Amy Rae Durreson's Blog, page 2

Recovery: Meet the Characters: Roland

With five days to go until Recovery comes out, meet another of the characters. Here is Lord Roland, Voice of Shara on the ruling council of the city of Aliann.

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Sometimes, even after all these years, Roland wakes and doesn’t know where he is.

It’s as if, no matter what his waking mind knows, in his sleep he forgets he is in Aliann and wakes expecting the cold dry bite of a winter dawn in Shara or the sound of the prince’s guard matching outside his window.

It’s always a surprise to wake to the soft sound of water on the quay, the long calls of the boatmen, the creak of timbers. The air feels heavier in Aliann, damp and mild in winter, humid in summer, weightier somehow but also softer. It is easy to let things slide here, to make deals rather than stick to resolutions. There’s always something moving in Aliann, alliances shifting, promises being redefined, power and influence dancing around each other faster and faster until the inevitable stumble and bow of defeat.

But his prince would never have sent him here at all if he was the sort of man to stick rigidly to a principle rather than do whatever was needed for the sake of Shara. He is here to speak for Shara, to deal for Shara, to lie for Shara.

Except last time he went back to the city where he was born and all roads end, the cold haunted him and he dreamed of Aliann every night. He looked at the steep, winding roads of Shara and thought of the gleaming canals, watched the summer storms gather over the mountains and yearned for the mists that rise from the lagoon.

Sometimes, sitting in the council he thinks of Aliann’s interests first and Shara’s second and he’s not sure if that means he should resign his position or hold to it all the more.

Behind him, the mattress creaks and Philammon says, voice soft with sleep, “It’s to early to be worrying.”

“I’m not worried,” Roland lies and turns onto his back. Philammon props himself up on his elbow and grins down at him. His hair is on end, curls springing in every direction. There’s a line of ink down the side of his cheek, and he’s already starting to fidget with the energy that drives him through every day at a pace which is dizzying, even for this restless city.

He’s far too young and beautiful and brilliant for a weary old politician. His presence here in Roland’s life, the easy way he loves him—it is yet another way that Aliann confounds him.

“Worrying,” Philammon says again and leans down to kiss the end of Roland’s nose. “About?”

“Places,” Roland says. “Loyalties.”

Philammon wrinkles his nose. “Nothing I can print then?”

“You only want me as a source,” Roland grumbles.

His lover grimaces. “Don’t even joke about it.”

Roland almost argues that he wasn’t the one to start the joke. But Philammon’s attention has shifted, his head up as he listens. Roland goes quiet, hears voices passing, running feet, the distant clang of the tide bell, the faint whisper of wind.

“Tide’s not due to turn, but the bell’s ringing and the watch are running,” Philammon murmurs. He’s already moving, throwing his clothes back on in a rush, pulling his hair into a messy knot at the back of his head.

Roland watched him, a little bemused. He still doesn’t understand how anyone can tell all that from a few moments listening. Perhaps you have to be born to it, to the rhythm of the tides and the curl of the wind. He reluctantly heaves himself upright, though. Philammon’s instincts are rarely wrong, and if this is more than a dock fight, the palace should know.

“If it’s something I need to know—” he starts.

“I’ll yell at the guard until they go running,” Philammon says, grabbing a quill off the desk, shoving an ink bottle into his pocket, and tucking a curl of paper through his belt. He darts back across the room, kisses Roland quickly and firmly, and then is gone at a run.

Left alone in the quiet, Roland shakes his head and smiles, before staring to look for his own clothes. This too is Aliann—unpredictable, so fast to react he is left blinking, but never dull, not for a moment.

Whatever worries haunt him in the first light of dawn, he knows he’s never going to leave.

*

Wondering how Roland will manage his torn loyalties? You’ll just have to read the book. Pre-order links below:

DSP Publications Amazon.co.uk Amazon.com

Recovery: Meet the Characters: Tama

And here is the second of my introductions to the supporting cast of Recovery. Here’s Tama, a few days before she first appears in the book.

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Tama was in the middle of the frost fair when the page found her. He was a tiny little thing, his green and copper livery tabard hanging down past his knees, and her first instinct was to pat him on the top of his fur lined cap and buy him some warm spicebread. But he wore the green dragon and that meant he was on royal business, so she contented herself with dropping to one knee on the ice and saying, “I hear you, voice of the crown.”

