Rabia Gale's Blog, page 6

Some Quartz trivia

It’s been a week since I released Quartz in the wee hours of the morning. This story and these characters have been in my brain and on my hard drive for years, so it feels really good to let them out into the world.

Behind every story of mine is a messy mashup of random inspirations, abandoned plot threads, deleted scenes, re-reworked outlines, and more. Quartz is no different.

So I thought I’d pull back the curtains and share with you some behind-the-scenes trivia about the writing of Quartz.

Rafe and Isabella are named after video game characters.

The game is Soul Calibur (and its many sequels) and the characters are the rapier-twirling Raphael and the whip-sword-wielding Ivy (Isabella is her real name). Note: My Isabella is not that well-endowed nor that scantily-dressed. And my Rafe is not vampiric.

Neither of the Soul Calibur characters are favorites of mine (I always liked playing Seong Mi-na, because whacking people with a big stick appeals to me… I guess ;)). I just liked the names Rafe and Isabella a lot.

I do confess that I imagine Isabella with anime-silver hair, though.

The Marquis of Rocquespur’s placeholder name was that of a smelly food.

Yes, Rocquespur spent almost two drafts being called Rocquefort [sic]. Yes, the cheese. Just because.

Coop did not exist in the first draft of Quartz.

While pounding my head against the wall (don’t worry, my cell is nicely padded) during the big revision of Quartz, I decided that Rafe needed a personal connection to Ironheart. Hence, Coop, his Ironheart friend was born. He’s currently playing a significant role in Flare. I just left Rafe and Coop arguing over suspension systems, actually. Yes, this makes sense in the context of the story.

One of the major inspirations behind Quartz did not make it into the book.

At all.

Before I committed words to paper, one of the plot elements I was really excited to write featured an ancestor of one of the MCs who was trapped in a set of paintings. This poor guy could travel between paintings, but never get out. I can thank Roald Dahl’s The Witches for the inspiration.

However, as the book went on, that sort of creepy supernatural element didn’t fit either plot or tone. So, sadly, I dropped it back into the Ideas file. Maybe it’ll make an occurrence in another form in another story.

You can still see the vestiges of the paintings idea in Quartz. One scene between Rafe and his uncle takes place in an art gallery, with commentary on the pieces. Several characters are art collectors.

My favorite scene in Quartz is what I fondly refer to as Banter over Stuffed Mushrooms.

Here’s an excerpt. Context is that Rafe just spotted the maddeningly mysterious Isabella, pretending to be a server at a party he’s attending:

Isabella’s next stop was near the doorway. The elderly gentleman took his time choosing, his fingers hovering over first one, then another of the treats. Rafe stationed himself in a nook, sharing the space with a bright blue urn sprouting an enormous bouquet of fake scented flowers. When the gentleman had made his pick and turned back to the ball, Rafe stepped out from the shadows.

“Aren’t you going to stop and wave that platter of delicacies under my nose?”

Isabella’s back was to him; he saw the merest stiffening of her shoulders before she turned in one smooth movement and held out the platter. “Forgive me, sir. I had not seen you. Would you like to try some of these delightful little stuffed mushrooms?” Her face and voice were expressionless.

The mushrooms were in varying shades of black and brown, some smooth and uniform, others white-flecked and cracking. Their fillings oozed out the sides. Rafe pursed his lips, and, like the elderly gentleman, let his fingers hover above them

“Lady Brenwood is known for her attention to little details. Look at this one with the bright blue filling. It precisely matches the hue of that urn behind me. I wonder what gives it that peculiar shade?”

“I don’t know, sir. I can ask in the kitchens, if you like.”

“No, I don’t like, actually. I want this platter right in front of me for now.” It was nice to have her be at a disadvantage for once. Rafe stood between her and the exit, and the ballroom and corridor were full of people. Even if she threw the platter at him and ran, she wouldn’t make it far. Running through crowds was about as effective as swimming in syrup, unless you had someone go in front of you shouting “Leper!’

“Do you think this stuffing is made of silverfin guts? They make me nauseous. I would hate to lose the contents of my stomach all over this polished floor—and your lovely borrowed costume.”

“Floors can be cleaned. So can clothes.” Her extended arm still held steady at both wrist and elbow, the platter was exactly where she had first raised it.

Rafe selected a mushroom with spiced bread and onion stuffing, and popped it into his mouth. He took his time chewing and swallowing, then proclaimed. “Superb. My compliments to the cook.”

“I’ll be sure to tell him,” she said, oversweet, with a touch of bared fangs in her false smile. “Would you like to try the one with the diamonddust on it? I believe it’s freshly scraped off a tunnel wall. Or are you finished, sir?” The platter was motionless as she waited for his reply, as though it were a point of pride with her to be the best servitor she could be.

“With the platter, yes.” Rafe lowered his voice. “With you, no.”

Isabella raked him over with a smoldering-coal gaze. “You mistake my role, sir. I only serve food on platters at parties. Nothing more.”

