Chantal Boudreau's Blog, page 43

Chantelly’s Field Guide to Zombies - Biologicals

I’m going to turn to what is currently the most predominant zombie – the one of biological origins. Be it viral or some form of parasite, the “infected” zombies come in varying types. Some have perished and risen from their graves and others have never actually died, but are merely diseased, mindlessly driven to feed on human flesh. Some are fast and raged filled, like the zombies of 28 Days Later, others are slow shamblers, moving in contagious mobs, like in Dawn of the Dead.

Most zombies now days have assumed this form, the result of prevalent fears caused by outbreaks of illnesses like SARS, avian flu, H1N1, AIDs and the less common but more deadly diseases like ebola. It is a very widespread human fear, one than expands as our populations grow and urban centres become more congested. Add in anxiety over genetic manipulation of viruses in an attempt to create cures to things like cancer, at the root of one of my favourites, I Am Legend, and it is no surprise that biological are the most popular source of the undead in current media.

Parasitic Zombies:
Although less common than their viral counterparts, some zombies are spawned and spread by parasites. Perhaps their gruesome factor is a little too much for the average zombie story, so they don’t have as much in the way of mass appeal. There are examples of alien parasites, like the tongue-like creatures in Slither, but not all are extra-terrestrial. Some such parasites actually exist in nature, infesting and controlling ants, grasshoppers, cockroaches, spiders, wasps, worms and snails. Toxoplasmosa gondii, Hymenoepimecis Argyraphaga, Glyptapanteles, and more are real and present in our world. I even referenced one of these parasites, the Leucochloridium variae or brown-banded broodsac, in my zombie novelette, Escarg-0, that appears in the anthology, Zero from May December publications. You can find it at: http://www.amazon.com/Zero-Chantal-Bo...

Viral Zombies:
Viruses are something even our scientists don’t entirely understand, and it is well known that we fear what we do not understand. Not quite meeting the definition of what is alive, viruses need other life-forms to replicate. Viruses can be airborne, transmitted by touch or by bodily fluids. With a viral outbreak as a source, zombiism can spread rapidly with the only means of prevention being avoidance unless some form of vaccination can be developed. In my opinion, it is the simplest and most obvious means of transference, and with the way viruses are known to mutate without warning, there is no need to go into great detail as to how such a thing could happen. It seems to be the preferred origin of most modern zombie literature, evident in works from World War Z to the book I’m currently reading, The First Days, by Rhiannon Frater. I used this source in several of my own stories including my cowboy zombie tale, What A Man’s Gotta Do, appearing in Rymfire ebooks anthology, Undead Tales. You can find it at: http://www.amazon.com/Undead-Tales-Ar...

Next week, I cover the mother of all zombies, magic, the last in this blog series.

Chantelly's Zombie Field Guide - Environmentals

I decided to cover these “species” of zombie next because they fall somewhere between tech zombies and biologicals, and in some cases are a little of both. I count these as any type of zombie that originates from an environmental source, one that would not be directly attributed to another biological organism like a virus or parasite. Some lean towards tech, like radiation-spawned atomic zombies, chemical-toxin generated zombies, or the victims of “space dust”. Others are more closely tied to natural causes, like those that can be blamed on natural toxins or some type of genetic mutations triggered by some outside effect – I’m going to reserve my discussion of mutations, however, to biological, because this is often associated with a viral-based apocalypse. One of the interesting traits these zombies possess is they typically don’t tend to spread other than by the source spawning new zombies – not zombie to human effects creating a new zombie (although those slain by zombies in the radiation/dust/toxin-stricken area do rise and join their undead brethren. )

Atomic Zombies:

These radioactive shamblers can be found as early as the 1950s and in 1968, they can be found in the George Romero classic, Night of the Living Dead. It is radiation from some source that causes the undead to rise in those instances. As I mentioned in the last post, zombie origins are often associated with existing societal fears, which is why these zombies were popular in the day where fear of the atomic bomb ran rampant. As tensions regarding nuclear warfare and mishaps eased, this type of zombie became less popular. With the recent occurrences in Japan, however, these zombies are threatening to resurface.

Cosmic Dust Zombies:

The earth passes through a cloud of space dust, and suddenly the dead begin rising. A thinning ozone layer, comet tails, solar flares and other extra-terrestrial phenomena are both alien and fear inducing – hence they exist as a source of zombies. Examples of this type of zombie can be found in “Fido” a delightful dark comedy where the undead are harnessed as a means of slave labour and where people pay outrageous amounts of money for a “proper” burial to ensure they are not enslaved after they die (a Canadian gem.) This is commonly found in stories where the focus is less on where the zombies came from and more on the social impact of those zombies, in part because the apocalypse comes without any attempt at a technical explanation.

Toxic Zombies:

This type of zombie usually originates from a manmade chemical toxin, as in many B grade zombie movies in the 80’s and 90’s, such as the 1980 flick Bloodeaters, where the zombies are caused by crop-dusting chemicals. Green was an “in” thing in those times, and environmental poisons, a result of human carelessness, a real threat. The fears of industrial poisons are still there, but they’ve extended to natural poisons and the potential dangers of genetically modified food. You’ll find this kind of zombie in my coffee-house zombie tale, “Waking the Dead” appearing in the May December Publications anthology “Hell Hath no Fury”, where the problem is imbibed. It touches on the idea of biologicals as well, which I’ll be addressing in my next post.

You can find the above mentioned anthology at:

http://www.amazon.com/Hell-Hath-Fury-...

Chantelly’s field guide to zombies

Taking my blog on a little detour for Halloween and to put me in the right mindset for starting my zombie novel, Sleep Escapes Us, for NaNoWriMo, I’ve decided to post my own personal field guide to zombies. I intend to cover a full range of shamblers and runners, from your basic magical Voodoo zombie to the more popular viral infection zombie. At the moment I have them classified into four groups: biological, environmental, magical, and technological, with sub-groups for each category. If you think I’m missing any, and should add a separate type, leave a comment with feedback regarding any others you think should be covered.

I’m going to start by discussing one of the more current and obscure types, the technological zombies, and go from there.

Zombies come in a variety of shapes and sizes, and are not always necessarily of human origin. I just saw Black Sheep this week and the zombies in my novelette, Shear Terror, are of the ovine kind as well. Zombie dogs are not that uncommon in films and stories either.

Some zombies are the result of a worldwide zombie apocalypse, a la Dawn of the Dead, or sometimes the zombification is a more isolated incidence, contained to an island, a prison or even an office building. While they are usually categorized as undead, certain zombies have never actually died but are merely victims of mind control from one of varying sources, mindless thralls who no longer behave in any way that we would define as human. As long as they travel in mobs, show no emotion, demonstrate basal responses such as aggression and hunger and ignore damage that would floor a normal human, we can usually qualify them as zombies.

The Oxford dictionary definition of zombie: A soulless body. In the Voodoo cult of Haiti, a zombi is the slave of a magician. The soul may have been removed by magic from a living person, or the body of someone recently deceased may have been brought up out of the grave after the soul had been separated from it by regular rites of death. As the lord of the dead, Ghede has the power to animate corpses as zombis.

Note that it says a soulless body, but not necessarily dead/undead.

From what popular culture has done with the entire concept of zombie, that definition has been expanded upon in a variety of directions, thanks to the creative genius of Romero and his peers. We now have a wide range of these particular creatures of horror. In truth, the fearsome aspect of zombies is not so much where they come from, but how they behave and the likelihood that we might become one too. The monsters are generally associated with fears of things that could impact our lives in a significant way. It’s a combination loss of control, loss of humanity.

Techno-zombies

Computer-based zombies:

Look up “technology” and “zombies” and you’ll find a slew of sites talking about how technology is turning our youths into zombies through use of computers and associated tech devices. But what if it really did? One of the most recent developments in the zombie genre are computer-based zombies. The source of zombie-ism, the root cause of whatever incident or apocalypse, is technology.

One example of this type of zombie can be found in my recent digital short story release from Trestle Press, Technopathy. The techno-zombies, in this case, are the results of malfunctioning nanobots that are tied to a particular form of technology that people are voluntarily having installed directly into their head. There’ s an element of irony in that the victims are mostly those who blindly follow trends, so they didn’t have much of a mind of their own to begin with. Those who escape the effects of Technopathy are the very poor, such as vagrants, social outcasts and technophobes.

This is a recent form of zombie, and I predict it will become more common. The zombie genre tends to reflect popular fears.

Space zombies:

Zombies in space not a new concept. The idea was being contemplated as far back as 1968, when the space race was a big new idea, with The Astro-Zombies starring John Carradine. They were proposing a zombie-based space program, and if that’s not weird enough, the zombies were fuelled by solar panels installed in their heads (???!)

Atomic zombies:

Another tech-zombie concept that arose from a paranoia surrounding nuclear plants and weapons, I consider radiation-spawned zombies a hybrid of environment and technology, so I’ll be covering them in more detail in my environmental section next week.

If you’d like a closer look at techno-zombie fiction, you can find my digital short from Trestle Press, Technopathy, on Amazon at:

my link text

Out of Phase - A Magic University Teaser Tale

Ebon struggled with his telekinesis, trying to get his phantom fingers to do what he needed them to do. The quill twitched and skipped over the paper, but his fine manipulation with the spell was just not what it had to be in order for him to write out the words required. The erratic movements caused the ink to blot and instead of the simple letters he had intended, there was nothing but dashes and splotches. Ebon railed over the failure, releasing his spell and allowing the quill to drop to the table. He then snarled and unleashed a tiny ball of flame that ignited the marred parchment, turning it into a small pile of ash – one that matched the collection of others scattered atop the table.

It was a task that should be relatively easy for anyone literate, unless they lacked a physical form the way that Ebon did. He did have his telekinesis to make up for it, and could accommodate chores that asked for tangible efforts involving gross motor skills. But fine manipulation? He was not practiced enough with the spell for fine manipulation. He had oodles of strength, but lacked finesse. He hadn’t had reason to manoeuvre anything solid for quite some time, which was why his skills with the spell were not very refined.

“Bastards should have an application form accessible to all. This is discriminatory,” Ebon rasped, pushing the table away from him with a thrust from an invisible hand. “How the hell am I supposed to complete this?”

He knew one possible solution was to hire a scribe to do the work for him, but that called for money and Ebon had none. Why would he? Carrying it would be a constant inconvenience; he had no need for possessions. In this instance, the application forms had been provided by Magic University and the quill was borrowed. He didn’t have a need for shelter, clothing, food or drink – he had no problems ignoring typical animal urges because in his case such things were irrelevant. He didn’t get hot or cold, he didn’t get wet and he didn’t even need to breathe. This time, however, things were different. He did need help.

Resigning himself to finding some way of paying the scribe’s wages, Ebon left the magistrate’s office where he had been trying to complete the form and made his way to the closest scriptorium. Most people recoiled or ran away as he passed through the streets, frightened by his wraith-like appearance. At night-time or even early dawn or dusk, the shadows presented him with enough cover that he could avoid the unwanted attention, but in broad daylight his shadowy form was an obvious blight. Their reaction made him yearn for the day where he would have been ignored as uninteresting or mocked slightly for his pasty complexion and mediocre build.