He stood up straight, puffing his shoulders out, and said, “His highness the prince of Shara summons you, lorewitch.”

“I hear and obey.” Then she did give in to temptation and reach out to grab the sleeve of her nearest friend. “Ingund, buy this gentleman something hot to eat, will you?”

Ingund turned around, spotted the page, and made a squeaky noise of delight which made him flush red with indignation.

Sigi, who Tama hadn’t thought was listening, said, “A royal summons? Ooh, Tama, what have you done?”

Tama laughed and shrugged. No need to tell them it was probably nothing—she preferred it when they forgot her connection to the crown, loose and informal as it was. “I guess I’ll find out. Tell Gisela I’m sorry to miss her singing.”

They waved her off and she made her way out of the performance tent, apologising every time she slid into someone. Luckily, it was a merry crowd, and soon she was out onto the open ice, skimming back towards the bank as fast as she could manage, dodging between other skaters and party-goers, waving at the few people who shouted her name—most of her old classmates were still here in Shara, waiting for the high passes to thaw before they headed out to new chapterhouses and assignments. The snow had come early this year, taking many of them off-guard. She had done a few short trips already, helping move convoys of emergency food out to some of the surrounding towns and helping them take stock of rations and plan for the rest of the winter. This could well just be another of those.

But Prince Alerin had summoned her himself. Another rationing run would have been organised by the chapterhouse, not by the prince. Could it be something else—the one task she’d been hoping for ever since her fathers first sent word from the desert? Could the prince finally be sending out a party to find a dragon? Could he be sending her?

The idea was so wonderful that she jumped a little, forgetting that while she was as quick on her skates as anyone who had spent the last three winters in Shara, she wasn’t good enough to actually land on ice. She went staggering, feet sliding in different directions, and then lost any chance of regaining her balance once she got the giggles. Several people came skimming over to help her up, but she waved them off cheerfully, scrambled upright, and continued on at a more sedate pace.

It probably wasn’t going to be a dragon, despite her hopes. It was a bad time of year to send people up into the High Amels, which made the Sharan alps look like mere sand dunes in comparison. No, she would almost be certainly be waiting for the spring before that chance came along.

Well, maybe it was just social, then. The roads to the south and east were still open, and her fathers should be due for a stop in Shara soon, before they started back towards Hirah to overwinter until spring hiring. Yes, that was the most likely.

It wasn’t as exciting as dragons, but it still put a smile on her face as she queued up to get off the ice. She hadn’t seen her fathers since she finished her novitiate, and she wanted to know where they had been, what they had seen, how the world had changed since she last set foot upon the road.

A penny got her over the ditch some enterprising river man had cut along the edge of the ice, and she sat on a step to get her skates off before heading up into the city. Down here, the taverns were overflowing with fairgoers, music rolling out every time a door was opened, and she found herself whistling as she headed uphill, sticking to the main streets where the cobbles had been shovelled clear of snow.

Shara in winter always made her think of sugared almonds and marzipan—all its houses painted in pastel shades and snow weighing down every roof. She didn’t think she would ever stop enjoying it, but she had been here long enough. It was time to take to the road again, to see other cities, other colours. She missed the Anniel delta, where the cranes went whooping out over the shivering reeds, and the hot blast of the road through the Alagard, the urgent chaos of Hirah in the spring, and the elegance and greed of Aliann.

If it was not dragons, let it at least be a mission which would let her ride across the world again. She was a merchant’s daughter, a child of the road, never to be caught in one place for long.

Up and up, the road zigzagging towards the palace where it stood on the bluff above the city. The banners on the houses changed—the bright colours of the merchant guilds and inns giving way to more and more copper and green—every barracks flew the green dragon rampant, the dragon of Shara, symbol of its ancient power.

Maybe she would meet that dragon one day—be the one to rouse Sharnyn from his long slumber. Or maybe it would be Quarllian—he would need help to rebuild his library, surely? Markell was out there too, Isara, Arden (though rumour had it someone was already on that quest). And there were others too—not just the seven who had led the war against the Shadow, but all their brothers and sisters who had stood with them upon the plains of Eyr.

Oh, what a wonderful time to be alive!

And here was the palace, and she went skipping past the gatehouse with a smile for her cousin Lothar, who rolled his eyes at her from behind his helmet. Poor dutiful Lothar—she couldn’t imagine living his life. Thank the Dreamlord that her father had come along at just the right moment to seduce Papa away from family tradition and off to the open road instead.