Sel! Did she actually think that he would have indecent designs on her? Besides the wanting-to-shake-her-at-times kind of designs, that is. He would’ve laughed, if he weren’t so incensed with her taking that tone of moral outrage. After all, she was the party-crasher, not him. And he did not for a moment think that she was here for a night of honest work for once.

“I imagine that it is strange for you to be here as a servitor,” he said, still low, almost growling, “when you could’ve been here as a Marchioness.”

The platter dipped alarmingly, and both Rafe and Isabella put out their hands to steady it. His hand caught hers; her cold fingers cradled briefly in the warmth of his palm. Rafe pulled back as if burnt just as Isabella shook his hand off. He settled for grasping the nearest edge of the platter.

A couple strolling in, the girl’s hand chastely on the youth’s arm, glanced at them. Rafe said, “Be careful, miss, you nearly tipped the mushrooms onto my breeches. I never thought the help here would be so careless,” for their benefit—and his own.

“Sorry, sir.” Isabella snatched the platter from his fingers, then added in a fierce whisper. “I wish I had dropped it on your foot. Why can’t you learn to leave well alone? I suppose you’ll shadow me all night?”

Rafe shrugged. “It could be worse. I could have you arrested for unauthorized interactions with Blackstone and drugging government agents. Or you could just talk to me. Even my irksome company would be better than that of the intelligence officers.”

“Lovely. You’ve set the ministry dogs on me. Went straight to Uncle Leo, I bet.” Louder, she added, “There are more pastries out in the smaller supper room. Sugared violets, honeyed cakes, berry tarts. This way, sir.” She spoke loud enough so that several pairs of eyes looked over briefly to see who the glutton with the sweet tooth was, and stepped out into the foyer.

Rafe smiled ruefully at her back. She gave as good as she got, and he probably deserved that after his own remarks.

Does this pique your interest? Then check Quartz out, now on sale at Amazon.

Happy Mail Day and other musings

I got an unexpected royalty check in the mail today. It’s not huge, but it’s not peanuts either, easily matching my best selfpub months.

I joke to my husband that my tradpub sales pay for my selfpub hobby. It’s funny, but it also stings. A little.

A large part of it is that I treated the selfpub hobby like, well, a hobby. Going over a year between releases is not a great thing. Nor is publishing a sequel two years after a first book. Oy.

Lately I’ve been thinking about the business aspect a lot. Especially about that overlap between what I want to write and what my audience wants to read. That’s the sweet spot I’m aiming for when deciding what stories to write.

The other thing is taking a cold, hard, and realistic look at my process, ie: the time elapsed between concept and bringing the product to market, and all the steps in between. My husband threw out an MBA term for it a couple nights ago. Pipeline flow, I think it was?

I haven’t done a lot of detailed tracking and analysis, but from my informal, back-of-the-envelope calculations, I’ve come to the conclusion that writing novellas or short novels in a series are my most profitable option.

This is not something I can shift to right away. I’m locked into The Sunless World series for the time being. It’s not a big commitment–I can wrap up the series with the book I’m currently writing. It may end up as a long book, but it’ll do the trick.

I have a couple of series concepts already. But if there are worlds or characters or stories of mine that you love and want to see more of, let me know in the comments. Feedback is super-helpful, because writing for publication often feels like shuffling about in the dark, stumbling over scattered toys and bumping into furniture as I lose all sense of direction.

And my sense of direction wasn’t all that great to begin with!

of kelpies and killer unicorns

On Twitter, Thea van Diepen and I had a long conversation about fantasy & supernatural races.

And I realized something.

I’m all about vicious equine races (shh, don’t tell my daughter). Killer unicorns. Kelpies. Nightmares that are shadowy horse shapes of terror. Innocent-looking horses that suddenly bare their very sharp, very canine teeth.

I love Maggie Stiefvater’s The Scorpio Races. When I came across Diana Peterfreund’s Rampant, my reaction was, “Gimme!”

My own version of a kelpie is a way horse. Lives on a far-future Earth with a dying, cooling sun. In roads. Smells like tar and fresh asphalt and burning–all those lovely smells that assault your nose as you’re driving past a construction zone on the highway with the windows down. When they materialize out of the highway, crumbs of rock are tangled in their manes. Their hides are hot and sticky.

Like water horses, way horses will drag people down into their element. That’s bad news, because we can’t live in road anymore than we can live in water.

Are you familiar with Dragonflight? There’s a scene in which F’lar is teaching Lessa and Ramoth to go between. He talks about the important of visualization and about finding a young rider and dragon entombed in rock from a fatal, long-ago accident. Yeah, way horses will take you down into their murky, gooey subterranean worlds. As long as you’re holding on, you’ll be all right, thanks to their inter-dimensional magic.

But then they leave you. In rock. Not pretty.*shudders* Have I mentioned that being buried alive is one of my big fears? Now you know.