Three years he had borne the accursed appearance, three years of vague memories and time lost as he wandered in search of answers that still had not all come to him. At first he had not remembered anything including who he was. Gradually, the recollections returned, one by one, but his memories prior to his transformation were spotty at best. He hoped some day that would change because he had a feeling that those memories would be important if he was ever to reclaim who he was.

It was a warm enough day that the door to the scriptorium had been propped open. Not that it mattered to Ebon if the door were open or closed, unless it was enchanted. An ordinary door could never bar his way anymore. He swept in and advanced upon the counter. Settling there, he waited for the man attending to clients to approach. He eyed Ebon warily as he did so.

“I wish to hire your services,” Ebon rasped.

“We do not serve the undead,” the scribe replied, pulling a couple of scrolls from the shelf behind him.

“I’m no phantom,” Ebon assured him. “I’m inter-dimensional. That does present a problem. I need to complete an application for Magic University, but I lack proper physical form. I would like you to complete the task for me, but since I have no way of offering money in exchange for your work, I propose bartering services of my own. I’m a very powerful spell-caster. Perhaps you can make use of my skills for your own purposes.”

It seemed like a reasonable offer to Ebon, and it was the only thing of value that he really could give. The offer was not received without interest. The scribe stood contemplating the being in front of him. Clearly, he had something in mind.

“I think we can strike a deal. Follow me to the back, and we’ll discuss our terms.”

The room that they entered was suffocatingly small, but physical walls meant nothing to Ebon anymore. He hovered on the opposite side of the table from where the scribe took a seat.

“So what do you ask of me to fulfil my end of the bargain?” Ebon demanded hoarsely.

“When I established my business, I had little in the way of capital,” the scribe admitted. “I was forced to seek out a sponsor. There was a Master wizard, Jovan Oakley, who was willing to pay a retainer, but he offered a pittance compared to the usual asking price for a scribe of my talents, and he demanded a twenty year contract. I was desperate for the money, so I signed the agreement. Five years later, my business is well-established and I should be enjoying my success. Instead I am bound by my contract with him, and spend my evenings doing repetitive and petty work for him, copying scrolls and the like. I have things I would prefer to be doing with what should be my leisure time. In exchange for my services, I want you to enter Jovan’s home and destroy the contract so that I’m no longer bound to him. The work you want would be a small price for my freedom.”

Ebon agreed to the scribe, Bartholomew Fenway’s, terms, as if he had much of a choice. After discussing the situation in detail, Ebon decided to pay a visit to Jovan’s house that day. He would be less likely to be home than if Ebon waited until evening.

The wraith-mage could not pass unhindered through the magically locked door, but Jovan had not enchanted his entire house similarly, so it was just a matter of sliding through an unprotected section of wall. Once inside the home, he quickly located Bartholomew’s contract. Getting at it was not a simple job. Jovan had the document well protected, an item of great value to him. It took a fair amount of time, but little effort, for Ebon to strip away the anti-theft spells. Once it was free of such nuisances, Ebon moved closer to snuff out the contract as easily as he had the failed application forms.

He had not been expecting the contingency spell. Apparently, Jovan had been anticipating that Bartholomew might choose unorthodox tactics to liberate his contract, which included striking deals with demons. The moment Ebon attempted to ignite the parchment, he found himself trapped within an inter-dimensional magical cage. Seconds later a middle-aged bearded and bespectacled man appeared before him bearing the slender frame and robes customary of a Master wizard.

“So, Bartholomew strikes again. Well, what have we here? You certainly are nothing like the petty thieves he has sent in the past. They did not get this far, and I dispatched of them easily enough.” Jovan scrutinized Ebon closely. “How did Bartholomew succeed in recruiting you?”

“I required his services. I need to make application to Magic University, and because of my ‘condition’ I was unable to do so on my own. This is what he asked for in exchange.”

Jovan scratched his chin.

“Ah – my alma mater. Well, I can hardly fault you for wanting to better yourself in that way, can I?”

The Master wizard paced the floor, considering his options.

“What if I told you I was willing to let you return to Bartholomew with claim of success, but I require your services in exchange as well,” he proposed. Ebon was hardly in the position to argue.

“Name your terms,” he rasped.

“A former apprentice of mine holds a series of letters that she could use to defame me and wreak scandal upon my house. I would like you to do for me what Bartholomew was having you do for him. Play purveyor of those documents, and I’ll reward you by destroying Bartholomew’s contract myself. I will need you to swear your agreement under oath, however. I want to guarantee that when I release you, you do not simply leave in search of some other scribe to do your bidding.”

Once again, Ebon was not in any position to object. He allowed himself to be bound magically to completing the task. Once freed from his cage, he took directions from Jovan, and set off to find the wizard’s former apprentice, Yvette.

While Yvette’s home was wealthier than Jovan’s, they had fewer magical protections in place. Instead, Ebon encountered a different problem. When he arrived, Yvette had the letters directly in her possession, and was poring over them tearfully. Ebon didn’t want to waste time with formalities, and presented himself unannounced before the young woman. Since he couldn’t exactly snatch the letters from her grasp, he decided to try intimidation instead.

“Jovan sent me. He wants his letters back. Give them to me.”

He let his frustration seethe through him, knowing it would darken his form and cause his eyes to flare red. That usually was enough to put the fear into the bravest of men. He expected the young woman to shrink away from him and perhaps even toss the letters his way in order to get him to leave her be. Instead, she gripped the letters with greater fervour and offered only resistance.

“No! They’re all I have left of him. He thinks I don’t love him, but I’m not marrying another by choice. I was betrothed to the cad by my parents – an arranged marriage to better business relations. I would give anything to get out of it, but my father is convinced that Terrance is a good man. He’s not, but without evidence to show otherwise, they’ll never agree to free me from the obligation to marry him.”

“If I bring you evidence to this effect, you will give me the letters?”

Yvette nodded.

“But you have to tell Jovan that I wanted to keep them, because I do still love him,” she insisted. “If you promise me that much and then bring me the evidence I need, you can have the letters.”

Ebon sighed inwardly, ruing the fact that it was such a convoluted path to obtain the scribal services that he required, entangled in some foolish love triangle.

“And this Terrance? Where can I find him?” Ebon groaned.

“He and his business associates meet regularly for revelry at the Decadent Thrush, an inn in the merchant area of town. You’ll likely find him there tonight, relaxing after a day’s work. He invited me, but I have no interest in joining him solely for appearance sake. He does not actually enjoy my company and I think he is a mean-hearted boor.”

“Fine, an evening at the Decadent Thrush it is then.”

Ebon slunk away begrudgingly. As opposed to waiting for evening, he made his way to the inn that late afternoon to wait. He had nothing better to, and it allowed him time to select an appropriate spot to position himself within the shadows where he had a complete view of the entire barroom. He was actually grateful that he had chosen to venture there early when Terrance made an appearance. At least, Ebon was fairly certain that it was him based on the description that Yvette had given him. Terrance was there long before he was scheduled to meet with his friends. And he was not alone.

The woman who joined him secretively, once the young man had seated himself in the dimmest corner of the barroom quite close to where Ebon was standing, looked like some sort of high-priced courtesan. Her “wares” were clearly on display, but the fabrics of her well-tailored clothing were expensive and the heady perfume she wore was laced with pricy exotic flowers and spices. She approached Terrance cautiously, and once she was certain that nobody was watching, albeit the wrong conclusion, she bent and whispered into his ear. The arrogant-looking young man smirked and watched her walk away, ascending the stairs to the upper level of the inn. A few minutes later, Terrance pursued her.

Ebon followed the errant fiancé up the stairs just in time to see him disappear into a room on the upper level. The wraith-mage listened at the door for a couple of seconds, and once he was sure they were well-distracted, he shifted through the closed door, into the room beyond.

The two were entangled together atop the bed, Terrance’s lips firmly attached to the jezebel’s and his tongue thrust deep within her mouth. Neither of them had noticed Ebon enter.

“I hate having to meet like this,” the woman whined, when they finally came up for air. “It’s so inconvenient and unfair...and I don’t want to share.”

“Not that much longer, Loretta. I’m to be wed in two weeks and then it is just a matter of impregnating that loathsome cow I’m expected to marry to secure her family’s favour. She might be a frigid bitch, but she’ll have to put out on our wedding night. Once she is a few months into her pregnancy, I’ll dose her with the potion the apothecary provided. Mother and babe will die apparently of natural causes, a conception gone wrong, and after a few months of playing the mournful husband, I’ll be free to return to you.” Terrance spoke the words with such evil glee, savouring the idea. Such cruel intentions would have shocked the average person, but with Ebon they fell upon a hollow heart.

Considering this revelation sufficient ammunition, Ebon departed to return to Yvette. He did not want to hang around long enough to play voyeur as the pair romped between the sheets. All that would do would be to remind him of some of the physical pleasures he might never again be capable of enjoying. He wasn’t about to put himself through that kind of torment.

Yvette was startled to see him return so soon. As she listened to Ebon’s recounting of what he had seen, her face first paled, then blotched with red, both furious and horrified at the same time. She intended on bringing the tale to her father immediately. Since Terrance would not be returning home until the wee hours of the night, his belongings would be searched for the potion he had referred to, and militia men would be sent to question the innkeeper and the apothecary. There would be enough proof to warrant postponing the wedding and eventually cancelling it altogether. There might even be criminal charges brought against Yvette’s murderous betrothed.

She allowed Ebon to take the letters in order to return them to Jovan, but once again sought affirmation that he would tell Jovan of her true feelings and explain as much of her unfortunate situation as possible.

When Ebon arrived, bearing the letters in his telekinetic grasp, the Master wizard was waiting for him. He was not expecting the wraith-mage to appeal to him on Yvette’s behalf, and while his grim expression did not change much as Ebon spoke, he seemed receptive to the story, and a smile gleamed in his bespectacled eyes.

Jovan gladly took the letters from Ebon, and without another word, before Ebon had even bothered to dismiss his spell, the Master wizard had passed him Bartholomew’s contract. Ebon accepted it into his magical grasp.

“You know, you could keep this and simply provide the services that I requested from your retained scribe yourself,” Ebon suggested. “I don’t care who completes my application form for the university for me. It’s just that circumstances dictate that it has to be someone other than myself.”

But Jovan waved him off.

“The reason I retained Bartholomew in the first place was because such things are too trivial to merit my time. I have more important things to attend to, especially now. Besides, I’ve more than profited from my contract with Bartholomew, and I think he has earned freedom from our agreement by initiating this whole chain of events. Take it back to him, and you can let him know that you are doing so by my good graces.”

Ebon didn’t wait around long enough for the wizard to change his mind. Extending his telekinesis spell, he carried the contract back to the scribe. Bartholomew was surprised to see him.

“You return? So soon? I didn’t expect to see you again. The others I hired to fetch my contract for me never came back for their fee,” the scribe said, astonished.

“Well, I am not ‘the others.’ Not only do I return to restore your contract to you, Jovan acknowledges that you have fulfilled your obligation and will not seek out any further services without appropriate recompense.”
Ebon dismissed his spell, allowing the roll of parchment to drop to the table. With an air of disbelief, Bartholomew snatched it up and unrolled it, eager to investigate. He scanned it carefully, gasping with pleasure when he was satisfied that what Ebon had brought him was the actual document he had sought.

“Now it is your turn to fulfill your end of the bargain,” the wraith-mage breathed. With another spell, he manifested a copy of the Magic University form directly from the Magistrate’s office onto the counter in front of the scribe.