Even the public parts of the palace felt very warm after the crisp winter air, and she took her hat and gloves off to shove in her bag with her skates, trying to comb her hair flat with her fingers. Even after all these years, she never quite felt smart enough for the palace. She just wasn’t meant for marble halls and silk wallpaper and paintings of people who could trace their bloodlines back to Sharnyn’s last hoard.

Unlike the prince, though, she didn’t have to live here, so she buried her discomfort behind a smile and walk up to the doors to the prince’s study with a bounce in her stride.

The guards on the door know her, but she bowed all the same. Sharans liked ceremony.

“Tama Lattimar, to see Prince Alerin.”

They swung the doors open in from of her and she walked in to find out what her future held.

*

Wondering what the prince wants with her? Well, you know what to do

Wha Daur Meddle Wi Me? (Liddesdale 2/2)

On my second day in Liddesdale, I went in search of some of the grim history of the region. In the middle ages, the wild moors on either side of the border were caught up in the constant low-level hostilities between England and Scotland. The borders rapidly became a no-man’s land of warring clans, constant raids, and endless destruction. There are few villages here, and the only buildings which still stand from that era are built of solid stone–anything else was swiftly burnt to nothing and it is a rare fortress which hasn’t been razed at least once. Liddesdale was notorious for being the most wild and lawless of these frontier lands. Fortified peel towers along the Liddel Water were once the stronghold of the reiver families of Liddesdale–the Armstrongs and Elliots (whose motto forms the title of this post and tells you all you need to know about their character) and the smaller families that rode with them. At the head of the valley stands Hermitage Castle, one of the oldest surviving castles in Scotland.

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The castle. The archway is not an entrance but designed to support an extra buttress which ran around top of the keep in times of siege.

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The view from outside the keep.

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Inside the keep. By some weird quirk, it felt colder and windier inside than it did once I finally stepped out again.

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After many changes of hands, the castle eventually came into the hands of the Bothwells. Mary, Queen of Scots famously risked her health riding here to see her supporter and later husband, the 4th Earl of Boswell, when he lay at death’s door after a run in with one of the local Elliots.

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The prison tower, which is only accessible from above. The most famous legend associated with it is that of Sir William Douglas, the so-called ‘Flower of Chivalry’, who imprisoned his old comrade Sir Alexander Ramsey, leaving him down here to starve. Legend has it that he survived for fourteen days on nothing but the grains of bread that fell through the cracks in the floor from the granary above.

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Weird stone face in the window.

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Looking east along Hermitage Water.

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With so much bog surrounding the castle, only one side was vulnerable to the new invention of cannons. The earthwork in the foreground was created to address that weakness.

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Just west of the castle lies the remains of an old chapel. The original castle stood here–here too would have been the castle of wicked Lord de Soulis, legendary wizard, summoner of demons, and tyrant. The real de Soulis was not boiled alive in lead by his outraged tenants, as the legend claims, but was executed for treason.

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The chapel and the surviving gravestones.

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Hermitage Water

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Looking back as I walked to the bus stop a mile away.

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Back in Newcastleton, by the war memorial.

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All that remains of Mangerton Tower, the Armstrong tower just north of the border, taken from the embankment of the old railway line.

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Just a random waterfall.

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This green space is right on the border and was once a meeting point on truce days. Here ‘Kinmont Willie’ Armstrong was captured on a truce day, prompting his kinsmen to launch a raid on Carlisle Castle to get him back (there’s a ballad about it–there are ballads about all these stories).

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Back over the border. 

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This path through the woods is the model for  a very haunted one my character walks down most days.

On the third day, I rested my blistered feet with a round trip by bus. First I headed north to Hawick (pronounced Hoyk), a sturdy little town on the Teviot that is still known for its woollen mills.

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Looking along the high street as I hunt for somewhere that sells blister plasters.

I then caught another bus back south and over the border to Carlisle, where I headed straight for the castle.

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This corner was once the tower where Mary, Queen of Scots, was held under arrest for years.

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The keep. By the time you get to the top floors the walls are thicker than I am tall.

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Back in Newcastleton, walking up towards my guesthouse, it was hard to imagine all the violence and destruction these hills have seen.