Sometimes, when you’re driving, you see a patch of road shimmer ahead of you. It’s hot, so you think it’s a heat mirage. Or it’s been raining, so you think it’s slick, wet patch.

Nope. That’s the sign of a way horse, swimming just below the surface.

New Release: Quartz

A fugitive diplomat. A mysterious free agent. And the race to claim their sunless world’s greatest resource.

Quartz is out!

It’s now available on Amazon for a limited-time price of $0.99. Kindle Unlimited subscribers also have the option of borrowing it.

I’m thrilled to finally release this book. You might enjoy it if…

… you like weird worlds

If you thought the space dragon skeleton in Rainbird was cool or you loved the Deep Night of Highwind, give the sunless world of Quartz a try!

… you like heroes with a can-do attitude

Rafe’s game for anything when it comes to protecting his people’s interests–even hiding out in dumpsters and dancing with fire.

… you like competent heroines with a touch of mystery

“I am my dark side” Isabella has her own agenda–and plenty of secrets.

… and you like your fantasy with plenty of adventure, twists, and, of course, magic!

Check Quartz out.

My newsletter subscribers also receive Daze, a bonus prequel short story in which Rafe takes on a drug-smuggling operation. Sign up for my mailing list, if you haven’t already.

In which I and others talk about fairy tales

I had a blast with Thea van Diepen, Katherina Gerlach, and Elizabeth McCleary discussing the attraction of fairy tales, our favorite retellings, the intersection of magic and technology, and more!

If you missed the live event, you can watch it right here (or on YouTube):

friday fiction

Instead of a complete flashfic or short story, I’m giving you something a little different today.

A couple years ago, after first getting into manga, I tried my hand at a story in that style. Instead of one tightly-woven narrative, I wanted to write a series of arcs. Paying work takes precedence, so I didn’t get very far. But I keep coming back to this fun concept and these delightful characters.

Here’s the first scene of Constellation (working title), a story about a girl trying to figure out her future, a boy with a mission, and a magic school for misfits of all kinds.

I would love any comments. Is this interesting? Would you be interested in more? Thanks!

Arc One: The Beginning

Hopeswell

Amberlin stood on the cracked stone pier looking out across the choppy water and thought, for the thousandth time, about going home.

The sky over the sea was a uniform grey; she couldn’t even pretend to make out a smudge that might be the northern tip of Ravin. A salt-and-sewage tainted wind poked warm fingers through the holes in her knitted jacket, ran a sweaty hand up her calves and under her skirt. Amber grimaced and smoothed her skirt back down.

Stop torturing yourself, she scolded. Going home was not in her near future. Going home meant giving up. Amber wasn’t ready to do that just yet, not even when her purse was almost as empty as her belly. It hadn’t even been a year since she left.

Amber brushed sticky, light brown strands of hair from her face, and resolutely turned away from the sea and back toward Hopeswell.

None of the promise of its name had come to fruition in Hopeswell. It was a seedy, rundown seaside town, full of sagging buildings, rusting iron roofs, and shiftless and shifty-eyed people. Amber had expected that this enclave of Ravin, this port of the wild and wonderful mainland she’d dreamed of since she’d been a small girl, would’ve been drenched in magic and mystery. Stepping off the boat two months ago had been a shock. The dock areas were the kind of places Mama would never allow Amber to walk alone back in Oaktown, and the rest of city wasn’t much better.

Still, there was all the rest of the enclave to explore, the uplands were the wealthy had summer homes and the picturesque towns lay nestled along the riverside. There had to be something better beyond Hopeswell. She just needed to get out and make her way there.

Amber left the pier, her hands buried deep in her pockets. A damp newspaper wrapped itself around her foot; she twitched it loose. Broken glass, ground into dust, glistened in cracks and between cobbles. Wavelets sucked and gulped against the docks and retaining walls. A smear of green slime spread up the stone to the high-water mark.

From the north of Hopeswell came the long whistle of a train. It sounded unbearably lonely, as if the train, too, were homesick.

Amber scuffed her way through the streets. Most of the shops were closed by now, metal grills down over their display windows and big padlocks on the doors. Their signs, corroded and faded in the sea air, flapped sadly in the breeze. Scrumptious Seconds… Bargain Prices! Dazzle Fashions… Oldsmills’ Books… Stunning Spells…

Amber stopped in front of the spell shop, as she always did, and once again read the Help Wanted sign taped to the door, as she always did. With many exclamation marks and much misuse of quotation marks, the sign promised her an “exciting” position! with an “innovative” company! with many “opportunities” for promotion!

Amber considered the sinister connotations of the quoted words. The shop was just a small operation, and she knew exactly what opportunity consisted of: packed into a small backroom with four or five other magic users, churning out copy after copy of the same spell.

