Elaina J. Davidson's Blog, page 147
October 23, 2022
Chapters 1 so far: Alphabetical list
All tales are available #free with KU, and if you don't have a subscription, most are $0.99 only, so do pop on into Amazon and grab a read! Thank you 😍!
(Each book title is a link to the relevant chapter 1)
Next up in the Chapters 1 will be the LORE books, from Arcana to Ancient Terra, including the 3 books of 'extras'. Stay tuned!
Chapter 1: Minstrel of the Willow Water
On the banks of a river, a boy sees and hears a girl laughing, the most glorious music, and falls in love. Time, however, is not the same for them. Erin is human; Kell is something other.
Kell watches her from the shadows under the willow at the water’s edge, refusing to surrender to their differences. For Erin he plays the most beautiful music, for he may never speak to her and she cannot ever see him. Music becomes their words.
Love, however, cannot measure time. The minstrel maintains his vigil; his muse listens for his song, and both move through the years alone, until the day something changes …
Chapter 1
Laughter is a bridge between strangers
Lines formed an intricate map upon her face.
She was old now, but to him she remained ever beautiful. He knew the reasons for her wrinkles, what she had endured in life. He had watched her since she was two years old.
Squatting under the willow where the fronds swept the surface of the placid river, he observed her kneeling with infinite care until she was able to reach the clear pond from where she drew her drinking water.
So slow now, when it felt like yesterday when she came squealing in happy abandon down to the water’s edge, honey ringlets bouncing.
She peered around as if expecting someone, but he knew she was alone here. She was not looking out for someone expected. She had been alone a long time.
He was the only one who watched, although she had never seen him. Sometimes, though, he had the clearest sense she was still aware of him, despite her withdrawal in recent years. She no longer concerned herself with living, only with dying, but in the past, when her step was sprightlier and her eyesight clearer, she would gaze across the expanse of the river directly into the shadows under the willow. Once she even summoned him; she had known he watched. She had not looked at his face, but she told him music meant everything to her.
He realised now she listened intently to the natural silence as if hoping to hear the notes of life itself.
Closing his eyes, he wished he had brought his small lyre to pick out gentle tones, to weave them into the birdsong surrounding them.
Eighty years ago he was himself a boy, splashing in the shallows in summer’s heat, when he heard the sound of laughter.
Instantly his mother dragged him into the trees beyond where the shadows were dense, abandoning the cones and twigs they had gathered for the hearth back home, but he saw her.
A little girl ran towards the river with her mother trailing after, admonishing her to slow down.
“Kell, be quiet now,” his mother had whispered in his ear, and he had not understood why.
He wanted to go to the girl. He wanted to laugh with her. She was so pretty and so happy, so bright, so new.
She was not as careful as her mother had warned her to be, and fell into the water. A tiny shriek of fear and surprise drifted across to him. His mother was forced to hold him back when he moved to go to her aid.
“Silly, look how wet you are!” Her mother, laughing, pulled her out. “Come on, silly, let’s get you home and dry. Are you hungry?”
They disappeared up the gentle slope towards the old cottage no one had lived in for many years. They held hands and laughed together as they went.
For a long time he thought her name was Silly.
The cottage was not in view of the river, but he had seen it once. In search of wild herbs, his father carried him across the river that day and they passed it by. It was pretty, but needed much care to make it a home again.
Later he realised her name was Erin.
That was the day she went and lost herself and her mother ran along the water’s edge frantically searching for her daughter, calling, “Erin! Erin, where are you?”
That was also the day his father yanked him forcibly into the shadows of the forest and told him never to return to the river, to leave the mother and daughter to their lives. He had already been to the water many times hoping to catch sight of her again, and he was told in firm words that he had proven himself too rash to wander unsupervised.
“She is lost!” he shouted at his father. “She will be scared!”
“Kell, she is human and we do not speak to humans. They may not see us. I will watch over her until she is found, but you will return home now.”
Thus was that also the day he realised he was something other. Not human.
It was the worst day of his life.