Across the border (a week in Liddesdale 1/2)

Some of you will know, from odd comments I’ve made here and there, that I’m working on a new ghost story set in the Scottish borders. A little bit of fun with a set of randomly generated map coordinates landed me dead on the border at the bottom of Liddesdale, which turned out to be a place with more history and legends than any one book can do justice to. I’ve been writing from the comfort of my study in the home counties, but I was beginning to hit the limits of what I could do without setting my feet on the ground and breathing in the actual place, so last week I headed north for three days to see it for real.

One of the first things I picked up when I got to my guesthouse was a guide to local walking routes. I was delighted to see that the longest one in there was very close to a hike I’d had my protagonist do early in the book (he’s younger and fitter than me, so does a longer loop, but this was as close as I was willing to try). The loop took me from the village of Newcastleton, where I was staying, up into Kershope forest, and then down to the border, along it for a few miles, and then back up an abandoned railway line to the village).

You’ll have to excuse the occasional giddy tone to this write-up, because the whole trip was one of those magical holidays you just fall into sometimes, to the extent that I’m feeling bad about inflicting such a nasty ghost on such a wonderful place. The first day began with surprise Bucks Fizz over breakfast, courtesy of the other couple staying at the guest house, who were celebrating their silver wedding and insisting on splitting the bottle around the table.

Heading out with a spring in my step, I began the climb out of the village. Newcastleton is a relatively young village, built in the 1790s by a local landowner as a model village for weavers. His grand plan was a financial failure, but by then the original settlement further up the valley had been flattened. It’s a pretty little place these days, and the only settlement of any size for miles and miles.

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Here it is in its entirety, sitting along the bank of the Liddel Water.

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Climbing up the lane, views of the hills to the north open up. This all looks serene now, but go back five hundred years and this was one of the bloodiest and most war torn places in Europe. The border clans of Liddesdale and the surrounding valleys were reivers of the worst kind (more on this in my next post, because I spent the second day of my holiday visiting some of their sites).

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Up and up, towards the edge of the forest. The trees are relatively new–the first trees were planted in the 1920s when the land was given over to the Forestry Commission. These days, timber is still the main product of the area, but the forest is also a centre for mountain biking, with trails leading off towards Kielder Water, ten miles to the east.

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Into the woods…

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Despite the cloak of trees, this is still moorland, and everything is damp. Streams trickle out of cracks, moss covers every exposed surface, and every path oozes thick mud.

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I think this is the Clintheugh Linn (I’d lost track of myself on the instructions by this point, but since there was only one path, wasn’t too worried).

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And then there was a landmark! Here, where three paths met, I found a carving. There’s nothing there to give any context or explanation. It’s just a lump of rock, with a hole in the middle and the words to Jerusalem carved on one side and those to Auld Lang Syne on the other (honestly, I giggled for the next mile–so bizarre!). 

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Confident of my location again, I set a good pace south towards England.

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That next ridge is on the far side of the border.

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This is the fabulously named Muckle Thwater Gill, running down towards Kershope Burn.

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Heading downhill.

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And this is the border itself. The line between England and Scotland runs along the Kershope Burn here. I’d used this river as the model for a fictional one in my WIP, so my excitement levels were rising. Just look at those brooding hills! 

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Standing on the border (okay, on the bridge over the border)!

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The path turns downstream on the English side until it comes out on this road. In my WIP, this leads up to a scatter of houses, included a very haunted old fortified manor. In reality, there is nothing here but forest.

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Several minor characters meet an untimely end on this road which runs north from the same point. I probably shouldn’t have been grinning so happily as I took this picture.

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Further along the river, and here’s another little feeder stream tumbling down into it.

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Looking north from the English side–pretty much the view my protagonist has from the window of the haunted house.

The path then met the road again at the tiny hamlet of Kershopefoot, from where an old railway line turned footpath runs back up to the village. I was footsore and weary by the time I stumbled along it, but this was one of the best walks I’ve done for a long time.

And the best was yet to come…

Recovery: Meet the characters: Esen

It’s just a month to go until Recovery is released, so I thought it might be fun to start introducing some of the cast. Here, to get us started, is a familiar face. Those of you who have read Reawakening will remember Esen (if you haven’t read Reawakening, stop now, because this post will include spoilers!). Here she is a few weeks before Recovery starts, arguing with a dragon (as you do).