It was soul-crushing work, and Amber had already put in her time at such a place back in Ravin. The spells, she knew, would promise the world and deliver nothing. In their quest to be all-inclusive, they’d end up being vague and useless. Yet people kept buying these charms for finding misplaced items, fair weather, good luck, by the dozen.

But then, custom spells by licensed mages were expensive and beyond the reach of most people. A licensed mage could expect to make a comfortable living.

Licensed. There was the rub.

Amber wound her way between more streets and stopped when she realized that she was following her nose. A heavenly aroma of cinnamon and yeast had guided her this far; already her mouth watered in anticipation. Her stomach, protesting the reduced rations of the past three days, rumbled.

She couldn’t resist. Her feet took control and hurried her with unseemly haste to the source of the smell.

It was a café with large, gleaming windows, filled with all manner of cakes, pastries and breads. Amber’s gaze darted from flaky pastries covered in almonds to pies oozing with berry filling. A tall chocolate cake covered in sugar flowers and chocolate curls had her nearly swooning. Then she caught sight of a white cake, light and frothy, made of layers glued together with lemon filling, and whimpered.

A slight movement to her right. Amber looked down at an urchin next to her, his palms against the glass, the tip of his nose almost touching the window. His eyes were round and his mouth open. Hunger and yearning were written all over his face.

Amber realized that she mirrored his position, and quite probably, his expression. The urchin looked up at her. He was a sharp-featured fellow with a dirty face and a shock of unkempt hair the color of mud. Bony wrists stuck out from his too-small coat and his feet were wrapped in waxed paper. His eyes were young-old and he was probably a smooth liar and light-fingered thief.

He had to be, living on the streets in Hopeswell. This was the kind of kid that poor or drunk parents all too easily abandoned.

And yet, as their eyes met, a camaraderie flashed between them. They were united in their hunger and their desire, not for healthy stews and warm coarse bread, but for sinfully rich, lusciously sweet, bad-for-you-and-your-purse desserts.

Amber grinned at the boy. “Let’s not stand here gawking, all right? Let’s go eat.” Her fingers curled around the money-pouch in her pocket. There was enough. There had to be enough.

The urchin grinned back, revealing ill-kept teeth. Amber flung upon the door with unnecessary vigor, its bells jangling madly. The plump lady behind the counter looked up, face clouding, as Amber marched across the gleaming floor.

“I’ll have an apple past… no make that almond… no, both. An apple and an almond pastry. A big slice of the white cake. And he’ll have…” She put an expectant hand on the urchin’s shoulder.

Not slow on the uptake, the boy pointed to a cherry pie and a pile of sticky pink-sugar-coated buns.

“He’ll have a slice of the pie and two of the buns,” Amber went on. And before the woman could embarrass her, she pulled out her money pouch and asked, “How much will that be?”

Relieved that her customers were obviously intending to pay in good faith, the woman bustled around, putting the goodies in paper bags and became downright chatty. “What a miserable spring we’ve been having, eh…. Look, how hungry that poor mite looks… what a kind miss you are… that’ll be fifteen coppas, then.”

Amber let her expression go blank as she struggled to keep the dismay off her face. Parting with those fifteen coppas depleted her meager hoard pretty much down to a few coins—and they were not of high denominations. But she placed the money on the counter with an air of reckless bravado. She might end up on the streets tomorrow night, but by the Maker, she would eat good, rich food tonight!

The baker swiped the money into her cash-box with practiced swiftness, still talking. “Ah, I see you’re a mage, then, miss.”

Amber touched the blue and yellow band at her wrist, which more or less proclaimed her to be an unlicensed and nigh on unemployable mage. It was her shame, lumping her in with those of little talent or few ethics, or both.

She managed a smile. “Yes, ma’am.” The words came out with practiced cheerfulness and her look was open and direct. There’s nothing wrong with being a banded mage! I’m like all those other masons and metal workers looking for jobs. Nothing to be worried about here, at all.

The baker pursed her lips, looked at Amber out of shrewd, black eyes. Amber beamed back.

“We-ell,” said the baker. “I put in a spell against pests just the other day, but I’m scared that I didn’t do it right. Magic gives me the prickles, if you know what I mean.” She twitched her vast shoulders in a ripple that took several moments to make its way all over her body. The urchin watched, fascinated. “If you could give it a quick look later on–?”

“I’d be happy to,” Amber assured her. She gathered up the all-too-expensive goodies and retreated, urchin in tow, to a round marble-topped table in the corner.

Soon, the two were eating in companionable silence; the urchin with a sticky bun in each hand, alternating bites between the two. Amber put a creamy forkful of cake in her mouth, savoring the texture and taste. She was only halfway through when the urchin crammed the last of his cherry pie in his mouth, then sat eyeing her pastries.

“Here.” Amber pushed the almond pastry toward him. “I think my eyes are bigger than my stomach.” She felt slightly queasy. Perhaps the rich cake after her strict diet hadn’t been the best idea.

