most likely because I’ve been lazy in my choices of reading matter of late. This book required effort on my part. I kept thinking of The Magus by John Fowles while reading Turquoiselle, and probably for good reason. Make of that what you will.
Author: Tanith Lee
Publisher: Immanion Press, 2014
Sometimes I wrestle with the books I read, and Turquoiselle by Tanith Lee was one of those titles that both infuriated me and fascinated me by equal measure. Mainly because I ask myself, “Why is this book making me feel this way and what does this say about me as a reader?”I often feel that many books nowadays give up their secrets too quickly. This is not one of those books. We enter Andy Carver’s world and from the get-go it’s not very clear who this man is nor what his motivations are. In fact, I suspect that Carver hasn’t ever truly bothered to scratch beneath the surface yet, so in that regard is not an easy character to relate to or indeed like.
The story’s pacing is slow and gradually reveals clues to Carver’s past: his troubled childhood and how he came to work for an organisation called Mantik, whose purpose I don’t even think Carver understands or cares to uncover.
Carver exists in an eternal present and has no strong interests about anything or anyone beyond himself. He is a narcissistic cipher, and perceiving the world through his eyes is almost maddening. He has no friends, and how on earth he even got it together to get married, I don’t know. Unsurprisingly, his marriage is dysfunctional, and it doesn’t seem to bother him.
I feel as if Carver merely goes through the motions of life because society and his work expect it of him. The only quirk of his personality is that he occasionally indulges in small bouts of kleptomania – always taking small, unimportant items that he then stashes in a shed in his back garden.
Of course things do begin to take a strange(r) turn in Carver’s life yet he remains passive – waiting to see what others do first before he reacts. This passivity nearly drove me nuts, but I’m glad I persisted in seeing the story through to its conclusion. People behave strangely around Carver, and I had no idea why. I needed to find out. Granted, this gets revealed later, so I don’t want to ruin it for you with any spoilers, suffice to say that there are a few reversals to do your head in.
Now to get down to the meat and bones of this story. This novel is most emphatically *not* for everyone. I was simultaneously reminded of Twin Peaks and William Burroughs – every gradual unfolding was languid and surreal, and seemed unrelated, random and dreamlike.
Lee’s writing is not so much about the narrative structure, but also about the oppressive sense of claustrophobia and mystery apparent in her setting. As always, her descriptions are lavish, detailed – to be savoured.
I think longstanding fans of Lee’s writing will be right at home. Me, I’m dithering on this one. Loved it and felt resistance at the same time, but realise it’s most likely because I’ve been lazy in my choices of reading matter of late. This book required effort on my part. I kept thinking of The Magus by John Fowles while reading Turquoiselle, and probably for good reason. Make of that what you will.
June 12, 2014
The Guardian's Wyrd print cover unveiled
Wow, it's been a crazy three weeks, but I've had an awesome time touring the blogosphere at some fantastic authors, readers and librarians. So, a huge thank you to all concerned, and if you missed the dates, I've included them at the end of this post.
Now for the good stuff. Today is the cover reveal for the print cover. You might want to know why I am running with two publishers. Well, it's simple. Wordsmack here in South Africa is primarily a digital publisher, and they've been responsible for getting The Guardian's Wyrd into a bunch of different digital platforms, especially related to mobile technology, which is one of the reasons why I was so keen to work with them.
The print version, however, will be handled by Dark Continents Publishing, and my awesome team there (so, a big thank you to Sylvia, Tracie and David). So, keep following me for updates related to release dates etc.
Once again, I've had the honour of working with the highly talented South African illustrator Daniël Hugo, who has developed the uncanny ability to read my mind. I reckon he's done a fantastic job connecting with Jay and Rowan, don't you think? Then a big thanks goes to Icy Sedgwick, who handled the cover design.
LINKS
A Jay and Rowan short story.
VIRTUAL APPEARANCES
May 26, 2014: Author Sonya Clark features me at her blog, where I share a little background.
May 27, 2014: A character interview with Jay September over at author Suzanne van Rooyen's blog.
May 28, 2014: Editor Tracie McBride asks me some pointed questions about my craft and TGW.