There were no arguments from Bartholomew. After setting aside his contract for future disposal, he gathered the supplies he needed to fill out the form, ink and quill, and settled himself down in front of the document. Perched there, he glanced up at Ebon and grinned.

“Alright then - from the beginning. Surname...?”

A Dragon Tale

The Last

Kryos stirred. He had never expected to wake from this sleep. It should have been his last.

He opened his large fluid eyes, eyes that gleamed liquid silver like mercury, and glanced about his cave. This should have been his crypt, his final resting place. He was the last of his kind – the last crystalline dragon. He had purposefully chosen that special dormancy common to all dragons, the one that dragons used to prepare themselves to mate, as he had settled into place here. With that particular type of sleep, the only thing that could rouse him to wakefulness was another of his kind, a female who was also ripe for mating. There had been no such female. He should have slept forever. Why then, had he awakened?

He raised his large head and sniffed at the air. It was there, the scent of female, young, but mature and fertile. How could that be? There was something odd about her aroma, however, something not quite right. The odour was strong but heavily tainted in a way that Kryos would almost describe as incomplete. She was crystalline dragon alright, but not pure, which meant that he still was the last pureblood of his kind. The remainder of her smell was not that of any other dragon that he could identify, either.

Fully alert now, Kryos pushed himself into a sitting position. His cavern was very cramped. He had not chosen it on the basis that it would serve any purpose other than being the place where he would die. That death would not have come until after many more centuries had passed and even the near ageless quality of a dragon would have succumbed to the rigors of time.

Pinpricks of sunlight wormed their way in through small holes in the rock, and glinted off of his scales. Each scale acted like a tiny prism, capturing the light and releasing it again, divided into its spectrum of colours. The effect lit Kryos up with a myriad of tiny rainbows that reflected onto the rock walls surrounding him.

He sighed, wondering if wherever she was, the female had scented him as well. She would not have been able to find him. He had almost completely sealed the entrance into his niche, not wanting anything non-dragon to disturb his rest. The gap that he had left would not allow for anything the size of a human to pass. In fact, it was so small that Kryos would have to change to the most diminutive of his three forms in order to escape his enclosure.

He sniffed at the hole into the outer world, not wanting to transform and flit away if there were any dangers lurking beyond. He was most vulnerable in his smallest form, and could not afford to take any chances. Trying to detect the smell of danger past her scent was almost impossible, however. His body tensed as he breathed deeply, driven by the urge to find her and mate with her, a compulsion generated by the type of sleep that he had chosen. He had created this desire in the process, and now he was possessed by it.

Unable to resist that draw, Kryos leaned back and initiated the change. He hated transforming. It was a very uncomfortable process, one where he had to use his innate magic to compact his essence, his own matter, and force it into a shape that it did not prefer. At least this particular transformation only required him to shrink his form, and not alter it in any other way. Not so for his third form, which he avoided using if at all possible.
Kryos fell onto the rock floor as the metamorphosis took a hold of his very being. He writhed from the pain, feeling as though he were being twisted inside out. As he shrank, the world seemed to grow and by the time the change was complete, when he lay there stunned and aching, he was only a fragment of the dragon that he used to be - he was not even the size of a small house cat. From a distance, he looked like a giant crystalline butterfly, but from up close, one could make out his slight reptilian form, including his long snout and limpid eyes, his elongated neck and tail, and his tiny clawed limbs.

It was several minutes before he had returned enough to his senses to scramble up off of the floor. The wind was blowing through the crevices in the rock, carrying that alluring scent to him, without any effort on his part. Kryos tested his wings, fluttering them eagerly and darting about the cavern until he was sure that he could attain and maintain the speed that he would need to help him avoid any predators. Once he was sure that he was ready, he crawled over the series of rocks barricading his intended crypt, and out into the light of day.

The sun was bright, glaringly so, and it took Kryos’s vision time to adapt after being confined to the dim contents of the cavern. Things on the outside were very different than they had been when he had crawled into that hole, lonely, depressed and praying for death. The rock on this mountain had been mostly barren, with some patches of moss and a few sprouting plants. An entire forest had sprung up around him over the centuries, as he had slumbered. He gazed about at the lofty trees, wondering how things had also changed in the wild valley below.

That was when her smell wafted past him again, and a thrill rushed through him. He longed for this other dragon, more than anything else. Soon, they would be soaring high in the skies together, and then plummeting together, locked in a lustful embrace. He could almost feel her claws, brushing against his scales, and her tail entwined with his own. There would be no more loneliness.

Kryos sprang into the air, and then headed for the shadows. If he did not keep well out of sight, and allowed himself to be exposed to the sunlight, he would be impossible to miss. Anyone who looked his way would be bedazzled by his brilliance and would automatically know that he was there, whether he wanted them to or not. That was why his third form, his least preferred form, had its uses. He could hide out in the open with that shape. He could blend into a crowd.

He wove his way spryly through the trees, enjoying the journey at first but growing confused as he approached the area from which her scent was originating. The closer he got, the harder she was to detect, not because she had left that place, but because that place was filled with odours reminiscent of the one that had marred her distinct dragon smell. They were there in such quantity that Kryos was bewildered. There had been nothing like this in the nearby surroundings when he had sought out his last place of rest. Something had gathered here. Something had bred.

As he neared the base of the mountain, Kryos’s sensitive ears could pick out strange noises in addition to the bizarre smells. There was movement. There was bustle. As he neared the edge of the tree-line, he almost exposed himself. Recoiling quickly, he retreated beneath the fronds of an immense fern, and observed. There were people.

Why? Why was she here? Why was she living among these lesser beings? It did not make sense. Had they captured her? Were they keeping her caged, hoping to lure one like Kryos to her side? It did not make sense.

It was then that he spotted her, and in doing so everything fell into place. Moving through the crowd was a willowy woman, one who seemed completely out of her element. Her movements were hesitant and untrusting and there was a constant sadness to her features that made his heart ache.
She had skin the colour of alabaster, shockingly white blond hair and large silvery eyes that separated her from the rest of the bland looking villagers, the ones who milled about around her, brown haired and tanned looking. She also had slight points to her ears, another unique feature. Kryos wanted to transform into his largest and most natural form, pluck her out of the crowd, and carry her away. But he could not let anyone know that he existed, not as long as he felt driven to breed.

The reason that his kind had been dying out, the reason that they were practically extinct when Kryos had chosen a slow and catatonic pathway to death, was because the wizards of his world had discovered a fundamental function for the heart of a crystalline dragon when used in their magic. Their heart, dried and ground to a powder, was the most important ingredient to a potion that could extend a man’s life well beyond the age that nature would allow. Never mind that such magic meant the murder of one sentient creature for the sake of preserving the life of another, those who were driven by desperation to concoct such a brew usually were possessed by a heightened sense of entitlement. As far as they were concerned, they deserved to live, even at the expense of another. If Kryos revealed that his kind were not entirely extinct, someone would come hunting for him, hoping to take his heart from him.

No, things would not be so simple for the last pureblood crystalline dragon. He would have to hide in plain sight, charm her and somehow lure her away, before revealing his true self. It was possible that she had no idea what she truly was.

Kryos understood things now. She lived amongst these people because she thought that she was one of them. Centuries before, when there were still a scant few other than Kryos, some other male, desperate to preserve their kind, had forced a mating without a proper sleep, by changing to the third form and breeding with one outside of their species. His genes had remained dormant in his offspring and their descendents until something had triggered them, drawing them to the surface in this one. Now, his kind’s blood flowed through her with much of its magic, and she was clearly oblivious of this. Convincing her of this so that he could get her to change - so that he could feed his urges, would be difficult, and he certainly couldn’t do it the way that he looked now.

“Bianca! Bianca, quit messing about and get in here now! You aren’t paid to loiter,” came a harsh and grating cry from one of the buildings.

His mate-to-be nearly jumped out of skin and scampered off in the direction of the wretched voice, disappearing from view. The tiny Kryos let out a soft whimper.

“I need you,” he whispered anxiously.

He would have her too, but that would require sacrifice, a sacrifice that it was time to make. He flitted deeper into the brush, away from the village, and found a small copse of trees shrouded in shadow. He settled into its centre and began his second and more difficult transformation of the day.

The pain was intense, his body not meant to exist without tail, snout or wings. He tried to bite back a scream, and he mostly succeeded, but it still managed to escape as a low throaty moan, while his body became rigid and he clung to the springy moss beneath him. He twitched and thrashed, gradually growing and morphing, his skin looking more opaque as he changed.

It took him the better part of an hour, and when it was done he lay there trembling, his raw skin blistering in places, his nails and gums bleeding. He was exhausted and in agony. While he was uncomfortable in this form, unlike other people, he was not uncomfortable in his nakedness. He remained where he was, as he was, allowing the cool damp moss to soothe his irritated skin.

As twilight eased its way in, Kryos finally sat up, his violent shakes reduced now to the occasional tremor. He stared at his hands, the smooth colourlessness of his skin and all the other novel parts of his altered body. It was time to seek her out, this Bianca, and to make her see things his way.

But first, he would need to find some clothes...

On Her Guard - A Magic University Teaser Tale

Nia clawed nonchalantly at the dirt by her feet. She sat splayed on the stoop, her silver scales glinting in the sun. Glancing briefly over her shoulder at the sturdy oaken door behind her, she heaved a ragged sigh. Her current position was all a result of being good at thinking fast on her feet, but not quite so good at planning.

Astrelle, her mentor, had forced Nia out of her quarters at the point where the reptilian woman’s money had run out, to “make room for a paying student,” she had said. She had not allowed for any compromise – no offers of work Nia could do in exchange for Astrelle’s services, no willingness to accept any form of promissory note, and not even the inclination to extend Nia enough time to beg, borrow or steal another payment. Astrelle had happily ploughed her way through every cent of Nia’s savings, abusing the situation every way possible while she did so. In addition to being a student, Nia had also been little better than a slave, playing glorified baby-sitter to Astrelle’s children, occasional maid, and harried gopher at her mistress’s beck and call. This was the thanks she got. No more money and Astrelle had showed her the door.

That left Nia with a dilemma. She needed some means of at least making enough money to support herself until the Magic University Admission Trials. Beyond that, she hoped it wouldn’t matter. She could sign up for one of their standard “scholarships” and survive on what the University would have to offer her. That was if she won one of the three elite seats, but she was going to place top three. She had to. She had nowhere else left to go and nothing else she really wanted to do.

Nia staggered to her clawed feet, bare, as they tended to be. Her toes extended far beyond those of human feet and the one off of her heel made finding shoes that fit impossible. She certainly wasn’t about to pay for anything custom-made, so that meant she went without. She didn’t mind. Her kind generally didn’t wear anything on their feet. Nature intended them for striding, springing and climbing, all things that were difficult to do if her claws were not exposed.

She started making her way towards the closest tavern. She wasn’t sure why. Astrelle had not even had the decency to leave her a sprinkling of pocket change. If she wanted a drink, she would have to rely on the kindness of strangers. That meant she would have to catch the eye of someone who would appreciate the exotic; that or someone with a seriously kinky libido. She had stooped that low to put food in her belly before, but she had sworn at the time that she would never do such a thing again. She didn’t want anyone to ever think of her as chattel that could be bought or sold.