The urchin must have a cast-iron stomach. He inhaled the pastry. Amber looked idly out the window, let her magical senses reach out over the bakery. There were several small spells here, most of them felt as creamy and smooth as the lemon cake, fitting in and humming along usefully. The pest spell, though, was tight, hard knot, still coiled up into itself. The baker was right; she hadn’t set it properly and—Amber sighed—it wasn’t a very good one. In fact, none of the spells was of very high quality, but Amber knew she could fine-tune them fairly easily.

She could do it right now, sitting here, but Amber knew that it’d be more impressive if she put herself in a meditative pose later on, add a few sparkles to the process. She could charge a premium for the show, even though her integrity rebelled against it. She may not be a powerful mage with an impressive talent, but what she could do, she did very well, with minimum fuss. She was quick, quiet, and tidy.

Qualities better suited to a housemaid than a successful magic user, unfortunately.

However, she couldn’t just sit here now that she’d seen the mis-alignment of the bakery spell. Such imbalance ought to be criminal. Amber reached out with her magic. A twitch here, a tweak here, a little nudge to this spell and a harder shove to that one and—

Buttery-yellow lines shone in her mage-sight. Now the spells were actually talking to each other, reinforcing each other, set in a classic star-shaped pattern. It felt right. Amber felt a warm flush of pride. This was why she’d become a mage in the first place.

I do good work. Even if she did feel like she’d just broken into someone else’s house in order to wash the dishes and dust the china. I’ll save the sparkles for that pest spell, she promised herself.

And then she brought her focus back to the real world.

And startled.

There was a boy on the other side of the window and he was grinning at her. Unruly brown hair, peculiar gold eyes, and were those feathers trailing down behind his ear?

The boy cocked his head, yelled something over his shoulder. More boys came running up.

Amber felt a rush of relief. She hadn’t been caught red-handed, after all, illicitly pruning someone else’s rose bushes. He wasn’t looking at you, dummy. He’s staring at the FOOD.

Amber had three little brothers, all younger than the boy outside the window, but she had a healthy respect for masculine appetites.

Then the next moment, she was squeezing further into her corner, as the door crashed open and boys poured into the café in a stampede of feet and rush of voices. Round lights appeared in Amber’s vision; it took her a second to realize that her mage-sight was showing her the boys’ magic, spheres smooth and compact, and hidden from most other mages by well-formed shields.

Amber was not most mages.

“Look at those–!”

“… buns as big round as…”

“Nice job finding this place, Kael. Knew we could trust your nose.”

Amber’s urchin companion had slipped away in the crush, but Amber knew she wouldn’t be so lucky. She counted only five boys, ranging in age from early to late teens, but they seemed to take up all the space in the café. All of them wore sober clothes that gave the impression of being uniforms without being, well, obviously uniforms.

Boys from a magic school on some kind of field trip? Amber wondered. She had no idea why anyone would think Hopeswell a likely destination, and she couldn’t think of any magic schools nearby. She knew there were many in the islands and some dotted down the mainland coasts, but she had never made a study of them. Mama and Papa couldn’t afford them, and she didn’t have the impressive talent needed to secure a scholarship.

The boy with the feathers—Kael—leaned his hands on the counter and beamed at the bemused baker. “I’m starving,” he said, “and I can tell by the smell that this is the best bakery in Hopeswell. I’ll take one of everything.”

The poor-starving-boy-look and the flattery did their work. The baker melted into dimpled smiles, and her voice was motherly and indulgent. “You poor things. Came in on the evening train, did you? No good food there, that’s for sure.”

A chorus of assents rose up. “Only old sandwiches.” “I’m sure the cookies are made of concrete. I chipped a tooth on one.” “Wilted lettuce and limp chicken in my lunch.”

One of the boys had an insignia on his upturned collar. Amber stared it, trying to call up a name. She was just about to look away when another boy, this one tall and icy-eyed and bored-looking, caught her staring.

Amber flushed, looked down. The bored-looking boy whacked his companion on the head.

“Ow, what’d you do that for, Troi?” yelped the other.

“Turn down your collar, or you’ll have all the groupies after us,” said Troi in a contemptuous drawl.

He didn’t even bother to lower his voice! Why should I care which stupid magic school he’s from? Amber wanted nothing more but to flounce away, but Mr. High-and-Mighty stood right next to the door. Since she wanted no accidental contact with any part of him, she sat where she was, stared stonily at a rack of buns, and fumed silently.

Kael hadn’t been joking when he said he’d wanted one of everything. The baker bustled about, snatching food off shelves, and the piles on the counter kept growing. Boys rained coins on the counter, in a joyful abandon of coppas that made Amber wince. Already she was regretting her earlier extravagance. Her leftover lemon cake was sad and sagging. Moodily, she cut it to pieces with her fork.

The baker gave Amber a harried look as she reached for sticky buns. “Miss, that pest spell–?”

“Oh, yes. I’ll be right over.” Amber pushed plate away from her, pushed herself away from the table, and hurried over to the counter.