May 29, 2014: Five important things you should know about Sunthyst, with thanks to book blogger Tammy February for having me over.
June 1, 2014: The mah-vellous Zoe Whitten has yours truly over for a little chat about heroes, good and bad.
June 2, 2014: Then Icy has me sit down for a bit of a Q&A.
June 3, 2014: Storyteller Rab Fulton also has me over for a few questions.
June 4, 2014: In which I discuss my creative process over at Autumn Christian's spot.
June 9, 2014: An appearance over at Amy Lee Burgess's blog:
June 10, 2014: A guest spot over at Cat Hellisen's where I talk about boy heroes, tropes and twists.
June 11, 2014: Matt the Teen Librarian asks some really twisty questions.
June 12, 2014: Last stop over at DC Petterson's blog, where he finishes off with a little Q&A.
Now for the good stuff. Today is the cover reveal for the print cover. You might want to know why I am running with two publishers. Well, it's simple. Wordsmack here in South Africa is primarily a digital publisher, and they've been responsible for getting The Guardian's Wyrd into a bunch of different digital platforms, especially related to mobile technology, which is one of the reasons why I was so keen to work with them.
The print version, however, will be handled by Dark Continents Publishing, and my awesome team there (so, a big thank you to Sylvia, Tracie and David). So, keep following me for updates related to release dates etc.
Once again, I've had the honour of working with the highly talented South African illustrator Daniël Hugo, who has developed the uncanny ability to read my mind. I reckon he's done a fantastic job connecting with Jay and Rowan, don't you think? Then a big thanks goes to Icy Sedgwick, who handled the cover design.
LINKS
A Jay and Rowan short story.
VIRTUAL APPEARANCES
May 26, 2014: Author Sonya Clark features me at her blog, where I share a little background.
May 27, 2014: A character interview with Jay September over at author Suzanne van Rooyen's blog.
May 28, 2014: Editor Tracie McBride asks me some pointed questions about my craft and TGW.
May 29, 2014: Five important things you should know about Sunthyst, with thanks to book blogger Tammy February for having me over.
June 1, 2014: The mah-vellous Zoe Whitten has yours truly over for a little chat about heroes, good and bad.
June 2, 2014: Then Icy has me sit down for a bit of a Q&A.
June 3, 2014: Storyteller Rab Fulton also has me over for a few questions.
June 4, 2014: In which I discuss my creative process over at Autumn Christian's spot.
June 9, 2014: An appearance over at Amy Lee Burgess's blog:
June 10, 2014: A guest spot over at Cat Hellisen's where I talk about boy heroes, tropes and twists.
June 11, 2014: Matt the Teen Librarian asks some really twisty questions.
June 12, 2014: Last stop over at DC Petterson's blog, where he finishes off with a little Q&A.
June 11, 2014
The Party – a Jay and Rowan #flash story
“This is a very bad idea,” I told Rowan as we plodded up Andrews Road. The Hill from Hell I liked to call it. My calf muscles were screaming.
There was enough moonlight for me to see Rowan’s grimace. “This party means a lot to me,” he said.
“I don’t care,” I said. “And I don’t see why you’re invited to parties all of a sudden.”
My friend was the class geek, the one who was the butt end of all the pranks and teasing whenever I wasn’t there to look out for him.
“Angela invited me,” he said.
“Are you sure?” Knowing Rowan, he had made all of this up. Angela Fourie was the most popular girl in our grade. Everyone except for me seemed to be obsessed with her. Okay, she was kinda cute, but she wasn’t my kinda cute.
“She sent me a Facebook invite.”
“Does your mother know you’re on Facebook?”
“Shut up.”
“The only thing that’s saving you is that Oryxis and your mom believing you’re sleeping over at my house,” I said. “If they hear that we sneaked out ...”
“You sound like Oryxis now, blah, blah-blah-blah.” Rowan made little talking hand movements. “We’re just going for a little while.”