Nia wasn’t without her strengths. She was stronger than the average human female, physically fit, trained to use a sword in addition to a reasonable number and variety of spells, and she wasn’t stupid. There had to be someone out there who had work for someone like her, with her healthy qualifications.

There as a community bulletin board affixed outside of the tavern, and as Nia approached, somebody’s scrawny house-boy was posting something new there. He startled when he saw her approaching and scampered away. Nia was accustomed to that initial reaction from children. While she had a human form, her scaled skin, lack of hair and clawed hands and feet was alien enough to send them running. It was the worst part of having to live in exile, away from her kind.
While the children and some of the women with fragile psyches found her appearance disturbing, most men considered Nia intriguing. She had a beautiful face, a shapely athletic body and a lovely shimmer to her scales. Those who were not xenophobic usually found her attractive. Despite this, because of Astrelle’s demanding apprenticeship, Nia had not bedded a man since she had started training with the Master mage. She has as hungry for sexual satisfaction as her grumbling belly was for food.

Nia paused by the new posting prior to entering the tavern. The boy had put up a help wanted notice. A local nobleman was looking for a manor guard, but not just anyone would do. He was specifically looking for a female protector, primarily to keep watch over his wife while he was away on business. From what Nia could see, she met all of the qualifications, and the purse they offered would be enough to buy her another round of lessons with Astrelle, or serve as a partial payment of tuition if she didn’t place first seat. Either way, the money would be a boon towards her current objective.

She decided the posting was worth investigating, and ignored both hungers to seek out the address listed for the potential employer.

Marquis Sewell was not from old money. His father, a wealthy merchant, had earned what he had through trade and had bought his title. The young Marquis had taken up the family business begrudgingly, and was now forced to manage affairs after the early passing of his workaholic father. He was lazier, self-indulgent and for the most part indifferent to anything with no direct bearing on him. But the young Marquis had a problem that did affect him directly, and her name was Beatrice.

Beatrice, Marquis Sewell’s wife, was a good match for her husband in some ways. She was shallow, just as self-indulgent and just as lazy. But unlike her husband, who prized and adored his trophy wife, Beatrice had grown bored with her mate and especially lost interest in him whenever he was forced to travel. Mistrusting the woman he supposedly loved, the Marquis had taken to hiring someone to keep an eye on her while he was away. He discovered after his last voyage that having a guard in place had pitfalls of its own, if that guard was male with a healthy libido. That was why the Marquis had chosen to go with a woman this time.

After Nia had presented herself at the manor in response to the posting, she soon found herself shuffled away to a back room to meet with the Marquis. He was an androgynous-looking young man, not manly enough to have that rugged appeal and not pretty enough to be attractive in a foppish way either. His svelte build and pasty skin did not give Nia incentive to make any suggestive moves on the noble, in spite of the fact that she craved a man’s attention at that moment. While wealth was an aphrodisiac of sorts, Nia liked her men either macho or beautiful, not somewhere in between. The fact that the Marquis was married and was hopefully her soon-to-be employer meant nothing to Nia, only that he held no lustful stirrings for her.

“I need a proper guard for my wife,” the Marquis informed her. “And by proper, I mean someone capable, which you appear to be, and whom I will not come home to find in her bed. She dallied with Horace, the last guard I had watching her, and I might not have known had I not come home early from my trip. I don’t want her sullying herself in such a way, marring my reputation, and bearing bastard children of lesser men. I’ll have no such fears with you. I’m willing to hire you on the spot if you guarantee me that you’ll do whatever it takes to keep such unsavoury characters away from my Beatrice.”

Nia agreed, pleased with her change in circumstances. She suddenly had a roof over her head, the offer of food in her belly, and the promise of money in her pocket. All this for a job she didn’t see as any sort of challenge.

Nia got to meet Beatrice later that evening, after the scaled woman had settled into her new quarters and received a tour of the manor. She had free reign, as part of her job, to enter any part of the estate she deemed necessary to prevent anyone from intruding upon the lady of the house. It was a large structure with ornate walls, flat roofs and multiple means of entering or exiting from various directions. Nia decided her best bet would be to watch Beatrice from as close a position as possible, following the Marquis’s wife like glue and planting herself just inside or outside whatever room she happened to be in.

Beatrice was the type of woman Nia would describe as a frilly little piece of fluff. There was nothing to her other than a gorgeous face, preened hair and well-manicured nails. Her slender body had pale smooth skin, but nothing in the way of muscle-tone. Two vapid cornflower blue eyes stared at the reptilian woman from their place above two artificially-rosied cheeks and equally unnaturally plump red lips. Men would find Beatrice attractive, but there was nothing real about her. There was also something inexplicably cruel and self-serving in the way she held herself and looked down her nose at Nia.

“This? This is what you have guarding me?” Beatrice whined. “She’s some sort of animal. Why not just shackle a slobbering, barking dog to me while you’re away.”

“The thought crossed my mind,” the Marquis muttered under his breath. “Nia is a trained Master novice as well as being a skilled fighter. I’m quite willing to trust that you will be safe in her hands...”

“You mean claws,” Beatrice grumbled.

“Making her all the more capable to protect you, even disarmed,” the Marquis countered without missing a beat. “Now I leave in the morning. I will be away only briefly, three days, and I’ll be back again for three more before my next trip. That one will require a lengthier absence of two weeks. Consider this first one a test of Nia’s services. If she watches you well, I’ll extend our contract for the second trip also.”

Nia slept comfortably that night, her quarters at the manor offering more luxury that the buckled cot by the hearth that Astrelle had offered her as lodging during her training. She was at Beatrice’s side the next morning when the Marquis left at dawn, and shadowed the superficial woman from that moment on, accompanying her into town while the lady was running her errands for the day, which mainly involved spending as much of the Marquis’s money as was possible.

The trip was fraught with dangers, but not the kind that Nia was used to dealing with. Everywhere they went men gawked and leered at Beatrice. It was not the men however that were the problem. Rather, it was the odd occasion that Beatrice invitingly returned some stranger’s stare that kept Nia on her guard. Every time there was any receptiveness on the part of the Marquis’s wife, Nia was forced to step in and make it clear that their attentions were not welcome, even if Beatrice were suggesting otherwise. This was something that Nia was actually unaccustomed at doing, normally welcoming such attention herself.

The first couple of times Nia intervened, Beatrice grew pouty, and heightened her attempts at flirtation. Every single attempt was caught and foiled by a highly alert Nia. She had promised herself she would not fail this test. She needed that money.

By the end of their trip, Nia was burdened by her charge’s purchases and Beatrice by a heavy heart. She sulked all the way home, casting a glare at Nia from time to time that would have been lethal if looks could kill. Nia considered each look of this sort a badge of honour, proof that she had done her job properly. The Marquis would be grateful.

The second day Beatrice set about applying a new strategy. Instead of venturing out into a marketplace of strangers, she accepted a dinner invitation where she would be surrounded by her husband’s colleagues and casual acquaintances. Nia could not as easily interpose herself between Beatrice and someone who was actually known to her and the Marquis.

Nia was fairly certain that Beatrice hoped to distract her, perhaps ply her with drink, and then steal away with the latest object of her fickle affection, unattended by her watchdog. Nia was prepared for such unoriginal tactics and avoided all forms of alcohol that evening, her keen eyes upon Beatrice at all times. Nia also managed to spoil Beatrice’s fun in other ways. The Marquis’s wife did not even get much chance to flirt that night, because it turned out her host and hostess, and the majority of the other guests, had never seen a reptilian before and were fascinated by Nia. They asked her question after question about her culture and her travels, ignoring Beatrice in the process. By the time they left, once again, Beatrice was sulking.

The third day, the last day the Marquis would be away, Nia knew was the most important one. Beatrice would be pulling out her sneakiest tricks. The Marquis’s wife actually went nowhere that day, remaining in the manor, but Nia caught sight of her handing off a small sealed letter to the same house-boy who had posted the job notice by the tavern. Once the boy had left the manor, Nia caught up with him and snagged him by the shoulder. He froze and then twisted to face her, regarding her with fear.

“Let me see the letter, boy,” she demanded.

He swallowed hard and shook his head.

“I can’t, ma’am. My orders are to deliver this to a specific person. If I don’t do as I’m told, I’ll probably get a whipping, or they may even toss me from the manor. I have nowhere else to go. I need this job.”

“Who said anything about not delivering it? I only asked to see it. I’ll give it back so you can do as you’ve been told. Nobody else needs to know we ever spoke,” Nia assured him, holding out one clawed hand.

The boy hesitated, but was actually more frightened about what would happen if he didn’t do as she had asked then he was what might happen if he did. He placed the cream coloured notelet in her hand.

The letter was addressed to “Horace my Love” asking the former guard to wait until nightfall and them scale her westward window. She would be waiting for him, eagerly, and looked forward to another passionate night with him just like they used to have before he had been dismissed from his position.

“Oh you think so, do you?” Nia murmured.

She was terrible with fire spells, so she resorted to the heat from an electric spark cantrip to reseal the notelet. The mini flash of lightning crackled across her fingertips, melting the wax just enough to reapply the seal. Nia grinned mischievously and returned the letter to its keeper.

“Hurry then, boy. I’m sure that Horace will be happy to see you,”

Her counter attack was simple. At dusk, she would stealth away from her place in front of Beatrice’s door. As the adulterous woman waited at her window for Horace to make his appearance, Nia would be watching for his arrival from atop the roof. She would make sure that he would never reach her charge.

When the sky lights dimmed with twilight, Nia snuck away and clambered up to the rooftop. Climbing was something her kind did very naturally, and she had no fear of heights; in fact, she found them rather exhilarating, even arousing. She was reminded just how much her body yearned for some form of release as she lurked far above the ground, following the shadows down below with hungry eyes. Her heart thrummed in her chest with excitement as they finally shifted in a way that suggested more than just wind-tossed trash or alley cats. Someone had begun scaling the wall towards Beatrice’s window.

Nia had two choices. She could pelt the intruder with spells in an attempt to deter him. That could end badly. It would be noisy and chaotic and would likely draw unwanted attention. It also might do more damage to Horace than intended, perhaps even the permanent kind.

Or, Nia could climb down the wall and meet Horace head-to-head, part way. This would be more dangerous for her, especially if he reacted violently, but Nia wasn’t one to back away from a situation just because it was risky. She preferred the latter choice.

Without allowing any real time for internal debate, Nia cast a minor lightening spell, to protect her in case she did fall, and lodged her claws into the wooden siding of the building in order to begin her descent. With cat-like precision, she nimbly picked her way down the sheer surface of the wall to meet Horace where he was still struggling to make his way up. She perched on the edge of some decorative moulding and stared at him until he noticed that she was there.

He was so startled to find her there that he almost fell, and actually would have if Nia had not reached out and grabbed his arm. Even in the fading light, she could immediately see why Beatrice had found him appealing. Horace was everything that the Marquis was not. He was tall and well muscled, he had rugged features, his square jaw and wide face lined with the faintest trace of stubble, but he also had beautiful high-cut cheekbones and pretty eyes almost the same shade of gold as Nia’s. Having none of her own, Nia rarely noticed hair, but his was the colour and consistency of spun-gold. The gesture entirely unconscious, Nia licked her lips.

“Sorry, Horace. I can’t let you in that room. The Marquis is paying me to do a job, and I have every intension of doing it. I can’t understand why you would be interested in that over-sexed little piece of fluff to begin with.”