Just then Kael turned around, arms laden with baked goods.

Uh-oh. Great, crashing into a walking bakery is just what I need to cap this ridiculous day, flashed through Amber’s mind, but suddenly the boy was no longer in front of her, but passing her. His trailing feathers brushed against her cheek as she stared, stupefied. How’d he move so fast? I didn’t even see him change course.

“Hey, you want to help me eat some of this?” He waved a scone at her.

“No picking up strays,” called Troi.

Amber clenched her teeth and ducked behind the counter. The baker waved a hand vaguely. “Over there, dear.”

Amber squeezed past racks and into the kitchen. The pest spell was on a lower shelf; she crouched down and picked it up. Its physical form was a badly-cast ceramic blob with metal spikes sticking all over it. Someone had thought it a great idea to paint it purple, and the half-torn-off packaging read “…unning Spe…”

Troi said, “… two-coppa witch… they’re the worst.” Which was followed up with Kael saying, amiably, “Shut up or I’ll punch you.”

Amber activated the spell with an unnecessarily vigorous yank. Just as I thought, it’s a bloody useless generic spell. It’ll be lucky if it repels a fly. Mouth set tight, she stripped out parts of the spell and stabbed in more relevant runes. Then she pinched and pulled until she’d gotten it into shape, plugged it into her star-shaped pattern.

Without ruining the balance of the whole thing, thank you very much!

The baker looked in at her. “Ah, you got it working, didn’t you, dear? It’s glowing all right, just like the package said.”

It was indeed, glowing a violent purple. Amber smiled weakly. “Sure looks like it. But, I do have to warn you, ma’am, that these store spells will never be as good as custom ones. You should find a real mage to come and set spells designed for your shop.”

The baker made agreeing noises, but they both knew that she’d put it off until a situation arose.

Some people just have to learn the hard way.

“Will ten coppas be enough for your trouble? And take this bag of goods with you, dear. I won’t be able to sell them after tonight, anyhow.”

“Of course,” said Amber. I could’ve charged at least a hundred if I’d been licensed, for the same work. This cursed band! She put her hand in her pocket.

Wha–?

My money pouch is gone!

Amber dug through her other pocket, then the ones in her skirt, panic in her chest. The baker watched her knowingly, with a gleam of sympathy in her black-currant eyes. “Rascal boy made off with your money-pouch, didn’t he? It’s not worth being kind to those street rats.” She tut-tutted.

The urchin! No wonder he ran out of here so fast! Apparently, I have to learn the hard way, too.

“Thanks, ma’am,” said Amber weakly, stuffing the coppas in her pocket and putting the paper bag in the crook of her arm.

“And you can use the back door since it’s closer, too.” The baker was trying to spare her from any more of the haughty Troi’s remarks, Amber realized. Her anger had given way to a desperate worry. To her horror, she found tears weren’t far away. She nodded at the baker and hurried out of the kitchen.

Outside, the day had turned to night. Amber stood in an alleyway, blinking. A human presence intruded on her consciousness; she turned angrily to confront it.

“Hey, Odd Job Girl.” The man held out his hands and spoke in an annoying wheedling whine. “No need to get all zappy and zingy with me.”

“Waleem,” sighed Amber. “What do you want?” Waleem had been on receiving end of her only offensive spell. A true magic user and most brawlers would’ve laughed it off, but Waleem was neither smart nor brave. He had a kind of low cunning, though, that could be very useful—and Waleem had survived the streets by filling a niche, much as cockroaches did.

Now he pouted. “I’ve been waiting all evening for you to come out of there. That’s time slipping through my hand, one coppa at a time. Got a job that’s right up your alley. Unless”—he gave her a sly sideways look—“you don’t need the work?”

Amber thought of her stolen money pouch, the ten coppas in her pocket. “Spit it out, Waleem. I’m listening.”

the offbeat dialogues: folklore and the modern day

This Friday at 12:30pm EST, join three other writers and me as we discuss old stories in new contexts in The Offbeat Dialogues: Folklore and the Modern Day, hosted by Thea van Diepen.

Check out the Facebook page for more details. Hope to see you there!

in which i send you to other places

Long-time readers of this blog may remember me enthusing over M.C.A. Hogarth’s business-of-art columns, with cartoon jaguars illustrating the various principles. Hogarth expanded these into a web comic, and recently collected six months’ worth of strips into a print volume.

So, if you want to be both educated and entertained, head on over to Amazon, B&N, or Createspace and get your copy! The delightful Three Jaguars will make you think, smile, laugh, and yes, even get a little teary-eyed.

Looking for bargains for your reading habit? I’m participating in a promotion run by Vivify Books. Check out free or 99-cent indie books in all genres here. Or, just the fantasy ones, if that’s your main cup of tea.

Sale runs from September 1st-7th.