MINSTRELAlso in audio:
October 22, 2022
Chapter 1: Winged Wonder
A short excerpt only because this is a short, short story :)
There are eyeson its wings. Many have this subterfuge somewhere upon them, out there in the wilds, and therefore the concept is not exactly strange. Used to fool predators, it is an effective tool of disguise. But this is not a creature of the wilds.
What is this Winged Wonder?
Taken from FingerNale tales, this quick read tells the tale of a man at an intersection seeing a man, a creature, an angel perhaps, in the crowd waiting to cross.
The strange, the weird, the wonderful and the supernatural is all around us.
THERE ARE EYES on its wings. Many have this subterfuge somewhere upon them, out there in the wilds, and therefore the concept is not exactly strange. Used to fool predators, it is an effective tool of disguise. But this is not a creature of the wilds.
This is a …
That is the problem - what is it?
This is not the wild either. I am standing here at the corner of a high-rise building, seeking escape from the frigid wind howling through this city, and this winged wonder does not belong here.
There it is, waiting at the crossing for the lights to change, as if it is the most everyday thing. Crossing a busy intersection may be every day, but it certainly is not. Surrounded by a host of commuters, it waits as if nothing is out of the ordinary. How is it they do not see what stands beside them? Are we all so blind now to our surroundings that we no longer notice the extraordinary?
WINGED WONDER
October 21, 2022
Chapter 1: The Student
First lockdown has ended and classes are about to resume, but nothing is as it was.
Leanne regards her studies as outdated for an utterly changed world, and decides to do something to help others instead. Her friend Alex has a plane and he is so in when she suggests volunteering in Morocco, and will fly them there.
Soon, the sky above and the sands of the Sahara below will tell their tale.
Chapter 1
RIPPLES ON THE golden dunes told the tale of the wind that had buffeted her threadbare tent in the night. As she climbed the monolith that had confronted her as darkness fell, her footprints marred the perfect patterns nature had created, but she needed to see what lay on the other side, and artistry be damned. Her breath shortened, partly from the ascent, and partly from the hope she still nurtured, a hope that might soon be as scarred as the swirling lines she stumbled over. The expectation of disappointment caused her breath to hitch repeatedly.
Eddies lifted the fine sand she disturbed into tiny whirlwinds, but otherwise the world was unmoving, silent … abandoned.
Closing her eyes as her line of sight drew level with the apex of the dune, she lunged upward for the last two increments needed, and then stood there, eyes closed.
If she did not look, nothing in her world changed. She could go back down and walk the other way with the sameness and the desperation she gradually grew accustomed to.
If she did look, either something different awaited her regard and therefore a decision, or the sea of sand would be as it was yesterday and the day before yesterday. The latter was the disappointment she sought to avoid.
Untenable. She was not a coward.
She opened her eyes.
Almost she surrendered to utter distress, for the waterless sea stretched before her, as it had yesterday, and the yesterday before that, and then a glint snatched her attention and stretched it further, farther into distance. There it was. The faintest line.
Difference.
The ocean.
She fell to her knees and sobbed her relief.
Twelve days ago
ENOUGH. SHE HAD literally had enough.
Leanne punched her pillow as she rolled over. Bolting upright, she shoved her pink roses comforter to the foot of the bed and planted her feet on the wooden floor. After a month gone, and good riddance, Steve’s self-satisfied face continued to haunt her dreams. Enough already. Today was the day she positioned his residual influence on her mental health behind a brick wall and slathered it in concrete to seal it, and him, eternally away.
Nodding decisively, she strode to the bathroom.
Yes, today was the day.
Bloody Steve. With his good looks and glib tongue, he had her eating out of his hand within an hour of meeting him, but she denied him, didn’t trust that someone as charismatic as him could be interested in her, didn’t trust how he bestowed that million-dollar smile on every woman who entered his orbit either.
Now she understood that her standoffish attitude was the lure for him. She was a challenge, and he had never been interested in her.
Then she believed she meant something to him. Should have trusted her initial instincts.
Ha. And again, he intruded.
Enough, Leanne. Grow a pair. Stuff him. The last year? Chalk it up to experience, and move on.
In the interest of moving on, she took added care with her appearance, straightening her shoulder length, dark brown hair, even swirled some eyeshadow on, intensifying her blue eyes. While she wasn’t in the market, and probably wouldn’t be for a while, looking good made her feel good. Today was a new day, and she needed the boost.