He smirked up at her, recovering his nerve after his near fall. His golden eyes glinted orange in the colourful light of the setting sun.

“Because beggars can’t be choosers and that little piece of fluff is the only one offering right now. She’s not exactly my type. She’s pretty and all, but high maintenance and whiny. I’d prefer someone a little more adventurous and a touch more pliant.”

Nia leaned a little closer to him, not loosening her grip on his arm.

“So what are the chances, if I let go of you, you will simply go home? More likely, you’ll scope out the place for another way in, and I’ll have to keep second guessing you. You know this manor well, no doubt, from when you worked here. I’d rather not play those kinds of games. I can think of plenty of other games I would rather play.”

“You have your reason for being here, I have mine,” Horace said. “You aren’t offering me any incentive to go away and not come back. What I want is in there. I’ll get around you eventually.”

Nia chewed at her lip, searching for a solution while still clinging to the wall. Of course, there was the obvious...

“Do you find me attractive,” she asked quietly. She saw the opportunity to potentially kill two birds with one stone.

“You would have to be one of the most amazing creatures I’ve ever seen. I’m not sure why. There’s something sleek and powerful about you – something exotic. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t tempted.”

“You said she was the only one offering. What if I made you the same offer? You can consider it a trade-off: a night with me instead of a night with her.”

Horace’s face crinkled into a smile. She realized from the creases in his skin that she had underestimated his age at first, his build and features giving him a more youthful appearance. That didn’t bother Nia any. She appreciated a mature man; he brought with him experience and patience.

“I’d consider it a trade-up, lovely one. But could you at least tell me your name? You appear to already know mine.”

“Nia.”

A thrill rushed through her. He was willing and she would be scratching a rather persistent itch as a result of her solution. She’d also be thwarting Beatrice for a third time, via the act. Nia was ready to celebrate this final victory.

“One other thing?” he added.

Nia perked up, awaiting his request.

“I think it would be awkward at this angle,” Horace continued. “Can we find somewhere a little more amenable to what we’re about to do?”

Nia laughed out loud, and then began pulling him up towards the roof.



Nia awoke to screams of rage. The sun was cresting the horizon. It was morning and she still lay, quite satiated, in Horace’s solid embrace, sprawled upon the roof. She peered over the edge to see what all the fuss was about. Beatrice was leaning out through the window and was furious to see the Marquis’s carriage returning without Horace having made an appearance in her room. She had endured her husband’s brief absence without a single act of infidelity, and not for the lack of trying.

Horace also approached the edge groggily, disturbed by the screams as well. As he glanced down, he knocked aside a few small pebbles that were lying loose atop the shingles. One of them fell and struck Beatrice, catching her attention. She gazed up at the couple on the roof and cried out in outrage, her face reddening with fury.

“You! What did you do?!! How dare you!! You were supposed to be guarding me, not interfering in my personal affairs...you treacherously vile vixen!!”

Nia shrugged and yanked Horace away from the edge, curling her limbs around him and giving him a long hard kiss. Then she laughed.

“You might want to powder your face before the Marquis makes his entrance,” Nia called out to Beatrice. “Red is absolutely not your colour.”

Horace moaned with pleasure as he and Nia toppled back down onto the roof.




The Marquis was hiding a smile behind his serious demeanour. Nia could tell.

“As much as I would like to keep you on, my wife is absolutely demanding that I terminate you,” he sighed. “She will make my life miserable if I refuse her, so I’m afraid our business arrangement will not be extending beyond these past three days. Let me assure you that I do this with great reluctance. You have been my most effective guard yet, and I applaud the lengths you went to in order to guarantee my wife was not visited by any unwelcome guests.”

Nia liked the flattery, but she was more than a little disappointed. She was counting on the full purse. Three days’ pay would certainly not pay for any new lessons with Astrelle and to make the money last until the Trials, she would have to resort to substandard lodging and pauper’s fare. Unless she found some other job, she would likely be in sad shape by the time the day arrived for the Admission Trials. Perhaps she had done her job too well.

“Here are your wages as promised,” the Marquis said, as he passed her the pittance she was expecting. It was good pay by the day, but she had been planning on more than five times the amount. She looked at the money and groaned inwardly.

“And here is a bonus for going above and beyond,” he continued. “If you like, you can view it as severance.”

He passed her a small purse. Nia didn’t dare look inside until she had left the manor far behind her. When she finally did take a look, she was so surprised that she counted it three times. He had given her half of the money that he would have paid her had she stayed of for the two week trip to follow. Nia hooted loudly and stowed the money away. It would give her enough to travel to Anthis in style and then wait out the time before the Trials in reasonable comfort.

Nia set off for the coach to Anthis right away, waving goodbye to Astrelle and all of the troubles that had come with her. She might not have as complete a novice education as she had wanted, and she would not have anything to spare for her tuition, but she had managed to return herself to a better path, and she had had fun doing it.

With a silent wish that the Marquis find another guard equally as diligent, Nia sauntered away, whistling a happy tune.

Lucky Penny

Ronald was on his way to work in the morning, as he would be on any other Monday to Friday, expecting his usual humdrum day. It was a short stretch from the place where he paid to park his car to his office. As he walked, he was flipping through the text messages on his cell phone, hoping to find something out of the ordinary there, something to liven his day. That was when a coppery gleam caught the corner of his eye. He glanced down.

“A penny,” he observed aloud.

Should he bother to pick it up? He could go through the list of adages that suggested that he should, adages about a penny saved being a penny earned, and the good fortune that it would bring him. He scratched at his balding head, contemplating the situation for a couple of seconds. Of what value would this really be to him? He was not a superstitious man. He was not a young man either, and there was always the possibility that he might put out his back while stooping to gather it from the sidewalk. He decided that it was not worth it. If there were any truth to the term “lucky penny”, he would let someone else take advantage of it.

With a shrug, Ronald went on his way, abandoning the lowly coin to be a part of some other soul’s fate, perhaps a child attracted by its sparkle, or a homeless person who would see more worth in the find. He continued down the sidewalk towards his office building, returning to the task of hunting his way through his text messages.

Had he not been preoccupied by the contents of his cell phone, he might have noticed the woman emerging from the coffee shop as he approached. It was Flora, a woman who worked in another office in the same building as Ronald, and she was overburdened with coffee, tea and sweets, playing volunteer for her co-workers’ whims. She did not notice Ronald past her encumbrance, and when her heel caught in the doorstop on her way out, she spilled into him instead of trying to avoid him. He and his cell phone were splattered with hot coffee.

Penniless Ronald cursed, offering Flora a string of expletives before he realized whom he was addressing. He had had a bit of a crush on Flora since the first day he had spotted her by one of the vending machines on the same floor as his office, but had chosen to admire her from afar. She was a reasonably attractive woman, wielding a warm and vibrant smile that would spark shyness in the heart of any typical administrative schmoe - and Ronald was just that, plain and simple. He was middle-aged, slightly out of shape and gradually losing his hair, all reasons why he had never worked up the nerve to say more than “hi.” He was also lacking somewhat in social graces, as his current circumstances would attest.

He silenced himself quickly, shaking the remains of the coffee from his dripping cell phone, but it was clear that this gesture had come too late. Apologizing profusely, Flora avoided his gaze. She was obviously both embarrassed and wounded, having turned an awkward shade of red and having busied herself examining the new cut and bruise on her elbow and a very nasty scrape on her shin.

Penniless Ronald felt ashamed as well. He had been somewhat responsible for the accident, or at least he could have taken some evasive action, had he been paying more attention. He mumbled his own apologies, kicking himself for over-reacting and for alienating this lovely woman before she had even had the opportunity to get to know him. Then, he silently helped gather the few items that were still salvageable. Flora whispered a quiet “thanks”, as she staggered to her feet, and then she ducked back into the coffee shop to replenish her co-workers’ orders at her own expense, limping her way in.

With a solemn look at the closing door, Penniless Ronald returned to his own path, shoulders hunched and brow furrowed.

* * *

Ronald was on his way to work in the morning, as he would be on any other Monday to Friday, expecting his usual humdrum day. It was a short stretch from the place where he paid to park his car to his office. As he walked, he was flipping through the text messages on his cell phone, hoping to find something out of the ordinary there, something to liven his day. That was when a coppery gleam caught the corner of his eye. He glanced down.

“A penny,” he observed aloud.

Should he bother to pick it up? He could go through the list of adages that suggested that he should, adages about a penny saved being a penny earned, and the good fortune that it would bring him. He scratched at his balding head, contemplating the situation for a couple of seconds. Would it really hurt to pause and pluck the coin from the concrete? He was not a superstitious man, but he saw no harm in acting on a playful whim. If nothing else, he could add the coin to the others in the jar on his dresser, to roll at a later date. He decided to test the fates and stooped somewhat creakily to snatch it up with his thumb and finger. If there were any truth to the term “lucky penny”, he would try to take advantage of it.

Allowing the coin slide into his palm, Ronald let it roll loosely in his hand, wondering at how it had come to be there and imagining who might have had it before him, rather than returning his attention to his phone. This worked in his favour, as he happened to be looking straight ahead when the hapless Flora emerged from the coffee shop and caught her heel on the doorstop. He managed to step aside before she sprawled into him and instead he made a grab for her and her burden, rescuing her and most of what she carried from a bad fall.

Flora gazed down with mild disappointment at the single cup that had ended up a victim of her clumsiness. Then, with a sigh, she turned to Pennied Ronald and flashed him her winning smile.

“Thank you so much. I’m such a klutz. That could have been a complete disaster. As it is, the only coffee I lost was my own. You just saved my day.” She paused, her eyes narrowing a touch as she focussed on his face. “I know you, don’t I? You work for that IT firm on the fourth floor, right?”

Pennied Ronald grinned, thanking his lucky stars. This was the opportunity that he had been waiting for. He slid the penny into his pocket and nodded.

“Yes, Bright Bytes – I work there. My name’s Ronald Orman, but my friends call me Ron. I’m a trained IT tech, but at the moment, I mainly push paper for the office.” He would have offered his hand to shake, but at the moment hers were entirely full. This gave him an idea.

“That was your coffee?” Ronald said, gesturing towards the cup on the ground. “Why don’t you let me buy you a fresh one? My treat.”

“Oh no, I couldn’t,” Flora replied, still smiling. “I’m already in your debt.”

“Please,” he stated, with a warm chuckle, “I insist. And I also insist that you let me help you to carry this lot back to your office. Your co-workers are a little thoughtless if they were expecting you to handle all of this on your own.”

Her hazel eyes shone with pleasure.

“How sweet of you and how very fortunate for me that you came along when you did. I’m Flora Bernard. I can’t believe that we’ve never properly introduced ourselves until now.”

Ronald knew who she was, even if she had not known him from Adam. He had asked around, in a very casual manner, after the first time that he had set eyes on her. He had never made any other attempts to actually meet her. Sheer nervousness and the fear that he might come across as some creepy stalker-type had led to the choice to continue admiring her from afar. An encounter like this one had been totally unexpected.

Since Flora was agreeable, Pennied Ronald accompanied her back into the coffee shop. As offered, he bought her a fresh cup and then relieved her of half her burden. She readjusted what was left behind, for comfort’s sake, and then allowed herself to be escorted back to her office.