Last–but not least–is a plug for WriteTrack, my husband’s nifty wordcount tracking tool. It’s free to use, and he recently updated it with a fresh, new look. I’m using it to keep me on track with my 25K-word goal for the month.

The best thing about this tool? You can tell it which days you’ll be out of town or only able to write a little, and it’ll handle all the calculations to give you the daily word goal you need to stay on course.

Your turn! Got a book to recommend, or a site you think I should check out? Tell me in the comments.

state of the writing

It’s been a while since I did a writing update.

Back in May and June, I picked up steam and wrote lots of words. Most of them were on Flux, a short novel that takes place after Quartz, but isn’t officially Book 2 (more of a Book 1.5).

Then we took two week-long family trips close together, and the kids and I started school in early August. It was really hard getting back into the groove during all that. I managed to write two short stories, but my writing routine was shot to pieces.

Now that we’ve got the fall schedule (mostly) ironed out and there are no away trips for the foreseeable future, I’m itching to get back into regular writing again. I’m starting with a small, manageable goal of 500 words per day on Flare, the for-realz sequel to Quartz.

The e-book-ification of Quartz itself is almost done. I am under strict, self-imposed orders to not mess with the manuscript any longer. Instead, I’m messing with the front and back matter, agonizing over the blurb and acknowledgments and all that other stuff. You get the picture.

Still, in spite of my perfectionist and dithering tendencies, we are on course for a mid-September release. I have a bonus prequel short story all written up for my newsletter subscribers. If you’re not one of them, you can sign up right here.

The Sunless World series, comprising Quartz, Flux, and Flare, is my big project for the rest of the year. But I will be fitting in some flash fics and shorter pieces here and there as inspiration strikes. I haven’t broken any fairy tales for a while, so if there’s one you want me to tackle, let me know in the comments.

Writer and other creative folk, what are you working on these days?

spark: a highwind short story

Welcome to the Storytime Blog Hop, where speculative fiction writers will entertain you with a varied buffet of short works! My offering is set in the city of Highwind, where a has-been composer seeks inspiration from the unlikeliest of Deep Night creatures. Enjoy!

Spark

“Good morning, Monsan Bevelski,” the orderly sang out, thrusting open the bedroom door. “Rise and—” He checked.

The room was empty. A swift glance around showed him the bed, not slept in; the missing cardboard slippers; the window that had been painted shut, but was now ajar.

The orderly hurried to the window, squeezing past the amputated piano on the floor. Handwritten sheets of music slipped under his rubber-soled feet.

There was no one in the narrow side-yard.

He swore. Then, running for the door, he yelled, “Korbin! He’s gone again!”

 

Hubert Bevelski spent the day skulking in alleys and peering around corners. The sight of a white garment across the street had him ducking behind trash cans and into crowds, his sneakiness accompanied by a clarinet solo in his head.

He couldn’t afford to be caught again. Not with the song of the spark fairies calling to him every evening. They were silent right now, in the weak, watery sunlight and the raw wind, but they would wake soon.

And when they did, he would be ready for them.

Hubert stuck his hands into the pockets of the ratty patchwork dressing gown that did double duty as a coat. Underneath, he wore his nightshirt and loose trousers. His slippers had long since disintegrated; he’d tied sacking material around his feet.

He didn’t look much different from the dozens of shabby old men one found all over Highwind. So what if he could barely feel his feet, wet from the icy slush on the roads and sidewalks?

He’d give both his legs for the spark fairies’ music.

Only it could fill the years-old hole gnawing at his soul.

Past midday, his stomach growled, a bass rumble. Hubert started, wonderingly.

Ah, yes. He needed food, didn’t he?

Hubert extracted a piece of sticky toffee, covered in lint, from his pocket. He popped it into his mouth, and sucked contentedly.

Then he heard it.

A snatch of song, faint and faraway.

Head up, shaggy grey hair lifting in the breeze, he scented the air like a hound on the hunt.

There.

Hubert plowed into the street. From the corner of his eye, he saw the horse half-rear to a stop, eyes rolling, sweat flying. Saw the driver’s mouth open in a shout, saw the wheel grate against the curb as the carriage body bounced to a halt.

He ignored it all, gained the pavement, and left the mayhem behind.

The fairies were calling.

A stray dog bared its teeth at him as he crossed a narrow street stinking of garbage. Slime seeped through his improvised shoes. He came to a set of cramped stone stairs, dark and slick.

Dusk had fallen in folds, like a midnight cloak, over the city. Banish lights came on, but not here. Not in this part of the city.

Spark fairies spiraled around him, then flew off. Their individual voices, tinny with distance, came and went. A thrill went over Hubert.

There was purpose to their movements. There was a song in their buzzing.

He picked up his pace, stumbling in his haste. More and more spark fairies flew past, intent on their destination. None tried to creep into his nostrils, to crawl into his mouth, to nip at his ears.