I growled at him but bit my tongue. Besides, I needed my breath for the last stretch of road before we got to the security gate. If Rowan’s claim that he had an invite (of course I hadn’t received one) wasn’t all a pile of dog poo, then we’d be allowed in past those hallowed gates to Tierboskloof. If not ... Well, we could go back to my place and play console games or something.
I waited next to Rowan while he sweet-talked the security guard at the gate. My mom had brought me here a few years ago when she was visiting a friend, and then they hadn’t had all the security.
I allowed myself to relax a little. Rowan would be safe enough.
As his Guardian, I had to look out for him, just like Oryxis made sure nothing happened to Persia, Rowan’s mum. They were royalty in exile, from the magical kingdom of Sunthyst, and how I had gotten myself tangled in their lives was definitely another story for another time. (That’s if you wanted to cue The Neverending Story.)
But Angela confirmed that we were on the guest list, the security guard buzzed us through, and we followed the avenue up until we reached our destination. We could hardly miss it. The music was pounding doef-doef. Yay, my favourite. Not. I was already cringing and wishing I’d brought my earplugs by the time Rowan rang the doorbell. Squeals of laughter sounded from the other side.
“Are you sure you want to do this?” I asked him.
“Sorry?” he said, cupping his ear to me.
Whether he genuinely couldn’t hear me or if he was just joking, I decided to ignore him. My night had been ruined, in any case. I could only ride it out until the bitter end.
Fay opened the door and blinked at us with heavily made-up eyes, and my heart did a little jig.
Okay, Fay was my kinda cute. My mouth went dry but that was okay, Rowan did all the talking and got us inside.
Oh. My. God. Fay.
Things were looking up. Definitely. Just about everyone from our class was here, and then some. I didn’t recognise some of the older skate punk guys who were hanging out on the balcony smoking cigarettes and trying to look cool.
“Now what, wise guy?” I asked Rowan.
He shrugged and pointed to the kitchen. Drinks, I suppose. Angela’s parents were loaded, so they could afford to let their daughter throw big house parties. Not an adult in sight ...
Loads of fun, but things could also go horribly wrong if we weren’t careful.
Rowan, of course, was completely oblivious to all the dynamics around him – all the more reason for me to look out for him.
Everyone was helping themselves to fruit punch in the kitchen, and I made Rowan dilute his with more orange juice before we headed out to the balcony. From the smell of things there was already way too much vodka in the punch.
It was like we had some anti-cool device strapped to us. The kids sort of shuffled out of our way so that we clearly stood on our own – outcasts. We might as well have that tattooed on our foreheads.
“Happy now?” I scowled at my friend.
Rowan sipped at his drink and tried not to grimace. He obviously wasn’t used to hard tack, for all the times he bragged about sneaking beers from Oryxis’s stock. The stuff tasted pretty vile, so I took small sips. I didn’t want to get drunk. Not here.
Just as I feared we’d be standing around with nothing to do the entire night, I heard it in a brief lull between dance tracks: one of the most beautiful sounds in the world – a softly played classical guitar. The mystery musician was sitting on another patio to our right, screened by a thick stand of wild banana.
The next track started up and I grabbed Rowan’s sleeve. “C’mon, we’re not going to stand about like a pair of lost farts in a perfume factory.”
I didn’t give Rowan a chance to argue and all but dragged him with me down a small flight of steps into the garden then around the vegetation to where a girl was sitting cross-legged on a pile of cushions. It was Fay, and she had a nylon-string guitar clasped to her chest.
“Hey,” she said.
“You’re not going to get heard over the music.” I gestured behind us.
“It’s fine. It’s still better than being out there with all the posers.”
Rowan made to go into the room behind Fay.
“It wouldn’t go in there if I were you,” she told him.
He froze. “Why?”
“Angela’s in there with Tom.”
Rowan tried and failed to hide his disappointment. I hid my smile behind my hand.
“Yeah, I know. Sucks. She asked me to keep chips out front.”
“That’s just twisted,” I said.
Fay gave a little shrug and played a trill of notes. “It beats getting hassled by boys out there.
Mike’s been trying to make me do shooters.” She stuck out her tongue.
“Mike’s an idiot,” I told her and sat down next to her. “Whose guitar is that?”