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“If you wish to stay, nothing will prevent you,” the dragon said, voice rumbling like thunder. In the summer sunlight, he shone like a beacon, every golden scale dazzling.

Esen, standing by his front foot, folded her arms and huffed a sigh at him. “So you keep saying. I am not going to change my mind.”

“But if you were to reconsider—”

“If we’re having this argument again, turn human. I’m not going to shout up your nose.”

The dragon let out a smoky sigh and then shimmered into flame. Esen shaded her eyes, blinking away the after glare, and when she could see again, Tarn stood there, looking equally downcast. He said, “Nobody respects me any more.”

Esen laughed, and tucked her hand through his arm, leaning her head briefly against his shoulder. “You don’t want our respect. You want us to love you, which we do.”

He made a low, unhappy sound, “Even when you’re leaving me?”

“Even then. Come on. Even if you make us miss the tide, we’ll just wait for the next ferry, so there’s no point in trying to delay me.” She picked up her pack, slinging it over her shoulders. “Oh, that’s heavy.”

“I will take it.”

She shook her head at him. “I’ll be carrying it for the next few months. I should start getting used to it now.”

“I could fly you straight there. It would allow you more time to—”

“No, Tarn.”

She struck out along the trail, trusting him to fall into step. Behind them, the highlands of Northern Tiallat rose to peak after peak, summer brown slopes fading into purple distance. Ahead of them, a narrow track wound across the cliff tops, between spiny bushes covered in scarlet flowers. There had been a road here once—she could still feel dust-smothered cobbles below her feet—but no trade caravans had passed here for many years.

Well, that too might change now, like everything else.

For a moment, she thought of all the terrible changes—of plague, loss, the Shadow slithering into her soul.

But that was not the point. She was alive and her soul was her own again. The sun was shining and the world lay before her. Forcing a smile onto her face, she dashed up the next slope and breathed in the view with a whoop of delight. “The sea, Tarn! The sea!”

“Have you never seen it before?”

“No.” The Ala Sea lay before them, bluer than the sky, pebbled with green islands, stretching out and out and out into the distant silver blur of the horizon. She could see houses on the nearer isles, and the tiny specks of sails. In the distance was only the curving shape of the islands, like coloured ink blots scattered on the cloth of the sea.

And then there was simply the blank promise of the horizon, calling her on.

“So young.”

“You’ve never seen this one either.”

“True.” He came to stand beside her, shading his eyes, and she glanced up at him. His expression had gone sad and distant again, and she wondered what he was remembering, what lost world he was trying to find in the echoes of here and now. How strange it must be, never to see a place for itself, but always for all it once was and yet might be.

She loved her god, and his dragon, but she would never want to be them. Some mortals could outlive death, survive against the odds so often that time ceased to touch them. She pitied them. This was the moment to be alive, to live to the fullest without regrets.

“Gard will miss you.”

And, of course, some immortals just couldn’t let a subject go. “Alagard thinks it’s a good idea.”

He couldn’t really quibble with that, so she grinned at him and started down the path again.

He was still eyeing her gloomily, so she reminded him, “It’s only a small adventure and I’ll have company all the way.” They were meeting Raif at the ferry and she would travel with him through the islands to Aliann, where they would join Cayl and Sethan for the trip upriver to the Dragon’s Gates. There, she would join a Myrtiline chapterhouse to study all the skills she needed to go on real adventures later.

Of course, Alagard and Tarn seemed to think she’d be coming straight home after her novitiate was over. For such ancient beings, they could be very foolish.

“But what will he do with no priestess?”

“He has other priests.”

“None he loves so dearly.”

“Alas, my poor lonely god, abandoned and forlorn. If only he had a consort who adored him to comfort him in his hour of need, but no! He must languish, heartbroken and bereft, all for the lack of a single priestess.” Then, as the familiarity of that struck her, she added, “Sand save me, I’ve already been in Tiallat too long. Hurry, hurry, get me to the ferry, or I’ll start composing depressing hymns and making eyes at Halsarr.”

“Esen! Be kind.”

She grinned at him. “Ah, your brother’s not here to hear me make fun of his consort.”

Tarn gave her a stern look. “You’ll upset poor Raif. He takes his beliefs seriously.”

Esen, who had known Raif since they were children, rather thought he needed a bit more fun in his life. “Raif knows better than to take offense at me.”