A wriggle of movement caught his attention. There, in front of a townhouse, its shutters closed against the cold, was a heat stick pushed into the top of a gate. Three spark fairies were stuck in the flypaper around it. Their brethren ignored the trio’s struggles.

Hubert didn’t. With careful fingers, he plucked each fairy off the paper and set it loose on the wind. Their delicate bodies were vaguely humanoid, but a close examination through a magnifying lens would reveal large, buggy eyes, glowing skin, and proboscis mouth parts, like a butterfly’s.

The spark fairies streamed across the streets in rivers of gold flakes. Their song was high and cold and sweet, like the flavored ices he had eaten with young women on picnics long past. It threaded itself into his soul, not quite whole and coherent, but coming together.

Yes, he could finally hear how the flutes would mimic their piping, how the violins would take up that wail. He knew just where he would place this music. His fingers itched to grab the greasy paper and stubby pencil in his pocket.

No. Listen first.

He came to a pond, unexpected, small, and secretive, sunk low into Highwind, surrounded by blank stone walls. The fairies swarmed over its still surface, giving it a greenish glow.

No. The glow came from beneath the dark waters.

Another song joined the spark fairies, something lower and softer, shading their music with shadows and depth. The fairies trembled above the surface, hanging like a golden mist.

They coalesced.

Hundreds, thousands, of fairies came together to form something more than the sum of the parts. The splintered song took shape.

Hubert watched, awed. The form that hung above the glowing pond was that of a woman. See, here her flowing hair, there the swell of her breast, down below the flutter of her gown. As he watched, spark fairies settled into the lines of her face, forming delicate features, glowing gentle eyes, lips half-open to sing.

The crescendo was coming. He knew it in his bones. The presentiment thrummed through his soul, the song he craved, the one that would inspire the ending of his unfinished symphony…

Projectiles flew over the pond. The woman broke apart as spark fairies fled, her features running like wax, great gaping holes appearing in her gown. Her song stretched into a thin thread, vanished in a whine and a buzz.

The glow disappeared. Noxious smoke filled the corner; the spark fairies unlucky to be trapped in it smothered, smoked, and fell in ashes on to the pond.

Hubert Bevelski, a void in his soul where the music had been, stood on the steps, bewildered.

 

“There you are, Monsan Bevelski!” The orderly put a heavy hand on the composer’s thin shoulder. “What a chase you’ve led us on all day!” His voice was still cheery, but his grip was unyielding.

The composer hung his head and said nothing.

Korbin snorted. “Wandered right into a swarm of spark fairies. He’d be dead if we were late by a few minutes. Actually, it might’ve been better if we had been.”

The other made a shushing motion with his free hand. Korbin’s voice took on a whiny note. “Oh, give over, do, Boris! He can’t hear anything anyway. Look what’s become of Highwind’s most celebrated composer: a deaf old man who couldn’t finish his tenth symphony in twenty years, living on the city’s charity.”

Boris darted a glance at the sagging composer. He was in his docile mood. “Well, watch your mouth around others, Korbin. Come on, let’s take him home.” He steered Hubert over to the stone steps, then carefully helped the older man up them. The day’s exertions had caught up to Bevelski; he shuffled up the stairs, leaning heavily on Boris for support. There was a tremble in his hands.

What was even worse, the spark in his eyes was gone.

Korbin skipped ahead, ribbons fluttering, bouncing on his toes in impatience. “I hear Ed Wyrd’s been tapped to finish that blasted symphony. We could be hearing it in the Grand Musicale Hall as early as next spring. Shall we tell Bevelski, do you think?” Malicious laughter danced in his eyes.

“Hush, Korbin,” said Boris, exasperated. “Have some respect, at least.”

“Pshaw!” said Korbin, unrepressed.

Arguing, the pair shepherded their charge to the safe road, and from there to the city-run nursing home.

 

Behind them, spark fairies buzzed uncertainly in the air. There was something they had to do… some purpose…

The feeling diminished, winked out. Hunger, that familiar friend, leapt to fill the space.

The fairies scattered in search of blood and heat.

The surface of the pond trembled. Wavelets lapped against the sides with a half-sob, half-sigh. A small wind skimmed over it, carrying faint words:

Next… time…

The waters stilled.

I hope you enjoyed this story! If you like my fiction, sign up for my mailing list. And do check out the others in this blog hop:

K. A. Petentler: The Twisted Tale of Isabel

Shana Blueming: Paper & Glue

Amy Keeley: To Be Prepared For Chocolate

Cherie “Jade” Arbuckle: After I Died

Karen Lynn: The Family Book

Angela Wooldridge: An Alternative to Frog

Thea van Diepen: Are You Sure It’s That Way?

Paula de Carvalho: Body Double

Kris Bowser: Tantrums

Virginia McClain: Rakko’s Storm

Grace Robinette: Georg Grembl

Elizabeth McCleary: The Door

Dale Cozort: Two Letters In A Fireproof Box

Katharina Gerlach: Canned Food