“Angela’s brother’s. He’s gone overseas. I always play it when I visit.”
“You’re anti-social.” I smiled at her.
“So are you.”
Well, that was one way of chatting up a girl.
As it turned out, Fay and I shared a bunch of similar favourite bands and we took turns showing each other different songs on the guitar. I hadn’t even known to speak to her at school, but thanks to the party, we were good. Fay and Jay – it had a nice ring to it. We had a laugh about that. I guess that’s why I didn’t notice that Rowan had wandered off. The first we heard of any drama was when the music got turned off and there was shouting.
“Where’s your friend?” Fay asked me.
I swore, and my “Spidey” senses as I called it were tingling – I knew on a gut-deep level that whoever was responsible for the disturbance, it was Rowan. He was in trouble.
“Crap, crap, crap!” I muttered under my breath as I rushed through the bedroom behind us and into the house. Fay and I had been so busy talking music we hadn’t even noticed when Angela and Tom had finished whatever it was that they’d been doing. Not that I cared.
My main concern now was saving Rowan from getting beaten up. That kid couldn’t hit a fly if his life depended on it, and it wasn’t difficult imagining a dozen scenarios varying in degree of horror – Rowan with a black eye; Rowan with his front tooth knocked out; Rowan with a broken hand ...
All these scenes ended the same way: Jay having to “please explain” to Persia, who could possibly literally fry me with whatever weird magic she kept up her sleeve. If she knew we were even here ...
There was a circle of kids out front in the driveway, and for a moment I thought the boy sprawled on the ground was Rowan. But it wasn’t.
Mike lay there, moaning. Big-ass bully Mike, who was at least a head taller and twice as large as Rowan. I couldn’t help but gape, as surprised as Rowan, who stood there over him rubbing at the knuckles of his right hand.
“Angela’s dating Tom, you douche,” Rowan spat. “When she says she’s not interested in seeing you anymore, she means it.”
Some of Mike’s friends, eyed up Rowan and were muttering among each other, and it was at that moment that I figured it would be a good idea if we went back to my place to play console games. Less chance of Rowan causing any trouble.
“I’ll see you on Monday,” I told Fay.
She gave me a knowing smile and melted back into the house, clearly uninterested in what was going on out here. Well, there went my chances of having something with a girl tonight. Plus she’d been sending out all the right signals.
I sighed and ploughed through the crowd and grabbed Rowan by the elbow. “C’mon, mate, we gotta chuck.”
He glared at me but didn’t bitch, thank goodness.
I cast one look behind me, but Mike’s friends were too busy helping him up off the ground.
Then I groused at Rowan, “What did you go and do that for?”
Rowan’s grin was devilish. “That was payback.”
“Dude, seriously, what would you have done if his friends had piled into you? You were outnumbered.”
“You’re here now.”
“Dude.” I shook my head. Had he honestly thought I’d haul his ass out of the fire? No. He was right. I would. Even if I got hurt.
Running footsteps from behind had us spin around. I tensed then relaxed. It was only Angela coming up the driveway.
She was breathless and grabbed both of Rowan’s hands in her own. “Thank you! I can’t believe Mike was such an idiot.”
Then she kissed him. Full on the lips.
Before either of us could respond, Angela dashed down the driveway again, leaving us reeling.
“What was that?” I asked in disbelief – Rowan, getting lucky with the girls?
Rowan just smiled and touched his fingers to his mouth. “I don’t know, but her lips tasted like cherries.”
Buy The Guardian's Wyrd on Amazon or Kobo, or just sign up for my darned newsletter already.
There was enough moonlight for me to see Rowan’s grimace. “This party means a lot to me,” he said.
“I don’t care,” I said. “And I don’t see why you’re invited to parties all of a sudden.”
My friend was the class geek, the one who was the butt end of all the pranks and teasing whenever I wasn’t there to look out for him.
“Angela invited me,” he said.
“Are you sure?” Knowing Rowan, he had made all of this up. Angela Fourie was the most popular girl in our grade. Everyone except for me seemed to be obsessed with her. Okay, she was kinda cute, but she wasn’t my kinda cute.