* * *

Penniless Ronald rocked back in his chair behind his desk, scowling and chewing on a pencil. He stared at the stack of papers before him, notes for a report that one of the senior analysts, Franklin, had delegated to him to write. He also glanced at the full white paper cup, one from the water cooler that was perched next to it. It was hardly a replacement for lunch. The deadline for that report was the reason that Ronald had not returned home to change his damp coffee-stained clothing, and it was also the reason he was going to have to miss a meal. It had to be done by the end of the day, or at least that was what the higher ranking fellow had demanded. Franklin had suggested that he needed until the following Monday to proofread the report, which was due at head office on Tuesday. Ronald would be expected to complete any revisions that Monday, and even if he arranged the report perfectly, Franklin would find something that would have been just fine as is, and require that Ronald change it. Otherwise, Franklin would feel like he could not claim that the report was truly his own work.

The lazy, self-important man could have at least typed the notes in and emailed them to him, Ronald thought crankily. Of course, that would have made things too easy.
He realized that sitting there staring at the paperwork would not get it done any faster, but he was still distracted by the memory of his earlier collision with Flora. She might be forgiving, but Penniless Ronald could not rely on that. He wondered if would be able to find someway to make amends for the incident.

He decided to make a trip to the vending machines and get something to quiet his rumbling, empty belly. He rose from his chair, pushing aside his malfunctioning cell phone and accidentally knocking over the cup of water in the process. Thankfully, it missed the report notes, as Ronald hastily redirected the flow, but as he sopped it up, it instead dribbled onto the front of his stained pants.

“Great,” Penniless Ronald sighed, staring down at the large wet spot at approximately crotch level. After tossing the dripping tissues and scrap paper he had used to absorb the water into his trash can, he headed out into the hall.

The vending machines on the fourth floor were a few doors down from his office, and he sauntered down, grumbling to himself along the way. Once there, Ronald reached into his pocket and pulled out a handful of change, but a few of the coins spilled out onto the floor. He was too busy cursing to himself, as he crouched to gather them up, to notice Flora appear in the hallway behind him. She spotted him first and with her face showing an expression of distress, she stepped away again, deciding that it was in her best interest to make her vending machine purchase elsewhere.

It took Penniless Ronald a couple of minutes to gather all of the errant change, including one evasive quarter that had escaped under the vending machine itself. Ronald got to his feet, brushing the dust from his knees. He was just starting to put his coins in the slot when Barry Clements, the office gossip, arrived upon the scene. He gave Ronald the once over, smirking at the dishevelled state of his co-worker. His eyes specifically lingered on the water spot by Ronald’s groin. Everyone would no doubt be hearing out that now.

“Hey, Ronald,” Barry chuckled, “Rough day?”

“You could say that, yeah,” Ronald sighed.
Trying to ignore Barry, Penniless Ronald collected his snacks from the machine. Then, he headed back to his desk and the daunting task that awaited him there.

* * *

Pennied Ronald sat at his desk, typing happily away. Normally, one of Franklin’s “dump work” projects would have put him in a foul mood, but after the wonderful morning that he had had, nothing was going to spoil Ronald’s day. The penny he had found was still sitting at the bottom of his pants pocket, and when he was done with one page of notes, and was flipping to the next page, he would stick his free hand in his pocket and touch the coin, still hopeful that it might bring him luck.

When Ronald came to the end of another page, and realized that his stomach was grumbling, he decided that it was time for a trip to the vending machines. He rose casually to his feet, and grinning and whistling, he started down the hall.

Standing before the machine, he shoved his hand deep into his pocket to come up with change and accidentally spilled a few coins onto the floor, including his lucky penny, which rolled away from him along the flat gray carpet.

“Oh! Can’t let you get away!” he exclaimed and he scrambled after it. It rolled in a fairly wide arc and came to a stop at Flora’s feet. She bent over to pick it up, giving Ronald an excellent view of her superb cleavage. She smiled at him as she righted herself.

“Hi there...it was Ron, wasn’t it? Is this yours? It seems to have gotten away from you.”

He nodded and blushed, accepting the return of the coin.

“Sorry. I’m afraid I’m a little clumsy.”

“Well, that would make one thing we have in common,” she laughed. Flora had a very nice laugh, he thought, light and cheery. “I was going to grab a snack, but it is lunchtime. Care to join me in a meal?”

Pennied Ronald’s face fell a little. He could not spare the time because of the deadline for Franklin’s report. He shook his head.

“I would really love to,” he said, “but I have this report that has to be done by the end of the day and...”

“Supper then?” she interrupted. “You could meet me after work. There’s a great new bistro I discovered a few blocks from my apartment. I could get your e-mail address so we can settle on a time to meet there, and I can give you all of the details including directions on how to get there from here. I think it would be fun, and I never got to thank you properly for all of your kindness this morning.”
Ronald suddenly felt very self-conscious, his cheeks reddening even more. He looked down at the floor and shuffled his feet a little.

“I wouldn’t want you to feel obligated...”
Flora put her hand on his arm.

“Nonsense. I haven’t had pleasant company along for dinner in a long time. Most men these days just don’t know the meaning of chivalry. Please tell me you’ll join me?”
Ronald’s throat went so dry he could barely manage to squeak out an “okay”. They exchanged e-mail addresses, and after giving his arm a gentle squeeze, Flora drew her hand away and accompanied him to the vending machine. She chatted to him nonchalantly as he gathered the few other coins that had fallen from his pocket. As soon as she had left, Barry Clements appeared from around the corner wearing a wide grin and equally wide eyes.

“Did I hear things right?” Barry chuckled with a suggestion of disbelief. “Are you going on a date with Flora Bernard? How did you manage that? Ronnie, you old dog, you - I didn’t know you had it in you. You’re gonna’ be the envy of the entire office.”

Ronald turned away from him with a shrug, but he was smiling inside as he cradled the penny in the palm of his hand, inside his pocket. He would not exactly call it a date, but he was willing to let Barry believe what he wanted to believe. With Barry at the helm, this tidbit of gossip would spread like wildfire throughout the office, and likely earn Ronald some new respect – something he desperately wanted. This day just seemed to get better and better.
Making his selection from the vending machine, Ronald said good-bye to Barry and started back towards his desk, moving with a noticeable spring in his step.

* * *

Penniless Ronald glanced at the clock as he hit the send button for his e-mail. He had made Franklin’s deadline, just barely, but he had not had any time to check his work. This would likely be one time where the senior analyst would not have to invent things he deemed errors. There would probably be at least a few typos or grammatical errors that his spellchecker had not picked up, especially since Ronald had completed the work in such a rush.

With a groan, he picked up his useless cell phone from his desk. He would have to bring it in to the manufacturer’s store during lunch hour the following day. They would be closed by the time Ronald would reach them if he tried today, accounting for traffic. No, he would be heading home to lament his day with a frozen dinner and a beer in front of his TV instead. Hopefully, tomorrow would be a better day.

On his way out of the door, Penniless Ronald caught Franklin’s eye in passing. The man gave him a cold stare, and Ronald knew what that meant. The senior analyst had scanned through the report, and had already found a few things not to his liking. Ronald was honestly past the point of caring. He was tired, stressed, embarrassed and disappointed. Feeling bullied would be just another point of negativity to add to the rapidly growing pile.

He slouched his way out of the building and along the route that led to where he had parked his car. He could see with only the briefest glance that traffic heading in the direction he usually drove was practically at a stand-still. Weighing his options, he decided that he would take a secondary route to his condo and hope to avoid all of the tie-ups. It was longer distance-wise, and he would be travelling through a part of town that he was not that familiar with, but he was already too frustrated from the day’s events to tolerate sitting in a jam.

Penniless Ronald weaved his way through the traffic snarl to get to his escape route, and then, with a momentary detour along a couple of back roads, he headed off in the opposite direction. Traffic was certainly lighter travelling the alternate way, but still a little heavier than the norm, from what he remembered. Others clearly had made the same choice that Ronald had, and avoided the traffic jam by going this way.

He was trying to relax as he continued along the convoluted path, still tense, but this was made difficult by the fact that he had to pay more attention to where he was going. While less stressed than he would have been sitting in the snarl, Ronald was more anxious than he normally would be and heavily distracted. Maybe that was why, while looking for his next turn-off, he failed to notice the collision between the truck with the flagged load in front of him and a car in the intersection ahead, until the horrible sound of scraping metal and grinding glass met his ears. Maybe that was also why he failed to brake in time before joining the collision himself.

Penniless Ronald’s airbag did deploy, but an airbag is not much in the way of protection when steel rebar penetrates your windshield.

* * *

Pennied Ronald hummed in a chipper way, excited about his upcoming supper with Flora. He sent off an e-mail with the attached report to Franklin, a few minutes before the senior analyst had been expecting it, and Ronald had made such good progress during the day that he had managed to proofread it properly too. Good thing, he considered, because he had caught several typos that Franklin would have never missed. Ronald had always had trouble getting his “there,” “they’re” and “their” in the appropriate place. The last time that he had messed that up the senior man had pounced on it and lectured him for several minutes about the importance of professionalism in his reports.

After tidying his desk, Ronald headed out of the office wearing an uncharacteristically broad smile. His head held high, he met the gaze of several of his co-workers on his way towards the door, and noticed the suggestion of mild awe there. Apparently, Barry had already made the rounds and spread the word about Ronald and Flora.

Pennied Ronald chuckled quietly to himself on the way through the exit. The mild-mannered man actually had earned himself a bit of a reputation.

Ronald was in such a good mood that had there not been any witnesses, he might have actually skipped his way to his car. As he slid into the driver seat, he noticed the steady stream of solid traffic crawling its way past the exit to the lot. Not that he would not be able to tolerate the wait, but if he was delayed too long, he might be late in meeting up with Flora, and he certainly did not want to come across as being rude. He had an alternate route that he could take, his fall-back plan, you could say. With a contented shrug, he carefully made his way into traffic and gradually turned up the side street that would briefly take him in the opposite direction.

He noticed that traffic was a tad slow the other way as well, likely because of others who shared his line of thought. It would not be enough of a delay, however, to keep him from meeting Flora when and where they had agreed. In fact, he would likely have a little time to spare. With that in mind, he acted on impulse when he spotted the sign for a florist’s shop just up ahead on a side street to his right, the last turn before the next major intersection.

“You can’t go wrong with flowers,” Ronald said to himself as he turned up the little roadway. He had barely gone a few feet up the street when he slowed and cringed at the squealing of tires behind him, followed by the heart-wrenching sound of metal crunching and glass breaking.

There had been an accident back there, he thought, and he had been fortunate enough to avoid it – all because he had followed through on a desire to please Flora. Pennied Ronald breathed a sigh of relief.

He pulled up to the florist’s, a little shaken but otherwise none the worse for the wear. As he climbed out of his car, his finger made contact with the penny in his pocket. He would never be sure if the coppery coin had actually had any effect on his fate, but as far as Ronald was concerned, it had proven to be a token of good fortune. He eyed some pretty pink roses in the window, and then whistling a merry little tune, he stepped into the flower shop.