Time ticked by …
… hell, now she would be late!
Leanne raced for her flat’s front door - only door, really - checking that she had everything as she opened it. Phone. Tablet. Keys … keys? Where are my bloody keys? Right. In my hand. Hand sanitiser. Sunglasses. Mask. Hair band. Where’s my notebook?
After grabbing her notebook from the tiny table that doubled as a desk, she swanned out.
Today was also the first day back to lectures after lockdown restrictions had been lifted. She couldn’t wait to see her friends again. Just the balm she needed to put all thoughts of Steve aside.
IT WASN’T THE same.
The lecture hall was virtually empty to allow for social distancing. No one smiled; more correctly, she couldn’t see anyone smile, or grimace, or blow kisses across the room; everyone and their emotions were hiding behind masks.
Draconian measures were in place. Walk there, not here. Stay apart, do not gather! Masks - mandatory. Even in class. She had yet to see either Laine or Gerry, and that was just wrong. She had hoped to see Alex, too, but Alex, she knew, would not come for this chaotic first day; no, he would wait it out in style and swan in later.
Leanne stared down at her tablet. She lifted her head to gaze down at Mr Lowry spouting some philosophy about History belonging to the victors … and couldn’t care less. This new normal sucked. Had they, students, kids everywhere, the goddamned entire world, spent months waiting for this? Had she put up with Steve and his surliness in her 6 x 10 flat for … this? At least it showed her the real Steve, but today was meant to be a fresh start. Oh, it was new all right, only not the kind she had expected. Preparing for this, knowing there would be restrictions and change, was not the same as having to actually live it.
Shoving her tablet back into her holdall alongside her tattered notebook, she stood and made her way to the exit.
“Miss Deacon? Leaving us?”
At the door she turned. “Sorry, Mr Lowry. I’ll be doing the online courses instead.” Offering no further explanation, she left.
October 19, 2022
October 17, 2022
Chapters 1: The 2 Thomas'
Thomas Henson has issues, thirteen of them, and, indeed, one of them is superstition. When his life of luxury ends and he is dumped into an impoverished state, all these issues come home to roost, making it impossible for Thomas to stand up and take responsibility for his life. He even despises his name! Most all, however, he hates his neighbour, the ever-laughing Ethan Danwick-Blythe, who has a perfect name and a perfect garden. Thomas is being lied to, however, and those lies will upset everything our Thomas hopes for. As he plots revenge on his neighbour, the time for all lies to be exposed approaches. This amusing little tale of self-delusion is Thomas Henson’s debut into real life.
Chapter 1
Thomas Henson has many issues.
Many. M.A.N.Y.
Here we shall examine thirteen of them. Yes, a baker’s dozen or a witch’s coming-of-age. No doubt our doubting Thomas will throw arms with hands up in horror if he hears we aim to halt our examination (dissection?) of him at this sweet little number known as 13.
These mighty swords of doom (what we call issues), by his reckoning, are the fault of:
One - his parents (for they named him)
Two - the world at large (society is judgmental and downright mean)
And three - his neighbour (the laughing bastard)
You see, Thomas Henson despises his name, and that is ISSUE ONE.
Fine, he can claim he is named for Thomas Aquinas, a philosopher in history’s annals. (One should always relate to great figures; others’ successes can therefore become one’s own successes.) Thomas Aquinas, however, had the good fortunate to be born Tommaso … why, oh, why wasn’t heTommaso? And, let’s face it; his parents knew nothing about philosophy back in the day, did they? He does not either. Imagine claiming affinity to Aquinas, only to have to answer a question about the nature of man at a function, tea party or some other equally stifling event. He would choke on his tea. What in hell does he know about the nature of man, other than that he would like to cut his neighbour’s tongue from his laughing mouth?
Or he can claim he is named for Tom Cruise … right. Tom. Even worse. On the bright side, the actor was in short pants and sandals already when Thomas was born. At least then he is younger than his famous namesake from Hollywood. In life there are occasionally, very occasionally, small mercies. Of course, he can act the long or short pants off Cruise - he does so every time the bastard next-door waves at him across that bloody perfect hedge. What is that poem by Frost about walls and neighbours? The man is spot on. Should hark to that, laughing bastard. But, hell, every leaf being in sync with the cosmos, the idiot no doubt loves that. What a farce.