“She sent me a Facebook invite.”
“Does your mother know you’re on Facebook?”
“Shut up.”
“The only thing that’s saving you is that Oryxis and your mom believing you’re sleeping over at my house,” I said. “If they hear that we sneaked out ...”
“You sound like Oryxis now, blah, blah-blah-blah.” Rowan made little talking hand movements. “We’re just going for a little while.”
I growled at him but bit my tongue. Besides, I needed my breath for the last stretch of road before we got to the security gate. If Rowan’s claim that he had an invite (of course I hadn’t received one) wasn’t all a pile of dog poo, then we’d be allowed in past those hallowed gates to Tierboskloof. If not ... Well, we could go back to my place and play console games or something.
I waited next to Rowan while he sweet-talked the security guard at the gate. My mom had brought me here a few years ago when she was visiting a friend, and then they hadn’t had all the security.
I allowed myself to relax a little. Rowan would be safe enough.
As his Guardian, I had to look out for him, just like Oryxis made sure nothing happened to Persia, Rowan’s mum. They were royalty in exile, from the magical kingdom of Sunthyst, and how I had gotten myself tangled in their lives was definitely another story for another time. (That’s if you wanted to cue The Neverending Story.)
But Angela confirmed that we were on the guest list, the security guard buzzed us through, and we followed the avenue up until we reached our destination. We could hardly miss it. The music was pounding doef-doef. Yay, my favourite. Not. I was already cringing and wishing I’d brought my earplugs by the time Rowan rang the doorbell. Squeals of laughter sounded from the other side.
“Are you sure you want to do this?” I asked him.
“Sorry?” he said, cupping his ear to me.
Whether he genuinely couldn’t hear me or if he was just joking, I decided to ignore him. My night had been ruined, in any case. I could only ride it out until the bitter end.
Fay opened the door and blinked at us with heavily made-up eyes, and my heart did a little jig.
Okay, Fay was my kinda cute. My mouth went dry but that was okay, Rowan did all the talking and got us inside.
Oh. My. God. Fay.
Things were looking up. Definitely. Just about everyone from our class was here, and then some. I didn’t recognise some of the older skate punk guys who were hanging out on the balcony smoking cigarettes and trying to look cool.
“Now what, wise guy?” I asked Rowan.
He shrugged and pointed to the kitchen. Drinks, I suppose. Angela’s parents were loaded, so they could afford to let their daughter throw big house parties. Not an adult in sight ...
Loads of fun, but things could also go horribly wrong if we weren’t careful.
Rowan, of course, was completely oblivious to all the dynamics around him – all the more reason for me to look out for him.
Everyone was helping themselves to fruit punch in the kitchen, and I made Rowan dilute his with more orange juice before we headed out to the balcony. From the smell of things there was already way too much vodka in the punch.
It was like we had some anti-cool device strapped to us. The kids sort of shuffled out of our way so that we clearly stood on our own – outcasts. We might as well have that tattooed on our foreheads.
“Happy now?” I scowled at my friend.
Rowan sipped at his drink and tried not to grimace. He obviously wasn’t used to hard tack, for all the times he bragged about sneaking beers from Oryxis’s stock. The stuff tasted pretty vile, so I took small sips. I didn’t want to get drunk. Not here.
Just as I feared we’d be standing around with nothing to do the entire night, I heard it in a brief lull between dance tracks: one of the most beautiful sounds in the world – a softly played classical guitar. The mystery musician was sitting on another patio to our right, screened by a thick stand of wild banana.
The next track started up and I grabbed Rowan’s sleeve. “C’mon, we’re not going to stand about like a pair of lost farts in a perfume factory.”
I didn’t give Rowan a chance to argue and all but dragged him with me down a small flight of steps into the garden then around the vegetation to where a girl was sitting cross-legged on a pile of cushions. It was Fay, and she had a nylon-string guitar clasped to her chest.
“Hey,” she said.
“You’re not going to get heard over the music.” I gestured behind us.
“It’s fine. It’s still better than being out there with all the posers.”
Rowan made to go into the room behind Fay.