The YA Debate

A debate seems to be raging rampant in the publishing world these days – has Young Adult fiction become too violent/sexual/ controversial for its intended readers? Personally, I think people are asking the wrong questions and, in the attempt to answer them, they are lumping both the genre and its readers into general stereotypes that don’t answer the erroneous questions that they are asking to begin with. There are some forty-year-olds who are much more immature than some fourteen-year-olds I know, and when deciding what is appropriate for an individual reader, you have to consider much more than age and the content of the book. What is the reader like with regards to education, culture, religious beliefs, family relations and life experience? How resilient and easily influenced by others is that individual? What positive and negative things might they draw from that particular storyline? Have they already been exposed to the “mature” content in the book in some other way? As my husband pointed out, there are young adults in the military learning how to kill people. Do we have the right to tell them that they can’t handle violence in their fiction?

Just as you can’t judge a book by its cover (although many do,) you can’t judge a reader by their demographics. On that same note, you can’t judge the value of a particular story based on select aspects of the plot. You will find violence and controversial issues, and yes, even sex, in some of the classic novels out there that are considered must reads of their time for people of all ages. Speaking personally, some of the books that I read during my youth, that moved me the most and made me a better person for the reading, touched on difficult and uncomfortable topics. They gave me a better understanding of the world that I would be growing into, and some of the challenges that I would be facing. They prepared me for various struggles in life, and while they may have been dark and unsavoury in some way, the protagonist usually faced their grim fate with hope and personal fortitude. Those stories were inspirational.

I‘ve read some of the prominent YA novels being held in contempt, and I can honestly say that I found some valuable lessons carried within them. All this being said, I can understand where the knee-jerk reaction to these books is coming from. I have a nine-year-old daughter who reads beyond her grade level and has already begun exploring YA novels. There are some things I know that she’s not ready to deal with just yet. I don’t think that this means the industry is responsible for censoring the books she reads. It is my responsibility as a parent to know what she is reading and to decide what is appropriate and what is not. Yes, that means that it takes extra work and vigilance on my part, but nobody ever said that parenting was supposed to be easy. Few things in life are easy – a message in many of these questionable books.

For my part, I’m not comfortable in labelling my books YA, although I am informed by many test-readers that my Fervor series, my Blood Is Strong trilogy and my Masters & Renegades fantasy series would all be appropriate to be marketed as YA. My publisher agrees with me that this is not what works for these books, and we’re using speculative fiction genre-appropriate labels for them instead. There may be children or young adults in my stories, but there is also some very mature material built into my tales as well, including segments of the stories that deal with suicide, rape, abuse, alcoholism, mental illness, religious and social intolerance, torture and sex. None of these things were included gratuitously, or for cheap thrills, and some younger readers are capable of reading and dealing with the material appropriately, but I’ve chosen not to target a YA audience specifically with my books. Let them approach my books with the understanding that they contain adult themes and while they may be worth reading, they won’t be right for everyone.

The Silent Proposition - A Magic University teaser tale

Tom took a deep breath of sweet spring air and enjoyed the feeling of the sun on his face. He exhaled slowly, savouring his current sense of freedom. If only he could make it last.

Snyder rode up beside him bearing a warm grin. His golden brown curls bounced atop his shoulders in rhythm with the movement of his horse, barely exposing the tips of his tiny horns.

“You look happier than I’ve see you in a long time,” he said. “Too much stress will do that to you. It’s nice to get away sometimes. I’d even dare say it’s necessary in your case. “

They moved along at a leisurely gait. It was rare for Tom to not feel rushed.

“So will you tell me what sort of official business you have in Alma?” Snyder continued. “I still can’t imagine what would require this kind of trek, without entourage or your usual trappings. You have me intrigued.”

Truthfully Snyder had no objections at all to travelling alone with his friend for a change. Tom, when given liberty to act as he would without constant scrutiny, had a lust for life greater than most. He indulged in all of the best pleasures their surroundings could offer – the tastiest food, the headiest drink, the happiest of song and the fairest of women. It was all about play as long as his usual responsibilities did not rest upon his shoulders. Snyder had never had this much fun on his own. Tom’s camaraderie seemed priceless. He should have known better than to forget that everything had its price.

Tom gave him a smug look, his brown eyes sparkling with mischief.

“We are travelling to Alma for an interview,” the younger man replied.

Snyder laughed and cocked an eyebrow.

“What sort of interview would demand this kind of travel? I would expect the person being interviewed would make the journey to you, rather than expect any inconvenience on your part.”

Tom shook his head. “You have it backwards, my friend. We are the ones being interviewed, not doing the interviewing. It’s time you made good on the final obligations of your contract.”

Snyder stopped his horse abruptly. His normally jovial face fell, and his posture followed suit as he sagged in his saddle.

“W-we? What do you mean, ‘we’? If this is what I think it is, it should still only be a matter of ‘you’. I agreed to see this through, but...”

Tom frowned before interrupting his smaller companion. He was unaccustomed to people arguing with his choices, and he didn’t like it.

“This was the intent of our agreement. I want you there by my side during the Trials. That was what I meant by ‘see this through.’ There’s no option to watch from the sidelines. The only way to be there for me at the Admission Trials is to participate in them with me,” he insisted. “I sent in applications for both of us and we were sent the summons for the interview. I chose Alma because it’s far enough away from home that none will be the wiser. No one will be likely to recognize me here – or you either for that matter. If they accept us as candidates, we can remain in Alma until just before the Trials.”

“Nobody knows we’re here, do they? We’re effectively on the run. They’ll be looking for you and they’ll eventually catch up to us. What then?” Snyder was pale now and sweating, and not just from the heat of the day. “They already have enough to pin on me. I don’t need absconding with you added to the list.”

“They’ll have their Masters working their tracer spells, but I spent good money paying for blocker spells and decoy magic. It’ll run them in circles for some time. I’ve calculated the time it ought to buy us. It should be just enough to get us to Anthis for that illustrious day, with a day or two to spare, before everything unravels and they catch up to me. By that point, I’ll have had the opportunity to prove myself and the choice of what to do with my future will be mine,” Tom said with an air of authority. He was certain that everything would go as planned. Some would view it as confidence – others as arrogance.

“No, no, no. I can’t do this. Aside from the fact that I have absolutely no interest in learning Master magic, I don’t want to rob some honest aspiring Master of a desired elite seat. Unless I purposefully throw the Trials, I’m not likely to fail. I’m stronger than a typical novice or apprentice- I’ll slam my way through the Trials. If I don’t put in an earnest effort, it will be noticed. They watch for Renegades attempting to sabotage the Trials. I don’t want to cause bad blood, Tom. This specifically wasn’t part of our agreement. If you make me do this interview, that’s what I’ll throw. They won’t invite me to participate.”

Tom’s expression hardened. He was used to getting what he wanted, but he didn’t have the ability to force his will on Snyder at the moment. Coercion would have been effective at home in Seaforest - he had used it there before - but not here in Alma. He would have to use other tactics to manipulate circumstances.

“Well that was the impression you gave me. I’m depending on you. Considering the time and effort you invested in teaching me magic, I would think you would be anxious to see me succeed. You could go into the race strictly as a bard, and limit yourself to your bardic spells. That shouldn’t trigger any suspicion of sabotage from the Masters and if you managed to win on that basis, then the other candidates definitely didn’t deserve to win, did they?” Tom offered.

Snyder sighed and started his horse forward again. Tom followed suit.

“It’s the principal behind it,” his mentor said. “I don’t think it’s ethical to vie for something you don’t want. I won’t be a dog in a manger.”

“Well, I’m not sure whether I’ll accept if I make it into the top three. I’m in this as much to see if I can win as I am for the opportunity that comes with placing top three. Are you trying to suggest I’m not ethical?” There was a veiled threat to Tom’s words. He knew that Snyder didn’t dare suggest such a thing. Considering his background, the half-satyr had no right to pass judgement.

“But it’s different – there’s still a possibility that you’ll take an offered seat. I know I won’t. I’ll feel like I’m cheating,” Snyder insisted.

They were nearing one of the nicer inns in the city. Tom glanced over his shoulder at his mentor.

“I’m tired, hungry and thirsty. Let’s stop here for the night and get rested. Once we’re a little more relaxed, we can discuss this like civilized men. I have a proposal that may prove to be entertaining as well as allow us to settle this once and for all.”

All talk of the interviews and the Trials were set aside as Tom and Snyder stabled their horses, secured a room and found themselves a quiet table in the corner. Tom refused to start any talk until they were both on their second drink. The room was abuzz with chaos and activity, but none of it was directed at them. That made Tom even happier. He perched on his chair, leaning into its hard back wearing a broad smile.

“I’m no one here,” he breathed before taking another swig of his drink. “It’s nice.”

“So what do you propose,” Snyder asked. He was feeling a little giddy, the alcohol and general fatigue going to his head. “How do we get around this impasse?”

“A wager – you challenge me in some way, something you assess to be terribly difficult but not impossible. It needs to be something where I have displayed some skill in the past.”

“Well then, it ought to be something involving a woman. That would appear to be your forte,” the smaller man snorted. “I truly believe you could charm the undergarments off of a vestal acolyte with your smooth talk.”

“Fine – a bet about charming a lady. You make the rules, so you can choose whom and how,” Tom said, playing along confidently, without blinking an eye. “If I succeed, you give the interview tomorrow your all, and if they accept, you attend the Trials as a willing bardic participant.”

“And if you fail?” Snyder demanded. “What do I earn for being the winner of this wager?”

Tom was fully aware what the half-satyr wanted.

“Your contract is fulfilled. You are free to go about your business, your identity and your whereabouts remain our secret, and I’ll even throw in a bonus honorarium, a sizeable one so you can start a new life somewhere else.”
Tom knew that once they noticed in Seaforest that he and Snyder were gone, they would start investigating his companion. It meant that for his own sake, Snyder should not return when this Mgic University business was done. As far as Tom was concerned, this was the final test of his teaching anyway. They were done with each other one way or another.

Another sip of the liquor that continued to fog Snyder’s brain and he was starting to think that the wager sounded fair, but not fair enough. This was no common man’s tavern. The clientele here had wealth and showed it. In his average man’s clothing, Snyder looked like a derelict surrounded by high society grandeur. They would not be swayed by Tom’s flashy garb or noble grooming. Those things would not differentiate him from the other men present. No, what would allow Tom to win a lady over was his charming devil’s tongue, and if that failed him, he could resort to magic. None of his spells were illegal in Alma, unlike Seaforest. Snyder had to remove those tools, as a stipulation.

“I’ll agree to your wager on three conditions: one - no spells, since I could capture the heart of any lady here by that means myself, two – as you mentioned, I get to choose your target, and I can guarantee you, I’ll be particular...” The half-satyr was grinning now, his eyes bright with mirth and alcohol.

“And three?”

“You don’t get to speak a word – or sing one, either.”
That last condition threw Tom a little. That was one of the things he would normally rely on. Sweet seductive words, sincere flattery, a romantic ballad to stir her heart, they were all methods of winning a woman’s fondness.

“So if I manage to lure the lady of your choice up those stairs without spells and without uttering a word to her, you’ll do as I ask regarding the Trials?” The younger man presented the situation as if he did not expect to fail, despite the obstacles that Snyder had thrown his way. “The prize will be twofold for me.”

“If you succeed, yes,” Snyder conceded. “But if you fail, you either go on to the Trials without me or return home alone, without argument.”

“Agreed.”

There was no doubt there. Was it overconfidence? Conceit? Or was Tom masterful enough to pull off the ultimate seduction. The young man had good looks on his side but what woman in her right mind would respond to the advances of a man who said nothing? The fact that Tom did not seem fazed by his task convinced Snyder he had to up the stakes and make the game more challenging.