“Hmm.” There was an odd expression on his face, one which made her squint at him until she identified it.

Tarn was biting back laughter.

“What are you plotting?” she demanded.

“Be kind to Raif, Esenni. He has a long road before him if he is to find Arden and does not need more than his share of mockery.”

“And?”

“And?” Thousands of years old and he still couldn’t fake innocence.

“And what’s so funny about that?”

“Why, nothing. It is a great and noble quest.”

Esen snorted. “You’re fooling nobody.”

Tarn sighed, but then his grin unfolded across his face. “And Arden has quite a sense of humour.”

“And you’re scolding me for being cruel to Raif.” Oh, if only she could see this play out. “Maybe I shouldn’t stop at the Gates. Maybe I should go all the way to—”

Tarn stopped dead, turning reproachful eyes at her. “Mine, Esen. Arden can’t have you.”

“I wasn’t—” She took a deep breath, counted to ten, in Selar, Latai, and Sharan, and then added, “I am of your hoard, keeper. That will not change, no matter where I lay my head to rest.”

Tarn’s shoulders relaxed a little. “And you will take no risks?”

Dragons! “No unnecessary risks.”

“Esen.”

The trick to ignoring a dragon’s worry was to look him in the eye. If she turned her head, she forgot he was just Tarn right now and had to deal with the unnerving sensation that a small sun was bending its will against hers. Tarn, with his sad eyes and soldier’s stance, was easy in comparison. “I cannot live out my days buried in the sand to stay safe. I have to breathe.”

And that was as close to the truth as she would go. She could not cut any deeper—could not tell him that he and Alagard were smothering her more than protecting her, that her love for them and their desert was slowly dragging her down into quicksand, that she needed to tell her own story, prove to the world that she was more than a weapon for the Shadow to use against the great powers that loved and protected her.

Tarn met her gaze, and she stiffened her shoulders, refusing to shiver. Sometimes, even when he wore his human shape, she could see fire and eternity in his eyes. Then, very slowly, he nodded. “If it brings you happiness.”

“It does,” she said.

“Then let us go. We’re still well above the harbour, and you were right. The tide is on the turn.”

They would probably have this argument at least once more before they made it into town, but for now Esen was content to let it go. Striding out again, she lifted her face into the wind and smiled. She had a dragon at her back and the whole wide world lay before her. Anything was possible.

Find out where the tide takes her…

A Cold Misty Day on the North Downs Way

I wrapped myself up in three layers today and took off for the hills. My route today was one I know well–out to the outskirts of town, along the riverbank, and then up onto the North Downs Way to meander along the edge of the ridge through the woods until I cam down into Guildford fifteen miles later.

Much as I love exploring new places, there’s a special delight to a well-known path. This stretch of the North Downs Way was the first solo hike I ever did, and I’ve walked it many times since, both alone and in company. You build up your own mental map over time–not the landmarks recorded on maps or described in guidebooks, but ones made of memories–the fairy door, the knoll where we saw the adder, the bank where I saw a deer on the way home from work once.

It was a lovely day, and one of startling contrasts. In the shades, the frost never lifted but in places lay as thick as snow. Under the sunlight, the woods were golden. The usually soft paths were rock hard underfoot and the mist hung in dips.

Click to view slideshow.

Welcome to 2017

Well, 2017 is here at last, thank goodness. I suspect it’s going to be a tough year for many of us, but at least we’re ready for it this time round.

2016 ended very quietly for me. I’ve been struggling a little to find writing time while managing new responsibilities in my day job, but I eventually scraped through to meet my annual wordcount target right at the end of December. Christmas was protracted but delightful, with lots of time spent with family. Another highlight in December was the 2016 Rainbow Awards. I’d entered two books, Resistance and A Frost of Cares. Both were finalists, A Frost of Cares placed second in its category, and both placed in the top twenty for Best Gay Book, which left me feeling very proud.

Looking forward to 2017, my only current scheduled release is Recovery, the third Reawakening book. I’m quite enjoying the break from editing–last year, between my own redrafting and publisher edits, I edited just over 4600 pages. Most of my writing this year will be ghost-related–I’m 30k into a novel set on the Scottish borders which draws on legends about Hermitage Castle. That said, my muse is a whimsical thing and may lead me off in all sorts of directions before we’re done.