“It wouldn’t go in there if I were you,” she told him.
He froze. “Why?”
“Angela’s in there with Tom.”
Rowan tried and failed to hide his disappointment. I hid my smile behind my hand.
“Yeah, I know. Sucks. She asked me to keep chips out front.”
“That’s just twisted,” I said.
Fay gave a little shrug and played a trill of notes. “It beats getting hassled by boys out there.
Mike’s been trying to make me do shooters.” She stuck out her tongue.
“Mike’s an idiot,” I told her and sat down next to her. “Whose guitar is that?”
“Angela’s brother’s. He’s gone overseas. I always play it when I visit.”
“You’re anti-social.” I smiled at her.
“So are you.”
Well, that was one way of chatting up a girl.
As it turned out, Fay and I shared a bunch of similar favourite bands and we took turns showing each other different songs on the guitar. I hadn’t even known to speak to her at school, but thanks to the party, we were good. Fay and Jay – it had a nice ring to it. We had a laugh about that. I guess that’s why I didn’t notice that Rowan had wandered off. The first we heard of any drama was when the music got turned off and there was shouting.
“Where’s your friend?” Fay asked me.
I swore, and my “Spidey” senses as I called it were tingling – I knew on a gut-deep level that whoever was responsible for the disturbance, it was Rowan. He was in trouble.
“Crap, crap, crap!” I muttered under my breath as I rushed through the bedroom behind us and into the house. Fay and I had been so busy talking music we hadn’t even noticed when Angela and Tom had finished whatever it was that they’d been doing. Not that I cared.
My main concern now was saving Rowan from getting beaten up. That kid couldn’t hit a fly if his life depended on it, and it wasn’t difficult imagining a dozen scenarios varying in degree of horror – Rowan with a black eye; Rowan with his front tooth knocked out; Rowan with a broken hand ...
All these scenes ended the same way: Jay having to “please explain” to Persia, who could possibly literally fry me with whatever weird magic she kept up her sleeve. If she knew we were even here ...
There was a circle of kids out front in the driveway, and for a moment I thought the boy sprawled on the ground was Rowan. But it wasn’t.
Mike lay there, moaning. Big-ass bully Mike, who was at least a head taller and twice as large as Rowan. I couldn’t help but gape, as surprised as Rowan, who stood there over him rubbing at the knuckles of his right hand.
“Angela’s dating Tom, you douche,” Rowan spat. “When she says she’s not interested in seeing you anymore, she means it.”
Some of Mike’s friends, eyed up Rowan and were muttering among each other, and it was at that moment that I figured it would be a good idea if we went back to my place to play console games. Less chance of Rowan causing any trouble.
“I’ll see you on Monday,” I told Fay.
She gave me a knowing smile and melted back into the house, clearly uninterested in what was going on out here. Well, there went my chances of having something with a girl tonight. Plus she’d been sending out all the right signals.
I sighed and ploughed through the crowd and grabbed Rowan by the elbow. “C’mon, mate, we gotta chuck.”
He glared at me but didn’t bitch, thank goodness.
I cast one look behind me, but Mike’s friends were too busy helping him up off the ground.
Then I groused at Rowan, “What did you go and do that for?”
Rowan’s grin was devilish. “That was payback.”
“Dude, seriously, what would you have done if his friends had piled into you? You were outnumbered.”
“You’re here now.”
“Dude.” I shook my head. Had he honestly thought I’d haul his ass out of the fire? No. He was right. I would. Even if I got hurt.
Running footsteps from behind had us spin around. I tensed then relaxed. It was only Angela coming up the driveway.
She was breathless and grabbed both of Rowan’s hands in her own. “Thank you! I can’t believe Mike was such an idiot.”
Then she kissed him. Full on the lips.
Before either of us could respond, Angela dashed down the driveway again, leaving us reeling.
“What was that?” I asked in disbelief – Rowan, getting lucky with the girls?
Rowan just smiled and touched his fingers to his mouth. “I don’t know, but her lips tasted like cherries.”
Buy The Guardian's Wyrd on Amazon or Kobo, or just sign up for my darned newsletter already.