His eyes searched the room. There was no example of easy prey. All of the women present carried themselves with some decorum. None of them were falling down drunk as one might expect in a traditional tavern. There were no whores or gold-diggers amongst the socialites, from what he could see. And while some of the women were accompanied by men, he did not note any wedding rings on any hands. A proper married noblewoman would not be frequenting the barroom of an inn, even accompanied by her husband. Those who were here were available, and perhaps hoping to mingle with men their parents would deem appropriate marriage material - nothing too easy, but also nobody who would be guaranteed to give Tom the cold shoulder either.

Then she entered. She was far more beautiful than any of the women already present, her lush chestnut curls were piled high upon her head, just a few wisps escaping to tease at the nape of her neck. Her cool violet-eyed stare swept the room and she lifted her elegantly formed chin in distaste, wearing her stunning beauty and steely haughtiness like a shielding cloak. There was no sense of fun or receptiveness in the manner she carried her perfect form through the room, only well-practiced grace and an air of entitlement. From the way she was dressed it was obvious that she came from money; her travelling gown was crafted from the finest of royal blue silk, tailored to hug her curvaceous form like a second skin. Her corseted bodice was studded with gold beads and seed pearls, ornamented in all the right places. Every man in the room held his breath when she entered, only turning away again once she dismissed them with her hard relentless gaze.

“Her,” Snyder insisted, feeling as though he had won already. “It has to be her.”

Tom had been watching the woman from the moment she had appeared, and he wore a very subtle smile.

“A fine choice,” he remarked, tilting his head and sipping the last of his drink. “I think I would have made the attempt for her even without our wager - without the handicap as well, of course. It will be well worth the effort, even if I fail.”

Another notch on his womanizing friend’s belt should he succeed, Snyder thought. He had lost count of how many that would be since leaving Feltrey, and all of them beautiful enough to resist his advances at first. Tom enjoyed a challenge.

The awe-inspiring newcomer settled at a vacant table far away from the barroom door but close to the stairs, as her porter registered her at the inn and carried her baggage to her room. She sat unaccompanied and waited for the serving girl to take her order.

“Ah, you made a faulty choice, my friend,” Tom said, relaxing back into his chair. “She may seem impenetrable on the outside, but most women that empty yearn for something to fill the hollows within, even if it is only temporary pleasure. She needs an excuse to laugh, a reason to feel alive. This game is already won – you’ll see.”

Rising quietly, Tom went around the room, plucking things from various tables that had been abandoned by patrons done with their drinks or their meal. He also paused and whispered something to the barman, palming him some gold. The barman grinned heartily and Tom patted him on the back as if they were old friends. Snyder wished he knew what his companion was plotting. He was already regretting that he had agreed to the wager. He really was watching a master at work.

Tom then approached the lady’s table, but he did not sit with her or interact with her in any way. He instead took a chair at the table next to hers, positioning his seat so that they were almost shoulder to shoulder. Then, he waited.

She tried ignoring Tom at first, but his position just barely intruded upon her personal space. She was also distracted by the fact that he played with a gold coin, flipping it back and forth along his fingers, a bardic sleight-of-hand trick that Snyder had taught him. It did not involve any spells, just nimble fingers, so it was well within the rules of the game. Snyder cursed internally. She was pretending not to notice, but he could see her watching Tom out of the corner of her eye.

Drawing her attention was his first objective, and Tom had succeeded at that. Once she was looking at him she would notice that he was dressed as someone of comparable status, and he was appealing to the eye. Snyder detected a glimmer of interest in her otherwise unyielding stare and he cursed again. She found Tom’s bold yet discerning approach stimulating.

When Tom was absolutely certain that she was focussed upon him, he switched over to a different trick, making the tapered candlestick and holder that he had hidden up his sleeve seem to appear out of thin air. If he had been permitted magic, he would have ignited it by spell, but having to be more resourceful than that, he leaned over and lit it from the candle that already burned in front of her. He then placed his candle beside hers, so that they flickered side by side. In response to this, the lady cracked her first smile, ever so slight.

Snyder bit his lip in frustration. Tom was using the novelty of his situation to his advantage, rather than allowing it to hinder him. That was the difficulty of trying to play against someone who had been trained in strategic thinking since birth. They could turn your own tactics against you.

With a single hand gesture to signify his intent, and an acknowledging nod from the lady, Tom slipped agilely into the seat across from her. He had an audience now; all eyes in the room were watching his every move. He gave the lady a warm smile and she reciprocated with something a little more enthusiastic than she had offered before. She did not blush or avert her eyes the way some women might, however. She continued to gaze at him defiantly.

Tom began to play once more with the coin, accelerating the difficulty of the tricks by pulling out a second and third coin to join the first. The lady began to speak but the moment she did so, Tom snatched the coins from the air and touched a finger to his lips, gently demanding silence. She gave him a quizzical look, and a third smile, before nodding once more. She was enjoying this very non-threatening encounter. It offered whimsy without forcing her to lose her composure.

The hand flourishes were fanciful and between cycles Tom tossed a coin high into the air. Snyder noticed movement from the barman and with the second high coin toss, the server approached their table with a drink-laden tray. He held out the tray with Tom’s third toss so that the coin landed on it. Tom took the drinks, placing one before himself and the other before the lady, and then dropped the other two coins on the tray. The barman bowed and moved away.

Snyder ordered another drink himself and watched morosely as Tom and the lady sat merely looking at one another, the lovely woman fingering the stem of her glass. Her cheeks and lips were flushed now and her eyes eager. She was impressed with Tom’s display.

Their food arrived and they ate in silence, exchanging playful glances. Tom had managed to not only grab her attention and steal the privilege of her company, but they were now dining together without uttering a word. Snyder was dumfounded, and Tom was now the envy of every man there.

When there meal was done, Tom followed up with another sleight-of-hand, presenting the lady with a rose than he had whisked off of one of the tables. Snyder was puzzled as to why there was only one. He had seen Tom gather at least three of the flowers in passing. The woman took the offered flower in delicate fingers and lifted it to her nose to sample its perfume. Snyder wasn’t sure, but he thought he saw her bat her enchanting violet eyes. He definitely noticed her curl a single tress around her finger, a truly flirtatious gesture.

This was not the last of his student’s clever tricks. Tom next serenaded her with a song. He did not sing – Snyder had made it clear that was against the rules. He offered instead a whistled tune, a sweet ballad trilled to her harmoniously. She sighed, and Snyder watched her tense form relax. Tom had struck a chord with the warm-hearted girl hidden within the cold-skinned woman. She was now, for all intense purposes, his.

The game had not been won just yet. There was still one last requirement. The woman had to willingly follow Tom up to his room. He could not manhandle her to get her there, nor could he openly express this desire by speaking the invitation. He had made a valiant effort, but Snyder believed that this was the moment where the tables would turn back in his favour.

Tom rose to his feet, something held cautiously between his closed hands. He gave the woman a gallant bow and then walked away. Snyder thought his companion was conceding defeat, until he noticed what had become of the other roses that Tom had gathered. As he slowly started up the stairs toward his room, without looking back at the lady, he trailed rose petals along his path - a silent proposition.
The woman was hesitant and Snyder thought for one brief moment that she would resist Tom’s final gesture, but apparently Tom needed neither spells nor words to lure in such pretty prey. Getting to her feet, she followed after Tom with careful steps and an air of mischief to her otherwise placid demeanour.

Snyder groaned and dropped his head onto the surface of the table. Tom was a man blessed with incredible talent.
“Another drink?” the barman offered. “Yours is almost empty.”

Snyder shook his head without lifting it.

“No, this will have to be my last,” he mumbled. “I have an interview for the Magic University Admission Trials and I’m going to need a clear head for that. I’ll be expected to perform at my best.”

When the barman had left, Snyder straightened to an upright position and glanced up the stairs. Neither Tom nor the lady had come down again. Snyder looked over at his glass with a heavy sigh. He would have to milk what was left. He had a feeling it would be some time before he would be welcome to return to his room. It would be Tom’s alone until he was done with fulfilling his proposition.

Narrative-ly Speaking

Choosing what voice you are going to use is an important part of the planning process in fiction writing. Normally, I hate writing in first person. I don’t think I’m very good at it, and I don’t think that I necessarily do the narrator proper justice, but sometimes the stories demand it, so I grit my teeth and go. I have a much easier time approaching a tale as observer. I’ve heard several writing peers suggest that writing for them is a matter of recording the movie going on in their head, and it is a similar experience for me. When writing in first person you are no longer observing but have to immerse yourself into the character completely, and I don’t like trying to present a story from inside of someone else’s skin.

When voice does give me trouble, aside from the narrative, part of the problem is language. I can usually (although not always – I’ve had my dismal failures) capture the nature of the characters in the dialogue. My novel, Fervor, was a test of skill, because the characters were very unusual children and it takes some careful explaining as to why an 8-year old speaks like a Pulitzer prize-winning journalist, but the 13-year-olds he’s with sound more like (although not exactly like) typical teens. In most cases, though, it’s just a matter of making sure their personality shows through their word selection.

Accents can be difficult to master too, and sometimes I skip trying to reflect the accent in the dialogue and just note it in the description, like with my wandering barbarian, Traveller. As one of my test readers pointed out though, it’s best to try and find a way in tone or expression to really distinguish your characters in a story, so that there’s never any question as to who is speaking if you have no dialogue tags (my dialogue tags are an overused guilty pleasure, but it is not a habit I’m willing to discard.)

Returning to first person narrative – the hard part for me is not just the perspective, or capturing the voice, but the fact that the voice is coming from inside the character’s head. You actually have to think like that character. That might come easily to some writers, but my brain fights the idea of regressing to the mind-set of a precocious 7-year-old child trapped in a very traumatic situation, like in my short story, “Little Sister,” or even worse, a particularly repulsive, villainous character who is bemoaning a well-deserved, but pretty horrific fate, like in my Arabian moralistic fable, “Dry Heat.” It is a struggle to go against your better nature when it wants you to keep a character like that at arm’s length, and in a way, it comes as no surprise to me that such a story elicited very mixed responses from my test readers, some glowingly positive and others filled with revulsion. Seeing things from that character’s point of view can be horribly unsettling.

There is also the second person option, an obscure form commonly used in select-an-ending YA tales, but I haven’t dabbled in that narrative style yet. I’m not one to shy from challenge, but I think my stories will remain, for the most part, third person. That still leaves me with whether I want the story to be directed – from a single character perspective using the third person narrative – or omniscient which allows for a broader point of view. Once again, it really depends on what the story demands. In Fervor, my digital short story, “The Ghost in the Mirror,” and in my last complete novel-length manuscript, When You Whisper, the story really is from one character’s perspective, just not from inside their head, so third person directed was fitting. The majority of my novels, however, cover varying scenes with multiple characters and don’t just follow one protagonist in particular. With these ensemble tales, third person omniscient seems to be more appropriate.

I’m sure there are those who disagree with my approach (especially my use of dialogue tags,) but as an artist, I have to present things in a way that leaves me satisfied with the results, and that I would enjoy if I were the reader and not the writer. It’s good to have knowledge of technique and style, but maintain that awareness that the voice you choose should match your vision and should not adhere to someone else’s absolutes.