To finish up, have some slightly random pictures of Cardiff Castle, taken just before Christmas. Mum and I went up there for a couple of days to attend a family funeral in the valleys (it was for my 97 year old great aunt who had lived her whole life in the village and I’ve never experienced anything quite like it. We don’t do funerals like that down here in the home counties). We then took a day to explore Cardiff and do a bit of Christmas shopping and I dragged her round the castle (if you’re ever in Cardiff, do the same and take the guided tour, because it’s the most bonkers stately home you will ever set foot in and a lot of it, including the tower top middle eastern style roof garden, can only be seen on the tour).

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This is called ‘The Abandoned Soldier.’ It stands on the corner of the outer battlements and commemorates soldiers who have suffered the after effects of war and not been treated as heroes. There’s a website about the sculpture here: 

http://www.theabandonedsoldier.com/

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Here’s the old Norman keep with the later house behind. All of this is contained within the outer walls.

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Reflections in the moat, with glimpses of the Principality Stadium beyond. 

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The old keep. Yes, the steps up there are just as steep as they look.

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And the Christmas tree outside. 

And with that, Happy New Year all. May it be a brave and beautiful one, full of joys great and small.

Writing Spreadsheets for 2017 (freebies for writers).

As many of my followers will know, I really like planning and tracking data. This year I’ve been using a very complicated spreadsheet to manage my writing projects. I’m not aware of one with similar scope out there, so I thought I’d offer up the 2017 version for others.

The sheet tracks ten projects across four aspects–wordcount, pages edited, research time and marketing time. There is a simple instruction page included, but once you’ve set up your first project, it’s fairly self-explanatory.

Screenshots of bits of last year’s below to give you an idea of what to expect. Links to download the excel sheets from Dropbox are at the bottom (sheets are saved as .xlsx, which should work in OpenOffice variants too. If you need another format, message me). Any questions or queries, drop me a comment. Hopefully, some of you will get some use out of these.

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Projects Page (top row)

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Yearly progress tracking (yes, I fail at marketing)

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Example of a monthly tracking page

I’ve had a go at different colour schemes (they don’t look right in the Dropbox preview but what you see below is what you should get once they’re downloaded):

Plain pastels

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Blue and gold

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White on blue with larger fonts

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Red and black

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Minimalist black and white

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Autumn on the Surrey-Hampshire border

I went for a ramble today, heading out from my own front door to roam back and forth across the boundaries between my town, Aldershot, and our upmarket neighbour, Farnham. The two towns are in different counties, with the River Blackwater forming the border for much of its length. There are many routes between them, mostly by road, but my favourite is the path along the riverbank from the eastern edge of Aldershot southwest towards the eastern outskirts of Farnham. It’s a pleasant little path, about half an hour’s walk out of town, which avoids roads, and links to many tracks and trails–turn north instead and it crosses the towpath of the Basingstoke Canal before continuing onwards towards the Hampshire-Berkshire border. South, and it connects to the North Downs Way heading east towards Dover, or the web of tracks and trails that rise into the North Downs on the Surrey-Sussex border (seriously, I live and work in liminal spaces).

Today I turned a different way, leaving the river to wind through lanes and backroads until I crossed the northern edge of Farnham through the lower end of Farnham park. I stopped for lunch in the town centre, and then climbed back up to the top of the park–once the deer park of the Bishops of Winchester, who had a country retreat here–and out into the fields and woods west of the town to circle back towards the far end of Farnham. It was one of those walks where I adapted my plans as I went, and I was rewarded in the last few miles with a stunning path I’d never walked before. Pictures below (sorry, no captions, because I’m a) knackered and b) 16k down on Nanowrimo).

 

Click to view slideshow.

Small creepy things

So, last week, I celebrated Halloween with hourly mini-horror stories on Twitter. None are longer than a single tweet (although I had to sacrifice some full stops to manage that). I thought it would be good to collect them all together, so here are all forty-three.

Enjoy and don’t have too many nightmares.

Click to view slideshow.

The barrow is quiet—cold. You back out, unsure why you’re afraid.

The cold follows you home, whispers, “You’re not welcome here.”

Rain blusters against the window. You pull the covers up, feel a warm weight by your feet, hear soft purrs.

You don’t own a cat.

Your radio-controlled clock is still running backwards, faster and faster. As it does, your wrinkles smooth away.

It never stops.

4.