What of Thomas Edison? More contemporary than Aquinas, and everyone knows something about the history of electricity. Right. Downright BORING. Not the kind of success one desires to relate to.
His father is Terence Henson (thank God his father had not insisted) and his father before him was Travis Henson (better) and thus it is clear all male Henson’s are labelled with a T. Tradition. Family Tree stuff.
And how unimaginative, when there are a host of evocative names beginning with T - Tate, Talon, Tavio … Tommaso! Yet he is Thomas. Tommy as a toddler, Tom as a teenager, and now he insists on Thomas, at the very least. For pity’s sake, what is wrong with society that it feels the need to shorten virtually every bloody thing?
Females, by all accounts, bear the label C. But Thomas has yet to meet a labelled female Henson. He is singularly uninterested.
And - Henson. Henson?
Let us not get poor Thomas started on that.
His neighbour, the laughing bastard, is Ethan Danwick-Blythe. Unearth the shears! Sharpen the blades! Destroy the bloody perfect hedge!
And to hell with Frost!
After a disastrous beginning in the country, Thomas Henson begins his new life and career in the city. He must now step up or fail in this issue of being an adult. There is no trust fund and the silver spoon has long been melted.
Thomas will negotiate the ways of city living, of city working and of city romancing. We do hope dear Thomas finds himself now, although we know so well how everything, simply everything, is an issue for our Thomas. Fingers crossed!
Chapter 1
AIRS AND GRACES
Thomas Henson is thirty-five years old and moves in diplomatic circles in the city using his gift for languages to his advantage.
This, as we well know, is his first attempt at earning a living.
We do wish him the best, of course.
He no longer relies on a mythical trust fund, and that silver spoon he was born to? Gone, Thomas, all gone.
Dear Thomas has entered the School of Hard Knocks and will now either succeed … or fail spectacularly.
He is well paid (although ‘well’ is never enough and ‘paid’ is a demeaning concept), and lives in the city during the working week, coming home to his cottage in the country for weekends.
One would think this will instil in our Thomas a sense of achievement, but it has unfortunately given him the airs and graces of the lords of the manor of yesteryear. Hard Knock School has not yet bashed from him his sense of superiority.
The act of having to commute is a terrible state of affairs, yes, deplorable in fact, but it does mean he has claim to two residences, a fact he shares with all who will listen.
Ethan Danwick-Blythe, his laughing neighbour, maintains Thomas’ cottage garden, and it has never looked better. Unfortunately, instead of feeling appreciative, Thomas is reminded of his messy apartment in the city, for the two are polar opposites. Thomas does not know how to look after himself yet, despite his years of self-reliance.
Then there is this niggle. Thomas dares not tell those who will listen where to find him at either of his two residences.
You see, Thomas knows about appearances, and his apartment is a dump, while his cottage is … well, a cottage. It isn’t the manor he claims it as, even if it is now in good order, thanks to Danwick-Blythe.
A plan mustbe made to streamline his life.
He mustbecome what he claims.
All this commuting nonsense eats at his ability to become the shining star of diplomacy. And now there is tell that Mr Sherman, the BIG BOSS, will soon be making an appearance, and there will be evaluations!
There is also tell of employees being expected to entertain the boss. Or, as the rumour goes, to at least offer an invitation. If Mr Sherman accepts an invite, you are made for life.
Thomas is petrified. It certainly sounds as if Mr Sherman is a far worse prospect than the laughing bastard ever was; this may lead to a doom-laden future.
Oh dear, what now?
Time for those Hard Knock choices, friend.
Dear Thomas, poor Thomas, you cannot admit you prefer your laughing neighbour’s presence there across the perfect hedge over the weekend, for it is infinitely better than the loneliness of your crappy city apartment.
Town Thomas is lonely Thomas.
You want to streamline your life? That is a wonderful thought, friend, but we do wonder, with somewhat bated breath, what it is you intend.
We hold said breaths.
TOWN THOMAS
Coming soon!