This storeroom was an air raid shelter.

The door swings shut.

The lights go out.

The lock clicks

And in the distance, the siren wails

The cold wind scuds across the moors to where you wait by the bus stop.

You’ve been waiting a long time.

A very, very long time

6.

Your car breaks down in the Fens. No signal. You start to walk.

A dog follows you.

You can’t see it.

But you hear it getting closer

You hang charms over every door and window to keep out the vengeful dead.

But did you remember the old coal chute in the cellar?

The motion sensors switch on the lights as you walk along the hall. It’s not until they go off that you hear her breathing in the dark.

Playing hide-and-seek in your new garden, you discover a headstone behind the weeds. A child whispers, “Found you.”

Tap, tap, tap.

You’ve never been in the attic. The hatch is painted shut.

Tap, tap, tap.

But there’s something up there now.

Tap

Tap

Tap

You find a broken mirror on the beach that shows a distant dark shape.

Each time you look, it gets nearer.

Soon you’ll see its face

The airfield closed years ago, but as you sit by the graffitied ruins, the sky shakes with the throaty roar of a Spitfire engine

Every night, you dream of his mouth on yours. Every morning, you wake to find your lips a little paler.

In the fog, you hear a woman weeping. You follow her tears to the very edge of the cliff.

In front of you, she laughs

And you slip

Ivy grows over your windows, one leaf at a time. Soon it will cover the doors too.

Your battery died hours ago, but don’t give up. Keep banging on the lid. Someone will dig you up eventually.

There’s a dead child standing at the top of the stairs in the boarding house. Don’t get too close—he might push you down.

There are no children in the village.

“We send them away, until they’re old enough to be safe.”

The old man doesn’t say from what.

You wake to find a lipstick mark on the outside of the glass, red as blood.

On the glass of your fifth floor window.

First snow and footprints in the middle of your lawn. No prints lead away.

Maybe they’re still there.

Still watching.

As you step into the holloway, the woods go silent. Hairs rise on the back of your neck.

Keep walking.

And don’t look back. Don’t.

No one lives in the schoolmaster’s house now, but the old headmistress still watches the children’s games from the window.

23

My love?

Are you listening?

Can’t you hear me, love?

I can hear you breathing—can see you there.

I can’t hear myself.

My love?

As you approach the tunnel, you see the fading lights of a train, hear the singing of the rails.

The line closed in 1967.

“Beautiful things die so soon.”

“Sir, where is your daughter?”

“Here,” the moth collector said, reaching for the next cabinet door.

You hid her broken body in your compost bin.

Next spring, every flower in your garden was the exact blue of her eyes.

Lithe, golden, laughing—you see him in clubs, at the park, by the garden gate

“Don’t,” Grandpa warns. “He took my brother. In 1943”

The swings creak and sway against the wind, long after midnight. Children here don’t like to play outside.

The power is out and your internet’s down, but your song keeps playing. From downstairs, your dead lover starts to sing along.

You’ve worked the late ferry 50 years. He’s been crossing longer. Tonight, you finally see his eyes.

Your last crossing. Not his.

There’s something hungry in the cupboard under the stairs. It’s waiting for you to go to sleep.

7

You see the light of a phone ahead, and follow the man in the hoodie to the chapel door. He turns, revealing your own dead face.

A little girl sits on the steps outside every night. You finally stop to ask if she’s okay.

She smiles, and crumbles into ashes.

Your father’s waiting for you to come home again, son. He’s waiting by the bridge.

Waiting, because he can’t cross running water.

The old town gibbet stands in the museum yard, roped off as a curiosity.

The shadow it casts sways.

You’ll climb it one day.

You miss the daylight so much.

You wake to find a dead man standing in your bedroom door, stinking of salt and rot.

Trees separate the playground from the churchyard, but still the children trespass. Sometimes they bring back strange friends.

Your neighbour’s shed is wreathed in brambles. Its windows and door are boarded up

Today, a voice from inside calls your name.

There were wreckers on this coast once, luring ships to doom.

On stormy nights, their lights still show.

You’re the last to leave the beach party. Your car won’t start.

A wet, swollen hand paws at your window. “Take me home.”

They built the hospital on land reclaimed from the water. Now, in the dark hours, the cries of the drowned echo through the wards.

43.

“The grave’s a cold and lonely place,” he sighs. “Don’t send me back without you.”